*****
Even as he stepped through the portal, Enkhaelen was casting. It was difficult to hold a spell together while crossing a dimension-warping field, but he had experience. So when a trio of arcane missiles flew at his face the instant his foot touched the Palace floor, his ward absorbed them harmlessly.
He took a moment to regard his attackers. All three wore Gold robes, bloodied and soot-stained, which meant his attack on the Hawk's Pride had at least partially succeeded.
He smiled.
One of the attackers turned to run, so he shot her in the back with a ward-breaking bolt. It was a reflex by now, the parameters so deeply engraved upon his nerves that he often couldn't stop it. He had killed more than a few runners he'd meant to preserve—not that he'd admit it.
The other two struck back, one hitting his ward with a splitter and the other going brute-force, gold-tinged energy leaping from his hands in a form like a harpoon. Enkhaelen swatted the splitter aside and let the harpoon hit his absorption ward, where it was sucked into his reservoir—a droplet in a roiling sea.
Like any arcane assault, the harpoon left a fading thread in the air between them. Enkhaelen hooked it in his fingers and sent a much greater surge along its length.
It hit the Gold mage in the casting-hand and backwashed up his open channels. The energy he had been gathering for a new assault contacted the energy Enkhaelen was forcing upon him, and his jaw dropped, a teakettle-whistle of a scream emerging from his locked throat. Every muscle seized, every channel snapped wide, and the protective sigils on his robe flared and incinerated as he dumped his reservoir to escape catastrophic burnout.
Enkhaelen split the other one's wards and bolted him to death, then strolled over to inspect his overload-victim. The man had collapsed, twitching; behind and beneath him, the white substance of the Palace glowed with a strong nacreous light. In any other place, such a self-preserving action would have killed everyone else in the vicinity, but the Palace had a thirst even deeper than Enkhaelen's.
“Are you alive?” Enkhaelen said, prodding the fallen man with his boot. He was red-faced as if from exposure—a good sign. Burnout started internally and evaporated saliva, digestive acid and blood before it made any mark on the skin; sunburn meant he had projected his energies outward quickly enough to spare his organs.
Enkhaelen nudged the man's face, then toed his nose a few times and watched how his eyes rolled. It was amusing, sometimes, to have such power and not kill.
'Must you be so childish?' said Kuthra.
Smile souring, Enkhaelen took a moment to mash his heel against the man's cheek in defiance, then stalked into the hallway. “I didn't ask for your opinion,” he muttered.
'We are at a turning point. If you refuse to be serious...'
“I'm always serious.”
'You are a bad liar.'
“Were the Hawk's Pride and the Citadel not serious enough for you?”
'They were self-indulgent tantrums which compromised our purpose.'
Enkhaelen grunted. He could do without this conversation. He had learned long ago that the eavesdropping mentalists could not hear Kuthra, but they could still pick up his responses—and the wraith was right. This wasn't a good time.
So he quick-walked down the winding white corridor, not bothering to navigate. Inevitably he found himself at the great doors, which opened at his approach.
Raised voices cut off the moment he entered the throne room. A quick glance showed him the other doors were closed, the vast space empty but for clusters of color and activity by the dais. He could barely imagine how packed it must be in the antechambers; this close to the Midwinter Festival, there would be tens of thousands of pilgrims within Daecia City, all awaiting their chance to bask in the glory of the Risen Phoenix. If not for the Emperor's complete control of the Palace, the most fanatical would probably have snuck in already.
As he neared the dais, he took in the tableau: Gold General Lynned and six Gold mages being restrained by White Flame soldiers; Sapphire General Demathry in his armor for once, standing with arms crossed a few paces from the Golds and backed by a score of his own soldiers; Field Marshal Rackmar halfway up the dais, speaking to Lord Chancellor Caernahon on his higher step. The Emperor and Empress were on their thrones, and Crown Prince Kelturin stood among the White Flames that lined the walls, his helm off and his face clenched.
Choosing to gamble, Enkhaelen canceled his remaining wards. It was wiser to take a few lumps right now than to start a real fight.
