Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

“Raise your eyes, son of Jeph,” Jardir said. “I have never met a man who fought the alagai harder than you. If you could not stop them, they could not be stopped.”

Gratitude flushed in the Par’chin’s aura as he lifted his chin. “Wasn’t all bad. Even as they looked into my thoughts, I got a glimpse into theirs. They mean to return to the lost city and do what three thousand years of sandstorms could not. Dunno if it’s fear the city has secrets yet to divulge, or a wish to shit upon their ancient foes, but they will exhume the sarcophagi and raze the city.”

“We must stop them at any cost,” Jardir said. “I will not have my ancestors profaned.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Arlen snapped. “Throw away all strategic advantage over a handful of dusty corpses?”

“Those are heroes of the First War, you faithless chin, ” Jardir snapped. “They carry the honor of mankind. I will not suffer them to be sullied by the alagai. ”

The Par’chin spat on the floor. “Kaji himself would command you leave them.”

Jardir laughed. “Oh, you claim to speak for Kaji now, Par’chin?”

“I’ve read his treatise on war, too, Ahmann,” the Par’chin said. “ No thing is more precious than victory. Kaji’s words, not mine.”

Jardir balled his fists. “You’re free with the holy scripture when it suits you, son of Jeph, and quick to dismiss it as fantasy when it does not.” His crown began to glow fiercely. “Kaji also commanded we honor the bones of those who have given their lives in alagai’sharak above all others, and let none profane them.”

The Par’chin crossed his arms, the wards on his flesh flaring to match the crown. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you will give up our one chance to take the fight to the demons just to preserve the honor of empty shells whose spirits have long since gone down the lonely path.”

Our cultures are a natural insult to each other, Par’chin, Jardir had once said. We must resist the urge to take offense, if we are to continue to learn from each other.

The son of Jeph’s aura was plain. He believed he was in the right, but had no wish to fight over the matter.

“You are not wrong,” Jardir admitted, “but you are a fool if you think I will stand idle and watch a demon shit upon the bones of Kaji.”

The Par’chin nodded. “And I do not ask you to. I ask that if it comes to it, you watch them shit upon Isak. Maji. Mehnding. Even Jardir, should they find him.”

“They will not,” Jardir said, relieved. “My holy ancestor is interred in the Desert Spear. We can move the body of Kaji there.” Still, the thought of letting the alagai desecrate the bodies of the great leaders of the Evejah horrified him. Even with all Ala at stake, he did not know if he could witness such a thing and not act to stop it.

“And what advantage do we gain by this … sacrifice?” Jardir asked through bitter tones.

“We do not steal Kaji away,” the son of Jeph said. “The first Shar’Dama Ka will serve his people once more, baiting the trap we will set upon his tomb. Anoch Sun is enormous. We cannot predict precisely where the mind demons will strike, save that one crypt, seen so clearly in my memory. They are coming there, Ahmann. They are coming in force. And we will be there to meet them, hidden in Cloaks of Unsight. When they enter the chamber, we will capture one, kill as many as we can while surprise holds, and flee.”

Jardir crossed his arms, looking skeptical. “And how are we supposed to accomplish this?”

“We use the crown,” the Par’chin said.

Jardir raised a brow.

“The Crown of Kaji’s warding field can repel any demon, even an army of them, up to half a mile,” the Par’chin said.

“I am aware of this,” Jardir said. “It is my crown.”

The Par’chin smiled. “Are you also aware that you can raise the field at a distance? Like a bubble, keeping demons out, or as in the Maze …”

“… keeping them in,” Jardir realized. “If we get in close …”

“… you can trap them in with us,” the Par’chin said.

Jardir clenched a fist. “We can destroy Nie’s generals before the first sallies of Sharak Ka even begin.”

The Par’chin nodded. “But it won’t do much good if their queen can lay more.”

Jardir looked at him. “Alagai’ting Ka. The Mother of Demons.”

“Just so,” the Par’chin said. “Kill her, and we’ve a shot at winning the war. If not, they’ll come back again, even if it takes another three thousand years. Eventually, they’ll wear us down.”

“What if I do not agree to this plan, Par’chin?” Jardir asked. “Will you steal the crown and try alone?”

“Half right,” Arlen said. “Minds are coming to Anoch Sun on new moon and I’ll be there with or without you. If you can’t see the value in that, then you’re not the man I thought you were. Take your crown, slink back to your ripping throne, and leave Sharak Ka to me.”

Jardir grit his teeth. “And the spear?”

“The spear is mine,” Arlen said. “But you swear by the sun to do this with me, I’ll give it to you free and clear and call it a bargain. If not, I’ll take it to the Core and put it through the demon queen’s heart myself.”

Jardir stared at him a long time. “That will not be necessary, Par’chin. It grates me to be given what is already mine, but what kind of ajin’pal would I be if I let you walk such a road alone? You may think Everam a lie, Par’chin, but truly He must love you, to grant you such courage.”

The Par’chin smiled. “My da always said I had more sack than sense.”

Arlen bustled about the kitchen, his hands a blur as he worked. He had never been a great cook, but years spent alone on the road had made him efficient enough at boiling potatoes and pan-frying meat and vegetables. He used no fire; heat wards etched into the pots and pans did the work, powered by his touch.

“May I assist?” Jardir asked.

“You?” Arlen asked. “Has the self-proclaimed king of the world ever even touched unprepared food?”

“You know me well, Par’chin,” Jardir said, “but not as well as you think. Was I not nie’Sharum once? There is no menial task I have not bent my back to.”

“Then bend your back to setting the table.” The banter was familiar, something Arlen hadn’t realized he had missed all these years. It was easy to fall into their old patterns, brothers in all but name. Jardir had stood with Arlen on his first night in the Maze, and in Krasia, that was as great a bond as blood. Greater.

But Jardir had been willing to kill him for power. He had not done it with malice, but he had done it all the same, and even now, Arlen had to wonder if he would do it all over again if he had the chance … or if the chance came again in the future. He searched Jardir’s aura for a clue, but he could discern little without Drawing magic through him and Knowing him fully—an intrusion Jardir would no doubt sense, and have every right to take offense to.

“Ask, Par’chin,” Jardir said.

“Ay?” Arlen asked, surprised.

“I can see the question that gnaws at your spirit,” Jardir said. “Ask, and let us have it done.”

Arlen nodded. “Soon enough. Some things are best done on a full stomach.”

He finished preparing the meal, waiting patiently as Jardir said a prayer over the food before they set to eating. A single serving was enough for Arlen, but Jardir had suffered serious wounds in their battle on the cliff, and while magic could heal them in an instant, it couldn’t make flesh and blood from nothing. He emptied three bowls and still reached for the fruit plate while Arlen cleared the table.