Veiled Empire

by Nathan Garrison

  Voren shivered. He hated seeing one of them. “Enlightened,” they were called. The story circulated that their minds were elevated to another realm of thought, a higher plane of existence. Voren, however, knew the truth.

  He peeled away his gaze and redirected it to the open book in his lap. He read for some time but soon found he could not concentrate on the words, so he turned to peer out the window by his shoulder.

  The day promised rain, and an icy one at that. With fall in full swing, the days continually grew colder. A hundred leagues south, the Agoritha plains had already seen its first snow. Voren hoped it would not cause a change in their target’s plans.

  Squads of darkwatch guard, mixed humans and daeloth, marched in formation up and down the broad avenue. One of the Blade Cabal stood sentinel bisecting the palace gate, the diamond-shaped edge of his Andun poking up over a shoulder. Archers and crossbowmen by the hundreds occupied vantages along the outer wall and atop the other nearby structures.

  Voren sighed. It seems all I do is look out through windows.

  They surrounded him: in his chambers, his memories, his art. Even the written word was a kind of window, a view into the mind of the author, a glimpse into the untempered schism of the soul.

  I have had enough of simply looking. He smiled as a mierothi, the one they had been waiting for, walked through the entrance of the library. Time to start opening some doors.

  Voren brought his book near his head, feigning absorption in the text. A few beats later, he heard a throat being cleared.

  He looked up. “Chronicler Truln?” he said.

  The mierothi stared at him blankly. “That’s my spot.”

  “It is? My apologies.” Voren stood. “We will make room for you, of course.” He flapped his hands at Kael, who shifted to the next seat with a grunt. Voren took the seat just vacated by the Hardohl. He smiled at Truln.

  The chronicler’s face held a look of bafflement. “I . . . uh . . . that is, I didn’t mean . . .”

  “Yes? Is something the matter?”

  Truln pressed his lips together, draining them of what little color they contained. He swallowed. “Ah . . . no. I guess not.” The mierothi took a few deep breaths as he planted himself in the open seat. He grabbed the top book off a stack on the adjacent table and began reading, ignoring the unwanted company.

  Voren bent his head back to his own book. He waited a few beats, then leaned over to retrieve a sackcloth from the floor under a table stand between his and Kael’s seats. Loosening the drawstring, he spread the contents across the stand: hard bread, sliced cheese, and sections of salted sausage. Kael produced two fist-sized flasks of wine and handed one to Voren.

  As Voren and the Hardohl began crafting miniature sandwiches and gobbling them down, chewing more loudly than was necessary, Truln turned towards them, a look of alarm slowly spreading across his face.

  “You can’t do that here,” the chronicler said. “Food and drink are strictly forbidden in the library.”

  Voren finished chewing, swallowed, smiled. “Oh, come now. This alcove is secluded, out of sight of those pesky librarians. We will not be caught.”

  “Yes, but the crumbs, and the grease—”

  “We brought napkins.” Kael produced several on cue, handing one to Voren. “What harm is there in a little snack while reading?”

  “I . . . well—”

  “And we brought enough to share.” Voren waved a hand over the food. “If you were partaking, surely no one would dare speak out against it.” He raised an eyebrow into a hanging question.

  The edge of Truln’s lips curled up over the next several beats. His gaze met Voren’s. He nodded.

  “Excellent,” Voren said. He divided the makeshift meal, sweeping a third of it into a cloth and handing it to Truln. He also passed over his flask of wine. He waited until the chronicler had taken a bite and washed it down before asking, “What are you reading?”

  “Sarian Thress’s History of Rebellion in the Empire,” Truln said.

  “What for? Surely your own Chronicles detail those events far more accurately than any human’s could?’

  Truln smiled, sitting up straight. “Accurately? Of course. I am the chronicler, after all, not just some historian.”

  Voren returned the grin.

