by Dan O'Brien
Legatus Reios took the center path with apprehension. The Lord of Scythia, the Abomination as he was called by those of Pa’ngarin, was an uncompromising man who would not take the news Reios brought very well. The small contingent of Eastern Brigade soldiers who had descended on Duedonia were wiped out. A single man had survived, and even he perished outside the first gate to the Arcadians.
The central hallway was lined with archaic iron torches that flickered and spilled ash on the stone floor. Heavy doors were interspersed among the torches, leading into darkened rooms were plots and schemes against Pa’ngarin ran rampant.
Reios’ footfalls echoed as they crunched the straw and millet strewn across the floor. His heart beat faster as he stopped in front of the double doors at the end of the hallway. They loomed before him, a powerfully built monstrosity more than three men wide and two men tall. Straining his muscles, he pushed the robust door open and took a few small steps into the chamber of the Crimson Throne.
The chamber of the Crimson Throne was dark, for the men of the West did not particularly like the light. Even on bright days, and those days were few and far between west of the Arcadians, they drew their shades across their opaque glass windows to keep out the sun.
Reios’ mind wandered as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He could not keep his mind from dwelling on the chambers in the depths of the Cathedral, in places he dare not tread, where there were no windows, no real light. These rooms were notorious in times of war for housing the most horrendous and despicable acts inflicted upon traitors and prisoners.
The throne room was no different in its aversion to light. Thick curtains were drawn across its broad bay windows, restricting the illumination to the flickering torches on the walls. Oval in shape, the throne stood against the far wall directly in line with the massive entrance. Fashioned from iron and stone, the Crimson Throne was painted a deep burgundy, its bloody hue and many jagged edges making it appear more like a torture device than a royal throne.
The Lord of Scythia sat where all could see him.
Wide in the shoulders, perhaps wider than any other man in the Empire, the Abomination was certainly imposing. His oiled and combed, dark black beard hung to his chest and blended in with the long fur coat that covered his entire body. His brown eyes, half closed with crow’s feet that made his face appear as splintered stone, watched as Reios entered the chamber. His thick fingers tapped impatiently on the arms of his stark throne.
“Legatus Reios, what news do you bring the Throne?” he bellowed, his deep voice resonating.
Reios knelt, not meeting the eyes of the Abomination. “Lord Dominus, we have received word of the contingent sent to Duedonia.”
Dominus, son of Dominion, Lord of Scythia, leaned forward in his throne. As he moved, his dark black hair, twisted into braids in some places, fell across half of his face. “What of them?”
“The legion failed to capture the heiress, my Lord. It seems the slave that serves House D’naia intervened. One of your men fled….”
Dominus stood up quickly, pounding a large fist against his throne.
The mammoth creation shook under the strength of the Abomination.
“Bring this man before me,” he roared.
The soldiers of the chamber did not move.
They were the personal guard of the Abomination, ten cruel men who had bloodied and massacred villages in their Lord’s name. Their steel cuirasses were marred with blackened stains, and each held with their spiked gauntlets a pike three meters in height. Their helmets were carved of the same steel, though blackened and broken in some places from use.
Reios could feel a stammer coming on. “He perished at the first gate to the Arcadians. I am afraid that he will not be able to answer for his failures or the failures of the legion.”
Dominus stood and crossed the room.
He towered over Reios. “Perhaps I should punish you, as he is not here to receive his due justice.”
“He is dead, my Lord.”
Dominus grabbed Reios by his chin and raised his head until they were face to face. “That does not excuse him from my wrath, Legatus. I’mann can have his mind, but I want his body. Bring it here to me before nightfall.”
Reios looked away and bowed low. “Is that all, my Lord?”
The Abomination returned to his throne and sat down with a frustrated sigh. “When does the Chancellor leave for Pa’ngarin? I want him to know of these recent events. I certainly cannot have that snake Dione surprise Malius with news of a Scythian raid because a legion was unable to carry out their orders. I would look like a great fool to have attacked Duedonia, only to have failed to acquire the heiress,” spoke the great lord somberly.
