by J. S. Morin
"Deal," Denrik said. "I have nothing on hand right now, but we'll find you a ship and a crew fit for her. You can remain aboard until then."
"You're not like other Father," Jadon said. Denrik had almost forgotten the boy was there—as Jinzan so often had with Anzik. He had only one son now, he knew, and he vowed not to make the same mistakes as Jinzan had.
"No," Stalyart said with a smile and a suppressed laugh. "He is not."
"What news from the other side?" Denrik asked.
"Rumors, but none of them happy," Stalyart said. "There was a battle so fierce it was felt in the aether even in Ghelk. Kadris and the royal palace are in ruins; Brannis and Rashan Solaran are missing, presumed dead."
"None of that sounds bad to me," Denrik joked.
"Lon Mai, as well, was destroyed by Rashan Solaran," Stalyart said.
Denrik's face fell. "Jadon, is Anzik well?" he asked the boy.
Jadon nodded.
Denrik breathed a sigh of relief.
"I saved them," Jadon said.
"Saved who?"
"Mother, and Aunt Nakah, and Aunt Zaischelle, and the new baby, and—"
"They're all alive?" Denrik asked. "Everyone survived when Rashan attacked?"
"Well, you were dead and you left anyway, so someone had to. He was too strong, so I just hid us all with my magic."
"I was dead?" Denrik asked, catching the curious turn of phrase in Jadon's explanation.
"Well, you were like the dog: dead but still moving. I didn't say anything, because I figured you knew it was wrong. I didn't want you to get in trouble."
"I ... I was dead ... wasn't I?" Denrik looked at Jadon, an empty certainty nestling inside him. The loss of Jinzan in his dreams made perfect sense.
Jadon nodded.
* * * * * * * *
All across northern Khesh, tiny caches were unearthed. Little pockets of wealth and keepsake trinkets were excavated from walls and floors, pried from beneath boulders, and dug up from remote landmarks. The very soil of Khesh was made poorer by the efforts, its hidden treasures stripped from its safekeeping and returned to, in most cases, someone other than their rightful owner, but in all cases to the same person who had hidden them away, or at least to her twin.
* * * * * * * *
Celia loomed over the seated Emperor Sommick, fussing with the collar of his regalia. There had been a whole gaggle of servants busying themselves about him, but none had done it the way Celia had wanted; she shooed them all away.
"What if I misspeak some portion of it?" Emperor Sommick whispered. "If I offend anyone, we might end up with civil war."
"Nonsense," Celia whispered in reply. "You know the whole plan back to front. No playing the spoiled fop now. It's been nearly a season; if we don't settle things soon, it will be worse than leaving it to chance. Nobles will gobble up unclaimed lands and hold them like misers' coin."
"Yes, but the finer points—the names, the cities, the ... the names ..." Emperor Sommick said. His gaze drifted.
Celia took Emperor Sommick's face between her two hands and turned him to look up into her eyes. It was hard enough holding the man's attention when she was not wearing a low-cut gown, but she had that to deal with as well.
"Listen to me. If you want me to handle this, I will. Is that what you want?" she asked. A pleading look answered her before any words were spoken.
"Yes," Emperor Sommick answered.
"Fine. That means I go out first," Celia said. Emperor Sommick nodded. She patted him on the cheek, checked to make sure she had not mussed his hair, and set the crown a trifle straighter atop his skull.
Celia snapped her fingers, and an attendant took the signal that they were ready. Celia walked out into the audience chamber—a portion of the palace that had not been reduced to rubble and scorched rock by Kyrus and Rashan's battle.
Varnus saw them approach, and gave a tiny frown. Celia's subtle hardening of her glare was all the counter argument it took for the guard captain to understand.
"May I present Her Highness, Empress Celia, and His Highness, Emperor Sommick, first of his name," Varnus called out. Everyone in the audience hall fell to a knee, save two: Varnus himself, and Axterion, who by common accord would involve himself in no activity likely to kill a man of one hundred and forty-two summers age. This category included unnecessary bending, kneeling, and hurrying of any sort. He gave a curt nod as a stand-in.
