He’d always thought his father was just being cruel, but now the Emperor fully understood he’d been communicating the truth.
However, Kaleva smiled to himself, for a surplus Prince in a distant land, he had come far. His father, the King of Delmaire, had supplied him like a sacrificial calf to the bickering Princes of Arkaym as a figurehead of an Emperor, and he had shown them all.
He would fight the hallucinations of the geistlord and the unnatural man that commanded them. The Emperor would not give in to fear.
“General Beshan?” The Emperor shot the name over his shoulder, and the old man, with his salt-and-pepper beard and battle scars, snapped to attention.
“Imperial Majesty!”
“How long before we reach Sousah?” Despite the speed of the airships, they did not move as fast as Kaleva wanted. It made him more than a little irritable. He wanted to experiment with the tinker’s contraption immediately, and it would be a nice example for the rest of the rebel Princes; when they saw what he could do, they would scamper back into line.
“Another few hours,” the general muttered through his mustache.
The Prince of Sousah had declared for this Pretender, this sister of Raed Syndar Rossin. Many principalities—most in the west—had declared for her. They claimed the Conclave of Princes that had summoned Kaleva across the ocean to rule was invalid, and that they had been pressured to agree to his appointment. Instead, they wanted a scion of the Rossin house to rule over them. The very thought of that family made Kaleva grind his teeth together. The Rossins had been tainted right from the very beginning thanks to that geistlord. They were abominations and traitors to their race.
If certain of the Princes of Arkaym wanted a Rossin back on the throne, that did not matter to Kaleva; he had taken the crown, and he most certainly was not going to give it up. To spur those Princes that did remain loyal to him onward, the Emperor had promised that they could add any principalities they took in his name to their own. It had brought many Ancient enmities to fresh vigor, as they scrambled to fight over the bones he was throwing on the ground.
“Hold your course, I am attending my wife downstairs,” the Emperor said shortly, before striding off the deck and going down the polished wooden stairs to the stateroom.
He could hear her weeping long before he reached the door. Ezefia, Empress of Arkaym was wailing as though her life depended on it.
The Emperor could tell by their pressed lips and pale expressions that the screaming and wailing was bothering the two guards stationed at the door.
For too long, Kaleva had realized, in the burning remains of the Mother Abbey, he had been in everyone’s shadow; first his draconian father, the King of Delmaire, then later his martial sister who everyone had feared and respected. The Deacons, with all their twisted, demonic magic, had at least shown him that much.
He had to be Emperor. Alone and singular as it was meant to be. However, he would require an Empress and children to follow. The question was, would it be this one?
Kaleva pressed his hand against the door and listened to just one more sob. When he pushed the door open and stepped inside, her weeping stopped as abruptly as if it were attached to a string.
She was a great beauty even with tears, Ezefia of Orinthal; dark eyes, a heart-shaped face, and warm full lips. She was also a liar and had made him a cuckold.
The man, who had concealed himself in the Imperial Court, called himself Lord Vancy del Rue, and had given Kaleva so much useful advice, had also been the lover of the Empress herself.
Now Ezefia was trussed to the chair she sat on. Tears were running down her cheeks, but she was the daughter of royalty and pride kept her from weeping in front of her tormentor.
Kaleva smiled and shut the door quietly behind him. Ezefia was not gagged, but she did not say a word as he approached. So he spoke instead.
“We shall be over Sousah soon, and then I shall show them the power of an Emperor unleashed.” Kaleva tapped the top of her head sharply. “I shall make sure to bring you up on deck for the fireworks. Perhaps, if we are lucky, your lover is down there.”
Ezefia’s head came up at that. Her stunning green eyes were brimming nearly over, as she stammered, “My lord, it was not by choice. He cast a spell over me, enamored me. It was like I was trapped in my own body, howling to get out. He did things to me, and it may have seemed as if I were his, but in my heart I remained true to you.” She paused, and then managed to gasp out the rest of her pitiful attempt to win him back. “After all, my love . . . it was I who told you all, once his spell on me was broken.”
