Of Sand and Snow

  Of Sand and Snow

  Book Five of The Wings of War series

  Bryce O’Connor

  Copyright © 2019 Bryce O’Connor

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without expressed permission from the author.

  ISBN: 978-0-9991920-0-9

  Edited by Shawn Sharrah and Caroline Hosek

  Map by Bryce O’Connor

  Cover Art by Andreas Zafiratos

  Cover Design by Bryce O’Connor & Andreas Zafiratos

  Ebook Interior Design & Formatting by Bryce O’Connor

  “No,” Raz snarled, taking a half-step closer to Saresh, backing the šef up to the very edge of the roof. “What we have a right to is life. One where hardship comes as it wills, but with every opportunity to overcome it. What sort of madness permits you to think the Moon and Her Stars will look favorably down upon you, given the path you’ve walked?”

  The old woman shrugged. “The same madness, perhaps, that makes you believe you know what it is They seek to draw from Their faithful.” Her face hardened. “If you know Their prayers, then you must be a believer, Monster. That disappoints me. I would have thought someone like you might understand that death and belief often come hand-in-hand.”

  Raz felt a chill, hearing those words, and he had to struggle not to look over his shoulder at where he knew Syrah undoubtedly still stood under the shade by the stairs. They rang like an echo, reminding him of something she’d once told him, when the pillars of her understandings regarding her own god had only just started to crack.

  I think that I serve a god of death as much as I serve a god of life, she’d said.

  He’d replied by saying that one cannot exist without the other.

  Still… Saresh’s interpretation was an altogether darker understanding.

  “Saying they come hand-in-hand does not mean they follow the same path,” Raz snarled. “You are using faith as an excuse for death, when death should be used as a reason for faith. You shame those of us who entreat Them for the strength to do what we must for the betterment of all.”

  “‘Do what we must’?” Saresh repeated with a derisive snort, meeting his gaze evenly. “Who is using excuses now, Arro? Who is about to murder an old woman who hasn’t even been given a blade to defend herself with? Who started this war with the rings? Do you truly think your hands are less bloody than my own? Do you truly think—?!”

  Sching.

  The gladius rang like a hand bell as it cleaved through air and flesh, flashing across Raz’s body in a silvery arc to slash open the šef’s throat from collar to collar. Before the crone could stagger back off the edge, though, Raz’s other hand shot out, grabbing her by the rope noose still wound about her neck. Saresh coughed and hacked as he heaved her to him, crimson bubbling and streaming from her cracked lips. More spilled from the grisly wound that had cut into her windpipe, painting the steel and leather of Raz’s gauntlet a gleaming red in the light of the morning Sun.

  “The amount of blood—” Raz heard the venom in his own voice as he hissed into the dying woman’s face “—matters little. It’s all dependent on whose blood it is, and why it was shed.” He pressed her back, tilting her over the open drop beyond the edge of the roof. “Reason weighs in all things, death and faith included. I am not innocent, but when the time comes for the Moon to lift me up, I trust the lives taken at my hands will weigh less than those stolen by yours.”

  Then, as Saresh began to convulse from shock, he let go.

  The citizens of Dynec gave a final exalted cheer below as the third rope snapped taut.

  BOOKS BY BRYCE O’CONNOR

  The Wings of War Series

  Child of the Daystar

  The Warring Son

  Winter’s King

  As Iron Falls

  Of Sand and Snow

  The Shattered Reigns

  A Mark of Kings

  OF SAND

  AND SNOW

  BRYCE O’CONNOR

  For, in no particular order:

  Ashley Carlino

  Jim Salviski

  Meredith Guinto

  Cara Reindl

  Mike Tosch

  Mike Shone

  Clark Rasmussen

  Jonathan Schwandt

  and everyone else who makes SPOT cowork

  an absolute blast to be a part of.

  PART I

  PROLOGUE

  862 v.S.

  “I do not think that I ever paused, then, to wonder if I might have been in the presence of a monster…”

  Serys Benth, Karavyl šef, to Ahthys Borne of Acrosia

  How quickly things change, Serys thought to herself, stepping out of the carriage as Eshed, the captain of their retinue, offered her his calloused hand in assistance. When her sandaled feet reached the swept cobblestone of the market way, she looked around, wondering what it was she was feeling. Outwardly, there was little different about the marble and granite buildings which rose on either side of her, the façade of the city itself unaffected by the darker churnings that had taken over its depths in the last year. The square behind their comfortable coach was as busy as ever, the bustle of the morning crowd doing much to drown out the cries from the infamous Cages Serys knew rose up in the center of the plaza. The dawn Sun was at her back, illuminating the street before her, and nothing appeared out of place in the glistening windows and overhanging balconies from which strands of brown and green vines hung, their resilient flowers a splash of color against the stone. The area seemed a popular quarter of residence for the wealthier middle class, likely merchants and traders who did well for themselves in the bazaar, but were yet far from the dream of an estate in the extravagant quarters to the east.

  Yes, on the outside, nothing had changed.

