Seven Deaths of an Empire

by Matthews, G R

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Emlyn said and began whittling again. “If magic is powerful, and you say there are no real limits to it, then it would make sense to have lots of magicians. The more people you test, the more you would find, the more powerful your Empire would become.”

  Kyron glanced around the clearing and lowered his voice. “The Church does not like magicians very much, so not many people come forward for the tests.”

  “Why not?”

  “They think it goes against their teaching, their holy books.”

  “But you say it is natural and has always been there,” Emlyn replied, flicking another shaving into the fire. “If that’s the case then their god, who they say built the world, put it here.”

  “Well,” Kyron said, trying to put the ideas he had learned at a young age into words that made more sense now that he was grown up, “the priests say that the magic left here is a part of the god’s power and that by using it, we are defiling it.”

  “But if their god built the world, and left the magic, they surely did it for a purpose?” She held the stick up to the flame and inspected it closely.

  “Just not for our magicians,” Kyron said with a shrug. “Either way, they don’t like us using it. They claim we are trying to become a god, that we have too much power.”

  “Too much power?” She applied the tip of her knife to the stick once more. “If I stabbed you with my knife now, could you stop me?”

  “I… I…” he stuttered, unsure. “I don’t know. Possibly.”

  “But possibly not,” she said, not looking at him. “I could kill you now, in your sleep, as you walk, with nothing more than this,” she held up the blade for a moment, twisting it so the flames danced along its edge, “and there wouldn’t be much you could do about it. Is that not ‘too much power’? To hold your life in my hands, at my whim and control?”

  “It is not the same,” he said, knowing the argument was weak.

  “And if you decided to kill me with magic, there is little I could do about it?” She met his eyes for a moment before looking back at the stick she was carving. “We share that power over life and death, do we not?”

  “Yes, but it is still not the same,” he argued.

  “To me, it is,” she replied and glanced over her shoulder. “Your master is coming. I had better let you get on with your practice.”

  Kyron watched her stand, an economy of movement and grace, and slip the knife back into its sheath. He returned her nod and followed her with his eyes as she stepped around the fire and headed off into the dark. When she had disappeared from view, he looked across at the place she had sat, her words fresh in his mind and saw the stick she had been carving throughout their conversation. One end had been thrust into the ground so the other, shaped to look like a hand, reached up to the stars.

  Before he could shift and reach for it, Padarn came into the clearing.

  “How goes your practice?” his master asked.

  “The construct is difficult,” Kyron said.

  “It is supposed to be, Kyron,” Padarn said. “Binding the magic to markers is simple. The structure is there already; you’re merely filling in the gaps, making it smoother with magic. To create a complete structure from magic is supposed to be difficult.”

  “I create a section,” he complained, “and move to the next, but the magic keeps trying to escape.”

  “And you must hold it in place with your mind, your will, your confidence and belief,” Padarn said.

  “But I can’t hold it all at the same time,” he whined.

  “You have to,” his master replied. “Watch.”

  Kyron focused his gaze on the fire where his master pointed. The flames flickered and shades of yellow and orange pranced before his eyes, beautiful, ephemeral, an illusion of light and heat that existed for a moment before it vanished.

  Under his master’s command, the flames rose, and a wave of heat washed over Kyron. He squinted against the sudden brilliance and when his vision cleared, he saw five separate strands of the flame hanging in the air above the fire. They wavered and danced but did not fade from view.

  “A construct, created and held, can change the world. This flame,” Padarn waved his hand in the direction of the fire, “should have gone out, but it has not. Why not?”

  “Magic, Master.”

  Padarn sighed. “All these years and still you do not listen. We know it is magic, Kyron. I want you to look at the magic that holds the flame.”

  “Sorry,” Kyron said, his cheeks reddening. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting his senses widen and the heat from the fire warm his face. As it always was, he felt it first on the edge of his mind.

  Looking once again at the filaments of fire, he saw the weave of magic which his master had placed about them. The shape, elegant and twisting, forever moving and yet staying the same, was the one he had been tasked to create. His master had done it in the blink of an eye, a heartbeat of effort—not the difficult, tense age which Kyron had spent.

  “Years of practice,” Padarn said, seeming to read his apprentice’s mind. “You will be able to hold this simple construct soon, but it will take practice. Like the others you have learned, you will come to hate it and love it.”

  “One day, Master,” Kyron said.

  “By the end of tomorrow, Kyron,” Padarn said and the construct vanished as did the flames. “I want you to focus all your time on this construct. It is the basis of all which follow along this line of learning, and from it you can develop your own constructs.”

  “By tomorrow? Master, I’ll never be able to do what you did,” he protested.

  “I want you to be able to build it and hold it,” Padarn corrected with a smile. “I do not expect you to do it as quick as I did. Not for a year, at least.”

  “I will try, Master,” Kyron said.

  “You will succeed, Kyron,” Padarn answered. “You have struggled in the past as any student does, but I have confidence in you.”

  “Thank you, Master,” Kyron nodded.

  They sat in silence for a moment enjoying the warmth of the fire. Kyron watched as his master reached down and plucked Emlyn’s carving from the dirt. Padarn stared at it, turning it over in his hand and holding it up to the light.

