Veiled Empire

by Nathan Garrison

  Idrus stood waiting for him.

  “What is it?” Mevon asked.

  Idrus sighed. “Trouble. You’ll want to see this for yourself.”

  YANDUMAR BURST THROUGH the front door of another house. Silence. Stillness. No difference from the others.

  The dust here was thick. Thicker than he’d come across so far. And putrid. It was like walking into a carpenter’s shop set inside a corpse-littered battleground. Every breath made him want to cough, sneeze, and gag simultaneously.

  He steeled his stomach and set about his search of the house. It was bigger than the others, indicating the family might have been one of the wealthier in the region. A dining room set with silver utensils and crystal glasses confirmed the suspicion. The table was stained a dark mahogany, and the chairs matched, though all but one were tipped over. A full meal was set. Rotting now. Three days? Four? He shook his head and moved on.

  He bound up the stairs. Candleholders, not lightglobes—apparently they weren’t that rich—lined the hallways, cupping melted stubs of wax. A peek inside several open doors revealed empty, undisturbed rooms.

  It was the closed door at the end that drew him.

  He tried the handle. Locked. He stepped back, and then rammed his body forward, shoulder slamming into the door. Wood crunched and splintered, and the door swung violently inwards.

  Yandumar inhaled. He fell to his knees, stomach writhing. The smell had intensified tenfold.

  Through watery eyes, he scanned the room. A large, netted bed dominated the center, with dressers and a mirror stand and a porcelain washbasin along two walls. Glass shards littered the ground beneath two broken windows. And in between them, a scattered pile of what looked like ash. Shredded cloth, in a half dozen colors, surrounded it.

  Yandumar rose shakily. He held his breath as he walked to the ash. Standing directly over it, he leaned down and sniffed.

  He nearly fell unconscious from the rank, suffocating odor. He retreated from the room, then the house, holding his breath until he got outside. He calmed himself and looked around the village.

  Figures moved in and out of every building in sight. Mostly Ren’s men, but a few of his own. Elite, too. His son stood at a cobbled intersection, arms crossed, neck craned to examine the edifice dominating what could only be considered the town square. Yandumar lifted his eyes. A rectangular block of silverstone rose ten paces from the ground, tilted at a slight angle. Like its name suggested, it had the shine and hue of silver but the feel and purpose of stone.

  The valynkar had built their floating cities out of the stuff. This chunk must have fallen during the war, riven from the city as the mierothi attacked. He guessed the town built up around it, but was surprised that it even existed. The mierothi had conducted entire campaigns to eradicate every last trace of their hated nemesis, as if even their ghosts could do harm to the fledgling empire.

  Paranoia. That’s all that is. Yandumar shook his head as he made his way over to Mevon. A trait that seems to define their race.

  The three captains got to his son first. Yandumar knew them, of course. Their families anyway. Arozir and Tolvar were part of the Torn clan, and Idrus of the smaller Chant family. None were close to the Daere line, but his always had been a select bunch. He’d traced back twenty generations and found that each Daere man had produced only a single male offspring, which kept the line pretty narrow.

  When Kaiera had gotten pregnant with their third, the midwives had been sure it was a boy, their second such. It had seemed like they’d finally had a bit of luck. The visit to the district’s phyzari was supposed to be a formality . . .

  He shook himself, banishing the memories. He caught only the tail end of the reports.

  “ . . . have it pretty well secure,” Idrus was saying. “But they didn’t know what to make of it. Not that you can blame them.”

  “No,” Mevon said. “I suppose not.” His son’s eyes settled on Yandumar, and they exchanged nods. “It’s the same everywhere. Have you seen it?”

  “Firsthand, unfortunately.” Yandumar spat to the side. “Ain’t pretty. Only wish it made a lick of sense.”

  Mevon sighed. “I know what you mean.” His gaze shot to the side. Yandumar followed, spying a large group approaching, Gilshamed foremost among them. They would arrive shortly.

