by Devin Madson
‘So he was dedicated to the true Otako line. How heart warming.’
For once the words that rose instinctively to my lips were the right ones to utter. Leaving in every trace of bitterness, I said: ‘As you say, Councillor. Dedicated to a family that was not his own. Given a choice, I would not have asked to be born his son.’
Ahmet smiled. He had made his point, and left Kin to take from it what he would.
‘Thank you, Councillor,’ Kin said, without emotion. ‘You may return to your duties.’
Ahmet bowed and thanked Kin graciously for his time. Then he went to the door, his solemn steps hiding his glee.
I sat back, controlling every muscle to appear at ease. Kin stared at the black floor. ‘You think I should marry her.’
It was not exactly a question, but I answered all the same. ‘Yes, Majesty. If your marriage to Lady Hana Otako was announced, Katashi’s claims would founder, even with the crown. There is, after all, no precedent to remove you from the throne.’
‘And if I cut off her head?’
I could see no anger, only calculation. He was watching me more closely than was his wont.
‘Killing her removes an Otako threat, but if you do it publicly, you set her up as a martyr to her cousin’s cause, while executing her in secret would see you little better off than you are now. If it is not what you wish for then there is nothing more to be said, but I cannot, in all devotion to your service, lie and say the marriage would not be ideal. It would unite Kisia as nothing else would. I am sure the Council would agree with me.’
‘And if I do not wish it?’
‘Then by all means remove her head, Majesty.’
‘You would permit that?’
‘It would not be my place to forbid it.’
‘That is very unlike you, Darius. Your impudence seems to have abandoned you. Have we at last discovered a subject you will take seriously?’
I knew then it was time for rare honesty. ‘Perhaps it is the Laroth blood in me,’ I said. ‘But as little as I could wish harm upon the daughter of the family my father once swore to protect, I have made my oath to you.’
‘What were the words of that oath, Darius?’
He spoke quietly. A test? Or a reminder? I couldn’t tell how much of Ahmet’s speech he had heeded, or how unsure of my loyalty he was. It was certainly not the time to plead forgetfulness.
‘I swear on the bones of my forebears,’ I began. ‘On my name and my honour, that I will be loyal to the one true emperor, the great Emperor Kin, first of his name, that I will never cause him harm nor seek to deceive him, and will give every last ounce of my strength, every last ounce of my intellect and die in his service if the gods so will it. I–’
‘“Would be as nothing and no one in service to you”,’ he quoted. ‘I’m glad you remember. You may go now. I have a lot to think about.’
His expression gave nothing away. Kin wasn’t one to practise the rigid self-control I had forged, but when he wished, he could make himself as emotive as a statue.
I rose and bowed, not daring to utter another word as I walked out, repressing the urge to run.
I would be as nothing and no one in service to you.
I had never wanted to break it. It was an oath I had taken gladly, meaning every word. For five years it had been true. Then Malice had returned, and with a single touch my world had begun to crumble.
Leaving the throne room, I found the palace full of whispers. For a full hour movement had been restricted, and now the courtiers and servants went about their business gossiping over the cause.
No one accosted me. My reputation was useful, a scowl all it took to ensure my privacy. People scurried out of the way at the sound of my sandals clicking upon the floor, allowing me to reach my rooms in peace.
A man was waiting for me. He hovered outside my door – the secretary who had carried my message to the emissaries. Enough time had passed for a rider to reach Shimai many times over, but I had dared not send another message. That was the sort of gossip that spread.
‘Your Excellency,’ the man said, coming quickly forward. ‘Your message–’
‘The first thing you must learn about this court is that important conversations do not take place in corridors.’ I slid the door. ‘Do come in.’
The young man bowed, twice, before entering my rooms with a tentative step. Perhaps he had heard the rumours. It was said that my walls were lined with human skin and hung with the hair of my enemies. The truth was far less interesting. For the most part my rooms were empty. I owned none of the clutter men amassed year on year, only my desk showing a tendency to overflow with papers. There was a low table with a single cushion, and an Errant board halfway through a game. It had been a gift and was the closest thing I had to a prized possession, that and the sketch of my house at Esvar that hung on one wall, a constant reminder of things past.
I closed the door behind the unfortunate secretary.
‘Now you may speak,’ I said, forgoing the usual hospitality. I had no patience left for small talk and condescension.
‘Your Excellency,’ he said, bowing again. ‘A rider has returned with a message for you.’
Bending down, I moved a piece on the Errant board. ‘So I have surmised. I hope there is an excellent reason why it has taken so long.’
‘It appears that by the time your message was received the prisoner had already been signed over to the prison cart…’ The man faltered as I bent my gaze upon him, but he swallowed hard and managed to continue. ‘They sent riders after it to bring him back, but the cart was attacked. They found most of the prisoners dead, Your Excellency, branded with… with the Eye of Vice.’
‘And Endymion?’
‘No sign of him, Your Excellency. Captain Ash has sent a letter.’
He held it out, but I didn’t take it. Takehiko Otako, gone. And the boy didn’t know his own worth. There was no saying what Malice could do with such a fool.