“No one from Valent?” he said as he strolled up. “I'd hoped for a warmer welcome. I feel unloved.”
“You piking lunatic!” shouted Gold General Lynned, three White Flames not quite sufficient to keep him from taking a step forward. The golden teardrop above his gorget was twitching on its chain, its enchantments stressed by his rage. “You blew up half my city!”
“I was nowhere near the place. Oh, you might want to clean up the portal room.”
“The Hawk's Pride has fallen! Half the plaza has collapsed into the arena! Every single one of my Watchtowers is damaged—some completely leveled!”
“Mine as well,” said Sapphire General Demathry, his voice like a chilled blade against Lynned's hot rage. “Every Watchtower connected to the Gold Weave has been disabled.”
Enkhaelen smirked. “Well, that's what happens when a major Weave knot explodes. Cascade failures can be quite spectacular.”
“You rigged this!” Lynned shrieked. “You attacked my army, my homeland—“
“Technically it attacked itself.”
“Don't try to deny this, you little shit!”
“I didn't build the Gold Weave. I didn't build any of the Weaves—you all know that I'm mind-blind. I have no access to them except by proxy, and I certainly don't know enough about them to 'rig' anything.”
“You exploited it then! You knew it was explosive, and you—“
“Anything is explosive if you apply enough energy.”
“I will kill you.”
“Our glorious Emperor might not approve.”
Seething, General Lynned nevertheless eased back so that the White Flames no longer needed to grapple him, and glanced to the dais. Enkhaelen did not. He knew he would have to deal with the Emperor's attention soon, and did not wish to be sidetracked too early.
By the look on Lynned's face, he was right.
“Don't think this is over,” the Gold General hissed. “You're in his good graces now, but we all know how treacherous you are. Your games will end one day, and then—“
Enkhaelen reached a bare hand toward him and laughed as he recoiled. The White Flames around him did the same, their blank helms swiveling to follow the necromancer's fingers. “You'll come for me?” said Enkhaelen. “Are you sure?”
Scowling, General Lynned took another step back. He was a senvraka beneath his illusion—not Enkhaelen's personal work but still vulnerable to his power. And well aware of it.
“We will!” barked one of the Gold mages. Enkhaelen took their measure in a glance: three men and three women, one wearing the mantle of a Gold Army Archmagus. Not Mithian, who had commanded the Gold Weave. He supposed she was dead in the rubble.
The mantled one was the speaker: a reedy Wynd with soot in his beard and a nervy ferocity to his voice. “You're the new head of the Golds?” said Enkhaelen.
The man puffed up. “I am Archmagus—“
“Don't care.”
“Y—“
“My advice? Quit the army. All of you. Go back to your families while you still can.”
“Are you threatening—“
“Are you stupid?”
“Archmagus Enkhaelen, while you may have succeeded in assaulting the Hawk's Pride, you have not broken the spine of the Gold Army mage corps. We know you, and your agents, and your signature, your Inquisitors—“
“So now you're declaring war on the Inquisition?”
“Any of them who move against us—“
“And
will you interfere with their Imperial duties, like the mindwashing and conditioning of your mages and soldiers?”
The Archmagus opened his mouth, then stopped and looked to General Lynned, who shook his head slowly. “I, uh, the lawful duties,” the mage stumbled, then rallied. “I demand that you resign from the post of Inquisitor Archmagus immediately! You have committed a crime against the Gold Army and can not remain in a position of such authority!”
Enkhaelen spread his hands and smiled. “Done.”
“Done?”
“Yes, of course. I agree with you completely.”
“Then— Then—“ The Wynd blinked rapidly. “Then I demand that you hand over the badges and tools of your office to me, to be held in trust while we select a replacement.”
“Can't do that.”
“You will surrender the—“
“Don't have them.”
“What?”
Enkhaelen examined his nails, pretending not to notice the strain on the Gold mages' faces. “I selected my successor yesterday, and as I was in good standing at the time, the succession is legal and binding.”
“Who—“
“You'll have to ask the Inquisition. I'm no longer affiliated with them.”
“You can't just—“
“Don't care. Next issue?”
