by Claire Frank
“Halthas has been told,” Ara said.
He looked up at her with a quick intake of breath. “What?”
She crossed her arms and took a few steps forward. “I do not know if what you say is true, but I know that you believe it to be so. It was my decision that this should be passed to those in Halthas who have need of knowing. It has been done.”
Pathius let out a breath. It was a relief to know that Halthas had been warned. But no sooner did the sense of reprieve settle in his mind then new worries clawed their way to the surface. Who had Ara told? Would they believe the warning? They might well assume it was a ploy for power, given the source. Pathius was the son of the former king, and the expectation seemed to be that he would attempt to seize the throne. Although he’d started down that path in Caerven, he’d never been certain it was what he wanted. With the threat of Attalon heavy on his mind, he wondered what it would take to survive the coming onslaught, and whether the man who held the throne was up to the task.
“Who did you contact?” he asked. “What did they say?”
“This concern is not yours to bear,” she said. “The adversaries you face are much closer. Come.”
Ara walked past him, her footfalls soft on the carpet of pine needles. With a quick glance over one shoulder, she beckoned him to follow.
Pathius hesitated. He knew there was little reason to refuse. There were certainly worse things than a walk in the woods with Ara, but somehow he couldn’t make himself join her.
She paused and looked back again. “Will you not follow?”
He clenched his teeth and looked away.
“Very well,” she said, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, and continued walking.
Pathius knew it would be easier on both of them if he cooperated. But he’d succumbed to Nihil and Sindre’s torture, accepting his identity as Number One, to a certain extent because it was easier. When pain had been the consequence for any transgression, it hadn’t taken long for him to realize cooperation was preferable. It was easier that way. This new form of captivity rankled him, and although he didn’t think Ara meant him harm, he found himself fighting against her suggestions regardless of how innocuous they might be.
The strange thing was, she never insisted. When he refused, she simply moved on.
As he watched her disappear into the forest, he realized he didn’t want her to go. Defiance had become his automatic response, just as obedience once had been. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his temples and blew out a breath. He willed his feet to move and jogged to catch up with her.
The life of the Deep Forest pressed at him. There was a certain calmness to it, a place so thick with life, he couldn’t possibly steal all its power. The hum of energy was constant, dampening his hunger. He could feel the differences in the places the Imarans had changed. Their entire city had a sense of order to it, energy that he couldn’t draw with ease. It seemed to resist him, intent on fulfilling whatever purpose the Imarans had set for it. At one point, he’d picked up the hearthstone from his room and tried to Absorb its energy. It had pushed back against him, the energy almost defiant. It was as frustrating as it was thought-provoking.
Ara didn’t look back as he approached, but she slowed so he could catch up. Like all Imarans, she was tall, standing an inch or two taller than Pathius, and her long legs carried her quickly through the trees. They walked together in silence for a time, their feet crunching on forest debris. Through the branches above, Pathius could see low clouds, heavy with the look of snow, and he found himself wondering what Imara would look like, covered in white.
They stopped in a clearing with a fire pit dug into the ground, the edge ringed with stones. A pile of wood was stacked nearby and, without a word, he helped Ara build a small fire. When the flames were steady, burning with a pleasant crackling sound, they sat and held their hands out toward the warmth.
“How did Daro find peace here?” Pathius asked after a lengthy silence. The question had been burning in his mind for weeks, but he hadn’t mustered the courage to say the other man’s name aloud.
“Daro is Imaran, so we taught him to See. He was able to perceive the damage that afflicted him and expel the remnants of the other men’s souls from his mind.”
“What do you mean, you taught him to see? See what?” Pathius asked.
“To See in the way of Imarans. We perceive things Halthians do not: the interconnectedness of life, the energy that flows through all things,” she said.
“Then why did you bring me here?” he asked. “I am not Imaran.”
“That you are not,” she said, her tone light. Was that a jest?
Pathius picked up a stick and poked it into the flames. He’d struggled with questions of why ever since he had arrived, but thus far had not put them into words. Why had Daro let him live? Why had the Imarans agreed to take him? Perhaps most perplexing of all, why had Ara spoken for him? It had been Ara who had urged the Raeswa to give him a chance, arguing with those who would have seen him killed.
“I did not think you could be saved,” Ara said after a long moment of silence. “I was in Caerven, and what I saw roused a deep fear. But I have also learned that, wise as the Imarans consider ourselves to be, we do not know all. Our lore tells us a man such as yourself must be destroyed, and the stories of our ancestors never hinted that one could be saved. Daro proved us wrong. Many things I once believed have been called into question. Because of this, I wondered. Could I reach one who had pushed past the limits of his power, and bring him back?”
“And what have you found?” he asked.
“That you are as stubborn as a spine tree bulb caught in an animal’s flesh.”
Pathius couldn’t help but laugh as Ara raised her eyebrows at him with a smile. She was probably right.
