Blood of the Emperor

by Tracy Hickman

  “This nation seeks land but I have none of my own to spare them,” Chythal said, shaking her head.

  “But if the southern families fall,” Ethis responded. “Then the nation will be one.”

  “You say this human has an army at his disposal and that his people have the power to rob my enemies of the Rhonas magic?” Chythal asked to confirm what Ethis had told her. “Well, if this human and his landless nation are willing to fight our battles for our mutual benefit and give me back my land then perhaps I can spare a little of it in return.”

  “That hope has driven me to find you,” Ethis nodded.

  “Will this work, Ethis?”

  He could hear both the uncertainty and the longing in her voice as she asked the question. “Can he bring down the Rhonas magic that is poisoning our people?”

  “I believe he can, Your Majesty,” Ethis said. “But for it to work, I must return to this human and convince him at once of this plan—for there are those who would take him down paths that will ensure the doom of our nation. And, above all, I will need to grant him a favor from the Queen of Ephindria.”

  “What boon do you ask, Ethis?”

  “I need you to permit the impermissible,” Ethis said. “I need your consent to their nation passing through Ephindria.”

  Chythal’s eyes widened. The storm sounds had come back to her voice. “Our borders are closed. No outsiders have been permitted since the elves infected our people with their magic!”

  “Nevertheless,” Ethis insisted. “If any of us are to survive, you must open the Mournful Road.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Imperial Utterance

  THE EMPEROR OF RHONAS SAT in serene stillness on his throne, his eyes fixed in a tranquil gaze across the private audience chamber of his Cloud Palace, seemingly oblivious to the war of words being conducted at his feet.

  The chamber, known as the Whispering Hall, was an oval room at the boundaries of the Emperor’s regal private suite of fifty-seven rooms. It was nearly thirty feet from the entrance doors to where the Emperor’s throne rested atop a raised dais in front of seven frosted glass panels etched with the figures representing the first seven Emperors. The walls were a smooth rise of twelve feet to a sculpted crown supporting a domed ceiling of cerulean blue ornamented with golden stars. The chamber was not nearly so grand in comparison to the enormity of the Emperor’s Court, where official state business was conducted and the general proceedings took place but those grand affairs were largely meant to make public the decisions that had previously been concluded in the Whispering Hall. It was in this room that most of the actual business of the Empire had been conducted down through the years out of the troublesome earshot of the rest of the Imperial Court. This was because the room had one unique characteristic from which it derived its name: the acoustics of the room were such that anyone sitting on the fixed throne could hear even the quietest conversation within its boundaries with perfect clarity.

  The Emperor remained immobile and impassive. He was a tall elf and strong beyond his years. The fringe of his white hair cascaded far down his back and, as always, had been brushed to a brilliant luster. His face had prominent cheekbones that gave him a skull-like appearance despite his long, prominent nose. His eyes were featureless black as were those of all elves but there was a quality to them that suggested they were watching everywhere at once. His sharp teeth remained hidden behind a determinedly serene and inscrutable half-smile. It had been said of him that he could accomplish more through his silences than most citizens of the Third Estate could accomplish in a year of talking.

  Of those present, he alone was seated. There were chairs set against the walls on the right and left of the room facing each other, intended for those currently in audience with the Emperor though none of them were in use. Almost all of the courtiers in the room were on their feet in heated exchange.

  The single exception stood next to the Emperor, statuesque in her long red gown, her narrow, pale hand resting on the back of the Emperor’s throne.

  Shebin, too, was serenely watching the fray.

  “We must continue to maintain our Legions in Lyrania!” Ch’kar Meinok, the Ghenetar Praetus of the Nekara proclaimed. Praetus Meinok was an unusually broad-shouldered elf whose nose looked as though it had been pressed against his flat face. He, like the two other Ghenetar Praetus in the room, had worn his ceremonial armor to the audience with the Emperor with three purposes in mind; to honor the Emperor, to establish his authority with everyone else in the room, and to protect himself should the other two Ghenetar Praetus summoned to the council decide to escalate their disagreements to more direct persuasion. “The threat of the Lyranian rebels in that region has not diminished and withdrawing those forces could invite the Lyranian elves to bolder action. Beside, these warriors are simply not needed. You people talk about these rebels in the north as though they were actually of some concern!”

