A Glimmer on the Blade

by Rachel E. Baddorf

  “Clumsy blades.” Corinado grasped the hilt of his sword for a moment, and let it go. It was a nondescript blade, given to him by Franco years ago. When he was crowned, he would get his father’s sword. He would finally have the Miliarnes sword with the graceful cranes on the hilt, the emblem of the emperor. His sword had betrayed him, only just holding back the Red Dragon. The Dragon’s words echoed in his mind. “You hold our lives in your hands, My Lord,” the Dragon sneered. “I just want to know how steady your hands are.” He remembered the Red Dragon daring him not to call the guards, daring him to fight. “Come on, show me.” Corinado remembered being frozen in indecision...

  He hadn’t known if the Red Dragon was an assassin or was playing with him for some reason. And he had taken the challenge. He had finally given in to his instincts. He felt his muscles twitch in remembrance.

  He felt the sword dropping from his fingers as the Red Dragon rushed him. The amber eyes wide with shock, too much momentum committed to stop the lunge. The Red Dragon changing the angle of blade to barely avoid him. Himself reaching past the sword, grasping the wrist, and twisting it down, pivoting. The whisper of the blade against his shirt as it whipped up, missing his stomach only by a hair just as the Red Dragon was flipped onto his back. He remembered the confusion of pinning the Dragon with his knees, the hauntingly familiar yet different face and demanding, “Who are you?”

  Then, a tap on his inner thigh—the Red Dragon’s long dagger at the artery. The amber eyes studying his face, running over his mouth and back up to meet his eyes.

  “Damn it, who are you?”

  The dagger tapping once more, and then being sheathed. “Your Red Dragon, highness.” A half smile and a raised eyebrow. “You’re steady...” the Dragon offering his hand, “enough.”

  “Steady enough?” Corinado questioned the peach tree, loose bark breaking off under his hands. “What the hell does that mean? Who is he to judge me...I’m the emperor.”

  “Not yet, your highness.”

  Corinado jumped, jerking around to see a figure in the dark. “Highlord Shaiso. I didn’t hear you.”

  “You were preoccupied. What have I told you about letting the servants hear you? Rumors of your father’s illness still circulate the lower palace.” Shaiso was a slight man, with long, black hair nearly all gone to gray tied back from his face, a hooked nose, deep-set brown eyes, and a full salt and pepper beard kept meticulously trimmed. He leaned on a brass headed cane. “It isn’t fitting for an emperor to be—”

  If my mind goes, I’ll have bigger things to worry about than gossipy chambermaids. Corinado swallowed his thoughts. “Thank you, I will keep that in mind.”

  “There is good news from the southern front. They’ve taken the capital of Noei.”

  Corinado straightened his jacket. “That’s wonderful. What news of those...Are we calling them bandits still? Or are they Ozuk now?”

  “They raided the treasury in Erolia. The merchants are screaming about reimbursements...The northern lords have petitioned the Temple to send a theomancer to investigate...in case they are spirit beasts and not petty thieves.”

  “Does the temple have enough priestesses or priests trained in the theomancer’s arts?” Corinado asked. “I thought channeling the power of a god is a rare talent.”

  “The number of theomancers in the Temple has dwindled. But never fear, they have enough to conduct your Prince’s Ordeal,” Highlord Shaiso said.

  Corinado made a moue of distaste. “That’s reassuring. I have also heard outside the Empire there are those theomancers who channel power from the Ozuk. How could anyone collude with a beast that eats the flesh of men?”

  Highlord Shaiso answered, “They are nothing but the rumors of peasants.”

  “Even if they are not theomancers, these thieves could have retired on the gold they have already taken. Where could they be putting it?”

  “When you are emperor, you can take over the investigation—hunt the bandits. I’m sure with your experience and cunning to guide them, success is assured.” Highlord Shaiso pursed his lips sourly.

  Corinado waved it away. “I’m sure Erdogun is doing a fine job. Tell him I have every confidence in him.” He ran the hand through his long, dark hair to fix any stray hairs. “What have you heard about the Red Dragon?”

