Read Online Restoration (Rai Kirah) by Carol Berg - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Carol Berg
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Aleksander. Kiril was permitted to ride with the Denischkari, as a concession to his royal blood, rather than being consigned to the roadside, as were other nobles of minor houses.
Behind the Denischkari came Ivan, laid out on a gold-draped wagon pulled by ten fine horses. Ivan’s own mount, a magnificent bay, followed riderless, nervous, as if he knew he was to be slain and burned beside his fallen master. And after them all strode Aleksander, tall and proud, his red cloak billowing behind him in the chill night breeze risen off the desert. His feet were bare, his blood-marked face cold and haughty, his gaze wavering not one mezzit to either side of him. He might have walked right off the etched and painted stone tablets that decorated Derzhi halls. No bodyguard rode beside him or behind him, yet I doubted anyone would dare strike at him directly. For that moment the Prince wore the mantle of empire, given him by the fierce old warrior still very much in view. As long as Ivan existed in Derzhi eyes, any hand that touched Aleksander must surely risk the gods’ wrath.
I flew from one perch to another, seeking a place from which to observe the Hamrasch lords. At last I settled on a monument to some long-dead emperor and sat among the stone vultures who were pecking out the eyes of the emperor’s vanquished foe. From there I could stare into the grizzled face of Zedeon, the First Lord of the Hamrasch, a short, craggy, gray-braided veteran of the Basran war. He wore a golden tef-coat with no shirt underneath, the sleeveless garment exposing a broad chest and upper arms as thick as Kuvai oaks. A narrow red scarf was tied about his bare left arm with something held in the knot. It was a sprig of nyamot, the tiny white flower that bloomed after a desert rain.
Flanking Zedeon were his middle-aged sons, Dovat and Leonid, the two who had accompanied Edik to the palace. Their stern faces were no comfort for one who cared for Aleksander. I’d had occasion to observe Leonid when I was a slave. Intelligent, I had always thought him, well-spoken, always a surprise among a warrior race that prided itself on illiteracy. Ruthless, as were most powerful Derzhi, but not exceptionally cruel. Dovat, the younger of the two brothers, squat and rough like his father, I didn’t know at all. Leonid and Dovat also wore red scarves and the incongruous nyamot about their arms, as did every other warrior of their heged. Odd. Their family symbol was the gold tef-coat sewn with a howling wolf.
The procession passed beyond the gates of the inner ring of Zhagad. Inside the wall the onlookers, members of the lower houses, had been solemn as their betters passed them by, not mourning Ivan so much, I guessed, as weighing the chances for the future. A disputed succession was a fearful prospect, only slightly less disturbing than being ruled by a Derzhi son who would murder his father. Once the Emperor’s body passed into the outer ring, the crowds to either side of the roadway surged forward, women wailing, men hoisting sons and daughters upon their shoulders to see. The din grew deafening, and I fought the urge to streak for a nearby rooftop. As I passed back and forth above the procession, I was distracted by a glimpse of brilliant green among the crowd—a woman standing between two of the torchbearers that lit the way, the same woman I’d seen watching as I helped the fallen slave on my arrival in Zhagad. Were her eyes following my flight through the murky light? I circled closer, but she had already vanished into the crowd.
I maintained my watch upon the Hamraschi until the procession passed through the outer gates, traveling along the Emperor’s road between the paired stone lions that guarded the approaches to the city. On the desolate plain stood a massive pyre, built with trees dragged by chastou from the sparse forests of the eastern uplands. They placed Ivan’s body on a platform atop the pyre, and a giant Lidunni warrior wielded the sword
Behind the Denischkari came Ivan, laid out on a gold-draped wagon pulled by ten fine horses. Ivan’s own mount, a magnificent bay, followed riderless, nervous, as if he knew he was to be slain and burned beside his fallen master. And after them all strode Aleksander, tall and proud, his red cloak billowing behind him in the chill night breeze risen off the desert. His feet were bare, his blood-marked face cold and haughty, his gaze wavering not one mezzit to either side of him. He might have walked right off the etched and painted stone tablets that decorated Derzhi halls. No bodyguard rode beside him or behind him, yet I doubted anyone would dare strike at him directly. For that moment the Prince wore the mantle of empire, given him by the fierce old warrior still very much in view. As long as Ivan existed in Derzhi eyes, any hand that touched Aleksander must surely risk the gods’ wrath.
I flew from one perch to another, seeking a place from which to observe the Hamrasch lords. At last I settled on a monument to some long-dead emperor and sat among the stone vultures who were pecking out the eyes of the emperor’s vanquished foe. From there I could stare into the grizzled face of Zedeon, the First Lord of the Hamrasch, a short, craggy, gray-braided veteran of the Basran war. He wore a golden tef-coat with no shirt underneath, the sleeveless garment exposing a broad chest and upper arms as thick as Kuvai oaks. A narrow red scarf was tied about his bare left arm with something held in the knot. It was a sprig of nyamot, the tiny white flower that bloomed after a desert rain.
Flanking Zedeon were his middle-aged sons, Dovat and Leonid, the two who had accompanied Edik to the palace. Their stern faces were no comfort for one who cared for Aleksander. I’d had occasion to observe Leonid when I was a slave. Intelligent, I had always thought him, well-spoken, always a surprise among a warrior race that prided itself on illiteracy. Ruthless, as were most powerful Derzhi, but not exceptionally cruel. Dovat, the younger of the two brothers, squat and rough like his father, I didn’t know at all. Leonid and Dovat also wore red scarves and the incongruous nyamot about their arms, as did every other warrior of their heged. Odd. Their family symbol was the gold tef-coat sewn with a howling wolf.
The procession passed beyond the gates of the inner ring of Zhagad. Inside the wall the onlookers, members of the lower houses, had been solemn as their betters passed them by, not mourning Ivan so much, I guessed, as weighing the chances for the future. A disputed succession was a fearful prospect, only slightly less disturbing than being ruled by a Derzhi son who would murder his father. Once the Emperor’s body passed into the outer ring, the crowds to either side of the roadway surged forward, women wailing, men hoisting sons and daughters upon their shoulders to see. The din grew deafening, and I fought the urge to streak for a nearby rooftop. As I passed back and forth above the procession, I was distracted by a glimpse of brilliant green among the crowd—a woman standing between two of the torchbearers that lit the way, the same woman I’d seen watching as I helped the fallen slave on my arrival in Zhagad. Were her eyes following my flight through the murky light? I circled closer, but she had already vanished into the crowd.
I maintained my watch upon the Hamraschi until the procession passed through the outer gates, traveling along the Emperor’s road between the paired stone lions that guarded the approaches to the city. On the desolate plain stood a massive pyre, built with trees dragged by chastou from the sparse forests of the eastern uplands. They placed Ivan’s body on a platform atop the pyre, and a giant Lidunni warrior wielded the sword
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