CHAPTER TWELVE
Myac stood quiet at Emperor Rylan’s right hand.
The magnificent throne room of the Imperial Palace in Yiroth towered around them like a grand cavern of ice. Overhead, the soaring arched ceiling of ascard-worked crystal captured the splendor of both night and day through its many faceted surfaces without ever allowing glare in the room below. The ascard woven into it protected it from the elements even now, hundreds of years after its creation.
The walls were fashioned of pale blue marble panels set between engaged marble columns, defined with tasteful scrolled silver inlay borders. Each panel displayed scenes of dancing, lovemaking, battle, and other passionate moments, lightly etched and defined in the softest colors so each image evaded the eye, playful and secretive like a lover’s whisper, becoming clear only when viewed from the center.
The floor was of marble a few shades darker, worked through with patterns in pale granite that formed a natural flow, like a river carrying the eye to the finely wrought throne of silver and ivory on the marble dais at the far end of the room.
Filling the wall behind that dais, a vast mural portrayed the Founding Battle in which the first emperor, Yiroth, had taken this land and established the capital of Lyra. Cavalry and infantry clashed with spear wielding tribes in glorious chaos on a battlefield carpeted with the fallen. Yiroth himself rose above the fray on a rearing stallion, his sword captured forever in mid-sweep, his refined Lyran features immortalized in an expression of magnificent, savage determination.
Emperor Rylan sat the throne before the mural like a precious stone in an elaborate setting, as beautiful, hard, and cold as his surroundings. His silver eyes regarded the room without emotion. His refined features, reminiscent of Yiroth himself, were statuesque. With a gleaming mane of pearlescent hair, he was striking as only a Lyran of purest blood could be, as his sons were, or had been.
Knowing both the emperor’s sons were out of the way brought a quiet smile to Myac’s lips. He never could stomach so much perfection in a single room. The head of Rylan's youngest, Delsan, hung above the inner gates. The gentle younger son received more recognition in death than he earned in life, becoming a martyr for simple folk. Rylan hadn’t even flinched when the axe fell, its ascard-honed blade slicing through the young prince’s neck like soft cheese. In a single stroke of the headman's axe, Rylan lost the confidence and support of many allies. Whispers on the streets and in the royal court claimed he had truly gone mad. They weren't wrong. Rylan was often quite lucid, but the madness Myac meant to use to justify taking the throne once both sons were dead was becoming more apparent.
The eldest, Yiloch was more difficult. In his current state, Rylan might not inspire enough confidence and loyalty in his people to be capable of defeating Yiloch if the exiled prince built his own army. Yet, even with rumors abounding that his son intended to overthrow him, convincing the emperor to imprison his eldest son was harder than convincing him to put the younger to death. Now, locked in the Serroc prison, the prince couldn’t cause trouble, but he needed to die publicly. Arranging that was the final challenge. Then deposing the mad emperor would be easy and people would support Myac’s humble ascension after he revealed his blood ties to the royal family.
The last of those seeking audience with the emperor were gone. Other than an attendant knelt near the foot of the steps, only he and Rylan remained in the room. The emperor often stayed to watch night fall through the crystal ceiling and Myac shared his appreciation. The first stars glinted like diamonds in a sea of deep blue, their presence multiplied a thousand times over through facets of crystal. The beauty of the sight on such a clear evening was without compare.
Myac watched the night arrive with a sense of satisfaction. He had a true claim to the throne, though none there knew it. Black hair and eyes, discolored in the healing of severe burns, veiled the purity of his blood. That suited him for now. This way, he could work his manipulations at leisure. He would see Yiloch finished off slow and painful, assuming the arrogant prince survived the prison, and drive Rylan down in disgrace. They would pay for the wrongs they had done him and the lives they had destroyed. If fate were kind, he would get the chance to tell Rylan why before he died.
The almost reverent silence in the room shattered when the doors at the far end swung open.
“Your Eminence.”
