“No.”
“Why?”
“It is not my custom,” she answered, her hands moving in her lap.
“Your custom?”
“Tradition. Way of life. Is that not the right word?” Emlyn glanced up at him.
“Well, yes, it is,” Kyron conceded.
“Good,” was all she said returning her gaze to her task. “The ham will be burning.”
“What?” There was a sizzle and single tendril of grey smoke rose to his nose. “Damn.”
Dragging the pan from the flames, Kyron wafted the hem of his robe, tied short for walking, over the smoking ham. Using a knife, he first lifted one slab of meat and then the others, sighing once more when he noted the edge of each was charred.
Extra flavour, he decided.
“Master,” Kyron said, carrying the pan to the seated magician and spearing a hunk of ham, sliding it onto the plate.
“Thank you, Kyron,” Padarn said, “and not as burnt as usual.”
“Yes, Master,” Kyron said and stepped around the fire to Emlyn. Her wooden plate rested on the forest floor and next to it a curved knife with one sharp edge. “Your food.”
“Thank you,” she said, holding the plate up for him to place the ham upon.
“You do have manners,” he said, biting down on the words too late.
“I’m not the savage,” she replied, looking him in the eye with the hard, sharp gaze she wore much of the time.
“What are you doing there?” He nodded towards the short lump of wood that sat on her lap.
“Carving,” she said, moving the wood, its bark gone and the creamy white of its flesh exposed to the night air.
“Carving what?”
“This piece of wood.”
“I meant, into what?”
“You should say what you mean,” she answered, plucking the knife from the floor and slicing it quickly through the ham. Stabbing the thin section she had cut off, she held it up to the light and inspected it.
“What’s wrong?”
“Where did you get the meat?”
“Some of the soldiers will have caught it in the forest,” Kyron replied. “We’ve got some salt cured, but fresh is better.”
“Stolen it, then.”
“Stolen it? There is no one around to steal from,” Kyron said.
“You stole from the forest and people who live here.” She dropped the meat on her plate and ran the knife across the rest until there were ten slices.
“No one owns the boar. The soldiers hunted it. Caught a few, I heard,” Kyron said.
“Who says no one owns it?”
“Well,” he started, suddenly unsure, “the soldiers.”
“Did they ask the boar who owned it?”
Kyron snorted. “You can’t ask a boar anything.”
“Really? You’re sure.”
“You’re making fun of me,” he accused. “Boars can’t speak.”
“All boars belonging to someone are branded with their mark,” she explained, lifting a slice to her mouth and chewing slowly. “Did you see its skin?”
“What? No! Of course not,” Kyron said.
“And you say it wasn’t stolen,” she answered, selecting another slice and placing it in her mouth.
“It wasn’t,” he protested, but felt the argument slipping away.
“Yet you cannot say for sure,” she said. “You take too much for granted and ask too few questions. Those you ask seem to be the wrong ones, and of the wrong people.”
With that she looked back to the wood in her lap, turning it over with careful hands as she chewed.
Kyron stood still for a long moment, his brain trying to find the right words, the correct argument to use, but he might as well have been killing gnats with a bow and arrow. Every word he loosed had missed its mark: the target too small, too quick for his mind’s eye.
He turned and stamped around the fire to his own plate and dumped the last of the ham onto it. He wolfed it down, barely tasting the meal he’d spent time cooking, only the simmering anger which he tried hard to swallow. Pouring some water from their supply into a tall pot, he set it over the fire to warm.
“Master,” he whispered, and Padarn looked over to him. “Did we steal the boar?”
“Probably.” Padarn nodded. “There is a lot we don’t know about life in the forest. Although she might just enjoy making you angry and frustrated.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, Kyron.” Padarn sighed. “Perhaps she is bored, or maybe it is because we’ve invaded her land and changed her life forever.”
“That’s not my fault.” Kyron shrugged, drawing a breath to say something else but finding the words fled once more.
“Then whose is it?” His master looked at him with sad eyes and half a smile on his face. “We’re here in her forest, marching with an army, stealing their food. Who should she blame?”
“The soldiers,” Kyron answered quickly.
“Who do their duty to the Emperor,” Padarn replied a moment later. “We’re all here at the Emperor’s order and he is dead. She can’t argue with him. You’re a substitute.”
“A poor one.” Her voice wafted over the fire.
VII
The General
Ten years ago:
“This is your room,” he told the sniffling boy. “There is a chest for your clothes, and the mattress has been stuffed with fresh wool.”
He watched the boy look around the room, take in the bed, the painted plaster walls, the empty shelves. A memory of decades ago surfaced and the well of sadness opened in his belly.
“It was your father’s when he was a young lad.”
“You may sit,” Prince Alhard instructed the council, glancing to his mother as he spoke. “We have much to discuss today, and I am looking for your support in the matters before us.”
At the head of the table, the tallest chair—the most ornate and carved with scenes of the Empire’s long history—sat empty. Bordan stared at it for a long moment and tried not to sigh at the symbolism which would become all too clear to the rest of the council within moments.
