I drop through the clouds; through the deepening darkness, as evening descends upon the capital. The short winter day has passed, and night is settling upon the land once again.
I land on the parapet of an outer wall, just for a heartbeat. With a single leap I’m in the air again, my legs generating immense force; enough to propel me for several leagues.
I soar over the outskirts of the capital; blocks upon blocks of small, haphazardly constructed dwellings. Rickety lean-tos made of salvaged timber and thatch. Clay brick houses with small bent chimneys exuding lazy plumes of woodsmoke, fires burning as the residents prepare for the onset of the bitterly cold night.
This place has grown since I was here last. There must be thousands living here; entire families squeezed into dwellings less than the size of my own chambers.
The narrow streets are made of packed Earth. Refuse lines the gutters. I catch a tendril of scent; of bodies and cooking and woodsmoke and waste.
For all the empire’s riches, people still live like this. My father’s always had a habit of turning a blind eye to them.
But I won’t.
I leave the outskirts of the city behind, travelling over a scattering of farms and industrial areas. There’s the forest, up ahead. I descend. Land. Leap. Again and again, gathering momentum, moving faster than I ever thought I could.
I follow the map that’s etched into my mind. Over forests and rivers and rock formations. Across roads and well-trodden paths. I pass villages and hamlets, their windows suffused with the warm glow of lamplight.
Warding against the darkness; against the things that cause terror in the night.
Like me.
The air changes, becoming warmer, infused with a hint of humidity. The gleaming Ophirion river system stretches out before me, burnished golden by the glow of the setting sun.
The forests change, leaves appearing on the trees; there are more evergreens here. The fragrance of early spring fills my nostrils.
The scent reminds me of my betrothed.
Hurry.
I can’t afford to become distracted by thoughts of her right now.
And I’m filled with an increasing sense of urgency. I can’t afford to let anything happen to her mother. I know how important she is to Finley.
I swear by Hecoa, I’ll protect anyone and anything that’s important to her.
What’s hers is mine now.
What’s mine is hers.
I land at the edge of the river, where the snaking water coalesces into a wide delta filled with reeds and birdlife.
The welcome cloak of darkness is settling upon the land. I embrace it. I feel comfortable in the midst of it, for I can see perfectly under the cover of the night that hides.
I’m pretty certain I’ve crossed into the Talavarra lands by now. I’ve only been here a handful of times, but I recognize the distinctive vegetation; the wide, flat leaves, and spearlike trees that look more like gigantic grasses. The branches and trunks are covered in patches of green and silver lichen, mosses draped across them like remnants of some ghostly, ethereal being.
It’s warmer here. I can no longer detect the scent of the mountains, which travels all the way to the capital on the icy winds.
This is the Duchy of Deignar, ruled by the Talavarra clan for centuries.
These lands are vast and lush, blessed with frequent rainfall and rich volcanic soils that wash down through the river system. Their fortune and power has been built upon agriculture—rice, grains, sheep, and koriu, which is used to make a potent medicinal sedative.
There’s no doubt this region has been instrumental to Rahava’s success as an empire.
I’d be loath to destroy it.
I can see glittering lights now. That would be the city of Padra, the capital of Deignar, nestled in a wide bend of the river. I’ve only visited on official business; military business, staying in the lavish imperial residence that adjoins the Imperial Barracks. It’s a charming city, far smaller than Lukiria, but bustling and vibrant. The people here are blunt-spoken but incredibly hospitable. They tend to be quick to anger but equally quick to drop grudges—it’s against their religion to hold grudges—and they laugh easily and freely.
I hold nothing against the people of Deignar.
It’s a pity that Rhaegar Talavarra is too ambitious for his own good. He’s always had his eyes on the throne, and there was a time when he’d gathered enough support within the court that he almost succeeded in taking it.
But then father started the war in Vikur, and most of the soldiers he conscripted were from Deignar.
Rhaegar couldn’t refuse. To do so would have made him look cowardly and unpatriotic.
In one fell swoop, father stole Rhaegar Talavarra’s power. And then he requested his daughter’s hand in marriage—in exchange for the return of Duke Talavarra’s troops. By agreeing to the marriage, Rhaegar was forced to recognize the legitimacy of father’s power.
What a bastard my father was.
I reach the center of Padra proper, landing on a tall spire that gives me an uninterrupted view of the surroundings.
The moon hangs low in the sky, tinged yellow and waning. Wispy clouds scud across its face, throwing ghostly shadows across the landscape.
In the distance, I see Deignar Castle. Rectangular, symmetrical, and featureless, its walls made of thick granite, it sits imposingly atop a small man-made hill in the center of a wide moat.
A muted glow flickers in the windows. It isn’t lit up for all the world to see, like the grand palace in Lukiria.
For a moment, I simply watch and listen.
Here the wind is little more than a gentle breeze, lacking the cold bite of the northern winter. But it carries with it a certain fetid stench that’s all too familiar.
The sounds of the city are a muted hum in the background; people going about their business, settling in for the night. Padra is quiet. Too quiet. It isn’t the raucous, energetic place I used to know. Where are the street vendors, with their mouth-watering charcoal-grilled meat, fragrant with herbs and spices? Where are the horses and the carts? The buskers? Where are the people, spilling out onto the footpaths where they sit on rickety tables and benches, enjoying simple food as the night deepens and the drinks flow?
Curious.
It’s rather ominous, isn’t it?
In the distance, a wolf lets out a mournful howl. It’s quickly accompanied by several others.
The wind picks up, bringing with it the stench of decay.
Something’s rotten in the heart of Talavarra Country.
Time to go.
Once again, I leap, this time in the direction of the castle. The moat can’t stop me. Neither can the walls or the guards.
I have a feeling they’re expecting me. The attack on Tyron Castle was intentional; a provocation, designed to draw me out of my territory.
Well, it worked.
58
CORVAN
I land silently atop the castle’s defensive walls, quickly crouching down to avoid being silhouetted against the night sky.
The moat was no barrier to me. An ordinary invader would have found it troublesome indeed—wide, deep, filled with carnivorous fish that would tear the flesh of any creature foolish enough to take a dip.