Breath of Heaven, page 1
Breath of
Heaven
Joshua Palmatier
Other Novels by Joshua Palmatier
The Skewed Throne*
The Cracked Throne*
The Vacant Throne*
***
Well of Sorrows
Leaves of Flame
***
Shattering the Ley*
Threading the Needle*
Anthologies Edited by
Patricia Bray Joshua Palmatier
After Hours: Tales from the Ur-Bar*
The Modern Fae’s Guide to Surviving Humanity*
Clockwork Universe: Steampunk vs Aliens
Temporally Out of Order
Alien Artifacts
Were-
* Published by DAW Books
Copyright © 2016 Joshua Palmatier.
All Rights Reserved.
Cover Design by C. Lennox
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.
Published as an eBook in 2016 by JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
ISBN: 978-1940709079
1
“See this gets to the Tamaell.” Lord Aeren Rhysall handed the sealed missive to a jittery young page. The boy’s eyes were wide as he watched the Rhysall House Phalanx and servants’ frantic activity. Aeren snapped his fingers in front of the youth’s face to catch his attention. “The Tamaell, no one else. Not the White Phalanx, not a clerk, not even the Tamaea. Do you understand?”
The boy nodded and Aeren pressed a coin into his palm. His mouth dropped open when he saw the denomination, then he snatched the coin into a tight fist and ran, his red courier outfit flaring in a pool of torchlight farther down the corridor before he vanished completely.
“Will your warning be delivered?” Hiroun asked at Aeren’s side.
“Pray to Aielan that it is.” Aeren glanced around at the four other Rhyssal Phalanx that flanked him. “Are the preparations going smoothly?”
“As smoothly as can be expected. The essential documents have already been packed and the wagons are waiting below, along with your own mount and escort.”
“Very well.”
Tension thrummed in Aeren’s skin. The urge to leave since he’d read Moiran’s report on what the Order of the Flame had been preaching in the temples within his own lands—in Artillien!—had only escalated with his rage in the last few hours. The Chosen had gone too far, but his fellow lords could not see how close Lotaern’s hands were to their throats. Aeren did not intend to stand around while the Chosen throttled him. He was done attempting to warn the Evant. It was past time he turned his attention to the security of his own lands, to his wife and son.
He shifted toward one of the windows and glared out into the night without really seeing it. A servant raced past, a trunk clutched to his chest. Two more moved swiftly in the opposite direction, one giving out orders to the other in short clipped sentences. A Phalanx member approached, the tread of his boots on the stone floor unmistakable, and Aeren heard the hushed murmur of a report being given to Hiroun.
The tension in the corridor shifted and he turned. “What is it?”
Hiroun stepped forward immediately. “I believe we should depart now, my lord. The Phalanx reports suspicious activity on the streets of Caercaern.”
“What kind of activity?”
“Groups of Phalanx from the other Houses are moving about.”
“Which House? Where are they headed?”
“Uncertain.”
Eraeth, his Protector, wouldn’t have waited for Aeren’s approval. The Rhyssal House Phalanx would already be moving. But Eraeth wasn’t here.
“Tell everyone to abandon what isn’t already packed. We’re leaving. Now.”
Hiroun snapped out orders as Aeren headed down the corridor toward the yard below. His personal guard fell in around him, Hiroun trotting to catch up. As word spread, Aeren saw the first hints of panic in the eyes of his servants. At a cross corridor, one servant tripped and fell, the wooden box he held splintering as it hit the floor, sheaves of paper fanning out before him. One of the Phalanx leaped forward and hauled the man to his feet as he began to collect the spilled papers, shoving him before them with a barked, “Leave it!” Two more guards darted forward and opened a door, one vanishing down the short corridor and stairs beyond. By the time Aeren arrived, he’d shouted all clear and they began their descent. Aeren found his hand resting on the pommel of the House sword strapped at his side. His father and brother had worn this sword, had died with it on the battlefield, on the dwarren plains. His brother had passed it to him even as he bled to death in Aeren’s arms.
