Path of Bones Read online

  The tall doors to the chamber were thrown open. Grail Knights in white plate held their long-hafted swords at perfect ninety-degree angles ahead of them. Their faces were covered with smiling golden masks, and they moved into the room and took position on either side of the throne. Argus stepped back, trying his best not to appear like he was in full retreat.

  Empress Azaean swept into the chamber without a sound, seeming to glide rather than walk. The Empress’s long dark hair was unbound, and she wore a pure white dress paler even than her exquisite skin. Her eyes sparkled like sapphires, and her lips were pure ruby. Upon her entrance the chamber was taken with the electrical charge of a coming storm. The world always seemed to slow when the Empress was present, frozen in the shadow of her power. It was easy for Argus to look upon her and lose himself.

  The Empress didn’t seat herself on the throne, as Argus expected, but walked straight over to him. He instinctively fell to one knee, quivering with fear.

  “My Dragon,” he said.

  Empress Azaean strode past him and went to the window, where she looked out over the city. Argus watched her shadow on the floor.

  “Rise,” she said. Her voice was music, sweet and powerful. “Talk with me.”

  Argus stepped next to the Empress. She smelled of jasmine and lilacs, and the sun lit her skin so it shone like creamy gold. Argus held Leviathan’s Tears folded in his arm. He could see all of Ral Tanneth through the window, and the white stone structures and tightly packed buildings drowned in winter sunshine. The sky was pale and tall and free of clouds, and White Dragon flags positioned on dozens of rooftops fluttered furiously in the strong wind.

  “We’re moving forward, My Dragon,” Argus began. “Over the course of the next few days I’ll gather the group that will track and retrieve the Dream Witch. In the meantime, Toran Gess and I will monitor her movements to ensure we’re ready when she locates…her target.”

  Empress Azaean offered him a humorless smile.

  “You may speak her name, Argus,” she said. “It won’t offend me.”

  “Of course,” he said nervously. “We’ll be ready to capture Kala by the time Ijanna Taivorkan finds her, My Dragon.”

  “Good,” the Empress nodded. “Please be sure things are handled properly. She is, after all, my only child.”

  “Yes, My Dragon,” Argus said, sure he wasn’t just imagining that the air had gone suddenly colder. He had to watch his words – Kala Azaean was a delicate subject where her mother the Empress was concerned. A tremendous amount of time and resources had been expended in the search for the White Dragon’s rebellious Bloodspeaker daughter, and it was now Argus’ duty to make sure the Empress’s plan on how to deal with the rogue Princess was carried out flawlessly. “And what about the Witch?” he asked.

  “I don’t care what happens to the Allaji half-breed,” the Empress said. “Just get those blades back, and see to it she never sets foot inside Chul Gaerog.” The Empress fixed Argus with her piercing feline eyes, and his heart caught in his throat. “The consequences would be disastrous if Ijanna were to succeed with her mission. Do you understand?”

  “Of course, My Dragon,” Argus nodded. “I place the import of this task ahead of my own life.”

  Empress Azaean watched him closely. As ever, her expression was unreadable. Argus held her gaze – it would have been unquestionable to look away before she did – but it was so difficult to look into her eyes, and after a moment an aching force pushed against the inside of his skull. Argus was among the most accomplished Veilwardens in all of Jlantria, which arguably made him one of the most powerful men alive, yet he felt like little more than a pitiful novice in the White Dragon’s presence.

  “Do you know, Argus,” she asked, “why I selected House Blue to carry out the task of tracking down Kala?”

  “Because you know we’ll succeed,” Argus said quietly.

  “As would House White or House Red,” the Empress replied with a quiet laugh. “Nothing makes your House more powerful than theirs.”

  Argus swallowed.

  “Because unlike the others we have no aspirations to acquire your power, My Dragon,” he said. “We serve Jlantria and its people, not our own personal ambitions. We answer only to you.”

  “Good,” the Empress smiled. “Very good, Argus.” She turned and looked at the city. Her face was a mask. “And the Bloodheart Stone?”

  Argus’ heart sank.

  “We haven’t found it yet.”

  She nodded solemnly. Her face showed no disappointment, but he felt a shift in the air, like it had suddenly grown leaden and sour.

  “I need that stone, Argus,” she said. “See that it’s found, and quickly.”

