Cowards, she thought, then immediately regretted it. She couldn’t exactly blame them. They’d all been thrust into their positions unprepared and without warning, expected to fill roles just recently occupied by those far more qualified and experienced.
Promotion through death was no easy thing to bear, a truth she knew far too well.
And yet if they couldn’t understand the hardships that war could create, then she couldn’t find much cause for true sympathy either. They could help her carry out her plans, or they, too, could be replaced. No longer would wealth buy anyone freedom from responsibility.
“The shipyard operation will continue, unaltered,” she said at last. “And you’ll be grateful it doesn’t require all of your resources. If you’re still having trouble managing your coffers, I suggest you start by putting an end to your weekly parties. Some denial of gratification might help you empathize with those millions now marching through the wilderness, wondering when—or even if—their next meal will come.”
The six ministers lifted their heads just long enough to mumble their assent. Grudgingly, but at least it came.
Arivana sighed. She wished, once again, that she didn’t have to shame them into agreement. Some day you may be the council I need, providing advice and guidance for the betterment of our nation. But times such as these have no patience for potential. Until you’re ready, I’ll have to take . . . other measures.
“If there are no further comments,” Arivana said, “let us progress to today’s last order of business.” She peered towards the guards stationed by the entrance. “Bring in the prisoners.”
The two men shifted their shock-lances to their outer hands, then pulled open the vaulted double doors, revealing the procession waiting just outside: nine prisoners, bound hand and foot in chains, and flanking them, twice as many of the prison guards. Two of the guards marched closer to their charges than the others—close enough to touch. Recent acquisitions, the man and woman held no weapons, and wore tunics conspicuously lacking in sleeves.
Bare skin was a necessary part of a void’s uniform when escorting criminal casters.
Jasside’s stories about her homeland had inspired the hiring of such people. It seemed more humane than keeping sorcerous prisoners drugged at all times. Arivana had known such people existed, of course, but had heard little else about them. She’d been unsurprised to learn of their historical treatment at the hands of the great houses. Voids had been marginalized, buried beneath a veil of superstition and carefully cultivated fear. Tior Pashams himself had kept strict tabs on each one in Panisahldron. Ironic, then, that his own records had been the key to finding such gems, and elevating them from outcasts into positions of respect.
The city clocks stuck fifteen as the wardens marched the prisoners in. Arivana spared a glance between the council chamber’s sculpted pillars to the shipyards just visible over the tops of the hundred towers. A flurry of motion, greater than the norm, announced the change in shifts, as day-workers headed home, and night-workers began activating multitudes of lightglobes that would illuminate their nocturnal labors. Too many ships were and would be needed to halt production for any reason.
The sight was nothing new. Arivana knew she’d only looked that way to avoid facing those now arrayed before her. Nine prisoners. Nine casters.
The woman she’d once called aunt among them.
Arivana gestured towards the Faer family pod. The Minister of Forms stood, smoothing out the creases in her ceremonial robe, and cleared her throat. She began by reading off a name, followed by a list of the prisoner’s crime or crimes. Most were fairly minor offenses, all things considered. Nothing violent or seditious. The process was repeated until all—but one—of the prisoners had been addressed.
“Now,” the minister said, “you will all be given a choice. Workers are needed for the great undertaking at our shipyards. You may not have any skill in construction, but you can still be useful by lending your power to those who are. Take part willingly, and without incident, and for every day you labor, a week will be subtracted from your sentence. That, or you return to your cells.
“We will have your answers now.”
One by one, the prisoners muttered their replies. Eight more bodies to add strength to the effort.
“You have chosen well,” Arivana said. Then, facing the wardens, she added, “Unbind them. They’ll begin immediately.”
Eight sets of chain fell clattering to the marbled floor, and an aide from House Faer left the family pod to escort them down to the shipyards. The procession departed in visibly better spirits than when they’d entered.