The robed creator scampered toward the dais like a frightened mouse, bowing every few steps. His face was a pallid mask of dread and Myac sensed fear rolling off him, could taste the sour tang of it in the air.
“What is it, Creator Cathis?” The emperor’s rich voice flowed across the room like melancholy music.
“Your Eminence.” Cathis sank on one knee at the foot of the dais. “Your son, Prince Yiloch…” The man swallowed, his eyes darting between Myac and the emperor with open fear.
Rylan leaned forward, impatient. “Speak.”
“He’s gone.”
“Gone how? Was he killed? One of the hounds?” The tightness in Rylan’s voice betrayed his enduring affection for his eldest son.
“No, your Eminence. There would be residue of such an incident in the makeup of the prison. The prison is in flux. Its purpose for existing is no longer there. He’s simply gone.”
Myac didn’t need to see the emperor’s face. Through his ascard ability, he felt the man’s rage flare up like lit straw, matched by his own.
“When did you last check on him?” The emperor’s voice shook with barely contained fury.
Cathis licked his lips. Swallowed. “Over a month ago,” he muttered.
Rylan’s wrath turned from fire to ice and Myac inhaled sweet anticipation.
“Do you know how long he’s been gone or where he went? Do you know how he got out?” The emperor was calm now. That boded ill for Cathis.
“N… no, y… your Eminence.”
“Myac.”
Cathis stiffened, fear spiking. His gaze flickered to Myac, the whites of his eyes showing like a terrified horse.
Rylan waved a hand in the vague direction of the creator. “Take care of this.”
Myac embraced his connection to the ascard with sensual pleasure. He had so much rage to take out on Cathis. At best, Yiloch’s escape delayed his plans. At worst, it could destroy everything he’d worked to accomplish. For that, the creator’s death would be excruciating.
Reaching out with his inner aspect, Myac took hold of the ascard in the air around Cathis and began shaping it to his will using an artisan’s care. With refined skill, he constructed an invisible barrier around Cathis and sank it through the man’s skin.
Cathis met his eyes. Tears streamed down his face, his resignation so absolute he hadn’t even connected to his inner aspect. Myac sneered and made the barrier solid under the man’s skin, splitting connective tissues holding the skin to the underlying muscle. Then he compressed the barrier with massive force. A fluid choking sound emerged from Cathis and bones crackled as everything beneath his skin crushed into pulp. Myac released him and he collapsed in a limp, misshapen heap, blood streaming from all visible orifices.
“Effective, if untidy.” Rylan turned to the attendant who was staring wide-eyed at the dead creator. “Get this …” His lip curled in revulsion when the attendant doubled over and retched. “And that, cleaned up.”
The attendant wiped his mouth on his sleeve and scurried from the room.
Myac savored the mild sated exhaustion that followed his efforts, letting it counterbalance his anger.
Rylan reclined in his throne. “You were right, Myac, Cathis was a fool. Does that please you?”
“It pleases me to serve you, my lord,” Myac replied, wary of angering the emperor now that he was stuck in his service a while longer.
Rylan rubbed his temples. “What shall we do about my son? And don’t tell me how I should have killed him when I had the chance. You have no children. You wouldn’t understand. Yiloch is the only child of my blood who was ever worthy of the line.”
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Worthy of a slow death perhaps. “My lord, I would venture that he feels the same. He will come for his birthright eventually.”
“Yes, I believe he will. That’s why I love him, but I cannot have him in my way. I need no heir coveting my throne so long as you can keep me young.”
Myac said nothing. Instead, he sat on the upper step of the dais before the throne and gazed at the dead creator, admiring his handiwork. It was easier to destroy than create. The power it took to rejuvenate the emperor’s body was exponentially more draining, but it amused him to see how the promise of unlimited youth influenced a man on the brink of madness and it secured his position for as long as he had to play this game.
He turned to the emperor. “You know where Yiloch’s stronghold is. He would have returned there, though he may not stay long.”
“I’ll send a troop to investigate.”
“Had you allowed me to interrogate Renkle, you might even know what your men should expect when they arrive.”
