Seven Deaths of an Empire

by Matthews, G R

  He reached up to wipe his hand across his forehead and sighed at the slight relief it afforded. A heartbeat later he stopped, realising his hand had not moved and yet the sweat was gone.

  “Too warm,” his thoughts said in another voice and a cool breeze picked up beneath the leaves, cooling his face and causing a shiver to run up his spine, shaking his body.

  “Too much,” his thoughts said in a third voice.

  There was a light ahead, another clearing. It was bright and he blinked away the tears in his eyes. The light brightened as he moved closer and the trees thinned. Brighter still and he wanted to raise his hand to shield his eyes, but it refused to move. His legs kept moving, feet rising and skimming across the leaves towards the light.

  His heart beat faster and now the light was no friend. It was a threat. A yellow burning flame which would consume him. Cremate him. He was dead and about to be cremated, his thoughts, in his own voice said.

  “Almost,” said the first voice.

  Kyron blinked and for moment, less than a moment, the trees vanished, and dark shapes moved around him. He blinked again, a reflex, and the trees reappeared. The light still burned and despite his efforts his legs carried him towards it. A burning heat and the lick of flame caught the leaves dripping from branches near the end of the path. So close he could feel his hair begin to curl and melt.

  Gritting his teeth, he fought to stop his forward progress. His breath came in shallow gasps, each one a stab of pain in his chest. The thought struck him that he was not moving but being dragged. Kyron held his breath, stopping the pain in his chest and allowing him clear focus. He reached for the motes and, between blinks of forest flames and dark shapes of twisting smoke, they came to him. A rainbow of life, every colour, every spark of energy dancing and cavorting his thoughts.

  “What’s he doing?” he heard a voice say from ahead, from the light.

  “Stop him,” a panicked voice replied.

  “I can’t,” the third voice answered. “Too strong.”

  Water filled his mouth, his eyes, splashed from his forehead, soaked his hair, found its way up his nose. He coughed, spluttered and lost his grip on the magic.

  Kyron blinked. The edge of the forest path was no longer lined with trees but were the flaps of a tent pulled back to let in the light of day not the yellow of flame. He gasped, filling his lungs with cool air and pain flared along his side.

  The shapes made of smoke resolved themselves into faces. Master Vedrix was sat to his right, dark eyes brimming with concern. Cohort Borus stood at the end of his bed in full armour. Above Kyron, looking down and carrying an empty pail of water was Emlyn.

  “So,” she said, “you’re not dead.”

  “How long?” he managed to croak out.

  “Three days,” Borus answered.

  “What happened?” Kyron looked to each in turn, waiting for an answer.

  “Mostly exhaustion, but the soldier who fell on you crushed your ribs,” Borus said.

  “You were bruised internally,” Vedrix said. “The weight on your ribs caused some bleeding around your lungs and the muscles beneath. Nothing too serious. It was actually quite interesting. In the Gymnasium we do not often get to see such injuries. The alchemists have some tinctures, unguents and potions which would be very effective in such cases. I must make a note for them.”

  “They healed me?” His voice was a dry whisper.

  “What?” Vedrix answered, and above him Emlyn rolled her eyes. “No. Of course not. No alchemists here. However, I did some reading when I was younger. A scroll by Galen I remember as being particularly fascinating.”

  “He kept you unconscious so you wouldn’t move and make it worse,” Emlyn said.

  “Well, yes,” Vedrix admitted. “There was that. Also, I made use of the medici’s poppy along with a little magic to encourage the blood to go elsewhere.”

  “Thank you, Master,” Kyron whispered.

  “No thanks needed, young Kyron,” Vedrix answered with a beaming smile. “Least we could do for someone who helped escort the Emperor to safety.”

  Kyron caught Borus’s raised eyebrow and wondered if the soldiers were having the same amount of care and attention.

  “I am not really a healer,” Vedrix admitted with a shrug and a glance towards the Cohort, “however, it was felt that a magician should oversee your treatment.”

  “Not a priest?” Kyron coughed and his ribs reminded him not to do that again.

