Wings Over Talera - Charles Allen Gramlich [18]
Temporarily, however, thoughts of Bryce were pushed aside amid the excitement of our arrival at the palace. Word had reached Hurnan Jystral, Rannon’s father and Emperor of Nyshphal. He greeted us himself, at gray granite steps marking the entrance into an inner courtyard of silver fountains and black marble walkways. The tension that tightened his shoulders beneath the gold and scarlet cloak of his office showed his concern for his daughter. But I had already seen how much he loved her.
In any gathering, Hurnan Jystral would have been branded a leader of men. He was taller than I, several inches over six feet, and broader at shoulders and chest. His eyes were a blazing sapphire blue, set deep within an almost predatory face. His hair was just beginning to gray. He was a powerful man, in more ways than one, and was very aware of his position and its demands. But he loved his daughter.
I had learned about Hurnan Jystral from Rannon, had learned how he was born to be king in the coastal city-state of Teleur, and of how an invasion from the sea had taken his father’s life and driven him and his mother from their homeland. Hurnan had been six at the time. At seventeen he took back his father’s lands, and much, much more.
He raised a peasant army from the western uplands, stiffened their ranks with wild clansmen from the southern range of the Katari Mountains, and he rode back into Teleur at the head of thousands. The original invasion had been followed by others. Everyone had wished to carve a piece of the Nyshphalian roast. But Jystral beat them all, fighting on many fronts over half a decade. By the end he held most of the island under his sway, though he had done as much unifying as conquering. Nyshphal was as close to a democratic empire as existed on Talera.
This had all taken place nearly thirty-five years ago, but today—standing tall over his retainers with his eyes darting quickly to his daughter to see if she had been injured—must have been one of the few times in Jystral’s life when he had looked so vulnerable. His wife was years dead, and, though he had a son, Rannon remained the most important thing in his world.
“How is it that my daughter leaves home aboard her own flyer and returns on a firewood barge?” Jystral demanded, his voice a harsh contrast with the pale worry of his face.
He was looking at me. But it was Rannon who answered, who explained to him the details of the raid, leaving out only the part about my brother’s involvement. Jystral’s body reacted with anger, fists and eyes tightening. His words when they came were calmer, though honed, like the edge of a freshly sharpened hunting knife. He grasped the arm of an imperial officer standing nearby. I saw the man wince under that grip.
“Send the air-guard,” Jystral said through lips that barely moved. “Find where the attack was launched from. Bring me the bodies.”
The officer hurried to obey and Jystral turned his attention to Diken Graye—our prisoner. Copper-helmed soldiers stepped forward at a gesture from the emperor.
“Take this one to interrogation,” Jystral ordered, motioning toward the scarred mercenary.
“I don’t think that’ll help,” I said.
Everyone looked at me. I knew that Graye would not be tortured. Not in Nyshphal. But he would be grilled to the point of exhaustion, with no sleep and no respite. Most crack under such pressure. I didn’t think Diken Graye would. The whole thing was a waste.
Jystral did not believe that. Clearly. He frowned at me, a speculative light in his eyes.
“And what would you wish done?” he asked.
“Free him in my custody,” I said.
Of all those there, including myself, the emperor alone did not seem surprised at my words. The others were. Rhandh the Vlih snorted through widened nostrils, his face a study in open disgust. Even Rannon seemed troubled that I would speak on behalf of someone who had tried to kill us. I could not say why I defended the man. I only knew what