“You speak out of your place, Myac.” Rylan emphasized the warning with a dark look.
“Apologies, my lord.” Myac turned so the emperor wouldn’t see the ridicule in his smirk. Rylan was more defenseless before him than Cathis had been, but he was too arrogant or delusional to acknowledge the fact. Power drove him, and the promise of keeping it made him manageable.
The attendant returned with two others and they began cleaning up the remains of the unfortunate creator. While they worked, Myac gazed at the darkening sky and caressed the faceted crystal ceiling with fingers of ascard. A remarkable creation. There was no more magnificent example of ascard architecture in the known world.
Myriad stars shimmered bright in the night sky when the attendants finished and left them. The emperor’s head rested against the throne, his eyes closed, his breathing even. Not sleeping, but lost in a meditation state, serene and irritatingly beautiful.
“Do you wish me to accompany them to the stronghold,” Myac asked, pleased at having a valid reason to interrupt.
The emperor opened his eyes. “No. I’d rather not risk you.”
A flush of frustration burned Myac’s skin. He couldn’t sit in the palace and wait for the prince to make a move. Yiloch focused his limited ascard ability on enhancing physical combat. It would be amusing to face him and show him how useless that training was.
Drawing upon more ascard energy, Myac infused his voice with it, using it to sooth and manipulate. “My lord, you can’t afford a mistake this time. I can ensure this mission is successful. If Yiloch is there, he will be dealt with. The other creators and adepts can be trusted with your personal safety for a short time.”
“Maybe you’re right, Myac.” The emperor yielded easily to ascard influence. “I should send someone I can trust. This must be done properly.”
“I will make certain of it, my lord.” Myac bowed his head.
“But Myac…” The emperor hesitated. Myac waited, wondering at the troubled look in the emperor’s eyes as he gazed through the crystal ceiling. The slightest shimmer of tears rose in them. “Make it quick. He’s earned that much.”
He said quick, not painless. An oversight Myac wasn’t about to point out. He smiled, cheerful. “As you wish, my lord.”
*
The two men circled, breath coming in white wisps. Yiloch lunged with his blade high then feinted away from Dalce’s attempted parry and brought his sword around low, striking Dalce across the ribs with the flat of the blade. Dalce recoiled, grunting in pain, and Yiloch sprang out of range.
“Getting slow, Dalce,” he taunted. “I’ll have to find a new commander soon.”
Dalce smirked. “And who amongst our raw young companions has my mastery of strategy?”
Hax, leaning on the fence at the edge of the sparring circle, barked a laugh, suggesting that Dalce overstated his value.
Yiloch smiled. It felt good to fight, even mock battle with a blunted sword. The familiar routine of sparring with his captains allowed him to burn off the last of the ill temper built up during his imprisonment. He spent part of each day in the sparring ring refreshing skills that went largely unused in those seven months. It also kept his mind off the anticipated reply from King Jerrin.
The Caithin king could turn to Emperor Rylan with the offer Yiloch made in hopes of smoothing things over. It was unlikely though, given Caithin’s might and the insult Rylan paid them by snubbing the trade agreement. King Jerrin was no fool. Rylan’s rule crippled Lyra while Caithin grew in power and wealth building relationships with countries on their other borders. Why bow to Rylan’s madness when allying with Yiloch could end his reign at little cost to them?
While they waited for an answer, Ferin, the only adept among his ranking officers, was out recruiting more ascard users to their cause. Paulin, Eris, and some lesser ranking officers paid visits to existing allies to ensure support now that Yiloch had returned. Throughout Lyra, mercenary forces and allied lords awaited his call to arms. Vital relationships that required constant nurturing.
Yiloch hated waiting.
His mind wandering, he almost missed the next parry. He recovered with a burst of ascard-enhanced speed.
“It would do you good to take a hit,” Dalce grumbled.
“You’ll have to get faster, old man.” Like the hound in the prison.
The pain of that injury was gone. Indigo healed it well, making it a memory that faded more each day while she persisted in his thoughts.
