Seven Deaths of an Empire

by Matthews, G R

  “I can sit at her side,” Godewyn offered. “I’ll ask the questions.”

  Bordan nodded. “That would be kind and reassure my officers.”

  “Then that is settled. Now, the crowning ceremony?” Vedrix asked.

  “We have sent messengers to the capital,” Bordan answered after a glance at Godewyn. “The priests and palace staff will be ready for the day after we arrive. I think it is best if we do not delay.”

  “I agree,” Godewyn said. “It is best if we secure the succession and give Aelia a purpose as soon as we can.”

  “There is still an army in the far north,” Bordan added.

  Vedrix nodded. “I have communicated with Master Elouera. They are a tenday or so from the clan lands.”

  “We should be concerned with their progress,” Bordan replied. “Better to have Aelia crowned on our return so decisions can be made, and our focus can be upon the campaign.”

  “Stand aside.” The shrill voice came through the tent’s walls like a sharp knife.

  “My apologies,” the soldier on guard duty could be heard to say, “however, you are not allowed in.”

  “I am a priest of the Holy Flame,” the high-pitched voice continued, rising in volume, “you will not put your hands upon me.”

  “One of yours, Godewyn?” Vedrix said from his chair.

  “I fear so,” the High Priest answered, chewing his bottom lip. “A fervent believer.”

  “To be praised then,” Vedrix replied.

  “Most of the time,” Godewyn answered, and raised his voice. “Let her pass, please.”

  The tent flap was thrown aside and a sharp-faced priest stalked in. She stopped three paces inside and bowed, making the sign of the Flame to the High Priest.

  “You wished to see me, Curate Livillia?” Godewyn said, his voice deep, calm and soothing.

  “High Priest, may the Flame always warm you,” Livillia said, bowing once more.

  “And you,” Godewyn answered.

  Bordan saw the look of suffering which flickered across the High Priest’s face. In every institution were those with zeal and passion, and a vision so narrow it always amazed him they could turn a street corner. Watching from his seat, Vedrix rested both hands on the book he had been reading.

  “High Priest,” Livillia began, her voice still piercing even at a lower volume, “I have come to make a complaint.”

  “Have I done something to upset you?” Godewyn asked, folding his arms across his chest.

  “No,” she stammered, flustered, “not you, High Priest. Never you.”

  “That is good to know. However someone has?”

  “The army, High Priest,” Livillia said.

  Bordan raised an eyebrow but kept his own counsel and waited to see where this would lead.

  “Really? I know soldiers can sometimes be a little coarse of manner, but, like all in the Empire, they are ours to care for. Perhaps you could explain a little further, Curate Livillia?”

  “They have the magician taking up a tent all by himself,” she spat the words out as if they burned her tongue.

  “And you think he should not?” Godewyn asked.

  “I think his heathen carcass should have been left on the battlefield, High Priest,” she said.

  In the corner Bordan saw Vedrix turn his head slowly in his direction and catch his eye. Bordan shook his head, a small motion which the Master Magician saw and nodded in return.

  “He has committed some heresy?”

  “He is a magician,” Livillia said as if that explained everything.

  “Who, I am given to understand, preserved the Emperor’s body as was his role, and participated usefully in the battles fought on your way here,” Godewyn said.

  “He is too close to that tribesgirl,” Livillia replied. “And Astentius gave them too much time, listened to them too often. I counselled him against it. His flame was in peril. Consorting with magicians is an abomination to the Holy Flame.”

  “The Emperor maintains the Gymnasium,” Godewyn pointed out, his gaze locked on the junior priest’s.

  “It is wrong,” Livillia said. “The Flame speaks out against them.”

  “I believe I am aware of the teachings of the Holy Flame, Curate Livillia,” Godewyn snapped, his voice cold and harsh.

  “For… Forgive me, High Priest,” Livillia stammered, bowing and making the sign of the Flame once more. “However, a tent to himself is too much honour for a lowly magician whose existence is against our teachings.”

