The Doom of Kings_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [157]
“The Gan’duur must be punished.” Haruuc’s face was hard.
Munta actually seemed frail with worry. “Haruuc, what will the Five Nations and the dragonmarked houses say? This is too much.”
“You have your instructions, Munta,” Haruuc said. “So does Iizan. Dagii’s instructions have been dispatched to him.”
“But the Five Nations—”
“This is no concern of theirs!” Haruuc’s voice rose again. “It is a matter for Darguun and Darguun alone. Our traditions are as old as our claim on this land, and both are older than the Five Nations. Go and do your duty, Munta. Let Rhukaan Draal know whom it mourns.”
There was a finality in his voice that would accept no further argument. The warlord of the Gantii Vus nodded stiffly, turned, and walked back up the long length of the throne room to the carved doors. Geth was left facing Haruuc alone. After a long moment, he asked, “Can I go too?”
“No. Stay. I’m expecting one more visitor, and I want you here as witness to one of the most sacred duties of a shava.” Haruuc gestured behind himself. “Stand at my shoulder. Where Vanii stood.”
Geth stepped up onto the dais and moved behind Haruuc. The lhesh lapsed into silence. Anger and disgust whirled in Geth’s mind. Organizing funerary games in memory of Vanii and to commemorate victory over a rebellion—that was something he could deal with. There was nothing he could object to except the task itself. The games even sounded like fun, but now they were irrevocably tainted by the thought of so many grieving trees and the victims they would claim.
“You know why I have to do this, don’t you?” Haruuc said without turning around.
“No,” Geth growled. “I don’t.”
“I have to show the other warlords what happens to rebels. I have to remind them of who I am—of what the lhesh is. It’s ironic that in defeating the Gan’duur, I have no choice but to become the bloody tyrant they wanted me to be. Our culture is not merciful, Geth. It does not favor forgiveness. Humans have difficulty understanding that. I thought a shifter might.” He paused, then added, “When your friend died in battle, what did you do?”
“I put my sword through the belly of the man who killed him,” Geth said. “Blood paid for blood spilled.”
“You killed him.”
Geth bared his teeth. “I killed him. I didn’t order someone else to hang him on a tree.”
“Is it so different from ordering soldiers into battle? People kill and die at the command of rulers all the time,” said Haruuc. “Don’t think I wouldn’t do it myself. When I read Dagii’s message, I wanted to ride north and put a sword through Keraal—although, of course, I don’t know it was Keraal who struck Vanii down. I wanted to put a sword through Dagii for letting Vanii die. I even wanted to put a sword through myself for sending him up there.” He let out a slow breath. “But this isn’t about Vanii, anymore. It’s not even about me. It’s about Darguun, just like retrieving the rod was.”
He rapped the byeshk shaft on the arm of his throne, and the heavy clang echoed in the room. “That’s the doom of kings, Geth. We’re men and women when we take the throne, but we lose ourselves to our people. We stop being individuals and become nations. And mark my words”—he twisted around to meet Geth’s eyes—“the nation of Darguun will not cry for the Gan’duur. It will dance under the grieving trees. It would dance if I hung on the tree. Darguun wants blood. The people always want blood.”
“Find another way to give it to them.”
Haruuc’s ears lay back. “But I am Darguun,” he said slowly. “I am one of the people.”
The hair on Geth’s arms and the back of his neck rose. He felt, for a moment, as if he was looking at Haruuc and all hobgoblins for the first time. Wide face, flat nose, mobile ears, sharp teeth—goblins were no more human than he was. Less, because his ancestors had been human once upon a time. The ancestors of the goblin races had always been goblins. But he understood what Haruuc meant. He had felt it himself, a discomfort in the sprawling cities of humans, a predator’s instinct to