Blood-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book I ]

61

The Holy City was burning.

It was late, but Korvan was not asleep. He stood in his darkened council chamber, gazing out the window. He was often here of an evening, whiling away the hours when rest would not come to his uneasy mind. Yorek was almost always at hand on nights like this, a silent companion; he was there now, sitting with a goblet of wine and awaiting Korvan's pleasure.

The emperor was watching as a distant quarter of the city went up in flames. The fire was brilliant in the night, drawing the eye, and Korvan found it impossible to look away. Plumes of black smoke billowed up, wafted over the pale blue orb of the first moon, and finally became invisible against the autumn night sky. This chaos was taking place in a low part of the city, a place where only Arcborn rabble lived, and the emperor was unmoved by the sight. He knew that his soldiers and his mages would control the blaze and keep it from touching anything of importance.

"Wine, Your Grace?" asked Yorek.

"No," Korvan said without turning. Something in the Sovereign Square had caught his eye: a figure on horseback, cantering through the square. Even from so high above the square, Korvan recognized the stocky form. The figure was followed by two soldiers, also mounted. When the leader of the trio reached the statues in the center of the square, he threw himself off of his horse and ran with a familiar gait. It was Prince Koren.

Something stirred in the depths of Korvan's heart: a sense of wrongness, a sense of fear. He pushed away the feeling and turned to face the door of the council chamber, clasping his hands behind his back. "I think there is news," he said.

Yorek rose to his feet, leaving his goblet on the long council table. "I pray it is happy news, Your Grace," he said.

But Korvan did not pray, and he knew better than to hope. The search of the city went on apace, and any news from that front could wait until morning. No; he thought Koren brought urgent news of the raid on Hanpe.

Time passed. In his mind's eye, Korvan pictured his oafish elder son clattering up the stairway and charging like a bull down the polished hallways of the palace, huffing and sweating. It was a distasteful image, but there was little about Koren that pleased the emperor.

The door burst open a few minutes later, and Koren stumbled in, ruddy-faced and panting. He had not knocked. He made no obeisance and gave no greeting; his wild gaze swept the dark room until he saw Korvan standing near the window, silhouetted against the hellish light of the conflagration.

"Kaori is dead," Koren said.

The shock of it clutched Korvan's heart with icy fingers. His first conscious thought was regret: regret that he had lost Kaori rather than this other son. He drew a breath and lifted his chin. "And Mhera?"

"Lost." Koren shook his head. "Message said only that they couldn't find her."

"The message."

"Aye, a bird from Ellishan. What remains of the force we sent into the Duskwood limped their way to the southern post. Useless bastards." Koren had caught his breath now. He took a few steps forward, thrusting a hand into the pouch at his waist. Before he could reach Korvan, Yorek stepped smoothly around the council table to intercept the prince.

"Your Highness," Yorek said, extending a hand at the same time as he made a slight bow. "I thank you."

Koren cast a dark look at the councilor, then thrust a slip of grubby paper into the portly man's hand. Yorek crossed the room and reached out to touch a spirit globe. The enchanted object cast a pallid light, and Yorek squinted at the missive. "Prince Kaori fallen. Lady Mhera not recovered. Three score men remain. Await His Grace's command."