Blood of the Emperor

by Tracy Hickman

  The Emperor’s Audience Platform, although situated off the central axis of the Cloud Palace, was actually the lowest point of the avatria, suspended below the curving base of the floating portion of the palace at the end of a great curving stone arm for occasions such as this.

  Almost a hundred feet below her stretched the Garden of Kuchen now completely overrun by a sea of elves as was the surrounding roadway of the Vira Rhonas as far to the west as she could see. Their hands were raised toward her as they shouted their approval and adoration. It was the Emperor’s Will that they love her, she thought, raising her hands in acknowledgment. How could they not love me?

  Shebin glanced around the platform. Several elven mages stood at the edges of the platform, their lips moving in silent preparation. That the Emperor had not appeared at any such “Grand Audience,” as they were called, in nearly a hundred years demanded a special use of Occuran Aether so that as many in the city could be a part of the pageantry as possible.

  The crowd below roared again and Shebin turned.

  The Emperor stepped onto a raised dais on the platform, his hands held upward, palms turned toward him as though in his gesture he was embracing all of the Empire. At once the Occuran mages at the edge of the platform loosed their magic and the image of the Emperor appeared to tower over the city, his features rising two thousand feet as he beamed down at them from his enormous face. As the Emperor moved, his colossal image mirrored his every gesture.

  The Emperor opened his mouth and his words were repeated through the image that towered behind him into the sky in a voice that was heard throughout the city.

  “Citizens of Rhonas!” The Emperor spoke quietly but his words rebounded through the city like thunder. “I am your Emperor!”

  The deafening sound from below nearly overwhelmed the words of the Emperor.

  “Citizens of every Estate! You are a part of our greatness!” the Emperor called. “Show me the fist and steel of the Imperial Will!”

  Again the roar arose from the throngs filling the streets below as a sea of adoration. Trumpets sounded from somewhere above them in the Cloud Palace which were answered in turn by trumpeters standing atop the various subatria foundations above which the avatria of the buildings lining the Vira Rhonas floated. Soon Shebin could make out the martial drums approaching from the great plaza to the northwest that lay before the crush of buildings known as the Ministries. The citizens packing the Vira Rhonas began pushing to either side as the Herald Drummers of the Honor Legion of the Order of Vash led the parade. Their drums were enormous, nearly ten feet across at the top and almost fifteen feet tall. Each was fashioned out of polished copper with hides stretched across the top. They were mounted on a series of ornate carriages, each pulled by three ogres—prizes taken in Mestophia—while their drummers, in ceremonial tunics of the Vash livery, pounded on them with long-handled mallets.

  Behind them marched the Honor Legion of the Order of Vash, to whom came the honor of securing the city for the procession. The front lines immediately behind the drum carriages marched to either side to line the Vira Rhonas with their raised halberds. Shebin could imagine this line of warriors extending behind the Vira Rhonas, down the Vira Coleseum and through the Circus to Gladiator’s Gate and beyond.

  The drum carriages separated where the Vira Rhonas moved around the oval of the Garden of Kuchen, taking up positions on either side. Only those of the Third Estate or higher were permitted in the garden for this occasion and then by direct invitation of the Palace. Even so, there had been a number who had to be turned away or ignored in their requests—there was simply no place left to stand. The Honor Legion of the Order of Vash fell into place behind the drums on either side of the road, their remaining numbers the most honored of their Legion for their duty had brought them within sight of the Emperor for his blessing upon the army that was about to fight in his name.

  Shebin gazed down the Vira Rhonas, her eyes filling with tears. As far as she could see down the broad avenue that curved slightly to the right from the view of the Emperor’s Audience Platform marched a steady stream of warriors. The first of these was a Cohort of the Vash from the Eastern Armies that had come to represent their might all the way from Tjarlas in the north. Then came a Cohort—another eight hundred warriors—from the Order of Krish and yet another from the Order of Nekara. There were elven war-mages as well as warriors, and Impress Warriors from nearly every race. Each approached in turn, filling in the street and, halting their march, turning to face the Imperial Audience where she stood. This continued for nearly twenty minutes until the streets were filled with warriors as far as she could see.