  And yet, as Serys took a step forward in order to allow her travelling companions to be helped out of the wagon in turn, she could still feel the difference in the subtle aura of the city.

  It hadn't been so long since her last visit to Miropa. When word reached Karavyl that Imaneal Evony, Ergoin Sass, and the rest of their comrades had been butchered by the Monster of Karth, Serys and other representatives of the Mahsadën had rushed to the Gem of the South from each of the fringe cities, fearing what would happen if the society lost control of the largest municipality in the realm. They’d anticipated the worst, steeling themselves one and all to gather what was left of the former šef’s networks and crush whatever dissent could have festered as their hand slipped from Miropa’s throat. It had been surprising, therefore, to discover upon their arrival none of the expected chaos and civil unrest.

  Rather, in the weeks following the death of the old masters of the Mahsadën, a new power had risen to take the reins of the city, a power Serys didn’t know whether to respect, scorn, or fear.

  That’s what I'm feeling… she thought as she heard San Loreyn step down to the street and stretch with a groan behind her. That’s what’s changed…

  She was sure of it. There was something lurking there, in the heavy presence of the buildings and alleys. Something unseen, but distinct in its attendance. There was a stillness to the Miropan streets which had been absent on any of her previous visits, a somberness to the shouting of the merchants and the rumble of their clientele. She shivered suddenly as a rare cloud passed over the Sun, wondering why the desert breeze—ordinarily so warm—gave her the impression of the winter winds she’d known as a child, living as a borderer in the thinner forests between the N
orthern and Southern lands.

  “Carriages,” San muttered, and Serys looked over her shoulder to see the Southerner using a hand to fan his thin, sweating cheeks with a disgruntled expression. “Damn things will be the death of me. Why couldn’t we just ride our own horses?”

  “Because a pompous trim like you wouldn’t survive half-a-day in the Cienbal left to your own devices,” Analla Zaren answered flatly, not even looking at the šef as she stepped from the carriage after accepting Eshed’s hand with a charming smile. “I don’t imagine we would have managed more than an hour’s ride before you either passed out from the heat or insisted we take the long way around the desert.”

  San puffed out his chest indignantly, whirling on the Percian girl, his sleek brown hair seeming almost to bristle in offense.

  “I tire of your insolence!” he snarled while Analla dusted her skirts off daintily, her smile turning sour in her dark features as she met the man’s eye. “I should have you whipped on our return! Serys!” San turned to Serys, one hand pointing at the girl like a child wailing to his mother. “Rein in your wench!”

  “Analla merely voices our shared thoughts, San,” Serys told him coolly, paying him only the faintest of minds while she continued to examine the details of the buildings walling the street before them. “Give me reason to think her deductions inaccurate, and I’ll order her flogged myself.”

  San deflated at once, his pointed finger going limp, and he seemed to shrink in on himself. In a clear attempt to change the subject, he instead turned to the nearest soldier, one of their Miropan guard that made up half their twelve-count escort.

  “Is this the place?”

  “Near, sir.” The man indicated the cobbled lane with a leather-gloved hand, the other on the wire-bound hilt of his sword. “The road narrows ahead, so we’ll be walking a short ways.”

  San nodded haughtily, and the soldier started forward at once, his fellows falling in at his sides. Serys, San, and Analla’s own guards closed in behind them, and together the group moved to follow. They clearly didn’t have far to go, but in that time Analla caught up to Serys and hooked a slender arm into hers, leaning in like they were two women gossiping about which of the men-at-arms they found most appealing.

  “Do you feel that?” the girl asked softly, her ebony eyes shifting over the buildings’ faces around them even as she held the façade of a simpering smile that would have fooled anyone who happened to glance at her.

  Serys nodded briefly, but it was a moment before she responded, taking in the shadows of the narrow alleys they passed.

  “I do,” she answered softly. “And it concerns me…”

  “There are rumors,” Analla said, and Serys detected what might have been a note of apprehension in her attendant’s voice. “About Blaeth. They say he’s—”

  “I’m familiar with what ‘they say’,” Serys cut her off gently just as the Miropan guard at their head halted before a narrow set of stairs, its worn steps leading up to the front door of an old timber structure. “Though I’m not so sure they’re merely ‘rumors’…”

  Analla looked like she wanted to say something more at that, but bit her tongue when the soldiers parted and turned, half-bowing while the man at their head gestured to the building before them.

  “This is where we leave you. Your retinue as well, I’m afraid. No one but yourselves are allowed within, along with a few handpicked sentries.”

  “Nonsense,” San challenged the officer irritably. “We will take our soldiers with us. Do you truly expect us to—?”

  “Eshed.” Serys cut the other šef off, looking not at San but instead to the captain of their own retinue. “Wait here. I don’t know how long we'll be.”

  Eshed, a weathered Southerner with a scar down one side of his neck, nodded at once, and with a quick word had the rest of his men fall in line with the Miropan guard. As San spluttered and tripped over half-formed complaints, Serys unhooked her arm from Analla and lifted her folds of her dress, starting the short climb up the stairs.