“What would you have me tell Chancellor Malius, my lord?”
“Tell him that the raids were the work of a rogue band, a legion of dissatisfied miscreants who did not act under the authority of Lord Dominus,” spoke a voice from the shadows at the entrance.
Reios knelt and the Abomination merely harrumphed loudly as a thin man entered.
A hand shorter than Dominus, Craius resembled his father only in height and the richness of his dark hair. His pale face and piercing blue eyes were framed by black hair pulled back into a ponytail. A single braid fell across his light features, small nose, and symmetrical lips. He wore no beard and his shoulders were not as wide as his father’s, though still more so than the diminutive Reios’.
“My lord Craius, I did not know you were in Primoris. I thought you were still at Bellum Domus. Many pardons for not greeting you properly upon arriving home,” spoke Reios reverently.
Craius smiled.
His eyes glowed as he did so. He was considered handsome among the women of Scythia, a prized bachelor who had yet to pursue a single lady of the royal Scythian court. There were nasty rumors that he did not take a Scythian bride because he loved a woman in Pa’ngarin, whom he had met during one of his frequent trips beyond the Arcadians into the center of the Pa’ngarin Empire.
“You do me great honor by thinking of me, Reios. I have returned from my studies only this morning. I fear I have not yet had the opportunity to perform the necessary political rounds of the city. I will be certain to remedy this soon.”
Dominus nodded steadily. “It would be best to frame them as traitors rather than failed assassins. You may still look like a child, Craius, but your mind is quick. You may yet take the Crimson Throne from your brothers.”
The young lord looked at his father with a tight smile.
The Abomination had three sons and four daughters, all from different women. Only one of the children had been blessed by the monks of I’mann, an order sanctioned by the papal seat at the Children of I’mann Cathedral far to the north. The oldest son, Delius, was a merchant of considerable wealth in Secundus and already married with three children of his own. Doren, second born, was the son of Lady Heres, daughter of Hama and heiress to the House of Jacunda. Doren was a Drift Knight in the south with no wife and no children, and it was he who was the clear heir to the Crimson Throne.
“I would welcome an opportunity to serve Scythia as you have, father. But I would not welcome the events that would have to transpire for me to sit upon that throne, nor do I wish to tempt the will of I’mann by wishing for such a thing. It is Doren’s by right, and by blood.”
Dominus watched his youngest son closely. He was by the far the most intelligent and cunning of his three sons. Yet a father could not trust his son. Craius was many things, but a bloodthirsty warrior he was not. It was affairs of the empire and political bargaining that made him dangerous.
“Doren will serve Scythia well, Craius. And you will be a powerful asset and advisor to him during his reign. Go with Reios to meet the Chancellor and sort out what he will say. He has grown old and does not fare well when pressed.”
Craius bowed. “As you wish, father. So says I’mann.”
“So says I’mann,” returned Dominus.
Reios bowed again and trailed
behind Craius as the young man left through a door behind the Crimson Throne.
Sitting back, Dominus, the High Lord of Scythia, waited in the stillness for the madness that would yet come.
Pa’ngarin
The forest that had dominated their journey from Ma’oren ended abruptly, as the great trees gave way to fields of lilies and white flowers that erupted from the earth in soft, buoyant droves. Aeschylus, Aurora, and Helius made sure to keep on the dirt path, for the field was considered sacred by the Ministers and Sisters of the Council, who believed that when the flowers of Pa’ngarin were trampled, war would engulf the realm.
Aurora rode atop her dark stallion with Helius curled in her lap. His small hands were wrapped around her neck and his head leaned against her breasts as he slept softly. Aeschylus rode beside them on his mare; three other mounts trailed behind him, their reins tied to the horn of his saddle.