  Shaiso’s narrow face twitched. He never smiled. “I think he and the squad were playing a joke on you. They wanted something more flashy for the Introduction than they’ve had in the past. Something to put them in the history books.”

  “The Red Dragon...Mizrahi, he seems...” Corinado struggled to find an appropriate word; shouting at a Highlord was not permitted. “Inconstant. I do not believe he is suitable to lead my guards.”

  “This is why the Armsmaster and imperial testing is in charge of choosing those worthy, your highness. He was a student of Master Gurin at Oruno. Do not concern yourself.”

  “All right.” Corinado stared out to the orchard, waiting for the real reason for Shaiso’s visit.

  “I was intrigued by the moves you performed in the audience chamber. Though I thought grappling was stricken from your curriculum several years ago. The traitor who taught you that...vulgar form of combat was executed by your father’s order. He would not want his son to debase himself in such a way,” the Highlord said, brushing an insect from his embroidered coat. “Your father was a master of the blade. Why did you not disarm the Dragon with an Eastern defense? Or Garvetti’s Ascension?”

  “I was...as you said, fighting an Oruno graduate. You are sure that Mizrahi has never been to Aquillion before his entrance into the corps?”

  “Perhaps you should turn your thoughts to other pursuits. The Ordeal—”

  The Highlord was cut off by Delis calling Corinado’s name. She and Markham Shaiso turned off a path into the trees, arm in arm. She giggled at something Markham murmured into her ear and then broke away daintily to embrace Corinado.

  “I was waiting for you,” she said, pouting.

  “I’m sorry, I was detained. But the moon’s rising. Will you walk with me?” asked Corinado. Delis usually loved romantic gestures and perhaps they could talk. Delis looked around and Corinado saw goosebumps rise on her shoulders.

  “It’s getting cold out here. Come back to the party. Lady Prosby and the women are dying to hear you sing and play your guitar again.”

  “They’ve opened a particularly good ’78 vintage. And you haven’t seen anything until you’ve seen the Aminado Delta women dance...” Markham coaxed.

  Delis snorted. “You are shameless. Come love, there is dancing to be done before midnight.” She made a show of threading her arm through Corinado’s.

  “I need some air.” Corinado demurred, pulling away gently. “I’m sure Markham can partner you through the dances. I’ll see you later.”

  “Alright. I’ll see you back at the apartments. I haven’t given you your birthday present yet.” She winked wickedly.

  “Good luck, highness. In case I don’t see you again.” Markham bowed and joined his father and Delis in returning to the party.

  The night seemed suddenly darker to Corinado. But he couldn’t go back just yet. Even the prospect of a willing audience for his music was not enough to whet his appetite. Too many questions rattled around his head.

  He wandered through the orchard, humming the tune of a song he had written when he was young. The moon had risen, honey-colored, and a few clouds passed over it on their path elsewhere. Corinado came to a huge, old Gingko tree, left to grow in the garden since before his parents had converted this part to an orchard. He had never been tall enough to catch one of the lowest branches on those times he had managed to escape the tutors as a child. The guards won’t like this, he thought, with a glance in their direction.

  Corinado reached up and pulled himself onto the lowest branch. His dress shoes skidded on the bark, giving him a moment of trepidation. He paused and untied the shoes, letting them fall to the dusty ground below. He climbed upw
ard, loosing himself in the pure physicality of arms, of muscles, and hands. Reaching for a particularly far branch, his sword caught a branch and he had to jump for it. The sound of the back seam of his surcoat ripping was loud in the orchard. This once, he wouldn’t let it bother him. There wasn’t a lot of time before the Sybil would come to take him to the Ordeal. He forcefully pushed the Red Dragon from his thoughts and climbed upward again.

