Danie Ware - Ecko Rising

“You’re in no position to be making threats.” The Merchant Master radiated smug savagery: it danced in his voice, flickered across his face. “You’re finished, you bastard, you’ve hobbled this city long enough. Without you, Fhaveon ushers in a new age – an age where our terhnwood will rule everything we are, everything we want and need. I can wipe out the pirates once and for all –”

“By burning the crops?” Pinned by his shoulder, Rhan turned his face into Phylos’s like an angry lover. “You stupid – !”

“I didn’t burn anything, you herb-addled throwback. Believe me or not as you wish – I’m as... curious... about that as you must be.” He grinned like a hunting bweao. “Though I can turn it to my advantage.”

“Oh?” Rhan dared him, taunting. “And how would that be?”

“Love of the Gods!” Phylos spat a laugh straight back, though the pressure of his hand didn’t ease. The rock was cold, and it hurt. “You’ll be facing death for your crimes, Rhan. You may not have a future, but I’m not about to crouch here in the stink and tell you my plans.” Now, he eased the pressure, rested his hand on Rhan’s shoulder, mocking. “You’ll go to your trial, your execution and your grave knowing that you gave this city, her rulers, into my hands. And without you holding me back, I can build Fhaveon to a glory never seen.”

“‘Trial, execution and grave’? You think you can execute me for a packet of illegal herb? Whatever your grand plan may be, Phylos, the Foundersson –”

“The Foundersson is dead, you damned fool.” Phylos inhaled momentarily, as though the next sentence were one to savour. “You killed him.”

What?

The memory was stark, cold and shocking, suddenly ice-water clear.

Screaming. All the way down.

He whispered like a breath of pain, as though he’d been punched in the belly. “Dear Gods...!”

“You’ll be facing trial for the murder of the Lord Foundersson Demisarr Valiembor and the subsequent –” another savour “– rape of his ladywife, Valicia.” Phylos’s expression was sharp, metal cold – as through it hid glee beyond measure. “The Lady has a high heart and much courage – she’ll bring a witness testimony that will end your life .”

Hands. Beating at his chest. The body under him, spasming and furious – biting, fighting, struggling...

The memory made him shudder in shock horror – like a spear had been driven through his body. Samiel! I couldn’t have done this!

As if it was his last, strangled air, he said, “No...”

But he knew it was true. Somehow, in that nightmare, he’d been in the bedchamber of the Foundersson. Had he been begging help, or sanctuary, or for the Lord to show courage against Phylos’s rising power? He had no idea. But he remembered...

The struggling form of the man in his hands. “Rhan, what are you doing? Put me down, I’m not a babe any more!” Shutters shattering as the Lord went through them, the last clutch of his hand on the windowledge. Screaming . The long fall down into the gorge, into the night.

What had he done ?

He was shaking, broken, hands quivering like an addict’s. His belly roiled as if he’d throw up. His mind could manage nothing but pointless, empty, looping denial. Nonononono...

I held Demi as a tiny baby. Watched him grow. Swore my life to his defence. Stood with him as he married his wife...

...his wife! The white-flare release of an orgasm stolen.

“Get up, Rhan Elensiel.” Phylos rammed his shoulder again against the rock. Shards of pain shot through his bruised spine. The Merchant glanced back as something blocked the light chinks, moved away. “Get up, and face your own execution. Like a man. If that’s what you are.”

Rhan stared, lost in disbelief. Impossibility raged at him, a towering mockery that clamoured on all sides – how had Fhaveon been this undermined, this quickly? How long had Phylos and the Institute been laying groundwork? And how in the names of the Gods had he not noticed ?

Samiel’s teeth – had he been asleep?

But he could answer that himself. No, just bored. Inattentive. Drinking, smoking, entertaining his friends and varied personages of exotic tastes...

Like herbalist Penya Esamy.

He wanted to rail at himself for being such a fool – but that time was past. The initial shock, the horror, was solidifying, now sending after-echoes through his thoughts – without Demisarr, his daughter Selana would lead the Council. She was young, easily controlled. If she named her mother Seneschal, perhaps there would be hope for the city.

But if she named Phylos...

It was an old, old story. Mainly because it damned-well worked.

By the Gods, this was crazed!

He shifted under Phylos’s hand, strove to stand. His vision darkened, cleared. Pain skittered through his back, his chest ground as he moved – he wondered, bizarrely curious, just how badly he’d been thrashed. How badly he’d deserved it.

His mouth tasted of salt, blood and sand.

He reached a panting crouch and managed, “I don’t know what you’ve done to me – what you’ve made me do – but it’s a lie. ”

The Merchant laughed, unfolded to his feet with a warrior’s ease. He stood over Rhan, blood-robes saturated to his knees.

Rhan said, “You touch Selana and I’ll –”

“The way you touched her mother?” The Merchant Master turned to the door, threw the words back over his shoulder. “You’re done. Today, Fhaveon begins her new life.”

* * *

The Theatre of Nine still rang with echoes of the tumult.

Small beneath her father’s white cloak, The Lord Foundersdaughter Selana Valiembor was wide-eyed, struggling to master reactionary shivering. She’d faced them, all of them, from the head of that table and she’d done her damned best.

Watching her, Phylos threw his own cloak across her chair – a splash of blue in this cold, white building. They were alone.

“You did well, my Lord,” he told her gently. “Even without the grief and the outrage, the Council is a hard thing to control.”

“‘Control’, Phylos?” Her voice was clear, remarkably steady. “I thought my role was to guide?”

“Of course.” The blood-clad Merchant Master gave a slight bow, changed tack. “My Lord, perhaps now the meeting is over, there’s a matter we can discuss privately?”

“The naming of my Seneschal –”

“No, my Lord.” He smiled affectionately at her, as if the issue were farthest from his mind. “I speak of the burning – and the harvest.”

Pain flickered a line between her brows. She put back the voluminous white hood as if she set her title aside, relaxed.

“I wish I knew,” she said. “If this continues...”

“I’ve despatched runners, my Lord, following Roderick’s hysteria. The Bard may be crazed, but there’s no fault in caution.”

The girl nodded. She wandered around the table, trailing her fingertips across its cold surface, looking up at the great mural carved into the circular wall.

“Do you mean what you say to me, Phylos? That this is a new beginning?” Cold quartz lay dead in the stone. “That Fhaveon will know new life?”

“Assuredly, my Lord. Enough of saga and history and forgotten woes.” He smiled up at Rhan’s plummeting stone likeness, a sharp edge of anticipation. “It’s time we take responsibility, make our destiny our own.”

“History.” She was still looking at the great saga around her, the city’s history, her construction by Saluvarith and Tekissari, the gift of the GreatHeart Rakanne. “Meaning Roderick’s vision – ?”