“Archeth, come on.” Jhiral shook his head. “That doesn’t in itself prove anything. Perhaps these forces she attempted to summon just weren’t interested in an encore. Hmm? Sorcery is an unreliable business, you’ve said so yourself enough times. And Rakan and Shanta here both say the destruction was pretty overwhelming, the worst they’ve seen since the war. Who’d come back after a successful sacking like that? What point would there be?”
“My lord, what point would there be in attacking a garrisoned port in the first place, if nothing of value is taken and there is no onward assault?”
Jhiral frowned. “Is this true, Rakan? Nothing was taken?”
“No, majesty. It appears not. We found the interior possessions of houses untouched where they had not been destroyed by fire. And the port authority strongrooms contained silver bullion, paymaster’s bagged coin, and several crates of confiscated valuables, all of which were still in place.” A hint of emotion crept into the Throne Eternal’s dispassionate voice, the faintest tinge of confusion. “Though each door had been ripped off its hinges as if by a team of horses.”
“And I take it,” said Jhiral drily, “that you could not possibly introduce a team of horses in the lower levels of the port authority.”
“No, majesty.”
“Shanta? Any alternative explanation you can think of?”
The naval engineer shrugged. “Perhaps some system of pulleys. Sufficiently well anchored, they might—”
“Thank you, I think we’ll take that as a no.” Jhiral scowled and looked at Archeth again. “It seems to me we’re back to the sorcery that you’re so firmly of the opinion did not occur.”
“I don’t say that sorcery—or some form of science of which I’m ignorant—did not occur, my lord. I say only that the woman Elith had no hand in it, that I did not see her perform sorcery at any time, nor do I believe that she has ever had the ability to do so. She is merely a spectator to these events, a spectator with just enough specialized cultural knowledge to give the impression of involvement.”
Jhiral made a small, exasperated noise in his throat and threw himself back in the arms of the throne. “You see? I didn’t follow any of that last sentence, Archeth. Can you
She ignored the veiled insult, swallowed it, marshaled the facts at her disposal, and once more built up the façade of professional detachment that kept her sane and out of jail.
“Very well. Elith, in common with a lot of the transplanted peoples from annexed territories in the north, believes in a broad pantheon of different gods and spirits. It’s a tradition that bears some resemblance to the Majak nomads’ framework of faith, but it’s far more ordered. It’s been written down, modified, embellished, and shared among the Naomic tribes for long enough to become codified. Among this pantheon, there is a figure, or more correctly a whole race, called the dwenda.”
“Dwinduh?” Jhiral mangled the unfamiliar word.
“Dwenda. Or the Aldrain, depending on which tribe’s tales you prefer. It comes to the same thing. A race of beings, close to human in form, with supernatural powers, access to realms beyond human reach, and close links to or even shared blood with the gods.”
Jhiral coughed a laugh. “Well. I mean, that could be the Kiriath you’re talking about there. I’ve heard the same things said about them enough times. Human-type races with unexplained powers. Are you saying the Kiriath or some of their cousins are back, that they’ve taken to sacking my cities?”
