Child of Sorrows

by Michaelbrent Collings

  (this strange book this familiar book this frightening book)

  – she took care and concentrated so hard that sweat beaded along her brow and dripped from the bridge of her nose.

  At last she shook her head. "No. Not from a dream." She shrugged. "At least, I don't think so."

  Brother Scieran opened the book. "Well, let's see what's insi –"

  "There you are!"

  The voice cut them off. Sword and Brother Scieran turned away from the book before looking inside.

  A palace page stood in the doorway, panting, bent over with hands on his knees. He spoke in gasps, obviously at the end of a long search for one or both of them. "The… Emperor wants… you both to… come to his… private… chambers."

  Brother Scieran rolled his eyes. "Gods. Is this another 'urgent' request so that we can come see some pretty picture he drew? Or so he can tell us all about how beautiful his Captain of the Guard is?"

  Sword knew this was hardly normal palace protocol. But Smoke was still Smoke – which meant he had a wicked sense of humor, liked to needle people in general and Brother Scieran in particular, and had called them to his chambers for "urgent" business that had turned out to be just those things before.

  But the page was shaking his head. "No. Not… that." He nearly toppled, just managing to catch a table before falling from exhaustion.

  He must have run the length and breadth of the palace.

  Brother Scieran caught her eye. He cocked an eyebrow. She shrugged. She looked at the book in her hand for a long moment. The tree still intrigued her, somehow managing to be both alien and familiar at once.

  But the Emperor summoned.

  She put the book, still unopened, on the nearest table. Reluctantly.

  She turned to Brother Scieran. "Come on. We had better see what the Emperor wants."

  Brother Scieran cursed. The page gaped at that, and she glared at Brother Scieran. He didn't notice, or at least pretended not to. He simply set off, passing the boy with a rapid triple gait – two steps and the click of his cane on the marble floor of the castle.

  She hurried after him. As soon as they were far enough down the hall that she was confident the page was out of earshot, she said through gritted teeth, "What are you doing?"

  "Going to the Emperor," he said. He snorted. "Undoubtedly to be asked to play a game of rooks and castles, or to render an opinion on the new kitchen draperies, or to admire his Imperial Big Toe."

  Sword almost laughed at that. As it was, she snorted – a mangled chuckle that almost made her choke on her own spit as she tried to maintain the irritation and seriousness she had built up.

  "I'm not talking about that," she finally managed. "You remember who he is, don't you?"

  "I just told you who he is," he said. He eyed her with a concerned expression. "Is something wrong with your memory? Were you hit on the head on the practice pitch?"

  "Yes, you said the word. You said he's the Emperor."

  "So what's the prob –"

  "So you are completely and utterly failing to act like he is the Emperor." She put a hand on Brother Scieran's hand, drawing him gently to a stop. She looked up and down the hallway, making sure they were alone. Talking about things like this in the palace was dangerous. Even now, even in a place where it seemed they were alone, there could be unseen ears. A chambermaid, cleaning in a nearby room. A manservant tending a fire in one of the many hearths that kept the palace warm. A Shock doing rounds, making sure the glo-globes in the halls were all charged and well-tended.

  Still, Brother Scieran had to be talked to. Now.

  He was looking at her quizzically, as though completely unsure what was going on. That was the worst of it.

  "The Empire was corrupt. We've changed things –"

  "We're still changing things," he said.

  "Yes." She nodded. "But how easy do you think that will be if the Army thinks they're being led by an impostor? If one of the aristocracy believes he has a better claim to the Silver Seat than the man who now sits upon it? If the people know that the man who has crushed them for Turns is dead – and a new one who bears his face sits upon the throne and to all appearances is simply going to keep on crushing them?"

  Brother Scieran crossed his arms. Or did the best he could: the gesture was difficult when carrying a cane. "What are you saying?"

  She jabbed a finger at him. He looked shocked, and of a truth, she was more than a little surprised herself. She had lost her family when she was young, and in the kennels there were no families, just the Packs, just the other children who would live and die at your side.

  The first man she really thought of as a father was Armor, the man who taught her what it was to be a person of honor, of integrity, of courage. He worked for the Emperor – and, through him, for the Chancellor – and that meant he was working for evil. But he did so only because the Chancellor would have killed Armor's wife the second he disobeyed him.

  And, in the end, Armor died rather than let the Chancellor win, but he did so in a way that would leave his wife alive. He fought to the last, but he made sure to take on a foe sure to destroy him.

  He fought Sword. And she killed him.

  The only other man whom she had met that was the equal of Armor in wisdom, in courage, in grace – was Brother Scieran. He had filled much of the hole Armor left behind.

  Arrow, too.

  Even now, in the heat of her argument with Brother Scieran, her cheeks reddened to think of Arrow. Not particularly handsome, with a face that was squat and round – but he was kind, and loyal, and brave.

  And he loved her, though he had never said it outright. Still, she saw it in his looks, in the way he held her hand, in the way he kissed her when they were alone.

