his advantage, and had become the most exalted among the exalted.
Tobias Brogan loved his sister—loved her enough to slit her throat himself, if need be, to free her from the Keeper’s tendrils, from the torment of his taint, if it ever slipped the bounds of control. She would live only so long as she was useful, only so long as she helped them root out evil, root out banelings. For now, she fought the scourge snatching at her soul, and she was useful.
He realized she didn’t look like much, swathed in scraps of different-colored cloth—it was the one thing that brought her pleasure and kept her content, having different colors draped around her, her “pretties” she called them—but the Keeper had invested Lunetta with rare talent and strength. Through tenacious effort, Tobias had expropriated it.
That was the flaw with the Keeper’s creation—the flaw in anything the Keeper created: it could be used as a tool by the pious, if they were astute enough. The Creator always provided weapons to fight profanity, if one only looked for them and had the wisdom, the sheer audacity, to use them. That was what impressed him about the Imperial Order; they were shrewd enough to understand this, and resourceful enough to use magic as a tool to seek out profanity and destroy it.
As he did, the Order used streganicha , and apparently valued and trusted them. He didn’t like it, though, that they were allowed to roam free and unguarded to bring information and proposals, but if they ever turned against the cause, well, he always kept Lunetta nearby.
Still, he didn’t like being so close to evil. It repulsed him, sister or not.
Dawn was just breaking and the streets were already crowded with people. In abundance, too, were soldiers of different lands, each patrolling the grounds of their own palaces, and others, mostly D’Haran, patrolling the city. Many of the troops looked ill at ease, as if they anticipated an attack an any moment. Brogan had been assured that they had everything well in hand. Never one to take on faith anything he was told, he had sent out his own patrols the night before, and they had confirmed that there were no Midland insurgents anywhere near Aydindril.
Brogan always favored arriving when least expected, and in greater numbers than expected, just in case he had to take matters into his own hands. He had brought a full fist—five hundred men—into the city, but if there proved to be trouble, he could always bring his main force into Aydindril. His main force had proven themselves quite capable of crushing any insurrection.
Had the D’Harans not been allies, the indications of their numbers would have been alarming. Though Brogan had well-founded faith in his men’s abilities, only the vain fought battles when the odds were even, much less long; the Creator didn’t hold the vain in kind regard.
Lifting a hand, Tobias slowed the horses, lest they trample a squad of D’Haran foot soldiers crossing before the column. He thought it untoward of them to be winged out in a battle formation, similar to his own flying wedge, as they crossed the main thoroughfare, but perhaps the D’Harans, charged with the task of patrolling a vanquished city, were reduced to frightening footpads and cutpurses with a show of might.
The D’Harans, weapons to hand and looking to be in an ill mood, swept gazes over the column of cavalry bearing down on them, apparently looking for any sign of threat. Brogan thought it rather odd that they carried their weapons unsheathed. A cautious lot, the D’Harans.
Unconcerned with what they saw, they didn’t hurry their pace. Brogan smiled; lesser men would have stepped up their stride. Their weapons, mostly swords and battle-axes, were neither embellished nor fancy, and that in itself made them look all the more impressive. They were weapons carried because they had proven brutally effective, and not for flash.
Outnumbered well over twentyfold, the men in dark leather and
Tobias Brogan loved his sister—loved her enough to slit her throat himself, if need be, to free her from the Keeper’s tendrils, from the torment of his taint, if it ever slipped the bounds of control. She would live only so long as she was useful, only so long as she helped them root out evil, root out banelings. For now, she fought the scourge snatching at her soul, and she was useful.
He realized she didn’t look like much, swathed in scraps of different-colored cloth—it was the one thing that brought her pleasure and kept her content, having different colors draped around her, her “pretties” she called them—but the Keeper had invested Lunetta with rare talent and strength. Through tenacious effort, Tobias had expropriated it.
That was the flaw with the Keeper’s creation—the flaw in anything the Keeper created: it could be used as a tool by the pious, if they were astute enough. The Creator always provided weapons to fight profanity, if one only looked for them and had the wisdom, the sheer audacity, to use them. That was what impressed him about the Imperial Order; they were shrewd enough to understand this, and resourceful enough to use magic as a tool to seek out profanity and destroy it.
As he did, the Order used streganicha , and apparently valued and trusted them. He didn’t like it, though, that they were allowed to roam free and unguarded to bring information and proposals, but if they ever turned against the cause, well, he always kept Lunetta nearby.
Still, he didn’t like being so close to evil. It repulsed him, sister or not.
Dawn was just breaking and the streets were already crowded with people. In abundance, too, were soldiers of different lands, each patrolling the grounds of their own palaces, and others, mostly D’Haran, patrolling the city. Many of the troops looked ill at ease, as if they anticipated an attack an any moment. Brogan had been assured that they had everything well in hand. Never one to take on faith anything he was told, he had sent out his own patrols the night before, and they had confirmed that there were no Midland insurgents anywhere near Aydindril.
Brogan always favored arriving when least expected, and in greater numbers than expected, just in case he had to take matters into his own hands. He had brought a full fist—five hundred men—into the city, but if there proved to be trouble, he could always bring his main force into Aydindril. His main force had proven themselves quite capable of crushing any insurrection.
Had the D’Harans not been allies, the indications of their numbers would have been alarming. Though Brogan had well-founded faith in his men’s abilities, only the vain fought battles when the odds were even, much less long; the Creator didn’t hold the vain in kind regard.
Lifting a hand, Tobias slowed the horses, lest they trample a squad of D’Haran foot soldiers crossing before the column. He thought it untoward of them to be winged out in a battle formation, similar to his own flying wedge, as they crossed the main thoroughfare, but perhaps the D’Harans, charged with the task of patrolling a vanquished city, were reduced to frightening footpads and cutpurses with a show of might.
The D’Harans, weapons to hand and looking to be in an ill mood, swept gazes over the column of cavalry bearing down on them, apparently looking for any sign of threat. Brogan thought it rather odd that they carried their weapons unsheathed. A cautious lot, the D’Harans.
Unconcerned with what they saw, they didn’t hurry their pace. Brogan smiled; lesser men would have stepped up their stride. Their weapons, mostly swords and battle-axes, were neither embellished nor fancy, and that in itself made them look all the more impressive. They were weapons carried because they had proven brutally effective, and not for flash.
Outnumbered well over twentyfold, the men in dark leather and
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