by Tyler Chase
Vaush nodded and took a deep breath, pulling herself together. “How do we access the Chronicle Archives?”
Bhedrus handed Chaiyse a small metallic box. She pressed her slender finger against the side of it. “With this.”
Vaush leaned in to examine the contents of the box. “Oh, not the Elpanf again.”
To Comron it appeared to be some sort of mechanical centipede, half the length of his pinky finger and thin enough to slip effortlessly into the ear canal.
“No, this is the Bramech,” Chaiyse said. “Far more powerful and versatile.”
“A cybernetic device?” Comron inquired as he peered at it.
“It is biomechanical in nature,” Bhedrus answered. “When you wish to access the Chronicle Archives, you insert it in your ear. The Bramech will travel to your pineal gland to begin communicating. You merely provide a few mental prompts to engage it and then state the specifics of your query, following certain nomenclature which we will teach you.”
Comron held his hand out for the box. “May I examine it a little closer?”
Chaiyse withdrew the box. “A warning, Lord Van Laven. Abuse the privilege and we will cut the Bramech’s link to the archives.”
“Understood,” Comron said evenly.
“What constitutes abuse?” Vaush asked, no doubt wishing to steer as clear of violations as possible.
“Abuse is roughly defined as using the information gleaned from the Chronicle Archives to exploit the innocent or using it for personal financial gain.”
Surely, building the Imperial Treasury wouldn’t fall foul of their restrictions, he held his tongue on the matter. Vaush’s official coronation would take place in a few days. If he could access the Chronicle Archives now, perhaps he could hit their enemies in time to make the ceremony particularly interesting.
“We understand and accept your terms,” Comron said. “Is there any particular preparation required to interface with the Bramech?”
“The essence you both consumed has already done the necessary work. We foresee no issues with the interface.”
“So the essence is required?” Vaush asked. “Aside from Comron and I, no one else can interface with the Bramech?”
“Yes, that is correct,” Bhedrus answered.
Comron exchanged glances with Vaush. This was the edge they needed, the final piece to tilt the odds in their favor. Now it was simply a matter of finding the essential information that could bring enough of the Royal Houses to their knees. He ached to begin the hunt and to anonymously inform the powers that be that now they were pawns in his game. Indeed, the coronation would be the most memorable one in the history of the empire.
Comron’s green eyes sparkled. “When do we begin?”
Chapter 3
The rider raced over the open field trailed by two pursuers as a harsh arctic wind blew across the northern ridge. The rider upon the golden stallion, a mere boy of eight, extended his lead; the boy’s cloak trailed behind him, flapping in the wind as his mount charged across the field. In the distance, rugged mountains rose like ancient watchers marking time against a brooding gray sky. Winter had come before its appointed time, sending the world into a premature slumber. Only the heartiest wandered out in this land barely tamed by the great kings of Nethic.
The boy’s cheeks were red as apples against his alabaster skin and his green eyes glistened against the sting of the winter air. The stallion’s hot breath blew from its nostrils and its hooves pounded the ground, kicking up clumps of frozen earth.
“Prince Crausin, you come back here this instant!” the old man called out in vain.
The eight-year-old crown prince ignored Hurtz, his Professor Elitus. Riding was the only thing that won his father’s favor, and he had to gain the Duke’s approval whatever the cost. With this in mind, the young prince’s blood raced hot and he no longer felt the morning frost upon his cheeks.
The perimeter wall was two meters tall and one wide, but the boy knew that Champion would sail over it like an eagle. Rhageon’s river lay on the other side, but, at this altitude, it had frozen-over weeks ago. He glanced back once more and laughed as he increased his lead over his pursuers.
“Stop at once before you kill yourself!”
Gritting his teeth, he rose in the saddle, pulling the reins up as he did so. Champion leapt off his haunches and Crausin felt them rising as one into the air, his calves gripping the horse’s sides. He looked down and saw that Champion had cleared the wall by half a meter.
“Hah, hah!” The prince’s celebration was cut short when Champion pitched forward under the momentum, sliding and stumbling down the bank and out onto the surface of the frozen river.
