Emperor of Shadows

by Mike Truk

  Everyone stared expectantly at me.

  Netherys raised an eyebrow. “So… change?”

  I grimaced, clenched my fists, searched within myself for some cinder, some flickering core of rage or desire that could bring that demonic form forth.

  Nothing.

  So I closed my eyes, pressed my fists to my temples, and fell into a crouch. Focused as hard as I could.

  Nothing.

  “Picture this,” said Netherys. “The Field Gate bursts open. The fanatics come pouring in. You’re helpless, up on the wall. There’s nothing you can do. Just listen to the screaming, just hear the pleas of those being murdered before you. And you see Tamara down there, caught up in the press. She’s reaching for you. But she’s too far. The soldiers reach her. They grab her by the arms. Hold her. She’s staring into your eyes. You’re frozen. Can only watch as a fanatic stabs her in chest, knife plunging down again and again, blood everywhere, and now you can hear her screaming, and -”

  I snarled, the sound bestial, and bolted to my feet. My heart was pounding, my gorge in my throat, and the look on my face stilled Netherys’s tongue.

  I glared at her, horrified, outraged - but still, nothing happened.

  “Fuck,” said Cerys.

  “Perhaps theoreticals won’t do,” said Tamara. “Perhaps we really have to endanger ourselves. Give Kellik no choice.”

  “By what?” Netherys’s skepticism was obvious. “Marching out through the gates toward the enemy?”

  “I don’t know,” said Tamara, her expression turning toward hopelessness. “I don’t know.”

  I wanted to punch something, to hurl the table across the room. Instead, I could only pace, heart pounding, pounding, bands of iron closing about my chest, around my throat.

  The minutes were slipping by.

  Dusk was fast approaching.

  “I need to figure this out,” I rasped. “But standing here isn’t helping. I need to do this alone.”

  “If that feels right,” said Cerys dubiously. “But take Pony with you.”

  “No,” I said, my voice just shy of a snarl. “I’ll find you all on the wall.” I strode toward the front door, where some instinct awoke Pony.

  He climbed to his feet, greatly abusing the doorframe as he did so, and eyed me with his piss-yellow eyes.

  I stopped before him, staring up at his huge, craggy face.

  Then he extended his hand, which I clasped. He squeezed, nearly popping my knuckles, and stepped aside.

  I could only nod to him, to his acceptance, his faith, then stride into the street. Marching forth, into the city I loved, the city that seemed to hate me, that resented my efforts to heal it, to improve it, to shine the light of justice where it had never shone before.

  Wherever I went, I saw the effects of war. The destabilizing consequences of chaos. Windows were shuttered, doors barred; alternatively, places were being ransacked, bakeries burst into, general stores being looted, crowds frothing before them, shouldering their way inside. People ran pell-mell down the street, some carrying goods, others barehanded, all intent on getting somewhere, fast.

  Absent were the merchants, the street vendors, the costermongers, and the disappearance of their familiar cries was as startling as the screams and shouts. Wandering through the Market District, I saw hired guards standing before wealthier shops, while the owners themselves defended those less fortunate. I saw street preachers on every corner, crying out their opinions on the White Lioness, on the Star Chamber, on the calamity about to befall the city, on the only means to salvation.

  I drew close to one man, who during normal times might have been little more than a beggar, but now his fervor and volume had drawn a sizeable crowd.

  “ - and you think you shall be spared? This is a time of judgment, when your lax morals shall be found wanting, your sloth judged, your tolerance of sin repudiated! You know that you have brought this about, yes, you, living your small life, thinking it mattered not what you did or why, simply content on earning your next coin by any means, ignoring the matters that swirled in the heaven, far beyond your ken.

  “You thought yourself innocent, a good person, but ah! Now the truth is revealed, and you find your neck on the executioner’s block! What can you do, I hear you cry? Is it too late? No! It is never too late, for as long as you draw breath you can take control of your lives, you can take control of your actions, and you can consign your souls to the ever merciful love of the White Sun!

