Somewhere, at the back of the congregation, there came a cheer. It was awkward, mistimed, and misunderstood. No one followed and if the Emperor noticed she did not react.
“My father’s wisdom, and that of Emperors past is mine. Their memories I see as my own, and the truth of all is finally revealed. Plans within plans, my people, strategy and masterful tactics of misdirection, precision strikes and measured actions are those weapons which stole my family from me.”
Bordan shivered despite the heat from the still roaring and surging fire. The High Priest’s gaze was focused upon the Emperor’s and his expression had frozen halfway between elation and concern. General Bordan flicked a gaze at Vedrix, scared to miss any movement in the tableau before him, and saw the fear once more bloom in the magician’s eyes.
“Duke Abra,” Aelia shouted and her voice echoed from the walls of the church, “is dead, but he was a stone upon the latrones board. Moved and pushed about to deceive and fool us all. I see it all now. I recognise the hand of our opponent.”
Another pause and Aelia pressed a thumb into her temples, massaging some pain there, but the anger in her eyes was plain to see in the dancing flames. Godewyn reached out a hand towards the Emperor, taking half a step closer. Vedrix moved on his seat, beginning to rise and his mouth opening to speak.
“Arrest that man!” Aelia shouted before any could reach him or call out. “Arrest General Bordan!”
LIV
The Magician
Three years ago:
His whole world was squeezed into a soldier’s backpack. His clothes, his favourite scrolls, his father’s chariot wrapped in a tunic, and a spare pair of sandals. The room which he had called home for seven of his fourteen years carried his imprint, and that of his father, but was no longer his home.
He sighed, took a last look around, and closed the door.
He had protested when they woke him in the morning, complained bitterly as they forced him to eat breakfast, and given the clothes they had laid out for him a sour look.
None of it had made the slightest bit of difference to Emlyn or Master Vedrix. The Coronation was to take place today and he was going as an honoured guest, as were many members of the guard who had seen the Emperor’s body safely back to the capital.
The streets were busy and their party had taken a carriage from the Gymnasium to the steps of the church, avoiding the indignity of struggling through the crowds. Peering through the windows, Kyron saw the people of the city surging towards the avenue which joined the three branches of the Empire into a whole. It was not lost on him that the Gymnasium was set far away from that place.
From the base of the church steps Emlyn and he had been escorted to their seats near the rear of the building where injured soldiers from the guard sat along one row. Vedrix favoured him with a smile and moved to the front where, Kyron assumed, the council members would be sat.
Already the seats were filling up with the great, the good, and the wealthy. All of them sitting closer to the front and chatting with each other with an easy familiarity which escaped him.
Over the tops of their heads, he saw the High Priest and Princess Aelia enter the church from a side door and walk to the altar. Both moved slow with heads bowed. Neither acknowledged the people sat and after a moment of quiet the hushed whispers picked up once more.
Kyron watched as the High Priest stopped by the altar, a large block of marble with a metal casing upon the top. He seemed to be speaking to Aelia, pointing at the altar which was orientated along the length of the church and indicating with small hand gestures the procedures for its operation.
From the other cremations he had attended, he knew the metal would lift forming a slope down which the body would slip into the fire. In the poorer churches, a priest to either side, or a family member, would lift the top of the altar consigning their loved one to the flame.
It was the smell which he would never forget. Even the sweet smoke of the herbs burned in the lamps did little to mask the acrid scent of cloth and the bitter stench of hair at first, giving way to the sweeter aroma of cooking flesh. It set off reactions he could not reconcile, revulsion and hunger. His mouth flooding with saliva which he was loathed to admit and never spoke of. He shuddered at the memory.
Burial was simpler, nobler, and there was a finality to it, a returning of flesh, energy to the soil. Still unpleasant, still with an ache of loss and stab of grief, but more, he struggled for the right words, suitable, appropriate.
The song of trumpets pierced the conversation and a silence fell inside the church. Every head turned to the doorway through which the glare of sunlight brought tears to eyes used to the dim interior. Priests began to filter down the side of the aisles, burning censers in their hand spilling smoke into the air. One of them looked his way and sneered down her nose at him. Livillia, it seemed, had found her own place amongst the ceremony.
Kyron felt the wisps of smoke tickle his nose. The scent of jasmine and sea dew lightening the air and he breathed it in. It would mask the odour of cremation, but it also brought calm, slowing his pulse and freeing his mind of worry.
He saw the General lead the procession into the church, the pallet upon which the Emperor rested borne to the altar and placed there. No glance or exchange of gesture passed between them as his grandfather took his seat at the front.
The High Priest spoke, his voice carrying to Kyron’s ears without trouble. He heard the words, but felt the sentiment, the dull twist of loss combined with the sacred joy of rejoining the Flame in eternal life.
Another breath of jasmine tickled his nose and he shook his head to clear his thoughts. He looked around, everyone’s attention was focused upon the High Priest and his words.
“Is it always like this?” The whisper from Emlyn at his side was pitched for him only.
“What?”
“Your church services and funerals?” she asked. “Why is everyone so quiet?”