  “The priests were all,” Borus paused, “looking after the soldiers. There were none to spare and the medici who attended you said you would heal.”

  “We just sped it along,” Vedrix said.

  “You did scare us, though,” Emlyn said.

  “Sorry,” Kyron managed to say, the lump in his throat at her confession making speech difficult.

  “You started to fight us just now,” she continued. “Your master over there was struggling to contain your magic and Borus had to sit on your legs.”

  The lump melted and the reason for the bucket of water was clear.

  “Sorry,” he repeated because nothing better came to mind. He looked towards the open tent flaps. “What time of day is it?”

  “Late afternoon,” Emlyn said, putting the empty bucket down.

  “We’ve been marching for the past two days,” Borus said. “Princess Aelia did not want to wait. We left most of the injured at Cesena.”

  “Not me?”

  “Had orders to fix a cart for you and one or two others,” Borus answered. “Spear Astentius rode with you most of yesterday and today.”

  Kyron looked left to the empty bed, the only other piece of furniture in the tent. “He is not in here?”

  “Died of wounds this afternoon, just before we stopped,” Borus said, his voice grey and quiet.

  “Oh,” was all Kyron could manage.

  “He was a good man, and a good soldier,” Borus said. “He brought us this far. It’s a shame he won’t get to see the Emperor get home.”

  “Livillia?” Kyron asked, trying to keep the hope from his voice and failing.

  “Alive and well,” Emlyn answered and Kyron saw her face screw up in disgust. “She can’t even get herself killed properly.”

  “She was wounded,” Borus explained. “A cut on her arm. A few stitches is all it needed. She travels with the High Priest.”

  “The High Priest is here?” Kyron started. “Hold on, why is Princess Aelia here? Surely Prince Alhard would come for his father’s body and escort it home.”

  Vedrix sighed. “Cohort, why don’t you go and see to your men? Now, Kyron is awake there are some things I’ll need to talk to him about.”

  “If you are sure?” Borus looked uncomfortable.

  “I am,” Vedrix replied. “I do thank you for looking after Apprentice Kyron during the journey. I am sure it could not have been easy.”

  Emlyn, still by his side, snorted.

  “He is a boy with many questions,” Borus replied, the ghost of a smile on his face.

  “His master often said the same,” Vedrix said.

  “I’ll see you later, boy,” Borus said. “I’ve still got a few of my command who can walk and talk. I’d best go and make sure their tall stories of the journey through the forest aren’t too tall, and that they give me place of honour in them all.”

  Kyron’s laugh was cut off by a cough and then a groan of pain. Borus tapped him on the leg and ducked out of the tent.

  “I take it you are staying?” Vedrix looked across him at Emlyn who sat on the empty bed.

  “Looks like it,” she said, slipping her knife from its sheath and selecting a stick from those in her belt. The whisk of blade on wood was strangely comforting.

  Vedrix grunted. “A stubborn young lady.”

  “Yes,” Kyron answered.

  “Now, Apprentice,” Vedrix began, drawing himself up straight on his stool. “I am sorry to tell you that Prince Alhard and the Empress were killed in the capital. Princess Aeli
a is now the heir to the Empire.”

  Kyron sucked in a breath, ignoring the complaint from his bruised ribs, and tried to sit up.

  “Don’t move,” Emlyn said, not stopping carving. “We didn’t look after you this long just for you to hurt yourself again.”

  “I didn’t hurt myself,” he protested.

  “Same as,” Emlyn answered. “There’s a mug of water on the floor.”

  “I can’t reach it,” he said, to which she sighed and helped him take a sip. “How were they killed, Master?”

  “Alchemy and assassins, Apprentice,” Vedrix answered. “It would not be too much to say that the Gymnasium of Magicians is in a difficult position.”

  “It wasn’t us though,” Kyron said, suddenly unsure. “Was it?”

  “No,” Vedrix answered with a firm shake of his head. “Duke Abra, one of the council members, appears to have hired the assassins in order to claim the throne. It was his army who attacked you when you left the forest.”

