The Lost City (The Lost Prophecy Book 5) Read online

  The inside of the inn was darkened, though he didn’t know if that came from the darkness of the storm, or if that was simply the way the innkeeper preferred it. An older man leaned on a table near the back of the room and shuffled to stand as Brohmin entered.

  Brohmin settled the injured man into a chair, leaning him so that he didn’t slide out. He scanned the interior of the room, noting that there was another door leading to the back of the inn. He heard sound drifting from it.

  Maybe he had been wrong again. It was possible that there was a tavern on the other side. That would be unusual, but then again, he hadn’t been in the city for quite some time.

  “Can I help you?” the innkeeper asked, his gaze darting to the injured man. His nose wrinkled as he studied him.

  “We are looking for a place to rest for the night.”

  The innkeeper shook his head. “I don’t have any place for you. This isn’t —“

  Brohmin stepped toward him and saw the man’s bloodshot eyes with dark lines beneath them. “Has so much changed that innkeepers no longer want business?”

  “Business? You bring a man like that in here, and you question my desire for business?”

  Brohmin glanced over at the injured man. “A man like what? We saw him assaulted by three others. We simply thought to help out someone in need of assistance.” Brohmin reached into his pocket and pulled out a bag of coins. “I have money. It’s not as if I cannot pay.”

  The innkeeper’s gaze drifted to the coin purse, and Brohmin knew that he had his attention, but there was something he had missed. Why would he be reluctant to take in travelers?

  Maybe he’d been away for too long. The Deshmahne couldn’t have changed the dynamics of the city that much, could they? Men still wanted to earn a living, and innkeepers were still greedy. That hadn’t changed anywhere that Brohmin had been over the last two decades.

  Maybe there was another way to go with this. Could he find information from the innkeeper by appealing to something other than his desire for profit?

  “I could offer protection,” Brohmin suggested, shifting his cloak to reveal his sword. Was that going too far? Did he offer too much?

  The innkeeper glanced at Brohmin’s sword before shaking his head and looking up. “The Desh would not be pleased if we took in nonbelievers.”

  Brohmin frowned. “Who says that I’m a nonbeliever? Who says I am not one of the Desh?”

  Brohmin focused on his ahmaean, sending it spiraling around his arm, and solidifying it. The effect would be temporary, but perhaps it would be enough to be convincing, especially to a man like this. He had enough experience seeing various Deshmahne marks over the last few months that it took very little thought or creativity for him to generate the necessary pattern.

  He pulled up his sleeve, and the innkeeper gasped. Even Salindra’s breath caught. It was something he would have to work on with her so that she wasn’t caught off guard.

  “I didn’t know,” the innkeeper said. “Forgive me, Great One, I haven’t been in the presence of a High Desh for some time.”

  Brohmin nodded, his heart hammering slightly. Had he made a mistake in the concentration of markings that he placed? Brohmin didn’t fully know the nature of the markings the Deshmahne used, which, now that he thought about what he had done, he realized might have been a mistake. He should have been prepared for the possibility that he might have demonstrated greater strength than what he intended.

  It was too late for that.

  “We seek shelter from the storm,” he said, nodding toward Salindra. “And I will pay for this man’s room.” Brohmin took a step toward the innkeeper and used a hint of his ahmaean to loom over him. It created a more imposing effect but was little more than a glamour brought on by his connection to the ahmaean.

  “Of course, Great One. I have two rooms available. You and your concubine will be quite happy with the space.”

  Brohmin nodded. He resisted the urge to glance over at Salindra, knowing that he would only grin if he did. He could imagine her reaction and preferred not to risk his own response.

  The innkeeper passed by the door where the music drifted out and led them toward a stairway in the back. Had Brohmin only attempted to demonstrate a lower Deshmahne level, he might have been allowed to visit the tavern. But, if he were now viewed as a high-ranking Deshmahne, he would have to maintain the appearances.

  They climbed two flights, reaching the third floor, and the innkeeper guided Brohmin and Salindra down the hall, stopping before a double door. He fished a key from his pocket and unlocked the door, pushing it open. The innkeeper stepped aside, and Brohmin glanced past, looking to see the contents of the room. A massive bed occupied much of the space, and a door led off the back, likely to another room. It was finely decorated, much more so than what he would have expected considering the outside appearance of the inn. The posts of the bed were gilded, and a skillfully painted ceramic bowl rested on a table by one wall. A thick carpet covered the floor, the vibrant colors enough to tell him the cost.

  Brohmin took on the air of someone who fit the station he presumed to be. He had lived long enough and had experienced enough to know how to create such a persona, though it did not fit him as well as many that he’d worn. “This will be adequate. You may go.”

  “And your man below?”

  “See that he has a place to rest. Make certain that he is not harassed, but he should not leave before I speak with him.”

  The innkeeper bowed deeply. “Of course, Great One.” He moved quickly down the hall, belying his frail frame. As he disappeared down the stairs, Brohmin pulled Salindra into the room and closed the door behind him.

  “Concubine?”

  “That’s the first thing that you question?” Brohmin asked. He released his connection to the ahmaean giving him his markings and felt them disappear.

