“Then we have the first piece of evidence we need,” I said quietly, contemplating the consequences of God Sworn involvement.
“Indeed,” Pi’Vari agreed with relish, “the God Sworn have once again risen up, and the Empire will crush them under its velvet boot like the worthless insects they are.”
I shot him a look and I saw Aemir do the same, but before I could intercede Aemir grabbed Pi’Vari by the collar and slammed him back-first onto the table. “Are all who disagree with your Empire’s philosophy of ‘Guidance by Enlightenment’ worthless insects?” Aemir seethed through bared teeth. “Perhaps we should test how worthless this insect is,” he snarled, pointing at himself.
“Gentlemen,” I snapped, having witnessed similar displays all-too recently, “the last Gods War is a decade in the past. Not only are we unfit to decide when the Empire declares war, or who it will release its wrath on,” I said darkly toward Pi’Vari, “but there are people here who need our help regardless of who’s to blame. These petty squabbles need to end—now.”
Aemir was still clearly furious, but he released Pi’Vari’s collar. Pi’Vari stood and straightened his clothing, noticing a tear along the front of his deep, V-necked shirt. His face was still an unreadable smile, but I knew this wasn’t the end of it. I really didn’t care at that moment, anyway; I was sick of dealing with their tantrums.
I took a deep breath and shook my head slowly before releasing the air from my lungs. It actually made me feel better, so I used the fleeting, positive energy to try advancing the meeting. “The Empire knows that they didn’t kill every single one of the Young Gods,” I began, and thankfully this was enough to turn their murderous attentions away from each other, “and since the Old Gods have been gone for thousands of years, it stands to reason that this is the work of one of the Young Gods who escaped annihilation. Do we have any idea which one that might be?” I asked, hoping Pi’Vari had something.
He furrowed his eyebrows and drummed his fingers on the table before replying, “All of the Primary Young Gods of these lands were slain and while it is not absolutely verified, it is widely believed that their successors, the Secondaries, were also wiped out,” he said absently as his eyes flicked back and forth, which I had learned in college psychology classes was a way to tell someone is accessing their memories rapidly. Pi’Vari had an almost encyclopedic knowledge of subjects which interested him, and being a staunch Imperial, the latest victory the Empire had won over forces they considered ‘heretical’ and ‘obstructive to progress’ was certain to be of interest to my herald.
I shook my head. “It has to be a Secondary,” I argued, “a Demigod or Touched human wouldn’t have the power to do this, even with a frequency of just once a month—which is what Castle Coldetz has endured for more than half a year now.” Pi’Vari nodded, but I knew he was holding something back. After waiting a few fruitless seconds for him to volunteer it, I finally asked, “What is it?”
His blue-tinged lips parted in a smirk of satisfaction and he shrugged his shoulders. “You are correct; a Demigod could not do this…at least, not alone.”
It seemed obvious when he put it that way, but I didn’t see where he was going just yet. “Even a handful of Demigods couldn’t summon up the power to do this, so the questions are:” I said as I began ticking off fingers, “first, which entities would have enough power to fuel these attacks; second, of those entities, who would be willing to work with a Demigod from an annihilated pantheon still subject to persecution,” I continued, my curiosity piquing as I went, “and finally, what possible value could even a band of listless Demigods provide in exchange for such a commitment?”
Pi’Vari shrugged. “Those are good questions, Jezran,” he replied calmly. “They are also questions to which I do not currently have the answers.”
“A Dragon Lord?” I asked, drawing blanks.
Pi’Vari shook his head. “Certainly not, as even if Arch Magos Rekir had not stamped out the last of their kind within a thousand miles thirty years ago,” he said with a thin sneer, as we both knew how unlikely it was for Rekir to fail at anything, “there is simply no possibility that a Dragon Lord would use its precious life force to fuel ineffective attacks like this. It would instead employ a real, tangible army of mercenaries using riches and the promise of more riches on fulfillment of the contract.”
