Written in Blood

by Span, Ryan A.

  When he was finished, they lay in a comfortable tangle of limbs, warm and content. The only sounds were their breathing and the faint crackle of glowing embers.

  She was certain he'd gone to sleep when he spoke, all of a sudden. “There is a caravan going to the Jun Ferzha in a week. The tribe will expect me to go.”

  “Again?” she asked the fire, sadly, and shivered. She would gladly take having him around over the loneliness, with the men out on the caravans and the Sisters of Berila gone hunting without her. No one to talk to but the other women, endlessly washing, cleaning, tending the children, and obliging the village khan.

  Worse, the women were so content with their lot. Domesticity was all they seemed to care about, and all they wanted to see in her future.

  Her father rolled her over to face him, and there was a smile on his lips. “The southern caravan is overdue. It's already too late for their riders to go out again. We will be short-handed.”

  The hint made her heart leap. She squirmed in his grip, throwing her arms around his shoulders. “I could come with you?”

  “If I ask for it. Would you like me to?”

  She kissed him, fiercely, and he had his answer...

  “Yes, Lord,” said Yazizi, her voice calm as a placid lake, more a slave now than ever before. She backed away from me to join the other bowing figures. Only Ioanna kept her feet, and she blinked and turned her head like she were still trying to think through the enchanted confusion. Still fighting the Other's control. My hands reached out for her.

  “Let them go,” I demanded, railing against my prison. “I won't let you do this!”

  It ignored me and plunged into her deepest self...

  ...When the girl was younger, she remembered her mother smiling a lot. Happy, balmy days in Kingsport passed by like dreams, and in winter they always had a perfect fire crackling in the hearth of their little house. Her mother would tell her stories at night, and when she tucked her in to bed, she'd always call her 'my little Princess.'

  Ioanna never understood why. She thought her mother simply loved her very much.

  When word passed down into the city that the Queen had given birth to a strong, healthy baby boy, all the church bells rang in jubilation. People celebrated in the streets. There were banners and noisemakers and everything. Ioanna wanted to join in, but Mother said no, with a tiny shake of her head and a worried look in her eyes. Ioanna reluctantly obeyed, disturbed by that look. She didn't know it would become an inescapable fixture of her life.

  They'd never lacked for money before Prince Lauric was born. After, they seemed to have to make do with less and less. She still played and talked with Lauric when she was allowed, but the more she grew and the more she came to know, she began to resent him. She blamed him for all her problems, the way children do when they don't fully understand what's going on or who's really responsible.

  It was Lauric, of course. It had always been Lauric.

  When they got into a fight, for reasons she couldn't remember the next day, Mother got the worried look worse than ever. She didn't even give the girl a good hiding like she normally would. That scared her, and she noticed when they didn't go back to see Lauric for a while. They stayed in the house for a long time, and Mother wouldn't let her out. Mother never stopped worrying anymore. Ioanna worried too, and as the anxiety festered inside her, so did the hatred for her brother.

  Then, one day, Mother pulled her aside and told her to pack her things. Ioanna didn't understand, but when she demanded to know why, Mother became angry and shouted at her. Ioanna shrunk back and did as she was told.

  A carriage waited for her outside. It would take her to a good school, Mother explained. Ioanna would learn everything she'd ever need to know, and she wouldn't have to worry about money or things like that again.

  Why wasn't Mother coming too, asked Ioanna.

  Mother would join her soon. Promise.

  It was a lie she'd eventually come to understand...

  Ioanna knelt by my side, and I gazed out across the landscape, the broken ruins of Kassareth eaten down to its foundations. I sighed wistfully. “What an empire it was. Great gleaming cities. Thousands who willingly followed me into battle. Brought low by curses and kinstrife, until all I had left was this worthless tomb, starving to death as they lay siege. Little did they know of the power I wielded. I made myself immortal, and though they scattered me to the four winds, they could not destroy me.”

