25 Sypheros
The next visitor Geth had to his chamber didn’t arrive with the same stealth as Chetiin. There was a knock at the door and Ashi entered. Midian slipped in after her and Geth caught a glimpse of Aruget speaking with the guards before the gnome closed the door again. Both wore tense expressions. Geth was certain Ashi’s was genuine; he wasn’t so sure about Midian’s.
“I ran into Midian in the entrance courtyard,” said Ashi.
“Ran into, nothing. I was looking for you,” Midian said with the kind of desperate cheerfulness people used to cover up stress. “This is the day, isn’t it? I would have waited in the hall outside Geth’s door if his guards didn’t look at me funny every time I walk by.” He turned to Geth. “Sage’s quill, you’re dressed up like kings and queens are coming to call. No, wait-they are. Or at least one is.”
“Shut it, Midian,” Geth told the gnome. He knew how he looked. The mirror in his chamber told him that. During his time fighting in the Last War, he’d gotten into the habit of preparing early on the days that he would see battle. Sometimes very early. His comrades had mocked him for it until they’d realized that the earlier Geth rose, the worse his temper before the battle was likely to be. Tariic’s coronation was a kind of battle and Geth had risen very early. His thick hair was washed and brushed and tied back. His clothes-fine trousers and a crimson shirt, a close-fitting vest of black leather stitched with polished bronze plates in the hobgoblin style-were all new, chosen by Razu and tailored to fit him. The great gauntlet on his right arm was as polished and bright as the black steel could ever be. Wrath hung at his side. He’d been ready since before dawn, and the coronation wouldn’t take place until the sun had passed noon.
Unlike human courts, ghaal’dar tradition not only permitted but required that arms and armor be worn in the presence of rulers as a sign of service and respect. Wrath and the gauntlet were a comforting weight, even if they weren’t the weapons he would need today. He looked to Ashi.
He didn’t need to say anything. She held out an innocent-seeming bundle wrapped in coarse sackcloth and tied with rough cords. Geth took it and laid it on the table beside the chest that held the Rod of Kings. The cords were intricately knotted. Geth simply cut them. More sackcloth had been wadded up around an inner wrapping of fine linen that reminded him disturbingly of a shroud. He folded it back.
Purple byeshk forged into a shaft as long as his forearm, as thick as his wrist, and traced with strange symbols winked up at him. The rod that lay among linen and sackcloth might have been the true rod instead of the false.
A slip of paper had been wrapped around it. He pulled it free and read the crisp, flowing script upon it. Balance owing: Kech Volaar tales of the daashor, Geth to bring the sword for my examination. You hold an exceptional piece of work. I should charge you more. Don’t tell anyone else my name!
Geth smiled at an image of Tenquis writing the brief note. Midian tried to peer at the message. “What’s that?”
“Nothing.” Geth folded the paper and tucked it inside his vest, then glanced at Ashi. “Did you have any trouble getting it from him?” he asked, taking care not to mention Tenquis by name.
Ashi was just as cautious. She shook her head. “He wasn’t expecting Aruget, though. He made him wait outside.” She looked down at the false rod. “It looks perfect, doesn’t it?”
“Put them together,” urged Midian.
Geth nodded and drew the keys to the chest up from inside his shirt. The three locks made heavy clicks as they opened. The true Rod of Kings lay like a slug among folds of black silk. Geth picked it out and held it next to the false rod. Tenquis’s work really was exceptional. The two rods were identical.
Midian whistled, his blue eyes wide. “You wouldn’t want to get those mixed up.”
“Our man thought of that,” Ashi said. “There’s an extra mark carved on the end of the false rod so it’s possible to tell them apart.”
Geth pushed the linen and sackcloth down so he could inspect the end of the rod. A faint spiral marked the byeshk, unmatched on the true rod. “What about the magic?” he asked.
Ashi grinned, reached down, and picked up the false rod.
Something about her changed almost instantly. Geth couldn’t have said exactly what it was. She seemed taller somehow. The blue-green colors of her dragonmark seemed brighter, the dark gold of her hair richer. Something stirred in him-he felt like he was in the presence of greatness. The effect was subtle but strong. Her words, when she spoke, were as stirring as one of Ekhaas’s stories.
“Concentrate,” she said, “and you can fight it. It’s not as powerful as you think.”
Geth blinked and pushed back. The illusion of glory and greatness slipped away and Ashi was herself again. He whistled. “Grandfather Rat! Even Haruuc would have been satisfied with that.”