  “And the alchemy?”

  “A poison, a rare one, expensive,” Vedrix said. “We are sure the assassins sourced it from an alchemist outside of the Gymnasium.”

  “Why does it matter?” Emlyn asked. “Dead is dead.”

  “The Gymnasium is supported by the throne, young lady,” Vedrix said. “I understand from Borus that the priests, Livillia in particular, were less than happy about Master Padarn and Apprentice Kyron’s presence.”

  Emlyn nodded and Kyron grunted.

  “That is true for most priests, and the Empire as a whole, I am sad to say. They do not understand magic and so they fear it,” Vedrix explained. “The Gymnasium was set up centuries earlier to give the Empire control of magicians and it is a valuable resource. It also gave magicians a place to study, to experiment, to be safe and to thrive.”

  “I know your priests hunt magicians,” Emlyn said.

  “Those who are not in the Gymnasium,” Vedrix answered. “A wild magician, one without training, is dangerous.”

  “It is not just that though, is it?” Kyron whispered.

  “No, Kyron,” Vedrix’s voice was low and sad. “We do what we can to find magicians before the priests do, but we are not always successful.” The Master Magician sighed and continued, “Princess Aelia may well wish to see you, to thank you for your service. Be aware of how you act and try not to say too much, or anything. There is anger in the city about the role of alchemy in the deaths and Aelia is not her father.”

  “My master died to bring the Emperor’s body this far,” Kyron complained.

  “And that may be our saving grace at the moment,” Vedrix replied. “I have spoken about Padarn’s sacrifice. Spear Astentius’s records also speak of his bravery and service. Try not to do anything that risks that.”

  “No, Master,” Kyron gulped.

  “You served well, Apprentice,” Vedrix said after a moment’s pause and a smile found its way to his face. “Padarn would be proud of you.”

  “I hope so,” Kyron replied, finding tears welling in his eyes once more.

  “I had best leave you to rest,” Vedrix said, his fingers fluttering and twisting with each other as if uncomfortable.

  “Thank you for looking after me,” Kyron said as the older man stood from the stool.

  “Your friend here,” Vedrix nodded towards Emlyn, “did much of the actual caring. I just popped in from time to time to do what I could.”

  “Thank you anyway, Master.”

  Vedrix moved to the tent flaps in small careful steps, stopped and turned. “I almost forgot, getting old, you know. General Bordan will likely visit later. He has seen all the surviving troops and offered his thanks for their service. You were not conscious. I am sure when he learns of your recovery, he will want to offer his thanks to you.”

  Kyron glanced at Emlyn who had not stopped carving the stick in her hands.

  “He does not need to, Master,” Kyron said, trying to keep his voice from quavering.

  “I’d imagine he knows that, Apprentice,” Vedrix said, his eyes flicking to Emlyn and back to Kyron’s. “However, it would be remiss of him not to. It is also a signal to the Princess of the value of the Gymnasium.”

  “If you say so, Master,” Kyron nodded from his lying position.

  “Try not to antagonise him, Apprentice,” Vedrix warned.

  Kyron swallowed. “Of course not, Master.”

  XLIX

  The General

  Four years ago:

  The magician bumbled about the room, his bushy beard moving as he spoke. In the centre of his office, the boy sat on a chair, unmoving, and confusion plain across his face.

  “I’m very glad you saw me. Very glad indeed.”

  “If you can help me, us, Master Vedrix, then I will be glad also,” he said. “I didn’t know where else to go, who else to turn to. The medicus said there was nothing more they could do.”

  “Oh, most assuredly there was not, is not. I think he has it. Quite rare these days, getting rarer. Of course, we will need to be sure.”

  “Seven days more.” Aelia slapped the arm of the chair to punctuate her words.

  “We are constrained by the speed of the waggon, Your Highness,” Bordan replied.

  “I don’t want excuses, General,” Aelia snapped back.

  Bordan schooled his face. “My apologies, Your Highness. The Empire roads are enabling us to make good time. Messengers have been sent ahead to secure supplies in the towns and villages along our route.”