  The fan-shaped leaves of the Gingko lit in the moonlight rustled and danced around him with the breeze. He found a crook at the top of the tree and rested. A gust brought the laughter and music of the party to him, then it was gone. He turned his gaze southward. There were the ramparts and towers of the palace. Beyond the streets of Aquillion, there were the green lanterns on the temple domes, the moonlight flickering on the river, and the smaller red, blue, and yellow lights moving on the avenues. Some moved in toward the palace, while others moved outward, and some stood still. They were the hand-globes of citizens out celebrating his birthday. The city people had been breeding lightfish specifically for this occasion, competing for the brightest and most colorful of the fish the city used for illumination. There was not enough electricity for everyday use in the city. Somewhere down there, the long-finned fish circled tightly in the globes, eager and tense, emitting a green-gold light from their scales as the hand-globes sloshed and jostled along the boulevards.

  ***

  Imperial Palace

  Fadarin Shaiso

  Highlord Fadarin Shaiso wrote in a cramped, precise hand, recording General Erdogun’s last reports on troop movements in a logbook. He was sitting on a velvet chair in the empty balcony of the Grand Ballroom, a few lightfish in small globes hanging from the wall hooks. Members of his personal guard stood at the top of both sets of stairs. The main door to the ballroom opened with a clatter, and Shaiso sighed. He finished a last notation as his son reached the top of the stairs.

  “You are late,” Highlord Shaiso said.

  Markham bowed and went to lean on the railing. “I was delayed with Delis, the party was just dying. Lovely girl.”

  “Give me a status report.”

  “The two squads made it out of the city safely. One squad continues the search for the Ordeal Chamber. Have a care. Getting a hold of that many city guard uniforms was difficult. I sent a man to see the Red Dragon.”

  “Did he join our cause? Were you behind that dramatic show at the Introduction Ceremony?”

  “No. Accounts are that the Red Dragon has a love of drink and young boys. Our messenger found him at the Clover Inn, but even with enough wine in him to pickle a sea snake, he nearly took our man’s head off with one of those damned daggers.”

  “I assume we can take that as a ‘No,’” sighed Highlord Shaiso. He made a notation in the book.

  “Should I go have a chat with him myself?”

  “No. A dead Dragon at this point will only draw attention. The drink will leave him open. I will pass it on to Corli. Tell the squad in the palace to withdraw.”

  Markham stood up with a surprised jerk. “What? Why?”

  Highlord Shaiso almost smiled. “We have a new ally in the Temple. It will only take time to persuade the rest of the clergy when our moment comes. Besides, our men can be put to better use. Most of those spineless nobles still refuse to commit until they see which way this little intrigue is going to go. The final piece is set.” He closed his book and went to look over the railing. “The people cling to their superstitions. When Corinado dies in the chamber, their eyes will be opened.”

  “Abdication would be enough to free the people. Perhaps Corinado need not die...”

  Fadarin’s nostrils flared. “The son of a mad emperor? You were not there near the end, boy. You didn’t see Emperor Ventirus swaddled like an infant and content to finger paint on the walls of a room with no windows. It was a miracle we had the Temple’s support to force retirement as it was. Can you imagine what he was capable of, Markham? He couldn’t be trusted with a fork, much less the most powerful armies on the continent. And his son?” He looked out to the shrine at the far end of the ballroom where imperial heirs were traditionally crowned. “A boy who is more interested in song and women than the sword. As long as he lives, they will believe him the light itself, no matter how badly he rules. The nobles...their greatest desire is to be the subject of his next love ballad or satire. Even the common folk love him. He’s made himself into a folk hero. The highest born son of the Empire, who uses the old tech of the First Emperor to make commoners’ music, of all things.”

  Markham picked at the edge of the marble banister with a fingernail. “He speaks to them in their own language. It’s the first time anyone in the imperial family has reached out to them in hundreds of years. They know his voice and they know his face.”

  Highlord Shaiso frowned. “You sound like one of his sycophants.”

  Markham quirked a smile. “You sent me in to isolate him and be his closest friend. I’m doing my job.”

  “His following is going to make it harder to depose him. He uses the old tech to romance women but we are kept from the rest of the technology of our ancestors. In the old days there was enough electricity for everyone. Great machines tilled the land. They say we even flew through the air.”

  “You have made some progress,” Markham said placatingly.

