Fear's Union

Chapter Forty-Eight

—High Consul—

Victory, but at what price? Rianja, Magister in Chief of the Jinq, and High Consul of Ahan, looked on. The precision order of the Mandari resistance was restored; the mandahoi were killing once more; and the dark tide was turned.

It had hinged on a vicious duel, a personal battle fought beneath the banner of his family. Beneath the banner of his grandson. From the reports he'd received, it sounded like the fight almost ended in defeat, but a mandahoi intervened. The enemy's teeth had been pulled – they were broken – but what was the cost? When the enemy did finally break, it was a glorious sight.

The whole dark mass shuddered and spasmed. The front ranks reversed, grinding against the rear files who themselves sought cover from the continuous arrow storm. The enemy wrung itself, devoid of direction, and then it snapped. The eventual flight was explosive, and beautiful. There were still thousands of them, tens of thousands, but they could not be coaxed on. They were done. They were beaten.

"I will be in my tent. When my visitors arrive, send them straight through."

His squire's broad grin twisted out of shape. "Sir. Can I ask what is wrong?"

"No. You may not." He needed to be alone and to gather himself. Tears were threatening, but he would not show such weakness. He had to be strong for his army and his people. And for his son. He feared that Keles was now very important.

It took unwelcome time. The battlefield was a big place, and it was full of obstacles. The noises were discordant and harsh – the victory cries of the majority; the moans of the dying; the sobs for the dead. He wanted to revel with the masses, but he couldn't. There was something unknown. Whatever the news, it would be painful. His reign had failed.

The victory chorus turned sober, and clammy silence embraced the gloomy tent. He tensed, part old age and part horror. He could wait no longer, and his feet took him to his nightmare. He swept from the tent, and the uncertainty collapsed upon him.

"Dear Rhanna, no." His stomach rebelled, but he hid the discomfort. He was a leader. That was what it was to be a leader. That was what it was to be the Mind. He stared impassively at the deceased being carried slowly towards him. His mouth stayed tight and sharp.

Felip was lifeless; utterly lifeless. The giant frame of Keles cradled him, Felip's head and legs hanging limp. Like a doll. He looked for a sign, for any sign, but there was none. Felip was surely dead. The curse had struck.

Then he focussed on the other mandahoi. That wasn't right. That definitely wasn't right. His throat tightened.

Walking ahead of Keles, battle staining every part of her except her loose silvery hair, was Anejo. She was tear-stained, mud stained, blood stained, and foul. As a grandfather, it was mortifying. He wanted to hug her, comfort her, reassure her, and weep with her, but he also wanted to shout at her. What was she doing here? How could she do this? One thing had become painfully clear – she was not responsible enough for office.

It dawned on him, and his anger subsided. His world turned grey. Grey was symbolic. His lineage was gone, his granddaughter could not be trusted, and the success of his line – a line that carried Dara's duty – was snapped. Now his entire validation as a ruler rested with a bastard. Could he truly rely on Keles? The man had eloped with a rootman. This was a victory like no other. It was a void.

And Anejo was a heroine, of sorts. She was the hammer that smashed the anvil, the third Child of Destiny. And yet she was reckless. He wanted to cry. It was all too much. At his age, too. So little time.

Instead he sighed, and went back to his tent. In privacy, he permitted a tear which he quickly concealed on his sleeve. But that didn't stop anything. The solemn party entered, and he shivered. Anejo's face was misted with a fine coat of blood. It was on her lips and in her eyes. Her grey uniform was a ghastly shade, sodden with a cloying mix of sweat and blood. Her light hair looked out of place; an unsullied afterthought. He had failed her.

"I'm sorry, grandfather." He should have stopped her apologising, but it was too embarrassing. Too damning.

He stood and walked to her, his legs light and fragile, barely supporting him. He wanted to weep for his deceased heir, but he could not. His grandson was laid on his desk, and he stood straight, hands behind his back. He was still a leader. He would not show weakness. Not now. Not ever.

He took Anejo within his arms, and she slid into shuddering sobs, her face nestled in the crevice of his right arm. He would have to join her soon, when they were alone, but he must be the Consul just a moment longer. He must be a father for just a moment longer.

He looked at Keles, to his trusted Mandahoi General. This man had failed him, and he must now rely upon him. On his bastard son. The line was still complete, frail and precariously thin, but complete nonetheless. The fate of all Mandaria rested upon its execution, and failure was not an option. Two threads had snapped today, and the third must bear the weight. He did not know what to say.

"So, we have won."

Keles nodded. He could not meet his son's eyes.

Anger swelled in him, anger at this man in whom he had placed so much trust. But what had Keles done wrong? He had done his job; it was Felip's folly. Anejo was uncontrollable, and his grandson was damaged property. If anyone needed blaming, it was he as a father and as a grandfather. The pressure against his control grew, so he pushed on with the formalities.

"I rather suspect that the men deserve to celebrate a substantial victory. The price of that victory is something that we will have to consider once the corpses are cleared." He looked to his grandson fleetingly. "We would like some peace if that can be arranged?"

Keles nodded, betraying something heavy in his eyes. He regretted their father-son enlightenment talk, but he couldn't worry about that now. Keles could wait for his fate. Although, actually, one thing did need firm articulation.

"And Keles," his head jerked, "you will immediately sever all ties with that exile, Kato. We may have victory this day, but that night follows day is the very definition of inevitability. They will be back, and Ahan will need you." The rest was left unsaid. Not while Anejo was about.

Keles nodded, then flashed a look, something unreadable. Then Keles left the tent, leaving the two of them to their grieving. The canvas dropped, bathing the tent in gloom, and he abandoned his official station. Instead, he stepped delicately into his failed existence as a grandfather. The tears welled, dripping into Anejo's hair. In that moment, it was just the two of them. The victory outside was irrelevant. He hugged his granddaughter as tight as his frail old body could muster, and looked to the roof of the tent. "I'm sorry Rhanna. I have failed you."

After three hundred years, Dara's line was drawing to a premature close. Or was it? Not on his watch.

He squeezed Anejo even tighter, if that was possible.