Rise of the Blood Royal dobas-3

by Robert Newcomb

  Suddenly the glowing craft formula began to spin. As the formula spun, it coalesced into a tight azure ball, crushing its symbols and numbers into illegibility. Then the ball glowed brighter, hurting everyone’s eyes. Tristan raised his free hand to block the light, but it did little good. Suddenly the azure ball exploded, shooting millions of microscopic bits of subtle matter into the air.

  This time the subtle matter didn’t drift to the floor. Instead, it spread out to form a gleaming rectangle that measured about two meters long by one meter high. Images began forming on the rectangle as it hovered overhead. Moments later Tristan recognized what it was becoming, and it took his breath away. The subtle matter was creating a great map.

  Fascinated, the Conclave members watched the Ones’ spell unfold. Soon they could read the words and images forming on the map.

  Rustannica, the letters read on the upper half.

  Shashida, they soon formed on the lower half.

  The Borderlands, the subtle matter etched into the vast area in between.

  I beg the Afterlife! Tristan thought. That is a map of the lands west of the Tolenka Mountains!

  Transfixed, the Conclave members watched as the subtle matter went on to illustrate various landmarks and geographical terrain, such as rivers, cities, mountains, valleys, and lakes. Just when Tristan thought that the spell had finished its handiwork, some of the subtle matter drifted toward the eastern side of the map. It collected onto an area southwest of Tammerland, in the northwestern part of Hartwick Wood.

  The subtle matter swirled about that spot to create another geographical representation. The resulting landmark was small, dark, and oblong. Unlike the other landmarks, it glowed with a light sage color, causing it to stand out from everything else. Something about its shape tugged at Tristan’s memories.

  Soon a series of smaller numbers took form on the map just below it. At first Tristan thought that they might be another craft formula, but from his time spent aboard the Black Ships he soon recognized the numbers for what they were. They’re a series of maritime coordinates, pinpointing an exact spot, he realized. Then the subtle matter vanished, leaving its spellbinding creation hovering in the air.

  Even without the coordinates, Tristan instinctively knew what the small area represented. It was the entrance to the Caves of the Paragon-the place where Wigg had first discovered the Paragon and the Tome more than three centuries ago, and where Tristan’s only son Nicholas had poisoned him while attempting to build the Gates of Dawn. Within those labyrinthine nether regions also lay the red waters of the Caves and the mysterious Azure Sea-the wondrous ocean that Nicholas had unwittingly set free during his enlargement of the caves, and about which the Conclave still knew so little.

  Tristan’s had long suspected that the Caves of the Paragon might hold the answers to his many questions, and now every fiber of his being suddenly told him that he must brave those mysterious caverns again, no matter the cost. As he felt Shailiha’s hand tighten around his, he knew that she also grasped the Caves’ renewed importance.

  Suddenly more subtle matter collected and swirled about the room. After a time the matter gradually spread out. For several mesmerizing moments it formed a sentence in Old Eutracian that hovered over the meeting table, teasing everyone with its meaning. Then the sentence vanished, never to return.

  Tristan gave Faegan an anxious look. The old wizard seemed so stunned that he couldn’t speak. Tristan quickly glanced at Wigg, Jessamay, and Aeolus to see that they were similarly amazed. He quickly glanced at Faegan again.

  “What did the message say?” Tristan demanded.

  Faegan could only summon a dumb, vacant stare. Desperately wanting answers, Tristan stood from his chair and took Faegan by the shoulders. He gave the wizard a gentle shake.

  Finally Faegan snapped out of it. Before looking into Tristan’s eyes, he blinked hard and shook his head with astonishment.

  “To reach Shashida,” Faegan quoted, “you must first cross the Azure Sea.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE BOY HAD SEEN ONLY TEN SEASONS OF NEW LIFE and he was terrified of what might happen next. He never knew what awful things they might force him to do or to witness. “Schooling,” the beings called it.