  “Not enough. Not nearly enough.” His fist struck the balustrade with a sound not unlike that of a fist hitting human flesh. The Highlord stared out, seeing the ghosts of possibilities.

  Finally, he turned to his son. “Go into the streets and collect a few clergy members. Explain to them our cause and leave their bodies in front of the merchants’ quarter temple. Find out from them where the relics stores are hidden...Our ally is being closed-mouthed on the subject,” commanded Highlord Shaiso.

  “Yes, sir.” Markham turned to the stairs, an unpleasant smile on his wide, handsome features. “But you know, clergy aren’t much of a challenge, Father.”

  ***

  Imperial Moon Temple

  Corin

  Corinado woke slowly, feeling as if he was surfacing from a very deep pool. He knew a calm he hadn’t had since before his mother and brothers had died. Gradually, he recognized the spicy smell of temple incense, became conscious of air moving around him, and felt the ache of having slept on something cold and hard. Pressure in his head bloomed into a pounding ache. He blinked, groaned, and screwed shut his stinging eyes. His stomach twinged with nausea. Why is everything red? What was I drinking last night? His stomach rolled. Oh Goddess, it was something bad. Corinado levered into a sitting position, fumbling with the red cloth that covered him. A red shroud? He recalled the Sybil Alcyenne coming for him last night, following her to the temple and then...nothing. Nothing but a strange dream of chanting and metal casters glowing bright silver. Corinado struggled harder to escape the shroud.

  “Hold still, highness. I’ll have you out in a moment.” The voice was female, cheerful, and accompanied by a tug that pulled the shroud off his head. He had an impression of a woman’s face, light brown skin, round eyes, curly hair, and a high priestess’s blue-trimmed silver robes before he cradled his head.

  “Where’s Healer Reickus? I need the hangover remedy.”

  The woman patted him on the shoulder. “Now, no need to fuss, highness. Dawn’s not far away and you wouldn’t want them to leave you behind.”

  “Who is ‘them’? Who are you? Never mind. Tell Reickus to hurry.”

  “First day of the Ordeal, highness,” she said as she began reeling in the red shroud. “You won’t need Reickus. You ride out with the Dragons at dawn.” She tugged away the last bit of the shroud he had unknowingly been clutching. He was naked underneath.

  “Hey!” He cleared his throat. “Hey,” he tried again. Whatever he had drunk must have scratched the hell out of his throat to make his voice deeper and raspy.

  She ignored him, taking the sheet and bustling out of sight. He recognized this room from his dream.
There was a circle of columns around him with drapes strung between them. The columns stood only a story tall, but the Ordeal Chamber was as large as a ballroom, the ceiling arching many stories tall. In the center of the circle were two stone slabs, one he was occupying and the other had a body covered with another red shroud on it. Between the slabs of stone a ceremonial font stood—an ornate shining metal stand fashioned in the style of tangling vines with a metal bowl full of holy water on the stand. The high dome ceiling bore a round skylight at its center that let in a faint predawn light. The dome must have been seven stories tall at least; where do they hide these things in the palace? Corinado nearly fell backward trying to study it. He caught himself and looked down, realizing suddenly that there was something very wrong. The Sybil Alcyenne came through the drapes with the high priestess. One was carrying a tray, the other a travel pack and armful of weapons.

  Corinado lunged for the high priestess, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her. “What have you done to me?”

  “You should appreciate our work, highness. We picked a fine, fit man to be your surrogate from those slated for execution,” said the High Priestess as she patted his hand absently.

  “Let High Priestess Stellys go. You should get dressed. I’ll explain,” Alcyenne said blandly as she slid the tray onto the stone slab he had occupied moments before. Corinado let go of Stellys as if she’d burnt him. “Where the hell are my clothes?”

  “Right where you left them, dear,” said High Priestess Stellys. She indicated a second slab, this one laden with a body covered with a red shroud. The arms and legs he saw when he looked down at himself were not his own. He staggered toward the other slab, trying not to hyperventilate. “Oh no dear, you don’t want to see your body. It will just make you throw up.”