  “The tent is mine,” Vedrix spoke, his voice gentle and warm.

  Livillia started, her head twitching around to see the old man with the bushy beard sat in his comfortable chair as if he had suddenly appeared from nowhere.

  “You should know better then, my lord,” she answered after a moment during which she looked around the room and caught Bordan’s hard gaze.

  “The boy was unconscious and needed specialist care,” Vedrix continued, his voice unchanged. “And the tent was mine to give up.”

  “Before you speak again, Curate, allow me to introduce Master Vedrix, the Master of the Gymnasium of Magic,” Godewyn said. “I believe that he was best qualified to care for the apprentice. Surely you would not want the boy to be cared for amongst the soldiers. Keeping him apart seems to meet at least some of your objections.”

  Livillia looked to Vedrix and back at the High Priest, opened her mouth and closed it once more.

  “And this is General Bordan, Commander of the Empire’s forces,” Godewyn said. “If you had burst in a little earlier, you would have had the good fortune to embarrass me in front of Princess Aelia also.”

  “Your… High Priest… I am…” she said, her words cut off when he raised a hand.

  “I think you have said all that you could wish to, Curate,” Godewyn said. “You and I will continue this discussion later this evening. Thank you for bringing your concern to my ears. You are dismissed.”

  A red flush raced up the young woman’s cheeks and much of her grace fled the bow she offered the High Priest before she turned and walked with stiff legs out of the tent.

  “My apologies,” Godewyn said, heaving a great sigh. “The young have all the passion and none of the wisdom.”

  “We all have them amongst our ranks,” Bordan said, lifting the jug of wine and offering it to Godewyn.

  “It worries me that we may once have been them,” Vedrix said. “However, it is time for me to retire. The boy did awake this afternoon. I may just drop in and see him before I sleep. I am sure he will appreciate the company.”

  “I know who he is, Vedrix,” Godewyn said. “So, please, you can stop hedging your words.”

  “You do?”

  “He does,” Bordan answered. “Godewyn has known my family a long time, since before the boy was born and before…”

  “Ah,” Vedrix replied.

  “And probably best to keep the knowledge between the three of us,” Bordan said.

  “Certainly,” Vedrix answered.

  “Of course,” Godewyn said. “I am a little surprised you have not been to see him.”

  “I will,” Bordan replied.

  “Family.” Godewyn offered the single word, imbuing it with more meanings than Bordan could fathom.

  “I will,” he repeated. “I need to hear his side of the battles, and I understand the girl was quite useful in her own way.”

  “Considering the Legion had her parents as hostage?” Godewyn said, half an accusation, half empathy.

  “A time-honoured custom,” Bordan answered, “though not one that makes me comfortable. I’ve had a message sent to ensure their safe release.”

  “Master Elouera has given the message to the Legion, including the passphrase,” Vedrix said, tucking his book under one arm and ambling over to the exit. “I may sound like your father, but don’t stay up drinking too late tonight. You’re both far too old to cope with the morning after.”

  Bordan smiled, a sad affirmation of the truth, while
Godewyn let go a throaty chuckle.

  “I can’t afford to drink, I’ve an over-reaching Curate to deal with,” the High Priest said when his laughter died away. “Go see the boy, Bordan. Best to get it over with. Old wounds fester and sometimes the poison needs to be drawn out.”

  L

  The Magician

  Four years ago:

  “You don’t have to do anything,” the woman said, walking around his chair and into view. “Just stare at the other wall or close your eyes.”

  “I don’t need to do anything?” his voice shook, and he cursed his nerves.

  “Just tell me what you see or feel,” she said.

  Two days after waking, after suffering the bumps and thumps from the cart as it clattered over the cobbles which provided the hard-wearing surface of the Empire road, Kyron was glad to have the chance to stand on his own two feet.

  Vedrix and his appointed nursemaid, Emlyn, had spoken with one another and declared him fit enough to walk. Despite straining his ears to catch their conversation he managed to hear only a few words, and those were less than complimentary. When they had returned and told him the news he had jumped from the cart and onto the surface, slipping a little and having to hold onto the wooden side of the vehicle to regain his balance.

