Her eyes flew open to agony, and the room ignited.
She threw herself off her sleeping-mat with a shriek, warned by some instinct that caused her to react before her conscious mind could arrange itself. She was fortunate: so quick was she that the ripples of flame that sprang from the weave of the mat only licked her, and it was too brief to do more than singe her sleeping-robe. She scrambled to her feet, gazing wildly around the room. The curtain that hung in the doorway was ablaze; the window shutters smoked and charred, blue flames invisible in the bright sunlight. The timbers of the room had blackened but not caught light; an arrangement of guya blossoms in a vase had crisped to cinders. A wall-hanging, that had once depicted the final victory of the first Emperor, Jaan tu Vinaxis, over the primitive Ugati people that had occupied this land in the past, ran with fire. Thin, deadly smoke was rising all around her.
She dashed immediately for the doorway, an automatic response, and then retreated as she saw it was impassable while the curtain still burned. The windows were no option either. More terrifying than her animal fear of fire was the knowledge that she was trapped by it. She tried to cry for help, but the intake of breath made her chest blaze in pain. Her every muscle was in agony, and the blood seemed to boil and scorch as it pumped through her veins. The demon inside her had returned in her sleep and tormented her with fires inside and out.
Steeling herself against the torture, she found her voice and shouted, hoping to alert the servants to her plight. But no sooner had she done so than the flaming curtain began to thrash, and she saw Mishani beyond it, slashing at it with a long, bladed pike that had been part of an ornamental set in the corridor outside. She hacked at the disintegrating cloth and it came to pieces, falling to the floor where a servant girl threw a bucket of suds across it and reduced it to a black mush. Shielding her face with one blue-robed arm, Mishani called to her friend; Kaiku ran to her in desperate relief. Mishani pulled her clear of the room, out into the corridor. Voices were raised all about the household as servants ran for water.
Kaiku would have embraced her friend then, if it were not for the gasp of horror that the servant girl gave. Kaiku looked to her, confused, and the girl quailed and made a sign against evil. Mishani’s face was stony. She grabbed the servant girl’s wrist, pulling her roughly to face her mistress.
‘On your life, you will speak of this to no one,’ she said, her voice heavy with threat. ‘On your life, Yokada.’
The servant girl nodded, frightened.
‘Go,’ Mishani commanded. ‘Find more water.’ As Yokada gratefully fled, she turned to Kaiku. ‘Close your eyes, Kaiku. Let me lead you. Feign that you are smoke-blinded.’
‘I—’
‘As I am your friend, trust me,’ Mishani said. Kaiku, shaken and scared still, did what she was told. Mishani was several inches shorter than Kaiku, but she seemed many years older then, and her tone brooked no argument. She took her friend by the hand and led her away, hurrying so that Kaiku feared to trip. She opened her eyes to see where her feet were, and Mishani caught her and hissed at her to keep them shut. Servants rushed past them in a clatter of feet, and she heard the swill of water in buckets. After a time, Mishani drew back a curtain and led her into a room.
‘Now you can open them,’ Mishani said, sounding weary.
It was Mishani’s study. The low, simple table was still occupied by neat rows of tally charts, an inkpot and a brush. Several shelves held other scrolls, not one of them out of place. Sketch paintings of serene glades and rivers hung on the walls, next to a large elliptical mirror, for Mishani often entertained guests in here and she understood the importance of appearance.
‘Mishani, I . . . it happened again . . .’ Kaiku stammered. ‘What if you had been with me? Spirits, what if—’
‘Go to the mirror,’ Mishani said. Kaiku quieted, looked at her friend, then at the mirror. Suddenly, she feared what she might see. She shuddered as a spasm of pain racked her body.
‘I need to rest, Mishani . . . I’m so tired,’ she sighed.
‘The mirror,’ Mishani repeated. Kaiku turned, bowing her head as she stood before it. She did not dare see whatever it was that Mishani wanted her to.
‘Look at yourself!’ Mishani hissed, and there was an edge to her voice that Kaiku had never heard before, one that made her afraid of her friend. She looked up.