Perhaps, if he had loved her as he once had his favorites, perhaps if there were more than just a convenient connection between them, he might have found a morsel of sympathy. Yet now, as he looked down at her, he saw nothing but a duplicitous woman who had committed treason against the crown.
The fact that her belly was just beginning to swell with del Rue’s child only added to the offense. Kaleva’s face twisted into an ugly set of lines; he suspected that Ezefia might have tried to pass the bastard off as his own if the whole mess at the Mother Abbey had never happened.
Still, it had shaken him loose from his complacency. Everyone had thought the Emperor a kindly man, but kindly men were often taken advantage of.
“You were merely trying to pre-empt the servants’ gossip reaching me,” Kaleva hissed in reply.
Ezefia hung her pretty head at that—the tears apparently dried up—but her shoulders still shook. “Why don’t you simply have me killed then?” she said, her voice low and husky with resignation. History was ripe with tales of Empresses who had betrayed their marital vows as well as the punishments that were meted out on them. Kaleva knew that she was running over them right now in her mind.
The Emperor looked out the window of the airship and formulated an answer. “It was suggested that I seal you up in the walls of the palace, as the third Emperor did to his unfaithful wife. Others said I should have you defenestrated.” Kaleva tilted his head, rolling the oddly fascinating word around in his mouth. “I was tempted by that.”
He sighed and lightly touched Ezefia’s shoulder. “But the truth of the matter is, that by keeping you alive I may bring del Rue back. Oh, I am sure he has no concern for your welfare. No,” he said, pointing at her bulging belly, “I know he will come back for that, then he and I have some unfinished business to conclude.”
He wanted to show the man that had mastered him that he had no hold on him now. The orphaned Deacons had provided plenty of information on the art of manipulating the weirstones, and it had proved not nearly as difficult as the Order had tried to convey. In fact, the weirstones were very useful in so many ways.
Tinker Vashill had been brought in to consult on some new uses for the power of the weirstones, and his designs would be the hammer that Kaleva would bring down on the unruly Princes of the Empire—starting with Sousah.
The communication horn strung near the window blew a short note, and the Emperor picked it up eagerly. “Your Imperial Majesty, we are drawing over the target, and are awaiting you command.”
Kaleva smiled. Now, it was time to show them. It was strange how in all these years he had always believed that his father was a damned tyrant. He and Zofiya had lived in fear of his wrath—even though they were the youngest of his large brood of children. It had been ingrained in their psyche that he was an evil man. Lately Kaleva was beginning to wonder if they had been wrong all this time. Now, the words that the King of Delmaire had instilled in them were starting to surface.
“A ruler cannot afford to have any softness in him. He must play the game of royalty with ruthlessness that looks on even loved ones as pawns. Otherwise he will be swept from the board.”
The Emperor looked down at the Empress, and it felt as though he were observing her from a great distance; as a human might contemplate an ant. His feelings had been amputated by the man calling himself del Rue—and for that Kaleva had at least something to thank him for.
He strode to the door and told the guards to bring the Empress up on deck, tied as she was to the chair. Then without giving her any further thought, the Emperor climbed the stairs.
The Imperial Guards all stood erect at their stations, but the gangly figure of Vashill was at the controls of his dire machine. Kaleva’s eyes narrowed on the gleaming square brass device, and it brought a delighted smile to his face.
It had been installed at the very edge of the Winter Kite and took the place that some cannons had once occupied. All of the inner brass workings were visible, giving it the appearance of a vast gleaming insect. Three huge pipes ran from the machine over the side of the airship before spreading into wide funnels. The weirstones buried within could also be glimpsed; ink black and swirling. It used the system that had been harnessed to propel the Imperial Fleet of airships, but also tapped into the Otherside’s vast reserves of power.