Young Crausin struggled to regain control as Champion slid and spun, carrying them even further out.
“Whoa, boy, steady, steady!” he called out as the horse whinnied in fear. In that moment the prince heard the horrible crack of the ice. “Champion! Let’s go, boy!” Champion attempted to push off, his hindquarters crashed through the ice down into the frigid water.
Crausin gasped and held on tight as Champion thrashed about, whinnying in his terror. His front hooves pounded the ice weakening it further, causing them to sink. The frigid water stabbed at the prince’s legs, sending unimaginable pain through his body. He heard himself screaming as the water rose to his hips, crippling his lower half.
Champion continued to thrash wildly, cutting himself on the sharp edges. Steam rose from the red blood that spread across the white surface.
Crausin’s cloak was suddenly heavy about his throat. He unclasped it and let it fall away. The water rose to his chest, constricting his lungs so he could barely breathe. Icy fingers clawed at him, digging into his flesh. I am going to die!
“Prince Crausin!” Hurtz called out. “Hold on, m’lord.” The old man threw back his hood and shrugged off his heavy woolen cloak and ordered Morland, the prince’s riding instructor, to tie one end of the rope to the saddle and the other around Morland’s waist. The younger man slid down the bank, slowly making his way out across the ice as Hurtz stayed behind calling out encouragement to the prince.
Soon Champion’s thrashing and whinnying slowed with the freezing water draining her of strength and vitality. Prince Crausin clung to her neck, trying to pull his shoulders above the water. His frozen hands gripped loosely at her golden mane. It was enough to re-awaken Champion’s spirit as it began thrashing anew.
“Try to remain still, young master,” Hurtz admonished Crausin, and then spoke into the small black communication device attached at his left shoulder. “We need a rescue craft at the north bend of Rhaegon River immediately; the prince has fallen through the ice!”
Champion’s strength was finally spent. The noble mare began to sink below into the frigid depths. “Morland—!” Crausin’s garbled cry was cut off as the black waters of Rhaegon River washed over his face. He tried lifting his arms to swim but they were heavy as stones and he continued to sink. The black water blinded him and his lungs burned. Morland will never find me. I am done!
But a hand grasped his and a face appeared before him in the murky depths. Green eyes stared back at him.
Comron!
How he knew this name or the man’s face was beyond the boy’s comprehension, but he allowed Comron to pull him upward into Morland’s outstretched arms. Soon Crausin was upon the surface, firm in Morland’s grasp.
“Get him on the stretcher and lift him out.”
Something heavy was wrapped around him and warmth penetrated his body. He could hear the soft drum of propellers. His eyes blinked open, but his vision remained fuzzy. The apparatus lifted him into the air, moved him some distance, and then set him down.
“Is he alive?”
Crausin’s eyes flew wide open at the sound of the Duke’s voice and the boy’s heart threatened to pound from his chest. The house physician, a gray-haired, grim looking man, hovered over Crausin while examining him.
“Yes, Your Grace. Your son is very muc
h alive,” he said, stepping aside for the Duke.
There was a throbbing in young Crausin’s head as his lord father’s face filled his vision. The duke loomed large in a heavy fur-lined cloak, his gray eyes narrowed and his thin mouth twisted. “Your foolhardiness has killed Champion,” he said in reproach. Edred turned to the physician and there was great menace in his voice, “After you have finished treating the boy, send him to me.”
***
“Noooo!” Duke Crausin Van Laven shot up in his bed screaming and covered in a cold sweat for the fifth night in a row. He was no longer an eight-year-old child, terrified of a cruel, demanding father. He was the Grand Duke of Nethic, ruler of a prominent Banking House, well on its way to the upper ranks of the Sellusion Empire.
But the oppressive specter of Edred lingered in the shadows and Crausin shuddered in the chilled night air. “Please return home, Comron,” he spoke into the empty darkness. “Edred has come for me.”
