The Lore of the Evermen (Evermen Saga, #4)

Jehral stood at the highest point of the Imperial Palace, feeling the wind on his cheeks and gazing out at the sea. He ran his eyes over the rebuilding already underway at the docks and lifted his stare to scan the still waters, eventually resting on the empty island where once the Sentinel had barred the harbor. The great statue was gone now, and no one, not even the emperor himself, knew where it was. Stone blocks surrounded the pedestal. The air was warm, but the eerie emptiness of the island made him shiver.

Jehral thought about the Empire’s future. As he gazed at the placid harbor, fishing boats appeared as if out of nowhere, heading out to make a day’s catch, and the scene was of such wonderful normalcy that Jehral watched their white sails for a long time.

He turned, suddenly feeling a strong desire to look west, though the desert was far from this place. The Wall was gone, and rumor had it that the emperor was going to leave it that way. The Wall had long been a symbol of suppression; the last emperor had executed dissidents by throwing them from its summit. Seranthia, as capital of the Empire of Merralya, was going to be an open city.

Past the city’s perimeter, patrols of soldiers were returning while others headed out to take their place. Several plumes of smoke indicated where the bodies of the revenants were being burned in piles. The fallen of all the houses were being gathered, and a new graveyard was going to come into being just outside the city. Everyone had lost someone they loved; yet the Empire had endured. The war with the Evermen was over.

Behind him, Jehral heard a throat clear.

Ilathor stood watching him with a strange expression on his face, an apprehensive cast that Jehral had never seen before. The kalif had recovered from his wounds, and he now stood proud and tall. His cloak of black and yellow billowed in the breeze and he stroked the carefully trimmed beard on his chin as he opened his mouth to speak and then closed it.

“Kalif.” Jehral bowed with a flourish.

“Jehral . . . may I speak with you, my friend? Are you . . . busy?”

Jehral fought to hide an expression of bemusement. “I know it may appear that way,” he said with a wry grin, “but my time is yours. Of course we can speak, Kalif.”

“I am just Ilathor today, my friend. I have come . . . to ask you something.”

Jehral nodded. “Yes, we are all packed and ready to go. We will have to travel home overland, but there are many here who will share our journey for a time.”

“No,” Ilathor said. He hesitated. “It is something else.”

“Ahh,” Jehral said. “You have come to ask me about the signaling system. The emperor has agreed to keep it in place. In fact, he has some ideas for supplementing it. The artificers of Loua Louna have agreed to attack the problem and work with the Alturan enchanters. Combining the lore of the houses, we may be able to devise a new system of instant communication.”

“No, my friend.” Ilathor’s expression grew pained. “I wish to speak with you about something else.”

“What is it, Kalif?” Jehral said, spreading his hands.

Ilathor’s expression said he could finally see the twinkle in Jehral’s eye.

“You are making sport with me?” Ilathor wondered, shaking his head.

“I am.” Jehral laughed. “I know why you are here. Yes, of course you can marry my sister, my friend. I look forward to calling you brother.”

Ilathor grinned, a childish smile Jehral had never seen before, and the two men embraced. “And I you, brother.”

They drew apart and Ilathor’s expression once more grew sincere. “There is one other matter. I have one final request to make.”

This time Jehral didn’t know what Ilathor was going to say.

“The Alturans have the concept of a lord marshal. He is a ruler’s closest advisor and ranks above the other nobles. He tells the truth when it needs to be told. The title catches on my lips, however. I prefer to use a word that already exists among us: vizier. Will you be my vizier, Jehral? Together there is nothing we cannot achieve. Please say yes.” Ilathor drew back when he saw Jehral hesitate. “What is it?”

Jehral struggled to frame his thoughts. “You want me to tell the truth when it needs to be told?”

“Yes, Jehral. That is what I want.”

“Then, Ilathor, sometimes you are a fool. Your heart takes over your mind, and you are brave, but sometimes it takes more than courage to win the day.”

The kalif’s brow darkened and he scowled, ready to speak words of anger. Then, as quickly as they’d come, the lines left his forehead and he grinned.

“I asked you for the truth.” Ilathor smiled wryly.

Jehral realized what he’d said. “I apologize, Kalif. I should not have . . .”

Ilathor held up his hand. “Yes, you should. Always speak your mind, brother. I will not always agree with you, but I will listen.”

“Then yes,” Jehral said. “I will be your vizier.”

The two men looked westward for a time. The summer sun was hot, and in the far distance, heat waves shimmered from the hills.

“Come, Jehral. Let us make preparations to go from this place. The desert awaits.”





70


Ella glanced at the note in her hands and then looked down, her eyes following the winding path to the copse of trees below.