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It’s warmer here. I can no longer detect the scent of the mountains, which travels all the way to the capital on the icy winds.
This is the Duchy of Deignar, ruled by the Talavarra clan for centuries.
These lands are vast and lush, blessed with frequent rainfall and rich volcanic soils that wash down through the river system. Their fortune and power has been built upon agriculture—rice, grains, sheep, andkoriu,which is used to make a potent medicinal sedative.
There’s no doubt this region has been instrumental to Rahava’s success as an empire.
I’d be loath to destroy it.
I can see glittering lights now. That would be the city of Padra, the capital of Deignar, nestled in a wide bend of the river. I’ve only visited on official business; military business, staying in the lavish imperial residence that adjoins the Imperial Barracks. It’s a charming city, far smaller than Lukiria, but bustling and vibrant. The people here are blunt-spoken but incredibly hospitable. They tend to be quick to anger but equally quick to drop grudges—it’s against their religion to hold grudges—and they laugh easily and freely.
I hold nothing against the people of Deignar.
It’s a pity that Rhaegar Talavarra is too ambitious for his own good. He’s always had his eyes on the throne, and there was a time when he’d gathered enough support within the court that he almost succeeded in taking it.
But then father started the war in Vikur, and most of the soldiers he conscripted were from Deignar.
Rhaegar couldn’t refuse. To do so would have made him look cowardly and unpatriotic.
In one fell swoop, father stole Rhaegar Talavarra’s power. And then he requested his daughter’s hand in marriage—in exchange for the return of Duke Talavarra’s troops. By agreeing to the marriage, Rhaegar was forced to recognize the legitimacy of father’s power.
What abastardmy father was.
I reach the center of Padra proper, landing on a tall spire that gives me an uninterrupted view of the surroundings.
The moon hangs low in the sky, tinged yellow and waning. Wispy clouds scud across its face, throwing ghostly shadows across the landscape.
In the distance, I see Deignar Castle. Rectangular, symmetrical, and featureless, its walls made of thick granite, it sits imposingly atop a small man-made hill in the center of a wide moat.
A muted glow flickers in the windows. It isn’t lit up for all the world to see, like the grand palace in Lukiria.
For a moment, I simply watch and listen.
Here the wind is little more than a gentle breeze, lacking the cold bite of the northern winter. But it carries with it a certain fetid stench that’s all too familiar.
The sounds of the city are a muted hum in the background; people going about their business, settling in for the night. Padra is quiet.Tooquiet. It isn’t the raucous, energetic place I used to know. Where are the street vendors, with their mouth-watering charcoal-grilled meat, fragrant with herbs and spices? Where are the horses and the carts? The buskers? Where are the people, spilling out onto the footpaths where they sit on rickety tables and benches, enjoying simple food as the night deepens and the drinks flow?
Curious.
It’s rather ominous, isn’t it?
In the distance, a wolf lets out a mournful howl. It’s quickly accompanied by several others.
The wind picks up, bringing with it the stench of decay.
Something’s rotten in the heart of Talavarra Country.
Time to go.
Once again, I leap, this time in the direction of the castle. The moat can’t stop me. Neither can the walls or the guards.
I have a feeling they’re expecting me. The attack on Tyron Castle was intentional; a provocation, designed to draw me out of my territory.
Well, it worked.
58
CORVAN