Fuming silence fell, only to be broken by Field Marshal Rackmar's chuckle.
“Your clever little tongue,” he said as he descended the dais, his pectoral of rank clacking against his armor with each step. He was in full regalia for once, the white-enameled breastplate of his position crossed by the broad red sash of his Crimson command and adorned by the mantles, badges, fledges and medals of his campaigns. Among them, the white cord of the High Templar hung plain and pure, its ends nearly brushing the floor.
Enkhaelen wanted to reach out and strangle him with it, but as the Field Marshal reached his level and advanced upon him, he found himself drawing back.
I'm not intimidated, he told himself. I'm being cautious. But the way the Field Marshal's grin broadened within the black forest of his beard told Enkhaelen that he was fooling no one. In defiance, he planted his feet and squared his shoulders beneath his somewhat-tattered coat, forcing his hands down to his sides as fists.
“Your precious razor words,” the Field Marshal continued, basso voice nearly purring, heavy lids half-hiding the black circles of his irises. He overtopped Enkhaelen by nearly three hands and was broad enough, from skull and neck to belly and thighs, that Enkhaelen had often wondered if he could hollow the bastard out and fit inside him.
Yet it was not Rackmar's size that bothered him. Relative height, relative breadth, had never stopped him from biting out someone's tongue.
It was that the Emperor found them equally amusing, and so had bestowed upon Rackmar a few gifts to counterbalance Enkhaelen's advantages. Even at this distance, he could see the pale fibers lifting from the surface of Rackmar's armor, extending toward the taste of his aura. Prepared to neutralize him.
As long as the Field Marshal retained the Emperor's blessing, he was inviolate.
So Enkhaelen just snarled when Rackmar patted his cheek with one broad gauntlet. Anyone else would lose the hand. The weight of the Emperor's gaze upon them kept him from stepping back even when the pat became a grip—thick fingers digging into the space behind his jaw, thumb immobilizing his chin.
Rackmar did not bother to lean in, to keep this private. Looking down his nose, he finished loudly enough for the crowd, “Your bloody, traitorous hands. We watched you, Enkhaelen. We had agents in the Citadel at Valent. You may deny direct involvement with the Hawk's Pride, or the Cantorin Watchtower, or the Riftwatch outpost, but we saw you incite the Citadel's demise. We saw you murder your fellow Councilors—“
“Self-defense,” Enkhaelen hissed, then quieted as Rackmar tightened his grip.
“—as well as innumerable subordinates and students. I hate mages; you all know that. But this impacts my armies, Enkhaelen. It impacts my great work. Where am I to find replacements for my burnouts now? You have scattered the Circle to the winds. Perhaps you would like me to employ haelhene.”
Enkhaelen attempted a smirk. “Good luck with that.”
The gauntlet clenched tighter, making that side of his jaw creak in its socket. “I have never trusted you—and wisely,” continued Rackmar. “I have organized my own arcane coterie, and so I do not need to waste energy on being angry with you. And I know where your projects are. You've put quite some effort into Blaze Company, yes?”
Enkhaelen made sure to wince, just slightly, around the eyes. This corpse was under his full control—all its little tics and tells, all the illusions of life. He had played this game so long that most took his theatrics, his rants, his tantrums as if they were real.
Rackmar's teeth flashed white between leathery lips, his voice thrumming with intensity. “Yes. Your hidden crown-card, your agents within my army. Your influence is all over their transfer orders—did you think I would not see? Perhaps you could fool the Crown Prince, but whatever this nascent insurrection is, I will crush it. I have already slated the army for conversion. The entire region—slaves, civilians, soldiers, it makes no difference to me. But Blaze Company, I will annihilate.”
From behind Rackmar came a sharp inhale: Kelturin's. Ignoring it, Enkhaelen snarled, “Idiot, the Blaze Company is just soldiers. If you want to get in on the game—“
“I'll hunt for your Guardian vessel? Chase his tail through the countryside like a hound after some phantasmal hare? He is a distraction—a bit of bait you've dangled before me. And I've taken a few bites, my clever friend. But you can't hide your true purpose.”
