Seven Deaths of an Empire

by Matthews, G R

  “They will have the advantage,” Godewyn said before Bordan could speak. “We would lose a lot of men trying to cross under arrows.”

  “However,” Bordan added, “he does not know we are coming. He will suspect, but even so will not expect us as quickly as we will arrive.” He nodded to the Princess and saw a smile of pride flash across Aelia’s face. “We may well catch them by surprise.”

  “Two days,” Godewyn said.

  “Two days,” Bordan agreed.

  “Two days to victory,” Aelia cried, erupting from her chair, holding her goblet of wine high as some sloshed over the side.

  “Victory, Your Highness,” Bordan agreed as the other men rose in salute.

  XL

  The Magician

  Five years ago:

  He woke with a scream. It echoed around his room and the oil lamp on the shelf flickered in response.

  Blinking away the sudden swirl of stars, blobs of orange and yellow afterimages, he sat up. His legs trembled and he could feel the fear welling up his throat. With a determined swallow, he fought it back down.

  Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he settled back onto the mattress and rested his head on the pillow. His eyes would not close.

  “Does every village have a place like this?” Kyron gazed around the clearing, enjoying the moment of peace.

  “Not all of them,” Emlyn said, handing her bowl to one of the priests. “This one isn’t the largest I’ve seen nor the smallest. Some villages, the really small ones far from the travelled tracks, won’t have a glade or a priest.”

  “But here does,” Kyron nodded. “I didn’t know that the tribes had a formal religion.”

  “There are a lot of things you don’t know, Kyron,” Emlyn said, as three of the priests stood and collected the bowls, heading off about their chores.

  “That’s not fair,” he complained, but the words came attached to a smile.

  “But true nonetheless,” Emlyn answered. “I know what the Empire thinks of the tribes. Backward people who still live in mud huts. Dirty people who rarely bathe. No culture or sophistication, uncivilised barbarians.”

  “That’s not true,” Kyron protested though his words fell flat, even to his ears.

  “I could tell you that it is all a front. We let the Empire see what it needs to see, that there are, deep in the forests, towns of surpassing beauty and grace which are the true heart of our lives.”

  Kyron sat forward, intrigued, the cobwebs in his thoughts parting for a moment. “Are there?”

  “No,” she laughed and Gwri copied her, though how much the priest had understood Kyron could not be sure. “We are what you see. A people that live in the forests, fall in love, have children, and die here. We look out for one another, we trade with each other, and we war with one another at times. What did you expect?”

  Kyron let his thoughts wander slowly through his memories, collecting his impressions, his biases, preconceptions, and all the stories he had been told over his youth. “My mother and father grew up in the capital,” he began, his words slow and lips strangely numb, “but against my grandfather’s wishes, they moved north to a village near the forest. Further west than here. Near the hills and mountains. There were stories of gold and gems being found in the foothills, and my father saw a chance to start a new life.”

  “A new life? Why?”

  “He didn’t want to join the army,” Kyron said. “It was what was expected of him, but he was really a carpenter. He enjoyed, so I was told, making and building things with his hands. So they left.”

  “And?”

  “They were killed,” Kyron said. Memories tried to surface, but they never broached into his conscious thoughts. “Killed by people from the mountains and the forests.”

  “Well, you got your own back, didn’t you?” Emlyn said, the sad smile on her face softening the words.

  “It wasn’t my decision to come with the army,” Kyron answered. “My master made that decision for me.”

  “But you support the army in its invasion?”

  “Yes,” he said without thinking and, a moment later, added, “No. I don’t know. My grandfather wanted me to join the army, but instead I became a magician.”

  “To avoid the army?”

  “No,” he said, a truth falling from his lips without thought. “It is who… what I am.”

  “You thought us all to be raiders who strike from forest and mountain and kill peaceful villagers?”

  “When I started out with the army, yes,” he admitted. “Now, I am not so sure. Padarn was right. I need to learn and to do that I need to travel and find things out for myself.”

