Blood of the Emperor

by Tracy Hickman

  It was not the future that concerned her so much as the present.

  The Vira Agrath ended near the center of the city at the Heroes’ Circus. This great oval was not a true Circus; its size was far too small for the races that were associated with the name. It was, however, an elongated oval in the middle of which a carefully trimmed garden space surrounded several columns supporting statues of various heroes of the elven Empire down through the ages. The statues were supposed to have been placed there by the Emperor himself three generations before and were, by decree of the Imperial Will, never to be replaced.

  The Heroes’ Circus began and ended at the Vira Planesta. This broad avenue formed a vastly larger, rough circle around the center of the city. It touched on or crossed a number of plazas and gardens and was the quickest way to reach most of the outer parts of Tjarlas.

  On the far side of the Heroes’ Circus, rising high above the Hero statues, floated the avatria of Farlight Palace. It was a glittering spectacle formed like a closed flower although the exterior curved panels glittered with the flash of stars visible even in the brightness of the morning sun. The light from the Aether Well shining upward from the subatria beneath glowed against the bottom of the floating structure above it. K’yeran knew that the Aether of all the Northern Conquests was gathered through this Well and, more importantly, the numerous Aether Wells the elves had convinced the rebel chimerians in Ephindria to allow them to construct ostensibly on their behalf. Ephindria was rich in Aether and those Wells proved to be a tremendous boon to Rhonas. True, they had to trickle back a little of that Aether to the chimerians to keep them in line but it was never so much as could be used against the Empire—just enough to keep the Ephindrians out of the Empire’s way. The result was a huge boon from a series of Aether Wells on the Ephindrian frontier, all of which Aether was then conducted southward through the fold portals to the glory of the Imperial Well beneath the Cloud Palace of the Emperor.

  And that made Tjarlas glorious indeed. The city had been little more than an outpost village centuries ago but the Aether flowing from the north and, more recently, in such abundance from the east had caused the city to blossom. Avatria rose higher and more magnificent into the sky of the Southern Steppes above Tjarlas. The Governor of the province at that time, a Third Estate elf by the name of Ju’kali Sha-Vishau, commanded the reconstruction of the central city following its destruction by a manticorian and dwarven attack three centuries before. He tore down part of the old fortification walls so as to expand the burgeoning city and established a design for the center of Tjarlas that, remarkably, remained in effect down the years afterward. With the wealth and power afforded by the strong flow of Aether from the distant provinces beyond, the city was rumored to rival Rhonas itself in splendor and beauty.

  Someday, K’yeran thought, she might spend enough time in this city to admire it. She was determined that time not be right now.

  K’yeran turned right, passing along the outer edge of the Heroes Circus and onto the Vira Planetia. There were a number of shops here of the Fourth Estate lining both sides of the road. Several groups of warriors were ogling goods through the windows of the shops. K’yeran chuckled to herself as she shook her elongated head. None of the warriors had enough Imperial coin between them to be allowed through the front door of those shops, let alone purchase anything from them.

  The broad avenue curved around to her left. She narrowly avoided being run down by a large wagon and accidentally bumped into a pair of young elves laughing by the side of the road. They immediately started shouting at her and then swallowed their words when they saw the robes of her office. They mumbled their apologies and quickly tried to get lost in the crowd.

  The Vira Planetia was recognized by everyone as the line that separated the Fourth and Fifth Estates from the First, Second and Third Estates. The lower castes lived and did business mostly from the outer side of the Vira Planetia all the way to the city wall while the higher castes were most often found inside the circle of that avenue. It was evident as she continued her way down the road for on the right side she was passing the Darmoneti Guild House where the workers of the Fifth Estate would gather. On the left side, however, toward the city center, the impressive Theatre Calesti rose amid delicate flying buttresses. It was an amphitheater that catered largely to the Third Estate. Banners for its current production fluttered slightly in the breeze but K’yeran could still read the script proclaiming the title: “The Tragedy and Triumph of Shebin Sha-Rhonas.”

  K’yeran shook her head in disgust.

  The road opened up ahead of her to pass on both sides of the Emperor’s Garden but the Iblisi Inquisitor turned to the right side of the square. There stood a modest sized subatria and an unassuming avatria floating above it. The carved inscription above the main gate proclaimed it to be “Serenity House.”

  On either side of the entrance, however, stood two warriors in elven armor. They waited watchfully with their hands resting on the hilt of their swords. A third warrior, shorter than the other two, stood to one side holding a standard.

  K’yeran recognized it at once as that of Ghenetar Praetus Betjarian.

  Never trim the leaves when you can dig at the roots, she was fond of saying to herself.

  It seemed that the Praetus believed the same.

  CHAPTER 26

  Unavoidable

  THEY WERE KNOWN AS THE MADRAKAS RILLS although they were properly a series of gullies that sliced down through the surface of the Chaenandrian Plains. They had been formed by an offshoot of the Sak’tok River north of Tjarlas and had cut eastward across the fluvial plain, digging channels into the soil which over the years resulted in a jagged series of shallow ravines running north to south nearly five miles to the east of the city. They were, for the most part, capped by vertical cliffs of soil, their steep sides made slippery by the gravel and sand. There were exits from the Rills; steep, narrow ravines that led back up onto the plains, but only a few of these were passable. The Rills were tempestuously dangerous, prone to flooding during the late season rains which frequented the Chaenandrian regions of the Southern Steppes.

