Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [137]
Forgery: such a blissful art.
Ancient laws would then spring into motion—that no ruler can harm those under the starred banner of the Empire—and Rika and Eir would be arrested. Then executed. Chancellor Urtica, as now hero of the moment, would himself be Emperor—the first of a new lineage. The Jamur Empire would be finished. The Urtican Empire would begin. All the while, no one would really notice if, given the right amount of stealth, Rika’s plans for removing the refugees went ahead …
Tryst felt satisfied as he looked upon his city. Felt proud to be involved with the genius that was Magus Urtica. Despite the Freeze, Tryst had suddenly regained a sanguine outlook on things.
CHAPTER 31
“WHAT D’YOU MEAN, WAR?” DARTUN SAID, WHILE CHEWING A HONEY-OAT biscuit. He was in conversation with a flickering image beaming from a brass device beside him onto the snow in the shadow of a dead tree. The image was blurred, but recognizable was the voice of one of his order back in Villjamur.
“Papus has taken Guntar as a hostage,” the voice continued, while light quivered on the snow. “She demands your presence.”
Dartun laughed before taking a last bite of the biscuit. He dusted the crumbs off his fuligin cloak still considering their position. The air was still, and the temperature had dropped rapidly the further north they had sailed, but at least a relic had kept the worst of the weather away during this journey. Dartun had acquired a pack of dogs and a sailing vessel from some corrupt traders on the south coast of Y’iren—having ripped through empty space to get there—as far as he could manage with the help of his precious relics.
Last night he had dreamed of death, or so he supposed. In his sleep the sun had faded from red to something darker and dimmer, and then to nothing, till all around a city, Villjamur perhaps, the streets were blackened. Rows upon rows of torches burned to provide light, and frozen hands reached out all around to touch him. It was then he had woken and, not for the first time, he felt deeply connected to the world, and sensed that it, like him, was dying.
The dogs began howling further up the shore.
With Verain and his two most trusted cultists, Todi and Tuung, Dartun had traveled to the northeast of the Boreal Archipelago, sailing through the thick ice sheets as far as they could go. A dangerous way to travel, filled with breathless moments. Todi was young, blond, and eager, offering a keenness that meant he was trustworthy. Tuung, however, was older and a balding little man with enough experience to have become cynical, with the need to think twice about matters; he constantly wore the expression of an angry tortoise. Both being of the same stocky build, there was something about their natures that made Dartun consider they could be father and son.
Sled was now the only way to travel since he had no relics enabling transportation. He had abandoned the last one just to get from Villjamur to Y’iren, thus saving himself the chore of traveling as far as the others must do with the undead. That meant Dartun couldn’t simply rip through space to cross the islands any more, and dryly he contemplated the fact that he was becoming just like a lay person.
“This is serious,” the image on the snow declared, slipping in and out of focus, the voice strangely