  “Supplies, General. Always you talk of supplies. If we had waited for your supplies to be loaded on the ships, Abra would have possession of my father’s body and the amulet.” Aelia lifted her goblet of wine, sloshing a measure over the top and across her hand. With a growl of frustration, she threw the cup across the tent where it splashed up the white canvas walls and stained the rugs which covered the floor. “You would now be bowing to a different Emperor, General Bordan.”

  In the corner of the room, catching the last light of late afternoon, Vedrix shifted in his chair, turning the page in the book he was reading.

  “We are making good pace, Your Highness. The General is correct that we need supplies as we march. An army, even a small one, needs a lot of food,” High Priest Godewyn offered. “The Flame will see you crowned Emperor before the next ten days are done.”

  Aelia’s eyes focused on the High Priest and some of the wildness faded. “You are right, Godewyn. Thank you. My apologies, General. The delay does not sit well upon me.”

  “Abra’s army is finished, Your Highness,” Bordan said. “Between here and the capital are only loyal citizens who wish to see you carry on your father’s good work.”

  “Loyal citizens? So loyal that one of my own Dukes had my brother and mother assassinated. So loyal that an army was raised against me,” Aelia’s voice trembled as she spoke. “By what measure is that loyalty, General?”

  “Your Highness, I…” Bordan began but Aelia turned and stomped from the tent. There was silence inside the canvas walls and none of the three men moved for a long, drawn-out moment.

  Bordan held the cup of wine in his hands, staring into the reflection on the dark red surface of the liquid. For two days since they had recovered the Emperor’s waggon, the Princess had seen only Godewyn, preferring to spend her time with her father’s body. This morning she had reappeared, dark circles under her eyes, hair matted, unwashed, and her clothes dishevelled.

  Servants had, on Bordan’s waved order, taken the Princess in hand, bathing her, rubbing sweet, scented oils into her skin and laying out fresh clothes. The morning march had been delayed, but once Aelia was ready she mounted a large, white horse and led the army south towards the capital.

  This afternoon they had stopped early and pitched the camp. According to the map, there was a large town just south which they would reach tomorrow and resupply. An army ate a lot of food each day and Cesena had supplied them well enough for a few days. Sadly, the supply ships had not reached the t
own when Aelia had ordered the march south just the day after the battle was won.

  My fault. Bordan’s thoughts had been a mixture of concern and sour realisation since Abra’s death. It took no great political genius to know he was out of favour with the Princess. His time as General was over and, he admitted, that was something of a relief. A new General would lead the army once Aelia was made Emperor. A small estate, somewhere in the west, where he could farm and make wine would be a well-deserved retirement.

  “Her mood will improve,” Godewyn said into the quiet, “as we get closer to the capital.”

  “It will have to,” Bordan said, keeping his voice low. “There is an Empire to run.”

  “Aelia is still young, General,” Godewyn replied. “She has not come to terms with the death of her family. When she has, I am sure the Empire will flourish under her rule.”

  “Perhaps confronting her father’s body is the beginning,” Vedrix said, closing his book. “It was the one death which had not yet been made real. Now she has seen, the healing can begin.”

  “Perhaps,” Bordan mused.

  “She has seen her father and held the amulet,” Godewyn said. “I feel you are right, Vedrix. Suddenly, everything has become very real and there is no urgency, no crisis to divert her attention on the march. It gives us all time to think. That can be a blessing and a curse to those grieving.”

  “Can we occupy her time on the march south?” Bordan asked. “She has read the reports of the battle but has never stood the ranks and faced an enemy, even in training.”

  “What are you thinking?” Godewyn asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “There are excellent officers in our ranks,” Bordan mused. “We could have them report in person to the Princess. Have them tell of the battle and their part? Let her ask questions so she can begin to learn the realities of battle and army life.”

  “Aelia won’t ask,” Vedrix’s voice drifted across the tent from the comfort of his chair. “I mean no disrespect to the Princess, but she is a young woman thrust into ultimate power. To ask questions, she will see as a sign of weakness.”