  “Yes, My Dragon. I shall.” Argus considered the tome in his hands, and nervously chewed his lip. “My Dragon, in regards to the Skullborn, there’s something I need to bring to your attention.”

  Azaean looked at him, then glanced at the book suspiciously.

  “Leviathan’s Tears?” she said. “Fables, Lord Saam’siir?”

  “Myths,” Argus politely corrected. “Myths based on prophecies, many of which have come to pass.”

  Argus knew the Empress had little patience for that sort of thing. The ruler of Jlantria was a ruthlessly logical woman, and anything that couldn’t be explained with cold and abject reason was a waste of time to her. It was an outlook that helped maintain Jlantria’s order while the rest of the world continued to fall apart.

  “So which story are you going to read to me today?” she said dismissively as she turned back to the window.

  “It’s probably nothing,” Argus said. “But I like to be thorough. I don’t believe we can afford to miss even the smallest detail when it comes to the Skullborn or Chul Gaerog. There’s simply too much at stake. Many myths and legends have contributed to our search efforts in one way or another these past few months, but there’s one tale that somehow escaped our notice until I happened upon it a few nights ago. The Blight of Dreadrock, in which Gordair discusses the Janus Tree.”

  Argus walked to one of the tables near the window and opened the leather tome. The Empress followed with a bemused look on her ageless face.

  “I recall the tale in passing,” she said. “Though I admit I’m somewhat hazy on the details. Refresh my memory.”

  Argus had read the story several times in the past few days and had committed it to memory, but he turned to the proper page nevertheless. The story opened with a black-and-white sketch of two trees joined at the base, growing in opposite directions – one stretched into the sky, the other ran deep underground. They were mirrors of each other, save that one was shaded pure white, while the other was charcoal black.

  “The Janus Tree,” Argus said, “grew from the blood of the One Goddess, spilled during the Turn of Night, when her dark twin Nazarathos the Unmaker spent forty days and forty nights torturing and raping her upon the Stone of Pain. Her blood fell to earth and became the Veil, which eventually left us and rose to its own state of being. This is all scripture, of course, but where this apocryphal tale diverges is where it tells of how the Janus Tree grew at the spot where the blood landed.” Argus looked at Azaean to make sure she wasn’t irritated or bored, but she was neither. She watched him intently. “It was truly two trees, growing in opposite directions. The White Tree bore those aspects of Corvinia that were good and pure, which is why it reached for heaven. The other tree was foul and black, diseased and malignant, bearing those aspects of the One Goddess corrupted by her brother’s touch…”

  “Enough,” Azaean said quietly. “What’s your point, Argus?”

  “My Dragon…didn’t Merrick tell you of a tree?” The look the Empress gave him was cold and hard, and for a moment he feared he’d gone too far, but he continued. “In the story,” he said, “three men invaded the sacred ground where the trees grew, which was hidden by a place called Dreadrock Fortress. Upon leaving, each man learned he’d been cursed, and that he was bound to return one day and serve t
he creature who tended the tree. According to the curse, if they were unable to return to serve this sacred keeper themselves their burden would be passed on...to their children.”

  Argus closed the book. The Empress didn’t speak or even look at him for what felt like a very long time. The room was eerily silent. Argus felt the eyes of the Grail Order knights on him.

  He didn’t move. Argus knew he’d offered the Empress insult just by broaching the subject of Merrick, but he’d felt it was his duty.

  Now let’s see what price I’ll have to pay.

  Azaean stared at Leviathan’s Tears.

  “You say this is just a story?” she asked.

  “Written over a thousand years ago,” he said. “There is no Dreadrock Fortress, that much is certain. But you and I both know there is substance to this tale. The Blight of Dreadrock was popular a few centuries ago, but few copies of Leviathan’s Tears were ever made, and it’s all but impossible to find one today. It’s often difficult to trace the origins of myths and legends, as you know all too well, My Dragon. But the truth behind this potentially prophetic story is difficult to ignore.”

  She looked at him, and when she spoke again her voice was as cold as a grave.

  “If I understand your meaning,” she said, “this means there are three.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry. We already had our suspicions, based on our scrying and through information gathered by our spies…and now this. Many of Gordair’s stories were just that, but we do know he spoke to a great many claimed prophets when gathering information for his work, and we’ve found traces of truth in a few of his tales before…such as the true nature of the main character in The Daughter of the Dragon.” He took a deep breath. “I apologize, Empress, that it took me so long to see such an obvious connection between this tale, obscure though it is, and our own plight with the Skullborn.”

