Eusabian had studied his enemy in the long years of his paliach, determined not to repeat the mistake that had almost destroyed him after Acheront. He had scrutinized the symbolism and ritual of government that upheld the Panarchy, the carefully nurtured mysteries cultivated by the Magisterium and the College of Archetype and Ritual; for he knew that in the symbols by which someone rules, you perceive the ruler’s soul, strengths and weaknesses.
But now, confronted for the first time with the actual embodiment of those mysteries, his mind recoiled from the formidable reality behind the symbols. Before him stood the Tree of Worlds, whose invigorating sap informs and infuses all creation. The one who had been consecrated to sit upon it was the health of the Thousand Suns, and its health his.
Behind him the doors swung fully open against the walls with a resonant boom that Eusabian perceived more through his feet and skin than through his ears, and the enthrallment shattered. I am the Lord of Vengeance and the Avatar of Dol. My ancestors ruled in Jhar D’ocha when this island was a wilderness, and the blood and lineage of Dol’jhar has proved its primacy with the overthrow of my enemy.
He strode forward and climbed up the stairs of the dais. As he approached the Throne, he could see in the distance behind it the towering Gate of Aleph-Null, whose aspect is transcendence. To the left and right loomed the Ivory Gate and the Rouge Gate: autonomy and actuality. At the Throne he stood, just breathing, held rapt by the shimmering highlights moving subtly in its viridian depths. Turning about, he looked back at the open Phoenix Gate, whose aspect is irreversibility. Then, reveling in the action with every part of his being, Eusabian seated himself in the Emerald Throne.
o0o
Anaris had never liked the Throne Room. Nothing on Dol’jhar had prepared him for his first experience of its vast scale, and even now, years later and fully grown, he felt diminished, almost invisible as he approached his father, bowed deeply, and then took his place standing to the right.
Perhaps it was different for one who sat in the Emerald Throne, something he’d never dared during his fosterage in the Mandala. Certainly, his father seemed unaffected, but it was always difficult to discern what Jerrode Eusabian thought.
The Lord of Vengeance sat stiff-backed in the Throne, booted feet planted apart, hands gripping its carven arms, the lines in his face harsh in the wash of color from the stained-glass windows and the simulated stars above. The somberness of his demeanor was enhanced by the unrelieved black garb, stark against the shimmering viridian depths of the Throne, that Dol’jharian tradition required for the humiliation ritual of a formal vengeance.
Looking down the long double line of Douloi in resplendent raiment that stretched away toward the distant Phoenix Gate, Anaris recalled the glory of formal Court presentations, beyond anything that Dol’jhar’s relative poverty could support. He suppressed the urge to laugh at the image of one of his ancestors posing before a mirror and declaring that not only did black make one look threatening, it kept one’s wardrobe expenditures to a minimum. He remembered his luxurious wardrobe, acquired as a hostage, with sharp regret.
This I will say of you, Gelasaar, Anaris thought as he turned his gaze back to his father. You were generous to your prisoner. If you survive this encounter here today, you will not meet with the same generosity in Jerrode Eusabian.
Eusabian’s face lifted in a barely perceptible tic, and Anaris heard a spattering of faint clinks from the harnesses of the Tarkan guards behind the Douloi. He looked back at the Phoenix Gate.
Ah. There he was, the Panarch Gelasaar, former ruler of the Thousand Suns, his age-pale hair haloed by the light from the Phoenix Hall behind him.
Anaris hadn’t expected to see cringing or fear. Inwardly he awarded the old man credit for the way he walked toward the Throne with easy grace, apparently oblivious to the demeaning gray prison garb and the neuro-spasmic collar around his neck.
But there was something unexpected going on as the two men approached. Gelasaar hai-Arkad was not a large man. He was actually no taller than Barrodagh, who walked at his side, every line of his scrawny body taut with suspicion and wariness. So how was it, Anaris wondered, that Gelasaar seemed to grow taller, as though the hall now clothed him visibly in the authority and power that had once been his, while Barrodagh seemed to shrink, in violation of the laws of perspective?