  The memories of ages flashed through my mind's eye, though I could only glimpse the edges, not joined closely enough with the Armaments to become one mind. Men in robes of cloth-of-bronze, resplendent in the sunlight, bowing to me, laying their scepters on the ground. Harems of women to use at my pleasure. High, ululating prayers to the sun as the priestesses drew spirals in the sand. Bronze armies marching into the sky on a rainbow bridge.

  And bitterness, returning defeated from the field, with beautiful Kassareth already crumbling before his eyes. The desperate inhabitants inched closer and closer to riots and anarchy. Doom was coming, but he would not be done in. He would outlast it, and give his enemies the last laugh. He gathered the city's greatest sorcerers and set them to work on the mightiest spells ever dreamed of in the minds of men, while there was still time. He gathered his bronze about him and began the work.

  “Yeees,” I said. “Soon I will be an emperor again.”

  Some of the Dargha came up the pyramid and showed grovelling respect as they delivered clothes for Faro, Racha and Yazizi. The three dressed themselves, then immediately returned to where they were, like good little slaves. The helpful Harari also quietly cut down Sir Erroll's body and disposed of it, God only knew where. He hadn't been dead long enough to smell yet, but the sight of him was disconcerting to say the least.

  As I watched them cut him down, I sensed some flicker of spirit still, his last thoughts hovering about him...

  ...In a fine, spacious study near the top of a tall tower, there was a man.

  No one could've called him a young man. Not anymore. The years of his youth had flown, but he was strong and unbowed by the passage of time. He was bright-eyed, clean-shaven, dressed in the colours of his house. He spoke passionately, and with conviction.

  “My messenger reports that the King would consider extending us a full pardon, allowing us to retain all the lands and titles we held before the war. Father, I have no more love for Lauric than you do, but we could stop this slaughter in a stroke of the pen!”

  His Grace the Duke Selcourt quirked an eyebrow. “A peace accord.”

  “Yes, Father. I think we should accept his offer.”

  “This is your opinion, is it?”

  “Yes,” the prince said firmly. “It is.”

  Turning away, the Duke crossed to the great velvet curtain on his wall and threw it back, revealing a vast balcony looking out over his castle. His city. He leaned against one of the delicately-carved pillars which supported the opening. The deep lines in his leathery face contorted into varied patterns as he thought, his expression unreadable, but never sympathetic.

  “You'd have me throw away everything for which we've worked, these past fifteen years. You'd have me discount all the sacrifices, Linnolm's life, your own brother!” He turned on the prince with sudden savagery. “I will not countenance it!”

  The prince calmly weathered the storm of his father's rage, though his heart trembled with fear and despair. “Father, you must reconsider.”

  It was, it turned out, the worst thing he could've said.

  “Must?” quoted the Duke in a voice as cold as the Edge of the World. “You are my heir, Erick, but don't ever dare to presume you can tell me what to do. I will not countenance treason either, not even from you.”

  “Treason? You can't be serious! I'm trying to save our lands, our name, our people!”

  A dropped pin would've deafened him in that intense, painful silence.

  “Not another word,” said the Duke. “Get out.”

  The pri
nce gave a stiff bow and left, shutting the door behind him. He hissed out his breath through his teeth. He'd entered that room with so much hope, but there was nothing good in his heart now. There was no arguing with his father. Changing the Duke's mind was a difficult and hazardous thing, but this once, the prince thought he'd be able to do it. He'd thought his father would listen to a cause he truly believed in.

  A painfully thin woman waited in the anteroom, next to a heavy-set young man in a fine velvet doublet embroidered with the Duke's sigil. Erick knew them both. One was the Grand High Listener. The other was the eldest of his younger brothers, Benon. Benon wore a slimy smile across his lips. The High Listener never smiled at all.

  A pair of men from the Duke's personal guard stood two paces behind them, and they looked ready for trouble.

  “Ho, Brother,” said Ben.

  “Out of my way. I have no patience for you today.”

  No one moved. Ben chortled, “Your meeting didn't go well?”