  “Find the third woman,” the Empress said quietly. He heard a tremor in her voice he was unused to, and it frightened him. “None of them can be allowed to enter Chul Gaerog, Argus. If they do, the Blood Queen will be reborn.”

  Four

  Llandrix dismissed her Grail Order knights shortly after Argus left. She needed to be alone.

  As much as she wanted to disregard the Veilwarden’s findings she knew what he said had to be true. She sat, shaking. The fires of fear and rage burned inside of her.

  Too much. This is too much.

  Llandrix had always assumed it was her own overexposure to the Veil that had caused Kala to turn out the way she had. Kala was tainted, a Bloodspeaker of the rarest form, and for years she’d been able to keep her true nature concealed from the rest of the world, her mother included. The Imperial Princess had a sharp and twisted mind, not to mention an unsettling knack for malice and cruelty.

  Empress Azaean had always looked at the situation with Kala as being a sort of cosmic justice – the Veil had given her so much it was only natural it would take something away. Kala’s father was a kind and simple soldier Llandrix had met after the War. Merrick Avarian was singled out for his valor at Chul Gaerog, and his unassuming manner and simple charm had enthralled the Empress. He’d been Llandrix’s lover for some years and the father of her only child, even if he hadn’t lived long enough to see her born.

  No one knew about Merrick except for a few of her most trusted advisers – so far as the world was concerned Kala had been immaculately conceived, which made the fact that she was a Bloodspeaker all the more dangerous. Llandrix had managed to conceal Kala’s taint so far, but if word spread that the Empress’s daughter was among the diseased it could call Azaean’s very rule into question. How could the Empress be ordained by the One Goddess if her only child was a monster?

  Merrick had told Llandrix what he and Jonas Taivorkan had seen after they’d investigated Chul Gaerog following the death of Colonel Bloodwine. He’d told her about that vile tree, and the truth about the Blood Queen. Few others knew of the tree – Argus, Telion, Allandra, General Karthas, Nigel Crann – but none except Azaean knew who and what Carastena Vlagoth had truly been.

  The Empress stared out the window at the golden winter sky. She felt the chill even through the glass. It had never occurred to her it might be Merrick who’d tainted Kala, and not her. It explained her daughter’s connection to Ijanna, who was supposedly the daughter of Jonas Taivorkan. And now it seemed there was a third Skullborn, but who? Kala had no siblings, though Ijanna might.

  And what of Corgan Bloodwine? Did he have any children?

  Azaean shut her eyes and buried her face in her hands. She couldn’t put Kala out of her mind. She saw her as a young girl, so vibrant and full of life, toddling about with that ridiculous dragon doll and laughing while she chased the squires with a wooden sword. She’d always pouted during her lessons, and she never quite looked comfortable in her dresses. She’d always seemed so bright and eager and kind.

  The Empress wept. If Merrick were still alive he’d be able to comfort her, even though she knew she’d want to kill him for what he’d done to her daughter. But he was gone, and Llandrix missed both he and Kala, and with each passing moment she just fell deeper into despair.

  They were both dead to her now. And the solitude Azaean so often craved was suddenly the last thing she wanted, but there was no one she could confide in, not truly, so the White Dragon sat alone, feeling hollow inside as she spilled her bitter tears.

  Five

  The windows were fogged over with heat, and only a hazy glow from outside penetrated the dank interior of the room. Black and purple tapestries hung from the walls, and the chamber was full with chests, tables and old trunks. Everything displayed signs of age, from the cracked walls and faded frescoes to the pieces of Dragian statuary lying broken on the floor. The air was musky and rich with the scents of perfume, sweat and sex, and the bed in the center of the room shook as a man and woman writhed and ground against one another atop the sheets.

  Kala let out a gasp of pleasure as Tharus spilled his seed inside her. She held him tight for a moment, then pulled away and fell onto her back. Her body tingled, and moisture covered her naked skin like a blanket. Tharus rolled over and gasped for air for a moment before he rose up from the bed. Kala watched his chiseled body hungrily. His short-cropped hair glistened with sweat, and his black eyes burned like gems in the early dawn glaze. A thin iron chain jingled around his ankle as he walked to the window, the eternal reminder that even if Kala hadn’t bonded him with the Veil he still belonged to her, and always would.

