The Complete Season 1

by Michael Underwood

  Chapter 7

  Michiko

  Michiko staggered from the party, listing ancestors under her breath, her inventory of the dead enumerated chronologically. She thanked them in turn for the miracle she hadn’t expected: a release from Lavinia’s scrutiny. That murderous bastard. In her mind’s eye, Michiko could still see Lavinia looming over him-her, still taste the backwash of tin in his-her mouth—

  How dare she? Michiko exhaled, sagging against a wall. How dare Lavinia ask of that of her? She’d always known that the Mertikans would request unsavory actions of her, but this was—

  To impede the ascension of a warder for no other reason than spite, to cultivate discord in a small nation only just finding its wings. Something about that felt blasphemous to Michiko. It was one thing to curtail the movements of a rival, but to strangle the growth of a fledgling country?

  Never mind the fact that Kensuke had ordered her to fight in his stead, or the political insult that this would represent to Rumika. A warder declining to attend the Gauntlet. It was unheard of. Not unless the country intended war. But what authority did she have to judge her superiors? And who was she to come up against a monster like Lavinia?

  Michiko coerced a smile into position as two servitors—homunculi of clay, held together by bladecraft and something older than Twaa-Fei—jittered past, their glowing eyes wafting across her form. Somewhere in the rear of her thoughts, Michiko could feel the Golden Lord—her grandfather; she still couldn’t believe it—whispering inchoately, his rage thrumming in her veins.

  Damn him. Damn everyone involved.

  Michiko pushed from the wall and began marching down the corridor, occasionally testing the doors to see which would give. Eventually one relented to her questing hands. Michiko ducked into a small room piled with tarp-covered boxes, its air dense with dust. Good enough, she thought.

  With trembling hands, she gathered the items she needed, only to realize again, with growing terror, that her grandfather was likely unaccustomed to waiting. His voice roared in her ears.

  “That beast.”

  “Grandfather—”

  “That useless fool. I remember when they were more honorable. In those days, the Mertikans understood the concept of nobility. Nothing like these greedy rodents, these demons, these . . . these . . .” Halfway through his diatribe, the Golden Lord switched to a Kakute dialect that she did not recognize, older even than the patois that her grand-aunts spoke.

  She sighed. Foolish, old, backward thinking. A litany of Mertikan criticisms repeated themselves, all pitched with that same lilt: a gentle yet loving disdain, as though of a parent discussing the mistakes of their least favorite son. At the same time, Michiko couldn’t help the frisson of recognition, or the ache that followed. So many years of being told to look forward, to erase what she was.

  “I won’t stand for it. Do not stand for this insult.” The Golden Lord churned in her thoughts, no more than a gasp, like the echo of words never spoken. But despite their ephemeral quality, he had a kind of vivid potency the other ancestors lacked. He hissed in her ears, a smell of incense pluming through the air. “In my days, we would not ask the delegates of a conquered kingdom to assist in such nefariousness. Open combat. Now, that’s how we would do it. War is honest—”

  And that’s why we are now a dominion of Mertika, Michiko thought, deep in that part of her that she kept for her own. But she said nothing aloud. Michiko knelt down, hands resting on her thighs, and sieved through the murmurs of the other ancestors, subsumed by the Golden Lord’s rage. No one had anything constructive to add to the discussion; her other forbearers were furious at his monopoly.

  “This isn’t up to me.”

  “Take off Lavinia’s head. The Mertikans understand a coup.”

  “That—” His suggestion startled a laugh from her. “You understand that isn’t possible, right? There is no way. Lavinia is one of the best bladecrafters in the empire. And—”

  “You are my granddaughter,” the Golden Lord snarled. The words thundered through her marrow, filled the rooms of her lungs, and Michiko swallowed against a sudden vertigo. “You are of my line. You have the blood of kings and heroes, legends beyond compare. And you’d bow your head before you even unsheathe your sword?”

  “I would,” said Michiko. “Because unlike you, I’m still alive. More important, Grandfather, and I say this with all due respect, you don’t know Lavinia. You don’t understand the danger she poses. If you truly cared about your kingdom”—you wouldn’t have gotten yourself captured, she thought—“you would listen to me.”