  “Good,” Emlyn nodded. “Here is a good place to start. Religion in your Empire is one thing. I’ve seen your priests and listened to them. Here, it is something else. Gwri?”

  The priest began to speak in his own language, then paused.

  “As he understands it,” Emlyn said, “your religion, the Flame, requires everyone to believe the same thing in the same manner. Is that correct?”

  “We all worship in the same churches, if that’s what you mean,” Kyron answered, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

  “Here there are no churches,” Gwri said, through Emlyn. “Even this glade is not really what you would call holy ground. It is just a site for priests to live, to work, to keep out of the way of others. The holy ground, as you would know it, is the whole of the forest.”

  “My priests would say every person was holy because they carry a part of the Flame in them.” There was a strange feeling, not pain, but of emptiness in his stomach as he defended the Church and Empire.

  Gwri just nodded as Emlyn translated and something like a smile split his face. “Yes. Yes. You see that too. We believe that everyone is holy because they are alive. Each person is equal in that regard.”

  “But you have a chieftain who rules your village, and you are priests,” Kyron said, looking down at his fingers, which seemed somehow both larger and smaller than he remembered.

  “Doirean is chief because she is best suited to the role, the people decided this,” Emlyn said, not waiting for Gwri. “Priests are only special in that they work to understand the forest more. Everyone in the village, in all our villages, contributes in some manner to the life and success of the settlement.”

  Gwri looked between them, lost. Emlyn sighed and translated what she had just said to accompanying nods from the priest.

  “You say this place is not special, but I’ve not seen that type of tree before.” Kyron pointed to the other end of the clearing, surprised his heavy arms obeyed his command.

  “A rare tree in the forest,” Gwri answered after Emlyn translated. “Come.”

  The priest stood and beckoned, leading them over to the large tree with its broad canopy. In its shade the air was cool and still.

  “The village tree,” Gwri said, reaching out and patting the broad trunk. “It was here before the village. It is why the village is here, it is our heart.”

  “You built your village around a tree?”

  “Yes,” Gwri said with a smile and fond look at the tree. “They are rare and precious to us. Emlyn says you are a magician?”

  “Yes,” Kyron answered cautiously.

  “You can feel the life in the world?”

  “The what?” Kyron puzzled, turned his gaze away from the tree.

  “The life,” Gwri said. “All the little pieces of being, of life.”

  “Ah,” Kyron replied, realising what the priest was getting at. It took a long moment for the words he wanted to say to fall into order in his mind. “We call them motes, and they are not alive, but are the things that make up everything, give it form, and energy. We think, that is the master magicians think, they were created by others, a lost people, a very long time ago. Magicians, people who can feel and see the motes, are descendants from those lost people.”

  “Truly?” Gwri cocked his head to one side.

  “That is what the Masters
who have studied it all have taught us,” Kyron said, feeling a little less sure of himself.

  “A strange belief,” Gwri answered. “Why cannot life create life? Mothers give birth to children, do they not? Why should there be a lost race who created these little bits of life? And if there were, who created them?”

  As Emlyn translated, Gwri chuckled to himself.

  “I don’t know,” Kyron answered after he searched his memory for the lesson on motes and creation. “The priests say the Flame washed the world clean many thousands of years ago. Magicians think that this meant the end of the lost people.”

  “I could show you trees that are tens of thousands of years old,” Gwri said, his brow furrowed in thought. “Some trees need fire to seed and regrow, but they live much further south where the weather can cause such fires.”

  “I might have got the years wrong.”

  “It does not matter,” Gwri said. “Reach out and touch the tree, feel its life.”

  Kyron stretched out a numb hand, silently cursing at the way his fingers trembled. Within a few fingertips of touching the tree he stopped, a thought occurring. “You can feel the life, the motes?”

  “Of course,” Gwri nodded, his smile widening. “Many in the tribes can, and we become priests, or are given other duties which contribute to the well-being and safety of the villages.”

