The Empress of Xytae

by Effie Calvin

  “Later,” said Vitaliya, waving her hand dreamily. “When I’m alive again. If I remember. If not, maybe I can pick up my own dresses. Expand my horizons. Will I see you again?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t go to very many parties.”

  “That’s too bad.” Vitaliya sighed. “It’s nice to talk to someone who doesn’t think punching is meant to be punctuation.”

  “I know what you mean.” Twenty years spent living at a court where many were blessed by Reygmadra had made her very, very fast with a shield. “Don’t take it personally.”

  Vitaliya smiled, nodded, and closed her eyes again. Strangely, Ioanna regretted leaving. She knew her reputation at court was one of solitude, even reclusiveness, but Ioanna didn’t think that was her own fault. Everyone at Xyuluthe had an ulterior motive. Their false praise gave her a headache, and each hollow compliment felt like a slap to the face.

  Iolar’s Truthsayer blessing was wonderful for an empress, but terrible for a girl.

  Ioanna’s parents had been…disappointed, to say the least, when they first learned of her ability to conjure up warm golden light, Iolar’s signature blessing. Everyone else in the Isinthi family carried Reygmadra’s magic. It was nearly synonymous with their name. The Ten were supposed to be equals, but Reygmadra was venerated over any other deity in their nation. This, her father claimed, was because Xytae’s destiny was to conquer the world.

  Ioanna remembered her parents’ pained smiles as the news of her blessing spread through the palace. And she remembered the resulting confusion. Why would any child of the emperor have Iolar’s magic? As the God of Law and Fourth of the Ten, Iolar was known to grant blessings to regents of other nations but never in Xytae.

  Then a little bit later, Ioanna had explained to her parents they shouldn’t tell lies because it made her head hurt, and their disappointment turned to panic.

  She must never tell anyone she could detect lies, they’d instructed her. If the imperial court found out she was a Truthsayer, she would be in grave danger. Bad enough she lacked Reygmadra’s magic altogether. If they knew the full extent of it, nobody would ever trust her. Nor would they tolerate her as their empress.

  Unlike her ability to conjure Iolar’s light, Truthsayer magic was extraordinarily rare, perhaps the rarest in the world. Sometimes priests and paladins had a knack for sensing deception, but Ioanna’s magic went deeper than that. Whenever someone lied in her presence, she could feel it in her mind, a pinch of wrongness. Small lies did not hurt so badly, unless they became too numerous. But the large ones sometimes felt like being struck with a hammer.

  When Ioanna entered the throne room that morning, she found Empress Enessa already there on her throne. Today the empress wore a long violet dress and a matching necklace and earring set of gold and amethysts. On her head rested the heavy golden crown of the consort inlaid with rubies. It was impressive on its own, but nothing compared to the regent’s own crown, the crown that would someday be Ioanna’s.

  Beside Enessa, Emperor Ionnes’s throne remained empty, though draped with a banner with Reygmadra’s emblem to signal he was away at war. On her other side was the little chair and side table where Ioanna always sat.

  Ioanna’s father spent more time in Masim than he did at home, and so Enessa handled domestic affairs. It had always been this way for as long as Ioanna could remember. The emperor and his generals seemed to be under the impression his plan to reestablish Xytae as a true empire was not only attainable, but on the verge of complete success. The fact they had no hope of ever taking back Ibaia, let alone Ieflaria or Vesolda, never occurred to them. Nor did the reality of the ongoing war with Masim. They spoke of it like a glorious endeavor, but Ioanna only saw an endless bloody conflict draining the empire’s treasury.

  “Ioanna,” said Enessa, sounding surprised but not irate. “Is all well?”

  “I was delayed,” Ioanna murmured, unwilling to say anything that might damage Vitaliya’s standing with the court. She did not know if they’d be impressed or scornful if they heard the princess had tried to keep up with Netheia and her friends.

  “I was afraid I’d have to send the guards after you,” said Enessa, her tone friendly and conversational. “I’d hate for you to miss something important.”