I nodded, knowing he was absolutely correct. I thought for a few moments before another idea hit me. “A cabal of free wizards, then,” I said hopefully.
Again, Pi’Vari shook his head. “Impossible. Even if Sbeegl himself returned from the void to lead a cabal of a dozen equally legendary figures, their combined resources would only be able to produce this effect,” he furrowed his brow as he performed some mental gymnastics, “once in a year,” he said with finality. “I suppose if they were willing to risk death due to overexertion,” he mused absently, “they might be able to produce it twice in a year, but not seven times in seven months.”
I was stumped. As usual, my herald’s logic was unassailable.
Pi’Vari stopped drumming his fingers on the table, which immediately got my attention. The man’s habits were infuriating and ever-present, making their cessation more notable than their presence.
“What is it, Pi’Vari?” I asked, hoping he had something.
He clenched his teeth and looked like he wished I hadn’t noticed anything. Finally he offered, “It could be a High Wizard of the Imperial Inner Circle.”
I raised my eyebrows, and I could sense even Aemir’s surprise at my herald’s suggestion.
“Why would a High Wizard of Veldyrian do that?” I blurted. “Even if they didn’t know of its riches before we put in our official claim to the territory of Coldetz this month, to know that such a large store of mythicite lay just beneath the castle’s walls would have prompted even the most insane Imperial Wizard to cease these attacks,” I asserted, but seeing that Pi’Vari wasn’t convinced, I pressed on. “mythicite is more valuable than anything—other than prospective High Wizards—to the Empire, and the amount here is more than any other recorded find in Veldyrian’s history.”
Pi’Vari finally nodded his head. “I suppose that such an ambitious individual would opt for political, rather than physical, pressures after learning of the mythicite’s presence,” he agreed.
“What makes Gods’ Blood so difficult for your people to find?” Aemir asked unexpectedly.
Pi’Vari rolled his eyes, but I ignored him and turned to Aemir. “Gods’ Blood, or mythicite as the Empire calls it, is impervious to all efforts at Augury or other forms of Divination,” I explained, although my own knowledge of the substance was limited. “It’s highly prized among Imperial Houses, and as Veldyrian is a relatively young city of only five centuries, discovery of large pockets of the mineral is still a fairly regular occurrence.
Aemir nodded slowly before continuing, “What is so important about the Gods’ Blood to the Empire? Among my people, its only use is to augment the durability and effectiveness of weapons and armor, and in the hands of our finest craftsmen it can produce items which could only be called magical.”
“That is the usual application for it,” I agreed, “and I’m sure you noticed the telltale golden tint to Baeld’s armor, as well as the ceremonial garb of the High Sheriff. These people are clearly aware of the same properties which your people value in mythicite.”
“But that does not answer the question: why is it so valuable to an Empire,” Aemir pressed, “that has little need for large quantities of enchanted weapons and armor since your wizard magic is powerful enough to intimidate all but the bravest foes?”
“Or the most foolish,” quipped Pi’Vari, drawing a dark look from Aemir.
“It’s a fair question,” I replied quickly, to forestall any further conflict between the two ranking members of my entourage. “But it’s one which I don’t know the answer to, Aemir. The amount of money Imperial agents pay for mythicite makes it all but impossible for even the weal
thiest of Veldyrian’s Houses to hold onto the stuff for any length of time. It’s just worth too much to the Great Tower’s Archivists.”
Aemir folded his arms across his chest and looked to consider what I had said before continuing, “Just how much is the Gods’ Blood worth to your Empire?” he asked pointedly.
I shrugged my shoulders. “A cup of refined mythicite would be enough to buy House Wiegraf’s entire estate in Veldyrian, if I understand correctly,” I said, having some small experience in trading the precious commodity.
Aemir stroked his beard. “And just how much is beneath our feet?”
I hesitated. The truth is that I didn’t really know, but to call it the richest find in Veldyrian’s history was something of an understatement. If the High Sheriff’s representation, and my own observations, were even close to reality then the mythicite beneath Coldetz Castle would easily equal as much mythicite as the entire city of Veldyrian had accounted for accumulating in the last century.