  And there were many, many more combatants, she knew, that she could not yet see, waiting their turn in the streets beyond to march past where she stood. The last report given to the Emperor had been one hundred and seventeen thousand warriors, war-mage Tribunes, Proxis, archers, Centurians, Legates, and Praetus prepared to march northward to destroy Drakis.

  Her Drakis.

  “Shebin?”

  She realized that her name was being called. She looked up.

  The Emperor standing on the round, elevated platform was looking at her, reaching his hand toward her.

  Uncertain, she took it.

  The Emperor drew her up onto the platform with him. In that moment the enormous figure of the Emperor was joined in the sky overhead by the gaunt features and tapered head of Shebin Sha-Timuran.

  “Citizens of Rhonas!” the Emperor’s voice boomed from the sky. “I accept this Union of the Imperial Might—but not in my name!”

  A strange hush fell over the city.

  “I accept it in the name of she whose wrongs have inspired our indignation and stirred our souls to act!” the Emperor said with strength and conviction. “I accept this—The Army of Imperial Vengeance—in the name of Shebin Sha-Rhonas, daughter of the Empire!”

  The Emperor stood a step back off the dais. In that moment, only the cadaverous features of Shebin towered into the sky above the Imperial City.

  The crowd erupted into deafening cheers and applause.

  “Give them your blessing,” the Emperor urged from behind her.

  “My fellow citizens,” Shebin shouted. Her voice blasted from the sky with deafening sound. It startled her as she struggled to speak. “I give my blessing…my blessing to the Army of Imperial Vengeance…my Vengeance!”

  The approval roared upward from the streets below. She smiled from the platform. She smiled from the sky.

  The enormous figure of Shebin vanished as the Emperor took her hand and led her to the railing of the platform. The drums had begun beating again and the army—the Army of Imperial Vengeance—was once more making their way through the city. They would parade past the foundations of the Cloud Palace and continue down the Vira Rhonas to the Meducean Gate, down the road past the sprawling buildings outside the city wall until they came to the fold platforms now prepared to take them on their first of many folds northward toward Tjarlas and the Northmarch Folds beyond.

  The Emperor stood next to her, waving with her to the crowds below. His words no longer thundered over the city but were for her ears alone.

  “Enjoy the day, Shebin,” the Emperor said. “Remember it well. If the army crushes this rebellion then it will be remembered as our victory but should it fail…”

  Shebin’s smile dimmed slightly. “Then it will fail in my name alone, my Emperor.”

  “Yes, my dear daughter,” the Emperor nodded, still waving.

  “Then I will insure that it will not fail,” Shebin replied, brightening her smile.

  Ghenetar Praetus Betjarian marched at the head of the Cohort from Tjarlas in his ceremonial armor. The roaring of the crowds on either side of the road was giving him a headache and he longed to be rid of the worthless show costume he was wearing and get back to the business of war.

  He was especially anxious to get back to Tjarlas with his Cohorts ahead of the Army of Imperial Vengeance. He wanted to be th
ere to see the look on the other Ghenetar Praetus’ faces when they arrived and discovered that two of his Legions had departed up the Northmarch Folds five days before this nonsense parade had even begun. They were most likely beginning their search for this Drakis rabble even now.

  It had seemed a strange order coming from his commander, Ghenetar Omris Sjei-Shurian, but the old warrior had never led him astray.

  It was unusual, however, that he had insisted a Quorum of Iblisi accompany the Legions. Still, Sjei-Shurian had assured him that the Inquisitor in charge of the Quorum—some female by the name of K’yeran Tsi-M’harul—would not interfere with his command.

  And his Legions would arrive on the Shadow Coast days before anyone would have thought possible.

