by C D Tavenor
“The Empress wishes to see your power,” says the Voice, stepping out of the first carriage. Behind him, the Empress gingerly steps onto the rock, followed by the boy. “You shall step forth to the forge, take the bars of sunsteel and moonstone, and craft a sword.”
I nod, bowing my head toward them. Approaching the forge, the bars laid out for me I instantly recognize. They’re from the smelters in Vicor. It’s as we’ve suspected—they have agents somewhere in the Three Valleys, smuggling the metals out. Yet they should have their own sources of the ores . . . of course. They don’t even know how to transform it from the ore into the metal.
I set the hammer beside the forge and stoke the coals to heat it to the appropriate temperature. Just like back home, an unknown fuel source ignites, heats, and prepares the forge in mere seconds. Into the cauldron, I place the sunsteel metals, and even more quickly, they melt.
I’m too focused, and it takes a second for me to notice the ring of royalty surrounding. I look up as the metal liquefies, noting the Empress in her ornate regalia, her son, the Voice, and . . . the man from last night. In the Inquisitorial robe. Who are you? As if recognizing the question in my eyes, he winks. Beyond him, other faces have gathered: members of the court; other important persons I’ve not yet met.
Once the metal reaches the necessary consistency, I carry the cauldron to a large, marblite slab. Pouring the contents straight onto the white, nearly translucent stone, it spills into a perfect circle. With my hands, I begin to knead the liquid like dough.
The second my fingers touch molten sunsteel, gasps ring through the crowd. I hear the curses, words even I can recognize without knowledge of their language. Empress Emelia mutters something indecipherable, and her Voice says, “Silence, if you do not have the stomach for this, then leave.”
Powerful words. Nevertheless, she’s right. If they don’t want to recognize what’s necessary to achieve a welding of sunsteel and moonstone, they should absolutely leave.
They believe the molten material is hot, too hot to touch. It is hot . . . but my skin does not burn. It’s a magic I can’t explain, though that doesn’t mean there isn’t an explanation. Yet their belief—or lack thereof—is part of the problem. I knead; it bends. It yields to my touch. It forms a long, flat, thickened beam—the start of the blade. Walking back to my hammer, I lift it onto my shoulder, and return to the formless weapon.
Before using the hammer, however, I set it on the marblite, the tool’s shaft toward the sky. From my belt, I pull a knife. On the back of my hand, a healed scar I know well awaits the blade. Slicing it open, droplets of blood stream onto the mallet, the slab, and the sunsteel, now cooling into a golden ripple of untamed potential.
“Demon!” The word knocks me out of my space. It’s the inquisitor man, taking a step forward to turn and face the entourage. Some friend he claims to be. “Blood magic? Do you not see his game? He intends to murder us here.” Somehow, I can understand his words, but he’s not speaking my language.
The Empress raises her hand before he says another word. “High Inquisitor, if you cannot accept what is necessary for Maripes to show us his work, please leave.”
There it is again. A strange moment, her words clear as day, but it’s now faded. Their words continue, but I lack the knowledge to ascertain their meaning. Blood still dripping onto the slab before me, I chance a glance toward the clouds.
“So, Lord of Light,” I whisper under my breath. “You grace me with your presence on this day.” An important moment, revealing the nature of the dark-cloaked man.
Satisfied with the sacrifice of blood, I wrap a line of cloth around my hand. The pain persists, but it’s numb pain, pain I’ve experienced a thousand times before. In both hands, I take my tool, swing it over my shoulder, and bring it down upon the caking metal.
Like thunder, the crash of the moonstone mallet against the sunsteel thrashes through the air, a sound like no other. Over and over again it swings, working the formless into the formed. Imperceptible fractures form in my mind, and as they shatter, I use them to bend the blade into its final shape. Hours pass; to me, they are seconds. They are nothing. This is who I am. I am Maripes, hammer of the People of Light.
