Read Online The Golden Key by Kate Elliott, Melanie Rawn, Jennifer Roberson - Free Book Online Page B
Ads: Link
Baltran, for nearly one hundred years! The Diviner’s death did not break their hearts; it made them desperate to redeem that death. That’s why the Empress fielded so many against us decades later. And there could be yet another Tza’ab chieftain who styles himself a second Diviner.”
“Skirmishes, Gitanna; and when there are rich lands to be won there will always be skirmishes, even as Pracanza attempts to carve away our lands. But those of Tza’ab Rih will never be the threatthey once were. There is no heart, despite the mouth that wails so eloquently of loss and endless demands for reparation.”
“But—”
“Trust me in this, Gitanna … Verro Grijalva himself destroyed the
Kita’ab
before he died. Without the Diviner
and
their holy book, there is no guidance, no unifying plan. And even a pretender who claims the Diviner’s name cannot hope to reassemble the Riders of the Golden Wind and lead a Tza’ab army without the
Kita’ab.
” He shook his head. “They are broken as a force, I promise you … those born of Tza’ab Rih are fallen, the Diviner killed, his Riders shattered. They are all of them merely bandits again—an occasional nuisance, no more. They are no threat to Tira Virte.”
“But the Grijalvas
know
things!”
He laughed, in good humor again despite her desperation. “So do you, viva meya. So do you! And so long as you do—and how to
use
those ‘things’—you shall please me well!” He held up his doublet. “Now, come dress me as hastily as you undressed me; it is time I returned to the Palasso.”
Her mouth formed a mutinous line even as she climbed out of bed to help him into his doublet. “You are wrong, Baltran. You dismiss our concerns too lightly.”
“As I have told your brother, given proof of your beliefs I will indeed move to prevent what you fear. But the Grijalvas themselves were broken by the Nerro Lingua, Gitanna, even as the Tza’ab were broken by battle … too few are born now, and too many die before their time. Their blood—their bandit-bred Tza’ab blood, Gitanna!—is too weak. So is their seed.”
She tended his doublet with experienced, efficient fingers, tucking here, straightening there, braiding and lacing and knotting and looping. “It requires only one, Baltran. One man of magic, bent on destroying you.”
He smiled as she tied the collar of his billowy lawn shirt, his cuffs, then smoothed the doublet over it. “And who would that be, Gitanna? Have you a candidate?”
She shook her head. “You make too light of it, Baltran.”
“Because they have neither the grounds nor the means to do what you fear. They have their own code of honor, Gitanna—and that is precisely why Verro Grijalva gave his life to save my greatgrandfather Renayo. They serve. They do not rule. Had they wanted to, they might have won Tira Virte by acclamation after Verro’s actions against the Tza’ab, but it was
us
they acclaimed: Do’Verrada. Not Grijalva.”
Her mouth was a thin line, flattening the lush curves that so attracted him. “He
died
, Baltran. Who can say what might have become of him?”
“He was hailed a hero, never a Duke. Even while he lived.”
She looked him square in the eye. “Once you do’Verradas were no better than Grijalvas. Warlords, Baltran, no more—though clever enough and strong enough to take
and
keep. But look at you now. You rule absolutely. All of Tira Virte worships the do’Verradas—after the Matra ei Filho, of course, and the Ecclesia—but who is to say the Grijalvas do not long for the same thing?”
“Eiha, woman, you weary me with this! I will tell you again: they are a small family severely weakened by the plague. Many of their women cannot conceive children, many of their men cannot sire any. They may never regain their numbers, nor even their physical strength. And they are, as you say, riddled with Tza’ab blood, which is considered a taint by the Ecclesia and many of the citizens—the Tza’ab are infidels,
“Skirmishes, Gitanna; and when there are rich lands to be won there will always be skirmishes, even as Pracanza attempts to carve away our lands. But those of Tza’ab Rih will never be the threatthey once were. There is no heart, despite the mouth that wails so eloquently of loss and endless demands for reparation.”
“But—”
“Trust me in this, Gitanna … Verro Grijalva himself destroyed the
Kita’ab
before he died. Without the Diviner
and
their holy book, there is no guidance, no unifying plan. And even a pretender who claims the Diviner’s name cannot hope to reassemble the Riders of the Golden Wind and lead a Tza’ab army without the
Kita’ab.
” He shook his head. “They are broken as a force, I promise you … those born of Tza’ab Rih are fallen, the Diviner killed, his Riders shattered. They are all of them merely bandits again—an occasional nuisance, no more. They are no threat to Tira Virte.”
“But the Grijalvas
know
things!”
He laughed, in good humor again despite her desperation. “So do you, viva meya. So do you! And so long as you do—and how to
use
those ‘things’—you shall please me well!” He held up his doublet. “Now, come dress me as hastily as you undressed me; it is time I returned to the Palasso.”
Her mouth formed a mutinous line even as she climbed out of bed to help him into his doublet. “You are wrong, Baltran. You dismiss our concerns too lightly.”
“As I have told your brother, given proof of your beliefs I will indeed move to prevent what you fear. But the Grijalvas themselves were broken by the Nerro Lingua, Gitanna, even as the Tza’ab were broken by battle … too few are born now, and too many die before their time. Their blood—their bandit-bred Tza’ab blood, Gitanna!—is too weak. So is their seed.”
She tended his doublet with experienced, efficient fingers, tucking here, straightening there, braiding and lacing and knotting and looping. “It requires only one, Baltran. One man of magic, bent on destroying you.”
He smiled as she tied the collar of his billowy lawn shirt, his cuffs, then smoothed the doublet over it. “And who would that be, Gitanna? Have you a candidate?”
She shook her head. “You make too light of it, Baltran.”
“Because they have neither the grounds nor the means to do what you fear. They have their own code of honor, Gitanna—and that is precisely why Verro Grijalva gave his life to save my greatgrandfather Renayo. They serve. They do not rule. Had they wanted to, they might have won Tira Virte by acclamation after Verro’s actions against the Tza’ab, but it was
us
they acclaimed: Do’Verrada. Not Grijalva.”
Her mouth was a thin line, flattening the lush curves that so attracted him. “He
died
, Baltran. Who can say what might have become of him?”
“He was hailed a hero, never a Duke. Even while he lived.”
She looked him square in the eye. “Once you do’Verradas were no better than Grijalvas. Warlords, Baltran, no more—though clever enough and strong enough to take
and
keep. But look at you now. You rule absolutely. All of Tira Virte worships the do’Verradas—after the Matra ei Filho, of course, and the Ecclesia—but who is to say the Grijalvas do not long for the same thing?”
“Eiha, woman, you weary me with this! I will tell you again: they are a small family severely weakened by the plague. Many of their women cannot conceive children, many of their men cannot sire any. They may never regain their numbers, nor even their physical strength. And they are, as you say, riddled with Tza’ab blood, which is considered a taint by the Ecclesia and many of the citizens—the Tza’ab are infidels,
Similar Books