  “They completely slaughtered the Legion of the Northern Fist,” countered Ormai Betjarian. He was the Ghenetar Praetus of the Vash and, like the other Ghenetar Praetus in the room, the liaison to the Emperor’s court for his own order, the Vash. He had a wide mouth that displayed his sharp teeth prominently when he spoke. He was gifted with words but those he spoke today were largely at the direction of his immediate superior, Ghenetar Omris Sjei-Shurian. “This was not some matched contest in the arena, Ch’kar! This was a full strength and supported Imperial Legion with superior numbers and field position that took on an inferior mixed force of manticores, chimerians, and the gods alone know what other rabble and were not just defeated but slaughtered down to a single warrior.”

  “Because of this Drakis!” inserted Tsukon Keiloi. He wore the draped purple robes of a senior Minister of Conquest though thanks to his repeated hand gestures he seemed to constantly be getting tangled in them. He had an elegantly long face and the tips of his pointed ears nearly touched the sides of his elongated skull. He was considered handsome by elven standards, an accident of birth that had helped his meteoric rise at the Ministry at the young age of fifty-six. “All the Northern Conquests are chattering about this human named Drakis fulfilling a prophecy and threatening the Empire with vengeance he brings from their ancient gods.”

  “The human gods are dead,” scoffed Pakhar Kilan-soi, the fat Associate Minister of War. “We killed them centuries ago!”

  “There were no human gods on the field of battle at Willow Vale,” Praetus Betjarian said, shaking his long head. “That was no myth that obliterated our Legion!”

  “Your Legion!” snapped Ghenetar Praetus Wei Ch’Kal. The warriors of the Krish Order of battle had no love for their fellow warriors of the Vash. “It was your Legion that was obliterated. I’ve read the battle reports from the archives—not those official releases, mind you—and interviewed your survivor myself though it took some doing to find him. Next time you try to declare one of your living warriors to have died, you might think of killing him before he can be discovered.”

  The corners of Shebin’s mouth rose in an almost smile.

  “What is your point, Wei Ch’Kal?” growled the Vash Praetus.

  “My point is that none of you understand the real danger in the north,” answered the Praetus of the Krish. “Your Legion set up for its attack with classic deployment and tactics against a ridiculously weak opposing force. It should barely have rated a victory worthy of writing in the War Journals. But in the middle of routing your enemy and pressing him back against the sea, the Legion advance dissolved and the Legion disintegrated completely!”

  “The Aether failed completely!” Praetus Betjarian’s face had grown even paler in his anger. “The Devotions of the Impress Warriors failed…the folds failed…the connection to the Proxis failed…”

  “That was a failure of the Myrdin-dai to properly supply the Legion with Aether!” chimed in Tertiaran Master Kyori-Xiuchi of the Occuran. “That would never have happened had my Order been given rightful authority to administer the folds and
distribution of Aether to the Northern Provinces…”

  “Your hindsight is clearer than your reasoning,” snorted Minister Pakhar.

  “The Aether distribution failed simultaneously all across the Northern Provinces at once,” Minister Tsukon Keiloi affirmed. “Nothing in the experience of either the Occuran or the Myrdin-dai could have prevented it. Neither Order even considered it a possibility.”

  “Which is why I am urging that we avoid haste in addressing this northern threat,” said Praetus Wei. “We are facing a threat to the Empire the extent of whose power we do not fully understand.”

  “You would have us cower under our bunks while an army descends upon us?” Minister Pakhar sneered.

  “I would rather we showed more forethought in our deployment,” countered the Krish commander. “The Vash have uprooted their eastern army—four Legions—from their postings along the Thetis shores and have them marshaling at Shellsea. They’ve also asked that we pull three Legions from our Army of the Imperial South and marshal them to Tjarlas—on the northern borders of the Empire!”

