Inside the grand entryway, Cemi looked at Vos, whose brows were furrowed with concern. Chamberlain Nerev cleared his throat. “Cemi, why are you not addressing the crowds?”
“Me? But I—”
“We know Empra Iluris wanted you to replace her.”
“No one is replacing the empra,” scolded Captani Vos. “She still lives. She needs rest and medical attention.”
Cemi still struggled with Nerev’s comment. “You may know it, Chamberlain, but Iluris made no announcement to the people, did not anoint me. I can’t just—”
They listened to the crowd grow angrier as Klovus continued. “We should have strengthened Ishara thirty years ago. Our Serepol godling must be stronger than any other force in the world.” He paused, then turned his speech in an unexpected direction. “The Magnifica temple was always meant to be the cornerstone of our strength, not just for Serepol but for the whole land. As key priestlord, I hereby order construction efforts to resume. All resources, all workers shall be brought to the city center, and the temple will rise, the grandest ever constructed! We need it for the defense of Ishara. When our godling thrives, we will conquer the hated Commonwealth. We will wipe out the godless!”
Cemi was alarmed by how bold Klovus had already become. “Iluris has to get better.”
As they crossed the main entry hall bearing the empra, an old woman rushed along the polished tile floors, clad in a drab but clean dress. “Excellency!” Analera had been a loyal and dedicated servant for all of Iluris’s life, and now she pushed herself in among the hawk guards. “Oh, my lady! I will call the court physicians.”
Recognizing her, Vos and the hawk guards relaxed. Cemi had also talked with the old woman many times during her days of tutoring sessions. She said, “Make sure the empra has whatever she needs in her quarters. We will all be with her.” Her voice cracked. “We may be there for some time.”
“It’s a defensible position,” said Vos. “Our best option to guard her.”
Wearing a look of determination, Analera hurried off. “I will take care of everything.”
7
FULCOR Island was a fortress in the middle of the sea protected by an expanse of empty water. Only expert navigators could thread their way through the jagged reefs to the sheltered harbor cove, which was little more than a cleft in the cliffs. Stairs made of iron and wood bolted onto the sheer rock allowed people to climb single file up to the stronghold above.
Even with such defenses, Klea did not feel entirely safe. The battle-scarred Brava woman stood on the garrison walls and gazed across the threatening waters. Utho had stationed her on Fulcor as the new watchman, and she could not let down her guard. The Isharans were out there.
On that blood-filled stormy night, when the treacherous enemy had attacked during what was supposed to be a peace conference, Klea had killed many Isharans, but those casualties did not pay all the vengeance that was required. She remembered swinging her sword and striking down enemy after enemy … but it had not been enough to save Konag Conndur, and that weighed heavily on her heart. A failure.
Utho was the expedition’s lead Brava, sworn protector of the konag, but Klea and another Brava, Gant, had also been assigned to protect the diplomatic mission. Somehow, a murderer had slipped into the konag’s chambers. Utho had whisked Mandan away to safety, and the enemy had also escaped with the gravely injured Empra Iluris. Klea wished she’d been able to break the bitch’s neck with her bare hands.
A hundred Isharan soldiers had been left behind that night, abandoned by their own ships. The desperate enemy had fought under the sheeting rain and flashes of lightning, but Klea had led the Commonwealth soldiers to victory. Now, six days later, her soldiers raked the gravel in the courtyard to remove the scars of combat. Others scoured blood from the walls and floors in the main keep.
Standing on the thick surrounding wall, Klea watched the grim work as cold sea breezes scrubbed her face. A seasoned Brava, she was in her middle forties, muscular but not stocky, dressed in traditional black boots, pants, jerkin. Her heavy cape hung from her shoulders, protection rather than a burden. She carried a long sword, which she used for everyday killing, and the burnished gold cuff of her ramer for when extraordinary violence was required.
Klea looked down at the courtyard barracks, watching her people repair damage to the building exteriors. After that night, the fallen Commonwealth soldiers had been respectfully laid out, relieved of their armor, weapons, personal possessions. A scribe documented the names, writing down any detail that observers could see or remember, in order to preserve their legacies. Since Fulcor had no spare wood for funeral pyres, the bodies of those heroes were consigned to the sea, taken one at a time to the cliffs above, their legacies read aloud, before they plunged into the foaming water to vanish into the purity of the sea.
While this slow, sad process continued for two days, the dead Isharan bodies were left where they were. Under the hot sun, the corpses became discolored and bloated. Gulls circled above the high walls, and Klea let the birds feast while her crew completed more important work.
In all, seventy Isharan soldiers had been captured alive and locked in a prison barracks where they were allowed no sunlight or food. After the rainstorm, the roof cisterns were full, so she did give the prisoners a little water to keep them alive.
Finally, when all the dead Commonwealth soldiers had been respectfully buried at sea, Klea released the enemy prisoners in small well-guarded teams, and ordered them to strip the armor and any valuable keepsakes from their dead comrades, who had already been relieved of all weapons.
One Isharan soldier retorted through a bruised mouth, “I will not defile the bodies of my brothers. They should be taken to the sea as they are, out of respect.”
Klea drew her sword and struck off his head, then told the other prisoners they now had one more body to deal with.
Sullen and resistant, they peeled breastplates, boots, and greaves from the stinking bodies. While stripping one of the empra’s bodyguards, a captive found a knife hidden under the chest armor. He seized it and launched himself at Klea with a roar. She raised her gauntleted hand to block the blade, which could not penetrate the finemail in her glove. She grabbed his wrist, squeezed until the bones cracked, and the knife fell.
Refusing to acknowledge the pain, the Isharan glowered at her with black soulless eyes. Klea saw no humanity there, even though these people were descended from the same humans created by wreths long ago. As Klea held the man’s gaze, she stomped her bootheel on his bare foot, shattering his ankle. He collapsed with a gasp, after which she calmly crushed his other foot, crippling him. She would not need the captives much longer anyway.
When the remaining prisoners finished stripping the enemy cadavers, her soldiers sorted the valuable armor and weapons from the filthy garments. They piled the useless debris in the courtyard and set it on fire. The blaze sent a column of smoke into the clear sky, a beacon of victory and defiance that Klea hoped could be seen all the way to their capital city of Serepol.
As she stared at the smoke, one of her soldiers came up to her, dissatisfied and impatient. The wind whistled around them accompanied by the scolding seabirds. The man still had a bandage on his left arm, crusted with blood from an injury on that terrible night. “Do we know when reinforcements are coming from Convera, Watchman? When will they change the station guards and let us go home?”