Leaving but a single soul at the chamber’s suddenly stark center.
“Claris Baudone,” Arivana said, knowing no amount of self-control could prevent the tremor that now entered her voice. “We will now discuss an alteration of your sentence, which for obvious reasons, will differ significantly from that of the others.”
Claris stared back, her face unreadable. Did arrogance and pride rest behind those eyes? Or did humility and regret? Perhaps it was a bit of both.
Or perhaps there was only vengeance.
Arivana didn’t know. She hadn’t allowed herself to visit the woman, no matter how desperately she’d wanted to, needed to. This had to be done in the open. Playing favorites and making secret deals seemed like the surest way to undermine her position. Whatever was about to happen would be a surprise to them all.
“You stand condemned of treason,” Arivana continued, “a crime normally punished by death. Yet, here you are. Granted clemency once already, though your actions were indisputable. Have you anything now to say in your defense?”
Claris slowly lifted her eyes to meet Arivana’s gaze. “Eight months,” she said.
“What?” Arivana replied, suddenly chilled by what she feared was about to happen.
“Eight months. That’s how long it’s been since Tior’s death. Since you realized the same thing I did. Since you had him and all his corrupt peers eliminated in a single stroke. Yet that whole time I was kept locked away. And for what? It seems my only crime was failing to finish him off, a task you cannot claim didn’t need to be done, seeing as how you did it yourself.”
“News reaches even the darkest cells, it seems. But not, apparently, all of it.” Arivana sighed. “Tior was killed, along with the other ministers, upon a battlefield, by an enemy who had come to negotiate peace. It was his own fault for being unwilling to talk. His death only came because he chose to break peace and tried to have her killed.”
“What difference does it make? The end result was the same.”
“You made a unilateral decision that wasn’t yours to make!”
“Someone had to. Tior was—”
“We’re well aware what he was. What they all were. It is a mistake that will not be forgotten or repeated. But that doesn’t give anyone the right to conspire with foreign entities to elicit violence against our own. Loyal guardsmen died, Claris. One, in my very arms. No matter what ends you sought to achieve, their blood will always be on your hands.”
To this, Claris did not respond. Arivana considered it a wise move.
“I will ask again,” Arivana said, “have you anything to say in your defense?”
“No,” Claris said, a word barely heard above the city’s faint hum. “I’m . . . sorry.”
With a queen’s eyes, a queen’s judgment, Arivana examined the woman standing before her. This was a serious matter. An adult matter. There was no room for the often blind adoration of a child for their favored aunt.
She was glad then, in her scrutiny, to find nothing but sincerity.
“Very well,” Arivana said at last. She lifted her chin slightly, a signal to her council that the words were now for them. “We are living, now, in unprecedented times, in desperate times, even if some would refuse to see it. We cannot continue acting according to the measure of relative peace. Concessions must be made. Advantages grasped, in whatever manner they might appear. Ou
r nation needs guidance, direction, leadership, and no one in this room can give it better . . . than Claris Baudone.”
Murmurs and nervous shifting accompanied the announcement. The ministers were expecting it, if not exactly pleased. Claris, though, flared wide her eyes and nostrils, poorly hiding her surprise.
Arivana focused once more on her adoptive aunt. “These, then, are the details of your revised sentence—you will become my personal advisor, providing information and advice freely, with no thought for political gain either for yourself or your house. You will command no troops, hold no titles, own nothing but what the crown provides for use during your service. If need be, you will guard the royal person, putting my life above your own.
“You will accept this new sentence, or you can return to your cell until old age claims you. The choice is yours.”
Arivana had seen the dungeons. She couldn’t imagine anyone would willingly return to them. Still, when Claris gently nodded, she felt relief flood through her, an end to the held-breath tension that had been choking her for four-fifths of a year.
“Let it be,” Arivana said. “Guard, remove her chains. The rest of you, please leave us. My new advisor and I have much to discuss.”