  “As the mighty Ch’Kal so aptly points out,” Praetus Betjarian interrupted, “We do not know the strength of our enemy in the Northern Provinces! Better that we should use an excess of force and crush this rebellion at once.”

  “But you’ve also asked for three additional Legions from the Nekara,” complained Praetus Meinok. “This leaves our western frontier badly exposed against both Chronasis and Mestophia…let alone that Murialis witch.”

  “This war against these traitorous slaves will be swiftly accomplished,” Praetus Betjarian insisted. “The general plan is simple. We rally all our armies north of Tjarlas. The Occuran assure me that the Northmarch Folds are now open and reliable. They have also assured me of their support in conveying our combined armies to the Northmarch Provinces. Then, using scouts and Proxis we will advance the armies abreast up the Shadow Coast. We’ll deploy the Nekara forces on the eastern side to guard the borders of the Shrouded Plain…”

  “As though anyone could pass through there!” Minister Pakhar exclaimed.

  “Then advance northward with the armies of the Vash and the Krish until our scouts discover the enemy’s encampment,” Praetus Betjarian continued in a louder voice. “Our latest reports indicate they are traveling with their families, which will make them slow to move and easy to find. Once we have the location of their main force we can consolidate the armies against them, surround them, and crush them.”

  “Beyond avenging the complete failure of the Legion of the Northern Fist,” Praetus Ch’kal asked, “is there any reason why we should mobilize all the armies of the Empire to deal with an untrained mob of rebellious slaves, their women, and their children?”

  Minister Keiloi spoke up. “The Prophecy states that…”

  “This prophecy again?” Minister Kilan-soi groaned loudly. “Does anyone even know who created this so-called prophecy in the first place? Where did it come from? What chosen receptacle of the gods received it? It seems that the entire Empire is falling over their feet, wringing their hands, and fretting about this human-slave fireside story for no reason at all! Some discontented slave generations ago—surviving son of a conquered and beaten race—makes up a comforting little story about how the utter defeat and destruction of the human empire will be avenged one day. That some long-dead hero whose bones have dissolved by now where the boots of our elven warriors drove them into the mud hundreds of years before will somehow rise up and make humans great again. Well, the Drakosian Empire is no more, its people are no more, and no wishful daydream by any slaves—no matter how many—is going to change that!”

  “Whatever their mad reasons for rebelling, they have to be crushed,” Praetus Meinok added. “Must we deploy so many of our forces?”

  “It is the Will of the Emperor to do so!” the Vash Praetus blustered.

  “The Will of the Emperor?” Praetus Ch’Kal mocked. “We stand in the presence of the Emperor! If the Emperor wants this war then he can tell us his Will!”

  Shebin moved her hand from the back of the chair to rest lightly on the Emperor’s shoulder. It was a common gesture and accomplished with such subtlety that no one in the room noticed it.

  In that moment, the Emperor spoke.

  “Much has been spoken,” the Emperor hissed, his reedy voice silencing the courtiers at once. “Little has been said of that which concerns our Imperial view. Is not Shebin Sha-Timuran the embodiment of this threat? Did she not first suffer the depravations of this human beast Drakis who now threatens the whole of the Empire with the same? Was her debasement not the shadow of that which this army now brings against every citizen of Rhonas and against the embodiment of the Imperial Will? In defiling her, did not this Drakis defile a daughter of the Emperor, the Imperial House, myself, and the Empire I hold in trust?”

  Shebin, too, looked down from where she stood next to the Imperial Throne, watching the faces of those whose gazes were fixed on the Emperor as he spoke.

  “It is the Will of the Emperor,” he said with all the calm that he might have used a few hours earlier in selecting his breakfast, “that every possible force of Imperial Might be directed against this Drakis, his army, and his followers. Bring him to me in chains if you can, bring his head to me if you cannot—and let all else who follow him be destroyed to the last child until there are none remaining to utter his name.”

  “Every possible force, my Emperor?” Praetus Ch’Kal asked.

  “It is my Will,” the Emperor stated firmly.