  As he waited to be summoned he felt his warm urine run slowly down the inside of his left leg. Although the room was not cold, he shivered. “What does not kill you makes you stronger,” one of his strange masters had once said. But the boy didn’t want to become stronger-he just wanted to die, so that he would never have to come here again.

  The dank stone room in which he waited was small and bereft of light. His simple wooden stool was the only furniture. He always regained consciousness in this terrible place before they came for him. Then he would rise from the stone floor and sit on the stool to wait, with no memory of where he had been before now, or where he always went afterward.

  Oddly, he could remember nothing of his life outside these walls. Perhaps I have no other life, he thought. As far as he could remember he had no name, no identity, and no other reason for living save for his “schooling.” But when he was here, he could always recall his past sessions in this place.

  Sometimes he waited for hours in this nightmarish sensory deprivation; sometimes it lasted only moments. In the end, the same being always came to collect him. There was no way to know how long he had been here this time. Hours, he guessed.

  He heard the door open and a narrow shaft of light stabbed its way into the room. The boy raised one hand, partly to protect his eyes from the light and partly because he so dreaded seeing the one who always came to fetch him.

  The door open fully and a figure entered. He was dressed in a dark hooded cloak. As the boy’s eyes adjusted to the light, he was reminded of his master’s hideous nature.

  The being had no face.

  The confines of his cloak hood held nothing but blackness. There was no head-just a terrible empty void that somehow spoke orders to him. The voice was always the same. It was clearly male and it commanded respect. The figure crooked an index finger.

  “Come,” he demanded. “It is time.”

  His legs shaking, the boy rose from the stool. As he walked toward the dark figure, the faceless man placed one arm around the boy’s shoulder and escorted him from the room. The door closed heavily behind them.

  As always, the hallway was narrow and brightly lit, and the white walls, floor, and ceiling gave the passageway a cold, sterile feel. White doors lined the walls, and each door had a golden handle. The identical handles stretched as far as the eye could see.

  The boy shivered again. Which door will my faceless master take me through this time? he wondered. Will I be able to bear what lies on the other side? Or will I fail and disappoint him?

  The mysterious figure finally stopped before one of the glistening white doors. As the empty hood turned toward him, the boy cowered.

  “Today’s lesson is one of the most important that you will ever learn,” the man said. “This time you will not be asked to participate, only to watch. You will watch carefully, and do so over and over again, if needed, until you grasp the concept. Do you understand?”

  His voice lost to his overwhelming fear, the boy nodded.

  “Good,” the faceless man said. “Follow me.”

  The gold handle levered downward and the door opened. During each previous lesson, a different room had been used, and today was no exception. The boy obediently followed his master inside.

  The wood-paneled chamber was about eight meters square. Sawdust covered the sunken floor. Thirteen seats overlooking the floor sat in elevated rows along one side of the room. Two wooden doors lay on opposite sides of the short square wall surrounding the sunken floor. Eleven more hooded figures in dark robes, their faces also missing, sat in the chairs. Two empty seats sat in the front row. The air was cool and smelled pleasantly of the fresh-hewn sawdust.

  The man led the boy to the empty seats and they sat down. Fearing what might come nex
t, the boy wrapped his arms about himself, then hunched over in his chair. The empty cloak hood again turned his way.

  “No,” the master said sternly. “Sit up like a man.”

  The boy did as he was told. Born more of fear than the coolness of the room, goosebumps started breaking out on his skin.

  “You are about to watch something,” the faceless man said. “When it is over we will ask you to explain its meaning. You will frame your answer in a single sentence. You will not turn your face away or close your eyes, nor will you be allowed to leave this place until you have correctly explained the point of the lesson. Each of us will be watching you. Do you understand?”

  His voice still frozen with fear, the boy again nodded. Whatever was about to happen, all he wanted was for it to end.

  “Good,” the man said. “We shall start.”

  The two opposing doors in the sunken wall slowly slid to one side. Only darkness showed beyond. From behind one of the doorways came a soft growl. As he waited and watched, the terrified boy again felt the warm liquid run down one leg. This time its presence unnerved him as it reminded him this was not a dream, but real.

