The Aether of Night

by Brandon Sanderson

  Raeth froze, his eyes flickering back toward the map. “When… ?”

  “The Senate voted two days ago. I warned you of the vote, but you told me that you had better things to do.”

  Raeth frowned, then settled back in his throne, feeling sick. “I…did?” he asked slowly.

  “Yes, sire,” Tarrinon replied.

  Raeth closed his eyes, realizing his own foolishness. He had begun treating Tarrinon and his endless string of appointments as annoyances. He hadn’t realized… .

  By the Twins! Raeth thought. I’m no better than Hern. For all my thoughts of superiority, in the end I prove myself a fool.

  “You give too little heed to the power of the Senate, my lord,” Tarrinon explained. “It is a common mistake in a new Emperor. Most new Emperors, however, have opportunity to learn their lesson in less…dramatic circumstances.”

  Raeth opened his eyes. There will be time for self-recrimination later, he told himself. The battle was still proceeding. He tried to look past the pieces and the map, to see what was happening miles and miles to the north, in the cold lands beyond the border. Despite the inherent vagueness of the pieces, the mapkeepers did a fair job of representing the battlefield. Updates came constantly, and they were given by messengers who had spent lifetimes training to explain what they saw.

  The human army was split into five parts: the decoy, the two cavalry units, and the two larger strike forces. Raeth frowned as he studied the pieces, watching the mapkeepers shift them in accordance with their messages. Something was very wrong about the battle’s progress. Three of the groups seemed to be holding their own—the two cavalry units and, surprisingly, the decoy force, which was the smallest of the three. However, the two main forces—the strong, powerful forces—were fracturing and being pushed back.

  Raeth’s eyes opened slightly with surprise as he realized the connection. The decoy force and the Mahallen cavalry forces all lacked one thing. High Aedin. The main forces both made heavy use of High Aedin Amberite juggernauts and Verdant ranged attackers. Those were the forces that were breaking.

  By the Twins! Raeth thought with concern, remembering back to Saedin, when he had fought the Forgotten personally. Their black flesh had dissolved his Amberite. They had been able to pierce his father’s Amberite armor, something no metal—no matter how well forged—could do. It had seemed like a small advantage—Amberite could be regrown, and their attacks still hadn’t been able to defeat Darro. However, on a large scale, if the Forgotten could gain even a slight advantage against High Aedin Amberite Bonds, the core of military power that had provided stability to the Imperium for centuries… .

  We have to fall back! Raeth realized. While the smaller units were holding their own, they were doing so with difficulty. Once the High Aedin lines broke… .

  “Retreat,” Raeth said, his voice more of a petition than a command.

  Gaedin continued to speak to his aids, looking at the map. Raeth stared at the balding general for a moment, and eventually the man glanced toward him. Raeth held Gaedin’s eyes, staring at the man with all the intensity he could muster.

  “Retreat,” Raeth repeated.

  Gaedin’s eyes flickered toward the map. When he looked back at Raeth, Raeth could see understanding in the man’s eyes. He knew. He knew that they couldn’t win, not with their forces isolated from one another, not with the High Aedin lines folding. They had to break away before the Forgotten overran them completely.

  “Fall back,” Gaedin said, his voice almost grudging.

  The other generals looked up at him with alarm. Then, one by one, they issued similar orders to their men. Within a few minutes, the Imperium forces had disengaged, falling back along pre-proscribed routes, the Mahallen infantry riding through the Forgotten forces to provide cover for the retreat. Raeth watched tensely. If the Forgotten forces followed behind as quickly as they had struck at the beginning of the battle… .

  They did not. As the Mahallen riders fell back, the Forgotten forces slowly regrouped, forming into the neat ranks they always used when marching. By the time they began moving again—walking in a straight, blockish pattern—the Imperium forces had withdrawn a considerable distance.

  The generals began to stand and confer, their faces troubled, and immediately the room was a bustle of movement again. Aids rushed from the room to inform their masters of the battle’s result, and the Vo-Dari moved outside to begin Sending healers to the battlefield to search for living to be Sent home for care. The War Counsel moved toward a side room to discuss the day’s events.

  Raeth stood, intending to follow the generals, but a look from Gaedin made him pause. The general stepped toward him, his face harsher than usual. “My lord,” he said with a barely tolerant voice. “We have suffered your presence here because of your station and the respect we hold for it. During battle, however, you are not to interfere. We do have the power to force you to withdraw during times of conflict. Do you understand?”

  Raeth forced himself to hold back a retort. “Yes, general,” he said.

  Gaedin nodded sharply, then turned to join the other generals. They shut the door behind them. Raeth stood for a moment, regarding the closed door, Tarrinon at his side.

  “That man really doesn’t like me, does he?” he asked.

  “That would be a fair assessment, my lord,” Tarrinon said, poking through his tome. “Of course, he probably has good reason. When you insulted him, perhaps you should have considered the fact that some day you’d have to work with him.”

  “Insulted him?” Raeth asked with surprise.

