The Sword Chronicles: Child of the Empire

by Collings, Michaelbrent

  As she pulled out the sword, the other body – the body of the man who had been about to put a dagger through the ear of the Emperor – slid loose of her sword as well. Fell to the floor. Blood ran.

  The Chancellor looked at the body behind him. Grimaced.

  She shook her head. "I'm sorry. You were in the way and there was no time to go around you. The only way to stop him –"

  The Chancellor waved her off. Grunted as the motion shifted his shoulder where the sword had pierced him. Malal shouted in dismay as blood gouted forth from the wound. He took off his tunic and pressed it against the hole at the front of the Chancellor's robe.

  The Chancellor looked at him. "You should thank this girl," he said. "She just saved your life. And mine."

  Malal nodded. "I know." He looked at the body on the floor, a killer that had come within inches of destroying him. Then at Samira. "Devar told me how he found you in the kennels. Armor told me he was impressed by you. And now this." He looked at Armor. "Go and get help for the Chancellor. Find a Patch and get him here to see to my friend, and bring the Captain of my Guard to scour the castle and ensure there are no more of these assassins."

  Armor looked torn. "Lord, I'm not sure I should leave you unguarded."

  Malal looked at Samira. He smiled. "I won't be unguarded." He turned his gaze back to Armor. "Now go. Be quick.

  Armor looked at Samira. No words were spoken, but she knew what he was telling her: Protect him.

  She flicked the blood from her sword in a snap so quick it left the blade utterly spotless. Nodded: I will.

  Armor ran.

  She remained by the Emperor's side.

  17

  The Chancellor was a man of many secrets. He had to be. It was the job of any man in his position to hold secrets tight to him. They were not just the way he did his job – not just the way he protected the Empire and her Emperor from threats within and without. No, the secrets he held were his children. They were to be nurtured, to be watched and raised up until the time was right for them to go into the world.

  A man of many secrets, he. Some could save, some could destroy. All were his to own, his to hold, his to release when he chose.

  He had been regent for over a decade. Had been Chancellor for much longer than that. Much, much longer.

  Now he was being taken from the Imperial Library by a pair of Patches who were working on his wounds, passing hands over them and murmuring. The wounds weren't that bad to start with – he'd certainly had worse – and as they worked he felt the skin knit, felt the blood stop flowing. But Malal would no doubt insist on his remaining in the infirmary for a few hours, at least.

  The Patches took him away on a wheeled cot. It allowed the Chancellor to see Malal, white-faced and still terrified.

  And beside him: the girl. Samira. Sword still in hand, every fiber of her body alert.

  She would kill for Malal.

  She would die for him.

  The Chancellor smiled as the door closed behind him.

  Samira.

  Yes, things were coming together well.

  TWO: blessed killer

  "Of course there will be dissenters, and of course the dissenters must die. For other than the order never to descend to the Lands Below, the one and only sin that Our government can never permit is its own murder at the hands of its people."

  - Emperor Eka, First Rules and

  Commandments of the Ascension

  1

  Learning to be a Blessed One, Samira quickly found, had much in common with learning to be unconscious.

  Devar taught her most of what she learned. Armor taught her occasionally, but Devar explained that the older man had "other duties," while Devar was stationed at the castle, so it was logical for him to teach prospective Blessed Ones.

  "Besides," he said, "wouldn't you rather learn from someone your age, rather than a stuffy old man?"

  Samira had to stifle a laugh at that. There was more than a little truth to it. She liked Armor – a lot – but she thought that listening to him speak for hours every day, always so courteous and so careful, might well kill her.

  Devar, though. He was interesting. Smart, funny. She laughed around him, and that was a new experience for her.

  And there was no denying that he was good-looking. She somehow felt hot and cold every time he came into the room he called "the class of the Blessed and the birthplace of boredom."

  She had thought at first that becoming a Blessed One would be about fighting, and there was some of that. But as Devar pointed out, her Gift appeared to be the power to wield any weapon with a skill unrivaled by any in the Empire. What more could she learn?

  Well, not any weapon.

  They had given her daggers, swords, lances, morning stars. She held them all with ease, handled them all with such skill that soon the Emperor's own Guard started gathering to watch when she practiced. She could not see their faces – they all wore the same black armor, those same black helms that covered them completely – but she could hear them murmur in surprise, occasionally even gasp.

  Then Devar gave her a gun. And she almost shot off her own foot. Not only could she not use it well, she could barely use it at all. Same for a bow and arrow. At first they thought her power must not extend to ranged weapons, but then she pointed out that she had thrown a dagger with perfect accuracy during the attack on the Emperor, and was that not a kind of ranged weapon?

  Devar gave her a spear. She threw it and cleaved a target dummy's head in two at a distance of forty rods.

  "So it must be that you can only use weapons that rely totally on your own strength," he said when she did that.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, the gun uses a Push's power to create the force behind the bullet. Similarly, you aren't really the one who throws the arrow – the bowstring does that. So your Gift appears to be perfect skill and speed when using any weapon that relies on your own strength, and that alone."