  Shebin smiled.

  CHAPTER 16

  Shebin’s Blessing

  THE EMPEROR HAD SPOKEN. The Empire responded.

  It answered from the Western Provinces, gathering two additional Legions from the Estates—all that might be spared after the losses from the Dwarven Wars. Outside of the three Honor Legions of the Vash, the Nekara and the Krish who made their quarters within Rhonas Chas, these were the first of the Legions to arrive outside the confines of Tjujen’s Wall on the fifth day after the decree. They came under many banners but were largely united behind the Krish under whose general command they fell.

  The Empire answered with four Legions from the Chaenandrian Frontier—the entire army known as the Might of the Imperial East. It took them two days to decamp and four more to travel the Eastmarch Folds until they reached their rallying point just outside the gates of Tjarlas the Beautiful—the northernmost of the elven cities and considered the heart of art and culture for the Empire. There they made camp in the shadows of the city’s many graceful, towering avatria, awaiting the arrival of the remaining elements of what would become the greatest elven army to march into battle in over two hundred years. Four Cohorts—a total of over three thousand warriors over half of which were Impress Warriors—continued their march beyond Tjarlas through the folds leading back to Rhonas Chas so that the Armies of Imperial Dawn might be represented in the Imperial City to receive the Emperor’s blessing. These arrived in Rhonas Chas on the sixth day, exhausted but relieved that they were not the last to arrive.

  The Empire answered from the southern coasts bordering on the Aergus Sea, gathering three Legions and mobilizing them within a single day. These Legions known as the Spear of Rhonas pushed relentlessly northward through the Southmarch Folds made clear by the Occuran, who removed all trade and other traffic from their path toward the Imperial City. They were only part of the large force commanded by the Nekara but nearly all that remained along the southern shores. The majority of their warriors and command staff were still across the Meducean Sea engaged in their battle against the Lyranian rebel elves. No folds had ever been able to cross the waters of any sea so word had been dispatched by courier on the earliest supply ship. The message would not reach the war-mages for nearly a week but it only commanded the armes in Lyrania to remain in place until further word was received. The Spear of Rhonas would represent the southern armies and answer the Emperor’s command. Even so it took five days of fo
rced march for the Legions to reach the western outskirts of Rhonas Chas, arriving on the seventh day of the issued decree, their banners proclaiming them as united under the Order of Nekara held high.

  The eighth day was declared a day of feasting and celebration on behalf of the glorious assemblage of elven might. The entire capital city was caught up in a lavish festival that ended promptly at midnight—again by Imperial Decree. The following day—the ninth since the Decree—was ordained a day of reflection by the Emperor’s Will. This had equal parts of honor and practicality, for it permitted the armies a day to restock and prepare for the culminating event: the Parade of the Emperor’s blessing.

  The Imperial City had never before seen such a display of the Emperor’s Might, Will and Conviction. Everyone within the city and as many of its surrounding regions as could manage the journey came to witness the processional of the united armies of the Emperor as they marched out of the city.

  But no one among the teaming throngs filling the balcony of every avatria in the city or barely contained to either side of the Vira Rhonas running through the city below drew more satisfaction from the day than did a single young elven woman looking down from the Cloud Palace of the Emperor.

  Shebin Sha-Timuran basked in the cheering roar that erupted from the city as she stepped onto the Emperor’s Audience Platform and smiled with perfectly filed, sharp teeth. The dome of the avatria’s foundation glowed especially for her, casting her in a light that was as gloriously brilliant as the perfect day beyond its shadow.

  Shebin Sha-Timuran stepped up to the railing surrounding the oval platform, the train of her vibrant, red dress sweeping behind her as she moved. It was a stylized duplicate of her “defiance dress,” as the Ministry of Enlightenment was calling it. It was far better fitting than the torn rag she had worn before the Emperor had adopted her into his House, clean but still sporting the simulated hole of torn cloth as a badge of pride and honor. The original dress had been white but this color was more symbolic according to the Ministry of Thought and also easier seen by the crowds.