  Stretching his legs had been a wonderful freedom. No longer at the mercy of the driver and his unerring accuracy for every missing cobble, Kyron could enjoy the beginning of summer and the warm breeze against his face.

  To his left the land fell in a gentle slope towards the sea, and on his right the low hills, the only highland on the northern plains, broke the constant horizon of villages and farmland. Here grew the wheat and corn which was milled into flour, baked into bread, and sold in the cities and towns. People came out of the homes to watch the army pass, bowing as the Emperor’s waggon clattered down the road.

  “Used to be a hill fort,” Emlyn said as she stepped up beside him.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “In those hills,” she pointed to the west, “and forest all around.”

  “Really?”

  “A few centuries ago,” she said, “before your Empire clawed its way this far north.”

  “Bringing civilisation, farming, food, roads, and a better life,” he said, surprised at his reaction.

  “Your civilisation,” she answered, not looking away from the hills.

  It was true, he still thought of himself as of the Empire. Raised, trained, educated in its institutions. His parents had sought their heritage, their history, and it led to their deaths. His grandfather had immersed himself in the Empire’s ways and was still alive. Perhaps there was a lesson there.

  “South is the great river,” Emlyn said. “The tribes lived south of that too.”

  “Before the Empire.”

  She nodded. “Before the Empire came. The land has changed under the Empire’s wheels, hooves, and tools.”

  “My master used to say that change happens,” Kyron said, swallowing the lump in his throat. “You can either adapt or be crushed beneath its weight.”

  “Change should be slow,” Emlyn replied, glancing at him. “It should allow those who live through it to change alongside. That is the natural way of things. Trees change by the seasons, adapting to the weather, to the rain, sun and snow. Plants bloom, flower, and the bees come to carry pollen from one to another. A sudden, late frost will kill the plants and the bees lose their source of food, dying days later. On and on the ripples of that are felt throughout the land and forest. The Empire was, and still is, that frost.”

  “It has been hundreds of years,” he complained.

  “Over six hundred,” Emlyn agreed. “And like the seasons, there are years when the pattern remains the same, when summer follows spring and autumn leads into winter. But then there are years like this, when you send armies to conquer land, to destroy cultures which have existed for thousands of years. What shores those ripples end upon and who is drowned in the waves no one can know.”

  Kyron looked towards the hills, imagining the land around covered by forest, and found the words to rebut her accusations were beyond him. They walked in silence for a time and slowly the hills faded into the distance as afternoon crept towards dusk.

  When the army was called to a halt, there was just time to help Vedrix and the few soldiers who had been tasked to assist to pitch the tent. Emlyn had her own cot within and Vedrix had proved to be an excellent host, if a somewhat loud snorer later at night. Exhausted, his ribs still aching, Kyron found sleep easy.

  It was a soft hand that awoke him, and the bright yellow flame of the lantern brought tears to his eyes. He blinked them away, looking towards the tent’s entrance to see that it was still dark, and the camp was quiet.

  “What? Who?” he mumbled as he struggled to rise.

  “Forgive me, Kyron,” Vedrix said, his voice low and serious. “Your grandfather is here to see you.”

  Kyron sucked in a breath and sat upright with a gasp of pain escaping his lips.

  “You’ve only slept a short while,” Vedrix explained.

  “It is my fault,” a voice beyond the lantern flame said, so recognisable and familiar that the years fell away and the cold water of reality crashed in upon his sleep muddled thoughts.

  Kyron coughed, clearing his throat and summoning moisture to his mouth. “General,” he said.

  “Come and sit at the table, Kyron,” his grandfather, General of the Empire’s Army, said. “I’ve brought wine and some food.”

  Kyron looked to Emlyn’s cot and saw it empty.

  “I sent her on some errands a while ago,” Vedrix confessed. “Enough to keep her busy for a time and listening to you snuffle in your sleep is not that interesting.”