  They were standing in one of the courts within the palace walls dedicated to weapons and battle practice. Devar bent and picked up a rock from the ground. Tossed it at her. She caught it. It was a bit bigger than her fist, tapering to a blunt outcropping on one side – it looked like a lopsided egg.

  She looked at it for a moment, wondering what this was, then realized Devar was running at her, sword drawn.

  A moment later he was on the ground, his sword five feet away and a large bump raising on his forehead. "And it appears that if it can be a weapon, you can use it as one," he said. He felt the bump gingerly. Hissed. "Ow. Thank you for not killing me."

  "You're welcome?"

  "Was that a question? It sounded like a question. Do you regret not killing me?"

  She couldn't tell if he was joking or not until he held out his hand and said, "Please, great warrior, grant mercy to your fallen foe and help me up." He grinned widely. "Unless you want to keep beating on me with the rock?"

  "Don't tempt me," she said. She took his hand.

  It was rather like when she was in the throes of her Gift. Hot and tingly. Only she didn't feel at all in control of this, and she wasn't sure what she thought about that fact.

  "Oh, sarcasm," he said. "Well, then, it's back to class for you."

  "Do we have to?" she said. "Can't we do some more fight practice?"

  "No, you've already concussed today's allotment of the Guard."

  "What about stealth training? Evasion? Reconnaissance?"

  He looked at her with what she thought (hoped?) was admiration. "You're really added to your vocabulary in the last weeks."

  She felt her cheeks coloring. Though it disappeared when he shook his head.

  "No," he said. "There's a time for the practice field and a time for the classroom."

  So it was back to the birthplace of boredom.

  It wasn't that she didn't appreciate all the knowledge. She had known her Letters, known her Numbers. She had had basic information about the Empire and a few other subjects. Now, thou
gh, she was learning the Empire's history, the structure of its government. She was learning social and economic theories and how the Empire kept its subjects healthy and well. She learned about the five States of Ansborn, and even had Eyes come and show her the great wonders of each: the Grand Cathedral of Faith, where the priests and priestesses cared for the poor and granted sanctuary to any who asked; the Great University, where the lesser Gifts and the Academics were trained; the Walled City of Fear, an entire city of criminals; and more and more, on and on.

  She also learned the trade of a Blessed One: how to come and go without being seen, how to seek and find information among the common folk, how to discover those who would plot against the Empire.

  "Why is there an army?" she asked early in the classes. "Ansborn covers all the mountain tops, all the sides of the mountains that can be used, and armies are used to repel invaders and protect from other countries. But we know of no other countries – just us. And no invaders."

  "Good question!" shouted Devar, as he so often did. Those were the moments that made the boredom tolerable. When his eyes flashed and his smile widened and he looked at her as though she were the only person in the world. "The army is a holdover from the days when the mountains each held a different country – the original five States, before they were unified under the seventh Emperor, a thousand years ago. Now they are more of a police force."

  "Then why not call them police?"

  His eyes flashed, his smile widened again. But he did not praise her, he simply answered with another question. "Why does no one go down the mountain?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Why does no one descend below the clouds that always ring the five mountains below Ansborn?"

  She shrugged. "Because we don't want to?"

  He laughed. "People always want to. If there is a thing that can be done, they do it. That is the way of things."

  She thought. "Then they must," she said with a shrug. "People do."

  "But you know from your studies that the Gods' priests and priestesses have told us not to."

  Another shrug. "People also like to do what they're told not to."

  Another smile. "So people have been told not to do things. People do what they're told not to. People have been told not to descend the mountain. And the logical conclusion is…."

  "People have climbed down the mountain," she said. He nodded. But for some reason there was no smile in his eyes this time. No grin gracing his face. She felt herself grow somber. "What happens to them?"

  "Each person who has ever tried – every single one – has been found the next day in the middle of the capital. Impaled on one of the spires around the castle." He looked even grimmer. "Conclusion?"

  She felt herself grow tight inside. "There is an enemy below us. So powerful they can take our people at will, and steal into our places of power and safety."

  He nodded. "And so we keep our Army. And so we train. And so we prepare. Because the fact that the priests and priestesses tell us not to descend implies that we once knew this enemy, and the fact that our fear has lasted the millennium of the Empire's existence tells of something fierce, and terrifying, and dangerous."

  They moved to another subject, but she wondered the rest of the day about the bottom of the mountain. About the place Below, and the enemy that was waiting there.

  There were others in the class. Armor explained to her before she began the course intended to prepare her to be a Blessed One that these were others with extensive Gifts who were thought to be Blessed, and so were being prepared to serve the Empire.

  One was the little girl who had come to Samira's room her first night in the palace. She sat in the back of the classes, quiet and ever unnerving with her red eyes. Samira asked Armor who she was.

  "She calls herself The Poppet."

  "I thought that was her toy."

  He shook his head. "Those are poppets. She is The Poppet."

  "What's her Gift?"

  He looked uncomfortable. Perhaps more.

  Afraid?

  "You'll see soon enough."

