by L M R Clarke
Mantos’ voice was suddenly cold and sharp as steel. “Allies?” he asked. “They’re not our allies. They’re our captors.”
Phen withdrew her touch. Mantos felt the absence of her warmth on his skin.
“Is that what you’d say to Fonbir?” his mother asked. “Would you call him a captor?”
Mantos’ brow furrowed, and his mouth twisted with confusion. What did she know about Fonbir? And more importantly, how did she know it?
“Fonbir told me of your relationship,” Phen said. For a moment, she smiled. “I told him I wasn’t surprised that my youngling had carried on a forbidden love behind their father’s back. It’s what I would have done.”
Reeling from the revelation, Mantos fell back onto the window seat. He scanned her face and found nothing but kindness, and a hint of pride. She didn’t share her husband’s ire for the Althemerians. Then again, he realized, she’d been out of her wits when Braslen had severed all relations with the Althemerians. Why would she hold any anger towards them? Mantos shook his head. There must be much that’s changed for her.
“Unfortunately,” he said, “Fonbir has no power here. The princesses are next in line for the throne, despite his greater age. Males don’t reign here. It’s not he who is the captor. It’s his mother.”
Phen nodded. She laid her claws on her son’s shoulders.
“The queen will ask you for the empire’s secrets,” she said. “She’ll want to know every detail you know. How many troops Bandim has, how many ships, where the weaknesses are in our borders, and what Bandim is likely to do next.”
Mantos settled a hand on hers and nodded.
“I must hand over Masvam secrets and betray my brother,” he said. “I must work to take back my crown, my empire. But...” He shook his head, letting his hand fall again. “The empire was never mine. Father was dead less than a day when I...I died. I didn’t rule. I wasn’t the emperor. I was never crowned.”
Phen’s eyes were bright, and she squeezed his shoulders. “That doesn’t matter, my son,” she said. “You’re destined to rule. It’s in your blood.”
“I was not destined to rule,” Mantos said slowly. “I received the throne by accident, by virtue of hatching a few minutes before my brother. I shouldn’t have lived past my second hatchingday. It was only because of you that I did. The Althemerians talk as if Bandim is a usurper, as if he doesn’t deserve the throne. But he does deserve it. He was supposed to reign. Fate has finally dealt him that which he was entitled to long ago.” Mantos shook his head. “We’re Masvams. We conquer, and we spread our borders. If that’s what Bandim intends to do, who am I to stop him? The Althemerians might rail against it, but it’s the Masvam way—much as I don’t agree with it.”
Phen’s expression twisted. She withdrew her hands and bit her bottom lip, shaking her head. Mantos’ flesh tingled with a sudden coldness. A secret sparkled in her eyes, and Mantos stood. “Mother? What is it?”
“Mantos, I...” Phen looked away. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Bomsoi... She told me something. Something about why she could bring you back from the dead. It’s something that concerns your brother.”
She stared through the window, into the solemn afternoon. It was Mantos’ turn to place a hand on her shoulders. He gently turned her around.
“Mother, what is it?” he asked. “I don’t understand what happened to me. I don’t know why I died, or why I was brought back. Whatever you know, I need to know.”
When Phen looked up at him, there were tears in her eyes. Mantos tilted his head to one side. “Mother?”
“Your brother,” Phen said, her voice thick. “He...”
Words failed her, and Mantos gave her the gentlest of shakes. “Mother,” he said again. This time his words were a command. “Tell me.”
Phen blinked, sending two silver trails down her face.
“Bandim,” she said. “He was the one who killed you. Or at least, it was his goddess. His darkness.”
Mantos stilled as the words washed over him. At first he couldn’t understand them. He and Bandim had never seen eye to eye. They’d been brothers, but never friends. There was no way... Mantos shook his head. What his mother said couldn’t be true.