Vashill, despite his disheveled appearance, was one of the greatest tinkers of the age, and by virtue of his skill had freed himself of the taint of infamy his mother had earned for the family. She had disappeared with the remnants of the Order under the control of the Deacon Sorcha Faris. Apparently the old widow had been giving them succor for some reason.
Her son had publicly disowned her and turned his skills to helping his rightful Emperor regain control of outlying provinces. As Kaleva stepped up to him, he executed a passable bow. “The machine is ready to do your bidding, Your Imperial Majesty.”
Kaleva tucked his hands behind his back, and stared down through the breaks in the clouds to the city of Sousah. It was set on a hillside above a river, with the ports clustered on a blue bend. Thousands of brightly polished tiles on all the roofs gleamed up at them, and the Emperor got a visceral thrill thinking of all the citizens below going about their daily lives, not even guessing everything was about to change.
The Imperial Guards finally brought Ezefia up on deck, and at the Emperor’s direction placed her down next to him. Under the sunlight, her bronze skin looked remarkably pale. The tracks of dried tears on her face were all that there were to tell that she’d been crying.
Her eyes darted over the edge of the airship to the city below. “My love, you cannot do this . . . an innocent city—”
“Innocent?” Kaleva leaned down and stared into her lying, deceitful face. “I think not. Your lover was from there! Don’t think I didn’t hear that accent in his voice—and then Sousah’s Prince declares for the Rossin bitch!”
Ezefia closed her eyes for a moment, but when she spoke her voice was as calm as his sister’s had sometimes been. “Kaleva, I know how del Rue works on your mind. I know how he can make anything seem reasonable, and I surely know best of all how much it hurts when he withdraws his influence. Please don’t let all of that warp you into killing innocent people. Del Rue could have come from anywhere. He is far older than you—”
For an instant—just the briefest of ones—he saw her coming off the airship for the first time only months ago, and how beautiful she had been. Even though it was an arranged marriage, they had treated each other as best they could.
Then his hand arched back, and he slapped her hard across the face. The sound of the blow echoed across the deck and it left a scarlet mark on Ezefia’s cheek. The Emperor had to squeeze his jaw tight to regain control of himself because for an instant he imagined picking up her chair and throwing it over the side.
Instead, he turned to Vashill and managed to choke out, “Is it ready?”
“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” the tinker said, not showing an ounce of reaction to his ruler’s display of temper. If he had not been such an excellent maker, then he might have prospered in diplomacy.
“Then let us begin,” Kaleva replied, folding his hands once more behind his back and drinking in the last normal moments of the city beneath.
The tinker jerked his head at the Imperial Guard assigned to the machine. Two on the far side worked levers, while on the side closest the Emperor, another two began to spin a crank. The machine ground gradually to life.
It really was a miracle of the art of tinkering. Kaleva almost forgot his rage watching the pistons and cogs work their magic within. It was no wonder that Vashill had not given it a case of some kind—it was quite a spectacle—but nothing like what was to come.
Rain began to fall on Sousah. The clouds around the airship were light, and stretched; they contained not a drop of water. Instead, rain was coming from the machine that Vashill had created. It poured through the pipes, the rain sieve, then it fell from the Winter Kite on the city below.
The inventor’s brow was furrowed, his dark bushy eyebrows knitted together. He held out his hand and gestured to the captain, who relayed the order “Ahead, slow” through the communication funnel. The airship engines whined only faintly, and the vessel began to move. All the time the rainmaker chugged on, sending droplets down on the folk below.
The Emperor leaned over the gunwales of the ship and watched like an entranced child. The water droplets looked so innocent, and he imagined all those citizens below glancing irritably up at the sky at this unexpected scattering shower.
Except it wasn’t rain. The machine had no reservoir of water; this liquid it made all by itself. Vashill stepped away from his creation for a moment to take his place—albeit a little hesitantly—at his ruler’s side. With a wave of his hand, he placed it directly underneath the nearest spout, and then pulled it back.