  “What is your suggestion?”

  Michiko took a breath and told him.

  Chapter 8

  Ojo

  “. . . was a bit of a louse, apparently. But she knew how to fight. And that, I imagine, is the most important thing for a Vanian, isn’t it?” Bellona grinned winsomely. An ambassadorial aide stood beside her, slumping under gifts for Penelope, every last one of them not so much collected but coerced from a donor. As predicted, it had been a spectacle. “The ability to fight, to strategize, to turn the tides of a battle in their favor. That is the Vanian credo.”

  Ojo watched as Penelope studied the table of names before calmly flicking her eyes up to meet Bellona’s own. Her smile had remained the same throughout the whole tone-deaf affair. A pleasantly neutral expression without so much as a crack in its facade, that was, nonetheless, terrifying enough to chase grown men from its presence. “Yes, it is.”

  “I hope you will have a hero for a child.”

  Her heart is in the right place, Ojo reflected. The wine, at least, was palatable. “All Vanian women become heroines in their own right. Such is the nature of their nation.”

  “Yes, but . . .” Bellona hesitated. “Yes, but what I meant was, Warder Kante, I hope that Warder Kyrkos will have a Mertikan hero for a child. Which is not to imply that the legends of the other islands are lesser for their nationalities. But good Mertikans are driven, ambitious, committed to pursuing a goal across lifetimes. Can you imagine what might happen if one were to have a child born of a Vanian battlemistress and a Mertikan soul? The glory of such a union—”

  “I appreciate your enthusiasm. But I feel the need to ask. Given border restrictions and the rules that Mertika has regarding foreigners giving birth on their soil, how do you expect that might happen?” Penelope said as she tilted her head.

  “Why, that’s simple. I will tell the Mertikan government to issue you a birth-visa. You will be treated with the highest honors. There are special residences designated for pregnant—”

  Ojo almost pitied her.

  The corners of Penelope’s lips raised by a fraction. “And I imagine you’ve spoken about this with Lavinia?”

  At the mention of her name, Lavinia, regal as a tigress, extricated herself from the press of whispering onlookers. Her eyes lingered on Penelope for a moment, before she directed her scathing gaze at the inebriated Bellona. “Has the little kitten been troubling you, Warders?”

  “No. Not at all. Bellona was extending an unexpected amount of kindness, in fact.” Penelope replied.

  “Was she now? They grow up so fast. What kind of kindness are we talking about? Has she absolved you of the sin of consorting with lesser beings? So few are worthy of you Vanians.” Now Lavinia turned her attention to Ojo, her smile feline. “Wouldn’t you agree, Ojo?”

  “Absolutely. But thankfully, she learned the requirements of her station and moved on from your company to better things.”

  To Ojo’s delight, the jab found its mark. Lavinia’s expression constricted before it smoothed again. But not entirely. Ojo could see the fault lines now, a tracery of fine lines signaling the warder’s discontent. He smiled and ran his fingers along the hilt of his shortsword. Ojo despised his ceremonial armament, loathed its frippery; the additional weight slowed him, spoiled the elegance of his bladecrafting. It was an encumbrance. Yet also a compulsory evil. If nothing else, it kept Lavinia from using her bla
des on him.

  “Always the joker, Ojo.” Ojo. Never Warder Kante. Never anything that might denote even a sliver of respect. Lavinia plucked the book from Bellona’s grasp and riffled through its pages, her eyebrows arched. For her part, Penelope remained serene: eyes lidded, even drowsy, her smile thin. “Now, honestly, what happened here?”

  “I—I—” Too late, the gravity of her earlier proposition appeared to have sunk in. Bellona’s eyes were wide, pupils thinned to pinholes. Her terror was palpable.

  “What. Happened. Bellona.”

  “I made a joke about giving birth on Mertikan soil,” Penelope said. “Bellona was compassionate enough to entertain my foolishness. Wasn’t she, Ojo?”

  “Indeed.” Ojo inclined his head. “In spite of her awareness that such a thing was virtually an impossibility, she attended to the questions of her superior without complaint. She even brought out the book when she asked. I can only imagine how utterly mortified she must have been to deal with our stupidity.”