  Yandumar studied Mevon from the corner of his eye. He was proud of what his son had become and glad he hadn’t been so far drowned in mierothi doctrine to recognize the truth for what it was.

  Like I have any idea what truth even is anymore.

  He’d been so sure, so righteous in his beliefs, so disdainful of anything falling outside his tidy notion of reality. But he’d seen too much in the last thirty years to be sure of anything anymore. He could only do his best to hold on to what little sanity he had left and finish what he started.

  After all, if a man broke a solemn vow—a promise to himself as much as anyone else—could he even still call himself a man?

  Mevon cleared his throat. “So, father. What do you think happened here?”

  As much as hearing the word “father” warmed his heart—he even felt the involuntary smile spring forth onto his face—Yandumar couldn’t help but notice the uncertainty in his son’s voice. It seemed he wasn’t the only one still trying to figure out . . . everything.

  Yandumar shrugged instead. “Don’t know. I’ve seen villages emptied before, the population brought to the tunnels for labor. But that was far away, and . . .”

  “Not like this?”

  Yandumar shook his head. “Not like this.”

  Mevon unfolded an arm, swinging it towards the newcomers. “Let’s hope they can shed some light.”

  Gilshamed arrived, leading a dozen sorcerers and sorceresses. Yandumar recognized Jasside and most of the others. Leaders, all. He watched Gilshamed’s eyes became glued to the silverstone, his face lost in an entranced state Yandumar knew well. He turned to Jasside instead, giving her a smile and nod.

  She returned the gesture, which he was glad to see. She’d been almost a ghost while in the tunnels, and what little he’d seen of her had been curt conversations over meals before she collapsed into a bedroll in exhaustion. You don’t have to keep proving yourself, girl. You’re already the best of us. Why can’t you see that?

  “Yandumar,” she said warmly. Her gaze flicked past him, and her eyes and voice both took a dive. “Mevon.”

  Yandumar turned to his son as Mevon returned her greeting in flat tones. A hint of a smile appeared as he said her name. Jasside’s face held no humor.

  Oh son, be careful. Whatever you think or hope might be there . . . isn’t. The cold shell that was his son had begun to thaw now that he was out of mierothi clutches, but the process was slow. He knew that Mevon didn’t yet understand the human heart.

  Yandumar only hoped he could chisel away at the remaining ice before it was too late.

  He turned back to Jasside. “Village is empty. Ain’t got a scorching clue what happened here. Any insights?”

  She looked around, drumming the fingers of one hand on the other. After a full rotation, she said, “There’s a strange residue here. Magical.” She turned to the other casters. “You feel it?”

  A chorus of nods. One sorceress, tall with platinum-blond hair, said, “Yes. It’s just like when Gilshamed destroyed the voltensus.”

  Jasside frowned. “I wasn’t there, Calla. What happened?”

  Calla shook her head. “I don’t remember exactly. When it happened—when the tower exploded—we all kind of . . . blacked out.”

  “But you’re right,” said Orbrahn, who somehow stood as if lounging. “The feeling is the same. That much I remember.”

  Jasside appeared thoughtful a few moments. “Hmm. There might be a way . . .” She trailed off, sudden excitement blooming on her face. She spun to face the casters. “Can I get some of you
to harmonize with me? Four should be enough.”

  After some shuffling, Jasside made her way to a clear spot in the avenue. Following her were Calla, two other sorceresses, and Orbrahn. The boy made eye contact with Yandumar and winked.

  Yandumar glared back at Orbrahn, feeling a growl rise in his throat.

  Mevon stepped up next to him. “What are they doing you think?’

  Yandumar shrugged, exhaling his anger. “Don’t know. Never been all that interested in how magic works.”

  “In the past, neither was I.” Mevon tilted his head toward Jasside. “But ever since she . . . ensnared me, I’ve been curious.”

  Yandumar nodded. He hadn’t wanted to send her, but Gilshamed had insisted. Said it was the only way to ensure Mevon was ready. But the price . . .