It’s over. A sunsteel blade—lacking a moonstone hilt, but ready for one—rests upon the marblite. I look up, and only the Empress and her Voice, her son, and the High Inquisitor remain.
Sweat glistens on my skin. At some point, I removed the smock, revealing my hairless, darkened chest. Gingerly, the blade in hand, I walk toward them. When I’m five or so meters away, I kneel, lifting the blade. “As you requested, Empress Emelia, a blade of sunsteel. If you wish a hilt of moonstone, I shall need to work by night, but I can prepare the entire weapon for you.”
No words. Her Voice has communicated the message to her, but no words from anyone.
Then: a sound from the boy. I look up, and he’s smiling. His eyes gleam with anticipation, recognizing the blade and its beauty. He wants it. He craves it.
And it is his. “Your Majesty, I offer this blade as a token to your son, a weapon worthy of an heir to the throne of Esmeraldi.”
The Empress lifts three fingers to her lips, her eyes squinting. Before she can speak, the High Inquisitor rumbles some guttural phrase toward the Voice, who looks to his liege for affirmation. She nods.
“High Inquisitor Trallius says the Church will need to inspect the weapon before the boy touches it,” says the Voice. “To ensure it is safe in his hands.”
Still unable to read the oscillating intentions of the High Inquisitor, I stand and bow. “Then I will remain here through nightfall, finish the weapon, and return it to the palace, where the High Inquisitor can retrieve it for safekeeping.”
III
It’s well past midnight when I finish, my only companions the two Royal guardsmen left to watch my work and act as an escort. By the end, I’ve merged both sunsteel and moonstone into a final, forged blade. I wrap it in white silk. The carriages have long since departed, so we walk through the dark city in silence.
At night, Esmeraldi reminds me of Lethotar. Stars in the sky, clouds wisping in front of the moon, the night looks almost the same here. Pity our peoples couldn’t see each other similarly.
Leaving the bluff, we walk along wide, cobblestone streets. Around us, mansions of the wealthy tower, surrounded by ironclad fences and lush gardens, declaring their opulence. All is quiet. The palace looms in the background, and—
Out of the shadows, ten men holding axes, swords, and clubs. I look to the flanking Royal guards, their eyes shaded by helmets. Is the empress so foolish as to let an ambush like this happen? Something else is at play.
“Run!” The Guards know one word in my language, but it’s all I needed to hear. They kick into a sprint, and I follow suit. The crowd forming around us converges.
My longer stride quickly outpaces the royal soldiers, even with a hammer roped to my back and the sword in my hands. Glancing over my shoulder, I watch one of the guardsmen fall to the ground, raising his arms in defiance. The mob gnashes and slashes, breaking through his shield and mutilating his arms.
I stop, for the crowd nears the second guard. He motions with his arms for me to flee, and I shake my head.
“Run!” he screams again. I comply. Those two men, loyal to their Empress even for a man they know as accursed. Even as I flee, a stray thought bounces around in my mind—what could possibly generate such obedience to their sovereign?
Reaching the steps of the palace, I rush inside. High Inquisitor Trallius waits, three sycophants in tow. “Welcome back, Maripes. Where is your guard?”
Apparently, he has no qualms speaking my language in front of his servants. “We were attacked. In the streets. Not far from here.”
With his left hand, he beckons the black-robed men out the door. Without question, they exit. “I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding. My men will handle it. Give me the blade, return to your quarters. Everything will be all right.”
I step forward, handing him the weapon.
He uncovers it. “A beautiful blade. Well done.”
“What game are you playing?” I can’t help myself. He’s an enigma. “Do you think I’m a demon, or are you something more than just the High Inquisitor?”
“I am who you think I am, Maripes. I am the guardian of the people of the Holy Empire, and their faith, and I will ensure they remain untainted by evil. You’ve made the right step toward ending this conflict, let’s see if you can follow through.”
His answer satisfying, I take leave and head to my room, after one last look out the door. Those guards . . . I didn’t even know their names. They deserved better.