It’s a trick of the light, Anaris thought, scrutinizing the two men carefully. He twisted his head to spot the source, but was defeated by the eye-tricking depths above him, unstable with figure-ground shifts between the constellations of a night sky and the ghostly branches of a great Tree. With a mental shrug, Anaris decided he could investigate the ambience controls at some later date.
As the Panarch passed his Douloi, they bowed deeply, the motion and the susurration of their clothing suggesting wheat stalks bending before the wind in a summer field. Near the head of the line waited a trinity of Kelly, their snake-like head-stalks in constant motion. Barrodagh jerked the spasmic controller up closer to his chest as he shied away from their triplicate echo of the Douloi bows. Anaris grimaced, shifting his gaze away from the slithery motion of their head-stalks. He breathed lightly to avoid the burned-fodder scent of their bodies.
At the base of the Throne the Panarch halted and raised his face. There was no sound now but a faint booming, almost like a heartbeat, that Anaris supposed was the vast hall’s natural resonance. The Douloi watched, some betraying unease in the angles of head, all helpless. They had been searched down to the bone, every one, and each of the Tarkan guards standing behind them held weapons at the ready.
Let the duel begin, he thought, shifting his attention to Barrodagh, whose eyes flicked back and forth between the Avatar and the Panarch, one hand clenched white-knuckled on the controller as he made a peremptory gesture with it toward the other side of the throne from Anaris. There two immense Tarkans with red brimless caps on their scarred, shaven heads stood, light glinting from the two-handed broadswords they gripped, points down. Between them was the en’jha-turik abasement rug of a lord’s paliach.
The Panarch turned his way, regarded Barrodagh with a furrowed brow, as if trying to bring him into focus. They stood eye to eye. The Bori was probably twenty years younger, but his face was as lined as that of Gelasaar hai-Arkad.
“Go,” Barrodagh commanded. “As you were told.”
He began to raise the controller in what was meant to be a threatening gesture, but Gelasaar turned his back before he could complete it, and walked the few steps to the small circle of red silk, stepped onto it, and turned around.
Anaris hissed involuntarily through his teeth. He was sure Gelasaar knew what he had just done by standing on his enemy’s abasement rug. The lines around Eusabian’s mouth deepened.
Barrodagh’s face blanched. “Kneel!” he whispered fiercely.
The Panarch’s only response was to lift his head, but not to study the Avatar. This time he met Anaris’s gaze straight on.
What is this physical sensation caused by eyes meeting eyes? A spark of admiration, even the briefest flicker of regret, but above all anticipation. Anaris smiled, hoping that Gelasaar would see the challenge. If he took it as camaraderie—if it gave him strength—what of it? The duel would be more interesting.
But Barrodagh clearly did not like that meeting of gazes, the smile. With a voiceless snarl, Barrodagh jerked his head at one of the Tarkans, who grabbed the Panarch’s neuro-spasmic collar with one meaty hand and buckled his knees with a brutal kick behind them, lowering him just a bit too slowly to the floor. The Panarch’s breathing harshened, then steadied slowly. He sank back on his haunches, his hands on his thighs, his back rigidly erect, and gazed steadily out at the assembled aristocrats.
Anaris smoothed his face, permitting no sign of his disgust to show. By the time he reached his twelfth year, he had known he was strong enough to break Gelasaar’s neck with his bare hands. This duel would be the better for being one of wit. But Barrodagh, a master of the endless Catenn
ach dueling, relied not on wit but on secrecy and torturous byways. Here he was but a creature of the Avatar, and his only goal was to make sure the formal humiliation proceeded in proper order.
Barrodagh moved closer to the Throne, and, after a glance at Eusabian, who had yet to move or speak, he turned to face the Douloi. He lifted his voice, obviously straining to project into the vast chamber. “You have been summoned here to swear fealty to the new Lord of the Mandala, the Avatar of Dol, the Lord of Vengeance and the Kingdoms of Dol’jhar. On his right hand stands life and prosperity. On his left hand—” Barrodagh gestured to the kneeling Panarch. “—awaits only death. Choose now.”
Barrodagh pointed to the first Douloi, an aged woman with a fierce, hawk-like face, but halted as Eusabian moved one hand in a sign of negation. “Bring the beasts first,” he said, his distaste unsurprising to Anaris.