It still amazed the Emperor; the small puddle of liquid that Vashill held in the palm of his hand was different grades of gray; spilling to inky black in the deepest parts.
“It is as I demonstrated previously,” Vashill said, unable to keep the smile from his face. “The weirstone liquid is completely harmless at this stage, it is only when it comes into contact with geist-infested areas that its power is released.”
The inventor held his hand over the edge and tipped the contents free, as if he were loath to waste even the smallest drop.
“Kaleva!” Ezefia moaned, twisting her arms against her bonds. “You cannot do this! Releasing geists on your own people when you spent years working with the Deacons to stop this sort of thing!”
The Emperor stared at her, and for the shortest spell her words made sense—like sunlight penetrating fog. He remembered his first footstep on this continent; how happy he had been to begin his great work with his sister, Zofiya, at his side and the Arch Abbot at his back. It had been a glorious time. The Emperor’s mouth lifted slightly.
Then however, the mist enveloped him again. It was worse because he had remembered; their treachery was more diabolical when compared to that recollection.
The Emperor held out his hand. “Spyglass,” he snapped. One of the Imperial Guards slapped a long brass form into his palm.
He raised it to his eye and trained it on the city beneath. The rain was falling steadily as the airship tracked across the sky, while the relentless hammering of the machine went on and on—almost as constant as Ezefia’s struggles.
Through the polished glass, Kaleva watched the folk scamper about. They were moving faster under the unexpected rain. Few looked up, but if they saw the airship it didn’t matter. The only one with the airship technology was the Imperial Fleet, so there was no danger of retribution; there was only death for those below.
As the Emperor watched he could feel his impatience rising within him like he’d eaten something bitter. He shifted restlessly, jerking the spyglass from side to side. The only results seemed to be inconvenience for the population.
“Vashill,” he growled out of the corner of his mouth, “I didn’t engage your services so you could make my enemies wet.” He jerked the spyglass from his eye and rounded on the tinker. “You promised vengeance from the sky and all we have done is perhaps wreck any picnic plans they might have.”
Ezefia, still tied to the chair, was not doing a very good job of concealing her delight. The Imperial Guards around were all very studiously avoiding look
ing in his direction; their eyes were fixed on distant points.
Vashill should have blanched, stammered and definitely feared for his life; instead he straightened and looked the Emperor full in the face with his clear gray eyes. “Imperial Majesty, if you would just raise your spyglass one more time, I believe you will begin to see the liquid’s effect.”
Kaleva paused, contemplating if he should just have the man’s head removed, but curiosity got the better of him. He pressed the glass to his eye and scanned Sousah again.
The machine had finally ground to a halt, and all was silent about the Winter Kite, but down below something was happening. The citizens were no longer looking up.
With mounting excitement, Kaleva saw a flickering in the streets; a shimmer of color blinking off in one spot and then appearing in another. It started off slowly, but then the gleams of blue color and light began to flash on and off throughout the city. The Emperor found he was holding his breath.
Vashill stood at his side, pressing closer than propriety and custom really allowed. Kaleva did not correct him.
“You see Your Imperial Majesty,” the inventor whispered into his ear. “The weirstone energy is now breaking through to the Otherside. Those tiny openings that are like an invitation to those that wait beyond. It won’t be long.”
The Emperor did not reply. He pressed the spyglass so tightly against his face that his skin ached, but he did not remove it. Finally, his patience was rewarded. He could have sworn that he heard a scream—even from all the way up here.
People were moving on the streets. Doors were being flung open and the citizens were running out of their homes. Soon the roads were filling with people milling about. Now Kaleva could imagine their terrified faces, as nightmares that they had thought conquered were returning in full force.
The Emperor felt as though he was really smiling for the first time in months—for the first time since the ball they had held in Vermillion, back when he thought all was well in his Empire.
Harbinger Page 6