I let the anger in, let it fuel me. The secretary ducked as I threw the Errant board at the wall, its flat top smacking the wood with a fierce clap. It did nothing to alleviate my feelings. I could only snarl at my own uselessness, and watch the pieces fall about my feet, dancing like wooden rain.
Chapter 11
I woke to a sound like rain – a forceful splattering on the canvas that slowed to a few lingering drops.
Piss.
The smell invaded the close space and I rolled over, wincing as my injuries made themselves known. By lying on my left cheek I had been able to sleep, so exhausted that not even the memory of Malice’s birthmark had been able to keep me awake. Now, weak morning light was edging through the gap in my small tent, and the memory returned. The Traitor’s Mark, born upon his skin as it had been born upon mine.
I tested my limbs. They felt bruised and battered, my joints stiff, but my lassitude had waned and I felt stronger. The continuous agony of my brands had gone, but touching them still made me suck air between my teeth. Only time could heal them now.
My stomach grumbled.
I sat up, my head brushing the low tent. Having no other clothes, I had fallen asleep fully dressed, my sash becoming crooked in the night. I retied it then crawled into the daylight. Outside, the smell of piss grew stronger. There was a puddle at the corner of the tent. A few Pikes were up and about, some wobbling drunkenly through the camp, but there was no obvious culprit.
A light mist clung to the morning, giving the fens a ghostly look. It dulled colours and dampened the air, the Pikes moving with a listlessness out of character with the previous night’s noise. Around me the sea of tents were lifeless, the only sound coming from a group gathered at the central fire. The smell of food made my mouth water.
Desultory talk hung about the cooking pots. Lining up with their bowls, the men asked one another how they had slept and complained about the dam
p fen aggravating old wounds. Some laughed and recounted stories from the night before, one man the source of much amusement for being unable to remember how he had ended the night with bite marks on his hands.
There was no sign of the Vices.
Hungry, I took a bowl and joined the line. A few rebels gave me strange looks, but there was more than one man present with the Traitor’s Mark branded on his cheek. Most had long since healed to a silvery scar, but they wore them with pride, some even stained with henna. I wondered if any of them knew what mark they really carried. How long ago had Empaths been forgotten?
‘How many days has it been since the captain left?’
The Pike to whom this question had been addressed, grunted. ‘Too long.’
‘Do you think something’s happened to them?’
‘We’ll know that when two-hundred red belts come through those trees after our blood.’
I stepped forward. The man stirring the cast-iron pot barely looked up before ladling a clumpy golden mess into my bowl. Millet porridge with red beans and salted goat curd.
I could remember just such a bowl. Blood had splattered across the table and up the pale ceramic. Someone had slit the boy’s throat. A flap of skin had hung limp, barely attached, the last beats of his heart sluggishly pumping blood down his neck.
A Pike shunted me out of the way, knocking the breath from my body. ‘If you don’t want it, don’t eat it,’ he said, holding out his bowl to be filled. ‘Damn sprats.’
Taking my bowl, I moved away from the fire, past silent men intent on their meals. Where had that memory come from? My Empathy sometimes allowed me to pick memories out of people’s heads, but there had been no connection, no touch. It felt real. Even under the cover of blood the boy had looked familiar, like his name was on the tip of my tongue just waiting to be spoken.
A shout sounded through the swamp. The chatter died. Spoons froze halfway to lips as out in the mist enormous trees shivered in the morning breeze.
Another shout came. The Pikes dropped their bowls and reached for their weapons. Swords were drawn, arrows nocked, the whole camp seeming to pound to the beat of a single frenzied heart.
Splashing steps broke the silence. A man emerged from the mist, a Pike, wet to his waist. He ran, nearly tripping as his feet found solid ground.
‘What’s going on?’ someone called as the man bent over, trying to catch his breath. His chest was heaving, but he straightened, his face split in a grin.
‘Captain Monarch is coming!’
The sense of relief was so profound I found myself grinning from ear to ear. The Pikes cheered. More men appeared through the trees, black-clad and filthy, scabbed cuts and bandaged wounds apparent on every one. They strode through the mire like men who no longer cared how wet they got, kicking up mud and stinking water with every step. Though they were greeted with enthusiasm they let off a morose air. Some disappeared into the nest of tents while others made straight for the fire and the pot of porridge sitting in the coals.
A man with a hash of cuts on his cheek snatched the bowl out of my hand, practically inhaling the porridge as he slumped to the ground.
Another shout came through the mist. ‘Wen is injured!’
‘Wen is injured!’
‘Wake the old bones!’
A young Pike scurried away, carrying the message through the camp, and two men struggled out of the swamp with a third held awkwardly between them. Old blood stained their ashen faces, and their burden’s head lolled onto his chest. Pikes ran to help. They gathered around and more men went running, calling for linen and wine, while others took the wounded man.
Another Pike came through the mist, his long stride bringing him easily out of the mire. He stood taller than them all, the longbow upon his back making him more imposing still.
Monarch.
This was the man they all spoke of with such awe. Pikes ran to gather around him and I could feel why, feel the pull of that great aura. He was Monarch in name and in truth.
