Of Dawn and Darkness (The Elder Empire: Sea Book 2)

by Will Wight

  When Meia didn’t respond, he looked over to her, only to see that she’d vanished. Seconds later, he found out why: Jarelys Teach was marching up to him, trailing men and women in robes and staves.

  “It’s not appropriate for you to be alone out here, sir,” she said. She didn’t look straight at him, keeping her eyes on the crowd, but he heard the rebuke for what it was.

  Calder didn’t acknowledge it. “The Consultant’s Guild didn’t officially sanction this.”

  “The Guild also doesn’t openly recognize that they employ assassins,” Teach responded. “But that doesn’t stop them from doing so.” She didn’t ask where his information came from.

  “We have to respond to this.” He wanted her opinion, but he couldn’t be seen asking for it. Not with all these strangers around.

  “Yes sir, we do.” She gestured with one hand, and a handful of nearby Imperial Guards began moving Magisters back. When they were out of earshot, she continued, her voice low. “Our course of action is obvious, and I’m sure my fellow Guild Heads would agree with me. We have full justification for an attack on the Gray Island. The Consultants attacked and killed an allied leader without provocation, and the Witnesses will corroborate that. It’s exactly what we wanted: an excuse to attack them as soon as possible, but keep the public opinion on our side.”

  Calder nodded absently as he thought. There was still something strange about all this.

  “I’ve already sent a messenger to Captain Bennett. The hour The Eternal is seaworthy, I want to load up the entire Navigator’s Guild with as many soldiers and Guards as we can and head straight for the Gray Island. The longer we delay, the more likely that Estyr Six herself will get involved.”

  Still, Calder didn’t speak.

  “If we act immediately, we can remove one of our strongest enemies before the Regents even know we’re moving. The situation is very clear.”

  “Except that it’s a trap,” Calder said, finally.

  Teach’s hand twitched up toward her shoulder at the mention of a trap, seemingly on reflex. “All our information suggests that it was a mistake on the part of the Consultants. A botched mission combined with a Soulbound who lost control.”

  “There’s only so much coincidence I’m willing to accept,” he said. “First, the Independents find out about Alagaeus’ death weeks before they should have, and they publish it in the news-sheets. It forces us to hunt for an excuse to attack. Then, only a few days later, the perfect excuse drops out of the sky and lands in our laps.”

  “If you’re suggesting the Consultants manipulated events to that degree…if they were capable of coordinated action on that scale, they’d rule the world.”

  “I don’t think it was the Consultants that set the trap.”

  The Elders had a plan. Their actions with the Optasia, the Emperor’s death, the steadily growing conflict between the Guilds…If the Great Elders weren’t pulling the strings, they were at least enjoying the show.

  Teach stepped closer, lowering her voice even further. “It’s fine for you to express these doubts to me privately, but keep them away from the public. We need to make sure that people see you and the Imperialist Guilds as one and the same.”

  “I understand, but the confidence of the people isn’t our biggest problem. The Elders are involved here.”

  “The Great Elders have a plan. They always have a plan. We fight back by facing them head-on, and not hanging back in fear because they might—”

  Teach snapped around, staring at the section of wall. Her hand was already on Tyrfang’s hilt, though Calder hadn’t seen it move. She seemed transformed, like a lion poised to pounce, her Intent sharp and focused.

  With hardly a second’s hesitation, she lashed out with Tyrfang’s power.

  A lash of dark power flickered out, like a whip-crack of shadow. It blasted the top half of the wall to rubble, striking the figure that had been crouched on the other side. Calder had managed to deaden his senses before the attack, because he’d seen it before: the corrosive Intent would have left him with nightmares for days.

  Teach leaped, clearing the remaining wall in one bound, and slammed into the ground. She stood over the crouching figure with her blade ready to draw.

  “Remain on the ground. If you attempt to stand, you will be executed. If you speak without permission, you will be executed. If you draw a weapon, you will be executed.”

  The injured woman coughed and started to crawl out, so Calder caught a glimpse of blond hair and orange eyes. Meia.