  Ioanna nodded, understanding what her mother expected of her. When people came to the throne to make complaints or requests, sometimes they would misrepresent situations in hopes of getting more resources out of the empress or improving their own standing at court. When Ioanna detected this, she would run her fingers through her hair. Most observers would not even notice, for they would be fixated on Her Imperial Majesty. And if they did, who would think anything of a young lady playing with her hair?

  But to Enessa, it would mean something was amiss, a signal to ask more pointed questions or verify claims before granting a request. She’d gained a reputation as a shrewd and ruthless negotiator as a result.

  Ioanna knew she ought to be grateful nobody besides her sisters and grandmother had caught on to the fact she was a Truthsayer—or if they had, they were wise enough to keep it to themselves. But some small, selfish part of her wished for a little bit of acknowledgment.

  In any other nation, her blessing would be an incredible gift. It seemed a cruel mistake that she’d been born in Xytae. Already the nobles worried her blessing from Iolar meant Xytae would change once she took the throne. No longer would they value strength, freedom, courage. Instead there would be laws, endless laws, freedom sacrificed for the sake of maintaining order. The Temple of Reygmadra would weaken as she diverted resources away from the army. And anyone who refused to go along with it would find themselves pushed out.

  Knowledge that she was a Truthsayer would only escalate those fears. And then everyone would band together to deal with the threat.

  Every day, Ioanna stood beside her mother as she conducted the empire’s business. She never questioned an order or an edict. She remained silent, inoffensive, unthreatening, praying the nobles would soon realize she meant them no harm, and the changes she privately dreamed of were for the good of all their citizens.

  “Empress Enessa,” said a new voice, pulling Ioanna from her thoughts. “How lovely you are today. Is there any news from Masim?”

  Ioanna turned to the speaker, a minor noble from one of the western provinces, who alternated between promising more soldiers for the war effort and saying he needed them back to defend his lands. Nobody took him very seriously, least of all Ioanna. Like many of the others filling the room, he had no complaints or requests to make today. He had only come here to observe, gossip, and be admired. When Ioanna looked him in the face, he averted his eyes.

  “I will make an announcement when I receive word that can be shared without compromising our soldiers,” replied Enessa in a cool tone, and the man drifted off.

  The first noble with a genuine request approached Enessa, and Ioanna forced herself to focus. But today, she felt restless and distracted, and she did not know why. Her eyes drifted to her mother’s crown. Idly, Ioanna wondered if she would someday have a consort of her own. If she did, she supposed it would be a political alliance.

  Whomever her spouse turned out to be, she only hoped they were not inclined to lie.

  The morning dragged on with Ioanna only occasionally having to brush imaginary strands of hair out of her face. When the requests trickled to a stop, Ioanna turned her attention to her books. She kept a few of them at the table for those times when there was nothing to do but sit and wish she were well-liked enough for people to approach her. The Temple of Iolar had a wonderful library, and there she first discovered tales of ancient kings and noble warriors, who contributed to the unending fight against chaos. Some of the stories were obviously meant to be metaphorical, but others claimed to be historical accounts.

  In later years, she’d turned her attention to the books that had been too complicated for her younger self, the ones that contained no illustrations and discussed questions o
f morality, or justice, or law. Some were tedious and dry, but others were bright and engaging. Some had been written as a direct response to other writings, which meant Ioanna had to double back and cross-reference, occasionally venturing into other temples to see if they had what she needed—for devotees of Iolar did not only quarrel amongst themselves, and debates could stretch across theological lines.

  As a child, she’d only gone to the Temple of Iolar for a quiet place to hide. The priests had been wary of her, at first. She could not blame them after everything her father had done. But it hadn’t taken them very long to realize she was nothing like her father.

  Archpriest Lailus taught her the prayer to conjure golden shields, saying it was a sin to waste a blessing as beautiful as hers. Until then Ioanna had never thought of her blessing as beautiful. She’d never thought of it as anything except a disappointment. A little later, she learned how to put a blessing on a weapon so it would glow with holy light. It was a paladin’s prayer, and neither Ioanna nor the priests cared much for weapons, but the pride in their faces warmed her, nevertheless.