Dalce attacked with a series of fast strikes. Each successive blow came down stronger than the last, gaining momentum with every swing. Yiloch strained against growing fatigue in his arms as he parried. In sheer strength, Dalce had him beat, but in dexterity, even without the ascard, he was the better. He caught Dalce’s crossguard on his and jerked up, ducking under their blades and catching Dalce with a foot to the chest. The burly man flew back, landing on frost-hardened ground with a heavy grunt.
Yiloch rested the tip of his blade against soft, vulnerable flesh above Dalce’s breastbone. “Commendable effort, but I dropped you without the ascard.”
He moved the blade, offering a hand to help his second stand.
“That must be why you’re in charge,” Dalce muttered.
“Could be the royal lineage.” Hax offered a teasing wink.
“That too,” Dalce conceded. “You try to kill him. I’m exhausted.”
Movement behind Hax caught Yiloch’s eye. Adran strode around the corner of the stronghold, the messenger they sent to King Jerrin trotting behind him, his nose red with chill.
Yiloch racked his sword and picked up a cloth to dry his face. Even in the crisp air, he worked up a sweat sparring and it cooled fast. He tossed the cloth to Dalce and stepped outside the ring. Hax glanced over her shoulder then moved to flank Yiloch. Dalce wiped his face and stepped up on Yiloch’s other side. Adran stopped to one side and the messenger bowed.
“I bring a missive from King Jerrin of Caithin, your Highness.”
The messenger held out the scroll and Yiloch stepped back, remembering the one Renkle had given him that transported him into the prison.
Adran intervened, taking the scroll and breaking the seal to unroll it.
“It’s created,” he commented with a note of surprise.
Yiloch nodded. The Caithin king did have creators.
Adran turned the parchment to him and words appeared on it.
Your Highness, Prince Yiloch of Lyra,
Your missive arrives at an opportune time, as I am sure you realize. I find myself of a mind to entertain. You and your retinue would be most welcome in Demin. I invite you to join us for our Wakening Festival, if you are so inclined, or at your earliest convenience thereafter.
I look forward to our meeting.
Honorable King Jerrin of Caithin
For something so brief, it held considerable meaning. The respectful address and choice of words suggested the king was fed up with Rylan’s antics and not only open to, but interested in
, other options. The Wakening Festival, their celebration of spring, was coming soon, implying a desire for expedience.
Yiloch addressed the messenger “Remain ready. I will have a response to send back within the hour.”
“Yes, your highness.”
When the messenger disappeared around the side of the stronghold, he read the message to the others then met Adran’s eyes.
“Prepare for a journey, my friend. We have a festival to attend.”
Dalce nodded. “It sounds as if an alliance is almost certain. Perhaps we needn’t send you, my lord.”
“I’m going to Caithin. I spent seven months in a miserably hot prison. The chill here is driving me mad.”
“That’s odd,” Adran commented. “You’ve always done cold so well.”
“I can take someone else,” Yiloch warned.
“You could, but you’d miss me.”
Hax stifled a laugh.
Yiloch let it go. There was too much truth in it to argue. “Commander Dalce, I need an escort ready to leave at dawn. Captain Hax, send someone trustworthy ahead to arrange for twelve casks of the best Lyran wine and to secure passage from the port of Tunsdal. That should be far enough north of the capital that we won’t draw attention. Captain Adran, find Ian and send him to my study.”
His officers hurried off, each of them focused on their given task. Yiloch smiled as he watched them go. Tomorrow, he would take another step toward destroying his father.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Yiloch rose before dawn and pulled on clothes laid out for him the night before. Then he dug into a dresser drawer and drew out a silver chain. On it hung a red stone pendant, a gift from his late brother, Delsan. Yiloch had never worn it. The stone supposedly brought the wearer good luck. He relied on skill and intellect, not luck.
He held it up, letting early light illuminate the stone. “Perhaps you should have kept this for yourself, Brother.”
Dissident (Forbidden Things Book 1) Page 11