  “Stop!” he ordered, walking forward to make sure that Teach didn’t strike again, but one look at her face told him it wasn’t necessary. The Guild Head was even more shocked than he was, her face going pale.

  “Meia?” Teach asked.

  Meia raised her head and tried to speak, even as blue scales popped up irregularly over her skin. She finally hacked out a breath and collapsed, breathing heavily, her muscles squirming on their own beneath her black uniform.

  “She’s been working with me,” Calder said hurriedly. “She protected me from the Champion, and I suspect she’ll soon join my crew. She’s on our side.”

  Teach looked at Meia as though staring through a window into the past. “Could be she is. But the last time I saw her, she…”

  The general let the thought trail off. When Imperial Guards came rushing over to tend to their Guild Head, she ordered them to load Meia back into a carriage and take her to the palace. “Full alchemical recovery,” Teach instructed. “The palace staff knows her, they should know how to deal with her enhancements. Three sets of eyes on her at all times. Any mistakes will be personally addressed by me.”

  Teach and Calder rode back in the carriage behind Meia. They’d seen what they needed to see in Maxeus’ warehouse, and now they were faced with a decision.

  Namely, whether to declare war on the oldest Imperial Guild.

  General Teach was totally certain of her opinion. “Decisive action here could prevent a full-scale war. If we destroy the Consultants, we destroy the capacity of the Independent Guilds to organize. In the best-case scenario, we may even be able to get the Architects on our side.”

  Cheska Bennett seemed to agree. “Once The Eternal is back in the water, I’ll lead the attack myself. This is what we needed.”

  As for Bliss… “I have supervised the repair of the Optasia. As far as we are capable of determining, it has sustained no permanent damage. It’s in swib-swab shape, as you sea captains say.”

  Calder exchanged a look with Cheska. “No one says that, Bliss.”

  “I see the books have misled me. I will be rid of them.”

  Bliss didn’t have much to contribute to the ongoing discussion, but her presence gave Calder an excuse to leave. While Cheska and Teach discussed the logistics involved in a coordinated assault on the Gray Island, with Bliss providing the occasional observation, Calder slipped away.

  The Optasia was unharmed.

  He hadn’t gone back to see Jerri again, but the last time he did, she had insisted that he needed to use the throne. Since the device was the only reason the Imperialist Guild Heads had allowed him to assume the role of Imperial Steward in the first place, he could reasonable assume that they wanted him to use it. So one way or another, he was going to end up using the Optasia. He might as well get a look at it first.

  On the second day since the sky cracked, Calder changed back into his old clothes—pants, jacket, sword, pistol, and at last a hat—and met with Andel and Foster. Together, they would go test the Optasia for the first time.

  “Why us?” Andel asked, as they moved toward the Emperor’s old quarters. Life in the Imperial Palace hadn’t changed him at all: he was still wearing the pure white of a Luminian Pilgrim, the silver sun emblem hanging on his chest.

  “I’ve asked myself that question every day for almost ten years, Andel,” Calder responded, adjusting his hat.

  “You want to get killed messing around with Imperial relics, that’s your bus
iness,” Foster grumbled. “You can leave me out of it.” He didn’t actually leave, though. He wore his shooting glasses on the tip of his nose, his reading glasses hanging down against his broad beard. He carried guns everywhere that he could fit one, as though he felt the Capital was more dangerous than the depths of the Aion.

  “I don’t have a reason in particular,” Calder said, finally answering Andel’s question. “I have to go inspect the Optasia, so I might as well feel like myself while I do it. None of the Emperor’s clothes, no one following me, no official escort.”

  While he was still speaking, his official escort arrived.

  She was the blond Guard captain with orange eyes, the one he’d seen before. She saluted as he passed, falling into step behind him. “Sir. With the number of recent attacks on the Imperial Palace, General Teach thought it would be wiser for you to have an attendant.”

  “So long as you feel like yourself, sir,” Andel said.