In the distance the towers of Pa’ngarin came into view. Reaching into the heavens, the great monoliths of the eastern capital were as different from the buildings of Primoris as they could be. Their walls of clear glass shimmered in the morning light as they dominated the uniform residences sprawled from the foot of the towers to the city’s white walls, whose resplendence contrasted with the homes’ pastel colors.
“The white walls of Pa’ngarin, your Grace,” spoke Aeschylus.
“My home,” she whispered, a look of sadness washing over her face.
Her guardian understood the reason for her sadness. Although Pa’ngarin was her home, it was also her prison. She was the heiress, which meant she was to be monitored and protected and cared for. Her situation would only be worse following the attack on her life and the threat of impending war.
“I see that young Helius has taken a liking to you.”
She looked down at him and wiped the hair away from his dirty face. “I have never felt at peace like I am when I look at his face. Why is that, Aeschylus? What is it about this boy that puts me at ease?”
“A complicated question, your Grace. He represents freedom from your responsibilities as heiress. Helius is neither Scythian nor Pa’ngarin. He is as you wish to be: separate from the turmoil that fills your life.”
Aurora nodded, continuing to look at the boy’s face.
“I will not be able to keep him, will I?”
Aeschylus looked away from her and grimaced. “I am afraid not, Lady Aurora. I will do my best to argue his case, but Pa’ngarin fears men. And a lost boy found by the Scythian border will foment suspicion in the Council.”
She nodded somberly and wiped Helius’ hair back once more. He stirred in his slumber.
As they neared the western gate, the bustle of the city could be heard through its thick, four-meter high, outer walls, which extended in each direction as far as the eye could see.
Aeschylus mentally prepared himself, seeking to disconnect his mind from the harsh reality that awaited him inside Pa’ngarin. Outside the city he could be himself, but within its walls he had to distance himself from what he saw, how he was treated.
Pa’ngarin was his prison as well.
The doors of the western gate were made of great sheets of iron painted a deep purple and white. No sentries stood guard outside the gate, rather a lone sentry waited in one of the two towers that flanked the entrance. Each standing beneath a steep overhang, the guards watched the heiress and her party approach. The sentries were Curators, a class of Ascendants relegated to soldier’s work. Their order was a hierarchical class within the Inquisitors which were governed and commanded by the Magister. The Curators were not as powerful as a Minor Ascendant and even less so than an Ascendant of the Order.
Aeschylus pulled on his reins, drawing his mare to a stop. Aurora mimicked his actions, though her stallion took a few steps forward and nuzzled the mare for a moment before stopping. The guardian dismounted and approached the gate.
“I am Aeschylus, guardian of House D’naia and protector of Lady Aurora, heiress to the Ivory Throne. I bid thee open the gates and allow us passage.”
The sentries did not move, but the gate opened slowly.
As the doors swung outward, Aeschylus saw someone waiting in the gateway.
It was Lady Athena.
She was standing with her arms across her chest and most of her weight on one leg. Instead of a dress, she now wore a dark bodice and equally black leggings. Two swords were sheathed along her back.
“I see that you are true to your word, guardian,” she spoke evenly.
Aeschylus knew that Athena had told the Lordess Ascendant about what had transpired in Ma’oren, or, at least, the version that suited her. “I am honored that you trusted my word, Lady Athena. I am prepared for whatever punishment befits my transgression.”
Aurora dismounted, which woke Helius. The boy hopped down beside her, looked up sleepily, and cowered when he saw Athena, hiding his head against Aurora. Taking a step toward Athena, the heiress spoke. “Punishment, Athena? Punishment for what?”
Athena took a step back and motioned to the three Curators waiting behind her. They were dressed in transparent, blue gowns tied off below the waist by a thick, black belt. Each of them wore identical, large bangles on their left wrists, a testament to their positions as Inquisitors. The bangles were similar to the bracelet that Athena wore, except that hers bore the insignia of the Magister of the Inquisitors.
“Take the child. Remand Aeschylus into custody,” commanded the Warden of the South.
