The Usurper's Crown

by Sarah Zettel

  “What should we do?” asked Ingrid softly.

  Avanasy looked over his shoulder at the high wall and the closed gates. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “Yet.”

  Pa K’un, the Heart of Heaven and Earth, sat in the summer garden, to all appearances contemplating the small waterfall where it ran over the perfectly rounded gray stones. The sound of it was pleasant, especially when mixed with the rustle of the leaves around him and the warmth of the summer sun on his skin. The servants, secretaries, soldiers and elders had retired to various discreet distances, which gave him rare and welcome room to think for himself.

  His thoughts, however, were far more troubled than the chattering water in front of him. Counts of troops, of supplies, of moneys, of stores whirled through his head, and they were far from enough to repel a determined invasion. He held what would be a valuable hostage under normal circumstances, but if the goal of the enemy’s game was conquest, even the anointed empress would not be hostage enough.

  Now there came these two “messengers,” also with tales of usurpation. They came in the name of the empress of Isavalta, but obviously had no idea where she was. The first of them, Lord Avanasy, was a known name, and was a close advisor and tutor to the empress before her marriage, but then was sent into exile. Which led to the question, did he truly come in the empress’s name, or did he secretly serve the usurper?

  The silent woman who accompanied him in the station of his wife was a complete unknown, but the elders felt an oddness about her, as of someone who might not be a power, but who had most certainly been touched by power.

  There had been no answer yet from his missive to Hastinapura, and Pa K’un found himself beginning to fear what that answer might hold. For the first time in several years, he felt himself too young for his sacred office.

  Movement off to the right caught his eye. He turned and saw Dieu Han, the dowager empress, kneel on the grass before him. She performed the obeisance carefully, conscious of the fall of her silken sleeves and of the gold and jade ornaments adorning her lacquered hair.

  “Please rise, Honored Mother,” said Pa K’un, torn between relief, as she was the one person to whom he could speak of these matters freely, and annoyance, as he wanted to think more, and knew she would have her own firm opinions on what should be done next. “Sit with me.” Here in the garden, he could speak without the Voice. This earth was sacred, and plowed deep with spells of peace and protection long before the first stone of the Heart of the World was laid. Even the Minister of Air acknowledged that no malevolent magic could be brought to bear here.

  Dieu Han rose as gracefully as she had knelt, giving her robes time to settle back into their proper lines. A pair of servants instantly slipped forward with a low chair for her and placed it behind her where she might sit without having to rudely glance away from the emperor.

  Pa K’un contemplated the dowager. She was not his blood mother. She had not been the mother of the two emperors before him, both of whom had died when they were still boys. Her blood son had been Jian Ayd Cao, whom she bore to Emperor Seong Kyung Cao when she still bore the more humble title of Beloved Companion, and was only the first among the concubines in the women’s palace. Emperor Seong had at once raised her to be empress, and she bore the change, they said, with all appropriate dignity. But Emperor Seong had died in battle against feuding overlords, and Emperor Jian had died of a fall in the arms of a careless nurse when he was only three. That left Dieu Han as dowager, with the responsibility to choose the next emperor, with the guidance of the gods and the Nine Elders, of course. Should such advice lead her to one who was under the age of manhood, then she also had the ruling of Hung Tse as regent until the imperial boy could rule in his own name.

  Pa K’un was not so foolish as to believe it was mere coincidence or divine will that had led Dieu Han to choose three boys in a row. Nor was it accidental that he was the first to have survived past sixteen. He had ever been diligent about making sure his “mother’s” wishes were attended to, and that her voice was always heard in council. Never forgetting other facts, Dieu Han could be an excellent advisor on certain matters. This might well be one of them.

  “So, Honored Mother,” said Pa K’un. “How do you think we should dispose of these northern visitors?”

  The set of Dieu Han’s jaw and the glint in her dark eyes told Pa K’un that she was not in the mood to waste words on ceremony. “My son, you must let them escape.”

  Pa K’un blinked. He had been expecting an audacious answer, but nothing like this. “And why should I do this thing, Honored Mother?”

  “Because,” replied Dieu Han in a voice that was little more than a whisper, “when the empress of Isavalta is gone, it will force the Nine Elders to do what they will not do otherwise — summon one of the four guardians to protect us all.”

  Pa K’un took a moment to let the implications of that suggestion settle in. The possibility had been raised before, when last he had spoken with Dieu Han in the throne room, as a matter of fact. He had given it lip service then, but now he forced himself to consider it seriously.

  None of the immortal guardians had been summoned in three hundred years. To do so was to demand the sacrifice of one of the Nine Elders. If that was not reason enough to give one pause, there was also the well-documented fact that such a summoning could be a two-edged sword. The four guardians would indeed protect Hung Tse from her enemies, but once summoned, they had been known to decide that one of those enemies was a rash and careless emperor.

  A fact which Dieu Han was as aware of as he.

  “I may not order such a thing,” he said, reminding the dowager of another fact which she also knew perfectly well. “The Nine Elders are preeminent in the magical defense of Hung Tse. In this area, even I may not interfere.”