◆ ◆ ◆
Before reaching my quarters, the blond boy—the prince—stops me on the stairs. Motioning with his tiny hand, he points toward the gardens out a window. Without waiting for my response, he walks away. Looking out the window, I see the Empress seated on a marble bench beneath two culipa trees, their blue blossoms glowing in the night.
The night is not yet over; my host desires more time.
Even with my long strides, I can’t keep up; the boy skips ahead down the hall and into the private palace gardens. Once I reach the exit, he’s waiting for me by the edge of an immaculately trimmed hedge. The path to his mother is visible. I pass by the boy, my boots crunching the small pebbles along the path. Empress Emelia lifts her eyes. She’s reading.
“Thank you, my son,” she says. “Please, rest. Get your sleep. You’ve had a long day.” He sprints back toward the palace. “Thank you for joining me, Maripes. I heard what happened in the streets. This will result in . . . problems.”
News travels fast here, apparently. “If you need to imprison me while the matter is investigated, I understand.”
“No, no, none of that. It won’t come to that. But with my guards not making it back to the palace . . . the story will be told by the hooligans.”
“The High Inquisitor sent his men to help,” I reply. “Perhaps they made it in time to rescue one of your guards.”
“We shall see.” Her eyes mist, as if a deeper thought lies beneath the surface. “I apologize for Trallius’s behavior. My brother . . . he is zealous in his convictions, but he rarely follows his words with meaningful action.”
Brother. The politics of Esmeraldi click into place. Her brother is the High Inquisitor . . . which means they both were once potential heirs to the throne. Questions linger. What motivations might a brother wish to keep secret from his sister? His words: When you get a chance, ask about her father. I hold my tongue.
“Of course, he does believe you are evil,” she says. “He’s certain of it. Nothing will ever change his mind.”
“Except you.”
“No, not even me.”
“Then if you can’t convince the High Inquisitor, what am I doing here? Your Holy Church is the glue of your empire.”
She sighs, closing the book in her lap. “I appreciate your blunt and straight-forward approach to all of this, but it’s all much more subtle than you can possibly imagine. There’s a battle for the soul of the Empire occurring every day, and it’s not necessarily between my brother and me, even if superficially it may appear as such. It’s inside the heart and soul of every one of my citizens. We live in opulence, we live in splendor, yet we have oppressed people living on the streets of every city. They are in pain, and they see the wealth of their overlords; people like me. And in reaction, some lash out . . . latching onto hate toward people like you. Still others . . . they’re finding new philosophies to explore.”
“You’re the Empress,” I say. “Is it not easy for you to break down these barriers? Give to the needy? Heal the sick?”
“From where does my power come, Maripes?”
“Your religion proclaims your family as the perpetual and eternal ruling class of the Holy Empire.”
“Yet without the support of the Lords, the Guilds, and the Generals, I am nothing. So where does my power come from?”
“Those who benefit from you remaining in power.”
“Precisely.”
“So what is the battle? Where do my people enter the picture?”
She smiles. “If I establish an exclusive deal between your people and the Throne; where the Throne becomes the exclusive source of sunsteel and moonstone, then I have a new card to play.”
“And you think it’s enough to break the cycle of power crippling your people.”
“That’s the hope.”
I lean against the tree, and she turns on the bench to face me more directly. I say, “What happened to your father?”
Her eyes flash. “My brother told you to ask, didn’t he.” It isn’t a question.
“He did.”
“Sit beside me.”
I sit.
“My father was an evil man,” she adds.
“My father fought in the Border Wars,” I say, “thirty years ago. I’ve heard the stories.”
“What do you know of the stories we tell, here in the Empire?”
“I can’t imagine they’re kind to my people.”
“They are not, and they are false, at least generally so. Anyway, when I was a child . . .”
Interjection
Emelia walked through the forest, tears in her eyes. Her father wouldn’t let her play outside? Then she’d just run amongst the trees. Their army was entrenched for miles around—what could go wrong? Besides, she was twelve. She could take care of herself.