Then they were in the yard, four wagons already loaded, men shouting orders in all directions, servants spilling from doorways and tossing crates and trunks and furniture to those handling the wagons. Aeren led his group toward the Phalanx gathered near the gate, horses waiting. The two groups merged and Aeren, Hiroun, and the rest pulled themselves up into their saddles. Aeren spun his mount about.
“Gather around,” he shouted, but didn’t wait for the forty or so Phalanx and scouts or the nearly sixty servants to respond. “It is no longer in Rhyssal House’s best interests to remain in Caercaern. We’re returning to our own House lands. Head for the main gate and be as circumspect as possible.”
Murmurs broke out as Aeren motioned for the gate to be opened. Hiroun and three other Phalanx rode out into the street, their horses’ hooves clattering on the cobbles. The general unease increased as the servants picked up on the heightened wariness of the Phalanx, but there was nothing Aeren could do to allay their fears, not when he shared them. He nudged his horse forward, the rest of his House falling in behind. They wound down the street to the main thoroughfare and turned toward the gates leading down to the tier below them. Hiroun sent scouts out ahead, every member of the Phalanx scanning the darkened buildings to either side, the rooftops, the black alleys, lit only by the lantern light of the wagons and the torches a few of the Phalanx carried. They moved slowly, wagons creaking, wheels clacking, making far more noise than Aeren would have liked. The moon glowed a mottled white overhead, thin clouds crossing its face. The night smelled of winter, crisp and cold, with an acrid hint of smoke. The leaves of the Winter Tree flashed silver to one side, towering over the city. Few of the windows they passed by were lit, but all of them shuttered. Somewhere close a dog began barking, joined a heartbeat later by two others.
They’d made it three quarters of the way to the second tier’s gate when one of the scouts burst from the shadows ahead at a near run. The Phalanx parted for him. He came to a halt before Aeren. “The gates are closed. They’re manned by members of the Ionaen House.”
The gates shouldn’t be closed and they certainly shouldn’t be manned by Peloroun’s Phalanx. Only the White Phalanx protected Caercaern, except in times of war.
“Check the auxiliary gates.”
Four runners tore off down the street. Aeren’s eyes swept over the vague shapes of the servants and wagons in the middle of the street, then the Phalanx, noting that his guardsmen had tightened up their formation.
“Shouldn’t we continue moving?” Hiroun asked. “We aren’t well concealed here.”
“Where would we go? We don’t know what parts of Caercaern are safe. We’ll wait here until the scouts return with a report.”
“What about the wagons?”
“Be prepared to abandon them completely.”
Hiroun’s eyebrows rose. “With your papers? And what of the servants?”
“If necessary, we’ll burn the wagons and have the servants disperse and find their own way out of Caercaern and back to Artillien.”
Hiroun passed the orders on to the Phalanx. Aeren heard gasps from the servants, a muffled cry in the darkness, a few sobs. He tried not to let it affect him, turned his attention to the city. The tiers of the Tamaell’s residence soared over them, but he could only see their outlines in the moonlight. The Winter Tree was closer. For a moment, his gaze lingered on the direction of the Sanctuary and his thoughts turned bitter.
“What do you think is happening?” Hiroun asked, voice pitched low enough only Aeren and perhaps the closest Phalanx members could hear.
Eyes still on the Sanctuary, Aeren said, “I think the Chosen has finally decided to act directly. I think he intends to seize Caercaern, and with it the Alvritshai.”
“What of the Tamaell?”
Aeren chuckled, the sound harsh and unpleasant even in his own ears. “I don’t think I, nor the Tamaell, are intended to survive the night.” He thought of the letter from Moiran, of his dashed off missive to the Tamaell. “We may all have been too late.”
“My lord?”
He shook his head, then both of them snapped to attention as another runner appeared and gasped, “Ionaen…at the…secondary gates.” He swallowed and coughed. “And there are Ionaen Phalanx in the streets. They’re closing in on the Rhyssal House manse.”