  This surprised and delighted her almost as much as the fact that she loved him in return. Not least because when she looked at him she saw the potential to become someone like Armor, like Brother Scieran. Not just brave – he was already that. Not just smart – he was already that. Not just honorable, not just good.

  But someone who had been all those things for a lifetime. Someone who had chosen a lifetime of good, and so had a lifetime of strength to lend to others.

  Sword had grown up with nothing but children who were taught to murder one another. She of all people know the value of those who had grown wisely and well.

  And I'd like to do that with Arrow.

  Something poked her in the side. "Are you even listening to me?"

  Sword realized with a start that of all the things she had just been doing – thinking, dreaming, even a bit of hopeful planning – listening was definitely not one of them.

  "Well… that is –"

  "No, I thought not." Brother Scieran was irritated enough that he actually managed to cross his arms this time. "I said, if he wants us to treat him like an Emperor he should try acting like one."

  Sword nodded automatically. Then she frowned and shook her head. Then nodded again, but this time with an even more forceful frown. "Fine," she said. "We'll just turn back the clock to the times when The Chancellor still ruled. Or, better still, to the times of the Great Civil Wars. Is that what you prefer? The choice you want to inflict on Smoke?"

  "Now, I never said –"

  "Because that's what's going to happen. One of these times you're going to disrespect him, and he's going to take it, and one of the less-stupid courtesans or courtiers is finally going to put two and two together –"

  "I don't think –"

  She kept rolling right over him. She had been wanting to say this to him for weeks and found that, once begun, it was terrifically difficult to stop. "No, you don't think. You're so busy feeling that Smoke isn't acting like a proper Emperor – like the Emperor you think he should be – that you apparently don't realize that your very actions are making it impossible for him to ever be that man, or that leader."

  Brother Scieran looked like he was going to say something. His mouth opened, and his finger pointed the way it often
did when he was about to start lecturing.

  Then he closed his mouth. His finger lowered, his hand fell to his side.

  "Gods," he muttered. "I've been acting like just as much of a child as he has."

  "More," she said. Then she clapped him on his shoulder. "But if it's any consolation, I do give you better odds on being the first one to stop."

  A strange sound came from under his whiskers – she couldn't tell if it was a laugh, a self-deprecating cough, or if he was just clearing his throat. Perhaps all three.

  Whatever it was, he began hobbling down the hall again. She was always amazed how fast he could move; Malal – the once-Smoke – had installed him as the new liason to Faith soon after they had gotten rid of the Chancellor –

  (tossed him right over the side of Fear and his body on a pike the next day and no one the poorer for it)

  – a massive, thankless job given that the Army had all but destroyed the Grand Cathedral, killed the priests of the Order of Chain, and murdered many of the other Faithful. Still, Brother Scieran had thrown himself into the job with all the energy of a youth, even though he had been given the responsibility while still confined to a bed. Then, when he finally could walk again, he could be seen at all hours of the day and night, followed by a retinue of scribes and advisors – most of whom he worked into varying degrees of nervous apoplexy – trailing papers as he dictated letters, drafted bills and orders for Malal's approval and signature, and generally made everyone shake their heads and wonder how he was capable of doing all he did.

  Sword knew.

  Brother Scieran was trying to forget. It wasn't just the work, either. She saw how hard he pushed himself physically, saw him in the quiet moments when he thought no one was looking – the grimaces, the sweat that broke out on his face as though he had been holding it in by force of will.

  His recuperation wasn't miraculous. He was doing so much not because it didn't hurt him, but because the pain was welcome. Because it would let him forget all those they had lost. Especially her. Sister Prasa. The one person he had given his heart to, and the one woman he never could allow himself to fully love – not until after she had died… and, of course, then it was too late.

  So he threw himself in a flowing river of pain, swam in deep waters of agony because in so doing his only thoughts would be to stay afloat, to stay alive.

  There could be no grief, because grief has always been second to survival.

  Sword reached out. She put a hand on Brother Scieran's arm and pulled him to her. She didn't think about it, and wasn't even sure what she was trying to do as she did it. She only knew that there was something wrong with her good friend, her father.

  He tried to pull away. "I can walk on my own."

  "No, you can't." She pulled him toward her.

  "How do you think I got to the library, girl? Do you think I flew? Burrowed through the floor? Traveled magically?" He tried to pull away again; again she did not let him go. "I can walk as well as I need to."

  He tore his arm from her grasp, a movement so hard and fast it was violent. She didn't try to hold him to her again, but she put her hand back on his shoulder. "I was a Dog," she said.

  Nothing more. They walked in silence for a time, just the sound of their footfalls and the tap-tap-tap of his cane.

  "I know," he finally said, his voice even gruffer than usual.

  "I know something about being alone."

  "I know."

  Footfalls. Tap-tap-tap.

  "Even in the kennels, though, they knew we had to have a Pack. We couldn't just fight alone. Even if they tried to make us, I think they knew we would end up with others. Would end up finding each other."

  Footfalls.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  "You walk well," she said. "But none of us walks so well that we can walk alone."

  She put her hand on his arm again. Not helping, exactly, but more than a simple gesture. Something of an embrace, as two people might when walking a long road and unsure who will tire first. Ready to both give and receive strength.