  “As to why?” continued Truln, “Despite the fanciful causality, faulty recollection of events, and, often . . .” he paused, looking around and lowering his voice, “ . . . anti-Imperial sentiment, I find the, uh, different viewpoints helpful in crafting a more complete picture of events.”

  The chronicler sat back in his seat. He breathed rapidly, as if he had just finished running. Voren suspected that the man did not often string so many words together at once. Not, at least, by tongue.

  Voren gave the mierothi a few more moments to recover. “Fascinating. And prudent, of course. Especially considering”—Voren gulped—“current events.”

  The hook was cast. Voren had been able to piece a fragment of a picture together concerning what was going on in the empire. Agonizingly sparse in context, the crumbs of information came to him from disparate and murky sources. Even Kael, his supposed ally, had only grumbled a few brief phrases on the subject. Truln, however, had already proven more informative than all the others combined, and, with a few nudges, would give him everything he needed.

  And more.

  “Yes,” said the chronicler. “I am trying to determine . . . patterns. The rebellions of the past all seemed to follow a similar progression. But this one?” He shook his head and shrugged.

  “Breaking the cycle, I take it?” said Voren.

  Truln frowned. “You have not heard?”

  “Oh, the emperor has been keeping me informed. Well, trying to anyway. You know how busy he is. And not much of a storyteller, either.” Voren leaned forward. “But you? Reading your works, I am constantly awed by your eye for facts both great and small, each woven together to form a perfect picture of history. It would be truly a privilege to hear your version of events.”

  The words had the desired effect. Truln puffed out his chest and fought against a childish grin. Voren sat back, leaning his chin on his fist, and kept his gaze pinned on the mierothi.

  Truln cleared his throat. “If we disregard the unrest and squabbling during the first century of our empire, each outbreak of violence has been reactionary in nature. Our current rebellion has been decidedly proactive in contrast. The pure audacity of destroying a voltensus . . .”

  Voren nearly failed to stifle his gasp.

  “ . . . as their first act indicates a staggering amount of forethought, for its loss has rendered our forces impotent in tracking them down. Already two battalions, along with a Hardohl and his Fist, have gone missing, presumed dead, and the entirety of the prefecture’s soldiery is wandering aimlessly through the woods, chasing wisps.

  “Though the prefect insists he can handle affairs, both the governor and arcanod of the western territory have ordered additional assets into the region. And what’s more, the adjudicators are nearly in full panic mode dealing with whispers ranging across the empire. Whispers of change. Whispers of . . . freedom.”

  Voren exhaled. “And this all points to what, exactly?”

  “A mastermind, Voren. Someone with the genius to plan, the patience to put into motion, and the charisma to hold it all together. Someone dangerous. Someone new. At least . . . at least I hope so.” Truln shivered.

  Voren felt the all-over prick of bumps rising on his skin. Someone new. Yes, let us pray that that is true. This revolutionary leader sounded chillingly similar to someone he used to know. Someone Voren prayed he would never meet again. Just the thought of such an encounter set him to mimic the chronicler’s shaking.

  Stop this nonsense, Voren. He is gone. No use fretting about the impossible.

  But he could not stop. And th
e impossible became a certainty, a horror constructed of guilt and dread and shame. His palms turned slick with rancid sweat. Breathing became a labor. He managed to nod, appearing engaged as Truln continued, but he caught no more of the words.

  He was too busy fleeing the windows in his mind.

  THE DARKNESS RECEDED at such a slow pace that Mevon wasn’t sure, at first, if it was actually happening. Not until he saw the glow off Yandumar’s grinning teeth did he even become aware of the change. A breeze brushed their faces, banishing the stale cave air, yet it was as if a strong tailwind were pushing them forward, quickening their steps towards the escape they all so desperately craved. Then, as the tunnels made one last bend, he caught orange light baking the earthen exit ahead.

  The small group seemed to exhale as one, a breath held far too long, and with far too much tension, finally released. An excited murmur arose. Laughter. Mevon understood. Even he was relieved to see this long night end.

  And get on with the business of justice.

  “Now ain’t that a welcome sight,” Yandumar said.