  The building that housed the Emperor’s chambers was looking somewhat worn, after the battle with the fleshy Elderspawn that had occurred in its courtyard. Several shutters had been ripped off, the walls were scarred, spots of dead flesh still lingered everywhere, and the stench of half-burned flesh hung in the air like smoke.

  Calder pushed open the great bronze doors that led inside, following the red carpet. It had been torn almost to shreds. The paintings hung askew, and inside the Emperor’s chambers themselves, the destruction was worse. Here was where Teach and Jerri had clashed directly, with Bliss’ Spear of Tharlos thrown in for good measure. The floorboards were peeled up, the walls cracked, and palace workmen hadn’t had long to repair the damage. Tarps and bare plaster covered the worst of it.

  The Optasia stood exposed, a cage of steel bars like the skeleton of a great chair.

  Foster moved forward, and Calder grabbed his arm. “Don’t Read it,” he warned.

  “How else are you going to check it for anything?”

  Calder didn’t really have an answer for that. “If you Read it, you activate it. And if there is still a problem, it would pass to you.”

  Foster grumbled something into his beard, but didn’t keep moving forward.

  If he was honest with himself, Calder was here for a break more than anything else. There was nothing he could do with the Optasia unless he was willing to use it fully, which still frightened him. Anything the Great Elders wanted him to do deserved serious consideration first.

  All in all, they stood staring at the throne for a full ten minutes before Andel politely suggested they stop wasting their time and leave.

  On their way out, they passed a goat-legged Imperial Guard shuffling a sheaf of papers in his hands. He didn’t even know to bow when Calder passed, muttering to himself and scribbling on the topmost page.

  “What’s the worst that could happen to you?” Foster asked Calder.

  “I could go insane and die.”

  “Besides that.”

  “It works perfectly, but I don’t know how to use it, so I end up cursing an Erinin orphanage and everyone inside it dies.”

  Andel held the great bronze door of the building open so everyone could pass. While they did, he asked a question of his own. “How likely is that, do you think? The Guild Heads all verified that the Optasia should be in working condition.”

  Calder relaxed, letting his Intent drift back through the building to the Emperor’s chambers. He wouldn’t be able to Read anything properly at this distance, but he was surprised by a flicker of something strange.

  He paused as the door slid shut, trying to figure out the wisp of unusual Intent he’d just picked up. He couldn’t quite place it, but it felt like something…hidden.

  After a minute or two of quiet Reading, he finally placed the feeling.

  “Someone’s in there,” he said.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Seven years ago

  Eventually, the arena killed everyone.

  The contests of duelists and gladiators were governed by centuries of tradition, and here in northern Izyria, tradition weighed heavier than Imperial law. The Emperor himself, as the story went, gave in to the tradition of the ancient Izyrian tribes by dueling one by one for their support. Here, that story was told to reinforce one simple point: even the Emperor bowed to the rules of the ring.

  So when Urzaia was condemned to the arena to die, they couldn’t just lop of his head and be done with it. There were procedures to follow, spectators to satisfy. Fathers who couldn’t feed their children bought tickets to the fights, and roared more loudly than the rest. As long as they were happy, the arena’s administrators made money. The more money the administrators made, the more trickled down to the Patrons whose fighters cut and bled on the sand. It was in everyone’s best interest to keep the drunken, unruly mob in the stands happy.

  And Urzaia did.

  The rough iron gate rattled as it rose, and he marched up the stairs of yellow stone like the Emperor on his way to a coronation. He wore his trademark mismatched armor: leather straps over his chest and one arm, a patch of chain mesh over his heart, and thick gauntlets on both hands. The haphazard mix of protection made the gold-scaled hide wrapped around his left arm seem almost commonplace. If anyone was looking for a Vessel, their eyes would first turn to his hatchets, his gauntlets, or perhaps his ornate belt-buckle carved in the image of a snake eating its own tail. His captors had delivered his Vessel to him only after ensuring he was wrapped in invested chains.

  That was another rule of the arena: the fighter had to walk onto the sands at his best.

