toward Rezir, intending to read the man’s emotions.
The emir’s emotions were as cruel and prideful as his face. The aura of necromantic sorcery also hung around him like the smell rising from tainted meat. Necromancy was a vile practice, banned in New Kyre. It radiated from the black ring upon the third finger of Rezir’s right hand. Kylon suspected the ring would render the emir immune to normal steel. He wondered where Rezir had gotten such a thing.
A short man in leather and wool stood near Rezir’s side, his face shadowed in the cowl of his cloak. What little Kylon saw of the man’s face was hideously scarred, almost as if it had been stitched together from old leather. A necromantic aura hung around him, as well. Perhaps he had created the ring for the emir.
“Ah,” said Rezir, turning toward them. “My lords stormdancer.” He spoke Kyracian flawlessly, without a hint of an accent. “May I bid you welcome to Marsis? Your assault upon the docks was magnificent. For too long the Empire has failed to heed the emirs of Istarinmul and the princes of New Kyre. Today, we have taught them otherwise.”
“You speak graciously, my lord emir,” said Kleistheon.
“Thank you, lord stormdancer,” said Rezir, with every appearance of pleasure. Yet to Kylon sensed the emir’s emotions remained as hard and cold as a knife. “Is the Archon among you? I greatly desire to speak with her.”
“The High Seat of House Kardamnos will join us presently,” said Kleistheon. “I fear the battle may have wearied her.”
“Understandable,” said Rezir, and his emotions showed the briefest flicker of fear. “Her assault upon the engines of the Citadel was…astonishing. I have never seen anyone, not even the Master Alchemists of Istarinmul, wield sorcery with such potency and precision.”
“The Archon and the High Seat,” said Kylon, voice quiet, “is the most powerful stormsinger in New Kyre. Perhaps one of the most powerful in the history of the Kyracian people. No one can stand against her.”
Rezir regarded him for a moment, and Kylon felt the cold weight of the emir’s stare.
“As you say,” Rezir said at last.
A stir came from the southern end of the Great Market, and a guard of ashtairoi entered the plaza. In their midst strode a tall woman in a red gown with black sleeves, her long black hair bound in a thick braid. Her expression was serene, and her brown eyes betrayed not a flicker of emotion. The slaves shied away from her, and even the Istarish Immortals lowered their heads in respect as she passed.
“My lord emir,” said Kleistheon, “I present to you the High Seat of House Kardamnos, one of the nine Archons of the Assembly of New Kyre, and a stormsinger of great power. The lady Andromache.”
To Kylon’s arcane senses, Andromache was a tower of strength, a pillar of unyielding granite. Her emotions reflected nothing but steely resolve and relentless determination. Kylon remembered the day twenty years ago when their parents had been murdered, and House Kardamnos stood on the edge of ruin. Andromache, only fifteen, had come to him, and picked him up as he wept.
“They will pay, brother,” she had said. “Those who slew our parents will pay. And I vow to you that House Kardamnos shall be strong again.”
And she had kept her word.
“My lady Andromache,” said Rezir, bowing over her hand. “It is good to see you again. Our alliance has born a rich harvest. The docks have fallen, and the Great Market is taken.”
“A rich harvest indeed,” said Andromache, her voice strong, “but the choice crops have yet to be taken.” She glanced at the Citadel, at the siege engines burning upon its walls. “The Citadel has not yet fallen. And we have not claimed the city’s gates. Until we do, Marsis is not truly ours.”
“Then we must act quickly,” said Rezir. “Fortune favors the bold, and the
The emir’s emotions were as cruel and prideful as his face. The aura of necromantic sorcery also hung around him like the smell rising from tainted meat. Necromancy was a vile practice, banned in New Kyre. It radiated from the black ring upon the third finger of Rezir’s right hand. Kylon suspected the ring would render the emir immune to normal steel. He wondered where Rezir had gotten such a thing.
A short man in leather and wool stood near Rezir’s side, his face shadowed in the cowl of his cloak. What little Kylon saw of the man’s face was hideously scarred, almost as if it had been stitched together from old leather. A necromantic aura hung around him, as well. Perhaps he had created the ring for the emir.
“Ah,” said Rezir, turning toward them. “My lords stormdancer.” He spoke Kyracian flawlessly, without a hint of an accent. “May I bid you welcome to Marsis? Your assault upon the docks was magnificent. For too long the Empire has failed to heed the emirs of Istarinmul and the princes of New Kyre. Today, we have taught them otherwise.”
“You speak graciously, my lord emir,” said Kleistheon.
“Thank you, lord stormdancer,” said Rezir, with every appearance of pleasure. Yet to Kylon sensed the emir’s emotions remained as hard and cold as a knife. “Is the Archon among you? I greatly desire to speak with her.”
“The High Seat of House Kardamnos will join us presently,” said Kleistheon. “I fear the battle may have wearied her.”
“Understandable,” said Rezir, and his emotions showed the briefest flicker of fear. “Her assault upon the engines of the Citadel was…astonishing. I have never seen anyone, not even the Master Alchemists of Istarinmul, wield sorcery with such potency and precision.”
“The Archon and the High Seat,” said Kylon, voice quiet, “is the most powerful stormsinger in New Kyre. Perhaps one of the most powerful in the history of the Kyracian people. No one can stand against her.”
Rezir regarded him for a moment, and Kylon felt the cold weight of the emir’s stare.
“As you say,” Rezir said at last.
A stir came from the southern end of the Great Market, and a guard of ashtairoi entered the plaza. In their midst strode a tall woman in a red gown with black sleeves, her long black hair bound in a thick braid. Her expression was serene, and her brown eyes betrayed not a flicker of emotion. The slaves shied away from her, and even the Istarish Immortals lowered their heads in respect as she passed.
“My lord emir,” said Kleistheon, “I present to you the High Seat of House Kardamnos, one of the nine Archons of the Assembly of New Kyre, and a stormsinger of great power. The lady Andromache.”
To Kylon’s arcane senses, Andromache was a tower of strength, a pillar of unyielding granite. Her emotions reflected nothing but steely resolve and relentless determination. Kylon remembered the day twenty years ago when their parents had been murdered, and House Kardamnos stood on the edge of ruin. Andromache, only fifteen, had come to him, and picked him up as he wept.
“They will pay, brother,” she had said. “Those who slew our parents will pay. And I vow to you that House Kardamnos shall be strong again.”
And she had kept her word.
“My lady Andromache,” said Rezir, bowing over her hand. “It is good to see you again. Our alliance has born a rich harvest. The docks have fallen, and the Great Market is taken.”
“A rich harvest indeed,” said Andromache, her voice strong, “but the choice crops have yet to be taken.” She glanced at the Citadel, at the siege engines burning upon its walls. “The Citadel has not yet fallen. And we have not claimed the city’s gates. Until we do, Marsis is not truly ours.”
“Then we must act quickly,” said Rezir. “Fortune favors the bold, and the
Similar Books