“Which is?”
“The Armies. My command. You want it for yourself.”
Enkhaelen could have laughed. Instead he sneered and yanked from Rackmar's grip. “How dare you! Accusing me of treason without a shred of evidence—“
“You have all but admitted to attacking the Hawk's Pride and the Citadel.”
“That's not treason.”
“How is that not treason?” screamed Gold General Lynned, once more surging forward only to be restrained by the White Flames. By the look on Rackmar's face, he was considering rescinding the restraining order.
Enkhaelen smirked, knowing it would boil Lynned's blood further. “By law, the Silent Circle is an independent, self-governing body neither affiliated with nor controlled by the Empire. Its members take contracts with us, but this does not make them citizens; in fact, membership within the Circle supersedes citizenship. This is why Silent Circle magi must identify themselves visibly at all times. As a subsidiary of the Circle, the mages of the Hawk's Pride were the same.”
For a moment, the Generals just stared at him. Then Rackmar said, “So your argument is that you attacked non-Imperials.”
“Yes. The most I am legally responsible for is the destruction of leased Imperial property. Well, and some collateral damage if the plaza did fall into—“
His view spun, and it took an instant for his body-controlling spells to register that he was falling. He corrected the issue halfway down, catching himself on one hand and one knee, and recognized a residual feeling of impact on his cheek and jaw. Then Rackmar kicked his arm out from under him, following it up with a plated toe straight into the space beneath the sternum.
Enkhaelen collapsed back, air fleeing his lungs in a cough. A heavy boot came to rest on his chest, and as he looked up the length of the leg, he stifled a smile, amused at how he had been putting his foot in someone else's face just a sliver of a mark ago. Above him, Rackmar looked not at all amused, one hand twitching toward the hilt of his ceremonial sword.
“You scum,” he growled, silvered brows like storm-clouds over the dark pits of his eyes. “Do you know how disruptive this is to my war? Once the Serpent Empire hears of your escapades—and it will—they will swarm the camp at Kanrodi. I have barely begun transitioning the troops. You threaten our expansion, our mission to b
ring the Light to the benighted, and you think to call upon legality to save you?”
“Are we not governed by laws?” Enkhaelen rasped. It was hard to get enough air to speak properly with Rackmar's weight on him.
“The God of Law is dead, and rightfully so!” Rackmar dug his heel in deeper, and Enkhaelen affected a squirm to keep him happy. “We are not ancient Altaera, shackled to a god of restriction and compromise. Our god is the Risen Light who shines above all others—the Clarifier, the Eradicator—and we are bound solely by his will. Your words and your wiles mean nothing. The only judgment is that of the Throne!”
Enkhaelen just stared. He had never known how to respond to zealotry. But Rackmar was no longer looking at him; his gaze had turned to the Emperor, as if awaiting a command.
With great reluctance, Enkhaelen looked as well.
Most Holy Risen Phoenix Emperor Aradys IV smiled down upon his warring servants with clear fondness, his eyes pale but not luminous. Were this body still alive, Enkhaelen would have exhaled with relief. An amused Emperor was a complacent Emperor.
Still, as Kuthra had said, this was a turning point. Anything could happen.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” Rackmar intoned, “this judgment belongs to you. I accuse this man, your advisor and archmagus, of willful disobedience, interference with military operations, terrorism, destruction of Imperial property, and intended treason. He defends by claiming some hog-crap exemption due to the rule of law. I ask you to condemn him for the viperous traitor he has always been—the scheming, backstabbing, manipulative—“
The Emperor raised his hand and Rackmar went instantly silent. “Shaidaxi. Have you anything further to say for yourself?”
“First, may I cease being stepped on?”
A flick of pale fingers, and Rackmar reluctantly retracted his boot. Enkhaelen scrambled up, brushed himself off, straightened his coat, then forced himself to look the Emperor in the eye. “Aradys,” he said directly, knowing it would piss off Rackmar. “You and I have been sparring for ages. I fail to see how this incident is any different from the usual collateral damage. Therefore, it should garner no more punishment than the usual.”
The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) Page 75