  “Even now its greatest herald stands outside our city walls, and what does she desire for you? Freedom! She doesn’t want to take your money, to destroy your jobs, to demolish your home, to force you to be other than righteous in the eyes of the White Sun! She has come to burn away the corruption, to sear away the lies and greed of the Star Chamber, to revoke the license granted to those councilors and magistrates, to show them we are not cattle, to be lined up and sent into an abattoir!

  “We are people, we have our dignity, our rights, and we shall not be ruled as if we were children! Rise up, people of Port Gloom! Recognize your savior, recognize her justice, her mercy, her love! Now is the time to take arms against our oppressors, to break the shackles that bind us, to raise our fists to the sky and scream no! We shall no bend out heads to misrule and brutality any longer -”

  I walked away, feeling numb inside, unable to see the fervor in the eyes of the crowd as they drank up his words, soaked up his message of rebellion.

  What had I accomplished, for all my efforts? Aurelius was gone, the Family destroyed, its blanketing oppression removed, but to what effect?

  I watched a mother rush down the street, dragging her children behind her, the youngest of whom was screaming piteously. I saw a pair of young men come to blows, bellowing like bulls, their friends cheering them on. A cart tipped over as it came careening around the corner, bushels of apples rolling everywhere, but nobody stopped to steal them or help the man; nobody offered to help right the cart or help the screaming horse.

  Madness. Chaos.

  Was this my fault? Should I never have tried to help? Had my help made things worse? Should I have left the city under my father’s rule, or at least given the Family it’s due? Was order better than freedom? Was repression better than chaos?

  Heart heavy, feeling each passing minute like the tolling of a funeral bell, I wandered, taking streets at random, my direction guided by the general tide of traffic into the Temple District.

  August buildings loomed over me, overshadowing the smaller shops, the bookstores, the wells, and leafy courtyards. Bells were tolling everywhere, the air was made clamorous, and I could taste the panic. The further I went into the District, however, the greater the press of bodies, and the more preachers appeared along the sides of the streets, shouting out their oratories.

  “- the White Lioness is a devil, a false icon, and the murder of Revelator Mercult a sin which shall plague this city for generations -”

  “- for are we not all destined to enter the Ashen Gardens, and if that no be the case, who are we to fear the Hanged God’s paternal embrace -”

  “- an age of darkness and ignorance, where brother is turned against brother, where men are forced to fight for false illusions and die for the greed of -”

  But everyone was intent on reaching the main square, where the great basilica of the White Sun stood. When the traffic came to a stop, hindered by the press of bodies ahead, my aura - some passive ability - caused it to open subtly before me so I was able to press ahead. Slowly I filtered through, people instinctively making room without knowing why, till the street disgorged me into the central square.

  It was packed with people. Never had I seen so many, not even at the greatest of my speeches as the Count of Manticora. People had even climbed up into the trees, scaling the facades of buildings; every balcony and ledge was crowded with the bold and daring.

  All of whom listened to the words being hurled forth by a figure on an erstwhile stage, a man dressed in the robes of the Whi
te Sun. He was of middle years, and I couldn’t recall having ever seen him before - one of Tamara’s bishops, perhaps? Whoever he was, he had the crowd in the palm of his hand.

  “- and I say to you, my brothers and sisters, the hour of the White Sun is at hand! The hour of judgment, when the rays of holiness shall burn away our sins, shall reduce us to our truest, most essential forms. This is the day, this is the hour, and this the moment when you must ask yourself: are you a man or woman, or a beast of the field?

  “For too long have we suffered. For too long have we bowed her heads to one ruler after the other. Each speaks more finely than the last, but each wants the same thing: a cup of blood, a pound of flesh, our silent agreement, our endless servitude! Masters! The world is nothing but wretched masters, telling us that they step on our necks for our own good!