  Giving in to his anger, the prince wheeled round and speared his brother with a look. It always made Benon sweat when he became the focus of Erick's towering fury. If only it had had the same effect on the High Listener. She remained utterly placid under its force.

  “What business is it of yours?”

  “The realm is our business, my Lord,” said the High Listener. Her eyes glittered as if she knew things she shouldn't. “I warned the Duke of your disloyalty, but he did not believe me until now.”

  Towering anger and hatred burned in Erick's heart. He stepped in closer, towering over the High Listener and his brother both. “If you are accusing me, woman, have it out now. Here and in the open.”

  “I accuse you of nothing, Prince Erick. You are already a traitor. You have collaborated with the enemy in a time of war. I shall see to it that you receive the appropriate treatment.”

  “I see.” Erick turned his attention to Benon. “And where do you fit into this picture, Brother?”

  It was the High Listener who replied again, in the same gentle sing-song. “His Highness has other sons more than capable of filling your shoes, my Prince. They will be filled sooner or later. Now, I'll need you to come with us.”

  It all became too much. A red haze descended over Prince Erick's eyes. The sword on his hip felt so light, so right as he wrapped his fingers around its hilt. There was no time for his brother or the High Listener to run. He had one brief moment to savour their shock, their horror, their knowledge of the mistake they'd made. The sword moved, and its edge parted their skin with the greatest of ease. The guards fell a moment later, their swords barely out of their scabbards.

  When the mist cleared, his brother and the Ducal family's most trusted advisor lay dead at Erick's feet. Their blood coloured his sword. Oddly, he felt no horror at what he'd done. They shouldn't have provoked him. If this wasn't justice, he didn't know what was.

  Of course, others would see it rather differently.

  He left his victims to stain the anteroom carpet. He hurried down the endless spiral steps to the castle courtyard. His father's ignorant soldiers all saluted him along the way. He went to the stables, called for his horse, and rode it out of the gates before anyone knew why they ought to stop him...

  Watching Sir Erroll's body carried away stoked the fires of my anger again. Could I have saved him? Had I really saved the others? Was I dead enough to consider myself free from my contract, when I couldn't do a thing to help them? Damn, damn, damn!

  There was a flash of annoyance. “Karl, you are beginning to become irritating.”

  “Good,” I snarled back. Then I realised what its words really meant. “We were joined together. You can't get rid of me, can you?”

  “That is beside the point. Accept your fate, or it will be an unpleasant few millennia for both of us.”

  “Make me.”

  When the Other offered no response, I pressed on, emboldened by the reaction. “I know who you are. You're no god. You're him, the emperor of the Brass Men. Except you're not even a man anymore.”

  “Shut up, Byren.”

  “I don't know how you put yourself into the Armaments, but if that's your way of cheating death, you must be really desperate. You're a few thousand years out of date, your Majesty. What kind of emperor can't even get anyone to follow him without ripping out their free will?”

  “That will be all,” it boomed, and surged to its feet in a rage. “Just because we're joined does not mean I'm powerless over you. Remember, you're only a human mind. Let me show you what I do to human minds.”

  Its will washed over me, swept me up and carried me down...

  ...”I still think it's a stupid idea,” said Jasen, stubbornly, and thumped a tight fist into his palm to emphasise his point. He wore such a scowl that his eyebrows touched in the middle. “Your life is here. You have friends, family, and good work. Why would you want to give that up?”

  “Because this town isn't big enough, little brother! Hell, I don't know how to explain it to you, but I feel like I've got greater things in me, d'you know? Greater than tilling fields and keeping chickens.”

  Jasen was sullen and sour, and he refused to look at me. “What you really mean is, we bore you.”

  I started to tell him no. I wanted to. My mouth opened, but the words stuck in my throat. It would've been a lie.

