by Amy Raby
“I cannot fault you,” said Rhianne. “It was the wrong decision, but you made it for the right reason. There is altogether too little compassion in this world.”
“You possess it in abundance to give me that much credit,” said Janto. “I have thought long and hard about Silverside and that collapsed cavern. Compassion must be tempered by judgment.”
“Of course,” said Rhianne. “But if good judgment were easy, we’d make the right decisions every time, wouldn’t we?”
“I suppose we would,” said Janto.
“Here’s what I think,” said Rhianne. “I think you should pull up all the jovo root on Mosar and burn it.”
He shook his head. “If only it were that easy. But for now, I have another question. Have I met your requirements, Princess, and told you something of substance about my family? Have I earned the right to share your dinner?”
“I don’t know why you bother to ask, since you ate half of it while we were talking even after you had the gall to say you weren’t using me for food. If not food, what are you using me for?” Rhianne sent him a look of mock perplexity. She knew already what his answer would be.
Janto grinned, and his eyes twinkled. “Come over here and find out.”
* * *
It was past dark when Janto left the palace and went searching for one of his bolt-holes to spend the night in. A stable was a good choice, sometimes a supply shed. Anywhere reasonably warm where he could throw a shroud over himself and be certain no one would trip over him. It was a harsh reality check, trading the silk sheets of an imperial princess’s bed for a chilly dirt floor. He shivered just thinking about it.
As he turned the corner, he noticed to the south, away in the harbor of Riat, a soundless yellow light exploding in the air. Janto blinked as the afterimages danced before his eyelids. That was a pyrotechnic signal!
He broke into a run, heading for a nearby hill where he might have a better view. Pyrotechnic signalers were rare and valued. They were not used lightly, and they transmitted only news of great importance.
From the higher vantage point at the top of the hill, he saw that the yellow starburst had been not a lone pyrotechnic shout but merely the highest in elevation of a flurry of pyrotechnic communications cascading across the harbor. Bright and numerous, they cast the harbor in an otherworldly light. He could see the harbor was full of ships. Some were in the process of anchoring. Others were moving in, signaling frantically, their brown canvas sails round and fat with wind. It was a scene of eerie beauty, yet it sent Janto’s heart plummeting to the pit of his stomach.
Is that the Kjallan fleet, su-kali? asked Sashi from his shoulder.
It is, said Janto. There were only two possible things the fleet’s return could mean. One was that his people had beaten the Kjallans off and they’d come limping home. But Janto didn’t see how that could have happened. Why entertain false hope? The other possibility was the only one that made any sense.
Mosar had fallen.
20
At sunrise, a blast of trumpets summoned the people of Riat to the harbor. The horns played a brief fanfare in a six-beat rhythm. Deep, brassy cornus joined in, followed by snare drums and tympani. Color exploded overhead as the pyrotechnic mages added their visual accompaniment.
Janto, who’d spent a sleepless night observing the fleet and its communications with the Imperial Palace, dropped his shroud, emerged from the dockside warehouse where he’d taken cover, and joined the crowd of civilians watching the spectacle. With so many people around, no one would take notice of him.
The Kjallan pyrotechnics were among the most skilled he’d seen. Any pyro could pull shapes and colors out of the spirit world, but sculpting them into recognizable forms like people and animals required talent. Above the crowd, they had summoned and shaped a brace of cavalry horses. Trumpets sounded the charge, and the illusionary horses reared and galloped forward. The horses faded, and in their place appeared ocean waves. A cadence of drums beat the waves’ undulating rhythm, driving to a crescendo until a ship’s bowsprit crashed through them.
The airborne images began to float away from the harbor and toward the city proper. Janto hurried after them, pushing his way through the crowd toward the parade he knew lay at the center of the throng.