Celia sat down in the higher of the two thrones. She was clad in a scarlet gown that dipped low around the neck and stretched tight across her stomach. It was intended to accentuate, not hide, the early signs that she was carrying the imperial heir. The crown on her head matched Emperor Sommick's in style, but with gentler curves and less prominent jewels. It also fit far more comfortably on her head, and not for reasons of size or shape.
The aftermath of the first attempt at an imperial wedding left the governance of the empire in shambles. Celia's quick thinking had not only saved the emperor, it had left her as one of the few in any position to wed him. Sommick had lobbied for a sorceress bride initially, and with all who had objected now removed, he had taken Celia as both empress and confidante. No longer did he have the vague threats and hints of advisors leading him by the leash; instead he had a proper wife to do it, her motives at least co-mingling with his own.
The list of petitioners in Varnus's hand dangled from shoulder to floor. Each had their turn before Empress Celia (though most had come expecting the more jovial Sommick to hear their entreaties). Noble succession, inheritance, transfers of debt and lien, petitions for reparations, pleas for aid in rebuilding this ruined city or that burned out village, Celia heard them all and passed judgment. All her decisions had been made in advance; written petitions had been submitted prior to the audience. Sommick knew and agreed with all of her pronouncements, and had even memorized them as best he could. Celia had been willing to let him sit in the high throne, and act the proper emperor, but she was seeing more each day that he was going to defer to her.
Such power I now wield. The Kadrin Empire is a gutted shell, but I can oversee its rebirth. Part of that rebirth involved the apportionment of unclaimed lands, lands whose noble custodians had been wiped out by Kyrus and Rashan. Brannis, I must remember. Celia knew that Brannis was alive and well in some other world. Kyrus—if he lived—was the murderous traitor.
"Next petitioner is Sir Tod Hellet," Varnus announced.
Tod stepped forward and knelt to the royal couple. He was wearing a doublet bearing the Hellet family crest—a recent invention to be certain. It depicted a golden owl on a purple diamond. Ostensibly the owl was a sign of wisdom, but more accurately it was a silent, nocturnal predator. He had a sword at his hip, of the kind an aspiring noble would be expected to carry. It was jeweled and lightweight, fit only for dueling an unarmored opponent or for wearing as decoration.
"Sir Tod, you are granted hereditary rights to Reaver's Crossing and the surrounding lands," Empress Celia proclaimed. "In keeping with the standing of this holding, you are awarded the title of Lord Hellet. Your services to the Kadrin Empire are well documented in Warlock Rashan's records, though no official acknowledgment was granted at the time. Know now, that Lord Hellet was assigned to perform crucial acts of reconnaissance and sabotage within the borders of Megrenn during the recent war."
"Thank you, Your Highness," Tod replied, accepting his ennoblement just as he had been coached, even managing to suppress his peasant patois for all of four words.
"As you are aware," Empress Celia continued, "the city of Reaver's Crossing has fallen to Megrenn hands, and must be reclaimed as part of the empire before you may take residence. The conquest and rebuilding efforts fall to you."
"Yes, Your Highness. Thank you, Your Highness."
Tod stood and saluted. Then, with a turn and a fox's grin, walked back among the crowd to listen to the rest of the petitions. Petty matters had been swept clear of the proceedings. All that were left were gifts and promotions.
"Next petitioner
is Sir Jodoul Brecht," Varnus announced.
Jodoul presented himself in livery he had designed, despite numerous advisory objections during the process. It was arranged in a box pattern, the upper left and lower right quadrants bearing a pair of dice, showing six and one. The upper right bore a gold coin, and the lower left a skull. If one was tempted to think that Jodoul may have intended to use his elevated station to make a better man of himself, one was a fool, ignorant of both the man and nobles in general.
"Sir Jodoul, you are granted hereditary rights to Munne, and the surrounding lands," Empress Celia announced. "In keeping with the standing of this holding, you are awarded the title of Lord Brecht. Your service to the Kadrin Empire coincided with that of Lord Hellet, and you served with equal distinction. Many battles were won that otherwise we may have lost, based on the intelligence you gathered."
"Thanks, Highness," Jodoul replied, giving the empress a wink. Celia set her jaw and pretended not to notice.