  “When someone is found who can feel the life,” Emlyn added to her translation, “it is a moment of great joy in the village. A feast is held, and the parents are blessed, the child looked after and raised amongst us all. Is that not the same for the Empire?”

  “You’ve seen the way the priests treated me,” Kyron said.

  “I thought that was just you,” Emlyn said. “You can be a difficult person to like.”

  “Thanks,” Kyron muttered, the sting of her words softened by the glint of mischief in her eyes. “When a magician is found, someone who can see and command the motes, they can be trained in the Gymnasium. If their magic is wild, they have taught themselves and not registered in the Gymnasium, the priests hunt them down.”

  “And bring them to your place of learning?” Gwri asked.

  “No. They kill them.”

  Gwri’s face curled up in shock and an expression of deep sadness followed Emlyn’s translation. “Is that not a waste of lives and potential?”

  “Yes,” Kyron nodded: it was the only word he could find.

  “So sad,” Gwri said. “Touch the village tree. Feel its life. Let it feel yours.”

  “It can sense magic,” Kyron blurted, his hand stilling once more. The bark of the tree seemed to shimmer in his vision, like the haze of heat over a cornfield.

  “Of course,” Gwri nodded. “Touch. Touch. It will not harm you. It is just a tree.”

  Kyron swallowed, his mouth dry, lips and tongue numb, held his breath, brushed his fingers against the tree and fell.

  Wind rushed past his ears, sounding like an ocean storm, waves crashing against the harbour walls of the city. There was darkness and though he could feel his eyes move, twitch, and look in new directions, he saw nothing. His stomach dropped, making him feel lighter, floating for a moment before the plummeting began again.

  There was a light ahead, not the yellow of the sun, but green haloed by a pale blue. It was towards this he fell. He tried to scream but no sound came from his throat. Kyron put his hands out, an instinctive gesture of protection.

  He reached for the motes, a desperate attempt to weave a shield. The roaring in his ears intensified as millions of motes answered his call. He was falling through them, drowning in them. Kyron fought to breathe, and the motes swamped his throat and filled his lungs. He coughed, choked, hands clawing his throat as he fell.

  When he did not die, when the expected darkness did not envelope him and as the light ahead steadied, his panic began to subside. Kyron exhaled and the motes flew from his mouth, dancing and cavorting in twisting patterns as more were drawn in on the next breath.

  Reaching out, Kyron drew the motes around him into a shield, a bubble of magic, and found he was no longer falling but stood on a sward of green grass beneath the village tree. Looking up he saw the shining sun and clear blue skies.

  “What was that?” Kyron turned to question Gwri and Emlyn. However, neither stood there. He was alone.

  The priests’ homes were empty and the flowers on their roofs in the full bloom of summer. Past them he could see the arch through which he had entered.

  “Where is everyone?” he muttered and after a few heartbeats spent looking for signs of life, he walked with a stiff, nervous gait through the arch and into the village.

  Here were people. Between the homes, the tracks were full of folk going about their business. A few looked up without recognition in their eyes as he passed them by. Which was no surprise, he had not been long in the village though he suspected his clothing gave away the fact that he was not of the tribes.

  Where would Doirean have taken Borus and the soldiers? Perhaps Emlyn would be with them. How long had he stood at the tree? Maybe she had got bored waiting… though it had seemed only a few seconds, Kyron was aware that he could sometimes lose track of time - but not this much, surely?

  “Excuse me,” he said, putting out a hand to stop one villager in their tracks, “where is the chief’s house?”

  “There are no chiefs here,” the villager said, an elderly man with wisps of grey beard upon his chin. “You will not find what you are looking for if that is your question.”

  Before Kyron could say another word, the old man stepped sprightly to the side and moved on.

  A hand gripped his wrist and Kyron jerked in shock, but the fingers were strong and held him steady.