  A silence fell while one of the farmers up the road came trundling by in his oxcart. He waved at us as he went, and called a greeting. We returned it. Then we basked in the orange-gold light of the setting sun while we tried to think of things to say to one another, to win each other over to our way of thinking. Distant birdsong filled my ears, and the air was thick with pollen, so heavy you could barely breathe.

  As always, the church steps made a great place to sit and have deep, intense conversations. The solemnity of the simple, square chapel behind us. The way no one else went near it on weekday afternoons. It wasn't run-down so much as built crude in the first place, back in misty centuries past. An ungainly stone tower rose out of its body, bulky and graceless, like a great ugly sword driven through the heart of the land.

  I loved my little brother. I wanted his approval, though I knew I wasn't going to get it. Like most of our talks, I'd keep trying, and he would keep shaking his head. I'd get more and more plaintive, sad and angry all at once. Harsh words would be exchanged. We'd go our separate ways, not speaking until supper.

  “How did you grow up so serious, Jase?” I asked after a while. “You're almost sixteen, you're supposed to be overcome with wanderlust by now. You should be the one craving excitement and adventure.”

  “One of us had to keep his feet on the ground and take responsibility, and it wasn't going to be you.”

  I felt another silence creep over me, this one heavier and less pleasant. Even Jasen seemed shocked by what he'd said. He stammered and waved his hands trying to dismiss his own words.

  “I‒ I didn't mean it that way, Karl. I wouldn't be here trying to convince you if I didn't care.”

  Despite my hurt, I touched him on the shoulder and nodded. “It's alright, little brother. I'll survive. Anyway, if you really want me to learn responsibility, the Army's the place to do it.”

  “Nice try. That silver tongue of yours only works on women.” He puffed out a long, exasperated sigh. “There's more to life than excitement and adventure, you know.”

  “I don't expect you to understand it, Jase. You're not like me. You could spend your whole life here and be happy.”

  I looked around, at the spread-out farmsteads around the church and the plumes of smoke behind the hills a little ways off. This was the village green, such as it was. A church, a pub, and rows upon rows of apple trees. Sleepy. Peaceful. The biggest worries people here would ever face were bad weather and failed crops. To me, it felt like a terrible, insidious trap. This place would kill me oh so slowly on the inside, where nobody else would see.

  I went on, “I've thought about leaving for three years now. Each time you a
nd Mum have talked me out of it.”

  “She needs you here. What happened to Dad‒”

  “‒wasn't my fault,” I finished for him. “I don't know why you two are always holding it over my head.”

  “Nobody holds you responsible, Karl! It's just that I can't do all the work by myself...”

  “You'll find a way, Jase. You don't need me.”

  “But what if we do? You can travel as far as you want, I'm sure Mum wouldn't mind, if you'd only come home for planting and harvest time to help!”

  I snorted bitterly. “Anything but the Army, eh? What would you have me do? Become a peddler, or a tinker, or a priest?” I shuddered. “Fighting and brawling's the only thing I was ever any good at.”

  His voice was soft, tender. “I'd be happy to have a brother who's a peddler, or a tinker, or a priest. I'd be proud. As a soldier, all you'll have to look forward to is bloody skirmishes with the Feldlanders and Harari until you die like the poor buggers who had to make room for you to join up.”

  “I'm not afraid! I want to make something of myself, I want to lead a regiment and change the world!”

  It was an accident, a slip of the tongue, a flare of passion boiling over. It was also hauntingly true. I'd blurted out one of my most private thoughts and fantasies, and I went white, horrified at myself.

  Jasen looked at me as though I wanted to start a stable of flying pigs. “Aren't you setting your sights a little high?”

  “I have big dreams,” I grumbled, hurt and defensive.

  “But you're not noble-born, Karl! You aren't, and nothing's going to change that!”

  “I wouldn't be the first man to get knighted in the field.” I frowned at a rock in the middle distance. “Or if I get into the Gernland Light Regiment, I'll be a shoe-in for selection to the Household Rangers. It's only one short step from the Lightfoots to the Rangers, everyone says. Then my birth wouldn't even matter.”