Warsinger by James Baldwin (most inspirational books TXT) 📗

“Yeah.” I still didn't like the way Pasha was looking at me. “Well, Suri is a countess now, and there's even some people who swear she's a princess. So I guess her station depends on who you ask.”

Pasha's eye twitched at 'princess'. “Indeed. Some here may consider me a mere emissary of His Radiance, but it does not reflect my station as a Pasha of the Sultir's court. Unfortunately, speaking of my liege, I must beg his Majesty's pardon and go work on my letter. My liege is displeased by late mail.”

“Indeed he is. By all means, attend to your duties.” Ignas bowed slightly, while the Pasha did a full courtly scrape and backed up while still bowed. Only when he was about ten feet away did he turn and bustle off in the direction of the guest wing.

Once he had vanished through the door and the door had closed, Ignas pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“Sorry,” I said. “I-”

He sharply raised his hand, palm out, and I stopped talking.

“No. Do not apologize. Kings and Counts do not cringe like naughty children,” he admonished. “They say ‘I shall do better’, learn from their mistakes, and seek not to repeat them. You need to learn to control your temper if you hope to participate in court.”

I bit back the ‘sorry’ that automatically tried to come out and crossed my arms instead. “It's been a bad day. He was staring daggers at Suri while Rutha was speaking today. It got on my nerves.”

“A bad day and one minor insult are no excuse to tip your hand to a rat like Pasha Sumayal Aswan. The only difference between a diplomat and a spy is that the former can claim immunity if his assassins are caught in the act of murdering someone.” Ignas' voice was as stern as I'd ever heard it, but after a moment, his expression flickered. “Come with me, Hector. Let us talk like princes: seated, with drinks, and in private.”

Chapter 17

I had the weird feeling I was about to get some kind of dad lecture as Ignas led me to the parlor where both he and his younger brother liked to host their private conversations. It was cozy and dark, with an ever-burning fireplace, fine wooden furniture, a cabinet full of liquors and a hutch for crystal. It smelled like many different kinds of old smoke: incense, cigars, and wood from the fire.

Ignas poured me a double shot of sweet plum slivovitz without asking, and eased down into his preferred armchair with two glasses: a small tumbler of a strong berry liquor called rakija, and a much larger one of clear water. I took the sofa.

“I was hoping to catch up with you anyways,” Ignas said, sipping at the alcohol and then the water. “It can be difficult to stay in touch with the Voivodes of the hinterlands at the best of times, and I'm still getting a handle on the country after my coronation. Vlachia is a huge territory, and Myszno a large province.”

“Sure is.” I took a mouthful of slivovitz, but didn't sit back.

Ignas gazed at me over the edge of his glass. “So. Tell me about this weapon Suri mentioned. Ebisa said something about a broken Artifact in Myzsno… a giant ancient made of metal, designed to kill Drachan and bring dragons out of the sky.”

“The Warsingers.” I nodded. “I spoke to the spirit of Lahati the Chrysanthemum Queen during the campaign in Myszno… it’s a long story, but the short version is that she told me that the Warsingers were what turned the tide against the Drachan last time Archemi had to fight them off. So we’re focusing our efforts on finding one, or more than one.”

The lines around his eyes seemed to deepen. “So… you think that the Caul can no longer protect us? That it will fall to Baldr, and demons will return to the world?”

“I think regardless of whatever happens, we have to prepare for the worst,” I said. “The Caul is nothing but a five-thousand-year-old Band-Aid. The Drachan have been festering underneath it for a long time, pushing to come out, and we just happen to be the unlucky sons of bitches who are here to see them return.”

“And you think these Warsingers are the key to their defeat? And to Baldr’s?”

I shook my head. “I think the key to their defeat is to unify Archemi around something that inspires hope, awe, and courage. It will take an entire world dedicated to the same basic task to defeat the Drachan, and I think the Warsingers can help create that kind of world. The one we recovered from Myszno, Nocturne Lament, is a water-damaged, broken-down piece of shit prototype. But that rusted up old junker, the smallest and weakest of them, according to Lahati, was the most awe-inspiring thing I’ve ever seen. If we found one that worked, that was integral, we’d be able to inspire everyone in Artana to fight for the same cause. The Warsingers are just tools. The real power is in us.”

Ignas smiled. “Inspiring words. I’m not sure it’s possible, but even if it isn’t, then the journey – the dream of repossessing the machines that defeated the Drachan and saved our world – may be enough. I see now how you won Myszno from the Demon. How is it there? Really?”

I sighed. “Pretty much FUBAR, to be honest.”

He cocked his head. “I'm not familiar with that expression.”

“It's rude,” I said. “Stands for Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.”

The king barked a laugh. “Not the rudest thing I've heard or said, I assure you. You can swear with me in private like this. Gods know I got good at it. One of the Nightstalkers' best prize fighters went by the name Cuntface.”

“How the hell did he end up with that name?”

Ignas gave the Vlachian shrug, a small rolling lift of the shoulders. “Someone slit his cheek from jaw to eye and the announcer blurted