‘Oh,’ she murmured, her fingers coming up to rest on her cheek.
Her eyes, gazing back at her, were no longer brown. The irises were a deep and arterial red, the eyes of a demon.
‘Then it’s true,’ she said, slowly, brokenly. ‘I am possessed.’
Mishani was standing at her shoulder in the mirror, her head tilted down so that her hair fell across her face, her gaze averted.
‘No, Kaiku,’ she said. ‘You are not possessed. You are Aberrant.’
TEN
The council chamber of the Imperial Keep was not vast, but what it lacked in size it made up for in opulence. The walls and tiers of the semi-circular room were drenched in grandeur, from the enormous gold and crystal chandelier overhead to the ornate scrollwork on the eaves and balconies. The majority of the room was lacquered in crimson and edged in dark gold; the ceiling was sculpted into a relief of an ancient battle, while the floor was of reflective black stone. The flat wall at the back – where the speaker stood to talk to those on the semi-circular tiers above – bore a gigantic mural of two scaled creatures warring in the air, their bodies aflame as they locked in mortal combat above a terrified city below.
The assembly was silent as Anais tu Erinima, Blood Empress of Saramyr, walked to stand in front of the mural, her dress a dark red like that of the room. She wore her flaxen hair in her customary long plait, with a silver tiara across her brow. Next to her walked an old man in robes of grey, his hood masking his face so that only his hooked nose and long, salt and pepper beard could be seen. High, arched windows lit the scene, brighter on the west side where the sun was heading toward afternoon.
Anais hated this room. The colours made her feel angry and aggressive; it was a poor choice for a place of debate. But this had been the council chamber for generations past, through war and peace, famine and plenty, woe and joy; tradition had kept it virtually unaltered for centuries.
Maybe I will be the one to change it, Anais thought to herself, masking her nervousness with bravado. Maybe I will change many things, before my days are done.
She took her place on the central dais, a petite and deceptively naïve-looking figure in the face of the assembly. The Speaker in his grey robes stood next to her. Facing her, on three tiers that rose up and away, were representatives of the thirty high families of Saramyr. They sat behind expertly carven stalls, looking down on their ruler. She scanned the room, searching out her supporters, seeking her enemies . . . and finally finding Barak Zahn tu Ikati, whom until a few minutes ago had been the former. Now she had no idea where she stood in his regard.
She had in her pocket a letter from the Barak, informing her of the sudden and extremely suspicious death of his Weaver, Tabaxa. It said nothing more than that. The letter had been delivered to her by a servant just before she entered the chamber. If the move had been calculated to unnerve her, it had succeeded admirably. Now she studied him in the stalls, a tall man with a short white beard and pox-pitted cheeks, trying to divine what he meant by it; but his face was blank, and gave no indication of his thoughts.
By the spirits, does he think I did it? she asked herself, and then wondered what she would do if the Barak withdrew his support, when her position was precarious enough already.
‘The Blood Empress of Saramyr, Anais tu Erinima,’ the Speaker announced, and then it was her time to speak. She took a breath, showing nothing of the fear she felt.
‘Honourable families of Saramyr,’ she began, her usually soft and gentle voice suddenly strong and clear. ‘I bring this council to session. Thank you for coming; I know some of you have travelled far to be here today.’ She paused, allowi
ng the echoes of her pleasantries to fade before she launched into the fray.
‘I am certain you are aware of the matter before us. The issue of my daughter is of great importance to all of you, and to Saramyr as a whole. I know of the division over this situation, both among the high families and those not of noble birth. If compromise can be reached to heal this division, then I am willing to compromise. There are many aspects to this matter that will bear negotiation. But know this as a fact: my daughter is of Blood Erinima, and the daughter of the Blood Empress. Some may call her Aberrant, some may not: it is a matter of opinion. But the point is moot in the laws of succession. She is the sole heir to my throne, and she will be Blood Empress after me.’