  There was another person, too. She was a girl who came each day dressed in the same style of gray robe that Samira wore. But she also had a gorgeous flower in her hair, so beautiful that it made Samira wonder what garden existed that could grow such perfection. She wanted more than once to ask where she had gotten that flower. And when she finally did ask, the girl smiled enigmatically and said only, "My own."

  "What's your name?" asked Samira, trying another tack.

  "For now?" said the girl. "I suppose it's Riada."

  Samira didn't understand the wording Riada used. "For now"? "I suppose"? Why didn't she know?

  You're one to talk. You didn't even have a name until just a few weeks ago.

  "How could you not have a name?" Riada said.

  Samira started. For a moment she wondered if this girl's Gift was the reading of minds.

  Riada must have understood what Samira was thinking from the look on her face. She laughed, and it was a laugh without malice. "I can't read minds – you said 'I didn't have a name myself.' Perhaps you didn't realize?" She stopped laughing. "It would be a horrible thing to have no name. How would you know what to call yourself when you came to your door?"

  Samira definitely didn't understand that. Again Riada laughed. Again it was a laugh of good-will, an innocent laugh. "I'm sorry, Samira. I shouldn't make fun. You just looked so funny." She grew somber. They were waiting for their day's classes to begin, and she gestured to Samira to come closer. "Sit with me today. I would know how a girl as lovely as you could get through life with no name. Surely the men would have called you Lovely, if nothing else."

  Samira blushed. But she also moved closer.

  A strange sensation came over her as she did, growing with each step. She didn't comprehend it at first, but by the time she sat next to Riada, she understood.

  She was in a place with people who spoke to her. Not snarls over scraps, not screams of rage in the killing fields of the arena. Here there were laughs and smiles and relaxed talks about nothing at all. Even The Poppet had spoken more to her in their time together than had any Dog.

  Is this a family?

  She didn't know. Not for sure.

  But she thought… she thought it might be.

  Armor: the stern but fair father.

  Riada: an older sister.

  The Poppet: a younger one, independent and a bit strange, but still bound by the strange power of some unknown Gift.

  Devar….

  Hopefully he's not part of the family. That would mean I couldn't….

  She blushed again. Because she didn't know how to end that sentence. Or perhaps she did.

  Riada was already chattering when Samira sat beside her.

  "Your Gift is fighting, eh?"

  Samira nodded. "What's yours?"

  Riada tsked. "Don't you know that you never ask?"

  Samira blinked. "Why not?"

  "Because if your enemies know, then they can more easily defend against it."

  Samira shook her head. "But you know mine."

  "Yes, because everyone in the palace knows yours. Though they all think you're just a prodigy at fighting, but I…." She lay a hand on the side of her head. "Knowing what you do on the practice field, and knowing you're here in this room with me, it's quite obvious what your Gift is." She laughed. "I suspect your new name will be quite fearsome." She grew a bit – if only a bit – serious. "Still, you should take care not to show too much of what you can do. Not even when I'm about – not yet. Your enemies will know, and, knowing, will have power over you."

  Samira didn't understand any of that last. Which, she was coming to realize, was normal when dealing with Riada. The girl seemed to know so much more than Samira about… well… everything that only a half of what she said made sense to the ignorant once-Dog.

  "But I'm not an enemy to you," she finally said.

  "No, you're not," said Riada. She squeezed Samira's
shoulder in a half-hug. Samira almost shoved her away before she realized the gesture was meant in affection, not as an attack. Then she nearly melted into it.

  How much must I have longed for this?

  Humans are made for affection. They can survive without it, but they are as walls with missing stone: weakened, and eventually destined to fall.

  "So why not tell me?" said Samira. "If I'm not an enemy, and if you know my Gift, why not tell me yours?" she said.

  "Because, you never know where enemies are hiding. I heard you ran into a Fade your first day at the palace?"

  Samira nodded.

  Riada lay a finger aside her nose. Then the gesture shifted so she was pointing surreptitiously at the flower that hung in her hair just behind her ear. "So you know that even an empty room can never be completely trusted, don't you."

  Samira thought. She nodded.

  Riada kept pointing at her ear – or her hair? The flower? – for a moment. No longer laughing. Samira knew her new friend –

  (Gods, I have a friend!)

  – was trying to tell her something. But she had no idea what it could be.

  Or if it might be important.

  "What about Devar?" she said as an idea struck her. "And The Poppet? And Armor? I know all their names."

  "Amor is entirely too trusting," she said. "And he has been a Blessed One so long he has lost his anonymity and must settle for the power of his reputation. The Poppet," she continued, and dropped her voice conspiratorially, "is insane. And Devar…." She giggled. "Do you think that's his real name?"

  And suddenly Samira remembered the moment she had met the young man. "You may call me Devar," he had said. Not "My name is Devar," but "you may call me Devar."

  Interesting.

  Much to think on.

  A family. But one of secrets. Of names unknown and sisters unnamed. Of friends known only as much as they wished, and others known to all, but in a way that strangely served the Empire.

  She understood none of it.

  And wondered how dangerous – or deadly – her ignorance would be.