Aeren spun on Hiroun. “Torch the wagons. Douse the torches and lanterns after. Send the servants away. We aren’t waiting for the report on the other gates. Peloroun will already have them sealed off.”
Guardsmen began issuing orders, the servants behind beginning to scatter, not without a few wails of distress and spat curses. Lanterns were put out and the oil dumped over the wagons. Flames spread quickly. Once the wagons were lit, the torches were guttered and Hiroun asked, “Where to?”
Aeren knew of only one other way out of the se
cond tier—the tunnels beneath the Sanctuary—but Lotaern would never allow them access, and there was no way to steal past the Flame and acolytes who guarded it.
He shifted toward the towers of the third tier.
“To the Tamaell. We’ll make our stand there.” With Peloroun and perhaps other Phalanx in the streets, he couldn’t count on the courier making it to the Tamaell in time. “Let’s move.”
The thirty-odd Phalanx remaining swung around into a new formation, and then they were moving, sprinting past the abandoned wagons, a few lingering servants dodging out of their way. Their horses’ hooves thundered on the cobbles, slowing only when Hiroun raised a sharp fist as they neared a corner. Two guardsmen cantered ahead, signaled all clear, and they proceeded forward with more caution, winding their way up from the second tier’s wall toward the lowest level of the palace, their path lit only by the silvery moon.
At one cross street, the point guardsmen hustled back with frantic motions and the group retreated into a side street a moment before thirty Licaetan guards clattered around the corner. They milled in the intersection a moment, horses snorting, then charged to the right at a sharp command. Two streets later, Aeren glanced down an alley and saw Peloroun mounts streaking past one street away, but they were moving too fast and none of them looked in their direction. Aeren nudged his horse forward to warn Hiroun, but one of his own Phalanx cried out and whispered, “Look!”
Through the break between two buildings, Aeren could see a pulsing orange-red light in the windows of another manse. It took him a moment to realize it was the glow of a fire, and then figures appeared, silhouetted against the wash of light. As the blaze grew, two of the men were cut down, one shoved out the window, his shadow plummeting out of sight into the darkness. Smoke billowed from beneath the eaves and seeped between the tiles of the roof, and a moment later a section caved inwards and flames surged into the night, all eerily silent.
“The Baene estate.” Lord Terroec.
For the first time, true fear settled in Aeren’s chest.
The fire verified this wasn’t a simple powerplay in the Evant. Lotaern, Peloroun, and Orraen were out for blood. It was a coup, and Aeren suddenly realized that, aside from Tamaell Thaedoren, he had no idea where the rest of the lords’ allegiances lay. Obviously, Lotaern and the others didn’t trust Terroec to fall in line. But who else? Would Daesor give them sanctuary? Would Saetor or Houdyll?
He didn’t think any of them would. Only Thaedoren had a hope of sheltering them, of wielding enough power as Tamaell to halt Lotaern at his doorstep.
“Keep moving,” he commanded, dragging his mount around hard and then digging in his heels. The steed snorted and leaped forward, although Aeren kept him in check as the rest of the escort closed in on either side. Hiroun urged his mount farther forward, two others joining him. They banked around a corner onto a different street, picked up speed on the straightaway, then turned again. Aeren’s ears strained for any sound of pursuit, but he heard nothing over the tread of the horses around him, the huffing breath of the animals and grunts of the guards. He knew it was only a matter of time before they ran into Lotaern’s forces. He and his co-conspirators had planned this too well if they already had men at the gates, had already attacked Terroec’s House. By now, they would have found Rhyssal’s manse empty; they’d be searching the streets. The burning wagons may cause a distraction, but he hoped their focus would be on the gates.
Out of the corner of one eye, he caught the orange-yellow flickers of fire. The tower of Baene’s manse still burned, now seething with flame down half its length. The bells warning of fire in the city should have rung by now. Aeren silently cursed and kicked his horse into greater speed.