  CHAPTER 17

  Risks

  DRAKIS LAY EXHAUSTED ON HIS COT. He felt the aching in his muscles and bones, the longing in his body for sweet rest and, in truth, he wished to embrace it, for even in troubled sleep he could not be free.

  He was in this twilight of his mind when she came to him.

  Her memory stalked him at all times during the day. In the urgency of his position he could bury this pain in activity or divert his emptiness with work. But it was in this time between consciousness and oblivion that she pounced from the shadows of his mind. She came bearing sweet talons of guilt and regret that tore at his doubt and despair. Her smile flashed with unbearable loss. A harsh word he had uttered that had hurt her became magnified a thousandfold in his soul, screaming his blame. There, before the darkness took him, her loss became a gaping wound in his soul from which his life seemed forever to bleed and for which no healing ever seemed possible.

  Drakis shuddered, his breath coming quickly as he lay on the cot. He tried with conscious effort to relax the rising tension in his painful muscles, attempting to busy his mind with other thoughts…other memories…anyone but the woman that he had loved in a dream and lost so terribly in cruel reality.

  Mala.

  He shook again, turning his head so as to avoid the name that boiled up into his conscious mind.

  She walked up one of the gently rolling hills surrounding their home. The stalks of grain through which she strolled were supple in the evening breeze, colored orange-gold by the setting sun. Her face was turned away from him, her attention on the avatria of House Timuran. Her head was bald as he had so long remembered it, the Sinque mark of her Devotions clearly visible on her exposed scalp. There was barely a trace of the auburn hair which…which…

  His breathing came harder, his mouth suddenly dry. He tightened his eyelids, trying in vain to block the memories from his recollection.

  She stopped at the crest of this hill. Pink clouds floated in a deepening sky. Her skin seemed almost radiantly aglow. She started to turn, as though she just noticed him behind her. He could not see her face and suddenly wondered if she would turn to face him and there would be nothing there at all…

  Before she turned around, she started singing to him, her voice distant and hollow.

  “Mala of Drakis now walks the fields

  Warmed by the harvesting sun.

  Dead roads we’re walking!

  Destiny talking…”

  Drakis sat upright with a sharp cry. His forehead was beaded in perspiration despite the chill in the large pavilion that passed for his tent. He rubbed his eyes and swung his legs over the side of his cot.

  Drakis heard the flap on the far side of the tent rustle open.

  He held up his hand. “It’s all right, Belag. Just a bad dream.”

  The figure staggered a few steps toward him.

  Drakis tensed, reaching for his sword. The shadow in his tent was not nearly large enough to be the manticore.

  “Drakis!” the voice said in a tense whisper.

  “Ethis?” Drakis asked, his blade drawn, the grip cold in his hand. “What are you doing here? We weren’t expecting you until…”

  “Quiet!” the chimerian gasped, gripping the human by the arm. “Where’s Braun?”

  “His tent is with the rest of his acolytes about a mile from here,” Drakis answered. “He’s sleeping, with any luck.”

  “What Urulani said about opening folds,” Ethis continued his questions, barely waiting for the answers before asking the next. “Can Braun and his acolytes actually make it work?”

  “Yes. They had some disasters at first but…”

  “Could they create enough folds to move the encampment?”

  “Yes. In fact, we’ve already moved the rest of the army up using their folds,” Drakis said.

  “Then the army is already here?”

  “Yes and the encampment should be ready to move by the time Urulani and Jugar return from their…”

  “And that elf…Soen,” Ethis continued. “Where is he?”

  “With the other acolytes,” Drakis said. “Why?”

  Ethis’ normally blank face shifted into a grimace. “Well, it can’t be helped. Send word for Braun to meet you near Dragon’s Roost. We need to talk…but not here!”

  “One battle?” Drakis asked, an uncertain edge to his voice. “That’s what she is asking of us—just one victory?”

  “That is all my Queen asks,” Ethis affirmed, “and all she needs.”