The Empress and Princess Aelia took their appointed chairs while Alhard, the oldest son and heir, remained standing. The rich tunic of imperial purple the Prince wore caught the flickering light from the lanterns hanging on the walls as Bordan slipped into his own chair beside the Princess. The others of the Ruling Council sat and the General could almost see their minds turning over the few words, searching for their hidden meaning and how they could best benefit from whatever it was.
Both children’s faces were hard, carved from stone, and their eyes made a slow sweep of the council. In Alhard’s eyes flames leapt and flickered, dancing and cavorting in anger and rage; Aelia wore a fragile mask to hide her grief, but it was clear in her eyes for all to see.
However, it was the Empress’s eyes which drew Bordan’s. Her stare was cold and the flames which simmered within were ice blue.
Bordan’s heart beat a quick march while snakes coiled around in his stomach. He took a deep breath, forcing his heart to slow and the snakes to hibernate. It was like this before a battle. The waiting and the knowing that very soon your life blood could be spilled upon the earth. That amongst the press of bodies, the stench of sweat mingled with urine, blood and fear, the screams of dying and roars of the frightened, you would be scrabbling just to stay alive.
He shuddered, waiting for the clarion call to battle even if today, here, the note would be delivered by a woman who had never seen battle, who had, to his knowledge, never killed, let alone felt the keen edge of a blade bite into soft flesh. Worse still, he thought, this battle would be fought not with swords and spears, but with words, subtle actions, secrets and hoarded knowledge, favours and bribes. His hand ached for the feel of his sword’s worn hilt.
“We have received some troubling news from the north,” Prince Alhard began, once more glancing to his mother who gave the slightest of nods. He held up a hand b
efore anyone could fill the silence which followed that statement, and then rested it on the empty chair at the head of the table. “My father, your Emperor, has died.”
Bordan watched the council members for a reaction, gauging their faces and words. With no information on the cause of the Emperor’s death it was possible that one of these had something to do with it. Assassins were expensive, but each member of the Ruling Council was rich.
Abra’s face was a picture of surprise and Bordan squinted. Was that face too good, too practised? The Duke knew of the messenger; did he know of the message too? Had he been expecting it? A possibility.
Duke Primal let go a gasp which turned into a cough, drawing Bordan’s attention. The older man, his thinning grey hair and island of a bald spot reflecting the lantern’s flames, was bent over the table struggling to catch his breath. Next to him, Lady Trenis had reached out to pat his back with one hand even as the other took hold of the goblet and offered him a drink.
Across the table, Godewyn raised a single eyebrow but no other emotion crossed his face or showed in his eyes. Even so, Bordan felt the weight of his friend’s question upon him and nodded in confirmation.
At the far end, the Master of the Magicians, stood from his chair in shock. The chair teetered on its back legs for a moment before clattering to the floor, the sound of wood striking stone echoing around the room. “No. It cannot be true.”
“Calm yourself, Master Vedrix,” the Empress said, her voice a warm breeze which dispelled the harsh echo, speaking before her son could. “In war, people die.”
“Empress,” the fat man said as he drew a handkerchief from his belt and wiped his eyes, “my deepest sympathy for your loss.”
“And the Empire’s,” the widow added. “I am sure we will all miss his presence and his leadership.”
Of them all, even Godewyn, Vedrix had the most to lose and was, Bordan concluded, the least likely to have anything to do with the death. If indeed there had been something untoward about it. Curse the messenger for not bringing better information. Perhaps killing him before questioning him more had been a mistake: but the death had bought a day to prepare, to act and gain securities before the news spread throughout the city and beyond.
“Be assured, the next Emperor,” the Empress laid a hand upon Alhard’s arm, a gesture no one in the room missed, “will continue to support your work and that of the Gymnasium of Magic, Master Vedrix. We recognise your worth to our Empire and the benefits you bring our society.”
“Your Majesty,” Vedrix responded, the hand holding the handkerchief fluttering about, “that was not my first concern. The Emperor is… was a great man and I am shocked by his passing. It is…” He paused and Bordan saw the man search for the right word, “untimely.”
“Empress,” Duke Abra said, his voice greased by fake sympathy and oiled with ambition, “no man would say different. Alongside my obvious sympathies for your grievous loss and that of the Prince and Princess, I must enquire as to the cause of the Emperor’s demise?”
Bordan caught the subtle nod of the Empress and cleared his throat, going over the story once more in his head before speaking. “We believe he fell in battle against the tribes of the forest. An arrow from one of their bows passed through the slit in his helmet and took his life. A misfortune of battle, but sadly they happen more often than we wish to acknowledge.”
The image of the Emperor standing alongside his soldiers and losing his life while fighting the heathen unbelievers of the forest would play well with the populace. There was no chance of keeping the death a secret. Every mouth in here, bar a few, would be blabbing about it to their wives and husbands, with aides and servants overhearing every word. The news would spread like wildfire on parched grassland through the inns, taverns, brothels, and beyond as sailors left for other shores, other ports. Better to control the story before rumours were birthed and grew beyond your grasp.
And though there may be wounds upon the body already, when the Emperor’s shell arrived in the capital, there could be one more if needed, as evidence of this story. Bordan himself, his fingers curled into his tunic, would inflict it.