  “Who made this, Kyron?”

  “The guide, Emlyn,” Kyron answered. “She carved it while she sat there talking to me just before you came.”

  “What did you talk about?” Padarn asked, raising the carved stick to his nose as if breathing in the scent.

  “Magic. She asked what I could do and promised to tell me about the magic of her tribe.”

  “And?”

  “And what, Master?”

  “What did you learn from her?” Padarn asked and Kyron heard the sigh implicit in the tone.

  “Nothing. She left just before you arrived,” Kyron said. “I didn’t get a chance to ask anything.”

  “Yet she gave you an answer, Kyron,” Padarn replied, passing the stick across to him. “That young lady needs careful watching.”

  Kyron looked down at the intricate carving, not understanding. A state of being he was used to.

  XIII

  The General

  Ten years ago:

  “You met Gressius,” he said as the boy cowered against the wide table in the kitchen. “He won’t hurt you.”

  “It’s true, lad,” the woman said. “He might look uglier than a rat, but that scar’s an improvement. Been married for more years than I want to remember. Never could work out what I saw in him.”

  “Honour, Decima,” he said. “That’s what you saw in him. Honour.”

  “How is your head, General?”

  “The pain has mostly gone, Your Majesty,” Bordan replied.

  The council table was full of steaming platters, and, though the smell was heavenly, the mere thought of eating made his stomach roil. Around the table, the members of the Ruling Council were selecting their own slices of meat, roasted vegetabl
es, and delicately sliced pieces of fruit. Abra picked at the fruit on his plate, nodding as Duke Primal spoke into his ear. Vedrix had piled his plate high and was eating with a contented smile and the occasional grunt of pleasure. Opposite, Godewyn’s plate was as empty as his own.

  “Your appetite has not returned?” Alhard asked.

  “Not yet, my Prince. Head wounds can be strange. I eat and drink enough. I do thank you for the concern.”

  “How fares the city today?”

  “The fires are under control, Your Highness.” Bordan nodded. Immediately the room swam, and blood pounded in his temple. He raised a hand to the lump on the side of his head, wincing at the contact. “Most citizens are staying in their homes and soldiers are patrolling in greater numbers. No one attacked them yesterday which is a good sign. Not so much as a single stone.”

  “That is good news,” the Empress said when Alhard did not respond. “It would not do to lose control of the capital at this time.”

  “I think it was more an expression of fear,” Bordan said, and thought carefully about his next words before continuing, “at the delay to the coronation. The people like certainty and the city is an uncertain place at the moment though the period of mourning continues, and the Churches are, I understand, speaking of calm and continuing the rituals.” He looked to Godewyn who nodded in agreement. “I am more concerned with the reports from the countryside. It seems the riots have spread outward, and there are armed groups in villages, even some towns.”

  “And these groups do not support us?” Aelia asked.

  “No, Princess,” said another voice. “My shipmasters, who have travelled the ports, report that sentiments are turning away from the throne.”

  “Are they, Duke Abra?” the Empress cut in. “And what do your shipmasters give as the reasoning for this change in sentiment?”

  “They are unsure, but I suspect it will be the usual matters surrounding tax and poverty,” Abra answered, unruffled.

  “Much comes second- or third-hand, however. My crews do not stray far from the docks and it is the carters, traders, and waggon masters who pass on the news to us.”

  “Should we see this discontent as insurrection yet?” Princess Aelia asked.

  “My own reports suggest not,” Bordan answered, “and it is difficult to see it ever becoming so. Neighbouring countries may see a chance to destabilise the Empire, but they rely on us for trade and security also. Maxentius has sent word to the commanders of the Third Army to increase their patrols but do nothing to inflame the situation further.”

  “Quite a balancing act,” Aelia said.

  “Indeed, Princess,” Abra interrupted. “However, my own sources, as I mentioned, have reported stirrings in the countryside. Especially in the forest communities which line the western mountains.”

  “They are far from the ports, Duke Abra,” Bordan said.

  “True enough, but the waggon masters who bring the wood and crops to the ports have a good knowledge of those towns and villages,” Abra pointed out. “It is integral to their work.”

  “Forests?” Alhard spoke around the food which filled his mouth. “You mean the tribes my father went to conquer?”

  “Not quite, my Prince. Duke Abra refers to our people who dwell in the forests to the west. Once, many centuries ago they were of the tribes, but no longer,” Bordan explained. “It would be hard to see them having sympathy with those in the north, not after all this time.”

  “Traditions run long and deep, General,” Abra said. “I would not put it past them to see a chance to reclaim their old ways and worship.”

  “Pagans.” High Priest Godewyn leaned forward in his seat. “The Flame is the true religion and they have only prospered since they came to know the warmth which binds the Empire together.”

  “Some may not see it that way,” Master Vedrix said, his hands fluttering in apology as he spoke. “Hard to believe, I realise, as the Flame has kept us safe all these years, but some beliefs may be hard to let go of.”

  “And the wealth they share is nothing compared to that of the farmers on the plains or in the cities and towns,” Duke Primal joined the conversation, his pinched face animating for a moment as the thought struck him. “News travels fast, faster than any horse, and it has been some days since the troubles in the capital. Perhaps they see a chance to carve out their own kingdom?”