  Fearsome black dogs suddenly charged through the opposing doorways and lunged across the sawdust-strewn floor toward each other. On reaching the limits of their chains, they were abruptly halted in their tracks. With their deadly muzzles only inches apart, drool ran from their mouths as the dogs snapped and barked viciously, and sawdust flew as their claws dug at the floor. As they snapped and lunged, the boy did his best to screw up his courage and look at them.

  The hounds were huge, with sleek coats and muscular bodies. They seemed to be identical in every respect. Cropped ears stood tall on either side of their heads. Their tails had been closely bobbed, and their slanted eyes were a haunting yellow color. White teeth and fangs continually flashed as the savage animals struggled to break free from their bonds and tear into each other. The faceless master placed one hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “The two dogs are identical in every respect, save for one,” the mysterious master said. “It will be your task to identify the difference between them. They have been intentionally starved and are nearly insane with hunger. Each knows that his survival hinges on killing the other and eating him. It is this way throughout all nature, even for us supposedly enlightened humans. Do you understand?”

  The boy finally found his voice. “Yes,” he whispered.

  “Good,” the master replied.

  No sooner had the faceless master stopped talking than the chains disappeared, freeing the savage dogs. Terrified, the boy watched the two starving animals tear into each other.

  At first neither dog could claim the advantage. The one on the right appeared quicker, but the other one seemed stronger. As the dogs tangled, the boy soon lost track of which one was which.

  With a vicious growl, one of them bit savagely into the other’s shoulder. Just as he did so, the other dog tore into his opponent’s neck. Blood gushed from the fresh wounds to wildly paint the sawdust-strewn floor. The boy desperately wanted to close his eyes, but his fear of his master’s wrath far outweighed his revulsion, so he watched.

  Because neither dog would release his grip on the other, the struggle would hinge on which one lasted longer. Soon the dog whose neck had been bitten started to wobble from blood loss. Sensing a victory, his enemy dug his teeth in harder, causing the wound to deepen. A renewed torrent of blood gushed to the floor.

  Soon the weaker dog’s front legs collapsed, followed by his hindquarters. Without waiting for his victim to die, the victor removed his teeth from the neck wound. Amid the other’s dog’s desperate cries, he started eating his victim alive.

  After a time the victorious dog suddenly stopped feeding and lifted his head. The beast’s muzzle was dripping blood, and bits of flesh lay trapped between his teeth. His yellow eyes bored straight into the boy’s. Then the two dogs suddenly disappeared and the sawdust was refreshed, leaving no trace of the carnage.

  The faceless master leaned nearer. “What did you learn?” he asked.

  Glad that the spectacle was finished, the boy did his best to think. He would do anything not to have to watch another such battle.

  “One dog lived and one died,” the boy offered quietly.

  “True,” one of the cloaked figures said from behind him. This time the speaker was female. Her voice was understanding, almost compassionate. “But that is not the answer we seek. Try again.”

  “The dog that won was bigger,” the boy answered, not knowing what else to say.

  “Like a poor marksman, you keep missing the target,” the man beside him said. “You must do better, or be forced to watch again. The next time will be worse.”

  The boy desperately wanted it all to end. His will broken, he felt salty tears run down his cheeks. “I don’t know!” he cried out. “Please don’t force me to watch another contest!”

  “Men do not cry,” the female voice said. “They lead. Answer the question correctly and you may go.”

  The boy wiped his eyes and thought hard about what he had just seen. At last it came to him: “The winner attacked a weaker spot…and he stayed stronger,” he finally said.

  Had it been possible, the boy would have seen his faceless master smile. “Well done,” the mystery man said. “Now apply that answer to nature’s entirety, rather than just the two animals you watched struggling to kill each other.”

  As the boy thought, long moments passed. “Only the strong survive,” he said, praying that he had finally been right.

  “Yes,” the master answered. “You have grasped it. It is a lesson that you must always remember.” But this time the master’s words sounded strangely hollow, as though they were coming from far away.