Then ahead, Hiroun rounded a corner and cried out, the two guardsmen with him jerking their mounts to the side. Before those around Aeren could catch up to them, they wheeled their horses and continued straight ahead, Hiroun shouting something unintelligible. But when Aeren spurred his horse past the turn, he didn’t need an explanation: ten men on horseback were turning their mounts toward them, their shouts echoing off the buildings on either side. The shadows in the street were too thick to see their House colors.
Aeren nearly ordered his Phalanx about to engage, but before he could, another larger group burst from a second street to their right and struck the men at the back of Aeren’s escort, steel clashing as bodies slammed together. A horse screamed as it went down. Aeren’s Phalanx didn’t slow. A third group of pursuers broke into the street ahead and Hiroun pulled up short and cut into a side street. The Phalanx were forced to ride three abreast, but then they reached the far street and the formation regrouped. Aeren heard barked commands from behind but no horns calling the rest of the forces to them. They wanted silence. There was still a chance to stop whatever the traitors had left to do.
But they were blocks away from the palace. And their last evasion had driven them farther from its lower doors.
“Hiroun, bank left!” he roared, and saw Hiroun cut left, then immediately cut right again at the first opportunity without direction. He’d caught Aeren’s intent. The pursuers were on the main thoroughfares, the most direct approaches. Aeren wanted to come to the gates obliquely.
Breath harsh in his lungs, he followed Hiroun as the guard slid into the side streets, their pace slowing as the roadways narrowed. The quick turns had left the pursuers behind, although he could still hear them calling out orders. The activity had woken up dogs on all sides, their howls and barking breaking through the silence of deep night. Lights were beginning to appear in windows in the streets they’d left behind; they were making enough noise to rouse Caercaern’s residents. He considered waking those in the neighborhood around them, but he was afraid Peloroun’s forces would find them before enough of the common people understood what was happening. No, their only chance was reaching the Tamaell.
With that thought, they spilled out onto the central square before the palace’s lower doors. The tiers of the palace soared above them, its angles sharpened by moonlight and shadows. Aeren’s force streaked across the wide plaza toward the open gate, Aeren drawing breath to shout an order to close the gates, to seal the palace. But then he realized there were too many guardsmen on watch—
And they weren’t White Phalanx.
“Betrayal!” he roared, even as those at the gate spun toward them. “Traitors at the gate! Rhyssal, to the Tamaell! Protect Thaedoren!”
He kneed his horse hard, drew his sword as his guard bellowed in response, their own blades slicking from sheaths. Aeren shed all pretense of stealth. He only hoped Thaedoren was still alive.
Those at the gates—Licaetan and Ionaen Phalanx—scrambled to meet their charge. But these men weren’t mounted. They’d barely formed a line when Aeren and his escort crashed through them, Aeren slicing down and up, one of Peloroun’s men screaming and stumbling back a step before Aeren’s horse ran him over. Aeren’s focus had already shifted inward, into the inner corridor. His mount heaved forward, enemies brushed to either side. Blood splattered the walls of the corridor, White Phalanx already lying dead and crumpled. Through the clash of steel and the shouts of his men, magnified by the corridor around him, he heard distant fighting. He urged his mount deeper into the wide corridor and out into the open hall beyond, the clatter of hooves on marble echoing in the domed ceiling. More bodies littered the floor, White Phalanx mixed with Peloroun’s and Orraen’s men now. Two Licaetan guards leaped forward but Aeren and Hiroun cut them down. More of the Rhyssal Phalanx poured into the chamber, one of them shouting, “Ionaen forces are filling the courtyard outside. They’ve already retaken the doors.”
Aeren swore, then scanned the three doorways leading out of the chamber with one glance. He motioned to those on the left and right. “Check them.”
Four Rhyssal guards dismounted and broke toward each entrance. At least half his force was holding the corridor behind them. He pushed the sounds of the struggle from his mind and focused on what he could discern from deeper in the palace, his horse fidgeting in apprehension beneath him.