The council, predictably, broke out in uproar. Anais faced them without flinching or lowering her gaze. Many of them had been hoping that she had seen sense and decided to abdicate, if only to spare her daughter’s life. But Anais had never been more sure of anything. Her child would be as good a ruler as any, better than most. Whatever the dangers to herself, she would bring her child to throne.
Unless, of course, she was deposed by the council.
The thirty high familes were nominally vassals to the ruling family, but it rarely worked exactly that way. Blood Erinima ruled Saramyr, meaning that they – in theory – spoke for all the families. The Baraks each owned vast tracts of land, effectively dividing up Saramyr into manageable chunks. The Baraks further subdivided their land to ur-Baraks, who dealt with smaller portions, and the ur-Baraks left the management of villages within their territory to the Marks. With as many powerful families as there were in Saramyr, the question of loyalty was never clear-cut.
The council of the high families represented only the Baraks, and some of the more influential ur-Baraks who were related by blood. Though there was a strong tendency to support the ruling family, fuelled by tradition and concepts of honour, it was by no means a guarantee. The council had turned against their lieges before, and for much less. A vote of no confidence from the council was damning, and left only two real options: abdication, or civil war. Saramyr’s history was spotted with bloody coups. Though the ruling family always had the greatest army by far – for their post entitled them to the protection of the Imperial Guards, who owed allegiance only to the throne and not Blood – an alliance of several strong Baraks could still challenge them and win.
The Speaker raised his arm, and in his hand was a small wooden tube on a thin red rope. He spun it quickly, and a high keening wail cut through the room. When it died, silence had returned. Anais’s eyes flickered over the assembly. She could see other members of Blood Erinima in the stalls, approving of her declaration. Her old enemies in Blood Amacha looked furious; though she noted that Barak Sonmaga’s expression was almost smug. He relished the fight.
‘To those who oppose me, I say this!’ she cried. ‘You are blinded by your prejudices. Too long have you listened to the Weavers, too long have you been told what to think on this matter. Many of you have never even seen an Aberrant. Many of you are ill educated in what makes an Aberrant at all. Those of you who have met my daughter know her to be gentle and kind. She bears no deformities. She may possess perceptions greater than ours, senses that we do not understand: but don’t the Weavers have the same? She has harmed no one and nothing; she is as well-adjusted as a child can be expected to be. And if exceptional intelligence is an undesirable trait for a ruler of Saramyr, then let us be ruled by half-wits instead, and see how long our proud country lasts!’
There was silence again for a short moment. She was coming dangerously close to defying the Weavers outright, and who knew the ruin that would bring? Anais was only glad that no Weavers were present; they played no part in the country’s politics. Still, she was sure that they were listening somewhere . . .
Barak Sonmaga tu Amacha stood. She might have known he would be the first. The Speaker announced his name.
‘Empress, nobody doubts the love you have for Lucia,’ Sonmaga said. He was a broad-chested, black-bearded man with heavy eyebrows. ‘Which of us could say that we would not do the same, were it our own son or daughter? Who among us could bear to deliver our own child to the Weavers, even if they were . . . unnatural?’
Anais did not react to his choice of words. They were intended to provoke.
‘But this is a matter greater than your feelings, Empress,’ he continued, his voice lowering in tone. ‘Greater even than ours, here in this council. The people are the issue here. The people of Saramyr. And I tell you they will not bear an Aberrant to sit on the throne. She might have the potential to be a great ruler – I’m sure no mother would think any less of her child – but how long will she rule, how effectively, when she is reviled by the people beneath her?’
Anais kept her face calm. ‘Barak Sonmaga, the people have a long time to get used to her. By the time she sits the throne, they will have learned to accept. They, like many of the honourable Baraks and Barakesses in this chamber, will find their opinions changed upon seeing my daughter, and witnessing her nature.’