Chapter 4
The day of Vaush Hrollaugr’s royal coronation, Comron Van Laven moved through the Great Cathedral disguised as one the Praetorian Guards escorting the empress down the long aisle. Vaush, his beloved wife, was a glorious vision to behold decked out in her imperial refinement. The great ornate headdress elongated her elegant profile, her dark hair sparkled with a spattering of jewels, and her face was painted around the eye area and brow in the traditional gold and red of the Royal Hrollaugr House. She wore an exquisite, form-fitting gown of embroidered silk and velvet, bedecked in more glittering gems. Her train flowed from behind her and was carried by young virgin princesses of the Royal Houses’ elite.
Comron gazed out onto the crowd. The Chronicle Archives had proven far more invaluable than he had imagined. There was the patriarch of House Dredfort, Duke Braden Dredfort and his son Prince Phineas with their mighty military industrial complex and robust agrarian economy feeding large portions of the Sellusion Empire, making them part of the bedrock of the old regime. But with an abundance of backdoor dealings and corrupt parliamentary officials, manipulating them into turning on each other would almost be too easy in Comron’s opinion.
Next was the Grand Duke of Kingsbar, Dargin Warbrenger and his son Prince Khale, the name a misnomer, for their war machine wasn’t nearly what it boasted back during Gregorhan Rebellion. They’d been adequately defanged, though their reputation as the empire’s economic growth engine and the premiere captains of industry was well deserved, making them a true contender for the throne. Comron smirked beneath his helmet visor, for Warbrenger was equally ripe with delicious secrets to exploit.
House Nostrom—namely, Thalonius, was conspicuously absent, save a few members of the extended family, like the formidable Lady Anbelise Nostrom. Comron marked this; they would pay dearly for the slight. At least some high-ranking representatives of House Hrollaugr had the good sense to show, he thought eyeing the dreaded General Grusonious Hrollaugr. Why an otherwise distinguished looking nobleman would suffer such a hideous scar so prominently positioned on his face when a simple surgical procedure would rid him of it was a mystery worth looking into. Everything Hrollaugr was worthy of investigation so that its remnants could be expeditiously eradicated … save Vaush, naturally.
Comron’s gaze fell away and drifted to the Arch Duke of Rogueport, one of the most influential members of the empire’s central bank reserve board. The Chronicle Archives had shown Comron precisely how to negotiate a superior board seat for Nethic as opposed to the subordinated seat the Eskridge assets had afforded them. Rogueport held sway over five of the eleven board votes and, courtesy of the Chronicle Archives, Comron would hold sway over Rogueport.
The cathedral’s orchestra and chorus produced the loftiest of music that now swelled to a crescendo. It remained high with the fervor of the faithful and then abruptly ceased. The High Priest of the Most Holy God stepped down from the dais and delivered a lengthy benediction that made Comron long for the more economical approach of Nethic’s clergymen. Alas, the priest drew before Vaush carrying the gold, jewel-encrusted crown and royal scepter. With the aid of the princesses, Vaush knelt upon the cushions.
The High Priest lifted the crown high, a ray of sunlight streaming through the windows fell upon it, setting its jewels aglow. He lowered the crown and placed it upon Vaush’s head. He then handed her the scepter and beckoned her to stand.
Vaush rose gracefully and turned toward the crowd. The High Priest cried out with a bold voice, “Citizens of Sellusia, receive your Holy Anointed Sovereign, Empress Vaush Hrollaugr!”
Thunderous applause and cheering rang out, confetti shot out from the cannons, and the orchestra and chorus belted out the stirring cantos of the imperial anthem. Outside, small explosions could be heard as the ancient cannons announced the crowning of Emperor Sorren’s heir.
It is done! Comron thought with a profound sense of pride as he gazed at his magnificently adorned wife. He grinned inwardly, was this really the same intractable young woman he’d met back on Patheis a whole lifetime ago? Had he really managed to capture the heart of an empress? In his heart, he avowed to be the loving, faithful, and steadfast husband that Vaush so richly deserved. But Nethic was never far from his mind. She too would be lifted on high and glorified during the reign of Van Laven.