As he watched the sparks drift up into the air in silence, he wondered if Ara had made the right choice. He supposed he hadn’t made things easy on her. But his thoughts drifted to Halthas, and the memory of his father. Hadran had held such disdain for Pathius’s weakness as a Wielder. Nihil had made him strong, but what good was his ability if he was traipsing around the forest with an Imaran woman? He could imagine the lecture he would have received, could still hear his father’s voice. Honor. Duty. The preservation of his power.
Pressing his hand to his forehead, he let out a sigh. He wasn’t sure what any of it meant anymore, nor whether the Imarans could show him his way.
4. THE EMPEROR
Isley looked up at the sound of someone outside her door. It was the second visit of the day, but far too early, and the change made her heart jump. At least the slow monotony of her daily life brought the comfort of familiarity. Twice a day, someone delivered food and water and cleaned out her cell. She had no windows and hadn’t been allowed outside, but the regularity of her care had helped her fall into a rhythm that kept her sane. Or at least as sane as she could be. The voices in her mind screamed at her through the night, their chaos disturbing her dreams. She held onto the shreds of herself with a tight grip, determined not to let this break her. She had survived Nihil; she would survive this.
Out. Out. We have to get out.
“It’s okay,” she said aloud, forcing a calmness she didn’t feel into her voice. “We will not be kept here forever, my pets. Eventually they will let us out.”
The door opened and a young woman entered, dressed in a loose beige dress with a cord at the waist, and a hood covering her hair. The women who came to her cell were always dressed alike, in simple dresses, with gold armbands their only ornamentation. Isley ran a finger along the edge of one of the black shackles that bit into her wrists. Although no one had answered her questions as to where she was, or why, she knew the clamps on her arms somehow kept her from touching her Wielding energy. Her abilities had been gone ever since she had woken up on a ship, already half way across the sea. The memory of her power burned inside, a hunger that tormented her, satisfaction just out of reach. She wondered if the women who cared for her were
also Wielders, their golden shackles cutting them off from their power. Isley had tried to ask several times, but none of the women in beige ever spoke.
Beckoning for her to follow, the woman held the door open. Isley rose from her spot on the floor, suddenly reluctant. Each morning, when they brought her breakfast, she dug a scratch in the wall to mark the new day; by this count she knew she had only been held in her cell for a few months, but her memories of the outside were indistinct, as if she’d been locked away for years. The thought of leaving the room was daunting, as if the world outside would be so big as to swallow her up in its vastness. She fought down the fear, taking a deep breath to steady herself, and followed the woman out the door.
Where are we? The voices’ discontent echoed behind her ears, their words filled with dread.
“I don’t know where they are taking us,” she said. The woman in beige glanced over her shoulder but did not speak.
Isley was clothed in the same beige dress, long and loose, belted at the waist with a brown cord. She reached up and pulled her fingers through her auburn hair as they walked. The women brought in a small tub of water each morning and scrubbed Isley clean and dressed her in fresh clothes. At first she had wondered if they were readying her to stand before her captors, but eventually it had simply become a part of her routine. Clean though she was, she would have given anything for a brush, a looking glass, and some proper clothing. Her breasts felt too loose without a good corset and the cut of the dress did nothing to accentuate her curves. Instinct made her attempt to weave an illusion of a suitable gown, but of course, nothing materialized.
The hallway was bare, with a low ceiling, and doors every few feet. Following a guide through an unknown corridor made her heart race and her stomach clench with renewed fear as memories of her previous captivity flooded her mind.
They take you to see him.
“Nihil is dead,” she said, her sharp voice cutting through the silence. The woman looked back but continued walking.
Turning through a doorway, they emerged onto the landing of a winding staircase. The woman led her up and they climbed the curved stairs, passing several more landings that led to closed doors. Isley breathed heavily as they walked, her legs burning with the effort.
When they came to the next landing, the woman stopped and knocked on the tall, wooden door. With a whisper of air, it opened, as if on its own. Isley followed her through and saw two armed guards standing to the side to let them pass. They were decked out in shining, ornamental armor with tall plumes on their helms and ribbons tied to their pikes.
In stark contrast to the hallway outside her cell, the corridor was tall, the arched ceiling coming to a point in the center. The walls were decorated with a fine mosaic that depicted battle scenes in stunning detail.
They emerged into a circular room, its curved walls similarly adorned with intricate mosaics. Each scene melded into the next, a spectacle of clashing armies and varied weaponry. In the center of the room was a round marble dais surrounded by three wide steps. At the top she could see the back of a large chair, carved from milk-white marble.
The woman stopped, and a deep voice echoed through the chamber, filling Isley with terror so striking she turned to flee. With surprising strength, the woman caught her arm, just below the shoulder, and held tight. The two guards from the door had followed her in and they stood close, blocking her escape. She knew that voice. Her entire being screamed at her to run, to die rather than face what was in that chair. More words rumbled, reverberating through her body. One of the guards gripped her arms, holding her upright, and the woman stepped in front of her and clamped a hand over her mouth. Isley didn’t know if she had spoken or screamed, but the woman pressed her palm to Isley’s face, nearly cutting off her air. Sucking a breath in through her nose, Isley locked eyes with the woman. The emotionless mask was gone; the woman’s face was hard with an unspoken command for silence. The severity of that glare shocked sense back into Isley and she allowed her body to relax. The guard kept his grip on her arms, but she took her weight back onto her feet and straightened as the woman removed the hand from Isley’s mouth.