I knew that bluffing would be pointless, so I answered as truthfully as I could. “It’s a lot, Aemir; definitely enough to change the balance of power in the Imperial City. I honestly don’t know more than that.”
Dancer, who had been his usual, quiet self during lengthy conversations like this one, stood up abruptly and strode toward us. “That why we alone?” he demanded.
I nodded reluctantly. “That’s right, Dancer. That’s why we have to fight alone.”
Pi’Vari nodded his head in agreement. “If we asked for any Imperial help, they would have cause to seize the entire Castle and relegate us into a supporting role,” he explained, “but since we were first to discover Coldetz and its wealth, and our esteemed colleague Jezran Cobalt Wiegraf,” he said with an exaggerated bow in my direction, “happens to be a member of Imperial nobility by the simple fact of his having successfully navigated the hazards of the Wizard’s College, House Wiegraf is then afforded first opportunity to secure the area and its wealth in the name of the Empire.”
Dancer nodded, and while it was hard to believe that the little barbarian actually understood everything we were talking about, he had never shown this much interest in a meeting before. “How long?” he asked simply.
I took a breath, exhaling slowly as I tried to find the answer. “Imperial Doctrine is vague when it comes to time,” I began, “but to make it simple, no less than six months and no more than one year. That’s how long we have to secure Coldetz and prepare it for inspection teams.”
“And what happens if we fail?” asked Aemir doubtfully.
I shrugged. “It depends on who secures the right to pacify Coldetz if we fail to secure the region,” I replied. “If it’s a House we’re on friendly terms with, we probably receive a minimal finder’s fee before being ejected from the scene.”
“Not friendly?” pressed Dancer.
Pi’Vari interrupted before I could answer. “If ‘not friendly,’ my little barbarian of the wastes,” my herald said in that silky smooth voice I had come to hate at least as much as I had come to depend on, “then we shall be charged with actively obstructing the Great Enlightenment and attempting to transport mythicite without permission, in addition to whatever other flowery charges their barristers decide to throw at us.”
I nodded solemnly. “Pi’Vari is right,” I confirmed, “and there is only one punishment for either of those crimes: Sundering.”
Aemir’s eyebrows shot up, but Dancer was understandably confused.
“What ‘Sundering’?” Dancer asked impatiently.
Pi’Vari leaned down toward Dancer, who stood his ground defiantly. “Sundering,” my herald smoothly began, “is when they annih-“
“It’s unpleasant, and it’s final in a way death probably never could be,” I cut him off. “Sundering doesn’t just kill you; it…repurposes you.”
Seeing that he still didn’t understand, and not wanting to continue in this vein any longer than absolutely necessary, I tried to put it in words with which he was familiar.
“Dancer makes the Dance of Life and Death, right?” I prompted.
“It first and last of Seven Dances,” he agreed.
I nodded slowly. “Sundering takes away the Last Dance and removes you from the circle,” I tried to explain.
Dancer shook his head adamantly. “Impossible,” he argued, “Last Dance for all: people, trees, even mountains make steps of Last Dance.”
I nodded patiently, “What about Gaeld?”
He cocked his eyebrow, prompting me to continue.
“Gaeld, Baeld and all of their kind,” I said slowly, “were once people who became Sundered.”
Dancer’s eyes widened. “Sun-dered make Gaeld?” he asked in awe, forcing the syllables of the first word.
Pi’Vari shook his head. “Only the lucky ones end up like Gaeld, Dancer,” he explained in a serious tone which he rarely used.
“Pi’Vari’s right,” I agreed, “Gaeld and Baeld were once people like us. But they were punished with the Sundering, making them eternally subservient to whoever holds their contract.”
Aemir raised a finger. “You say Sundering is a punishment of the Empire,” he said as though he had found a great flaw, “but you also say that you are the first Imperial to set foot in Coldetz. If that is so, how did Baeld find his way here?”