  Marush lay coiled about Drakis, Ethis, and Braun, his great bulk touching all the walls of a magnificent rotunda that had sprung up around them. Arched columns defined three tiers nearly thirty feet tall. The ceiling was an incredible dome of crystal panels fitted into an iron lattice. Beyond, a gentle, warm rain fell from a leaden sky. In the center of the room lay the uppermost curve of a partially exposed sphere protruding through a circular opening in the fitted stone of the floor. Its surface was etched with a map of Aeria extending southward beyond the Aergus Sea to the coasts of Oerania and as far north as the Siren Coast and Drakosia beyond. The rotunda looked as though it were kept in perfect condition despite the fact that there appeared to be no other creatures in existence beyond the dragon and his guests.

  Even so, Drakis knew that the pilgrim encampment was situated not more than a dozen yards from where they stood and, were he not touching the dragon, their conversation might easily have been overheard. The gentle plains that moments before had surrounded them and the tents, lean-tos, and wagons where the pilgrims slept under a starry night sky were still there. Ethis, standing near him, had suggested this as the only place where they might speak freely—their discussion hidden from ears of the pilgrim followers even should any wake and spot them standing beside the dragon.

  As for Braun, the third member of their party, the experience was completely new and distracting in the extreme. “Do you think this place is created naturally by the dragons from the Aether magic or do they act as Aether Wells themselves, channeling and refining Aer from the world into this higher form?”

  “Braun!” Ethis urged in exasperated tones. “Focus your attention! We have little time and important matters to discuss!”

  “Of course, but do you think this place actually exists?” Braun grinned, showing his gapped teeth in wonder. “Was it here before we came, and has it been magically reconstructed? Or is this tower from another place or time and has it been duplicated here? Or perhaps is it that we have gone to wherever or whenever it exists?”

  “Braun!” Ethis shouted.

  “Yes, of course,” Braun said, rolling his eyes. “You’ve returned with a proposed pact from the Queen of Ephindria who offers to support Drakis and his merry pilgrims by ceding lands to our cause in exchange for us doing her a little favor.”

  “It’s no small favor,” Drakis said, shaking his head. “She’s asking us to take down an entire elven city.”

  “Yes, but think of the possibilities, Drakis,” Ethis continued. “This city is the key to Aether collection and distribution throughout Chaenandria and serves in support of the rebel houses of Southern Ephindria. You bring down the Wells in that city and it robs the Empire of nearly half of the Aether production from the Wells all along
the Benis Coast. You choke off the flow of Aether from the Empire to the families of Pashorei and Surthal, and they cannot stand against Queen Chythal.”

  “Why not?” Drakis argued. “How does cutting of the Aether end your civil war?”

  “Because it was the Aether that caused the war of rebellion in the first place,” Ethis answered, anger creeping into his voice. “After the elves conquered Chaenandria they began trading with the southern families in Ephindria. Most of the elders saw the danger but the young were particularly susceptible to its allure.”

  “Indeed?” Braun asked with an eager expression. “Are chimerians seduced by the power of magic?”

  “No,” Ethis sighed as he allowed a pained expression to fill his features. “We are seduced by our desire to please.”

  “As they have always been,” Marush said. The dragon rarely spoke to anyone but Drakis. “It is their greatest gift and their curse; their strength and their downfall.”

  “That makes no sense,” Drakis said. “Everyone knows the Ephindrians are the most secretive and reclusive people in the known lands.”

  “We hide because we are too giving, too responsive to others’ desires and needs,” Ethis said, his words halting and coming with difficulty. “It is never spoken of outside of the family. All chimerians naturally desire to build rapport with everyone we meet. While the adults of our kind learn to be more guarded with outsiders, it requires discipline which the youth of our race often lack. Our ability to change our shape is greatly enhanced by our natural ability to become attuned with the emotions and even, on some level, the thoughts of others.”

  “Ah!” Braun said, his thick eyebrows rising with his understanding. “So Ephindrians do not just change their shape to suit others but modify their own thoughts to align with them. That is how you make yourselves so convincing to others; by not only mimicking forms but attitudes and thoughts as well.”