  Salindra grabbed his arm and pulled up his sleeve. “What was that?”

  “A trick. I have rarely needed to demonstrate such a technique. The last time I did something similar was a hundred years ago.”

  Salindra watched him, shaking her head. “Sometimes… Sometimes I forget who you are.”

  “Sometimes? I’m the Great Mistake. I thought the Magi never forgot.”

  She furrowed her brow and shook her head. “And then you do something like that,” she whispered.

  Chapter Eight

  The storm passed slowly. Brohmin remained in the room, pacing, as he waited out the rain. He could hear it drumming on the roof, a steady sound that felt as if it intended to pound into his mind.

  Every so often, he would look over at Salindra, but she sat bent over a book they’d taken when in Gomald and paid him no mind.

  He debated how long he needed to remain in the room before going to evaluate the man they had brought in from the street. What would be expected from one of the priests of the Deshmahne?

  The priests would probably have left the man there. Maybe he should have done the same.

  This wasn’t how he needed to begin his evaluation of the south lands. He didn’t need to place himself—and Salindra—in danger the moment they came into port. Unfortunately, that was exactly what he had done.

  It wasn’t that Brohmin didn’t understand the extent of the Deshmahne influence in the south. He understood it well, and had been opposing it for quite some time—sometimes, it felt like too long.

  No, it was something else for him. If Raime had been defeated in the north—and he was assuming that he had been, considering the rumors that he’d heard—Brohmin wanted to know what still took place here in these lands. Was there any way to disrupt the Deshmahne here? Without the High Priest, there had to be some way to shift their influence.

  Doing so would require help. It would require that the Magi resume their position of authority, or it would require a different type of influence that involved the priests of the Urmahne.

  The Magi would be easiest.

  Brohmin looked over to Salindra. She didn�
�t want that role and didn’t view herself as connected to the Magi quite as she had been, but wasn’t the answer sitting there in front of him?

  If he did that, if he attempted to use Salindra in such a way, it would push her away from him.

  There had to be another option that he simply hadn’t discovered yet.

  Brohmin took a deep breath and swirled the ahmaean around his arm again, creating the same markings that he’d had before, as he went toward the door. “I’m going to visit with our friends.”

  Salindra glanced up, her gaze flickering to his arm, before nodding. She turned her attention back to the book, saying nothing else.

  Brohmin pushed open the door. He headed down the hallway, pausing at each door along the hall, listening.

  Using his ahmaean, he would be able to determine in which room the innkeeper had placed the man. He wasn’t in either of the first two. He detected someone within them, but not the man he brought in off the street. At the third room, Brohmin probed with his ahmaean and felt a hint of pressure against it.

  He hesitated before withdrawing. Pressure meant that someone else with control of ahmaean could be inside. In these lands, that meant Deshmahne. He wasn’t ready for a confrontation and didn’t want to expose himself quite so soon.

  He reached the stairs, and hurried down, heading toward the second level. Wouldn’t the innkeeper have put the man in a room closer to him? Perhaps not. It was possible that he had placed him somewhere else, thinking to protect Brohmin from him.

  As he continued down the hall, he recognized pressure on his ahmaean once more. This came from above him. Whoever he had probed before was aware of him.

  Brohmin swore under his breath as he hurried along the hall, testing each room, searching.

  It wasn’t until the last room that he found him.

  The room was unguarded. Brohmin questioned that, recalling that he had asked the innkeeper to keep an eye on the man. Maybe placing him closest to the stairs was his way of doing that.

  The pressure from above on his ahmaean increased.

  A Deshmahne?

  If it were another priest, he would have to be more careful.

  Brohmin tested the door and found it unlocked. He stepped inside and quickly closed the door behind him.

  This room was more simply decorated than the one he’d been given. The bed was narrow, a simple pallet in the corner. A trunk rested along the far wall, and a basin with slightly dirty water sat near the door.

  The man Brohmin had brought off the street lay upon the bed, unmoving. Bruises had appeared on his face, angry and swollen. His legs were bound and tied to the end of the bed, and it took Brohmin a moment to realize that his arms were similarly bound.

  Was this how the innkeeper thought to keep man secured?

  Did he think that Brohmin wouldn’t discover? Or did he think that he wouldn’t question?

  It wouldn’t have surprised Brohmin to learn that the Deshmahne expected that sort of service. Perhaps the innkeeper had experienced other priests, and they had different expectations.

  He felt renewed pressure on his ahmaean and hurried to the door, locking it. He didn’t want one of the Deshmahne to interrupt him, but he needed to be prepared that there might be a Deshmahne here. If there was, he might have to disable him before doing anything else.

  He hadn’t anticipated staying in the city for long. The plan had been to come to port, and then head to Masetohl, but with the storm, and now with wanting to understand why this man—presumably a priest—had been here, he felt as if everything he intended was being shifted. Perhaps that was what the fibers wanted him to do.

  He smiled to himself. Salindra thought him not a faithful man, but that wasn’t completely accurate. Brohmin had faith; it was just a different type of faith. He no longer believed in the gods but believed in something greater—the power of the fibers, and that of the Maker.