  They had three primary virtues, Drakis mused as he stood on a slope just below the crest of the Rills. They were a fine place for a fold if you wanted to keep your arrival secret; they were an excellent place to hide your army if you wanted to remain undetected; and they were within an easy march to lay siege to his prize.

  The Rills below Drakis held a river not of water but of warriors. They had streamed through the newly invigorated portal folds, moving in stages from the Prophet’s Camp—as they now called it—in the southern reaches of Ephindria. Their incursion into the lands of the southern chimerian families had set them in disarray, or so Ethis had informed them. It was not enough to dislodge the rebel chimerians for they still had a number of Wells remaining which they could draw upon to support their Aether-fueled addictions but Queen Chythal was now prepared to move against them and retake her throne.

  “All we need to do is take this one city,” Drakis muttered to himself. He looked down, his hand feeling the rough cloth of the crimson cape hanging from his shoulders. “Then I can stop this madness. Then they will leave me alone.”

  “Drakis,” said the deep, rumbling voice behind him.

  Drakis turned. “Yes, Belag.”

  “I am sorry to disturb your reveries,” the enormous lion-man said in a surprisingly gentle tone. “They are asking for you at the outpost.”

  “That’s fine,” Drakis nodded, but he hesitated. “Belag?”

  “Yes, Drakis?”

  “Do you remember…Do you remember how things were before all this started?”

  The manticorian raised his flat muzzle up in thought. “Yes, Drakis. I remember everything.”

  “How did we come to this, old friend?” Drakis asked quietly. “We were brother warriors of House Timuran. We lived our lives in an obscure House at the edge of a forgotten province. Very few knew us; fewer still cared. How did w
e come to stand here against the Empire we once served?”

  “We came because you led us here,” Belag said simply.

  “Did I?”

  “Yes, Drakis,” Belag said, his feral eyes bright and focused on the human’s face. “It was our destiny.”

  “Nothing is inevitable, Belag,” Drakis said, looking again over the army that moved about the floor of the gully preparing as best they could for the battle they knew was coming. “We have a choice.”

  “I made my choice the day we were freed from the enslaving Devotions,” Belag said. “I remember everything. I remember my brother dying and my wanting to die with him. Most of all I remember seeing you and knowing that my brother’s death had meaning because you lived—because you would bring meaning to all our lives and purpose with every breath. We are here because we could not be anywhere else and matter.”

  Drakis drew in a breath before he spoke. “Show me to the outpost.”

  Belag nodded and turned, moving quickly and far more silently than Drakis up a steep ravine that brought them up out of the Rills. Belag crouched down slightly, moving along the depressions between a series of mounds. Drakis followed him with some difficulty; these were lands that were home to the ancient manticores and moving across them was natural and easy for Belag. Within a short time, however, they came upon a dugout in the side of one of the mounds. Belag quickly pushed aside the dust-laden canvas covering the entrance and stepped inside.

  Drakis followed and was surprised to see that the dugout actually was much larger than he expected, with a tunnel leading deeper into the ground. His eyes had not yet grown completely accustomed to the darkness but he could make out Belag in front of him and plunged ahead.

  The tunnel traversed beneath the hill to the western side. A larger room had been carved out of the hill. Several manticores and a pair of chimerians stood watch by a wide opening, supported by timber framing, that looked out over the flat steppes to the west. Through it, Drakis could see the eastern peaks of the Aeria Mountain Range, their caps still bright with snow. Their foothills flattened out into the unobstructed plains of the Southern Steppes.

  There, at a bend in the Sak’tok River, stood the gleaming towers of Tjarlas.

  Drakis could make out the walls of the city, and he studied it closely for any advantages they could gain. The fortifications facing them on the east were of older construction. Those would certainly be thicker and impossible to breach. There were gaps in the old walls that now were filled with newer construction. These would be Aether-enhanced and, while more difficult initially than the remaining ancient walls, would be more easily breached once the Aether Well was inverted.

  Drakis considered the forest of gleaming avatria towering above the center of the city and frowned at the thought. Braun assured him that he could invert the Well in such a manner as to keep the avatria floating and the Devotions of the Impress slaves in the city intact. It was essential to Drakis’ plan and, he thought, to his sanity as well.

  “Drakis,” Belag said. “This brother has a report which I think you need to hear.”

  Drakis turned from the observation opening and was surprised to see a young manticore in his family armor standing before him. “May I know you?”

  “Grakeag, son of Jagrak.” The young manticore bowed slightly, looking anxious and somewhat in awe of the human. He spoke the Imperial tongue but not well and with a manticorian accent so thick that Drakis had difficulty following it. “Son at honored hoo-mani Drakis call. Hearing of your words and I obey.”

  “He is of the clan of Hravash,” Belag said with some emphasis.