Pi’Vari replied before I could find the words. “The Empire did not invent the process, Aemir,” he said dismissively, “we took it from the God Sworn, like everything else they had of value. It is possible that Baeld is old enough to have been created by the God Sworn centuries before their destruction.”
I glared at Pi’Vari pointedly before continuing. “Baeld is another piece of the puzzle leading me to believe that the remnants of the Young Gods are behind these attacks,” I said darkly. “Which is why it is imperative that we secure Coldetz immediately for annexation, or we might find ourselves caught in a crossfire between those remnants and the unbridled fury of the Empire. And frankly, Sundering might be a preferable fate to whatever that particular scenario could bring down on us.”
Chapter IV: Politics
“You are summoned to the High Sheriff’s office at once,” reported the silver and yellow clad soldier after unceremoniously opening the door to our common chambers in the gate house.
I nodded and felt my stomach tighten. “Of course,” I replied as graciously as I could manage, simultaneously signaling to my cadre that they should stay where they were.
He showed me through the series of corridors and chambers which led to the central tower of Castle Coldetz. Even in this state of what amounted to constant, if protracted siege, the walls were adorned with the bright yellow standards of Coldetz. Every sconce held a brightly burning torch, illuminating the decorations of the Castle’s interior, and there were worked cleaning in nearly every room I passed through.
We came to the great, winding staircase and for a moment my imagination wandered, thinking of the wizards I had seen in movies or read of in fantasy books living solitary lives in similar structures. That portrayal was a far cry from my own experience so far, but it in no way diminished the majesty of this particular structure.
I was amazed at the architecture of the building, which was apparently composed entirely of dry, fitted stones of that same glossy black color as the walls. Inside the corridors and with proper lighting, various veins of marbling could be seen in the stones; gold, green, red and even blue were represented among the massive blocks. I wasn’t an engineer or even particularly well versed in how difficult such construction was, but I had seen television specials about Machu Picchu and was under the impression that hand-fitting each stone perfectly to its neighbors was laborious in the extreme.
I followed the guard at a leisurely pace, having made this trip before and knowing that I would be lucky to make it to the top before stopping to rest at least once.
A few years earlier, before I had been brought to this strangle world and thrust into my current body, I could have jogged up
and down the tower’s stairs for at least thirty minutes before tiring. We ran grinders in high school wrestling on much steeper steps in the football bleachers for ‘Red Flag Days.’
Red Flag Days were combinations of the hardest exercises available to us, for the maximum duration possible, and each one would make at least half a dozen members of the team collapse and/or puke from exhaustion. At the time, it had seemed like the coaches wouldn’t let us shower off until they had reached their predetermined quota of quitters for the day, and obviously nobody wanted to be the weak link who sent us to the showers.
I never considered myself at the top of the heap in wrestling, either in conditioning specifically or athletics generally. My brother had always been the more gifted of us when it came to sports, actually earning a late round selection in the baseball draft as a senior in high school which he declined, before actually getting picked in the fifth round in his junior year of college. But I was never the one to stop a Red Flag Day, and while I know it’s a fairly simple thing to be proud of, it was a point of pride I carried with me afterwards.
“Stop for a rest, sir?” asked the soldier acting as my guide.
I nodded my assent. I really didn’t want to have to stop after only ten stories, especially when I was over halfway done, but I knew that this body wouldn’t allow me to go much further before forcing the issue.
“There was a time,” I muttered under my breath as I sat down in one of the large wooden chairs located on our current landing, “when I could have run up these stairs and not even needed to catch my breath afterwards.”
The soldier cocked an eyebrow as he poured a glass of water from a nearby jug. “I was under the impression that wizards didn’t care much for physical conditioning,” he said before visibly catching himself. “I’m sorry, sir,” he stammered, “I didn’t mean any disrespect.”
Revelation (Seeds of Humanity: The Cobalt Heresy) Page 5