The hands on her arms released, and she smoothed her hair with a trembling hand. “I will not be a cowering child,” she whispered to herself. “I am destined to be the Queen of Halthas, and they will regret treating me this way.” The woman in beige glanced back, her face impassive.
As Isley calmed, the voices on the other side of the dais began to make sense. Their speech sounded like a variation of Halthian, the words familiar but the pronunciations strange. It reminded her of the way Lord Alzor had spoken, and it didn’t take long before she could understand what was being said.
“You may bring her.”
The woman in beige nodded and beckoned Isley forward. They circled wide around the dais, keeping close to the edge of the room. With a grip on Isley’s arm, the woman sank to her knees, tugging on Isley to follow. She dropped and one of the guards pushed her head down, forcing her to bend forward until her forehead touched the floor.
“You will bow before His Glorious Eminence, Horadrus, Emperor of Attalon,” a woman’s voice said.
Isley’s heart raced, and she fought back a surge of overwhelming fear. “I am destined to be queen,” she mouthed, repeating the refrain with her lips, if not her voice.
“Rise.”
With trembling limbs, Isley pushed herself up and lifted her eyes to the figure on the marble throne.
Familiarity washed over her, as if a part of her knew him intimately. His bald head was covered in a thinly woven net of gold, his unnerving eyes nothing but solid white. He wore a gilded breastplate, and a series of thick gold bands adorned his bare arms; there were similar bands at his ankles. His skin was a deep olive and, although he appeared hale and strong, without a single sign of aging in his face, he somehow seemed ancient.
Isley set her jaw and kept her back straight, repeating her mantra in her head as Horadrus scrutinized her. He was flanked by two imposing figures in ornate armor. To Horadrus’s right stood a solid man with thick arms, his armor inky black. His head was shaven, his eyes small and dark. To the Emperor’s left stood a tall woman in blood red armor, her brown hair pulled back in a tail. The shape of her face was severe, as if she’d been carved from the same marble as the throne. The hostility in her eyes was plain, but Isley met her stare, unblinking.
The Emperor’s gaze moved to the woman in beige and she pressed her palms together in front of her and bowed at the waist.
“Eminence, I bring you the one from Halthas, as commanded,” she said, her gaze fixed on the floor. Like the others, her words were recognizable, but her accent thick.
“Of course,” he said. His voice resonated through the room. On the arm of his throne was a chunk of ruddy stone. Isley’s stomach turned as she realized it looked like the one Alzor had forced her to touch in Sahaar, when the Emperor had delved inside her.
Horadrus stared at her, his face unreadable. Isley swallowed hard. Her voices had scattered, leaving her mind still and desolate.
“How interesting,” he said, after long moments of silence. “Leave her and go.”
The guards and the woman in beige all pressed their palms together and bowed before turning and following the same path out of the room. Isley wondered at the lack of attendants. Halthian kings never held audience without a retinue of servants, administrators, councilors, and petitioners. Aside from Horadrus’s servants, the only others present were the armored people at his side.
Isley took him in, this Emperor on his marble throne. Any ordinary person would be terrified to be in the presence of one so fearsome. But, Isley reminded herself, she was hardly ordinary. She was a queen, or should be. She refused to be cowed by the likes of any man, regardless of what he called himself.
“Why are you holding me prisoner?” she asked. The armored woman’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. Isley pointedly ignored her. “I will assume that you aren’t aware of who I
am, and can therefore find it within myself to forgive this lengthy transgression, but I demand to be freed immediately.”
Horadrus’s expression didn’t change. “The chaos inside you is considerable. I am pleased to see we are able to contain it.” He turned to the armored woman. “This bodes well for the others.”
“This is too dangerous, Eminence. She is one of them, she is….” The woman shook her head. “She is an abomination.”
“How dare you,” Isley said and took a step forward. The man and woman put their hands to the hilts of their swords, but Horadrus held up a finger.
“General Axxus, General Gwinele, you will hold,” the Emperor said, his low voice making Isley’s skin prickle. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Yes, this is good.”
“You have no right to keep me here. I demand you remove these shackles,” she said as she held up her arms, “and return me to my home. I am to be the Queen of Halthas and my prince will not take kindly to your holding me prisoner.”
Horadrus let out a bored sigh. “Halthas will not have a queen much longer, unless I deem it so. And it certainly will not be you.”
“What right do you have to determine such things?” she asked.
“Eminence, I cannot allow her to speak to you this way,” General Gwinele said.
Without warning, her voices returned. Unnatural. What is he?