  “Which is why the northerners must escape,” murmured Dieu Han without even the show of demure deference to her emperor. “We may be honest here, you and I, my son. Hung Tse is weak. We know this. Hastinapura, the pirates, the rebels in the east and our own lords. There has been too much for too long and we are a hollow land. Our enemies will know this soon. We cannot wait for them to make this discovery.”

  “You are very sure of this, Honored Mother.”

  “I have outlived three emperors to choose you for the throne, my son. I may outlive you. We cannot know what the future holds, but I am growing old, and I have seen the way of things for a long time.”

  The emperor regarded her steadily, understanding full well what she had said, and what she had not said. Around them, the wind blew in the leaves, the waterfall chattered, and the warmth and scents of summer wafted on the breeze, yet it seemed to Pa K’un he sat in the middle of a profound stillness.

  “It would be a thing which must be most carefully accomplished,” he said slowly.

  “As you say, my son.” Dieu Han finally let some deference creep into her tone, if only because she knew she must not push him too boldly now that he appeared to be leaning toward agreement. “The orders must be given only to those whose loyalty is absolute.”

  “Do you know of any such?”

  “I do.” The confidence in her voice was absolute.

  She played a dangerous game. There were so many possibilities, and once the guardian was summoned, they were in no one’s control, not even the gods. The guardian would surely defeat the invaders on the northern border, but what else would it do? It might decide Pa K’un was weak and unfit, and devour him, leaving Dieu Han to choose yet another emperor and regain the rule of Hung Tse.

  But it might also decide that Dieu Han had played one too many games with the sacred rule, and there would be no more dowager in Hung Tse.

  If this was a gamble, it was one of legendary proportions. Pa K’un carefully considered the state of readiness his generals had outlined to him again, and again he saw how badly short it fell. He had inherited a much-weakened empire, and he could not be the only one to see that much of that weakness was attributable to the woman
who sat across from him, and all her cleverness. How long had she planned this? Why should she desire it? Or was it that she finally realized that she had brought Hung Tse to the brink by all her years of surreptitious rule?

  Pa K’un gazed at the woman who had adopted him as her son. It was not possible that her face paint had been poorly applied, so the shadows under her eyes must be real. Perhaps she was afraid. They were weak. He knew that, and she might know it better than he.

  He would have to accept her wager, and pray hard to be granted a pure heart as he did.

  “Then, Honored Mother,” he said, forcing his voice to stay steady as he did. “I will trust you to see this thing properly done.”

  The dowager empress slipped from her chair to her knees, making the departing obeisance. Her gold, jade and silk sparkled in the clear light. Holding herself still as she did, she might have been some beautifully carved statue. “You honor me, my son.”

  “But mother,” he went on. “Have a care when you contemplate which of us will live the longest. My gratitude at you placing me upon the throne is great, but I am no longer a boy. I have held the seat for some years now, and there is every sign I may hold it for many years yet.”

  “That is my only wish for you, my son,” she murmured piously.

  “I thank you, Honored Mother,” he replied. “You may now go. I wish to be alone awhile yet.”

  She rose and left him. Pa K’un watched her gliding away among the carefully tended willows and drooping lilies.

  And thus the thing is set in motion, he thought, and permitted himself to shiver despite the warmth of the day. We play with the dice of lives and empires, Honored Mother, and we know not what is truly stirring in the hearts of the Isavaltans or their kings. O gods, oh spirit of my father, let my throw be true.

  There is no such thing as a warm night on guard.

  Ferin Zarnotasyn Ferinivin, Over-Lieutenant of the Imperial House Guard, tucked his poleax under his arm and clapped his hands together, trying to get some blood circulating through his fingers. His leather gloves seemed to be holding the cold in more than they were keeping it out. In the darkness, he could hear his fellow guards giving each other the watch word as they patrolled the edges of the encampment in the light of the campfires and the slender moon. Most of them worked in twos and threes. Ferin had the dubious distinction of a lonely outrider’s post, gleefully assigned to him by his bull’s ass of a captain who liked the southern emperor’s ideas of camp discipline. What was a dice game to anyone? A man had to do something with his time. There was only so much sitting around a man could bear.

  Make sure to tell Rasina he was lucky they didn’t catch him with that woman. Probably had the balls off him for that. Ferin stripped off his right glove and blew on his fingers.

  Damn, we’re too far south for it to be this cold.

  To his left, the woods rustled. Ferin broke off his train of thought, and lowered his poleax to a ready position. No need to get upset if it was just a fox, but no excuse not to be ready in case it wasn’t.

  The rustling continued. Whatever was out there, it was far to big for a fox, and too bold for a deer.

  “Come out and be recognized,” Ferin called into the darkness, straining his eyes to see further, but there was nothing but shadows.

  After another moment’s rustling, an indistinct figure emerged from the underbrush. It took Ferin a minute to realize what he was seeing was a thick kaftan with a hood pulled down low to disguise the face underneath it.

  What Ferin did not see was any weapon. That, however, did not ease his mind at all.

  “Friend or foe?” he demanded. And you’d better speak your Isavaltan pure, friend. Any Hung accents and I’m having your head off here.