  Drakis did not need the hint. He recognized the clan name at once as the same as another manticore he had known. “Your clan is known to me…a most honorable clan who has earned great honor in my sight.”

  Grakeag drew up tall, pushing out his chest. His mane was barely growing in—a sign of his just reaching maturity. “Hoo-mani Drakis speaks well! I will hunt you!”

  Belag cleared his throat. “He means…”

  Drakis gave a weary smile. “I know what he means. He means to say that he will hunt with me…that he has accepted us as a friend and ally.”

  “Friend of Hoo-mani!” the young manticore declared.

  Drakis nodded. “You have something to tell me?”

  The young manticore tried to straighten even more. “Sirs! We watch the warriors of Rhonas. They leave the City of Gold and Light on magic trails but we know their ways and watch their magic doors across the plains to the north. For seven suns their warriors leave the City of Gold and Light but for three suns since, no warriors have been seen.”

  Drakis’ eyes narrowed in puzzlement. He glanced at Belag.

  “They’ve been watching the Northreach Folds,” Belag explained. “An army of Rhonas has been passing through Tjarlas for over a week. For the last three days, no warriors have been seen leaving Tjarlas through the fold system.”

  “The army has moved on,” Drakis nodded with understanding. “They’ve left Tjarlas to its own defenses.”

  “They believe we are in the north,” Belag nodded. “They do not expect us here. Our surprise will be complete.”

  Drakis closed his eyes for a moment in relief. “Then we proceed just as we did in Port Glorious. You will attack the Northreach Gate and lay siege to the Old East Wall. Once you’ve drawn whatever few defenders remain in the town to the wall defenses, we’ll fly in on the dragons, find the central Aether Well in the city and land Braun and Jugar there. Braun will invert the Well and the gate should be yours for the taking.”

  “Just like Port Glorious,” Belag observed.

  Drakis nodded. “All we have to do is follow the plan.”

  K’yeran Tsi-M’harul stepped through the subatria gates of Serenity House. The garden was a modest one as befitted an Order that preferred to keeps its public profile as low as possible.

  Assesia Jak’ra stood in the garden, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his robes. Seeing the Inquisitor enter, he hurried in her direction. “Ghenetar Praetus Betjarian is awaiting you. He asked specifically for you to meet him in the Hall of the Duets, Inquisitor.”

  K’yeran nodded as she turned and walked purposefully toward the third level access shaft. “Of course he did.”

  “Will you need assistance with this audience?” Jak’ra asked with an anxious inflection in his voice.

  “And what help could you possibly be in the Hall of the Duets?” K’yeran chuckled.

  “I…perhaps I could wait outside in case you needed assistance.”

  “No, thank you,” K’yeran answered dryly as she stepped into the open shaft and immediately began to rise toward the avatria and its matching shaft hovering above. “I think I can handle a single Praetus.”

  K’yeran drifted upward, slowing atop the gentle force of Aether that propelled her to the third level of the avatria. She stepped gently from the duct onto the floor of the antechamber then, without missing a beat, walked through the arched doors that opened before her and into the Hall of the Duets.

  The room was actually a small rotunda with a peaked ceiling. There were, as per its design, only two chairs in the room each of which faced the other. K’yeran heard the door she had just stepped through close. She glanced at it and was satisfied. The door had vanished, sealing the room for their conversation.

  The room was designed to allow only two elves within its confines at a time. Once the door sealed, what was said between those within the Hall of the Duets would remain between them so long as they held one another’s confidence.

  Which, K’yeran mused to herself, was seldom very long.

  Ghenetar Praetus Betjarian rose from his chair. He was wearing a cloak over a simple tunic, the only embellishment being the symbol of his House embroidered in gold at the neckline. He wore sandals rather than his usual boots and a pair of riding breeches. Everything from the crown of his elongated head to his feet was dulled by a fine layer of dust. “Inquisitor K’yeran Tsi-M’harul,
you are late.”

  “So are you, Betjarian,” she replied as she moved to her seat. “Are you not supposed to be waging some war far away from here?”

  “I am,” Betjarian replied, sitting down once more on the opposing chair, a momentary thin veil of dust falling from him. “I have two Legions of mine stuck in this town until I can get the rest of my forces up from Zhadras. This whole nonsense about trouble in the eastern Wells has the Occuran nervous. They said it was a temporary problem but it has been three days since they’ve closed off the northern routes. They say they will not be able to operate both the north and south folds until they can sort the problem out so they won’t open the north folds again until the rest of my warriors arrive through the south.”

  “When will that be, Praetus?” K’yeran asked casually. Information was her stock in trade. One never knew when it could be useful.

  “Tomorrow by noon they tell me.” The Praetus shrugged. “We can start moving my last two Legions out of the city then but that will take us a full extra day. It’s terribly frustrating. Do you have any word from Xhu’chan? You were attached to his command for a reason, as I recall.”

  “Yes,” K’yeran replied with an enigmatic smile. “He is taking the two Legions even farther north and with some haste. He believes he has an opportunity to discover this Army of the Drakis Rebellion and secure the honor of defeating him on behalf of your command and your Order.”