“You could never feel the effect of the rod when Haruuc held it, but it was almost exactly like that.” Ashi handed the false rod to Geth. It felt no different in his hand than the true rod, a heavy bar of cold metal, but Ashi and Midian’s eyes turned to him like a needle to lodestone. Midian’s smile faded, however. “That’s bad,” he said. “The true rod doesn’t have that effect when you hold it. People might be suspicious.”
“Rat.” He was surprised Tenquis hadn’t thought of that.
Or maybe he had. Geth replaced the true rod in the chest and moved the false rod to his gauntleted hand. Ashi’s eyes refocused. Midian shook his head. Geth nodded in satisfaction at Tenquis’s work and a lightness he hadn’t felt since before Haruuc’s death settled over him. Their plan was going to work! “Just like the true rod,” he said. “You need to touch it with bare skin.”
“Brilliant,” said Midian. “Now, what about the true rod?”
Geth reached out and closed the lid of the chest. The triple locks snapped closed. “It will be safe here for now,” he said. “We’ll find another place for it after the coronation. And after that-”
“Ekhaas and Dagii’s return?” Midian asked. He made a pinched face. “We’re putting an awful lot of faith in their survival.”
“I’d rather assume their survival than count on their deaths,” Ashi said hotly. “If they don’t come back, we’ll deal with the rod on our own-until then, I’m happy knowing that the danger is past.” Her lips twitched and curled. “Rond betch, we did it. Tariic will take the throne with the symbol of rulership that Haruuc wanted his successor to have. Is there a better tribute than that?”
“Maybe not going to war with Valenar?” asked Midian. But he sighed and his face unwound into a smile as innocent as if he hadn’t plotted Haruuc’s death. “Lords of the Host, I guess it could be worse, couldn’t it? Haruuc wanted Darguuls to be united and they are. Maybe Dagii will spank the elves hard enough that they’ll ride home with pillows on their saddles.”
Geth forced a smile onto his face. Maybe they still had to deal with the gnome’s treachery and maybe Ekhaas and Dagii were still at risk-even if they did have Chetiin to back them up-but Midian and Ashi were right about one thing. Darguun was safe from the danger that had brought down Haruuc. He closed his armored fist around the false rod and felt a little pulse from Wrath.
Even if no one else would ever know the truth of what they had accomplished, the Sword of Heroes approved.
The plain little room that opened onto one side of the dais in the throne room had memories attached to it-not good ones. Here Geth had witnessed the argument that had broken the friendship between Haruuc and Chetiin. From here and out onto the dais, Geth had followed Haruuc in the wake of that argument and discovered the terrible influence that rod held over its wielder. Into this room, he had led Ashi in a desperate effort to reach Haruuc and use her dragonmark to break the rod’s hold on him, only to watch as he was struck down.
It was still too easy to think of the assassin as Chetiin. Another of the shaarat’khesh, Geth reminded himself, services paid for by Midian.
He also tried to remind himself that the small room would soon also have a more triumphant memory attached to it. From here, Tariic’s reign as lhesh of Darguun would begin-although it was hard to be optimistic when the air in the room was stifling from the bodies crowded into it. Tariic, wearing bright armor of brass-chased steel, the chestplates worked into the pattern of a skull, the helmet riveted with rows of sharp blades. Razu, staff in hand, fussing as she awaited the arrival of the priests of Dol Arrah, Dol Dorn, and Balinor. A hobgoblin servant, likewise awaiting the appearance of the priests, held the spiked crown of Darguun on a velvet cushion. Daavn of Marhaan, grasping Tariic’s sword. Aguus of Traakuum, carrying a heavy cape of tiger skin edged in the soft white fur of a tiger’s belly. Munta the Gray, balancing a tray holding a pitcher of water and a silver basin.
And Geth, holding the false Rod of Kings. The shifter who had claimed-for nearly three weeks-the throne of a goblin nation and in doing so had saved it. His mouth curved into a grin.
“You look pleased with yourself,” said Munta. “Ready to give up the rod?”
“More than you know.”
Munta laughed. “I’ll tell you something Haruuc told me,” the old hobgoblin said. “Sometimes he wanted to leave the throne behind and go back to being the warlord of Rhukaan Taash or even just a warrior of the clan. He couldn’t, though. The throne held him tight.”
“He told me something like that once, too.”