“The Emperor is being transported back to the capital for cremation and for the coronation of Prince Alhard,” Bordan finished.
The Empress nodded. “Prince Alhard will be crowned Emperor as is right and proper, as our traditions dictate and it was the Emperor’s wish.”
“My father,” Alhard said as he sat down in the Emperor’s empty chair, his voice deep and even, “was a great man. His deeds will be spoken of in every tavern and trade house, in every town and village. His presence will be missed, and the populace saddened, but I, his son, learned at his knee what it was to govern and lead this great Empire. His work shall continue, and we will honour his name in all we do.”
Bordan watched the Prince meet the eyes of every council member as he spoke and saw each nod in return. When it came to his turn, Bordan too nodded, but the image of flickering fires behind the dark pupils of the Prince would not leave him.
“The council has much to do,” Prince Alhard said, his words measured as if learned by rote, which Bordan knew they had been, “and I will leave you to the discussions, though I expect the reports to be with me as soon as you are finished. General Bordan has been briefed as to my requirements. You have guided me in my father’s absence and will, I am sure, continue to do so without fail.”
Alhard stood from his chair, his hands resting again on the carved wood while his sister and mother stood from their own. The council stood also and bowed to the imperial family as they departed the room. As Alhard stepped through the door followed by Aelia, a faint sound drifted to Bordan’s ear and though it was incongruous with the mood in the room, he swore it was a chuckle. Glancing around the room he saw every member of the council still bowing and, perhaps, hiding their faces from view. The sound had come from inside the room, he was sure of it.
As they retook their seats, servants carried in platters of food and jugs of wine. No one spoke as the platters were lowered to the centre of the table and a single plate with an accompanying eating knife was placed before them. Goblets were refilled and the servants filed from the room.
“You knew,” Abra said, speaking first in accusation.
“Of course,” Bordan answered. “Such news necessitated secrecy and it was only proper that you, the loyal council, were told first. As the Empress stated, we have a lot to discuss and plan for.”
“Where is the body?” Godewyn asked.
“An honour guard is bringing it back to the capital,” Bordan answered.
“Across the land?”
“Yes,” Bordan said, using his knife to lift a thick slice of steaming ham onto his plate.
“Is that not slow and dangerous?” Abra asked. “I could have one of my ships to a nearby port much quicker, and the coronation could be accomplished before much strife spreads.”
“When an Emperor dies there is to be sadness, not strife,” Bordan responded though, in truth, it was his greatest fear. An army was disciplined and possessed a clear hierarchy. There was always someone in control, someone able to make decisions and give meaning, purpose to a life, to an action. Death was a natural result of war. The civilian population were unlikely to be so calm about it. So much rested on Alhard’s shoulders. The young man had been at his father’s side for much of his life and had sat at the Ruling Council meetings, though he had offered little and the burden of rule had fallen on Bordan, Godewyn and the Empress. He had been tutored in religion, politics and war, however learning from scrolls was no substitute for experience. “I’m ready to hear of your worries and suggestions.”
“An honour guard?” Duke Primal broke in. “Is that sufficient considering what they guard?”
“The Legion of the First Army has considered the importance and also has first-hand knowledge of the route to be taken. Arcterus knows what he must do to ensure the safe return of the Emperor and maintain the safety of his own army as t
hey continue northwards.”
“The war continues?” Lady Trenis said, her voice high in surprise.
“The Emperor and I had considered the possibility of his incapacity or his recall to the capital in the plans, my Lady. Though his tragic death was unexpected, there are contingency plans in place,” Bordan said. “In those eventualities the army was to continue its push north. To retreat would embolden the tribes which would only lead to more battles and bloodshed. Should they be so bold as to follow the army they may reach as far as our own borders to the north. Your own holdings are in that direction, are they not?”
She fired him a sudden look of venom. “As you well know, General, my lands are in the north and supply much of the food and fodder for your excursion into the forests.”
“For which we are grateful, and it is our duty and honour to ensure the continued safety of your land, Lady Trenis,” Bordan said.
“The amulet,” Vedrix said, his voice travelling the length of the table and every ear it met turning in his direction. “It is with the Emperor?”
Bordan took a breath, holding it for the count of three before sighing it out. This was the question he feared. Not because the answer was complicated—it wasn’t—but whoever possessed the amulet held the Empire, so entwined with the history of the Empire was it. The Flame of each previous Emperor was contained within its facets, and they would pass the knowledge to whomever owned the amulet when the coronation ceremony was complete. More than one dynasty had held the Empire’s throne over its existence, and the amulet cared nothing for bloodlines or heritage.
At least, so the stories said. The jewel held some power beyond its symbolism: of that Bordan was sure. Too often he had seen the Emperor appear to drift off into daydreams only to come back to the present with a piece of wisdom, or a moment from history when the Empire faced similar struggles and from which lessons could be learned.
“It is,” Bordan said, painting a target upon the honour guard should any here wish to take power. “We will be sending a force of our own to escort the Emperor.”
Seven Deaths of an Empire Page 5