Breaking through the massed civilians, he saw the marching soldiers, a troop of infantry in tight formation wielding orange flags. Behind them plodded draft horses with docked tails and feathered hooves, each hauling a supply cart loaded high with who knew what, probably stolen treasures from Mosar. Tarps covered the bounty. Next marched a cadre of drummers, keeping time with a rolling beat. Along the tail of the procession, Janto saw more soldiers, horses, cannons, and supplies. The pyrotechnics and their images were ahead.
He withdrew into the cover of the crowd and pushed his way through until he spotted the pyrotechnic mages. They gesticulated with agile fingers, their brows furrowed with concentration as they called their complex creations from the Rift.
“There he is!” cried a man from the crowd. “The legatus!”
Janto whipped his head to where the man was pointing. Four men in officer’s uniforms rode in a quadrille, their horses’ paces nearly synchronized. Ahead of them rode four more, and leading them was a single officer, lightly armored, astride a dark bay warhorse frothing at the bit. Janto recognized the rider easily enough: Augustan Ceres. The legatus had come for Rhianne. For Janto’s woman.
Janto stared at the man with such furious hatred, he half expected the back of Augustan’s neck to burst into flames. The legatus turned and scanned the crowd, but his expression was mild, and his gaze passed over Janto without interest. Two men walked on either side of Augustan—servants, by the look of them. Each carried a wooden box. Gifts, Janto decided, for Rhianne or the emperor. More treasures stolen from Mosar, which Augustan would use to secure his theft of Janto’s throne and his princess.
Kill him, suggested Sashi, if he takes what is yours.
Rhianne was never mine, said Janto.
You have mated with her, said Sashi matter-of-factly. If another man steals your mate, kill him.
He is a war mage. Impossible to kill, said Janto. Even were it otherwise, love and marriage are not simple when it comes to my kind.
Your kind makes things too complicated, Sashi scolded.
Janto frowned. His familiar had a point.
* * *
Rhianne awoke to the news she had been dreading. Augustan was victorious. Mosar had been conquered. The war was over, and her fiancé was at this very moment marching to the Imperial Palace from the city of Riat to celebrate his victory and claim his bride, who, unfortunately, was her.
She couldn’t stop thinking about Janto. Did he know? How was he taking the news? He seemed to be all alone on Kjall. He would have no one to confide in or seek comfort from as he confronted this new reality. And he could not come to her. It was not possible. She prayed he would not attempt it, not with Augustan in the palace and so many people in and out of her rooms.
Janto was strong. She prayed he would survive this blow and see the necessity of escaping as a refugee to Sardos or Inya. With his language skills, he could start a new life there. No future remained for him on Mosar, and he would never have a future in Kjall.
Today she had her own horrors to face. Augustan had come for her, and her days of relative freedom had come to an end. Her husband-to-be would not dally at the Imperial Palace. He had a vassal state to stabilize and govern. Florian had not discussed details of the wedding, but she knew that under the circumstances, it would be rushed. She would be wedded and bedded and shipped off to Mosar in less than a week. She must say good-bye to all the people she loved: Morgan, Marcella, even Lucien. She would not be able to say good-bye to Janto.
Her lady’s maid slipped into the room. “Your Imperial Highness, shall we get you dressed? Our signalers report that the legatus is at the base of the hill.”
* * *
Janto, concealed within the cro
wd, followed the procession as it wound its way through the city of Riat. When the parade reached the city gates, a line of guards blocked the civilians and prevented them from following. The soldiers, led by Augustan, filtered through the gates and continued up the hill to the Imperial Palace. Janto, determined to learn what had happened on Mosar, donned his shroud and slipped in among the soldiers as they passed by the guards.
The soldiers marched uphill through switchback after switchback until they crested the peak and the whole of the Imperial Palace came into view. Though they still had some distance to cover, what remained was an easy march on a flat, paved road, shaded by ancient oaks. As they approached, the front gates of the palace were flung wide in welcome. Did the emperor intend to host the entire retinue?
