THE RILL LORD: Chapter 1

Illustration by Larry Rostant

This is the first chapter of the final book of the Triempery Revelations series. It follows almost immediately after the events of The Walled City. In this chapter Nammuor and the weasely Epopte Quirin have an important conversation. There's talk of Dorilian and the Rill and battles to come, peppered with Quirin's observations on the people and stakes involved. It's a great set-up for the book and one I hope readers will enjoy.

If you haven't read The Walled City or the preceding four books, understand that you will encounter spoilers.

ARCs of The Rill Lord are now available.

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1

Only the Highborn can truly say the world is as they perceive it, though I have yet to meet a human who did not labor under that same assumption.

Marc Frederick Stauberg-Randolph, Worlds Apart

The lone figure who waited in the cold damp of the Halasseon Palace’s grand reception hall had not been prepared to find it so grim. High ceilings, unseen but filled with echoes, oppressed the shadows, unrelieved by the waterglobes that hovered as pale unlit orbs on plinths of gold. In the flickering light of the few torches the guards had left behind, even those golden pedestals could not give the room the grandeur it was famed to possess.

Something, someone, moved in the shadows. Tense with anticipation, Quirin turned, following that movement. It struck him that he had not felt this same fear the day he had confronted Dorilian Sordaneon’s rage. There had been less danger in one who, whatever else he might be, wanted to preserve the Rill as a fixture of empire. We have Marc Frederick to thank for keeping the Sordaneons within reach. In this dangerous game into which the Mind of Leur has descended, he was a masterstroke.

“What do you want?” The voice from the shadows was at once dark and edged with glass, brittle and impatient.

Again, fear clutched at Quirin’s throat. The stormy skies outside this room mirrored Nammour’s discontent, the Diadem’s affinity with the elements demonstrated with each shifting mood. Fell light tore the sky. The soldiers who had escorted him, now standing at the door, whispered of lightning striking as if at whim.

“It seems I want what you want.” Quirin bestowed no word of rank to dignify his host. A Psilant, even one stripped of office, stood outside the commands of kings—or Sorcerers.

“Do you?” Nammuor, his face obscured in shadows, moved farther away from the light. “Now that Dorilian has proved his Rill mastery and moved his Entity out of your reach, you see fit to come to me, thinking I might help you regain your command. A pity you didn’t come to me sooner. You handled your Sordaneon poorly, allowed him to set the rules of the game. How helpless you were when he chose to change them.”

Quirin was thankful for the murk. He hoped it hid the anger that flared across his face, and the fear. If Nammuor had no interest in Quirin's offer, there would be no place left for him. “That game is not ended. When Dorilian took up the legacy of Derlon, he assumed power, but the god acquired vulnerability. While Dorilian lives and is human, he can be controlled, and the Rill through him.”

“So your god’s face is human still. Are you sure of that?” Wrapped in dark red, Nammuor stepped from the shadows. The crown of crimson spikes seated upon his brow bore a central compound gem of even redder hue. It watched Quirin no less fiercely than the Nammuor’s human eyes, pitch-dark and filled with cold disdain. The handsome face had the pale, icy remoteness of starlight. A Staubaun face, showing to the world the power that Staubauns wielded by rightful descent from their Aryati creators.

Quirin swallowed against the dryness in his throat. “I believe Dorilian is as human as the Highborn can be. Their flesh is made of mortal stuff.”

“Yes. I proved that.” Nammuor circled Quirin, obviously studying him, weighing his reactions. “An amazing race, the Highborn. A treacherous race. Which is Dorilian’s most dangerous quality, do you think? His power over the Rill, or his talent for hiding it?”

A thin smile pulled at Quirin’s lips, and he did not fight it. “Don’t think me his fool, Sorcerer. I have watched him longer than you have.”