“Bomsoi told me there was sorcery in your death,” Phen continued. “That was why she could bring you back, but not your father. And with all of this, with this magic, with the talk of the Lunar Awakening and summoning the False One...” Phen gulped a breath, beating back tears. “Bomsoi said it was Bandim who wanted you dead. It was on his orders. That a Moon Rogue cast a spell, and...” Phen broke off. She wrapped her arms around her thin torso. “It’s all too much,” she breathed. “To think that my two sons are now at war and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
Reeling, Mantos released his mother and stumbled to his bed. He leaned against the post, chest heaving. It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t.
Yet there was a voice in the back of his mind that contradicted that. Of course Bandim would kill him. He hated Mantos. He resented him for what their mother did. He saw Mantos as a threat. He wanted the empire. He wanted to claim what was rightfully his.
Mantos’ mind flooded with memories of his violent dreams. Of Bandim, wicked and cruel and jeering. Of himself, being ripped apart in the most horrific agony.
He pressed his talons to his eyes.
Of course Bandim wanted me dead, he thought. Why would he want me alive?
Despite this logic, the pain of unanswered questions burned in his mind. “How does Bomsoi know this?” he asked. “And how was she able to bring me back from the dead?”
Phen wilted onto the window seat.
“Queen Valentia says Bomsoi can do things and see things that others can’t,” she said. “And after seeing her bring you back from the dead, I believe it. I don’t know how she knows, but I trust that it’s the truth.”
Mantos shook his head, still leaning on the bedpost. “That isn’t good enough,” he said. “You’ve trusted in a Moon Rogue, just as you did before. Just like Bandim and his worship of the False Goddess Dorai.”
Phen, her arms tightly wrapped around herself, looked desperately thin. “Bomsoi’s not of the Dark,” she said. “I don’t know what she is, but I know she isn’t evil. What I do know is that we cannot let Bandim destroy this world.”
Mantos’ lips curled. “What do you mean by that?”
“That’s what he’ll do if he’s emperor of the Masvams and a meddler in dark spirits,” Phen said. “Bomsoi said she could bring you back to me, and she did. She said she might be able to save Bandim, too.” She took a shuddering breath. “There are many things about this situation I don’t understand. What I do understand is that we cannot let your brother lead the world into the Dark. We cannot let him pull us into a bloody war.”
Finally straightening and releasing the bedpost, Mantos swallowed. His mother’s words cut deep. Peace was what Mantos of House Tiboli lusted after more than anything else. Not war, not combat, not the hunt like his brother and father and grandfather before him. All he wanted was peace. And in search of this peace, he thought, must I send my brother to his death? The memory of his nightmares returned. Being split in two, cut to ribbons with knives...
And the grinning figure of his brother—his brother, who had killed him.
Mantos, Mantos... Dear brother, I will find you...
Mantos shook his head. Bandim had thought nothing of sending him to his death. Why should he feel any differently? They’d never been close, but this was different. This was evil—perhaps the first step in Bandim’s Dark plans. I owe him nothing, Mantos thought. Why not give the Althemerians what they wanted?
Braslen’s final words returned.
You must lead the empire to new glories. Finish my work and spread the reign of House Tiboli from sea to sea. Continue what my father started, and plant the seeds of glory for your younglings and your younglings’ younglings...
Betray a brother, betray an empire, Mantos thought. Bet
ray his father and his grandfather. Betray a way of life that stretched back hundreds of cycles.
Be the Masvam who destroyed the Masvam Empire.
Was it worth it, to seek revenge on Bandim for all he’d done?
A knock at the door heralded a messenger. Mantos turned away. Phen accepted the message at the door. She broke the blue wax seal and unfurled the note.
“It’s from the queen,” she said. “We are to go to her council.”
She crossed the floor to Mantos and held the note out to him, though he didn’t take it. He didn’t even look up.
“You must do what is right, Mantos,” she said.
Mantos finally turned his gaze upwards. He licked his lips and wound his talons together in a tight knot. Eventually he stood. Phen brought a hand up to rest on his armored cheek.
“I hope you make the right choice, no matter what questions are put to you.”
Mantos leaned into her touch and nodded.
“So do I, Mother,” he whispered. “So do I.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Emmy
Dawn rose in a pink wash from the horizon. Emmy perched on a makeshift bench outside the healers’ building, where she’d been sitting for hours. The sky had been black and spotted with twinkling constellations: the Rising Prago, the Twins, the Charging Vaemar... Even the elusive Goddess’ Throne was visible. The sun swept all that away, bringing light and the low hum of insects.