Uniformed officials just inside the gates directed traffic, sending Augustan and the other officers in one direction, the rank and file in another. The smell of roasting meat wafted down the hallway, and Janto guessed that a banquet awaited the hungry soldiers. He hungered for information rather than food, so he followed the officers.
The officers filed into a high-ceilinged, white marble audience hall. Two rows of gray pillars flanked a central aisle. At the far end of the hall stood a raised platform, also gray, upon which three figures awaited them, one dressed in orange, one in blue, and one in white.
Such arrogance, thought Janto, to wear the colors of the gods.
But he did not have to look twice to recognize the figure in white as Rhianne. She stood on the left, and the young man on the right, in blue, was Lucien, the Imperial Heir. The man in the middle, wearing a broad, glittering loros over a shimmersilk orange syrtos, had to be Emperor Florian.
The emperor was tall and imposing, middle-aged and showing it, but Janto had envisioned a nastier, more vicious-looking man. Did cruelty show? Janto believed it often did, especially in the later years, when the lines of one’s face began to tell the tale of one’s life. Florian appeared stern and resolute, more a hard man than a cruel one. It puzzled him.
He found a quiet corner where he could watch the proceedings without being bumped into or trodden on. The officers took up places behind the pillars, leaving the aisle clear. When everyone was inside and settled, Augustan entered the end of the hall opposite Florian, escorted by two burly officers and two servants carrying the wooden boxes Janto had seen during the parade.
All fell silent, and Augustan strode down the aisle, his entourage a few steps behind him. He stopped just shy of the gray platform.
Emperor Florian spoke in a deep, commanding voice. “Report, Legatus.”
* * *
Rhianne shifted subtly on her feet, relieving a muscle in her back that was beginning to cramp. She’d been too long motionless. She watched as her husband-to-be, instead of responding succinctly to Florian’s order, turned to acknowledge one side of the aisle and then the other.
“My fellow officers . . . Princess . . . Your Imperial Highness . . . my illustrious Emperor.” He inclined his head at Florian and addressed the crowd. “Today is a glorious day for the empire. When first we set sail from Kjallan shores nine months ago . . .”
Rhianne suppressed an eye roll. Was he going to turn this into a long speech? Of course he was; it was his moment of glory. If one could call it glory, murdering innocent people to take their land and wealth. The whole affair sickened her. Not to mention she had to stand in front of everyone looking ridiculous in a dress white as cuttlebone because Florian had this notion that the royal family should dress as the gods. As if that wasn’t going to offend anybody. And he had her and Lucien backward. If anything, he should have dressed wise Lucien as the Sage and her as the rebellious Vagabond, but that was classic Florian. He’d never truly known his family.
Was Augustan building up to a point? It sounded like it.
“. . . And so, thanks to the courage of our fighting men and the leadership of the officers you see before you, I report triumphantly that Mosar has been brought to heel. We have accepted Mosar’s unconditional surrender, and Kjall takes the former nation as its vassal state.”
The audience hall erupted in cheers, and Florian stepped to the edge of the platform to clasp wrists with Augustan. From there, Florian pulled him up onto the platform. “Legatus Augustan Ceres, you are a credit to your forebears and to the Kjallan Empire. I am pleased to offer you the governorship of Mosar, beginning immediately, and I welcome you to the imperial family as my son-in-law.” He gestured to Rhianne.
This was her cue to step forward and kiss Augustan. He approached with a cocky smile. She managed not to recoil when he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. She had to rise on her tiptoes to reach his lips, and he didn’t help her by bending down, so she didn’t feel guilty when she gave him only a peck. Even then, she wanted to wipe her lips afterward, but she knew better than to do that in front of her uncle.
The crowd cheered their pathetic kiss.
“I have something else to present, Your Imperial Majesty,” said Augustan.
“The floor is yours, Legatus,” said Florian.