  When she grew a little older, Lailus taught her how to call down cleansing golden fire. It is rare that one is powerful enough for it, he’d cautioned. Do not be disappointed if you can’t do it.

  But by then they’d all realized there was very little her blessing could not do.

  When the doors to the throne room opened again, Ioanna’s eyes flicked up from the page. A winged woman, dressed in the familiar blue-and-white uniform of the couriers, entered the room. In her hands she held a thick sealed letter. She started for Enessa, but one of the guards blocked her path with his spear. Another took the letter from the courier’s hand and brought it to Enessa.

  The empress accepted the letter and broke the seal. Ioanna tried to lean closer to see what it said, but her mother held the page too near to her own face for Ioanna to read the words.

  “Mother?” asked Ioanna, after a long pause. Enessa did not reply, and Ioanna stood. “Mother?”

  “Go fetch your sisters,” ordered Enessa, her voice simultaneously harsh and wavering.

  “What has happened?”

  “I said go!” Enessa cried. Ioanna turned and fled unthinkingly, propelled by the force of her mother’s words. She did not stop until she was outside the throne room. Only then did she question the oddity of her being sent on this errand as opposed to one of the many palace guards.

  Where would Netheia be? With her friends probably, hunting or sparring or still sleeping from last night’s party. Iulia, only ten years old, was likely with her tutors and would appreciate the rescue. She would go to her youngest sister first.

  When Ioanna arrived at the emperor’s private library, Iulia’s tutor was in the middle of explaining something, gesturing to spots on a map to emphasize his points. Despite this, Iulia’s chin was rested in her hand, and her eyes were vacant. Ioanna cleared her throat, and they both turned to the doorway.

  “I need to borrow Iulia,” said Ioanna. “Our mother has summoned us.”

  Iulia did not need any further explanation. She shoved her book away and jumped to her feet eagerly. “What’s going on?”

  “I do not know,” Ioanna said. “Come on, we need to find Netheia.”

  “Do you think it’s about Father?”

  “I imagine so. But she wouldn’t tell me anything, except to fetch you.”

  “Do you think he’s taken Ayvadisi?”

  “No,” said Ioanna.

  Iulia huffed. “You don’t have to tell the truth all the time, you know.”

  Ioanna smiled and poked Iulia in the ribs to make her flail and shriek. “Don’t ask questions if you don’t want answers.”

  They found Netheia lounging in the east garden with a few of her friends. Most were sprawled out on blankets or under embroidered awnings. Netheia herself was nearly asleep on a low chaise, dressed only in the short tunic and boots favored by many warriors.

  From the look of her, one might expect Netheia to be the eldest of the sisters. They both had the same tightly curled hair and similar oval faces with dark-brown eyes. Netheia had sun-bronzed skin and a perfectly toned body from the endless hours she spent sparring. Ioanna, so thin and pale in comparison, always found herself self-conscious beside her.

  “Netheia,” said Ioanna, trying to speak gently so her sister would not be shocked awake. One of Netheia’s eyes opened, and immediately a look of irritation came over her.

  “What do you want?” she demanded.

  Netheia had joined their father in Masim several times. Ioanna herself had never been asked to go, and she was grateful for that. She had only the most rudimentary skills with a weapon, learned in early childhood back before the priestesses gave up on her completely. More importantly, she could not bring herself to take an active role in the battle against the Masimi, who were only protecting their homes.

  Ioanna did not spend much time around Netheia, for her sister made no secret of the fact she wanted nothing to do with Ioanna. If Netheia really wanted her gone, she would launch into an impromptu rendition of “I am the sun,” a song of her own invention that never failed to give Ioanna a headache because it was nothing but a list of falsehoods. It began, “I am the sun, I am a bird, I’m the town baker, I am a herd (of cattle),” and continued in this manner until Ioanna fled or Netheia ran out of rhymes.