Munta’s ears flicked and he smiled. “You’re luckier than most warriors who leave the battlefield to take a throne, Geth. You’ve tasted power but you have the chance to walk away-and without anybody trying to kill you!” He laughed again.
Geth laughed with him. Heads around the room turned to look at the pair of them. The stares didn’t bother Geth. He felt a flush of confidence. Beyond one of the room’s two doors, the throne room was full of all the warlords of Darguun and all the ambassadors and envoys in Rhukaan Draal. He could hear them. Soon the responsibility for Darguun would be in Tariic’s hands. All he had to do was keep the true rod hidden for a little longer. For a moment, he even dared to dream about what he’d do after they’d found a way to deal with the true rod. He had friends in Fairhaven in Aundair and in Zarash’ak in the Shadow Marches that he could trust to keep a secret. The stories he’d be able to tell them…
Across the room, Daavn said something to Tariic. The new lhesh laughed at it, but Daavn’s eyes darted toward Munta. The old warlord didn’t seem to notice, but there was something in Daavn’s gaze that Geth didn’t like. Something cunning. Something scheming.
The confidence he felt coalesced into a need to act. He’d held off telling Tariic about Vounn d’Deneith’s suspicions of Daavn for lack of any hard evidence. He’d never gotten the chance to bring Daavn and Ko the changeling face-to-face to see if there was any recognition between the two of them. Maybe there was one last thing he could do before he passed power on to Tariic.
He left Munta and crossed the room to the two warlords. “Tariic,” he said, ignoring Daavn, “I need to talk to you for a moment. Alone.”
He tipped his head to the door that opened into a corridor beyond the little room.
Under his helmet, Tariic smiled. “Of course.” He nodded to Daavn-who shot Geth an angry glare-and led the way out the door. Once they were in the corridor, he sighed extravagantly. “Maabet, if you think it’s hot in there, you should try wearing this.” He rapped his helmet. “What did you need to talk about?”
He seemed more relaxed than Geth had seen him since Haruuc’s death, but then Geth felt more relaxed, too. It almost seemed wrong to spoil that. He did it anyway. “It’s Daavn,” he said. “I think he’s been getting close to you so that he comes into power when you take the throne. Some of us think it may actually have been him, not Keraal, behind the attempt to kidnap Vounn. We don’t have anything more than guesses right now, but the changeling in the dungeon who made the attempt might be able to-”
“Wait.” Tariic held up his hand and Geth stopped with the explanation still on his tongue. Tariic smiled. “I know.”
Geth almost choked. “You… knew?”
“I’m not stupid, Geth. I grew up in Haruuc’s court. I’ve known politics all my life.” He lowered his hand. “I didn’t know about the kidnapping, but I’ll ask him about it after the coronation.”
“But why let him get close?” Geth asked. “He’s using you.”
“No. I’m using him.” Tariic’s ears, poking out through holes in the helmet, twitched. “A king-a lhesh-needs someone he can trust. My uncle had Munta, then his three shava, and then you. I’d never take Daavn as shava, but as the saying goes in Sharn, you can always trust a greedy man to watch out for himself. It’s handy to have someone like Daavn around.”
“Oh.” Geth’s confidence fell as limp as an empty wineskin.
Tariic knocked his knuckles against the steel of his great gauntlet. “Don’t worry, Geth. I keep an eye on him. I know what he’s doing and I won’t let him get beyond my control. I appreciate that you tried to warn me.” He nodded at the rod. “I appreciate that you took care of that for me, too.”
Geth forced a smile. “It might not have been you that the warlords chose as lhesh.”
Tariic’s ears stiffened and his eyes turned hard. “No,” he said. “It was always going to be me. I was always going to be lhesh.”
The hair on Geth’s arms and on the back of his neck rose. He didn’t have a chance to say anything, though. Tariic’s eyes shifted to look past him and the new lhesh said, “Finally. You’re here.”
“Your guards wouldn’t let us in,” answered a thin, shrill voice that struck Geth as strangely familiar.
“That won’t be a problem again.” Tariic opened the door into the little room and called, “Razu, join us.”
Geth turned around-and stared in shock at the bugbear who filled the corridor and the old, blind goblin woman who sat on his shoulder. The hair on his arms and neck rose even higher. Pradoor still wore the same ragged dress she had when he’d set her free from the dungeons of Khaar Mbar’ost, but now she was wrapped in a fine, dark green mantle as well. Makka wore the bear hide vest Geth remembered from the Marguul camp in the mountains. Apparently he’d survived the mortal wound Ashi had dealt him after all. The thick hair of his chest had recently been gashed in a savage design: a serpent with the outstretched wings of a bat.