  “Tell me something, Mevon.”

  “Yes?”

  “Had it been any other way . . . had we simply approached you, tried to convince you to join us . . . would it have gone the same way in the end?”

  Mevon brought one of his hands up to rub his chin. His eyes looked out on nothing. The moment stretched.

  “No,” he said at last. “I think I would have laughed at you. Then, probably, I would have killed you.”

  Yandumar shivered. It was the answer he was hoping for, but he wasn’t sure it would be enough to help him sleep at night.

  Mevon shifted. “I think they have it.”

  Yandumar looked up. The four casters stood facing Jasside. He couldn’t see anything happening, but they all had looks of concentration on their faces.

  “There is a dark energy,” said Jasside, in a trancelike voice. “It is everywhere. It fuels us. Some say it wars with the energy of light.” She shook her head as if she were underwater. “I don’t know. What I do know is that it has . . . memory. There!”

  Her body trembled. She arched her back and thrust her chin skyward. Her arms shot out stiffly to the sides.

  Yandumar almost didn’t hear the soft steps approaching from behind.

  “What?” said a familiar voice.

  Yandumar turned. Gilshamed stood rigid, his horrified eyes locked on Jasside.

  “What is she doing!” Gilshamed darted forward.

  He made it two steps before Mevon intercepted him, clutching the valynkar by the shoulders.

  “She trying to help,” Mevon said. “Said she could find out what happened to the village.”

  “No,” said Gilshamed. “She’s invoking powers she cannot even begin to understand, much less control.” He shrugged out of Mevon’s grip. “Go touch her, Mevon. Stop this before it is too late.”

  Mevon looked at Yandumar, searchingly. Like I know what the abyss is going on? Still, Yandumar knew Gilshamed, and had never seen such a frantic look on his face. He nodded at his son.

  Mevon bounded forward. He closed the distance in a beat and reached out to Jasside’s hand.

  All five casters slumped immediately. Jasside would have fallen had Mevon not caught her and held her up. Yandumar noticed the absence of a humming sound that he had not even known was there.

  He stalked over to Gilshamed. “Mind telling us what that was all about?”

  Gilshamed was frowning. “She was looking through time. Only the mad attempt—”

  “I knew what I was doing,” Jasside said, breathing hard.

  “No. You did not. Where did you even learn to do that?”

  “I worked out the method years ago. I’d never had the power required to attempt it before now. Nor a reason to. What’s so dangerous about it?”

  Gilshamed glared at her. “Six thousand years ago, one of my people thought to play with time. While attempting little more than you were today, one of our cities was knocked out of the sky.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “For every one that was able to fly to safety, a thousand more were trapped within the city as it fell.”

  Jasside made a study of her feet. “I’m sorry. I . . . I didn’t know.”

  Gilshamed’s face softened, and he exhaled loudly. “I suppose not. In the future, could you run any experiments by me before attempting them? I do have some . . . experience.”

  Meekly, she nodded.

  Yandumar stepped up to her, laying a hand gently on her shoulder. He offered her a consoling smile. “I don’t suppose you saw anything before you were cut off?”

  Her face twisted, somewhere between victory and fear. “Actually, I did.”

  “You know what caused all this, then?” asked Mevon.

  She nodded. “Darkwisps. Thousands of them.”

  GILSHAMED STOOD ALONE in the command tent. He hovered over the maps, staring, but not seeing. A lightglobe he had crafted bathed the room in golden light. His shadow on the wall writhed as the tent billowed in the wind.

  He slammed a fist into the table.

  “Darkwisps,” he said to himself, “consuming entire villages. What else could I have missed?”

  And the girl had been hiding something. He could tell. What she saw in the vision had terrified her, but she had not revealed all of what it was.

  “Just one more thing of which I am ignorant.”

  Gilshamed punched the table again.

