Devastating Hate by Markus Heitz Page A

his own, while he wiped his hands. “She has taken up with the murderer of the älf who worshipped her and with whom she should have produced at least one child.” He sighed deeply, as if unable to bear the sorrow any longer. Polòtain focused his black eyes on Itáni. “Can you arrange to have the statue erected on the marketplace? Your people will know how to handle a work of art better than my slaves will.”
    She bowed. “Of course. I’ll see to it at once.” She drained her cup. “Onyx marble withstands all weathers and won’t be affected by frost. But it will be vulnerable to cuts or blows. You should set a guard if you want it to last. I fear there will be more than one attack made on it. Either Sinthoras will pay someone to do it, or it might be defaced by frenetic admirers of the nostàroi, who will be calling you a liar.”
    “I’ve thought about that. I’ll come up with something.” Polòtain shook hands with her. “My thanks again for this incomparable likeness of my beloved great nephew. Until we meet again.” He departed, escorted to the door by a slave.
    Polòtain left the house of the sculptress and suddenly felt a pain in his heart. He put his hand to his breast and took deep breaths. His grief at Robonor’s passing caused him more anguish than any physical injury he had ever sustained in all his time as a warrior. And yet his distress would serve as a motivating force. He would not give up until revenge was his. He dismissed his litter-bearers. He wanted to walk and follow his own thoughts.
    Polòtain found it unbearable that Robonor’s own father had done nothing but was prepared, on the contrary, to believe the line that his son had died in an accident and that it had been so decreed by fate.
    But Polòtain was all too familiar with this kind of fate: älfar hands had given fate plenty of help here. He was well versed in such intrigues; were it otherwise he would not himself have achieved such a high position among the Comets.
    The Comets were convinced that the future of the älfar depended on expansionism, increasing the territory under their control. The Constellations, on the other hand, insisted the best strategy was to build more and better border defenses. Each faction had been trying to persuade the Inextinguishables that their own view was the correct one.
    The sibling rulers would, of course, be deciding for themselves what should happen in Dsôn Faïmon, but the views of their people and, in particular, of the elite were important.
    Polòtain had retired from his function as a Comet leader nearly ten divisions of unendingness previously to live on his estate in Avaris, leaving Robonor in charge of his city property in Dsôn. But when Sinthoras—a member of the same political faction as himself—acted with such despicable trickery, it was more than his soul could bear to sit and do nothing. He still had his network of connections in all six of the radial arms. He had already received a promise that should soon be bearing fruit.
    “I’ll have you on your knees, Sinthoras,” he murmured. “Don’t you dare get killed in Tark Draan. I want you to have victory after glorious victory. The greater your fame, the more devastating your subsequent fall. How I shall enjoy it!”
    Polòtain had no eye for the magnificent architecture around him; this was a part of the city where many artists dwelled. He ignored the convoluted buildings constructed in gray and colored wood or in compressed stone incorporating thin metal layers, with their decorations in white and black bone tiles, their carved window frames and many other features. He did not look at the cleverly sculpted evergreen bushes with their ornamental artworks tinkling in the gentle breeze.
    He had lost all interest in art because beauty no longer had any relevance for him. Such was his hatred of Sinthoras and Timanris that hehad thrown out a number of outstanding pieces of work her famous artist father had created. He had