Chapter 5
After the morning’s festivities had ended and he’d spent more time chronicling, Comron eventually made his way through old passageways hidden in the inner walls of the Lion Palace. The dimly lit corridor was dusty and the air stale from lack of use, as the late Emperor Sorren had no need to hide his paramours from palace staff or flee from palace invaders. To further sell the notion that the empress was unattached and most certainly not carrying on a scandalous affair with the married Crown Prince of Nethic, Comron kept separate apartments at the Lion Palace along with all the other officials of the Imperium. But anytime he chose, he could take the secret passage from his suite to the private Imperial Suites—where he and Vaush spent their nights together.
When he found Vaush, she was in her dressing room allowing the wardrobe bots to help her disrobe. That was another concession to protect their privacy, no attendants keeping station within their private apartments. The bots could do all that was necessary to maintain their suite of rooms.
“Ah, there you are,” Comron said as he approached and leaned across a bot to greet Vaush with a light kiss.
She raised an eyebrow at him, but there was warmth in the gesture. “I was beginning to wonder what was keeping you,” she said as she stepped out of her dress.
“I fear I’ll become addicted to having the Bramech in my head; the Chronicle Archives have shown me so much,” he said with a glint in his eyes. “I believe we can precipitate a break between Warbrenger and the Nostrom Hegemony.”
“Over the trade embargo with the Hinter Worlds?”
“Ach, that’s merely the beginning of their woes.”
“Do tell,” Vaush said, turning her back to him and pulling aside her long dark hair so he could work the clasps of her corset—better him than the bots.
“After the Gregorhan Rebellion, Warbrenger moved their vast holdings of richya to the Nostrom bank vaults for safe keeping,” he said, dexterously unfastening the hooks, having had much practice at it. “However, five years ago when Nostrom and Dredfort adopted a policy of making war with the Hinter Worlds, Warbrenger opposed this as they were looking to expand their trade relations with the region. Warbrenger suspected trouble and requested that their stores of richya be repatriated immediately.”
“They demanded their richya back?” Vaush asked, taking a deep breath as the corset released its death grip on her midsection. “A bold move.”
He unlaced her lower foundation garments. “Nostrom refused of course.”
Vaush scoffed. “On what grounds?”
“Ostensibly, a contractual loophole allowing Nostrom to pay the richya back over a ten-year period.”
Wearing nothing but satin underpants, brazier and stockings
, she walked over to the clothing rack, and the bots presented her with a cream-colored, silk loungewear ensemble. “And the truth?”
“The truth …,” Comron hesitated, allowing himself a moment to admire her form from behind, those long, golden tan legs, that firm, round derriere and slender waist, the crown of dark, silky coils cascading midway down her back. “The truth is, they don’t have Warbrenger’s richya.”
Vaush laughed as she pulled the camisole over her head and turned to look at him. “This is too rich. What do you mean they don’t have it?”
“The richya is all gone, they used it to pay for any number of their campaigns to seize control of regional governments, and not to mention, raiding their stockpiles of richya. But they’ve overextended themselves, over sold it in the market, issuing paper with the agreement that the investor could collect on it at any time.”
“Only they’re selling worthless certificates because the richyas all gone, right?” as she spoke, her eyes poured over him, making him feel naked even though he was in full Praetorian guard attire, complete with body armor.
“More or less, they have small stores…enough to pay Warbrenger a fraction of what they owe. At the close of five years, they’ve only repaid a tenth of the sum.”
“Warbrenger must be livid … though in public—” she said, closing the distance between them.
“They’re the strongest of allies. But you’re right, Warbrenger is growing restless and Nostrom rightly suspects this. Now add that to the fact that Warbrenger has been forced to sustain the failing regimes of the Hrollaugr-Nostrom Hegemony because theirs is the only viable economy.”
“So Nostrom steals their richya and then forces them to lend exorbitant amounts to failing states,” she ran a hand slowly across his breastplate. “He’s treating Warbrenger like a vassal state.”
“Precisely, but Warbrenger’s tired of being Nostrom’s bitch. Now Nostrom suspects Warbrenger may make a break for it, so he has launched this full-scale surveillance operation so that Warbrenger can’t break wind without Nostrom knowing about it.”