Some Tarkans herded the Kelly trinity forward as Barrodagh retrieved a transparent ball about two hand-spans in diameter. He handed it gingerly to Eusabian; inside was a writhing, fluttering mass of bright green ribbons.
The Kelly halted at the sight of the sphere and moaned, a haunting triple croon laden with alien emotion.
“As it appears you have surmised, this is all that remains of your Archon,” said Eusabian, holding the sphere up in one hand, “the only hope for the continuation of...” His upper lip wrinkled in disdain. “... its line and its memories. Its fate is yours to decide.”
The three Kelly stood silently, their head-stalks writhing in an almost hypnotic pattern. Then they stilled. The central, smaller one spoke in a mellow contralto blat counterpointed by a dismal, alien threnody from the other two as all three stood stiffly, their head-stalks upright, their blue eyes unblinking.
“There is only death here,” the Kelly said, almost singing. “Death in your eyes, death in your mouth, death in your mind. The end of life is carried in your scent. Not for you a third, for death rides in your loins as well.”
Anaris pursed his lips. How did they know that Eusabian is sterile? His father’s face had not changed, but a vein in his temple beat visibly.
“Wethree will not serve you,” the Kelly sang. “Power you have, but you are drone. Life rejects you, wethree reject you.”
With a snap of his wrist, Eusabian threw the sphere to the floor in front of him. Thick veins of plasma snapped into being within it, writhing across its inner surface with a crackling hum. The green ribbons within convulsed frantically, withering to motionless black crinkles and then collapsing into dust.
The Tarkan swordsmen strode forward. The Kelly did not move as the blades swept hissing through their head-stalks in gouts of yellow blood which splashed the Douloi to either side. The creatures collapsed slowly to the floor, dying muscles twitching in triune rhythm. The severed head-stalks writhed for a time, the blue eyes blinking, then were quiet.
Anaris looked away, struck by the profound contrast between Gelasaar’s unhidden grief and Barrodagh’s open sneer.
The executioners shook off their blades and stepped back into ready position, leaving space for three Tarkans to drag the bodies to the left side of the Emerald Throne. As the first man’s gauntleted hand touched the ribbons of the Intermittor who had spoken for the trinity, a thin stream of smoke puffed up, then he screamed hoarsely and fell to the floor. His body bowed backward until his head touched his heels and he screamed even louder, but not loudly enough to drown the sickening crunching sounds as his tortured muscles spasmed again and again, breaking his bones in a deadly struggle that only ended when his diaphragm tore across and a gout of blood spewed from his mouth.
If you really think of them as beasts, you are a fool, thought Anaris, looking at his father’s grim features. Anaris had never let a Kelly touch him in the long years of his exile here, despite, or perhaps because of, their reputation as the greatest physicians in the Thousand Suns. An Intermittor had conscious control of the chemical composition of its ribbons, and this one had poisoned its ribbons to take an enemy with it into death.
Eusabian turned his head. The Tarkans took that as the signal of mounting impatience that it was, but already someone in the background had the wit to bring forward two-handed jacs, with which they carefully shifted the mangled corpses to the side, leaving a yellow-green smear to mix with the crimson and black blood from the dead Tarkan.
Barrodagh stepped around the slime to motion the old woman forward.
I remember her, Anaris thought as she turned her head, her gray eyes narrowed, reflecting the star lights above as she met Gelasaar’s gaze. The hooked nose and high cheekbones in her dark, wrinkled face gave her the aspect of a predatory bird. No wagers on just how much worse this is going to go before the Avatar gets what he wants.
She looked up at the Avatar and snorted. “Huh! You’re too small for that Throne.” She waved a thin arm around. “And all these bully boys won’t make your butt any bigger.” She coughed noisily, then leaned forward and spat a foul wad on Eusabian’s boots.
Barrodagh blanched, and Anaris held his breath against a betraying laugh. Oh yes, I was right. If this kept up, they’d be knee-deep in blood, and Eusabian would be in a rage for days.