Nammuor regarded Quirin without expression, then walked to the golden staircase and touched one of the waterglobes there. It flared to life, illuminating the fabled azure steps ascending to a royal dais. “You endorsed his conception and witnessed his birth. I suppose it suited your purposes to nurse that fledgling. It stands to reason you too would be as curious as to his final shape. Our reasons, however, differ vastly, and I will not wait while the last gasp of the Sordaneons grows into his talons!” Mounting the stairs, Nammuor's golden slippers pressing the priceless lapis and cerulean mosaics underfoot, he seated himself upon the Halasseon throne. “Unlike you, I no longer care if the Rill dissolves back into the muck from which Derlon raised it.”

News of the breaching of Ergeiron’s Wall and the taking of Stauberg had reached Quirin that morning where he had spent the night at an estate outside Aral. The Order kept many such estates, quietly, in keeping with its widespread duties throughout the land. He had, of course, utilized his local sources, learning that Nammuor had arrived the day before, and alone, his only words being that Erenor was dead and the joint army at Stauberg was defeated. From others, Quirin had gleaned that Nammuor had also lost his fleet. Now rumor ran in whispers throughout Aral that Dorilian Sordaneon had broken the Wall with sorcery, taken the city, and reigned in the Royal North as king.

Quirin could not imagine a more dangerous situation.

The Rill must be spared, even if it means sparing Dorilian too. Until we can be sure that his death will not harm it, his life and that of the Entity must be considered as one. This creature’s intentions are foul, but the goal is not so different.

“The Rillblood can be caged again.” Quirin kept his voice calm, centered. “The Sordaneons were ever the most useful of their breed. I know the drug that will render Dorilian helpless. It must be administered in minute amounts, directly into the spine. Ingested, it is poison to them. Once under its influence, Dorilian can be kept conscious but would be incapable of performing any thought or action, however small.”

Nammuor’s mouth tightened. “I’m aware of this drug. You may recall I have a store of it.”

A store you do not know how to properly use. Quirin glared rebuke. “You mean you kept some back from the massive doses you used to poison the wine at Permephedon?”

Laughter, dark and indulgent, rang out from the sapphire gleam of the Halasseon Throne. It wrapped about Quirin with an intimate appreciation. “Did you see them after, Quirin? How long do you think it took them to die, unable to move or blink—or breathe? Marc Frederick died too. That turned out to be the richest joke, Dorilian trying to save him, instead of his own kind. He went mad from it, I hear, raging as they died one by one, twitching on the floor like bugs. But he had enough sanity left in him to cut off my sister’s pretty head.”

Quirin felt his gorge rise as he remembered that day: Dorilian appearing blood-covered, already descending into madness, on Permephedon’s platform. How he had jumped into the Rill run... how he had vanished in what Epoptes later determined had been a surge of Rill power. And how Dorilian had appeared again in Sordan by some deployment of Rill magic the Epoptes had never seen. A lone Epopte who had pursued him from there, along with several soldiers, had witnessed Dorilian’s confrontation with Daimonaeris.

Whenever Quirin caught himself forgetting that Dorilian could be dangerous, he remembered the events of that day. He kills without hesitation. Never without reason, but as implacably as a soldier. Sebbord saw to that.

It intrigued Quirin that he now looked upon the consequences of generations of Rill politics. And not Rill plots alone. The Wall had foreseen all of it.

The Wall foresaw Nammuor too, Quirin noted. And possibly me.

“I think you have plans for Dorilian other than to kill him.” Quirin dared to place himself in the path of Nammuor’s venom. “I’m letting you know that I will, to the extent that it serves the Order’s mission, cooperate in those plans. You risk killing Dorilian if you administer the drug imprecisely. I can make certain he lives for whatever purposes you have planned for him.”

If Quirin could moderate this monster’s murderous inclinations, even torture would be acceptable. The Rill needed Dorilian’s life, not his comfort.