  Mevon studied his father’s face. So similar, despite the marks of age, yet alien all the same. The man never ceased smiling, it seemed, always holding to joy. And though Mevon was aware of its source, he did not comprehend its intensity, its relentlessness.

  Part of Mevon wished he could find it comforting. He was awed, true, but more baffled than anything else. Despite their alliance, and their bond of blood, Mevon didn’t know how to bridge the chasm that rested between. Neither, he suspected, did his father. He took solace in the fact that at least they both wanted to.

  Which is good enough, I think. Better than the alternative.

  Mevon turned to Idrus. “Scout ahead. I don’t want any surprises.”

  Idrus nodded. He flipped hand signals to the other dozen rangers, and they bounded forward at a run, securing veils over faces and readying bows in hand.

  Haughty laughter floated towards Mevon. He glanced past his father to where Slick Ren was waving her own men forward. “There’s no need, Mevon,” she said, the words dripping from her overly sensual mouth like honey. “These woods belong to us. We are expected.”

  Fifty bandits sauntered towards the light, seeming to mock his rangers with their casual pace. They jostled and joked with one another, leaving their weapons sheathed. The odd couple at Mevon’s side, and Derthon trailing three paces, were all that remained of the crowd of moments ago.

  Mevon inclined his head to Slick Ren. “I’ll take the precaution anyway. Complacency will get you killed if you practice it too often.” The image of his first encounter with Jasside floated to the forefront of his mind. “Your own men even paid that price. I should know. It was I who . . . collected.”

  “Oh?” She smiled. “Those were not my men.”

  “Weren’t they?”

  “Hardly.” She flicked her wrist, dismissively. “They were a recent acquisition. Men who weren’t happy with our takeover of their territory. The fools thought to eliminate us and set themselves on our throne. They thought themselves clever, thought their conspiracy a secret, thought we wouldn’t dare have them killed.

  “They thought wrong.”

  Mevon didn’t like her tone. “Masters of your own little world, are you?”

  “Little? Is the empire really so ignorant of our dominion?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, child. One out of every five bandits in the empire answers to me and Derthon. This entire territory is ours, and every rogue lord and lady beneath the Shroud knows our names.”

  The numbers, if they were true, staggered Mevon’s conceptions. “So your men traveling with us are just—?”

  “Our vanguard, yes. Our most loyal and able core.”

  Mevon frowned. He’d hunted bandits as a matter of course his whole adult life. Sanction runners inevitably sought refuge among them. Being allied with them now already left a sour taste in his mouth. Knowing the true depth of their influence made his stomach twist.

  It must have shown on his face as well. “Why so tightly wound?” Slick Ren added a tsk tsk sound. Mevon almost laughed at the ridiculous gesture. “That can’t be good for one’s health. Wouldn’t you agree Yanny?”

  Yandumar blushed at the affectation. He took a moment to compose himself before saying, “Aye, son. There’s nothing to worry about. Gil’s had this all planned out for a while now.”

  Mevon clenched his jaw. “So I’ve heard.”

  “Problem, young one?” Slick Ren said.

  “Just that I’ve yet to be informed of this master plan. Gilshamed had better let us in on it if we’ve any hope of success.”

  “Soon, I think,” Yandumar said. “Tonight, even, if all goes well.”

  Not soon enough. “You’ll have to forgive my skepticism,” said Mevon. “I’ve seen little that inspires absolute faith in our chosen leader, such as seems to come naturally to the rest of you.”

  Yandumar looked down. Softly, he said, “We’ve saved each other from so much, I guess I don’t really think about it much anymore. In all my years, I’ve never seen anyone so committed.”

  Yandumar locked his gaze on Mevon. “And besides, he brought you and me together. If that don’t inspire you, I don’t know what will.”

  “Proof will,” Mevon said. “Proof that he isn’t insane.”

  His father’s eyes flashed wide. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s been away a long time, if the stories are true. And by your own admission, he’s done little except try to find his way back in all the centuries since. Tell me that doesn’t hint at obsession. At . . . imbalance.”