Two Curators marched forward and stopped in front of Helius. The blonde one grabbed his wrist tightly and dragged him away from Aurora. The heiress tried to stop the Curator, but her compatriot intervened, shaking her head as she seized Aurora’s arm. “What is the meaning of this, Athena? You may not command me like one of your Curators. I demand to know why you are placing Aeschylus into custody and taking the boy,” spoke Aurora harshly.
Aeschylus did not resist.
Extending his hands out, he allowed a sandy-haired Curator to place shackles around his wrists. Her green eyes watched him lustfully, something he was quite used to in Pa’ngarin. The women of Pa’ngarin found him desirable because he retained some freedom of action unlike his brethren who were ill-treated and then cast out when they outlived their usefulness. Aeschylus could eat what he wished and train as he wished, a novelty in a society full of women who could do whatever they wanted with men.
“Your guardian sent you on alone, Aurora. This is in violation of the oaths he took when he became your protector. The child is not yours and as such must be brought before the Lordess Ascendant. If you wish to make a case for his release, then you would do well to be at his hearing,” replied Athena cordially.
Aurora marched up to Athena, an action that magnified their difference in height. The heiress was by no means short, but the Magister of the Inquisitors stood nearly a head taller and could see eye to eye with Aeschylus. “When will this farce be held?”
Athena flashed a bemused grin. “We are to bring Aeschylus and the child before the Lordess Ascendant immediately. Follow us and you may witness this farce for yourself, Lady Aurora,” challenged the Warden of the South with subtle rancor.
Aurora fell back beside Aeschylus and Helius as they were led beneath the gate and onto the textured cobblestone roads of Pa’ngarin, whose brilliant thoroughfares balanced aesthetics with practicality, creating level roads of unsurpassed intricacy.
Just inside the wall lay the Maraise district, the poorest section of the sprawling metropolis and the smallest. Ramshackle buildings and revolting men, slaves unfit to enter the home of any citizen of the city, lurked in the shadows. The procession quickly moved through it and passed into the Mercatus district, the center for all of the commerce and trade available to the Society of the Dawn. Though there was not much trade to speak of, considering Scythian merchants were restricted to visiting the capital just twice a year, and in lean years, none came at all.
The streets were lined with carts full of sundry goods
, their male vendors standing mutely beside them. Some of the men were wrapped in thick, dirty fabrics, while others wore thinner robes or leggings more appropriate for traveling in the wilderness. The street vendors were one of the few occupations left to men and even then were heavily regulated by the Minister of Agriculture, Lady Ceres.
Disinterested with the prisoners and the irritated heiress, Athena reached out and touched the wares as she passed, occasionally picking up something and inspecting it. Stopping in front of a cart, piled high with a ripe, green and orange fruit, she picked one up and raised it to her nose, inhaling deeply. She then took a bite and closed her eyes, enjoying its sweet taste.
“Would you like a pomum for the walk, Aurora?”
Aurora glared at Athena. “I would like to commence this hearing before sundown, if that is consistent with your wishes, Athena.”
The Warden of the South threw the pomum to the ground and wiped her hands against her leggings. “As you wish, Lady Aurora. I would not worry about your guardian too much. He will be reprimanded, but I do not expect him to swing for his transgressions.”
As the procession continued, Aeschylus looked over at Helius. His eyes were glassy and his lip trembled. Frightened and alone, Helius remembered that the women in Ma’oren believed him a mute, and he would maintain the ruse for as long as he could.
The Mercatus district soon sunk into the background as a series of white cylindrical buildings rose before the somber procession. Each building was identical in height and shape and surrounded a Dawn Sphere that rivaled the one in Ma’oren in both size and magnificence.
The Oracle of Pa’ngarin resided within the sphere.
She was one of many oracles; though it was believed that she was the oracle, the being reborn each generation with the sight and true communion with the energies of the universe. Eris of Ma’oren was also believed to be a considerable oracle of her people and Lady Dione was an oracle before assuming her position as leader and ruler of the Society of the Dawn.