Arivana waited patiently as the ministers and their aides shuffled out, exchanging honorifics with muted tones and attention. The doors closed behind them, and a woman no longer a prisoner stepped quietly up to her throne, rubbing wrists now unshackled.
Some part of Arivana—a large part, if she were being honest with herself—wanted to vault across the distance between them, to leap into Claris’s arms, as she had on so many occasions, and weep her apologies. But she knew she couldn’t. And to be fair, she shouldn’t. For Claris had committed treason—she was unshakable in that belief. And as she’d taken it upon herself to make something worthy out of the title of queen—to make something worthy of herself—she refused to give in to the demands of her past self. If she had any lamentations, they would be saved for those who needed them most.
“Thank you,” Claris said. “I don’t know—”
“I meant everything I said,” Arivana interrupted. “I freed you because you are needed, nothing more. Your actions betrayed my trust, regardless of your intentions, but I will not let my personal feelings get in the way of doing what is best for our people.”
“I . . . understand.”
She didn’t, Arivana knew. Not really. For the hurt Claris had dealt her had at least been understood, in time, if not condoned.
Flumere’s betrayal had stung far, far worse.
The ripple of equine muscles between his knees and the familiar sway of that rugged, ash-colored mane made Mevon feel that much more at home. Riding Quake again, one of so many things he’d left behind, felt like reinserting a missing piece back into the self he used to be. Comforting, yet, at the same time, strange.
Mevon knew he wasn’t the same as when he’d left. Before, when he served Rekaj and the old mierothi regime, things had always been simple: follow orders; deliver justice; kill.
Then, the revolution. And the laying bare of all the lies his life was built upon.
He’d dedicated himself to the cause of freedom as much because of his father as because doing so had not forced him to change his ideals—he’d only changed his targets. Yet even as the conflict drew to a close, he’d begun to war with his place, with his purpose. He still didn’t know if disappearing as he had, leaving behind everything he knew, everyone he loved, was the right way to do things, but he was convinced the journey had been crucial to his own understanding. Of the world, and more importantly, of himself.
Too, externally he was not that different, but the peace he now felt made it clear that he would never see things through the lens of the man he used to be. The realization had slowly dawned the more he’d reacquainted himself with familiar places and people and things. It had been difficult to accept at first, but Mevon no longer minded. He was done doing things the easy way.
He stared at a faded scar along Quake’s neck that hadn’t been there before and smiled.
I’m not the only one that has changed.
Mevon turned his head to glance at the man riding beside him. Warrior. General. Emperor.
Father.
His hair and beard had faded from grey to nearly white, and the lines around his eyes, once sharp from endless laughter, had withered and sagged. Two years since Mevon had left, but Yandumar looked to have aged two decades. Slick Ren, who had stayed behind in Mecrithos, and who—thank the gods—hadn’t tried acting like a mother to him, assured Mevon that his return had worked wonders for Yandumar’s well-being. But if that were true, it only demonstrated just how far into despair his father had fallen. For all of it, Mevon couldn’t help but feel partially, if not totally, to blame.
Still, when his father caught him staring, he peered back, smiling widely just as Mevon remembered. It was good to see, especially since such expressions now came so rarely.
“Any chance you’ve relented?” Mevon asked, keeping his tone light in hopes of extending his father’s good mood. “Or are you determined to keep our destination an Imperial secret?”
“Can’t you just let it be a surprise?” Yandumar said, a thin hoarseness to his voice as new to Mevon as the man’s white hair. “Some of the best things in life are the things you don’t expect.”
“You’ll get no argument from me there. But still, a hint or two wouldn’t be remiss, now, would it? How can I expect to build anticipation when I don’t have the faintest notion what’s in store?”
“Come now, son. I know you’re smarter than that. Look around and you’ll see enough clues to get your mind running in the right direction. Don’t expect me to enable your laziness.”
“Laziness? I’ll admit, this is the first time anyone’s accused me of that.”