  “Yes,” Tarrinon said. “Last year, my lord? Surely you remember—you did it in front of the entire army, after all, during the victory celebration when we pushed back the Graffla Harrmen. As I recall, you called him a ‘pathetic eunuch of a man’ who ‘couldn’t lead children in a pissing contest, let alone an army in battle.’ I do believe he took offense.”

  Raeth closed his eyes, exhaling softly. Hern, you idiot. Is there a person in this city you haven’t mortally offended?

  “Anyway, my lord,” Tarrinon continued. “I don’t want to infringe upon ‘your time,’ but you might want to return you your rooms and get ready. Unless you intend to go to the ball tonight in casual clothing, that is.”

  Raeth continued to stare at the closed door. Finally, he turned to his short companion. The elderly Shorriken’s beard-braid shook slightly as he made notations in his tome.

  “Tarrinon, it’s time for us to stop being childish,” Raeth said.

  Tarrinon looked up, a question on his face. “My lord?” he asked.

  “I have to fight the senate, the generals, and my own reputation,” Raeth said. “I can’t afford to fight you too. From now on, when you say I need to be somewhere, I’ll go.”

  Tarrinon smiled slightly, resting his pen down on the side of the page.

  “But,” Raeth said firmly, holding up a finger. “I need you to do something for me. You’ve been Emperor’s chancellor for Vae only knows how long. If you tell me to be somewhere, I expect it to be important. You’re a bureaucrat—you know how to shuffle appointments, block unimportant visitors, and keep people moving in circles. The generals aren’t taking this invasion seriously enough. When there isn’t an important function for me to attend—and I mean a vitally important function—I want to be here.”

  Tarrinon nodded slightly. “I think I understand, my lord.”

  “Good,” Raeth said. “Is this ball tonight really that important?”

  “The Senate sees your main duty right now that of marriage, my lord,” Tarrinon explained. “They are the ones who insisted on the ball—they fear your Ynaa prayer is more a means of delay than an act of piousness. If you don’t at least pretend to be interested in their offered brides, you will find the Senate hostile. If, however, the Senators think that you’re really trying to find a bride, you will probably find them more docile—and more willing to favor you in Senate votes.”

  Raeth nodded slowly.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s go get me ready, then.”

  #

  D’Naa was beginning to wonder how much grandeur a single city could hold. Every time she thought she was growing accustomed to the wonders and beauties of Vae Annitor, she saw something else that stunned her.

  The palace ballroom was composed of several different levels. The main floor was the largest, but the open-chambered room extended three stories into the air, and several platform-like balconies extended from the walls. D’Naa stood on the very top-most platform, leaning against the railing and looking down at the main floor some fifty feet below. There were no pillars to support her platform, she noticed, something only possible in Aedinor.

  “Please don’t do that, D’Naa,” Hlin said, a sick look on his face.

  D’Naa turned back toward her grandparents. They stood a safe distance from the railing, her grandfather trying his best to pretend that they were standing on a regular floor and not a platform two stories up from the ground. His sick face was quite a contrast to his rich clothing—Mahallen in design, with loose-fitting, thin trousers and several overlapping vests and jackets. He almost looked respectable.

  Ball-goers were beginning to collect on the balcony. Only the most wealthy and important were allowed on the upper platform, and so the clothing she saw was all extremely lavish. Of course, D’Naa saw the festivities as more arrogant Aedin frivolousness. Wasn’t the Imperium at war? Hadn’t they lost a major battle just hours before? Didn’t any of the people remember the dark, evil things that had attacked them during Saedin? Their apathy angered her—it was almost like they thought the war was interesting only as long as it didn’t interfere with their enjoyment.

  D’Naa leaned back over the balcony, smiling slightly at the thrill and disorientation. Heights didn’t bother her anymore—not since her attempt at stealing Hern’s Aether a week before. Instead, they excited her. “There aren’t any columns,” she said, leaning out even further and prompting a whimper from her grandfather. “They do it with Corpates, I assume?”

  “Two long ones, at the sides of the balcony,” Shaad explained. “You can see the Nurturers at the corners where the balcony meets the wall.”

  D’Naa looked up, peering through the gathering crowd of richly-dressed ball-goers. Sure enough, a gray-robed nurturer knelt at each corner of the half-circle balcony. Their hands rested against the floor—touching the hidden Corpate bar that ran horizontally through the balcony, providing stability. Nurturers supposedly spent their entire lives conferring with the Corpates, providing companionship for the souls of those trapped within the metallic bodies.

  “D’Naa, dear,” Shaad said with a disapproving voice, “stop trying to make your grandfather sick and come over here.”

  D’Naa smiled, but did as asked, stepping back from the balcony and walking across the tiled floor to join her grandparents. Shaad had chosen to wear a more traditional Kavir dress, dark blue in color. Like most of her people’s clothing, it was more functional than it was lavish, with bulky cloth to protect against highland cold. Shaad had, however, admitted that D’Naa needed something a little more extravagant. So, they had spent a bit of her cousin’s gold purchasing D’Naa a dress after the High Aedin fashion.