“It is a funeral, and for the Emperor. You think they should be jovial?”
“No,” Emlyn whispered, “but this doesn’t feel right.”
Kyron felt the shift, the sudden sense of worry blossom in his heart, however there was nothing he could say for certain. “It is just different to your ways.”
The Emperor’s body slipped into the fire pit, the flames surged, and Kyron could just make out the Amulet of Emperors being lowered over Aelia’s head.
“Long live the Emperor,” the High Priest called out and the crowd took up the chant.
At his side, Emlyn was quiet, and Kyron noticed her hands were playing with the ever-present sticks she had carved on the journey. He should be chanting too. He knew he should, but the words would not come.
The new Emperor began to speak and the crowd quieted. Kyron stretched in his seat, trying to see better as the Emperor continued in a darker tone.
“Do you think she really possesses all of her father’s memories?” Emlyn said, also straining her neck to see over the top of the crowd.
“I don’t know,” Kyron admitted.
“Duke Abra,” Aelia shouted from the front of the church and if anything, the silence deepened further so every word was as clear as a trumpet’s note, “is dead, but he was a stone upon the latrones board. Moved and pushed about to deceive and fool us all. I see it all now. I recognise the hand of our opponent.”
Kyron strained his neck further. Abra had tried to steal the Emperor’s body and it was his actions that had caused the death of Astentius.
“Arrest that man!” Aelia shouted. “Arrest General Bordan!”
The commotion was instant. Kyron shot from his seat and all those in front and around did the same. A rattle of armour and swords in the church, a sound the magician had come to associate with battle, and confusion reigned.
“Arrest him!” the Emperor screamed once more.
Kyron looked behind him and then to the aisle. There were soldiers stationed there to protect the ceremony and the people, but they had not moved.
Each one glanced at their closest companion and Kyron saw the consternation on their faces. It would not be, he knew, an easy matter to arrest their General.
His grandfather was a stubborn man, a difficult man to live with, opinionated, confident and so sure of himself that few could encourage him to change his mind. He was not, Kyron knew, a murderer and certainly not of an Emperor and his family. It went against everything he knew of the man. Service and duty were not just words to him, they were a code to live by, as dear to him as anything could be, as much a part of him as his heart.
This was not right.
Kyron looked to the end of the row and began to shuffle in that direction. The soldiers of the honour guard who occupied the seats there looked up at him as he moved. Their whispers were full of concern and disbelief.
“Not a chance,” one said.
“No way,” said another.
“He could have done it,” a third uttered, and Kyron made sure he stood hard on that man’s feet as he passed.
“Kyron,” Emlyn called and he heard the scrabble behind him as the soldiers tried to get out of the way.
He did not stop, and broke free of the pews, turning towards the front of the church. However, he was far from alone. Others in the congregation had stood and were beginning to crowd the aisle. The volume inside the church rose as everyone began speaking at once.
Kyron forced his way through the rich and wealthy, his elbows digging into the backs and stomachs of those too slow to move.
“Now see here, boy,” a fat man with drooping jowls grabbed him by the wrist. “Don’t go pushing through your betters.”
Kyron drew on the motes and found they would not heed his call. They were there, he could feel them but they were distant and obscured by a faint mist in his mind. Instead, he wrenched his arm free and pushed forward once more.
“Kyron,” Emlyn called again, “what are you doing?”
There was confusion in the church. The crowded aisle was becoming impassable, and the thought of summoning more magic to clear the path sped across his mind. It was brought to a stop by the understanding that such an act, even if the motes would obey him, would likely condemn him to a slow death upon a cross.
An arm grabbed his shoulder and he turned ready to defend himself.
“Come with me, lad,” Borus said, tugging him back into the crowd and down the aisle.
“Let me go,” Kyron called, his voice lost amongst the escalating shouts from the crowd.
Ahead, in the wrong direction, he saw soldiers begin to clear the aisle, pushing the wealthy back into their seats. The military were taking control, he thought, they won’t let Grandfather be arrested. A moment later the thought of rebellion and civil war doused his enthusiasm. Service and duty.
“Borus,” Kyron called, “we have to save him.”
“Who?” Emlyn said appearing at his elbow.
“The General,” Kyron answered.
“There’s nothing you can do,” Borus said, waving the soldiers out of his way as the trio made it to the back of the church.
“They’ll arrest him,” Kyron complained struggling to get free of Borus’s iron grip.
“Unless he orders them not to,” Borus said. “Look.”
They turned, following Borus’s pointed finger. The church had fallen silent once more and Kyron could see a ring of soldiers surrounding his grandfather. Swords were drawn, yet none were pointed at the General. Each sharp tip was aimed at the floor and between the High Priest, the Emperor and his grandfather the air seemed to crackle. No one moved and no one spoke.
Kyron took a breath, trying once more to draw upon the motes in the air around him, to ready himself to do something, but still they would not come. At the far end of the church, the flames rose higher and he saw within them the swirl and play of power. It would be so easy, they seemed to say.
“Arrest him!” the Emperor shouted, her voice high and nasal. “I am your Emperor and you will obey me.”
