The Skull Throne

Ashan nodded. ‘And you, yours.’

Thamos gave a nod in return. ‘A hundred men each?’

‘Five hundred,’ Ashan said, ‘with the truce of Domin Sharum upon them.’ Inevera saw the princeling’s jaw tighten. Five hundred men was nothing to the Krasians, the tiniest fraction of the Deliverer’s army. But it was more men than Thamos wished to spare.

Still, the princeling had little choice but to agree, and he gave his assent. ‘How do I know your warriors will keep the peace? The last thing we need is for this valley to turn into a war zone.’

‘My warriors will keep their veils up, even in the day,’ Ashan said. ‘They would not dare disobey. It’s your men I worry over. I would hate to see them hurt in a misunderstanding.’

The princeling showed his teeth at that. ‘I think there’d be hurt enough to go around. How is hiding their faces supposed to guarantee peace? A man with his face hidden fears no reprisal.’

Ashan shook his head. ‘It’s a wonder you savages have survived the night so long. Men remember the faces of those who have wronged them, and those enmities are hard to put aside. We wear veils in the night, so that all may fight as brothers, their blood feuds forgotten. If your men cover their faces, there will be no further blood spilled in this Everam-cursed valley.’

‘Fine,’ the princeling said. ‘Done.’ He gave a short, shallow bow, the barest respect to a man who was a dozen times his better, and turned, striding away. The other greenlanders followed.

‘The Northerners will pay for their disrespect,’ Jayan said.

‘Perhaps,’ Inevera said, ‘but not today. We must return to Everam’s Bounty, and quickly.’

1 (#u5ae22817-5277-5788-8d40-1df52ee0d1a7)

The Hunt (#u5ae22817-5277-5788-8d40-1df52ee0d1a7)

333 AR Autumn

Jardir woke at sunset, his mind thick with fog. He was lying in a Northern bed – one giant pillow instead of many. The bedcloth was rough, nothing like the silk to which he had become accustomed. The room was circular, with warded glass windows all around. A tower of some sort. Untamed land spread into the twilight, but he recognized none of it.

Where in Ala am I?

Pain lanced through him as he stirred, but pain was an old companion, embraced and forgotten. He pulled himself into a sitting position, rigid legs scraping against each other. He pulled the blanket aside. Plaster casts running thigh-to-foot. His toes, swollen in red, purple, and yellow, peeked from the far ends, close, yet utterly out of reach. He flexed them experimentally, ignoring the pain, and was satisfied with the slight twitch that rewarded him.

It harkened back to the broken arm he’d suffered as a child, and the helplessness of his weeks of healing.

He reached immediately to the nightstand for the crown. Even in day, there was magic enough stored within to heal a few broken bones, especially ones already set.

His hands met empty air. Jardir turned and stared a long moment before the situation registered. It had been years since he had let himself be out of arm’s reach of his crown and spear, but both were missing.

Memories came back to him in a rush. The fight atop the mountain with the Par’chin. How the son of Jeph had collapsed into smoke as Jardir struck, only to solidify an instant later, grabbing the spear shaft with inhuman strength and twisting it from his grasp.

And then the Par’chin turned and threw it from the cliff as if it were nothing more than a gnawed melon rind.

Jardir licked cracked lips. His mouth was dry and his bladder full, but both needs had been provided for. The water at his bedside was sweet, and with some effort he managed use of the chamber pot his searching fingers found on the floor just underneath the bed.

His chest was bound tightly, ribs grinding as he shifted. Over the bandages he was clad in a thin robe – tan, he noted. The Par’chin’s idea of a joke, perhaps.

There was no door, simply a stair leading up into the room – as good as prison bars in his current state. There were no other exits, nor did the steps continue on. He was at the top of the tower. The room was sparsely furnished. A small table by the bedside. A single chair.

There was a sound in the stairwell. Jardir froze, listening. He might be bereft of his crown and spear, but years of absorbing magic through them had remade his body as close to Everam’s image as a mortal form could be. He had the eyes of a hawk, the nose of a wolf, and the ears of a bat.

‘Sure you can handle him?’ the Par’chin’s First Wife said. ‘Thought he was going to kill you out on that cliff.’

‘No worries, Ren,’ the Par’chin said. ‘He can’t hurt me without the spear.’

‘Can in daylight,’ Renna said.

‘Not with two broken legs,’ the Par’chin said. ‘Got this, Ren. Honest word.’

We shall see, Par’chin.

There was a smacking of lips as the son of Jeph kissed his jiwah’s remaining protests away. ‘Need you back in the Hollow keepin’ an eye on things. Now, ’fore they get suspicious.’

‘Leesha Paper’s already suspicious,’ Renna said. ‘Her guesses ent far from the mark.’

‘Don’t matter, long as they stay guesses,’ the Par’chin said. ‘You just keep playin’ dim, no matter what she says or does.’

Renna gave a stunted laugh. ‘Ay, that won’t be a problem. Like makin’ her want to spit.’

‘Don’t waste too much time on it,’ the Par’chin said. ‘Need you to protect the Hollow, but keep a low profile. Strengthen the folk, but let them carry the weight. I’ll skate in when I can, but only to see you. No one else can know I’m alive.’

‘Don’t like it,’ Renna said. ‘Man and wife shouldn’t be apart like this.’

The Par’chin sighed. ‘Ent nothin’ for it, Ren. Bettin’ the farm on this throw. Can’t afford to lose. I’ll see you soon enough.’

‘Ay,’ Renna said. ‘Love you, Arlen Bales.’

‘Love you, Renna Bales,’ the Par’chin said. They kissed again, and Jardir heard rapid footsteps as she descended the tower. The Par’chin, however, began to climb.

For a moment Jardir thought to feign sleep. Perhaps he might learn something; gain the element of surprise.

He shook his head. I am Shar’Dama Ka. It is beneath me to hide. I will meet the Par’chin’s eyes and see what remains of the man I knew.

He propped himself up, embracing the roar of pain in his legs. His face was serene as the Par’chin entered. He wore plain clothes, much as he had when they first met, a cotton shirt of faded white and worn denim trousers with a leather Messenger satchel slung over one shoulder. His feet were bare, pant and shirt cuffs rolled to show the wards he had inked into his skin. His sand-coloured hair was shaved away, and the face Jardir remembered was barely recognizable under all the markings.

Even without his crown, Jardir could sense the power of those symbols, but the strength came with a heavy price. The Par’chin looked more like a page from one of the holy scrolls of warding than a man.

‘What have you done to yourself, old friend?’ He had not meant to speak the words aloud, but something pushed him.

‘Got a lot of nerve callin’ me that, after what you did,’ the Par’chin said. ‘Din’t do this to myself. You did this to me.’

‘I?’ Jardir asked. ‘I took ink and profaned your body with it?’

The Par’chin shook his head. ‘You left me to die in the desert, without weapon or succour, and knew I’d be corespawned before I let the alagai have me. My body was the only thing you left me to ward.’

With those words, all Jardir’s questions about how the Par’chin had survived were answered. In his mind’s eye he saw his friend alone in the desert, parched and bloodied as he beat alagai to death with his bare hands.

It was glorious.

The Evejah forbade the tattooing of flesh, but it forbade many things Jardir had since permitted for the sake of Sharak Ka. He wanted to condemn the Par’chin, but his throat tightened at the truth of the man’s words.