  The man lying on the cot moaned. Brohmin released his connection to the ahmaean, and the glamour faded. There was something about creating those markings that felt foul to him, even though he knew that it was nothing but an illusion.

  He ran his hands along the man’s forehead, checking for fractures. Time spent fighting in wars had taught him that injuries resulting in broken bones could often be the most significant. He found no obvious defects. There was significant swelling around his face, and angry bruises rose along his cheeks, and down into his jawline, but nothing permanent. Certainly, there was nothing that would scar as the Denraen appreciated.

  Brohmin released the bindings holding the man’s wrists and ankles. As he untied the last one around his ankle, the man kicked, striking toward Brohmin’s head.

  “Not as unconscious as you appear, are you?” he said. He pressed on the man’s leg, keeping him from hitting him. He worried about the pressure that he felt on his ahmaean and wondered whether whoever was doing it would reach them, but at least he would have some warning with the door locked. For now, he would need to refrain from using his ahmaean, and avoid drawing additional attention.

  The man cocked an eye open, and seeing Brohmin, he tensed. “Who are you? Where am I?” He had a youthful voice and looked at Brohmin with suspicion in his eyes.

  Brohmin had seen that same expression many times over the years. It was one that he’d often worn, including the very first time he’d gone before the Magi when they had claimed that he had the potential to serve as a Uniter. Every so often, he thought back to those days and thought back to how naïve he had been, and how much he had learned in the years since.

  “I’m the man who brought you in off the street after your attack.”

  The man blinked, shaking his head. “I was the one attacked.”

  Brohmin started. “Is that the way you perceive it? From my vantage, I saw a man with a knife facing others who were unarmed.”

  The man glared at him as he pushed himself up on the pallet. “Then your vantage was wrong.”

  Brohmin shrugged. “Perhaps. Care to tell me what happened? Why were you attacking those three?”

  “They were fools. That’s why they were attacking.”

  Brohmin considered him for a moment. There was a hint of arrogance to this man, in spite of the fact that he had been on the receiving end of a beating.

  “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about what happened, and why an Urmahne priest has come to Polle Pal?”

  Part of that was conjecture, but Brohmin thought it was close to being accurate. And if it was, he wanted to know why the man was here and what he may have encountered.

  The man grunted. “I’m no priest.”

  “Perhaps no longer, but you wear the robe, and you have the haircut of one of the priests.”

  “That’s your reasoning? You believe that a secondhand robe and the fact that I choose to cut my hair short means that I’m a priest?”

  Brohmin almost grinned. He enjoyed the fact that this man had spirit. There was fight in him, something that they rarely saw these days, and especially not in the priests.

  He grabbed the man’s arm and pulled up his hand, tapping the twisted band of silver around his finger. “If it were only the robe and the haircut, I wouldn’t have made such an assumption, but this”—he tapped the ring again—“is a mark of Lashiin. There may not be many outside of the Urmahne who recognize that, but I certainly do.” And rare enough that few of the priests should even know it.

  The man glared at him. “I thought you were Deshmahne.”

  Brohmin shrugged. “I am what I need to be. Today, I need to be the man who brought you off the street. Now, do you care to tell me why a priest—or former priest—has come to Polle Pal?”

  The man let out a slow sigh. “You should not have recognized the mark of Lashiin.”

  Brohmin smiled. “Few would, even of the Urmahne. It’s a mark that’s long been forgotten.”

  The man looked up at Brohmin. “How is it that you recognize it?”

  “I know many things that have long been forgotten.�
�

  The man stared at him, heat in his eyes, and asked again, “Who are you?”

  “I’m the man who brought you in off the street. Nothing more than that.”

  The man grunted. “I think you’re something more than that.”

  “Care to tell me what you did to upset those men? Or why a priest of the Urmahne has a knife—had a knife.”

  The man rolled so that he stared up at the ceiling. “I came here to learn how the Deshmahne have grown in power.”

  “By yourself? You understand how dangerous that would be. If you didn’t before, you should now.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be dangerous. I came to learn, to observe, nothing more.”

  “That fight tells me that you found something more. What happened?”

  “What happened was that I stopped them from harassing two children.”

  Brohmin frowned. Had they missed that part? There had been no evidence of any children, but perhaps they’d come too late to have witnessed the whole exchange. The crowd was thick enough that it would’ve made seeing that difficult.

  “Why were they harassing children?”

  The man offered a half smile. “You haven’t been in Polle Pal long, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Then you should know that the Deshmahne think to take children, and force them into their perverted religion.”

  “The Deshmahne don’t need to force anyone. Their demonstrations of strength have been enough to convince most to convert.” He said it with more force than he intended, but then, discussions of children often affected him in that way, even after all these years.

  The man shrugged. “Perhaps most, but not all. There remain many factions throughout the south where the people prefer the old ways. The Deshmahne have taken to abducting children, forcing their beliefs on them at a young age, hoping that as they grow, they’ll become even more rabid in their beliefs.”

  Brohmin didn’t have a hard time imagining the Deshmahne thinking that way. It was harsh, but not nearly as harsh as the forced conversions that he’d heard about over the last few years. And now, they chose to prey upon children?