  He had ample time to plan for every eventuality of this revolution during his exile, and pulling souls to a cause—his cause—had always come naturally to him. The oppressed outnumbered the oppressors ten thousand to one, and countless men and women would rise up at his calling. He had hoped that alone would have carried them to victory.

  Yet every step forward showed him how little he actually controlled things.

  Something was out there, lurking in the darkness. Not the mierothi, not the darkwisps, not the enemy he had chosen or the possibility of death. It was a broken memory, a collage of shattered images whose meaning is lost in the chaos of itself. The shadow on the horizon of perception.

  Uncertainty.

  He pounded the table once more, jarring the metal figurines, as if he could obliterate his own doubt with brute force.

  As much as he embodied the ideals of his people, a perfect portrait of a true valynkar, there was one trait he possessed that was considered aberrant.

  The will to act.

  “If only we had not squabbled among ourselves. If only we had united as a people and stood together against them . . . nothing could have stopped us.

  “How differently things would have turned out. For everyone.”

  “Thought you said bad things happened to anyone messing with time. Yet here you are, wishing to change the past.”

  Gilshamed turned. Yandumar stood just inside the outer flap.

  “How long have you been there, Yan?”

  Yandumar shrugged. “Long enough. Listen, you can’t beat yourself up about the past, especially when the mistakes weren’t really your fault.”

  “I know.” Gilshamed sighed. “It is just—”

  “No more, ya’ hear? We gotta look forward now. We all need you, and being distracted ain’t helping things none.”

  Gilshamed bowed his head, gritting his teeth yet feeling a smile overcome him all the same. “Again, you remind me why I keep you around.”

  “Ha! And don’t you forget it.”

  No need to worry about that, friend. Forgetting is something I can never do.

  “They’re all waiting, Gil. Can I let ’em in?”

  “By all means.”

  Yandumar lifted up the flap and whistled. Figures began filing in. Gilshamed waited patiently, righting all the figurines knocked over by his outbursts.

  “Welcome,” he said after the last had entered, “to this, the first official war council of the revolution.”

  “About time,” Mevon said. His captains grunted agreement. “Any reason you waited so long?”

  Because I do not answer to anyone, no matter how potent an ally the
y may be.

  But Gilshamed just smiled. “Forgive me. I am a patient man and sometime forget what it is like to be—”

  “Human?” said Mevon.

  “Just so.”

  Mevon did not seem pleased by that response.

  “Also,” continued Gilshamed, “we were not before in a position to enact any plans. Now, we are. Now . . . we will.”

  He turned his attention on the bandit queen. “Slick Ren, I asked you sometime ago to do a favor for me. Please inform the others what it entailed.”

  A wry grin slowly spread on her face. Clever girl.

  “You asked me to send men to watch the mierothi. All of them in this prefecture. Study their movements, their schedules. Learn their routines and”—she snorted laughter—“their weaknesses.”

  “And they have succeeded at this task?”

  “Yes. Quite thoroughly, I might add.”

  “Excellent. Then we move forward as planned.”

  He scanned the faces in the room, witnessing the fear and excitement and determination sprouting in various degrees upon each. They knew what he was about to say. It almost did not need to be uttered.

  “We are going to eradicate the mierothi in this prefect. All of them at once.”

  Silence hung as his audience absorbed the news.

  “How?” Mevon asked.

  “In ten days, there will be a meeting in each of the five cities. It occurs on the same day every month. Three mierothi in the district capitals, and twice that in Thorull. We will divide our forces and hit them all simultaneously.”

  Mevon clenched his jaw, staring dangerously at Gilshamed. “You’re mad.”

  Gilshamed was prepared for such a divisive response, but its vehemence still sent a shudder up his spine. “Think about it, Mevon. They think we are still on the run, cowering in fear before the empire’s supposed might. The mierothi think themselves safe. What better time to strike than now?”

  “I . . .” Mevon shook his head. “I don’t like the idea of splitting ourselves. Any attack on the mierothi has a much better chance of succeeding if I am there.”