  This time, Brother Scieran let her.

  She glanced at him. Saw his eyes were moist. His beard wet.

  "Thank you,," he finally said.

  She said nothing. Any words she could have said were words he already knew.

  A few turns later they arrived at a short hallway that ended at a pair of black doors of solid iron. Each door had six steel rings inlaid with gold and precious minerals brought up from the mines of Fear. In front of the door were two of the Imperial Guard – some of the fiercest fighters in all of Ansborn, with black armor that made them look like deadly insects, except for the helms which were crafted to look like dark human skulls. Except for the Captain of the Imperial Guard, none of these soldiers ever took off their helms when others could see them – they were faceless servants of the Emperor, his to command, his lives to spend.

  They stood at attention, each holding a yari – a tall spear that showed they had been trained in the weapons of the northern lands. The yari were pointed straight at Sword and Brother Scieran, and though she knew she could have killed both these men – or women, the Imperial Guard were open to fighters, not to genders – she simply waited.

  One of the guards turned his – she was fairly sure it was a he, by his height and his stance – head. Beside him was a small mesh window. Sword knew that behind that window would be a small, reinforced room – basically an iron box, all-but impervious to attack, and designed to hold a single thing.

  "It is they, and they are true. This is Minister Scieran and the Lady Sword," came the voice of the Reader on the other side of the mesh. Sword had never seen her, but she had a nice voice, low and throaty, and she imagined the woman as short, fairly voluptuous, and with kind eyes. A good person. The kind of person she could depend on to determine whether people seeking entry to Malal's private chambers could be trusted. For that was the Readers' Gift: they could tell the true identity of the person they beheld. The best of them could even tell a bit about your intentions – if you held malice in your heart, violence in your plans.

  Sword was suddenly glad she had managed to get Brother Scieran to calm down a bit. It wouldn't do to have him come into this corridor quite so irritated with Malal – especially not with an entire squad of Imperial Guards waiting to burst through the false walls on either side of them at a single word from the Reader or from the two guards at the door.

  The guards bowed low, then one turned and spun each of the rings in a predetermined order, turning each to a specific. The rings were not just decorations, but a combination lock created by an Emperor hundreds of Turns before, a ruler who was himself a Greater Gift with the power to create unbreakable locks. When Sword had first heard of this, she had not been impressed, until she had been told that that included the power to lock his enemies away in their own minds.

  Sometimes magic could be wonderful and beautiful. Other times, it was so cruel that she questioned whether the world would be better off without it, and what kind of universe could have come up with something capable of such abuse.

  But that is what we're for. To protect the helpless from those who would use the world as their plaything.

  The last ring turned. The door opened.

  She looked at Brother Scieran, who sighed again, as though the opening of the door had, in and of itself, validated his fear that nothing but mischief waited beyond.

  "Don't worry, old man," she said. "I'm sure the world as we know it is ending."

  He muttered something under his breath – she was fairly sure it was a string of very un-pious curses followed by something that ended "… show you who's old." Then they were inside, the door closing behind them.

  Their first sight of Malal didn't bode well for the meeting in general. It was well past noon, but he was still in bed, his nightgown clear proof that he hadn't yet ventured past the confines of this room.

  When he saw them he dropped the hunk of cheese he'd been holding in one hand, the goblet
of wine he had in his other one also tumbling to stain the bedcovering that probably cost more than an entire Pack in the kennels.

  Only there are no more kennels.

  That had been one of the first things Malal did after what Sword and her co-conspirators referred to as "the change": he had gotten rid of the slave auctions, the kennels, and the rules that had given military officers permission to do as they would to the children of Ansborn.

  And they had nearly done a better job destroying the Empire than the Chancellor and the original Malal did. It tossed the economy into chaos, caused mutinies that had to be put down – many by Sword and the flashing blades of her Gift – and sent shockwaves through the Empire.

  They learned the hard way that they couldn't fix in a day a government that had spent the last century rotting from the inside out.

  "You're here!" shouted Malal. He tried to get out of the bed, then almost fell when he tangled in the bedcovers.

  "You've been drinking!" roared Brother Scieran.

  Malal paused, processing this. "Well, I'm not drunk," he finally said, as though this was more than enough of a refutation.

  Brother Scieran cast his hands in the air, but not before throwing an I-told-you-so look in Sword's direction.

  "What did you need us for?" she asked Malal, hoping against all hope that it would be something important enough that Brother Scieran would overlook this moment. Though she really couldn't think in this moment what that could possibly be.

  "Oh!" Malal snapped his fingers in excitement, finally managing to extricate himself from his covers, then ran to a nearby writing desk. He picked a page off a thick sheaf of papers and held it up.

  "Well?" asked Brother Scieran after a moment.

  "What do you think?" asked Malal.

  "Of what?"

  "Of what?" He rattled the page, as though doing so would make clear what they were looking at. "It's my brand new stationary! Just came this morning. Well, I guess it was around one o'clock, but still. I knew you'd want to know, so I called – Hey, Scieran, what's going on with your face?"