Brian Staveley - The Providence of Fire

“You flouted our laws and usurped the Malkeenian line,” she said, voice tight as a harp string. “I am defending both.”

“More’s the pity,” he replied. “I had hoped you might be here to defend Annur.”

“You want me to believe that ‘defending Annur’ means sitting idly by while you profane the Unhewn Throne?”

“Your throne is an absurd piece of furniture in which I have less than no interest. I would gladly pass it over to you, although from what I’m told, you’ve already claimed it for yourself. Your Radiance.”

She couldn’t tell if he was mocking her or not. Threatening her or not. She had expected him to lie, to twist, to deny the truth in a thousand ways. Despite his earlier letter, she had not expected this, neither the honesty nor the accusation, and she struggled to find her balance, to take control of the conversation once more.

“And you expect me to believe that you won’t kill me, too, when I grow inconvenient? The same way you killed my father and Kaden?”

He shook his head. “I had nothing to do with your brother’s death.”

“Well, it’s pretty ’Kent-kissing convenient for you that my father’s rightful heir never returned to the capital.”

Il Tornja shook his head. “Listen to yourself, Adare. Your father. Your brother. You. The fucking Malkeenians. Even if I murdered your entire family, which I have not and do not intend to, Annur has more pressing worries. Worries that extend beyond the tidy walls of your palace. The Urghul are here.” He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “ All of them. I am trying to deal with the threat while you are playing a petty political game.”

“Justice for my father is not a game,” Adare snarled. “And if the Urghul are here, it is because you erred. You are the kenarang and regent. Why wasn’t the Army of the North in place to stop them?”

“I was forced to recall the Army of the North,” he said grimly, “to deal with your religious uprising, to put down the threat of civil war. I thought Long Fist remained at the eastern end of the steppe, but I was wrong. When I pulled the men south to face you, he attacked. Unopposed, he will tear through the northern atrepies like a knife through rotted cloth.”

“Then I will oppose him,” Adare said. “None of this needs involve you.”

“Then kill me,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “Kill me if you think it necessary. But then march your Sons and the Army of the North hard. There will be daily messengers updating you on the Urghul movements.”

Abruptly, Adare felt that she stood on the verge of a high cliff, staring down into fog. She could kill the man, could appoint Lehav or Fulton to command the Army of the North, and yet, what did Lehav or Fulton understand about the Urghul? Had either of them ever seen one? Did they know the first thing about how to fight them?

“And when we encounter the horsemen?” she asked slowly.

Il Tornja smiled then, a wry little twist of the lip. “Hope that Long Fist makes a mistake.”

“How likely is that?”

“He hasn’t made one yet.”

Someone shifted on the floor behind Adare, the wide pine boards creaking with the weight.

“The Urghul might not a’ made a mistake,” Nira said, her voice a rough file over stone, “but you have, you son of a Csestriim bitch.”

Adare spun to find the old woman standing just a few feet inside the back door, her brother hunched in the shadows behind her. She looked the same-stoop-backed, hair a curled halo of gray about her wizened face-but there was something in her eyes, something sharp and bright that Adare had never seen there. For half a heartbeat she just stared at the woman she had made her councillor, and then, behind her, just where il Tornja was standing, she heard the clatter of steel dropping to the wooden floor. She turned once more to find Fulton still holding his sword, or what was left of it.

The blade had been cut cleanly just above the hilt, the steel scar seared smooth. The length of the weapon lay on the pine boards at the kenarang ’s feet, while around his neck floated a bright collar of flame. The slender line of fire throbbed, as though someone had slashed open the world and beyond it lay another world, one filled to the stars and beyond with unquenchable fire. Fulton took a step back, obviously baffled, but il Tornja didn’t move. His eyes, lit by the light of the burning collar, had gone hard as stones.

“What is this?” he asked, raising a hand to the ring, taking care not to touch it.

“You might call it justice,” Nira said, stepping forward from the shadows. “Or you might call it vengeance.” She smiled a tight smile. “Or you might just call it bad fucking luck. Doesn’t much matter, because either way, it’s gonna kill you.”

The kenarang turned his head just a fraction to meet her stare, narrowed his eyes, then, after a brief pause, said simply, “Ah. Rishinira.”

“Do I look different,” she asked quietly, “after all these years?”

He seemed to study the question. “You look stronger,” he said at last.

She barked a laugh, while Adare felt her own stomach shift queasily. The pieces fell abruptly, terrifyingly into place. Someone close to the center of power. A creature long given to schemes and machinations …

“What are you doing, Nira?” Adare asked slowly.

The old woman didn’t take her eyes from il Tornja. “Just finishing up a very tiresome errand.”

He was Csestriim. That was the only answer. Ran il Tornja was Csestriim. Her father’s killer was Csestriim. Somehow, impossibly, he was the Csestriim Nira had been searching for all these years, the one who made her nearly immortal. The brute fact smashed through everything Adare thought she understood about the world, and her mind refused it, kicked it away, grasped desperately for some other explanation. She felt as though she had looked into the bottom of a deep well and seen the sun.

Il Tornja spread his hands, the sort of invitation a host might make upon opening the door to newly arrived guests. “I see you’ve made the acquaintance of my old friends, Adare.” He nodded toward Nira’s brother, who was staring at him with eyes like saucers-“Hello, Roshin”-then turned back to her. “I don’t know how you found these two, but I assume you are ignorant of their history.”

“No,” Adare said, shaking her head, forcing down the confusion and the terror. “I’m not ignorant of it, in fact. Nira and Oshi have been completely honest with me.”

Il Tornja frowned. “Then you understand that they are leaches. That they helped to destroy half of the continent you call Eridroa. They are the Atmani.”

“What I understand,” Adare said, forcing herself to say the words, though she could only manage a whisper, “is that if they are the Atmani, then you are the monster who made them.”

Il Tornja frowned. “ Monster is a terribly freighted word. As for making them, only Bedisa can weave a soul. She made them, made them a brother and sister, both leaches. All we did was help to extend their power, to give them the life they still enjoy.”

Adare felt like weeping, like screaming, but it was Nira who responded, her voice gravid with rage.

“Enjoy?” she spat. “The life we enjoy ?” She thrust a finger at her brother. “Your gifts broke us.”

“A fact that I have regretted since the day I realized it was true.”

“You’re Csestriim, ” Nira hissed savagely. “You don’t feel regret.”

Something alien passed through il Tornja’s gaze, an utter emptiness that made Adare quail. “Your certainties, Rishinira, may prove as illusory as my own have.”