  Sometimes Ioanna wondered at the fact Netheia had not revealed Ioanna’s blessing to the entire court in an effort to drive her away forever. Perhaps Netheia’s hatred did not run quite that deep. Or perhaps she was only biding her time. Ioanna could ask, but Netheia would probably refuse to answer or give a deliberately ridiculous reply out of pure contrariness.

  “Mother wants to see us,” said Ioanna. “All three of us.”

  “So she sent you?” Netheia sneered but made no move to rise from the couch. “I suppose you do make a better messenger than a princess.”

  Ioanna ignored the insult, for there was no point in acknowledging it. “Come on, she’s waiting for us.”

  “You should come, Netheia,” urged Iulia. “What if it’s a message from Father?”

  “Neither of you tell me what to do!” snarled Netheia.

  “Very well.” Ioanna shrugged. “I’ll tell her you refused to come.”

  Netheia jumped up like a flash of lightning, but Ioanna was ready for her. A golden shield blossomed from her palm. A moment later, Netheia slammed against it, hissing with rage. She beat her fist into the barrier, but it held.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” said Ioanna.

  “Fight me, you coward!” screamed Netheia. “You never will! I’d beat you in a real fight! You’re lucky you can hide behind your magic! I’d kill you! I’d kill you!”

  Ioanna did not need her blessing to know her sister told the truth. It was why she did not lower the shield yet. Netheia would burn herself out eventually, for the blood rage could not last long before subsiding, especially if Ioanna did nothing to feed it.

  “What are you doing?”

  The fury in Netheia’s face vanished, only to be replaced by shock. Ioanna turned, though she did not yet drop the shield, and saw Enessa entering the garden flanked by four guards.

  “What in Asterium are you two doing?” Enessa’s eyes were bright with rage. “Are you fighting? Now?”

  “Mother—” Ioanna began, retracting her shield.

  “I’ll fight if I want to!” Netheia interrupted. “What’s it to you? To anyone?”

  In Ioanna’s opinion, Enessa tolerated a great deal of disrespect from Netheia. But perhaps their mother had finally reached her limit, because she drew her arm back and slapped Netheia across the face.

  The garden fell silent. None of Netheia’s friends moved or spoke. Nor did Netheia herself, obviously struggling to understand what had just happened.

  “Come with me, immediately,” ordered Empress Enessa. “Your father is dead.”

  Their father’s study was understood to be one of the most secu
re rooms in the palace. Protective charms and enchantments had been laid on nearly every stone, so many that the hair on Ioanna’s arms raised whenever she stepped inside.

  “This can’t be true,” said Netheia, snatching the courier’s letter from Enessa’s hand. “Who sent this? Commander Caelina? I never liked her. I never trusted her.”

  “Netheia.”

  “I won’t accept this!” screamed Netheia. She hurled the letter at Ioanna so rapidly and with such force it struck her in the face. Well accustomed to this sort of behavior and knowing that issuing a complaint would merely result in an order to be less sensitive, Ioanna only scrambled to grab the letter before it hit the floor. “You look at it! Tell her that it’s a lie!”

  Discerning written lies was significantly more difficult than spoken ones. As far as Ioanna could tell, it depended upon how long ago the writing had been done. Anything older than a few weeks would have no traces upon it. Almost as though the page retained the memory of its author for only a brief time. But this letter could not be too old, so perhaps she had a chance.

  Ioanna set the letter down on her father’s desk and closed her eyes so the words would not distract her. She put both hands over the page and felt for Commander Caelina’s intentions. But no twinge of deceit pricked at her fingertips, no matter how she strained.

  “It’s true,” she said. “Or else, Commander Caelina thinks it’s true.” For her magic could only detect deliberate deception. Errors in judgment or genuine misunderstandings were not included in that. Nor, despite the name of her blessing, could she sense truth. She could only state the absence of a lie. And there was a difference between the two.

  Netheia snatched the letter back as quickly as she had thrown it. “I’m going to Masim, then! I’ll either prove he’s still alive or avenge his death!”

  “You are going nowhere,” said Enessa. “Your father died because of his own foolishness and pride. I won’t allow you to do the same.”