Skipping along a deer path, she came across a darkened patch of dirt. Crouching, she sniffed it, the faint scent of iron on the air, like the medical tent in camp. Blood. Maybe an animal was wounded nearby. Looking into the brush, she saw red droplets on leaves of ferns and mossy roots. Striking off the trail, a moan rose from the other side of a juniper trunk.
Furtively, Emelia stepped around the tree and came face to face with . . . one of the enemy. Adorned in golden plate armor, his greyish skin almost looked green. Sickly. Blood seeped from a wound in his shoulder. Her eyes widened, for his eyes darted toward her. He grimaced, unable to lift his hands.
“Help.” The word was in Emelia’s language. Her father had taught her the basics of the enemy’s vernacular, though, and she doubted this warrior knew more than a few of the Empire’s words.
She said, “Let me go get help.”
“No.” In their language this time.
“You’re dying.”
He said something unintelligible. Pointing at a pouch on his hip, he said, “Medicine. In there.”
Emelia nodded, rushing to his side. In the bag, she found herbs, bandages, and vials of swirling, multi-colored liquids. Holding each up, one at a time, he pointed at the third vial and the bandages. “Open.” Words in her tongue, this time. “Put on bandage.”
She nodded, dumping the fluid onto the cloth. Holding out the soaked wrapping, he took it from her, pressing it against the gash. He sighed, as if instant comfort enveloped him. Streams of steam floated into the sky.
“Thank you,” he said. “You not bad, like they say. Some of you. Some of you good.”
Her mouth hung open, unsure of what to say. She started to back away when a screech echoed through the branches above. With a glance back toward the wounded soldier, she noticed his widened eyes. Fear.
“Caracrow.” He stumbled to his feet, picking up an axe she’d not previously noticed. “Will eat you. Be ready.”
She rushed to his side, leaning against the tree. Shadows flirted with the ground, every sound in the forest having ceased. It was as if everything waited to see what the creature would do.
Without warning, a darkness descended from high above. Black feathers, crimson beak, emerald eyes, golden talons. The Caracrow dove. It was bigger than she imagined any bird could be; like a lion, its aggression was present just in its sheer bulk and power.
The accursed one guarding her—he was ready. Even seriously wounded, he lifted his axe in both hands. The creature screeched. He swung his a
xe with grace, as if it were a feather floating on the air. The blade connected with the creature’s neck, but its momentum carried into the soldier, and both man and beast crashed into the undergrowth. Her terror-induced paralysis lifted, Emelia hopped to the rescue, pushing the mutilated creature off her patient-turned hero.
“That was amazing!” she said. “A brilliant move.” The creatures brown blood dripped onto her dress, but she didn’t care. “I’m sure my father will give you safety, I—”
“Father?”
“Yes, my father. The Emperor?”
His eyes shifted, from fear, to pain, to resignation, to . . . something else. Then again to pain. “You leave. Leave me. Your father no help me.”
“Why not—”
An arrow whizzed into her hero’s leg, and Emelia screamed.
IV
“I never learned his name,” says the Empress. “But my father executed him on the spot. Well, not immediately. They dragged him back to camp, interrogated him, and made me watch as the Inquisitors ignited him in a blazing inferno. Burned at the stake.”
“And did you tell Maripes that soldier’s mission?” The voice of the High Inquisitor, in the garden. Shuffling noises come from all around—I’m certain not just the Empress’s brother joins us.
“Does the mission matter?” I say. “War is war. Amidst war, each side has its terrible moments. Come join us, Trallius. Let me tell you of the horror I witnessed as a child. Perpetrated by your people.”
“Maripes, he’s not supposed to be here,” whispers Emelia. “Be on your guard.”
I nod, and out of the bushes, Trallius trots, his cloak fluttering in the midnight breeze. There’s a crunch behind me, and I spare a glance over my shoulder. Three of the High Inquisitors’ minions emerge from deeper in the garden . . . alongside the thralls from the street brawl.