Makka looked at him and his black eyes narrowed. His hand moved to the sword-Ashi’s bright Deneith honor blade! — that hung from his belt but Pradoor slapped the back of his head and his hand dropped.
Geth heard the tap of Razu’s staff on the floor, then he heard the mistress of rituals gasp.
“Razu,” said Tariic, “there’s been a change of plan. The priests of the Sovereign Host won’t be participating in the coronation. This is Pradoor. She’ll be taking their place. If everything else is ready, we can proceed.”
Ashi shifted her weight from foot to foot in an almost imperceptible movement. Vounn had tried to teach her the technique as an indispensable skill of courtly manners, a way to make standing through long speeches and parties bearable. At the time, Ashi had been amused-it was the same trick she had learned as a hunter, a way to keep legs and feet from aching as she waited for prey. Now, after months as a part of House Deneith, she knew better. Hunting and attending court weren’t so very different after all.
The throne room of Khaar Mbar’ost was filled and everyone was standing. The carved wood benches that provided seating for the assembly of warlords had been moved out. Dust had been shaken from the clan banners that covered the walls. Braziers had been heaped with incense that gave off the resinous smell of cedar. The tall windows behind the blocky throne showed a blue sky and a city at peace, though Ashi knew that the streets around and the plaza before Khaar Mbar’ost were actually packed with a lively crowd. The common people of Rhukaan Draal didn’t attend the coronation except in the form of a delegation of nine individuals plucked from the street and deposited in a corner of the throne room to gawk at the power gathered around them.
Even the grieving tree that still stood on one side of the dais looked strangely beautiful: white and gleaming, a piece of strange sculpture rather than an ancient device of torture.
Buzzing excitement drifted through the crowd, but Ashi doubted if anyone could be quite as excited as she was-after all, no one else knew what had been at stake leading up to this moment. Not even the dire whispers that passed between those she stood with could darken her spirits.
“I’ve had a letter from friends in House Lyrandar,” said Pater d’Orien. “They confirm there are factions within Lyrandar that see a greater profit in committing their services to Valenar than in selling to both sides.”
“Sindra among them?” Vounn asked. Her lips barely moved.
Pater snorted. “What do you think?”
Esmyssa Entar ir’Korran raised an eyebrow. “Orien and Deneith were quick to sell their services to Darguun,” she pointed out. Ashi wondered why the ambassador of Zilargo had bothered to stand with them. When the ceremony started, the little gnome wouldn’t be able to see anything-Midian had paused to greet them earlier, then passed on to get closer to the dais. The conversation must have been worth more to Esmyssa than the view.
Pater just snorted again. “Selling cartage to Valenar elves is like selling stone to dwarves. Their warbands carry everything they need. Our routes in Valenar are limited to runs between a few established fortresses.”
“Deneith’s relationship with Valenar is nearly as important as our relationship with Darguun,” said Vounn. “An offer was made, of course. Neutrality saw Deneith through the Last War. More, I don’t know. Details of forces contracted to opposing sides in a conflict are kept secret.”
“And if you were to speculate, Lady Vounn?” asked Esmyssa.
Vounn pressed her lips together for a moment before she said. “If I were to speculate, I would say that the Valaes Tairn declined our offer. This war is as much a point of honor for them as it is for the Darguuls. We were only able to contract to Darguun because the mercenaries were their own people. The war is a test of ancient blood against ancient blood.” She bent her head to the fifth member of their group.
Senen Dhakaan dipped her head in return, but added, “My blood, but not yet my people. The Kech Volaar will watch the war, though. An alliance with Darguun may still be a possibility.”
Esmyssa’s eyes flashed with delight. “I’ve heard,” she said, “that the Kech Shaarat clan have embraced the war and have already approached Tariic about sending warriors to ight.”
Senen’s ears lay back. “The Kech Shaarat would fight pigs in a wallow and call it a rout. I wouldn’t put much value to their boasting-”
The wail of Darguul war-pipes burst over the throne room, followed a moment later by the throbbing of drums. Conversations ended instantly and all heads turned to the dais. As the martial music rose to a pitch, a door opened and a procession emerged, one by one, to take up positions behind the throne. Razu came first-and Ashi’s curiosity stirred. The old mistress of rituals looked shaken.
