Chapters (51)
- Dedication
- Contents
- PREVIOUSLY …
- PART I
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- PART II
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- PART III
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- PART IV
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- About the Author
- ALSO BY DAVID WRAGG
- About the Publisher
Chel crashed into the duke as he approached the canopy, checking the man’s run with his body, hands still tied behind him. Duke Esen reeled sideways, staggering, then turned in outrage. Chel head-butted him as hard as he could, driving his forehead into the man’s nose. The manoeuvre felt oddly familiar, even down to the burst of pain across the front of his skull and the blazes of colour dancing across his vision.
The duke dropped like a stone, the dagger fallen from his hand. Chel stood over him, swaying and blinking, looking to see what the confessors and guardsmen would do next.
‘Brothers,’ Vashenda said, addressing the slow-moving confessors now plodding, thick-armed, toward him. ‘Seize that man.’ Chel swallowed. ‘He tried to attack the royal person.’
She turned to those assembled in the pavilion as the confessors grabbed the dazed and bleeding Basar and hauled him upright.
‘The king is dead. Long live the king.’
Still blinking away the bright spots in his vision, Chel looked to where Tarfel stood beside Corvel’s body. A thin smile played on his narrowed lips, a look of satisfaction at a job well done. He did not meet Chel’s eye.
‘You know, sand-flower,’ Vashenda said, sidling up to him. ‘Our previous meetings have been, perhaps, unrepresentative. Let our understanding be reborn in the light of the Shepherd’s mercy.’ She offered a sly smile. ‘Again.’
PART IV
THIRTY-NINE
The verdant hills hung heavy with dew beneath a sky like silvered steel. Dark smears of distant rain drifted at the rolling horizon, and the air smelled strongly of spring. Beneath a cacophony of birdsong, Chel stared down at the foaming grey waters of the Roni, swollen and fast with meltwater in the aftermath of the thaw. Now spanning the river’s full width, atop three great pillars of glistening white stone, stood the restored Taneru bridge, its smooth arc travelling beneath three ornate, spiralling towers of the same, all the way to the steep drop of the far bank and the black outer walls of Roniaman beyond. On the distant ridge overlooking the city lurked the Imperial Palace, the vanguard of the restoration efforts. Already there was talk of returning the court to its marble halls.
The voice of Tarfel Merimonsun, called Tarfel the Young, King of Vistirlar, preceded his arrival, carrying over the busy camp. ‘… Once we’re over the bridge, quick wave to the plebs on the free way, grand ceremony at the Dome then back up the free way to the citadel and we can crack on with the feasting. Let’s hope the weather holds, eh? Be a shame for the great unwashed to get … washed out.’
The attendants giggled out of all proportion at the king’s words. Chel didn’t turn. The churning waters at the base of the steep bank had him mesmerized.