Several days had passed since Emmy’s arrival at the Hutukeshu Encampment, but it felt like a lifetime. Most of the Metakalans who were very old, and those with professions, had moved on. The rest had assimilated into military training, right there in the camp. As a healer, Emmy didn’t know if she was lucky or not.
Each day, she worked in a cloud of sickness. She tended the ill—and Zecha’s wounded body—and gave what comfort she could, hoping the spread of the Lurking Death would cease. Some of her charges grew well under her care. Others withered and died. As each body was removed, another fell into its shadow. More Metakalans, a handful of Belfoni, and many Selamans, their land destroyed by the Masvams, their hearts bereft. The Althemerians took all manner of folk from the seas—now mostly acquired from the Masvams—but none were free.
“Folk from all places bleed for Althemer,” Rel had said. “The queen doesn’t care. She needs to keep her borders, but why sacrifice your own when you can sacrifice others?” She laughed, though the sound was hollow. “That’s why they call it shipbait. It doesn’t matter who you are or where you’re from,” she added, dipping her head. “Althemer is the great equalizer.”
Shipbait? Emmy thought. Even that isn’t strong enough. We’re slaves.
She hunched her shoulders and stared across the compound. An Althemerian female appeared from one of the barracks, clutching a strange brass horn in her hands, ready to wake the troops.
As always, Emmy’s mind turned to Charo. She was somewhere in the camp’s sprawl, but Emmy hadn’t seen horn nor tail of her since their separation on the plinth. Every morning before work began—when she hadn’t been working all night, at least—Emmy waited in the growing chill, hoping for a glimpse of her friend. If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel Charo’s breath, a steady in and out, in and out.
Yet she saw nothing. No glimpses, no signs.
Nothing.
The Althemerian horn-blower sounded the start of the day, and slowly morning opened. Captured soldiers—soldier-slaves, Emmy corrected—emerged from the long wooden barracks. The sun rose, but a chill remained in the air. Emmy scanned each face that appeared in the compound, but none was the face she sought.
A creak cracked behind her. Emmy turned. The healer Rel gently closed the door, then clasped her hands behind her back.
“Good morning, Emmy,” she said.
Emmy nodded in return. “Morning greetings.”
“I hope you’ve foregone breakfast,” Rel said.
Emmy rose from the bench. Her brow furrowed. “Why?”
Rel’s eyeridges rose in part-sympathy, part-apology. “I have to take you for the brand this morning,” she said. “It’s best to do it on an empty stomach.”
Fear rose in Emmy like a dark fog. Her hand went instinctively to her arm as she imagined the sizzle and smoke.
“I’ve put it off for long enough,” Rel said, “but it has to be done.”
Emmy said nothing, her hand still on her arm. Rel gestured for her to follow.
They walked through the wakening camp, through the crisp air, as everything came to life. They passed squads of soldier-slaves under the watchful eye of their squad leaders, being marched to receive their morning food. They passed patrolling guards on vaemar, their watchful eyes and intimidating presence ensuring there was no unrest.
Through it all, Emmy scanned the knots of faces, desperate for one glance of Charo. She saw many Metakalans, and a considerable sprinkling of Linvarrans among them, but Charo was still elusive.
“You still look for your friend?” Rel asked as they took a right turn, away from the mess area.
“Yes,” Emmy replied, craning her neck to catch one last look.
They walked across the dusty ground, between low-slung wooden structures, and the sound of hammering and ringing grew louder.
“What will you do if she’s no longer here?” Rel asked.
Emmy’s steps faltered. What would she do? What could she do? If Charo had been taken from the camp, off to be a maid or a road-digger, there was no way Emmy could find her. She was stuck in the camp, a slave to illness and injury. I could escape, Emmy thought, with Zecha, once he’s better. The three friends belonged together. They had to find one another again.
Of course, Emmy couldn’t say any of that. So instead, she shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know.”
