“Destroy them. I beg you,” Gorain said. “End it for them. I will do anything.”
“I promise you I will do so, if you agree to serve.” Sentar gazed directly into Gorain’s eyes. “Although my necromancers and I can control you, we must give you some free will in order to make use of your skills as a commander. If you agree to serve, and serve well, I swear to you that I will set your wife and son free, even if you fall in the battlefield. I have extended this same offer to Farix of Torian and Diemos of Rendar, and both have accepted. You are special, Gorain, and I have done this to you at great cost. Will you join the two kings who were once your rivals and enter my service? What do you say?”
Gorain bowed his head. He felt his eyes burn, but he couldn’t weep. “I will serve,” Gorain said.
“Excellent. Renrik, take charge of our new commander and begin his instruction immediately.”
Renrik bowed. “Master.”
“Gorain, we will bring back many of your men to serve you, and you can be in charge of your own ships. Do you plan to honor our agreement?”
Gorain’s lips moved. “I do.”
“Then we will leave this rock as soon as possible. We have an unbeatable host of warriors and the commanders to lead them. We have the essence we need to bring my brothers home.”
The Lord of the Night smiled. Somehow, it made his visage even more sinister.
“The gods will soon resume their rightful place.”
1
Miro Torresante, high lord of Altura, strode with purpose through the streets of Seranthia. The district of market houses passed him in a blur.
Four bladesingers scanned the crowd for threats while another twenty of the elite palace guard struggled to keep up with their young high lord.
Miro was thankful for the cold of Seranthia’s winter. The high lord’s robe he wore was silk, but the glistening folds and stiff collar gave the material weight. It was covered with protective runes, and as part of his ascension Miro had learned the language of single-activation sequences, but he longed for the armorsilk of a bladesinger. A bladesinger had never been high lord before, and even with all the robe’s power, it was no match for armorsilk. Single activations could only do so much; the most powerful lore always required continuous chanting.
Yet the robe was a sign of his office, and Miro was on official business.
Miro scowled as he walked, and barely registered the merchants and couriers who drew away from his glare. It wasn’t just the sword and flower raj hada on his striking robe, nor the deadly warriors who surrounded him. They’d all heard of the tall man with the long black hair, currently tied back with a clasp of gold and emerald. They saw the thin scar running from under one eye to his jaw line, and whispered his name, bowing down before him like water cresting at the front of a ship. Even with so many influential rulers in Seranthia for the Chorum, the power of this man was palpable.
Unaware of his effect on the passersby and consumed with his purpose, Miro muttered to the man walking beside him. He looked at Beorn as he spoke and wondered if he looked as uncomfortable in his regalia as Beorn did in his.
Beorn, a veteran of the Rebellion, was nearly twice Miro’s age. In comparison to Miro’s lithe grace, Beorn’s boots stomped heavily as he shifted in his formal attire, his raj hada proclaiming him the lord marshal of Altura. Beorn had resisted the promotion, but Miro wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Two days to get an audience,” Miro said. “Two days!”
“The Louans are busy,” Beorn said, scratching at his salt-and-pepper beard. “Everyone wants what they have.”
“To be concerned about gilden at a time like this. Sentar Scythran is coming to destroy us all, and all the Louans care for is money.”
“It’s their way.”
“It’s greed. Pure and simple.”
“Here we are,” Beorn said as they came to a halt outside the Louan market house, a huge, cube-shaped structure. Blue trim decorated the building’s paintwork, and the Louan device, a spinning wheel, hung prominently above the door. Miro glanced up and saw the device move; the silver wheel was actually turning.
The double doors stood wide open and guarded by a handful of Louan grenadiers. Miro had an appointment, and it was clear who he was; yet even so, he was forced to wait impatiently as one of his men stepped forward and announced his arrival.
“High Lord Miro Torresante of Altura to see High Lord Ramon Stouk of Loua Louna.”
“Please wait here,” one of the Louan guards said.
Miro fumed as he was made to wait outside the Louan market house. He remembered when he’d come to Seranthia as a younger man, and the elaborate courtesy the Halrana displayed to Tessolar. Now he was required to wait outside the Louan market house like a common supplicant.