“Indeed.” Nammuor leaned back, his robes draping the azure throne. Whatever he was thinking could not be read in those dark eyes or the stony set of his mouth. Though he’d dealt very little with Nammuor, Quirin had versed himself well in the Sorcerer’s ways. Nammuor wouldn’t refuse the services of a man who had been trained by Marenthro in array mechanics and learned Rill lore at the hand of Sebbord Teremareon, the greatest Archmage of their era. Quirin’s knowledge of the Highborn would be of immense interest to a man who wished to destroy and remake that race. He met that devouring gaze without flinching, until at last Nammuor smiled, coldly, with acknowledgment.

“Sordan will have cruel masters.” Nammuor extended a hand signal to some point hidden to his left. “Shall I show you what I have planned for him? You will find it amusing, I think.”

Something stirred within the room, curtains parting in front of the wall to Quirin's left. He heard the bells first, delicate, like the water chimes so beloved in Simelon. A moment later, he knew what they were: bells sewn to the fringe of a noble lady’s litter. The four men bearing the litter were slender and fine, eunuchs of surpassing handsomeness and disturbing sensuality, with dark, glowing eyes and skin gleaming with fragrant oils. The litter itself, fashioned of the costliest woods and carved in the shape of a fantastic, winged creature out of southern legends, conveyed a lady whose golden, incandescent beauty outstripped even theirs. A lady Quirin knew.

Palaistea! Surely no other woman was ever so lovely. But this cannot be! This Sorcerer plays with my mind.

“What foul magic do you seek to foist upon me? Why resurrect the form of a dead woman?” Quirin demanded. “Though the illusion may amuse you, it serves no purpose if none will believe it.”

“Belief in this case is unimportant. Reality is all. She is the perfect vessel.” Nammuor signaled and the woman on the litter slowly rose from it to stand before Quirin. Tall and slender, she moved slowly but gracefully, her body perfection itself, draped in rich purple silk embroidered with ruby threads and beaded with pearls. Quirin looked into those golden, challenging eyes, wondering how Nammuor had bestowed upon this artifice the very essence of a Highborn daughter’s intelligence and pride.

She is daring me to see something, he realized. But what? He watched warily as Nammuor, rising from the throne, descended the steps to approach them.

Standing over the woman like a conqueror, Nammuor reached with ruby-ringed fingers under her jaw, tilting her face to display her features in the light. “Isn’t she lovely, Quirin? Palaistea Malyrdeonis ne Lacenedonaea, the most beautiful woman in the Triempery. Highborn Princes from Suddekar to Stauberg strove to obtain her for themselves or their sons. Marc Frederick wanted her for Stefan, but the Highborn disdained Stefan and her father gave her to Stauberg’s elder Prince, uniting his great domain with her father’s Principality. But now Enreddon is dead, and Stefan too. And lovely Palaistea remains, heiress to Lacenedon and Stauberg, a prize to kill for.”

Nammuor turned Palaistea's face in the glow from the waterglobe, as if looking for flaws or resistance. He found neither and sought Quirin for concurrence. “Think of it, the high blood of the Malyrdeons, through her Highborn father, and the most royal of all Staubaun bloodlines poured into her through all the women ever mated to those exalted princes. Don’t you think Palaistea is the perfect choice for breeding the Sordaneon bloodline back into its rightful Staubaun channel?”

For breeding to Dorilian, he meant. Quirin had to admit there would be no better match in all the lands, except for one thing. “You speak as if this is she. This creature upon whom you have shaped this likeness cannot deliver the legitimacy—or the bloodlines—you seek.”

Nammuor stroked the woman’s cheek, causing her to close her beautiful eyes. “Do you think me ignorant, Psilant? I pursue bloodlines the way you pursue the Rill. This is Palaistea Malyrdeonis. Ask her, if you do not believe me. I know you were taught by the Highborn themselves in ways to ascertain truth.”

Quirin focused on the woman and marked the faint pulse of an artery in the shadow of her jaw, the dark dots at the center of her golden irises, the line of her nostril and tension of certain muscles surrounding the eyes. He discerned a strangeness as well: one eye and one nostril betrayed these things while their matches did not, as an image would not. “Is this true?”Quirin asked. “Are you the Princess Palaistea?”