Yandumar shrugged. “It’s what fathers are for.”
“What are emperors for, then?”
“Not much.”
Mevon laughed. Then, taking his father’s advice, he studied the environment for hints of their destination.
Ochre grasses as high as Quake’s chest bracketed the trail, stretching across the plains to the Godsreach Mountains on their right. A deep sniff brought scents of salt and freshly turned soil. Wind blew in conflicting bursts: glacial and sporadic down from the passes, while warm, moist and steady from directly ahead.
“We’re headed for the Shelf,” Mevon declared, “and its farthest north point in the eastern territory, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Right you are,” Yandumar admitted. “And what does that tell you?”
Mevon shook his head. “Nothing much.”
“Oh?”
“I was stationed out here, if you remember. Back when I worked for Rekaj. I know this area well, and I’m telling you there’s nothing out here.”
“Is that right?” His tone had just the right touch of infuriating condescension that only a son could hear from a father.
“Yes, Father. Why, that pass right there is where . . .” Mevon trailed off, finger shaking as it pointed up the mountain.
“Where you brought back Jasside after capturing her for the first time,” Yandumar said, completing the sentence.
Mevon smiled, a warmth filling him as he lost himself in memories of her. “I still can’t believe she’s alive.”
“You would have known if—”
“If I’d never left.” Mevon gulped harshly. “I know, Father. I know.”
Of all the wounds stemming from his disappearance, that one bled the worst. Jasside lived. The woman who’d made him believe that he could be more than just a mindless killer. Who’d found a way to love him regardless of what he’d done in the past.
The depth of her forgiveness even now left him breathless. How great the light in her soul must be. More than enough for us both.
It had not surprised him when he’d learned what she’d accomplished. First stopping a war between the other great powers of humankind, and no
w leading the defense against the mysterious invaders from the void.
Mevon could think of no better hands for the world to be in.
And though he didn’t dare pronounce any sort of claim on her heart—he’d been dead in her eyes, after all—the fact that she lived meant there was still a chance for something, anything to grow between them. Even if not to the extent that he hoped, he’d cherish any time he got with her.
Abyss, I’d be happy just following her orders. Something tells me I’ll be doing that soon anyway.
He wondered, briefly, if he would still have faked his own death if he’d known she yet lived. Probably not, he decided. But then again, he doubted he would now be the man that he was, a man possibly worthy of her, if he hadn’t. And in turn, she wouldn’t have been in position to do as she had, to be exactly where and when the world needed her most.
No regrets, then. No going back. If something comes, it comes of who we are now, not the static image of each other we hold in our minds.
“You still love her, don’t you?” Yandumar asked.
“How could I not?”
“A lot of reasons, son. But they’d be the wrong ones.”
Mevon grunted.
“If you’ve a doubt, come out and say it.”
“Sorry, Father. It’s just . . . this conflict we’re headed towards. From the reports you’ve shared with me, it seems likely to be all-consuming, even more bloody than the one we fought for the empire’s freedom. How can anyone find time for love when the very tides run red?”
“Abyss take all that,” Yandumar growled. “That’s exactly when the world needs love. It’ll happen if it’s meant to.”
“You make it sound like I don’t have a choice.”
“Choice? There’s always a choice. Love, guilt, anger—they’re emotions all right, and powerful ones at that. They sometimes make us think we have no control, but that’s just weakness talking. How you respond when they show up is another matter. That is a person’s true measure, what choice they make. That is what separates us from beasts.”
Mevon inhaled deeply, letting the breath out between narrow lips as he absorbed his father’s words. There were truths in his statements. Powerful truths. And ones most people—Mevon included—seemed to go their whole lives missing. Mevon had always told himself he was in control of his emotions, when in reality he had merely suppressed them. He’d let his training and instinct guide him, never wanting or wondering if there was another way. A better way.
The Light That Binds Page 3