With a wave of his hand, he dispersed the huddle about him. ‘Where’s Tan?’ he demanded, his voice crisp.
A thickset Pike stepped forward, a purple sash visible beneath his black one. ‘I’m here.’
‘I want this camp packed by nightfall. We’re leaving.’
Monarch gave no explanation, just pushed through the crowd of Pikes. A bowl was held out to him and he halted, staring down at it. ‘Get that out of my face,’ he snarled. ‘I want something to eat that isn’t porridge. I want fresh clothes. And I want that damn Vice. Where is he?’
‘I heard the watchmen say he left in the night,’ one man offered. ‘The other freaks are still here, though.’
‘Then drown them in the swamp.’
I could feel the anger. Something had gone wrong.
Pikes ran in every direction, rushing to fulfil his wishes. A bundle of clothes was thrust into his hands and he took it without thanks. ‘I’m going to the south spur,’ he said. ‘Don’t disturb me unless that stinking Vice dares to show his face.’
Even the bravest of his men melted away from his imperious stride. A hush fell over the camp.
‘Captain, did you get it?’
Monarch stopped.
Not a single Pike had eyes for anyone else, their faces coloured pale with anxiety. Like an army of statues they stood frozen. Waiting.
‘We got it,’ he said at last, not turning around. ‘We’re going to Koi. We lost Ranian, Ki and Bast in the square, and Kai in the waterway.’
‘Where’s Shin? And Captain Regent?’
‘Regent and Shin never came out of the palace.’
Without offering further explanation, Monarch strode off, late risers scurrying out of his way.
Talk erupted after he had gone, starting out as a whisper then rising to a roar. I barely heard the words. The names washed meaninglessly over me. Nothing mattered except the man who had just disappeared into the swamp.
Monarch. His face was familiar, just like the boy in the memory whose blood stained the porridge bowl.
At the edge of the camp two cottonwood trunks leaned into one another, making an arch like the doorway to another room. Into this room Monarch had vanished and I followed, leaving the noise of the Pikes behind.
I was met by swamp-water. Scattered sunlight dappled its surface, touching swarms of lily pads and low-hovering dragonflies. A track of solid ground allowed safe passage and I followed it, brushing aside the soft branches of young saplings. Another humid day was building, the heat boiling away the last shreds of mist.
There was no sign of Monarch, but his golden aura lingered, drawing me on.
The thud of an arrow hitting its target caused a moment of silence in the natural symphony. Frogs hiccuped mid-croak and birds ceased their squawking.
Monarch appeared ahead of me, a dark figure between mossy trunks. His bow was drawn, the string at full stretch. Rounding the bend behind him, I cared nothing for the water invading the path, seeking the soles of my already saturated sandals. There was just him, just the bulge of his muscles and the flick of his fingers as he let the arrow fly. With a satisfying thud it buried its tip deep into the woven target.
Monarch wheeled around, another arrow already in his hand. From beneath heavy brows stared a pair of piercing blue eyes. I had seen those eyes before. They had looked out from a different face, an older face, and yet I still did not know his name.
‘Who are you?’ he said, sharp eyes looking me up and down. ‘You don’t look like one of my men.’
I shook my head.
‘What are you? Peasant? Spy?’
Again I shook my head. Examining him as he examined me, I found him much as I had expected – a handsome man with well-formed features. He had a heavy brow and an aquiline nose, but nothing drew the gaze like those bright eyes. Blue was not a common colour in Kisia.
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Monarch kept the bow drawn, aiming at my left eye. If he let go the arrow would come out the back of my skull. I ought to have been afraid, but I knew he would not hurt me. I could feel him. He projected everything, entirely lacking the boundaries others grew like protective shells. No wonder men followed him.
‘A hundred pound draw?’ I asked.
His smile was like the sun’s warm caress, ingenuously lopsided. Monarch lowered the bow. ‘One hundred and twenty. She’s a deceiving thing. So you know a thing or two about archery?’
I nodded.
‘You can’t be all bad then. Do you have a name?’
‘Endymion.’
‘Endymion,’ he said with a nod. ‘A Chiltaen name, I think. Well, Endymion, my name is Monarch and the Pikes are my men. I come out here when I need to think, away from their arguing and their noise. Why don’t you retrieve for me.’
I nodded, and once again he nocked the arrow he had intended for my head. Aiming this time for the target, he leant into his bow. His technique was faultless, his draw that of a man who had dedicated a lifetime to honing his skill. With that easy flick he let the arrow fly, hitting the target so hard it bounced against the tree.
Monarch had a dozen more arrows stuck point first in the ground at his feet, and he pulled another free with a quick jerk.
‘That Traitor’s Mark looks fresh,’ he said. ‘I bet the one on the back of your head was painful.’
‘It was.’
He loosed another arrow. ‘You should be proud of it.’
‘Why?’ It was a strange idea, being proud of something that disfigured my face, of being brutally used by men I had given little reason to hate me.
‘A man who is a traitor to one man may well be the loyal servant of his enemy. I have reason to like men who have no love for The Usurper.’
Another arrow flew to the target.
‘Every arrow I shoot is aimed at his face.’