  “I’m delighted.” Lavinia dropped a palm atop Bellona’s head. The gesture, though there would be some who construed it as affectionate, was unmistakably an attempt to injure. Ojo saw the younger Mertikan flinch, a flicker of anguish quickly extinguished. Lavinia curled her fingers, nails biting into the other woman’s scalp. “What a credit to our nation she is. And here I thought she might have done something unbearably stupid like promise that she might secure Penelope a visa normally reserved for the most faithful of our colonial subjects.”

  “You heard wrong,” Ojo declared flatly.

  “Perhaps you should consider visiting the clinic in Twaa-Fei. I hear the physician is exquisitely gifted at dealing with ailments of the ear.” Penelope yawned like a cat.

  “That’s good.” A flash of white teeth, and Lavinia shoved Bellona’s head down, her expression still crocodilian. “Apologize to them anyway. I’m certain that you’ve made a misstep in some way, regardless.”

  “Warder Kyrkos, Warder Kante, you have my apologies for any inconvenience I may caused as a result of my ineptitude.“ Bellona grounded the words between her teeth. “I hope to be a more worthy example of Mertika’s grand traditions and—erf.”

  Lavinia’s fingers twisted into Bellona’s hair, tugging hard, a sharp jolt of motion that contorted the latter’s face into a grimace. Penelope and Ojo exchanged looks, before the Quloo warder strode forward, his fingers touching to the knob of Lavinia’s wrist. “That’s enough.”

  “Such familiarity, Ojo.”

  “Twaa-Fei, if you recall, is a place of peace, a place to communicate without fear of aggression. Bellona might be a citizen of Mertika, but she is also a denizen of this city-state. So long as she stands on this soil, she is entitled to the same privileges you enjoy, Lavinia. I hope you’re all right with that.”

  “Why ever would I not be?” Lavinia released her grip, stroked the back of her fingers across Ojo’s shirt, leaving a crosshatching of vermillion. She tipped her chin up. Bellona said nothing throughout, only held herself with a soldier’s rigidity, seemingly oblivious to the rill of blood wandering down her hairline.

  “I’ve no idea.” Ojo bared his teeth. “You’ve been nothing but a model of compassion, after all.”

  “I’m so flattered that you’ve noticed. I’d hate to be thought of as something I’m not.” The pink edge of a tongue lapped over her lips. “Something like a murderer who’d dream himself a savior of the unfortunate, the poor. Unlike some parties, I believe in honesty.”

  Ojo stiffened, an objection on the cusp of birth.

  Another faint smile, timbre abruptly adjusted for jocularity. “So! Who did Bellona recommend during this exercise in foolishness? Was it Senator Fukuda? General Koyabashi? So many possibilities. How could anyone choose? I can’t imagine. Tell me, Penelope, who would you want for a child?”

  “Someone who would make Ojo and Semele proud one day.”

  Lavinia slammed the book shut. Ojo jumped, startled by Penelope’s reply. Of all the things that he’d expected, that was not one of them. But the battlemistress’s gaze stayed cool when it met his, bereft of anything but a subtle affability, no different than the emotion she projected when conversing with Lavinia. A tool then, his name. Evoked to skewer Lavinia’s soul. No more significant than the letter opener that Penelope kept by her bedside.

  “My, oh my,” Lavinia purred. “I never thought I’d see the day, but I suppose it was inevitable. Vania has suffered from these days of peace, hasn’t it? No more reason to keep its battlemistresses quite as sharp.”

  “Whatever makes you happiest to think, Lavinia,” said Penelope.

  “Quite.” Lavinia’s mouth pinched into a line. “By the way, Ojo, how is Quloo doing nowadays?”

  Ojo did not miss a beat. He had been waiting for that. “As well as any country might under its circumstances.”

  “Really?” The Mertikan warder widened her eyes, tossed the book into Bellona’s waiting arms, and eeled closer to Ojo. She smelled of frangipani and iron, flowers and blood. Her voice became husky. “That is delightful. I’d expected— Well, I suppose I’d expected a vastly different answer. I must see about acquiring new sources.”