Sonmaga opened his mouth to speak again, but Anais suddenly remembered another point she had meant to make, and got in first. ‘And never forget, Barak Sonmaga, the lessons of the past. Our people have suffered tyranny under the madness of Emperor Cadis tu Othoro. They have been brought to famine and ruin by the ineptitude of Emperor Emen tu Gor; and then suffered terrible and entirely preventable plagues under his successor, because he refused to clean up the cities. None of these brought the people to revolution. I offer a child with extraordinary intelligence, impeccable sanity and a kind nature, and the only count against her is that she is unusual. I hardly think the people will take up arms at that. I say you exaggerate, Barak Sonmaga tu Amacha. It is no secret that you have your own preferences as to who should sit on the throne.’
Sonmaga’s eyes blazed. Such a direct accusation was a hair’s breadth from insult, but it was also inarguably true. Blood Amacha had never been a ruling family, and they had always coveted the throne. He knew it well enough, so he could not take umbrage without weakening his own position. Anais, for her part, gazed coolly around the chamber. She did not glance at the representatives of Blood Gor, whom she had regrettably reminded of their past failures. Blood Othoro had thankfully dwindled long ago, and taken its madness with it. Her gaze passed across Barak Zahn and lingered there for a moment, but he was as impassive as before. His letter had unnerved her considerably; she had no idea if she could count on his support or not. The deal they had made could be in tatters if he suspected that Anais had tried to kill him or his Weaver . . . but why should he think such a thing? They were allies, weren’t they?
An elderly Barak stood up then, his lean body draped in heavy robes.
‘Barak Mamasi tu Nira,’ the Speaker announced.
‘I beg that you consider this matter well,’ said Mamasi. He was a neutral, as far as Anais knew. He disliked getting his family involved in disputes of any kind if he could help it. ‘To force a council vote on this matter can only bring ruin. Opinion among the Baraks is deeply divided: you know this. Abdicate, Empress, for the good of the land and for your daughter. If you stay, civil war must follow, and Lucia’s life would be in great danger were you to lose.’
‘Barakess Juun tu Lilira,’ said the Speaker, as she stood and made a sign that she wished to speak in support of Mamasi.
‘Now, of all times, we must remain united,’ declared the ancient Barakess. ‘The very land turns against us. Evil things haunt the hills and forests, and grow bolder by the day. My villages are besieged by ill spirits; the earth sickens and crops fail. A civil war now would only add to our misery. Please, Empress, for the good of your people.’
‘I say no!’ Anais cried. ‘I say my abdication would weaken the country more than Lucia ever could. There are at least three houses who hold power enough to challenge for the throne. I will name no names, and I do not presume to know their intentions, but a war of succession would follow should Blood Erini
ma relinquish their claim on the throne, and all of you know it!’
Silence again. She spoke the truth. Blood Batik claimed rights by marriage, but there was no way Anais would pass the responsibility for Saramyr into the hands of her wastrel, womanising husband. Blood Amacha claimed rights by sheer power; they owned the most land, and a large private army. And Blood Kerestyn were most powerful of all; they had been the ruling family before Erinima, and they had never lost the desire to reclaim the throne.
‘I know the horror that the word ‘‘Aberrant’’ awakens in all of us,’ she continued. ‘But I know also that there are many interpretations of that word. Not all Aberration is bad; not all Aberrants are evil. It took the birth of my child to make me see that, but I see it now. And I would have all of you see it, too.’
She raised her hand to forestall another of her antagonists. ‘I ask for the vote of the council in support of my daughter’s claim to the throne.’
‘The council will vote!’ the Speaker called.
Anais stood where she was, her hands laid across each other, clammy with sweat. She could feel herself trembling inside. If the council approved by a majority, she could consider herself safe for a time. As the Barakess had said, nobody wanted a civil war now. But if her support was lacking, then she was in terrible danger. Would she truly abdicate, even for the sake of her child? At least, that way, Lucia might live . . .
‘Blood Erinima, family of my heart. How do you say?’ she asked.
‘We support you as always, Empress,’ said her great-aunt Milla. As eldest, she was the head of the family, even though her niece was Empress.
The Braided Path: The Weavers of Saramyr / the Skein of Lament / the Ascendancy Veil Page 11