With his free hand, the Aedolian was gesturing firmly at the abbot, almost poking him in the chest with his finger. When the wind fell, Kaden could hear his voice, an iron monotone that sounded more accustomed to command than negotiation. “… irrelevant. He is here because of the needs of the Unhewn Throne, and now the Unhewn Throne is…” A gust snatched away the end of the sentence.
Kaden frowned. The Ut he knew had been distant and difficult to know, hard as cast iron in his convictions, but never rude, never bullying. Whatever brought him here had both strained and hardened him.
The second man appeared content to let his companion do the talking. Kaden couldn’t see his face, but long dark hair tied with red silk hung loosely down his back. Despite the rigors of travel and the unpredictable weather of the mountains, he wore a finely tailored red silk coat, buttoned up the center in the style of the highest-ranking imperial ministers, a low collar ringing his neck. Sunlight flashed on the man’s golden cuffs, and Kaden blinked. Only the Mizran Councillor, the highest ranking nonmilitary minister, wore gold at both his cuffs and his collar. This man was one of a half dozen in the entire empire who outranked the Aedolian at his side.
Suddenly the councillor turned his head, and Kaden drew in his breath in surprise. The strip he had taken for a band to hold back hair was, in fact, a thick blindfold completely covering the man’s eyes. In spite of it, he looked directly at the window where Kaden stood, then put a hand on the soldier’s arm, as though to calm him. Unlike Ut, the Mizran was a complete stranger—he must have been extremely talented to have risen through the baffling ranks of the imperial bureaucracy in the eight short years since Kaden had left Annur. Once again the wind died, and this time Kaden could hear the councillor’s voice, smooth as the silk he wore.
“Patience, my friend. He will come. Tell me,” he said, addressing himself to the abbot, “how old is the monastery?”
“Almost three thousand years,” Nin replied. If he was uncomfortable hosting two of the most powerful men in the world, he didn’t show it. In fact, he spoke with the same measured patience that he used when addressing novices in his study.
“And yet,” the man mused, “there are maps in the imperial library, recovered from the Csestriim, I believe, showing a fortress here long before that time. Of course, such maps are often the unreliable children of rumor and mythology.”
“The place was chosen,” the abbot replied, “for the preexisting foundations, among other reasons. Someone built here long before us. I cannot say if it was the Csestriim. It was not a large structure—as you can sense, perhaps, there is little space—but judging from the foundations the walls were thick and strong.”
“Nevariim?” the councillor asked, tilting his head to the side speculatively.
The abbot shook his head. “In the stories I read, the Nevariim never built fortresses. They didn’t build at all—it was one of the reasons the Csestriim were able to destroy them.”
The man in silk waved a hand dismissively. “Ah well, stories, stories. Who’s to say what to believe? There are plenty back in the capital who would claim the Nevariim didn’t exist at all.”
“I admit,” Nin replied, “we have little knowledge of such things here.”
As the wind picked up, carrying away the two voices, Tan looked over at Kaden. “Do you know them?”
“The Aedolian is named Micijah Ut,” Kaden responded. “He once commanded the Dark Guard and now, evidently, has risen to the rank of First Shield.” He returned his gaze to the other, sorting through his memories. “But the man in the silk … no. I don’t know him.”
In the few minutes they had paused to gaze down on the scene, Kaden’s excitement had cooled, like bathwater left too long standing. Micijah Ut seemed different, transformed somehow, and the other man was a complete stranger. Moreover, he felt a growing unease as he considered the rank of the two. His father would not have sent the commander of his personal guard and his highest minister all the way across Vash for a social visit. Something was awry here, badly awry.
“All right,” Tan said finally. “Let’s go see what the First Shield of the Aedolian Guard and the empire’s Mizran Councillor want with a boy who hasn’t even learned to paint.”
36
For the better part of three days, Valyn’s Wing spent every spare hour in the gear shop trying to redesign the harness and buckle system for Suant’ra’s talons. The work did not go smoothly. Although everyone seemed to accept the fundamental premise—that they needed a quicker and more efficient way to detach from the bird if they were going to make drops at Laith’s speed—each member of the team had a different idea of the form that new system should take.