Paul Thompson - A Hero's justice

“You’re not going to Daltigoth either,” Tol told him. “I have another task for you. Find out from Syndic Hanira where the Pakin Pretender is. Get the princess-alive-out of Caergoth. Go wherever you like, but send me word of your location once you alight.”

Tylocost’s pale eyes showed a glimmer of interest. “What is your plan, my lord?”

“Only to avoid another civil war. Killing one princess won’t solve anything. But-” He drew a deep breath. “But having a Pakin in reserve may add weight to my dealings with Ackal V.”

Given the marriage habits of high Ergothian nobility, there were scores of Pakins scattered throughout the empire and border regions. Valaran herself was of Pakin blood. Killing Mellamy Zan was no answer; any of her kin could incite a revolt by claiming the throne, if they could gather enough followers. However, having the chief claimant as hostage might have a chilling effect on any warlords who backed her on Ackal V. With the Pretender in his clutches, Tol could use fear of a Pakin uprising to keep the emperor in check.

“You’re putting a great responsibility in my hand,” Tylocost said. “Do you trust me that much?” “You’re the man for the deed.”

Tylocost bowed his head. “I will do as you bid, my lord.” All the nearby torches had been extinguished. A candle on the table reached its last mark and went out. The Silvanesti, silhouetted by the remaining light, said, “I must retire, my lord. I have a task at dawn.”

Tol had an inkling what the task was. “Shall I come?” “Thank you, my lord, but the rite is for Silvanesti only.” Though Zala had been only half-elven, in death such distinctions no longer seemed to matter.

Four laborers, hired in Caergoth, dug a deep hole on a hilltop northwest of the city. It was the same hill on which Tylocost had observed Caergoth when he’d first arrived. The treasure caravan was long gone, safely stowed in the citadel.

Dawn was a pale promise on the eastern horizon as Tylocost paid off the diggers and sent them home. He assured them he did not need them to stay and fill in the hole “after.”

The laborers’ two-wheeled cart creaked away, and Tylocost was finally alone among the widely spaced oaks. The grave held two shrouded bodies. Zala would not sleep alone. Her father, Kaeph, had passed away not long after his daughter. His cough was pneumonia, and the Caergoth healers could not save him. He spoke only once, to ask for his child. Miya was sitting with him at the time. She assured him he would be with his daughter very soon. The Dom-shu woman spoke only the truth to the dying man.

Tylocost pressed his palms together and began to chant an ancient Silvanesti song. It was the Wath-Ranata, a hymn for those who perish far from the sacred homeland. He sang it for Zala. The gods would forgive him for performing the hymn in the presence of the human. Tylocost would not part father and daughter again.

The song was long. He sang it as the sun lifted itself above the horizon and washed the land with heat. Bluish gray clouds hovered in the west. The weather would be foul for the ride to Daltigoth.

The last words of the Wath-Ranata echoed over the green hills. Tylocost scattered green leaves and flower petals on the linen shapes nestled in the earth, then took up the spade the diggers had left for him. By the time the hole was filled, he was sweating and dirty.

His final act was to plant a seedling tree on the grave. Every Silvanesti wanted to rest beneath the boughs of a living tree. He’d chosen an apple tree because he liked the idea that Zala would one day bear fruit to all passersby.

The unsightly gardener tied his floppy hat on his head and shouldered his spade like a weapon. The urge to salute, although long-ingrained by decades of military service, did not intrude here.

Tylocost had not buried a comrade. He’d said good-bye to the woman he loved.

Ackal V stepped out of his bath. His arms, legs, and chest were mottled with bruises, some already yellowing as they healed. The blows he’d sustained from the bakali might not have brought him down, but they’d certainly made a bold impression. He hadn’t availed himself of the imperial healers, and rarely did. He had little faith in their spells and nostrums, and feared enemies might use the opportunity to hex him.

From her marble bench a few steps away, Empress Valaran kept her eyes averted, studying the mosaic pattern around her feet. She was all too familiar with the sight of her husband unclothed. It was not a view she cared for. Dalar played at her feet, humming to himself as he pushed wooden warriors on horseback across the floor. Some of the toy soldiers were painted red, others gray.

A lackey held up a gray silk robe. Ackal V slipped his arms in and tied the sash with a savage yank. Equal pique marked his movements as he took a golden cup of wine offered by another servant.

Valaran had brought him the unwelcome news of Caergoth’s fall to Tol and the landed hordes. Ackal V cursed Wornoth in between gulps of wine, damning the governor for his lack of backbone. For squeezing taxes from peasants and keeping the high-nosed residents of Caergoth in line Wornoth was adequate, but faced with real opposition, he wilted instantly.

“How was it done?” he asked.

Valaran replied, “Accounts differ, sire, but it seems some or all of the Caergoth garrison went willingly over to the other side.”

“I want their names, all of them! Their families will suffer for this treachery!”

Valaran nodded, but vowed to herself that none of the families would face the emperor’s vengeance.

The emperor asked about troop strength. “According to my spies, he has twenty to thirty hordes,” she replied. “If every man in the Caergoth garrison joins him, he will have fifty-four hordes.”

In fact, the information she had received by messenger pigeon that evening gave the total figure of forty-four hordes. Valaran exaggerated for Tol’s benefit.

Ackal flung the empty cup at the wine steward. The man wasn’t nimble enough and failed to catch the heavy golden vessel. It clanged loudly on the tiles. The steward cringed, knowing he’d just earned a flogging.

“Even if he had a hundred fifty hordes, he couldn’t break into Daltigoth!” Ackal V declared.

Their conversation was interrupted by Prince Dalar. He suddenly began hammering away at the ranks of toy soldiers with a brass rod. Red and gray riders alike went down under his blows, some of the figures splintering.

He’d never been violent with his toys before, and his mother spoke sharply to him. Ackal V laughed.

. “That’s the way, boy,” he said. “In ten years you can do that to real enemies!”

Valaran stood abruptly. “Is that all you require, Majesty?”

“Yes, go. And send Tathman to me.”

She wanted Dalar to come with her, but Ackal V told her to leave the boy where he was.

“I’ll not have the crown prince subjected to the company of that vile mercenary!” Valaran said.

“That vile mercenary is utterly loyal-unlike you, lady.”

She protested, but he stepped closer and took her chin a painful grip. “I know you would like nothing better than to see me dead, and the pig farmer standing here in my place,” he murmured. “You can consign that dream to the vale of night. It’s the farmer who’ll be dead, and that handy trinket he carries will be mine. As you are, lady. Forever.”

She pulled free of him, eyes flashing in anger, then the import of his words sank in. He knew about the Irda millstone? How could that be? How long had he known? Awful thoughts formed in her mind. Was it possible he had known of her plot to bring Tol to Daltigoth, but had done nothing to interfere, just so he could get his hands on the nullstone?