  “He won’t help you,” said a young woman, red hair tied up in a style he had never seen and wearing a long simple dress which reached to the grass beneath her feet.

  “I was looking for Chief Doirean,” Kyron said, breathing quickly and trying to calm the rapid beating of his heart.

  “I don’t think she is here,” the woman said. “Not yet, at least.”

  He was lost at sea, waves crashing all about him, swells obscuring his view of land, salt water washing away his thoughts and certainty.

  “Emlyn? Gwri?” he gasped. “Borus?”

  “Gwri?” the woman said and there was a spark of recognition in her green flecked eyes. For moment, under his feet he felt solid rock, stability, and a glimpse of the shore of understanding. “He visits from time to time.”

  “Is he here now?”

  She nodded. “He doesn’t stay long.”

  “Can you take me to him?” Kyron gasped, the rock under his feet becoming a path.

  “This way,” she giggled and, taking him by the hand, drew him along the pathway. They passed by houses and homes from which the sound of domestic activity came. Her feet danced through the knots of people and he did his best to follow, apologising when he bumped into someone.

  “I know you,” the man said, his voice gruff and angry.

  Kyron stopped, tugging the young woman back. “You do? Thank the Flame. Do you know where Emlyn is, or Doirean, or the people I came in with?”

  “You can never come here with anyone,” the man said. “I know Emlyn, though. The guide who saw me on my path here. I know you too. Kyron, the magician.”

  “Yes,” Kyron said, smiling. At last he was on more certain ground and there was a chance his path would lead back to some semblance of clarity and normality.

  “You watched as they questioned me. Told them if I was lying or not,” the man accused, and heart thumping loudly in his ears Kyron recognised him.

  “But… but… I saw you killed,” Kyron stuttered, the image of the knife plunging into the man’s flesh and his life dimming in his eyes.

  “You didn’t stop it,” the warrior reproached.

  “I couldn’t,” Kyron said, heat rising in his face and bile burning his throat.

  “Maybe not,” the warrior allowed, “but here
you are, in our Heart. You are not of the forest. Who let you in?”

  “I didn’t… I mean, what? I touched a tree… the village tree.” Kyron fumbled for the words, feeling the path beneath his feet begin to crumble. He pointed back the way he had come.

  “Kyron.” His name called out, clearly and with purpose, in a voice he knew.

  The apprentice turned and almost fell. Striding along the trail towards him were Padarn and two others, their faces familiar yet vague, like mist over the sea obscuring the masts of the sailing ships.

  “I—” he choked. “Mother?”

  XLI

  The General

  Five years ago:

  “You look ill, boy,” he said as the lad slumped at the kitchen table. “Decima, do you think we should get a medicus in to see to him?”

  “I didn’t sleep very well,” the boy said.

  “I can see that,” he answered, noting the red-rimmed eyes and dull stare.

  “I’ll fix him a tonic,” Decima said, “and put him back to bed.”

  “Probably for the best.”

  “The army is camped, and provisions have been drawn from the town stores,” Bordan said, tapping the scroll he carried against his palm.

  “And no sight of Abra’s mercenaries?” Godewyn asked from his position near the table they had set up in the Governor’s office.

  “The scouts we sent have returned,” Bordan answered, striding to the table and unfurling the scroll. On it was a crude map of the area, the town, the bridge, and the land to the north and south of the River Abhainn.

  Aelia leaned forward in her seat while Godewyn and Vedrix shuffled a little closer to see. The governor, a fat, sweaty man with only wisps of dark black hair oiled to his head, stood from his chair, the legs scraping across the tessellated floor.

  “We found their camp here,” Bordan pointed to an area west of the town. “They are gone. However, the scouts counted the fire pits, the pitches, and any other information they could gather to determine the possible numbers.”

  “And?” Aelia snapped. “Whether you’ve forgotten or not, General, we are here to secure my father’s body, not to play games more fit for the theatre. How many were there and where did they go?”