Rel’s look was one of mild distrust. Emmy looked away.
As they walked, her destination became apparent. Emmy’s stomach filled with boulders, and her steps grew slower. The blacksmith’s hut loomed just ahead, and the sound of metal on metal grew louder. The day had just begun for the soldiers, but for the blacksmiths it had never ended. Their hammering became the beat of her walk, but it was nowhere near as fast as the beat of her heart.
Rel walked ahead, catching the attention of a thick-armed Linvarran blacksmith who toiled over something—a weapon, Emmy thought. What else would it be? Emmy trailed along behind, half-hearing the conversation between Rel and the male.
As he stopped his work to speak to Rel, the other blacksmiths continued their labor. They stoked fires, heated metal, and toiled in the great heat. Sweat poured from them, even in the cool morning.
When Emmy caught up, the blacksmith was collecting a series of long metal rods with different ends, though she couldn’t make out what they were.
“Shoulda been here yesterday or the day before, Medicine-Rel,” the blacksmith said as he gathered what he needed. “That’s the rules, as you know, an’ that’s when we did the latest batch. Shouldn’t have to do another one now.”
Holding up her hands, Rel gave him a mild smile. “I know,” she said, “but we’re in the grips of another bout of the Lurking Death and there simply hasn’t been time.”
The blacksmith turned and glared at the two healers with narrowed eyes. A grimace played about his lips. “Lurking Death again, eh? Well, it better not lurk its way here. We got a lot of work to do, too.”
The other blacksmiths turned from their work to grumble their agreement.
Rel nodded and lowered her hands. “I understand,” she said. “We’ll take as little of your time as we can.”
The first blacksmith looked from Rel to Emmy and back again. The long poles rattled against one another in his hand. “All right,” he said. “Come and sit over here.”
He gestured to a chunk of log, huge and round. Emmy hesitated and looked to Rel, who nodded. Emmy crossed to the log, her back stiff and straight, and sat slowly. The blacksmith arranged the poles in a long metal holder. Closer, Emmy could almost
see what they were.
The biggest, set in the top of the holder, was a circle. Below were smaller figures, numbers perhaps, and realization bloomed like a bloodstain. The circle showed the Althemerian serpent gods. The numbers showed the date she’d been taken, just like Rel had shown her. Emmy swallowed hard as her head spun.
The blacksmith thrust the holder deep into one of the fires that burned in a stone forge. As it heated, he rummaged on a nearby table. The item he picked up, he thrust into Emmy’s hand. It was a metal bit, old and well-used. “Bite down on it when the time comes,” he said. “Screams are distracting, and we don’t got time for that.”
Emmy watched with wide eyes as the blacksmith extracted the red-hot branding iron. Fear rose in her throat, and she gripped the bit tight in her hands.
“In the mouth,” the blacksmith said.
Emmy looked to Rel, who nodded.
“It will be over soon.”
Emmy looked at the bit, then at the snarling redness of the brand. She placed the bit between her teeth, her chest constricting.
The brand edged towards her, bright and deadly. She couldn’t help the whimper that escaped her lips, though she cursed herself for it. Don’t show weakness. Be brave.
“Lift your sleeve,” the blacksmith said.
Emmy pushed her short sleeve up with a trembling hand and squeezed her eyes shut. The heat of the brand came towards her so slowly. Eventually it touched.
The smell of burning flesh hit her before the pain. It was strangely sweet. Then came the bite of the heat. Excruciating pain clamped its jaws around her as she clenched her teeth on the bit, the noise escaping from her mouth like that of a dying animal. The brand pressed into her, marking her as property of the Althemerians. Tears streamed from her eyes and she keened, wounded and terrified.
Then it was over. The blacksmith turned and plunged the branding iron into a deep stone ewer, the water hissing and spitting as the brand cooled. Emmy’s mouth ached, her head swam, and her arm was still alight with red-hot pain. The bit fell from her mouth and clattered on the floor. When she opened her eyes, the blacksmith was already back to his previous work, as if nothing had happened. Rel reached for her uninjured arm, still half-sympathetic and half-apologetic.