  The building was a surprisingly plain thing, a lumbering structure of timber and brick that would have appeared utterly ordinary had it not been for the dozen guards and their charges gathered about its entrance. Indeed, from the corner of her eye Serys saw several passersby glancing curiously in their direction, as though wondering what such finely-dressed strangers were doing visiting a place like this.

  Clever, she thought to herself, reaching up and knocking on the heavy wooden door at the head of the steps. Stepping back, she made a mental note to query after what sort of inconspicuous estates might be had for the rings once she returned home.

  After a brief delay there was a clunk of a latch being lifted, and the door cracked open. A single grey eye peered at them through the gap, silently taking Serys, San, and Analla in for a full three seconds before the man spoke.

  “Whom do you represent?”

  “Karavyl,” Serys replied in short.

  The sentry scrutinized her one last time, and Serys was impressed by the utter indifference of his gaze. She was perhaps not as beautiful as she had been in the absolute prime of her youth some decade prior, but it was rare to find a man whose look didn’t at least linger on her hazel-blue eyes, the stretch of her bust, or the slenderness of her waist. She might even have taken offense, except for the emptiness that weighed heavy in his expression. It wasn’t the hollow sort of loss she’d seen in the slaves they sent to the Seven Cities, or in the Cages in the market plaza down the road. Rather, it seemed instead to be a removal of desire, an utter absence of emotion.

  With a creak of wood, the man pulled the door open, revealing himself. He was a slender figure, garbed in grey and black fabrics that fell loosely over his body. A scarf hung limp about his neck—of the kind soldiers wore to keep the blowing sands out of their noses and mouths—and his features were plain but hard. He gave Serys the impression of a sandcat, still and patient, but ready for any opportunity to strike when the moment came.

  Something tugged at her gut, and she realized it had been a long time since any man had elicited such unease in her.

  “Follow me,” the figure instructed them curtly, turning his back to the entrance and starting down the hall beyond the threshold. After a quick exchange of looks, the three of them did as they were told, Analla shutting the door again behind them with a creaking thud.

  The inside of the building, Serys discovered, was much more along the lines of what she expected from a secret meeting place of the South’s most powerful individuals. The hall was cavernous, opening into the second story with arched supports holding up walkways that encircled the high walls overhead. A thick red carpet lined the marble floor beneath their feet, muting their footsteps as they hurried to follow their silent escort, and delicate sculptures before every column complimented the frescoes that hung between and beyond the pillars. As Serys looked around, her nerves tingled again when she noticed other figures, half-hidden in the nooks and corners of the room. They, like the man leading them toward a wide granite stairway at the back of the building, were garbed in grey and black, and watched the three of them pass with the same devoid expressions. She did her best to ignore them, and was grateful when San and Analla did the same, though she heard the former offer a brief prayer to the Sun, asking that he be allowed to see the sky again.

  They reached the stairs, and their guide took them up rapidly, forcing Serys to hitch her dress even higher as she trailed him. They managed one flight, then another, then finally a third which led them to the top floor of the structure. The man stopped when they made the final landing, stepping aside and allowing Serys, San, and Analla to catch up.

  “They expect you within,” he told them, waving at a pair of carved wooden doors opposite them. “You are the last to arrive, so I imagine they wait for you with some anticipation.”

  Serys almost smirked at that, wondering if this was his bland way of saying they should hurry.

  Then the man was gone, making back do
wn the stairs before any of them even had a chance to offer a word of thanks.

  Serys took a breath and stepped forward. The doors were unobtrusive, mildly ornamented with spiraled carvings for flair, but there were some curiosities in the stone frame they’d been set in. Empty holes in the mortar stood out, where steel nails might once have been chiseled into the rock. What’s more, the iron and wood casting of the right door looked newer compared to the left, and the hinges showed little tarnish.

  This has been kicked in before, Serys realized, one brow rising unbidden in curiosity. What sort of place have we been gathered in…?

  There was a polite, quiet cough which brought the woman to her senses. She glanced around to give Analla a small smile of thanks, then stood straight and flattened the folds of her skirts she’d wrinkled in the climb. There were voices beyond the door, she realized, a droning buzz of anxious conversation.

  Gathering her wits, Serys cleared her throat, then knocked.

  A scrape of a chair on stone, chased by the quick patter of feet. Another clunk came as the handle was lifted, and the door swung open, revealing a nervous-looking youth with long blond hair and brown eyes. Before Serys could get a word in, the young attendant stepped away quickly, revealing the room beyond as he waved them in with a wavering hand.

  Serys prided herself on her nerves. She’d risen from her place on the streets of Dynec, surviving as a whore after her bastard of an uncle sold her to a passing merchant caravan following the death of her parents. She’d clawed her way up from the depths of hell over the next fifteen years, pushing her will past the rapes and abuse and violence which had been a part of her life for too long. When she set her mind to it, Serys could handle anything the world sought to throw at her.