"The city of Munne suffered greatly under the Megrenn occupation. The task of restoring it to its prior glory falls to you," Empress Celia said.
"Won't be a problem, Empress Celia," Jodoul assured her. "I know a thing or two about how cities run. I'll have her back and whistlin' The Fishwife's Welcome again in a summer or two." Celia was less than familiar with tavern songs, but did not appreciate the gist of the allusion.
The idea had been to fill the noble ranks with biddable fools who had plausible ties to Warlock Rashan's hidden schemes. Celia had taken many of the warlock's notes herself, so forging false heroics had been an act of an afternoon's scribbling.
When Lord Brecht was cleared from the audience chamber, she proceeded to bestow the city of Reislor to the newly ennobled Lord Aelon Beff, and Illard's Glen to Lord Sanbin Colvern. She had considered commissioning the dragonsmith as imperial armorer and swordsmith, but he served her better as a lord than a small pile of runed blades ever would.
The final pronouncement to the audience was not hers to give. She nodded to Captain Varnus.
"High Sorcerer Axterion Solaran, if you would step forward please," Varnus announced. "This final decree is your domain."
"Aye, indeed," Axterion grumbled in reply. His steps came haltingly, aided by a sliver-tipped cane. It was not so much that he needed the aid, but rather that he spent more time on his feet of late, and preferred to spread the aches out, rather than hoard them all in his lower joints.
When he had ascended to stand next to the imperial thrones, Axterion swept the chamber with a rheumy gaze, as much for show as anything since his eyes saw little. He looked more his part as high sorcerer than Celia thought she did as empress. He had not held the position since before she was born, but he knew it backward and front.
"Today's final petitioner is Danilaesis Solaran," Varnus called out.
Curious mutters pervaded the hall. Rumors about the boy warlock had spread throughout Kadris and much of the southern empire. With Warlock Rashan's disappearance, there was great comfort in the fact that there might be an heir to the empire's defense, when so much of the world had so recently sought their destruction.
Danilaesis wore all black, in the style of the Imperial Circle that he had yet to officially join. Across his back was the sheathed Sleeping Dragon, as tall as he was. There had been attempts by various adult sorcerers to reclaim the blade from him, but none was willing to go so far as to try to take it from him by force.
Danilaesis walked up and stood at the base of the steps to the thrones. He stared up, glancing back and forth between Empress Celia and Axterion, sparing just a quick sidelong look at Emperor Sommick. Celia noticed Axterion waggling his eyebrows furiously at the boy and giving stern glances toward the floor, but the boy persisted in standing, either oblivious or willful.
"High Sorcerer— " Celia prompted, too weary from the long audience to prolong it over protocol in regards to a boy of eight summers.
Axterion cleared his throat. "Danilaesis Solaran, you have shown both power and valor in your service to the empire. You have proven to the satisfaction of both General Chadreisson and myself that you are capable of handling the mental rigors of magical battle. As such, you are acknowledged as a provisional warlock of the empire."
"Provisional? What's that mean?" Danilaesis asked, his little brow knit in a mixture of consternation and the sense that he had just been denied the proper title of warlock.
"It means that while you have the power and nervous fortitude to be warlock one day, you lack wisdom and experience. Your rashness in securing your own ship was excused only insomuch as you were so successful with it. I cannot condone a warlock acting on such rash impulses with regularity," Axterion explained, his tone borrowed from high sorcerers a thousand winters dead and handed down one to the next ever since.
"But when will I—"
"You will attend the Academy, as you were always meant to. There you will learn the finer details of magic, to fill in the gaps between your rather disturbing adeptness with spells that a lad twice your age should never have learned a word of. You will participate in Ranking Day starting with your first year, and you will be paired against the winner of each age in turn. Your title of Provisional Warlock will be contingent on coming out atop the rankings each year."
"Hey, that's not—"
"No, it is not fair," Axterion said. "You can go about killing men thrice your age, and stand against sorcerers eightfold your age, but I will not put the safety of the Kadrin Empire at the whim of an overly incautious boy, no matter his talent. Warlocks died young, as a rule, and we have just seen what became of the exception. If I have my say, you will walk a better path.