Kyron’s hand rose trying to draw on the magic once again. Instead it was the flames which answered, swelling in the funeral pit and he could feel himself getting warmer.
“It would be so easy,” he whispered.
“Kyron,” Emlyn’s hand gripped his wrist and pulled him around. The draw of the flames dissipated at her touch. “What is happening?”
“He won’t start a war,” Kyron said.
“I would,” Borus said. “The punishment for treason is unpleasant to say the least.”
“He won’t,” Kyron reaffirmed.
Near the altar, the Emperor raised her hand much as Kyron had done, a gesture of power, of command, and called out. “You will arrest that man. I command it.”
Kyron’s eyes were drawn to his grandfather who turned in his direction for just one moment before nodding.
“Do as you are commanded by your Emperor,” the General’s strong voice rang out through the church clear and unwavering.
There was a pause and mass of indrawn breaths as the soldiers turned to their General, saluted, and put their hands upon him. Without waiting for another command, they turned the General and marched him down the aisle.
Kyron, stood to the side, tried to catch the old man’s eyes but he marched head down staring only at the floor. As they passed through the open door to the church the noise within grew once more.
“How did you know?” Borus asked.
“He is my grandfather,” Kyron answered without turning, and felt a tear fall from his eye to the stone floor below.
“Ah, Kyron, Emlyn, and Borus, isn’t it,” Vedrix said as he stomped up. “Get the boy to the Gymnasium and make sure he doesn’t leave.”
“I want to help,” Kyron said, adding, as an afterthought, “Master.”
“You will do as you are told,” Vedrix snapped. “I felt what you tried to do, and I know how you feel, but you can’t help him right now. Certainly not that way. If he is to live through the next few days, and you are too, it is best if you let me do what I can.”
“Master…” Kyron began and was cut off with a wave of the older man’s hand.
“Get him out of here,” Vedrix ordered, all pretence of the bumbling magician gone. “Talk to no one and stay in the Gymnasium. I’ll join you there as soon as I have found out where he has been taken and what is going on.”
“Come on, Kyron,” Emlyn said.
“Do as the man says,” Borus added, waving to two soldiers. “Escort these two to the Gymnasium. Don’t delay and don’t let them wander. Guard the gates and make sure they don’t leave until Master Vedrix gives permission.”
LV
The General
Three years ago:
They stood outside the double doors of the Gymnasium, looking up at a building which, anywhere else in the city, would have drawn the eye, but here, cramped amongst the homes and businesses just looked out of place.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked, looking across at the boy who was now almost his equal in height. “You can still join the army. We can find a way.”
“I think this is the right place for me,” the boy said. “We both know I would not make a good soldier.”
“No one is born a good soldier, they are made by the army,” he answered.
At least they had left him an oil lamp, he thought as he completed his latest circuit of the cell. There was little room to walk, but even so his legs ached, and his feet were sore. He turned his back and slumped against the cold, damp wall. There was enough light to see by and what he saw did little to lift his spirits.
No furniture, just a pile of damp straw to sleep upon. Walls of heavy stone blocks sealed with crumbling mortar down which rivulets of water constantly ran. Moss and lichen grew between the blocks and, in the corner near the thick wooden door, it had begun to spread from the relative safety of the wall. The oil lamp had been placed upon the floor in the other corner and it was a small mercy, likely the only one they could give.
In the prison, below the palace, he knew
his rank meant little. Former rank, he corrected. However, a soldier’s respect was hard won and harder lost. Time in the ranks bred a loyalty which became an integral part of a soldier’s being.
He had felt it during that long, impossible moment at the coronation. It had beat in his heart, lifted his head and straightened his shoulders. The look in the eyes of each soldier, the way they stood, ready to follow his command had been, he reflected, one of the proudest moments of his life.
On his word, in that moment, the fate of the Empire balanced.
In his cell there was no way to mark time, no way to measure its passage. For a soldier raised in a routine, it was strange to have the freedom of time, though there was nothing to do but think.
The claw and itch of his own thoughts could not be ignored and in the silence, the empty time of the cell they scratched at his guilt, conjuring up images of missed chances, fleeting opportunities in which the right word might have turned this path onto a happier road.
Footsteps broke the solitude and a key turned in a door, his door. General Bordan struggled to his feet, pride pushing him upright.
“You may leave,” the figure outlined in the doorway said.
“Yes, Your Holiness,” the guard said.
“Godewyn?” Bordan said, surprised.
“I’ve seen you look better,” High Priest Godewyn said as he stepped into the cell. “I trust I can leave the door open?”
“I am not going to run,” Bordan said, half a smile dying on his face. “I’m old, my friend, and my running days are far behind me. How fares the city?”
“Mostly in confusion at the moment,” Godewyn answered as he drew a pack from his shoulder and began slipping the buckles open. “The militia is out on the streets, keeping the calm, but the celebrations are, perhaps the best word is, muted.”
“The army?”
“In their barracks,” Godewyn said, lifting a thick blanket from the pack and spreading it on the floor. “I’ll leave you the blanket when I go. I don’t expect the guards will risk offering you such comfort, but none will argue with me.”
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