  His father’s face transformed. Truth hitting hard. Painfully. So quick did it dissipate that Mevon almost doubted it had ever been. The old man shook his head and barked laughter. “Gil is many things, son. Driven? Yes. Able, competent? Abyss yes. The best man for the job? Absolutely. But insane?” He shrugged. “It’s all . . . ?” He paused, lifting his head as if struggling for the right words.

  Slick Ren piped in. “A matter of degrees?”

  Yandumar smiled at her. “Yes. Exactly. Degrees.”

  She patted Yandumar’s bicep, staring at Mevon. “We’re all a little psychotic in our own little ways. Gilshamed has just had more time than the rest of us to develop his . . . peculiarities.”

  Mevon frowned, troubled by something he couldn’t quite place. “You know him that well?”

  She glowered. “Well enough.”

  Something in her tone told Mevon he should refrain from further questioning. But, he was never one to obey the whims of his conscience. “How is it, exactly, that you and your brother came to be his allies anyway? You never did say.”

  She glanced back at Derthon. He met her eyes. The pain in that gaze was evident to even Mevon. After too long a moment, he signed with his hands to his sister. The movements were different than those used by his rangers, and Mevon could not discern what was passed between them. Still, she nodded, breathed deep, and flicked her glossed eyes back to Mevon.

  “My brother . . . he’s like you, Mevon. Or, he was, once. It was long ago. He lost much of what he was, all in the name of duty.”

  “Like me?’ You can’t mean he was—”

  “Hardohl. Yes. Yes he was.”

  Mevon looked to his father. “You said Imperial protocol was to eliminate the family. Ensure there were no ties, no loyalties other than to the mierothi and the empire.” He swept his eyes across Slick Ren and Derthon, then settled them again on Yandumar. “How can this be true?”

  His father’s mouth moved without sound. The old man looked to Slick Ren for help. “I was grown when our mother had him,” she said. “They tried to track me down, but I was already an accomplished thief and assassin by then. After three groups of daeloth met their end by my hand, they stopped sending more.”
r />   Mevon followed her mournful gaze towards Derthon. “What happened?”

  “His first assignment was part of the mierothi’s dirty, secret war. They sent him to kill one of their own.”

  Mevon closed his eyes, holding his lids together for several beats. “Vashodia.”

  Slick Ren nodded, her eyes downcast. “She . . .” a tear rolled down her cheek. “You want to know why my brother wears bandages as his only attire? You want to know why a Hardohl is as helpless as the rest of us against sorcery?

  “That bitch . . . she took off his skin.”

  Mevon turned, staring at Derthon. His gut writhed with the very thought of what had been done to him. Rage surged, a tempest of molten ice.

  He recalled his time in the academy, and the young student whose name he’d forgotten. Seven years his junior, yet already considered a prodigy with the longsword. Irises like the eastern sky in twilight. Gods, is it you?

  Derthon stared back. His eyes, once glimmering with life, with guile and cunning, now held only emptiness. A promise of nothing save a swift death.

  Mevon felt his steps slow of their own volition. In beats, Derthon had caught up with him.

  He thought, briefly, of laying a hand on the man’s shoulder, but decided against it. They were too alike, and Mevon knew such a gesture would be wasted. Instead, he leaned in and whispered, “They’ll pay. You and I . . . we will make them.”

  Normally unreadable, Mevon was surprised by the sudden intake of breath and the twinge of Derthon’s eyes. The man’s facial bandages scrunched in what might have been either smile or grimace. It didn’t matter which. Mevon had reached him.

  It felt good.

  Wherever the conversation might have gone from there, Mevon would never know. The exit loomed. A shining ray of light welcoming them back into the world at last. It was a short climb out of the pit. Mevon clutched to the wooden slats nailed into the soil and pulled himself out into daylight, savoring the warmth on his skin and a lungful of the cleanest air he could remember.