  “Wise decision,” Ojo countered. “Mertika does often rely too much on its traditions. A little bit of perspective wouldn’t go amiss.”

  “A little bit of Quloi wisdom? I’m touched.” She palmed her chest. “I’d have thought you’d have been pickier about sharing such things with me, but I suppose beggars cannot be choosers. Or maybe”—her smile grew into a dagger—“maybe you’re simply trying to build a bridge between our countries? Mertika and Quloo are due to get closer any day.”

  Penelope started forward. “That’s enough, Lavini—”

  “I am but a humble servant of the guilds. I wouldn’t presume to be able to speak about the future before first convening with my betters. We do things differently. But assuming what you say is the truth, I imagine that Quloo will, despite the circumstances, find a way to make the best of the situation. Quloo will always find a way.”

  A hand brushed Ojo’s shoulder. He glanced sidelong; it was Yochno, bedecked in his usual uniform.

  “Yes, old friend?”

  The seneschal pointed a finger upward. For as long as Ojo had known him, the man had never been anything but decorous, anything but exquisitely composed. Today, however, his saturnine features bore a faint but discernible distress. In a quiet voice, he said: “I hate to interrupt. But would it be possible for someone to tell me why there is a Herrok swinging on the chandelier?”

  Episode 4

  The Gauntlet

  By Michael R. Underwood

  Chapter 1

  Kris

  Kris Denn marched into the public chambers of the Warders’ Circle. Three steps ahead, Nik held the Rumikan flag high, a golden chimera on a red-and-white field. Musicians on pipes walked alongside Kris, playing the melody to the Rumikan epic of Yel the Wise. Alyx and other attendants followed, the Rumikan entourage for the Gauntlet eight strong.

  This last year of Kris’s life had built to this day. Every drill, every sparring session, every working dinner and stop in their tour across Rumika, every session cramming names and figures and laws and histories of trade deals. Yet it was all for nothing unless they succeeded today and in the days ahead.

  The chamber was full, with dozens of Rumikans in the guest gallery—more than Kris had seen together since leaving home. The cheering was as loud as the invitational tournaments back home, contests that were each a step Kris had taken on the path to be here today.

  Kris wore a close-fitting jacket in red and white and a brand-new set of breeches, the outfit specially made for the Gauntlet.

  Yochno Vens met Kris and their entourage at the edge of the stage. Kris bowed to Yochno, who answered with a deep nod. Then the seneschal turned and addressed the room, his rich voice carrying throughout the chambers.

  “Kris Denn of Rumika has requested the opportunity to address the Circle.”


  All six of the current warders were present, their boxes full. Each was dressed formally, though Kris could see combat tunics and leathers here and there beneath the finery. Such was the life of a warder, the life Kris was about to claim for their own. Both flash and substance, silk and steel.

  Kris stepped up onto the central platform, the eyes of the entire room pressing in on them like an advancing pike wedge. But this was Kris’s day, not theirs.

  “Warders of the Circle, friends and colleagues, and our esteemed guests. I speak with the voice of Rumika, a proud people who are ready to step into the broader world and take their place among the great nations of the Circle.”

  Kris drew their sword and carved the Sigil of Challenge, one of the most intricate sigils they had ever learned: sweeping arcs with precise angles, triangles inside of squares inside of circles that had to connect just so. They’d practiced the sigil a hundred times, then a hundred more.

  As they finished the final swoop of the blade, the sigil flashed. The light arced to the altar of challenge, forming a glowing ring showing the flags of the six nations of the Circle. As each nation met Kris’s challenge, their icon would glow in support or darken in opposition.

  “The Challenge of the Gauntlet is called!” Yochno declared, ringing the ceremonial bell. “Who shall answer?”

  Ojo stepped forward, twin blades on his hip. “Quloo answers.” He showed a hint of a smile. More than anyone, Ojo had helped Kris prepare for this day, so it was fitting Kris would test their mettle against him first.

  Quloo claiming the first position in the Gauntlet was a major win. The other nations of the Circle decided among themselves the order that would follow.

  The senior Quloi warder stepped up onto the platform and extended a hand to shake. “May you do your people proud,” he said, softly enough that only Kris and Yochno could hear. Kris smiled.