  “No more! Cast down the masters! Cast down the Star Chamber. Cast down the guards. Cast down the courts. Cast down the government. No more taxes. No more oppression. Erase the line between those who have and those who have not! This is our hour! Rise up, people of Port Gloom, rise up and embrace the hour!

  “The White Lioness awaits you outside the walls of the city, barred from us by the fearful and the guilty. Let us go to her! Let us open the gates and welcome her light into our hearts, into our homes, and in that light embrace the White Sun, forever and evermore!”

  The roar that erupted from the crowd was deafening, each person giving vent to a cry that came from their very depths.

  And I could only marvel. Did they hate me so? My reforms, my initiatives, my attempts to improve their lots? I could have given that very same speech myself while campaigning, but now that language was turned against me. Were the people so short-sighted? Didn’t they see how they could only prosper once the Family was destroyed? That I was seeking to raise them up, not oppress them farther?

  A new voice whispered in my mind: and didn’t they know what I was sacrificing for them? What it cost me to be a king troll? How I would lose the women I loved, how they might never want to have children with me, how I would never get to enjoy a life by their sides, a normal life…

  The crowd jostled me, people reaching their arms toward the distant preacher, who raised his arms in a benediction, his face cast into a fierce scowl of righteous victory.

  I felt hollow. All this work. All this effort. The endless risks. The endless dangers. The losses, the sacrifices.

  For nothing?

  For this ingratitude?

  Had my father once faced similar reactions to his initiatives? Was that why he’d recoiled, hidden himself, created the Family, and indulged in endless, carnal parties with which to while away the centuries?

  Was there no point in trying to help such ignorant, vicious people? Was I wrong to even try?

  But then I thought of Lugin. I thought of his narrow face, his uneven teeth, his natural suspicion, the gamble he’d taken on me.

  I thought of the mutilated, mentally shattered women of Imogen’s Web. Strapped down, forced to endure, to live a life of torment so my father could simply exist, unbothered by upstarts, enjoying his life of debauchery without concern.

  No. There was real evil in the world.

  Evil worth defeating.

  Even if it meant my defeat in turn.

  But was this a defeat?

  I gazed around the square, at the gathered thousands. Would they have been able to mobilize like this under my father’s rule? To give these sermons?

  Never. The Family would have crushed them without mercy.

  This rebellion against my rule was a celebration of it.

  I’d wanted to make the people free.

  Now they were.

  But free to choose the enemy? To wish my destruction? To be influenced by outside magic?

  I stared at those closest to me. A hirsute man in elegant clothing, his grin showing far too many teeth. A housewife in dress and cap, hands and forearms yet dusted with flour, singing her heart out. An old man waving his cane, elbow steadied by a younger version of himself.

  Everywhere I looked I saw delirium, saw joy, saw manic determination.

  This, then, was freedom. This, then, was what I’d sought to create, to bring back into existence following the destruction of the Family and my father. Even if it came about at the behest of the White Lioness.

  Staring around myself at the faces that surrounded me, as varied as the number of stars in the sky, I realized that somewhere along the way, somewhere between when Lugin had first saved me and this moment, I’d changed so profoundly I’d not realized it.

  I didn’t want to rule these people, to order them to behave as I saw best. I didn’t want glory, or wealth, or order.

  I just wanted them to be free. To empower them. To give them the means to determine their own lives.

  And if they didn’t like the way I went about it? If they didn’t like my treasury, my plans for urban renewal, my hopes and dreams for an improved city?

  Then so be it.

  This was their city.

  Tamara was right. It was better to open the gates than to slaughter the people of Port Gloom.

  Perhaps the rulers of Olandipolis had realized the same thing.

  Once I started killing people, where would I stop? At the ringleaders? At those who had struck down city guards? At those who had supported them? Those who had looted the shops? Those who didn’t like me? Who had cheered the destruction of the government?

  At what point did my quest to bring freedom turn into as repressive a government as any my father had ever run?