  “Only the strong survive,” he repeated, his voice echoing strangely through the room. “Only the strong survive…only the strong survive…only the strong…”

  His face and naked body covered with sweat, Vespasian Augustus bolted upright in his bed. Instinctively grabbing the jeweled dagger lying on his nightstand, he launched from the bed and charged toward the far corner of the room. As his naked skin touched the balcony draperies he cried out, as if the harmless cloth were trying to entangle him and kill him. Although still asleep, his eyes were wide open. In a manic haze he slashed at the draperies like a madman.

  Persephone leapt from the bed to stare at her enraged husband. His recent dreams had been terrifying, but nothing like this had happened to him before. An accomplished sorceress, she correctly guessed that he needed to be awakened before he hurt her or himself. But given the great strength of Vespasian’s blood, she hesitated.

  Screaming again, Vespasian caught Persephone’s shadowy form out of the corner of one eye. Believing that she was the threat he so feared, he raised his dagger and charged at her. Realizing that she had no choice, Persephone sent a weak azure bolt directly toward the emperor.

  Her bolt struck Vespasian squarely in the chest, lifting him off his feet and sending him crashing to the floor some three meters away. Hoping against hope, she immediately ran to him.

  Vespasian’s chest was singed, but he looked otherwise unharmed. The sudden pain had broken his terrifying reverie and fully awakened him. With a groan, he dropped the dagger to the floor. Desperate with worry, Persephone kneeled and took her husband in her arms.

  For several moments she lovingly cradled her stricken husband. Then the silence was shattered as royal bodyguards started pounding on the bedroom door. Persephone cleverly used her nightgown train to cover Vespasian’s chest burns.

  “Be still, my love,” she whispered. “I will protect your secret.”

  She looked up to see that the magnificent oak door was starting to give way and soon it would surrender altogether. It would do no good to try and call the legionnaires off, for the disturbing noises coming from the bedroom had been too great to explain away.

  In a hail of shattered wood and sprung crossbraces, the door finally g
ave way. Their swords drawn, two legionnaires charged into the room.

  “Is everything all right, my lady?” one of them shouted as he looked around warily. After Persephone told him that Vespasian was unharmed, he turned to see the ripped draperies. Then his eyes went to the dagger lying on the floor.

  “Was there an intruder?” he asked.

  “No,” Persephone insisted. “Your emperor suffered a bad dream-nothing more. I am quite able to tend to him.”

  The legionnaire looked closely at Vespasian’s drained face, then back at Persephone. “The emperor looks ill,” he protested. “Does your grace wish me to summon a physician?”

  Persephone shook her head. “No,” she answered. “Leave us now. First thing in the morning, arrange to have the shattered door repaired. If I change my mind about the physician, I will call for you.”

  “As you wish,” the legionnaire answered. With that, the bodyguards saluted her and reluctantly exited the room.

  As Persephone looked down into Vespasian’s sweaty face, she watched him go unconscious. Closing her eyes, she placed her palm to his brow. His mind had gone deep, but he was unharmed. Then she looked around the ravaged room.

  This was far more than a bad dream, she realized. The craft has been at work here. But why, she wondered, and on whose orders?

  Deciding to speak to no one about this until Vespasian regained consciousness, she stood. Raising one arm and calling the craft, she gently levitated her husband’s body back onto the bed. She would lie with him until morning. If by then he didn’t awaken, she would use the craft to gently rouse him.

  She knew that the only surefire way to protect Vespasian’s secret would be to have the two guards killed. It was a pity, for she knew them well and they had only been doing their duty. Even so, she couldn’t allow the slightest hint of this episode to surface-especially so close to the start of Vespasian’s massive new campaign.

  As she lay beside him, she silently gave thanks to the all-powerful Vagaries flame that Vespasian had not unconsciously used his powers. Had that happened, he might have killed them both and destroyed the entire royal residence. Once she knew that Vespasian was well, as a token of her gratitude and devotion she would order the Priory maidens to slaughter a white bull in the Rotunda. Still worried about her husband, she held him closer.