  “I want to be alone,” she told him. “Get some rest, eat something. I’ll need you again tonight.”

  Tharus stretched in the beams of gritty light. Kala watched his flexing muscles like they were supple strips of meat.

  “Of course, Mistress,” he said softly. “I’ll be back to give you more.”

  Kala closed her eyes. She heard the door close and lay there, sweaty and in bliss, listening to the rhythm of her own heartbeat.

  Light desert wind pushed against the window. Her mind was still and calm. Eventually she rose and walked naked across the room, stretching like a cat and pushing her long dark hair away from her face. She shivered in spite of the claustrophobic heat.

  Kala wiped the window clean with the palm of her hand so she could gaze out at the ruins of Corinth. It was a blasted city of cracked buildings and hollow towers, long-dried fountains and windswept dunes. Very few of Corinth’s structures were intact, and most of the buildings looked like they’d been stepped on by giants, which wasn’t far from the truth. Before the Rift War the Empire of Gallador was as mighty as Jlantria or Den’nar, but the Drage Kings had been more obsessed with magic and power than even Kala’s mother, which hardly seemed possible. When the Blood Queen launched her brutal campaign, Gallador saw a chance it couldn’t afford to pass up. The Kings allied themselves with Carastena Vlagoth and her monstrous legions, and while the armies of the Heartfang Wastes devastated Jlantria and Den’nar from the south Gallador and the Voss struc
k from the north.

  Gallador and the Blood Queen held the upper hand in the Rift War for a nearly a decade, but in the end the Drage folded in on themselves. The Kings started to turn on one another, and as soon as the opportunistic White Dragon saw that chink in Gallador’s armor she acted to widen it. A few well-placed assassinations staged by Azaean’s agents were credited to feuding Drage Kings, and soon the northern empire was in a feeding frenzy, its body politic turned cannibal. It didn’t take long for the Voss, also, to exploit the situation – they’d already been seeking a way out of their alliance with Vlagoth, so as soon as they realized the Drage were a lost cause the cruel giants took the only logical course of action and destroyed Gallador using strategically placed Bloodnaughts and cunning timing. Magical explosions rippled across the north, and in a matter of days the powerful Empire of Gallador was reduced to a desert.

  Kala had explored much of that waste, now commonly known as the Bonelands. Beyond the crumbled ruins of Corinth lay a rolling blight of black and red sand, so diseased and rancid that rain would hardly fall there anymore. Only scattered ruins remained of once-great cities. Still, the brave and stupid ventured into the Bonelands on a regular basis: greedy merchants looking for faster routes between Raithe and Kaldrak Iyres, treasure hunters who sought to plunder the buried coffers of Gallador’s sunken ruins, criminals escaped from the southern lands. Predators like Razorcats and Runefiends thrived in the Bonelands, and the largely uninhabited region allowed bands of the barbaric and mad to roam free, groups like the Charred Ones and the Chul. Pockets of Drage had survived the devastation and lived scattered in hovels and settlements, but most had relocated to other cities, where after a few years most of the prejudice and hatred towards the “traitor race” died off.

  She stared out the stained window and looked at the crude camps erected at the edge of a blasted clearing that had once been Corinth’s central city square. Tents stood around a large hole in the ground that was over a hundred feet wide and impossibly dark. Crude cranes and pulleys hauled iron caskets filled with dirt. Slaves purchased in Raithe and Kaldrak Iyres toiled under the morning sun – it was just past dawn, but they’d already been working for several hours. Their bodies were covered in soil and sweat as they expanded the hole with picks and shovels. Bits of broken stone, the collapsed remains of Corinth’s monuments, were piled onto wheelbarrows and carted off to mounds at the edge of the city. Kala would have preferred to use magic to excavate what was needed, but Crogas had advised against it. Corinth’s Veilwardens had been a crafty lot, and using the Veil to breach what they’d buried was likely to bring about the destruction of what she so desperately sought. It had taken a long time, a lot of money and more than a few deaths for the Cabal to learn where the Scarstones were hidden, and they weren’t about to jeopardize their operation now, no matter how impatient they were.