  “Unlikely,” Bordan said. “They know the power of our army and enjoy the security it brings.”

  “But the bulk of your army is far away,” Abra pointed out.

  “As I said, we’ve troops enough in the outlying towns and villages to deal with any trouble,” Bordan insisted.

  “But what if they group together, General?” Alhard asked, picking up the nerves and worry which were emanating from the two Dukes. “What if they put down their saws and pick up swords and axes? My father said there were a lot of people living there. In small villages, but they lived close enough together. If they banded together, General, they could march on the plains.”

  “And if they did,” Primal continued, “they would disrupt planting and the next harvest would be reduced. Prices would rise and the people of the city would go hungry. The tax collectors would have a harder job and our revenue will fall. We need the farmers much more than the foresters. The trees will grow regardless.”

  “If they go to war, Your Highness,” Abra began, “not only will the farms suffer, trade from the ports will decline. We will be forced to import more food and prices will rise further. The poor will suffer more than any other. It might encourage them to further acts of rebellion.”

  “And,” Lady Trenis added, as Bordan opened his mouth to intervene, “if there is war on the plains might they not venture further north to attack your husband’s funeral guard.”

  “This,” Bordan managed to interrupt, feeling the fear of rebellion sweep the room like wildfire, “is a very unlikely scenario.”

  Aelia spoke, her words slow and thoughtful, as if trying them out on those listening, “There is clearly a problem in the countryside, General?”

  “Yes. However, Maxentius knows what to do,” Bordan pointed out.

  “But the city is calm once more,” Aelia continued, “and I know I would be reassured, as would my brother, no doubt, to know that matters were in your capable hands.”

  “I have some good—” Bordan was cut off by Alhard’s raised hand.

  “My sister is right, General,” the Prince said. “We must secure the countryside and the forests.”

  There were a thousand reasons why this was not necessary, but the heir had commanded and a General must obey, especially when such an instruction was given in front of the Ruling Council. Division would only sow further seeds in their minds, and it was hard enough keeping track of the little ploys and schemes they were all engaged upon. “As you say, Your Highness.”

  “Thank you, General.” The Empress favoured him with a small smile and for the first time he noted the dark circles beneath her eyes. “My son is well served by you.”

  “I’ll have Maxentius task a small force from the city, Your Highness, and they can gather more troops along the way. I’ll send riders with orders,” Bordan said.

  “Brother?” Aelia said, and Bordan had feeling he had fallen into a trap of another’s design.

  “I should lead it,” Alhard said, puffing out his chest. “I would like to see the plains and forests of my Empire.”

  “A splendid idea,” Princess Aelia said, smiling. “An Emperor should know his lands and his people.”

  Alhard’s spine straightened as he gazed down the table. The Empress looked much less sure, but Bordan noted the glance between her and Aelia.

  “This would reassure the merchants, my Prince,” Abra said, and both Primal and Trenis nodded along with his words. “For goods to be moved, money to be made, and taxes paid, the lands need to feel safe for all. More than that, I am sure the people in the countryside will be gladdened to see you take charge.”

/>   “Did you wish to go along, Duke?” Vedrix asked from the end of the table, brushing the crumbs from his beard. “I am sure room could be made.”

  “Me?” Abra barked a laugh and covered his mouth with his free hand. “My apologies, Your Highnesses. I am merchant, Master Vedrix, my only skill at arms is with a stylus and balance sheets. Swords and war, I leave to the General and his fine soldiers. I am sure with General Bordan along, no harm shall befall the Prince if that is your worry.”

  There was also the manner in which Abra, Primal, and to a lesser extent, Lady Trenis had spoken, that set a knot of worry in Bordan’s stomach. None of his people had reported anything unusual going on between them. No messages passed, no secret meetings, no feasts or coincidental visits to the same theatre during which to conspire. Nothing to suggest they were working together, but all the same, it had the aroma of a setup. A dirty, unhealthy smell that wormed its way down to his stomach and made him ill. Worse still, they had all played into it; Aelia, the Empress, even his own words had done little to distract and deflect the issue away.

  Removing the heir from the capital might be a good way to reduce the tension. Many amongst the people, and the city army, blamed him for the past few days. The events in the marketplace had been the spark falling on already dry tinder, and it had taken a lot of effort to damp it back down.

  Removing the heir and the General from the capital, which Abra had now neatly boxed him into, was also a good chance for one of them to meet with an accident. If Alhard died, the blame would fall on Bordan, no matter what the cause or reason.

  With little else to discuss, the meeting broke up and the nobles filed from the room, leaving only the imperial family, the High Priest, Master Vedrix and himself still seated.

  “You’re worried,” Godewyn said when the last had departed.

  “Always,” Bordan grunted.

  “The city is calm,” Vedrix pointed out. “The troops and the priests have been quelling the fear and worry.”

  “Which Abra and Primal have been stirring up,” Bordan stated.

  “I don’t think,” Vedrix began, casting a quick glance in Alhard’s direction, “that you have cause to worry in that direction.”