  When his feet left stone and crunched on sunlit sand, the crowd roared. He beamed at them, basking in their cheers and in the sun on his flesh, and lifted his black hatchets to the sky. The sound swelled. Not a seat was empty on this fine summer’s day; it was a healthy crowd even for a blood match. Two sides would enter the arena, and only one would walk away. At most.

  Urzaia fought once every three days, which was all his Patron would allow. Every three days, excluding emergencies and Imperial holidays, he fought. His life was the wager, without exception—the Emperor’s command insisted that he die on the sands.

  He had defied that command for three years.

  Urzaia walked with a hatchet in either hand, the power of his Vessel flowing from the upper half of his arm to the rest of his body, the song of the crowd surrounding him. His blood thrummed with life, until he felt drawn tight like a new bowstring. An opponent had cut his little toe off in the last match, but he’d taken an even trade out of the man’s skull. His wounds had healed by now, and he was back in fighting shape, though he’d have to watch his balance.

  Thoughts like those flew through the back of his mind so that he was hardly aware of them. He was enjoying the moment too much to dwell on the future.

  He may have been sentenced to die here, but the arena gave him a reason to live.

  His opponent met him on the sand, a man whose scars twisted his face into an eternal snarl. He wore a wolf pelt with the beast’s head over his own like a hood, and he carried a sickle in each hand. He must have been trying to make a signature for himself, like Urzaia’s hatchets. It would help the audience to remember him.

  The man might already be famous; Urzaia only remembered those who stood in the ring against him, and those were all dead men. He did know that the audience applause was significantly cooler than it had been for Urzaia, and there were a few jeers thrown in for good measure. This stretched Urzaia’s smile even wider.

  “Only one of you?” Urzaia gestured to his opponent with one hatchet. “It is good to see a man in the arena at last!”

  The crier’s voice boomed throughout the arena, enhanced by invested acoustics. “Once again, Imperial citizens, we have a blood match to slake your endless thirst!” He waited for the cheers to die down before continuing. “Clearly, you all know the man who splits his foes like logs for winter, the undefeated WOODSMAN!”

  Wild cheers accompanied this announcement, as they always
did the introduction of fighters. Urzaia simply couldn’t believe they were putting him up against a lone opponent. Every match thus far had been tilted against him in some way, designed to end in his death. He didn’t blame the administrators; that was how the arena should be. But for this man to pose a threat to him alone...was he some sort of legendary Soulbound? Perhaps a Guild Head had come in disguise.

  “And against him, the tamer of beasts, the victor of a hundred contests under Patron Gametti, the man who is a full team unto himself...HOUNDMASTER!”

  And Urzaia felt the heavy weight of disappointment once again. Of course they would send more teams against him, and he was foolish to expect otherwise. For his three hundredth match, they had surprised him by matching him against two teams. He shouldn’t have allowed himself to hope for one man who could threaten him.

  He looked at the other iron grates behind the Houndmaster. Based on the man’s name, he was assuming there were some dogs or Kameira back there, but none of the gates moved. Were there invisible Kameira wolves surrounding him even now?

  The thought cheered him a bit, and he swept a hatchet to one side experimentally. No sudden squeals suggested he’d bitten into invisible dog flesh.

  When the crier finished his lines—a few more sentences about the glory of the Empire and the history of this arena in particular—and the bell at the top of the tower rang, Urzaia was still waiting for the hounds to show up.

  Before the ringing faded away, the Houndmaster dropped one sickle and pulled up a yellowed horn that had hung against his chest. It looked like a ram’s horn, and Urzaia had assumed it was another decoration to go along with the man’s wolf cloak.

  Why draw the sickle at all, if he meant to drop it? Urzaia wondered. Did he want me to believe he’d close with me? Urzaia was forced to conclude the man was merely foolish.

  He did stand back and let the Houndmaster blow his horn. The man was an experienced fighter, so he would certainly have a way to counter a straightforward strike. Besides, Urzaia wanted to see what the horn would do.