Munta, a pitcher and basin on a tray in his hands, followed her. His face was dark and troubled. Ashi glanced at Vounn. Her mentor was frowning.
“What is it?” asked Esmyssa. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” Ashi told her.
Aguus came next, then Daavn. The warlord of Marhaan seemed smug. Then The breath caught in Ashi’s throat. Her hand went to the sword at her side, gripping the hilt and ready to draw. Makka stood on the dais with the spiked crown of Darguun in his hands. Her reaction, however, was lost in the chaos that gripped the throne room. Many people-warlords and ambassadors alike-gasped. A piper’s instrument struck a screechingly bad note.
A very few warlords, after a moment of shock, shouted out, “Praise the Six!”
“Quill and staff, what’s happening?” Esmyssa finally gave up and squirmed forward through the audience as only a gnome or goblin could.
Ashi ignored her, spinning to face Vounn. “That’s Makka!” she said.
“That’s the goblin who led the famine march!” Vounn stared at the old goblin woman, her eyes milky white, Makka carried on his shoulder. “What is this?”
Pater’s round face was tense. “Host shield us,” he said. He pointed at the goblin woman, then at Makka. “Dark green is the color of the Devourer. The winged wyrm is a symbol of the Fury. Tariic has gone back to the Dark Six.”
Makka reached the throne and shifted the crown into one hand so he could lower the goblin woman to the ground with the other, then handed the crown to her. It was larger than her whole head. The effect should have been comical, but Ashi didn’t feel like laughing.
Geth appeared, the false rod raised in front of him. His gaze swept the audience and found her. His eyes were hard. All Ashi could do was nod to him, then he had taken a position beside Makka. He glanced at the bugbear. Makka looked back at him and bared his teeth.
If it had been her up there, Ashi didn’t think she would have been able to stop herself from running Makka through. She was surprised Geth didn’t. Instead, he just stiffened and glared back.
He was going through with the coronation, she realized. Makka’s presence, Tariic’s unexpected embrace of the Dark Six-neither mattered. They had to get the false rod into Tariic’s hands and Geth would make sure it happened.
“Ekhaas told me about Makka,” Senen said. “Geth bears an insult.”
“He has a duty, Senen Dhakaan,” Ashi told her tersely.
The music swelled again. Tariic entered, the armor he wore flashing in the light of the hall. The cheers and applause that greeted him were half-hearted at best, the crowd uncertain what to make of the appearance of Makka and the goblin woman. Tariic didn’t break his stride, but his ears went back. Across the dais, Daavn jerked his head at someone in the crowd and instantly a renewed cheer rose up. Tariic stopped in front of the throne, faced the crowd, and raised his hands.
The pipes and drums stopped. The cheers died out. For a moment, there was silence, then Razu cried out in Goblin, “Behold Tariic of Rhukaan Taash, brave warrior and mighty warlord!”
She rapped her staff twice against the floor. Tariic pulled off his gauntlets, then reached up and removed his helmet. Beneath it, his red-brown skin was shiny with sweat, His hair was lank and damp. Munta came forward, holding out the tray he carried. Tariic raised the pitcher on it and poured a long stream of water into the basin. Returning the pitcher to the tray, he plunged his hands into the basin and splashed water onto his face and through his hair. Munta lifted a square of thick white cloth from the tray and offered it to him. Tariic dried himself and returned the cloth. Munta stepped back to his place.
“He is puriied in the mighty waters!” said Razu. Her staff rapped the floor again, and this time Aguus stepped up to lay a magnificent long cloak of tiger skin across Tariic’s shoulders, fastening it with thick gold chains to rings on his armor. “He is clothed in the strength of beasts!” Her staff rapped the floor a third time and Daavn came before Tariic with a self-confident smile on his face. He went down one knee and held Tariic’s sword up to him. The new lhesh took it and favored Daavn with a smile and a nod as he sheathed the weapon. Daavn returned to his place, like a dog who had been thrown a scrap from his master’s table.
“He is armed,” said Razu, “with his own skill and cunning! He is become more than Tariic of Rhukaan Taash.” She half-turned to Tariic, encompassing him with a sweep of her staff while still facing the crowd below. “High warlord, how will you be known?”
Tariic raised his head high. “Kurar’taarn,” he said and a murmur of approval swept through the throne room. It took Ashi a moment to understand the phrase in human terms.
The death of elves.
“He embraces the event that deines his reign,” said Senen.
“He’s slapping the Valenar in the face,” said Vounn.