She met his gaze steadily. “Yes. I apologize for not presenting you with a deiknya, but mine has been lost.”

Truth. Not one fiber of her body betrayed otherwise. More than that, she had revealed a sign of her birth: she had employed subtle verbal clicks of affirmation and denial, unused and unknown outside of Highborn houses. That knowledge was one of the Order’s most closely held secrets. So, it is she! But his captive, and she hates him. She thinks herself his victim and despises me for colluding with him. She knows she has importance beyond his uses for her.

“I am thankful you survived the fire that consumed your husband’s palace, Royal Lady,” Quirin said, giving proper deference now that he knew her. “All in the Triempery think you lost.”

Palaistea's lovely chin firmed upon her captor’s fingers. “Not all,” she answered.

Nammuor laughed and dropped his hand, releasing her. “She met with Dorilian two nights ago. Didn’t you, pet?” he prompted as Palaistea looked away. “She thought I had released her to him, but I snatched her back after she had done as I needed.”

Intrigued, Quirin looked from Nammuor to the woman. “You mean that he laid with her?”

Palaistea laughed even as Nammuor’s face darkened.

“She might have preferred it so. She has long awaited him as her lover. I have conditioned her body to respond to him. When the time comes, she will not refuse.”

Palaistea lifted her head and her lips turned with fierce hatred. “Nor would I refuse him if that were his will. Dorilian Sordaneon is a true Son of Amynas. I would proudly bear sons of his, conceived in Leur’s image, and slay in the womb the hideous spawn of your seed!”

Though Nammuor’s anger was palpable, and his black eyes burned with a hatred nearly matching Palaistea's, he smiled. “She speaks to me thus because she knows I will not kill her. Or because she does not care if I do. She knows her Highborn lover will not find her so pleasing as we do.”

The lady’s posture stiffened, though pride did not leave her bearing or face.

She is scarred. Quirin knew beyond doubt that Palaistea had been in the fire that terrible night. Her own lady-in-waiting had given witness to having seen her mistress in the burning room with her sons. Others claimed to have seen her clothing in flames. Nammuor’s powers of illusion were all that made her beautiful now. It might even be that his sorcery was all that kept her alive.

Palaistea herself Quirin consigned to captivity. Her helpless position was a fate Quirin must now ensure did not overtake him. Yet hope that the Malyrdeons might yet be restored burned afresh within him. “What of her sons?” No surer road to ridding Essera of the Stauberg-Randolphs existed. “If Enreddon’s heirs live—”

Nammuor’s grim regard was a reminder: he had hoped to preserve the Wall Lords, only to have Stefan thwart him. “Dead. One lived long enough to die mewling in her arms.”

Quirin looked to Palaistea but saw only the despair of a woman who would, if such were possible, remove herself from this place. Nammuor ran his thumb across Palaistea's lips, watching the tear that formed in her right eye and ran down that flawless cheek.

“You’ll have another Highborn son, Palaistea. Before this year is out, a Sordaneon heir will swell your womb. I could have killed Dorilian had I not wished to take him alive. All that I do is geared to that end. Even now. While the Sordaneon consolidates his victory at Stauberg, I will throw my army and my power against his Stauberg-Randolph hope—and crush that boy into the earth. In consequence the Khelds will turn against Dorilian again, and every land-proud lord in Essera who fears him will turn to me. The blood of Amynas carries powerful gifts but it cannot stand alone. It needs a host race to provide the flesh to hang upon its godborn bones. We will remake them and return the Sons of Amynas to a Staubaun race, born of our women and ruling in glory.”

Palaistea glared at Nammuor through eyes bright with emotion. “I hope he stands against you, this Handurin. I hope he has Marc Frederick’s heart.”

Nammuor laughed. “And if he does, my dear, I’ll kill him too, just like I did his grandfather.”