  Head spinning, I felt a great weight lift from my shoulders. I wasn’t the master of Port Gloom. My ability to command obedience disqualified me. I could never be a fair ruler. By definition, my power made me a tyrant. But I didn’t have to worry about imposing my vision on the city. I didn’t have to be their lord and master.

  I could just be myself, Kellik, and allow the people to determine their own future.

  To pick their own path, for good or ill.

  Resolve firmed within my breast, and with the passing of that great weight, my bitterness also slipped away. My anger. My very sense of self ceased to encompass the city, to be tied into every project and resolve, and shrank down to encapsulate my physical form, and that of those closest to me.

  Did they want to rule Port Gloom their way?

  Very well.

  They could do so.

  And to demonstrate their victory, I would show them myself.

  I focused, manifested my power, and those before me shrank aside, turning pale and wide-eyed as I strode past them.

  A canal appeared before me, thrusting like a spear toward the very platform on which the bishop was drinking up the adulation.

  It took him nearly a minute to notice my approach, but when he saw me, he froze. He watched as I strode up, unencumbered, right to the foot of the stage.

  The effect of my approach washed out over the crowd. At first, only those closest went silent, stilled by my power, but soon others caught on, wondered what was happening. Quickly the cheering faded away, replaced by muttering and people shouting out demands.

  I stared up at the bishop from the base of the rickety wooden steps. I didn’t recognize him, but he seemed to know who I was. He kept gulping, hands going to his throat, and when I mounted the steps he faded back, unable to speak.

  I ignored him, gained the stage, and stepped to its fore to gaze out over the crowd.

  Thousands gazed back. A sea of faces, light and dark, human and otherwise, elderly and young. The people of Port Gloom, gathered here from the docks, the markets, the inns and factories, the courts, the river wharves, the street corners, and wealthy estates.

  “People of Port Gloom.” I pitched my voice to carry, and the power of my heritage manifested itself in how my words rolled out across the crowd, unnaturally loud. “I am Kellik, known as the Count of Manticora, magistrate and commander of the guard.”

  Recognition flickered across the crowd, qui
ck as a flash fire. Immediately people began to boo, shouting their disapproval, but also glance nervously at the edges of the plaza, clearly worried about the dangers my arrival might herald.

  “You wish to march to the Field Gate?” My question silenced their catcalls. “You wish to welcome the White Lioness into the city? You want to trade her for your government?”

  Confusion. They didn’t know if I was tricking them or how to answer.

  “Then let us invite her,” I cried. “Let us march together and open the gates. Let us drop to our knees before her army and bid her do as she will. I won’t oppose you, people of Port Gloom. Your will is made manifest, and so I defer to it.”

  Murmurs, the crowd stirred and shifted, shocked.

  I felt manic, light-headed, tremulous. Would I regret this moment for the rest of my life?

  Perhaps.

  But by Blind Fortuna’s perfectly globular breasts, this felt right.

  Silence reigned over the crowd. I wanted to laugh. They’d expected resistance, the crush of guards trying to disperse them, a mailed fist to crush their oppression.

  Well, it wasn’t coming.

  Enough.

  I’d done my best.

  It hadn’t been to their liking.

  So let the White Lioness give it a try.

  I hopped down from the front of the stage and began to march. The crowd parted before me, drawing back in amazement in disbelief. I nodded to whoever met my eye but kept going.

  The space closed behind me as the crowd began to follow.

  I crossed the whole square. Thoughts whirled through my mind; I felt half-mad, but trusted in the moment, in the decision.

  None of these people here were Lugin. But once, maybe, they had been.

  For his sake, for their own, I’d let them make this decision for me.

  I led them through the city, and once we’d marched two blocks, the crowd before me broke out in song, disbelieving but joyous. The farther we marched the more people fell in, till it felt I trailed the whole populace of Port Gloom behind me like some vast patchwork cloak.