Razu’s staff hit the floor again. The murmur of the crowd slipped away-and became an eerie quiet as Makka guided the blind goblin woman forward before retreating. The goblin stood alone on the dais, facing Tariic, with the crown of Darguun held out before her.
At Ashi’s side, Senen let out a soft hiss. Ashi looked at her. “What is it?”
“The ritual humbling,” said Senen. “By tradition, warlords of the Ghaal’dar Clans are confirmed in their position by priests of the Dark Six, but first they must kneel before the priest to show their respect for the Six. She won’t raise the crown to put it on his head. He’ll have to lower himself.”
“But she’s a goblin. Tariic will have to practically lie on the floor!”
“It is the tradition,” Senen said with a certain satisfaction.
On the dais, Tariic stepped before the goblin woman and said in a ringing tone, “Pradoor, I honor the Six and crave their blessing. You will stand at my side and I will listen to your guidance.” He paused and a wry smile crept across his face. “But the emperors of Dhakaan did not crawl before priests, and neither will I.”
He reached down and plucked the crown from her hands. Turning to face the assembled warlords and ambassadors, he placed it on his head. “I name myself Lhesh Tariic Kurar’taarn!”
Once again, confusion swept through the throne room.
“Tradition, you say?” Pater asked Senen.
The ambassador of the Kech Volaar actually looked both surprised and strangely pleased. “He embraces a tradition older than the Ghaal’dar Clans,” she said with amazement in her voice. “Until the empire began to decline into the Desperate Times, the Dhakaani emperors acknowledged no power greater than their own. I didn’t think it was something widely known or respected outside of the Dhakaani clans.”
Ashi watched Makka’s face twist with rage, and the face of the goblin woman, Pradoor, go from confusion to anger… to amusement. Her voice rose, thin and shrill but more powerful than Ashi would have expected. “May your reign last as long as your strength and cunning, lhesh, and the Six show you their favor all your days!”
There was something in the blessing that brought a chill to Ashi’s skin, but the Darguuls seemed to pay it no mind. Tentatively at first, then in a great rush, applause and cheering put an end to the silence. Pradoor turned and groped her way back to Makka and her place behind the throne while Tariic turned and stretched his hands out over the crowd in a blessing of his own.
Razu rapped her staff against the floor, but the sound was almost inaudible and she was forced to gesture for Geth to come forward. Ashi’s heart seemed to slow. This was the moment they had waited days for. Giving Makka and Pradoor a wide berth, Geth approached Tariic with the false rod, grasped in his gauntleted hand, held out before him. Tariic turned to face him, triumph and eagerness written on his face. Shifter and hobgoblin nodded to each other, and Geth knelt down and extended the rod. Tariic drew a slow breath, preparing himself for the final ritual of his coronation, then he reached down and closed his fingers around the byeshk shaft.
He froze. His face tightened. He leaned close to Geth and whispered something to him. The shifter stiffened.
Ashi’s heart might have stopped altogether. She felt Vounn’s hand on her arm and heard the lady seneschal ask, “Ashi?”
Words felt thick on her tongue. “Something’s wrong,” she said.
Geth could see the frustration in Razu’s eyes. The old hobgoblin lived for ritual and the coronation, her shining moment, had been spoiled, first by Makka and Pradoor’s unexpected appearance, then by Tariic’s startling crowning of himself. When the crowd drowned out the sound of her staff, he half-expected her to delay the ceremony until the cheers faded.
Don’t, he willed the mistress of rituals. Just keep going. Finish it!
When she turned and gestured for him to go ahead, he almost gasped with relief. If he hadn’t been holding the false rod in his armored hand, it probably would have slid right out of his sweating palm.
Makka’s glares had been redirected to Tariic, but Geth still stepped wide around him and Pradoor, then fixed his eyes on the new lhesh and crossed the dais. His mouth was as dry as his palms were wet. Tariic, eyes bright and ears high, bent his head to him. Geth nodded in return and lowered himself to his knees.
The dais under him was marked with a dark stain. He knelt, he realized, on the spot where Haruuc had died. The circle of succession was complete. Power passed from Haruuc to his shava to a new ruler. He looked up into Tariic’s face again and held out the rod. Tariic’s chest swelled as he breathed in. He reached down and grasped the rod — and his eyes widened, then narrowed. He bent closer and the whisper that came out between his sharp teeth was hot in Geth’s ear.
“This,” snarled Tariic, “is not the Rod of Kings!”