One of the executioners impaled the old woman on his sword. She closed her eyes as agony distorted her face, but she made no sound other than a grunt. The swordsman’s muscles bunched under his uniform as he swiveled and used the sword like a pitchfork to throw her body over on top of the Kelly near the Panarch. Her blood splashed on Gelasaar’s face and garments as the sword pulled out of her body; the Panarch made no move to wipe it away.
The next seven Douloi chose the same fate. Anaris was already bored. He watched Barrodagh, who shifted his boots as their blood lapped against them, but he could not step back as his heels were already against the final step of the dais. The hot-copper scent of blood lay heavy on the still air. Many of the waiting Douloi looked greenish gray with nausea and fear. Eusabian’s face was stone hard. Anaris kept his body under control. Barrodagh’s frequent, sidewise glances upward were a measure of how unsafe anyone in the Avatar’s proximity was when he was in this mood.
The ninth Douloi trembled so hard he could hardly stand, and he would not look at the Panarch. He stood stoop-shouldered before Eusabian for a trembling second. Finally, Anaris thought in derision as the man laid himself flat on the floor, face down, in the obeisance that no doubt Barrodagh had lectured the Douloi about before he’d permitted the Tarkans to bring them into the Throne Room.
The Avatar’s lips eased a fraction. The man looked up in question, and at a jerk of Barrodagh’s head levered himself to his feet and stumbled over to the right side of the throne. His clothes were crimson with the blood of his predecessors. Anaris heard the man vomiting, choking as he tried to suppress the noise.
The man’s capitulation had broken the spell, and one by one, with enough exceptions to visibly swell the pile of bodies next to the Panarch and the pool of blood at the foot of the Throne, the remaining Douloi came up and made obeisance. None of them would meet their former liege’s eyes. At the end of the line were a number of older Douloi, their countenances expressive of the grim, almost exalted determination of the martyr: what was left of the Panarch’s Privy Council. Doesn’t the Avatar see that? More loyal speeches and spitting ahead, Anaris thought, bracing himself.
But when the Privy Council reached the Throne, Eusabian held up his hand. “It is enough. These will share their master’s fate.”
One of the executioners pulled the Panarch to his feet and pushed him roughly to stand before Eusabian. The old man gazed up at his enemy, apparently oblivious to the threads of blood congealing in his white hair and beard and on his face, and the lake of it pooling around his feet. On the left side of the Throne a few bodies in the pile of those who had chosen loyalty to the Panarch still twitched. The stink of death was overpowering.
“So, Gelasaar,” Eusabian said finally, “it appears rather more of your Douloi chose life than death.”
The
Panarch’s gaze had gone absent. Come, Gelasaar, Anaris thought. Don’t disappoint me.
The Panarch’s stance altered. Anaris heard him draw a breath. “Say rather that some chose loyalty.”
The Avatar’s lips twitched.
The Panarch glanced at the Douloi who had made obeisance. “Those who remain will die many times in nights to come as they remember this day.” The Panarch lifted his voice to be heard by the survivors. “But I do not judge them. Self-judgment is their one remaining duty, and they will execute it faithfully.”
Eusabian smiled. His mood had changed to one of pleasurable anticipation. It’s almost time for the sons, Anaris thought as the Avatar said, “You are no longer in a position to judge anyone, Gelasaar. Henceforth you will be the victim of circumstances, rather than their creator.”
The Panarch replied with the ease and readiness of the lifetime speech-maker, “You know little of statecraft, Dol’jhar, if you think the ruler of trillions is ever anything but the victim of circumstances.”
Nice beat and disengage. Anaris wondered if his father was aware that Gelasaar had chosen not to mirror his deliberate rudeness in the use of his given name, replying instead as one sovereign to another. Now strike home, old man, before the boxes come out to shatter that wit.
But Gelasaar’s verbal saber made another deflection. “All one can do is assign priorities and pray.”
Eusabian uttered a soft huff of a laugh. Yes, he was really enjoying himself. “It seems neither your prayers nor your priorities did you much good.” He lifted two fingers from the throne arm, indicating the carnage the Tarkans had created. “Nor your loyal subordinates.”
The Phoenix in Flight Page 31