"Dismissed," Axterion said, an edge in his voice brooking no argument. Even Celia, sitting safely outside his gaze, felt a shudder through her. The ancient sorcerer wrapped authority around him like an old cloak—the sort with dried reddish stains belonging to old foes.
* * * * * * * *
There was an island in the southern part of Khesh that few visited. It was a little sliver of land in the middle of a lake that looked like the slit in a dragon's eye—or a cat's, if your civilization was the sort that thought dragons were mere myth. Too small to settle and devoid of mineral riches, it was given over to the trees. Hidden among those trees was a pair of stone markers, carved of granite, adorned with runes that would outlast mountains.
Upon those markers, side by side, were carved two simple inscriptions:
BrannisSoria
There was no force on Tellurak that could disturb either the markers or the bodies laid to rest beneath them, nor would there be unless the ancient gods returned.
* * * * * * * *
Illiardra sat in her home, lost in thought, eyes and her sense of the aether closed. The universe had been disturbed. Seasons would not be long enough to calm the sense of unease she felt since the final clash between Kyrus and Rashan. The mortal's decision to tempt fate in the deep aether rather than accept his loss had shaken her; she should have foreseen the possibility.
It was such a slim hope, to trade at least two hundred summers' life ahead for the faintest whisper of a chance at immortality. He had so much to live for ...
"So, it's over," a voice called, snapping Illiardra from her reveries. She looked up and saw a face she had never expected to see again. Coal black skin and a gleaming smile looked back at her. He looked Safschan, but was not—he predated the founding of that land, and most of the various kingdoms, empires, and city-states that had preceded it. "I suppose patience prevails once more."
"Bvatrain!" Illiardra exclaimed. "I thought you were dead." Few things could surprise her, she thought, but fate had just delivered a dissenting opinion.
"Of course you did," Bvatrain replied, smirking. He eased himself down into a seat next to Illiardra, and put an arm around her. Illiardra was having no such half measure, and threw her arms around the demon. She wept openly onto his chest.
"Rashan killed you. We were convinced, but could not prove it," Illiar
dra said, voice trembling.
"He would have, I was convinced," Bvatrain replied. "But I was not willing to get myself killed to prove it." He pulled Illiardra close, and stroked her long ears, smoothed her wild hair.
"Did Xizix know?" Illiardra asked. She was ready to be furious with the reclusive ruler of Azzat.
"No. No, I merely seeded his thoughts with my concerns over Rashan and his jealousy. I could trust no one with the secret, until Rashan was dead," Bvatrain replied. "Can you forgive me?"
Illiardra said nothing, but her lips reached up for his, and she pulled him down atop her.
Chapter 37 - Only the Beginning
Winter sneaks into Acardia in mid-autumn, somewhere around the turn of Greywatch, and digs its talons deep. By Hearthwatch, sensible folk huddle indoors at night and venture out in daylight only with pressing business and three layers of clothing between them and the winds. Each year there is a vain effort made to keep the streets swept clear of snow, but Acardian doors open inward with good reason: each year, the snows win, and would otherwise trap all of Acardia indoors until spring.
Common folklore tells that there is a certain magic to weddings. In the case of one particular wedding, it was more overtly true than was typical. The sky above it was a steel grey of clouds that had forgotten to look puffy and instead had squeezed together so tightly that no space could be found between them—that of itself was not unusual, nor was the light snow that drifted from them. What was positively unprecedented was that a large gathering was taking place outdoors beneath those clouds, and not a single guest could honestly have said they were chilled. The grasses were green and flecked with droplets of freshly melted snowflakes, and the hedges smelled of being recently trimmed.
The guests sorted themselves onto two sides of an aisle between rows of white-painted benches. To the left side, the wealth and power of Acardian nobility was on full display. Lords, dukes and earls, merchant tradesmen, politicians, magistrates and scholars—many belonging to more than one of these groups—sat with wives and daughters adorned in silks and jewels. Even in a kingdom so dedicated to social progress, the Acardian upper class still shone brighter than the lesser stars below them. They had turned out at the behest of Lord Dunston Harwick, a man well respected throughout Acardia for his wisdom—and for his close association with King Gorden, though fewer claimed this as their reason.