Viyeki made his way across Nakkiga’s third tier, toward the arching entrance of the Maze and the dark facade of the Council Hall behind it, as lost in his grim thoughts as a man wandering in heavy mist.
The last guard finished examining Viyeki’s summoning-stone, then bowed and ushered him into the great chamber of the Council Hall. Once inside, he was surprised to discover several newcomers around the witchwood table, including several nobles from the Order of Echoes and their partners from the Maze Palace, the Queen’s Whisperers.
The new face beside Lord Jikkyo of the Singers was a female member of his order too young to wear the mask of one of the Eldest, those born in the first years after the escape from the Garden. Her face was marked all over with strange runes, so that from a distance her skin looked almost black.
As Viyeki entered the vast, high-ceilinged room and seated himself, Magister Yaarike gave him a brief glance and nod but otherwise showed him no particular attention. As if to underscore this new distance between them, two other high foremen were seated on the magister’s far side. One of them was Viyeki’s rival, Naji. Viyeki put on a face as expressionless as a bowl of still water, but it was painful to have his diminished importance displayed to all in the War Council, even if it was, as Yaarike had suggested, only for show.
I am dying but still walking like a thing alive, he thought, then chided himself for such self-indulgent brooding. He was the scion of Clan Enduya, his family old in the service to the queen, even if not as exalted as some of the other clans represented around the table. Viyeki too was Hikeda’ya nobility: he would be true to his blood.
“So,” said High Celebrant Zuniyabe after the Invocation of the Garden and other preliminaries had been finished, “for today’s gathering, we welcome Magister Kuju-Vayo of the Echoes and Lord Mimiti of the Queen’s Whisperers to our number. And, unless I miss my guess, you have brought someone new to our deliberations as well, Lord Jikkyo.”
The blind Singer nodded. “Our great master Akhenabi, like our revered queen, has exhausted himself in defense of the Hikeda’ya. Like her, he is also deep in the slumber of renewal. As acting leader of the Order of Singers, I have brought Host Singer Nijika to be my second.”
The younger Singer looked around the council table, her wide, dark eyes almost indistinguishable from the black runes tattooed on her face, but she gave no other sign of greeting or even acknowledgement. The others at the table exchanged grim looks at the loss of Akhenabi, the most powerful of their number.
“I am sorry to hear Lord Akhenabi is unable to join us,” Yaarike said. “There are many questions he might have answered. As it is, we must examine the failure of our efforts outside the gates without his wisdom to guide us.”
General Suno’ku spoke up, and Viyeki thought he heard a tremble of anger in her voice. “My Sacrifices and I did what we could, High Magister. We were informed of what was happening only a bell-hour before Akhenabi’s resurrection song began, and also the distraction of the dead rising did not serve as well as we had hoped—the mortals regrouped quickly.” Her relative the High Marshal now made a sign and Suno’ku fell silent, but it was clear she would have said more.
“I hope I am not hearing people blaming my master, who nearly gave his life to sing that song.” Jikkyo spoke with deceptive mildness. “Such great shapings are not conjured from nowhere. They take time and they take strength—nearly all the strength the Lord of Song possessed, as it happened. He only narrowly escaped death. Also, the hour of the song’s effect cannot always be accurately anticipated. Tell me, please, does the Order of Sacrifice truly blame Lord Akhenabi for the failure of the sortie?”
Before the disagreement worsened, High Celebrant Zuniyabe raised his hand, demanding the council’s attention. His ivory mask did not hide the narrowing of his eyes. “I pray that at such a moment we will remember that dissension among us only serves our enemies. We have more important matters to talk about than affixing blame. The mortal commander has asked to parley.”
For those who had not heard this request—a number that most definitely included Viyeki—the revelation was like a lightning strike. Faces turned as members of the council tried to ascertain who was surprised and who was not. The first to ask the question that was on most tongues was Kuju-Vayo, the immensely tall and slender master of the Order of Echoes.
“How did this come about?” he demanded. “And why would the mortals want such a thing in the first place? They have overwhelming numbers on their side. It is a trap or a trick.”
It would be strange indeed, Viyeki thought, if Kuju-Vayo and his officers had in truth been unaware of the request for parley, since their task was to pass the thoughts and demands of Nakkiga’s ruling elite to the other royal orders by use of the sacred objects called “Witnesses,” mirrors said to have been fashioned from dragon’s scales. It was axiomatic that the Echoes knew their people’s great secrets before anyone else, yet the Lord of Echoes seemed to have been caught by surprise.
“Perhaps my master’s Song of the Dancing Dead has shocked the mortals more than all of you suspected,” said Jikkyo. “Perhaps they are frightened and this King Isgrimnur wants only a face-saving excuse to retreat.”
“He is not a king,” said Yaarike. “He is the leader of his own nation, Rimmersgard, but he is not the king of all the mortal lands. Those are his masters in Erkynland, and this Northman duke can only speak with them by sending written messages.” He nodded slowly. “But it could still be a trick, of course.”
“One of the Zida’ya accompanies them,” said Suno’ku. “We have seen her. She carries a Witness.”
“But that one is gone,” Jikkyo countered. “She left their camp days ago and has departed our lands entirely. We know this beyond doubt.”
“Perhaps a falling-out between allies,” said Marshal Muyare, all heavy satisfaction. “They could never understand each other, the Year-Dancers and the mortals. It is another proof that the Zida’ya have chosen the wrong side, and another reason our weakling kin must go the same way as the mortals.”
“I will slit the throats of every member of Year-Dancing House myself,” said Suno’ku in perfect seriousness. “They have been traitors to the Keida’ya race since before the Parting.”
Zuniyabe held up his hand for attention. The great hall did not become quiet as swiftly as it had the first time he had done it. “The Song has become muddled between many voices, as the old saying goes,” he said when the gathering had finally gone silent. “No, we must speak now about what is, not what we believe or guess. The facts are that a message from the mortals stamped with this Duke Isgrimnur’s seal was left in our last spy-tunnel on the mountainside—a tunnel we thought was still undiscovered.” His gaze darted briefly to Muyare and Suno’ku. “Clearly, we were wrong.”
“If it was found by one of my Sacrifices, I should have seen it first,” protested Muyare. “This is a breach of our oldest traditions—!”
“Nevertheless, it came to me.” Zuniyabe lowered his voice, which for a moment had become loud. “Let us worry about protocol and tradition another day, High Marshal. This secret was too great to risk until it could be revealed to you all, in this room.” He looked around. “The message asked for one of our number to come out of the gate unarmed to speak with their commander, who swears he will also come open-handed. His troops will be withdrawn far enough from the gate that we can see there is no treachery intended.”
“This is nonsense,” declared Kuju-Vayo of the Echoes. “Who could we send to speak for all? Only the queen, and she sleeps!”
“This is not meant to be a negotiation, I suspect, but only the presentation of demands,” said Zuniyabe. “And there is another thing. The mortals have asked particularly that we send General Suno’ku—or, as they put it, ‘the great she-warrior with the war-braided hair.’”