He gestured to the servants carrying the wooden boxes. “Part of the task I was assigned on Mosar was to exterminate the existing royal family. That job is not complete. Some of the royals have, as one might expect of Mosari cowards, gone to ground. As the Mosari governor, I shall make it one of my first priorities to flush them from their hiding places. Nonetheless, progress has been made. Your Imperial Majesty.” He swept his hands toward the servants, as each pulled from his box a severed head and held it high for all to see. “The former king and queen of Mosar.”
A hush fell over the room.
Rhianne recoiled in horror. She’d had no idea those boxes contained anything so grisly. She’d expected stolen relics, perhaps artwork or jewelry. The heads were not badly decomposed, and they smelled more of brandy and camphor than of rot, but how was she supposed to react to such a sight? Never mind the grisliness of it; her stomach could handle that, as long as she didn’t put anything in it for a while. But these had once been people, and they hadn’t done anything to deserve this fate. Augustan was a murderer, showing off his crime as if proud of it, and her own uncle Florian was the man who’d ordered him to commit it.
“Well done, Legatus, well done,” said Florian.
The officers in the room broke into polite, subdued applause.
Rhianne couldn’t take any more of this farce. She turned on her heel, stepped off the platform, and left the audience hall.
* * *
The former king and queen of Mosar.
Janto had been too far away to see the heads clearly, but those words sent him reeling. He wanted to rush the platform, to slay Augustan and Florian where they stood in recompense for this unspeakable crime, but he was unarmed and surrounded by enemies. It wasn’t possible. He scrambled for the exit.
Three gods, three gods, three gods. His mother and father were dead, murdered by Augustan.
Several heads turned in his direction as he raced invisibly down the center aisle. In his mad rush, he wasn’t being careful. He was creating a breeze, maybe even brushing some people with the edges of his cloak. He didn’t care.
Nobody followed him out into the corridor, where he fell upon his knees in a paroxysm of grief. He thought of the heads again, the heads of his parents. He emptied his stomach.
I’m sorry, su-kali, said Sashi, clinging to his shoulder. We will kill them for what they’ve done.
We’ll do what we can.
Which, so far, had been a whole lot of nothing.
Back in the audience hall, the officers were applauding. Kjallan filth! Rhianne was the only decent human being among them. He’d watched her kiss Augustan at her uncle’s bidding, her movements stiff and unyielding, every cell of her body screaming abhorrence. The Kjallans had applauded that too. Was there no horror they wouldn’t celebrate?
The officers in the audience hall sounded restless, and he suspected they were about to be dismissed, probably to the feast.
He hoped the sight of the heads had diminished some appetites. Clutching his stomach, he straightened and hurried along the corridor, heading for the slave entrance. While this might be a good opportunity for spying, he was in no condition for it, and given the circumstances, what was the point? Mosar was lost. As for seeing Rhianne, he had a feeling he was no longer welcome. She didn’t want Augustan, but she was committed to going through with her marriage, and there was nothing he could do to help her.
He was out of the Imperial Palace and halfway to one of his bolt-holes when he realized that some days ago, when Augustan had murdered his father, Janto had unknowingly ascended the throne—for whatever that was worth. He was now king of Mosar. It was almost funny.
21
Rhianne sat quietly in her receiving room, still in her ridiculous white gown, waiting for the maelstrom that was certain to arrive as soon as Florian extricated himself from the remainder of the ceremony. She hadn’t planned on walking out. It had just happened. Morgan had said she’d had choices. It appeared that for better or for worse, she’d just made one. Probably for worse. She’d rebelled against Florian in dozens of clandestine ways over the years, but never had she challenged him openly. She could envision no scenario in which this worked out well for her.
A thump and a grating noise outside her door told her the bar was sliding back, granting someone entrance to her chambers. She swallowed. The door opened, and, no surprise, Florian stepped through, looking angry as a harassed hornet.
She leapt to her feet, a gesture of respect that had become as reflexive as blinking, aware of the irony after she’d shown him the disrespect of walking out of the ceremony. Perhaps it would appease him a tiny bit.