  “Friend,” came back a man’s voice, muffled badly by the deep hood.

  “What’s the word?”

  The stranger hesitated and Ferin tightened his grip on his axe.

  “The word is that the night you made over sergeant, Ferin Zarnotasyn Ferinivin, you decided you were going to celebrate in Voislava’s house, no matter what anyone tried to tell you about that particular whore’s den being a thieves’ den as well. You got so drunk, you passed out and woke up to find out the women had stolen your purse, all your gear, stripped you naked and left you out in the street for the dawn patrol to find, and if you hadn’t had good friends in the foot guard at the time, you would have lost your new rank as well.”

  Ferin choked. There were two men who knew that story. One of them was still guarding Vaknevos. The other …

  “Peshek?” whispered Ferin despite the disbelief that filled him.

  The hooded figure nodded.

  “Vyshko’s pike!” Ferin reached out to clasp his friend’s hand, but stopped in the midst of the gesture. “What are you doing here?” he demanded in a harsh whisper. “Are you out of your mind? They’ll kill you if they catch you!”

  “You should kill me here and now, Ferin,” replied Peshek steadily. He moved sideways just a little to let the moonlight filter under his hood. It was Peshek all right. There was no mistaking that face, or those blue eyes that held their spark of mischief even at such a time as this. “I’m a traitor after all.”

  Ferin spat. “Pah. Not a man believes that.”

  The corner of Peshek’s mouth twisted into a smile. “Tell that to the ones that have been chasing me halfway across Isavalta.”

  “Not a man who knows you then.” Ferin looked sharply left and right to make sure no one was approaching. “But what in the name of Vyshko’s bones are you doing here?”

  “Recruiting.” Peshek’s smile faded and his partly lit face became a mask of perfect seriousness. “Starting with you, I hope.”

  “Recruiting?” Ferin gaped at him. “Who? For what?”

  “For the empress’s army.”

  Ferin pulled back. He could see enough of Peshek’s face to see the man was perfectly sober, and that he meant what he said. Could it be true after all? Could Peshek, Peshek of all men, son of one of the best commanders there ever was, truly have turned traitor?

  “The empress’s army is here.” Ferin planted the butt of his poleax on the ground for emphasis.

  “No,” replied Peshek gravely. “This is Kacha’s army. The empress’s army is with me, and my father.”

  Again, Ferin’s gaze shifted left, then right. The other patrols sounded reassuringly far away. If he were caught at this moment, what he’d be staring at would be a lot worse than a cold patrol. “Peshek, I think maybe you should get out of here, now.”

  Peshek didn’t move. “Do you think I’d be here if I couldn’t prove what I say?” he asked with his familiar, light confidence. “Will you hear me, Ferin?”

  Vyshko’s bones. I should be calling for the men. I should give you a count of three to get your fool self out of here. I should.

  But he did not. “I’ll hear you, but only if you talk fast.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Peshek reached into his sash, and despite all he knew of the man, Ferin automatically stiffened, ready to dodge sideways should metal flash in the moonlight. If Peshek noticed, he said nothing. He just pulled out a folded piece of paper and held it out for Ferin.

  Ferin took the paper, squinting closely at it to decipher the broken seal. At last, he made out the spread wings of the imperial eagle.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “From the empress.”

  Ferin opened the letter and read the brief words it contained. As he did, Peshek began to speak in a steady whisper, telling him of being summoned to the Red Library, of the empress’s fear for her life, of how he and the keeper of the empress’s god house had helped her imperial majesty flee toward the Heart of the World, of how he had carried out his orders by meeting Lord Avanasy, whose treason was also a ruse, and sending him on after the empress. How he continued to serve by raising an army to stop the one now led by Emperor Kacha.

  “He’s nothing but a southern usurper,” muttered Peshek. “I know not what
he’s done to the Council of Lords, but he has strong magics supporting him. This whole business of the confinement is a lie to explain why the empress does not appear in public anymore. I’ll bet my head that they’ll say she died suddenly in childbed, probably with the heir, when her time comes.”

  Ferin looked down at the letter again. The paper crackled between his fingers. “And that is why we could not find this madwoman sorceress, although we scoured the country for her.”

  Peshek nodded. “This war is not the empress’s. This war is the southerner’s.”

  Ferin looked away from Peshek toward the camp. The fires flickered between the trees. The noise of voices had abated as those not on watch took to their tents, if they were lucky enough to have such, or rolled themselves in blankets to get what sleep they could on the unforgiving ground.

  “What’s the mood of the camp?” asked Peshek.

  Ferin shrugged. “Good enough. No one likes the southern emperor, that’s certain, but they do like the idea of taking a bite out of the Hung.”

  Peshek fell silent. Ferin kept looking toward the fires. He did not want to think about this. This was not the sort of choice he should have to make. He knew where his orders came from and where his loyalties all lay. Before Peshek had come with this … story of his, Ferin would not have questioned any of that, any more than he would have questioned his need to breathe. But if what Peshek said was true, then it was Ferin himself who was the traitor right now, not Peshek. But if he was being led astray …