  Kyron swung his legs from the bed and dragged the blanket around his shoulders as he stood. He grunted at the ache in his ribs, less painful and yet more annoying than yesterday, and lurched over to the table drawing the blanket close against the cool summer air.

  Drawing on the motes about him, he willed the oil lamp sat upon the table to flame and a soft light filled the interior. A construct he could not have managed a few weeks ago, but now was, if not simple, at least easier.

  “You’ve grown,” his grandfather said.

  Sitting drew another grunt of pain from his lips, but he refused to keep his discomfort to himself. Across the wooden table, lamp light illuminating his face, Kyron saw the man who had raised him.

  “You’ve aged,” Kyron answered, stating the obvious. Grey hair had been edging in when Kyron had left for the Gymnasium and lines which had once given the General an air of rugged strength had stretched into those which told the story of a long life.

  “We’ve both changed, Kyron,” his grandfather said, shifting a leather bound book to one side and pouring three cups of wine and handing one to Kyron. Vedrix took the other as he sat in the remaining chair.

  Kyron felt a brush of motes across his skin and gasped, drawing more to him and beginning the construction of a shield.

  “My apologies,” Vedrix said, patting Kyron’s arm. “I’ve merely made it more difficult for our voices to leave the tent.”

  “Merely,” Kyron said in wonder. Sound was made of air and air was a nebulous medium at best, hard to hold onto, harder still to control for more than a heartbeat. He sighed and reached out with his own small net of motes, touching, feeling and seeing the construct which Vedrix had created with a moment’s thought.

  “Trace the knots,” Vedrix said, “and you’ll note they are connected to the tent fabric itself. Good magic is all about the planning and the use of as little effort as possible.”

  “You’ve built the construct into the tent,” Kyron said, letting go of his net and seeing only the canvas walls once more.

  “A few years ago,” Vedrix confessed. “However, that is enough learning for today. I’m not sure how long you have until Emlyn returns. I suggest you both use your time wisely.”

  There was silence at the
table and Kyron picked up his goblet of wine for something to do. He took a sip, enjoying the notes of summer’s end upon his tongue. Wine had been part of most meals, watered down when he was young, when he lived with the old man, and Padarn had introduced him to more as they travelled.

  “Taste the wine and you will understand the people and land upon which it grew,” he whispered.

  “Very true. Who said that?” his grandfather said.

  “Padarn, my master,” Kyron said, looking up from his drink feeling the sadness of autumn settle about him.

  “In wine, there is truth,” Vedrix said, his voice deep and rumbling, lost for a moment in the tent before he glanced at the two sat silent, “so drink up.”

  His grandfather’s smile was a fleeting memory of years ago and for a heartbeat Kyron was back in the old man’s house, listening to his lessons and dreaming of the day he would carry a sword in the Empire’s Army. The vision faded into mist and was blown away by his sigh.

  “How have you been?” his grandfather asked.

  “Well,” Kyron said. “I’ve been well.”

  “I am sorry about Master Padarn,” his grandfather said. “He was a good man. I liked him.”

  “You didn’t know him.” The words spilled from his mouth like poison.

  “I did,” his grandfather said. “I met him a few times when he took over your training, and he kept me up to date on your progress. I even spoke with him before you left on campaign.”

  “You were checking up on me?” Kyron clenched his jaw as he uttered the words, strangling the words which he wanted to say, knowing they were those of a child, not a magician.

  “You are still my family,” the old man snapped back before taking a calming breath. “My only family, Kyron. You know me well enough. Until I die, you are my responsibility, and one I carry with care and joy.”

  Kyron grunted. “I cannot believe I’ve brought you much joy.”

  His grandfather smiled and this time it reached his eyes. Kyron was surprised to see actual happiness in the old man’s eyes, too used to sadness and disappointment.

  “Ever since you were born,” his grandfather said. “Before. The day your father came to tell me. We were never a large family, Kyron. My brothers did not make it out of the crib and my sister died during a plague. All my parents could do was send me off to the army.”