  It was undoubtedly the most beautiful piece of clothing she had ever owned—as much as she disliked their frivolity, the Aedin really were masterful artisans. The green dress was made of thinner material than those from Kavir, and its clever tailoring accentuated her figure while at the same time masking her less than full figure. The gown went all the way down to her ankles, but the material was thin enough that a quick spin or movement made it flutter lightly in the air. Wearing it made D’Naa feel, for the first time since arriving in Vae Annitor, that she might actually be fitting material to marry an Emperor.

  The other brides, of course, did their best to defy that idea. They began to arrive soon after D’Naa, sweeping into the room in gorgeous, embroidered gowns that were sleek after Aedin custom, yet at the same time far more curvaceous than D’Naa could ever hope to be. They all sparkled with jewelry, something D’Naa had never owned.

  Nahan’s dress was even more diaphanous than normal, practically translucent, held together with only a sash at the waist and a bow over one shoulder. With her Mahallen breast-hoops, her dozens of bracelets, and her long dark hair braided with golden chains, the tan-skinned girl was by far the most extravagant. The three Aedin women, however, weren’t far behind—each one sported an elaborate necklace. The room was well-lit with Corpate pillars in alcoves running up and down the walls, and the necklaces sparkled with so many gems they were almost blinding to look at.

  “Blessed D’Lum,” D’Naa whispered. “How dare they claim they don’t have the resources to send us more troops?”

  “High Aedin men never wear any form of jewelry beyond their cloak-clasps,” Hlin said, standing at her side. “Even the Emperor wears no crown. So, instead, they give it all to their women. It’s said the best way to judge an Aedin’s wealth is to see what kind of jewelry his wife wears. And, of course, the Mahallens are infatuated with any form of gaudiness.”

  “You should take your place, child,” Shaad said, nodding toward a line of throne-like chairs at the front of the room. “You’ll wait there until the Emperor motions for you—he should dance with each of you in turn.”

  D’Naa frowned. “I just have to sit there? I don’t get to dance with anyone else?”

  Shaad nodded. “This isn’t Kavir, child. Balls and dances are more political than they are enjoyable.”

  D’Naa sighed, but did as instructed. Hopefully, he won’t dance with me very long, D’Naa thought as she sat. I don’t know how much of his mockery I’ll be able to take.

  #

  The imperial balcony was, of course, already filled by the time Raeth arrived. The herald announced him, and the various Senators and dignitaries bowed obediently.

  How deferent they are, Raeth thought with slight amusement, yet, when it comes time to grant me any sort of power, somehow the votes all go the other way.

  His eyes flickered to the side, where the brides sat in a row, each one beautified and sparkling, like lures on a hook. They all looked far more glamorous than they had on the night of the Choosing.

  It makes sense, Raeth realized. My father’s not the one making the decision this time—I am. For him, politics was all that mattered. They expect me to be different. They assume I’ll choose the prettiest trophy.

  And, had he been Hern, the strategy probably would have worked. Raeth, however, felt more annoyed than he did tempted. This was marriage, perhaps the most important decision he would ever make—assuming, of course, he even decided to make it. Did they really think he’d choose his bride based on who had the richest necklace?

  Still, the ball would serve its purpose. He still intended to give up the Throne before he actually had to choose a bride, but the month was passing quickly. If he did get into a position where he was forced to pick, he wanted to at least meet the women first.

  Raeth looked down the line of girls, smiling and nodding at each one in turn. The smiles he got back were practiced. Some were more sultry—as in the case of Nahan—others more stiff—as in the case of Tae—but all seemed contrived. There were two exceptions. Frana, the Khur, simply scowled and D’Naa, the Kavir, regarded him with thin-lipped displeasure.

  Raeth shook his head—those two would be trouble. The rest of the brides at least had the decency to hide their dislike of him. Raeth sighed at the thought before walking to the edge of the platform and waving to the ball-goers on the other three levels. Then he motioned toward the minstrels, and the ball began.

  All right, Raeth thought, eyeing the brides again, let’s get this over with.

  “My lord?” a voice asked.

  Raeth looked up as the ever present Tarrinon made his way to Raeth’s side. The Shorriken man wore the same robes as he always did—Raeth wasn’t certain if that meant he didn’t consider the ball a special occ
asion, or if it meant he considered all of his duties worthy of finery.

  “Yes?” Raeth asked.

  “Might I make a suggestion, my lord?” the Shorriken asked.

  “Go ahead,” Raeth said, looking over the crowd as groups and pairs began to form.

  “Take your time with the brides,” Tarrinon explained. “The ball formally ends once you’ve danced with each one. So, I would recommend spacing them out.”

  Raeth frowned. “Then what do I do between dances? I can’t dance with any of the other women.”

  Tarrinon nodded to the edges of the dance floor, where High Aedin and non-Aedin nobility were beginning to converse in small groups. “Do what they do, my lord,” Tarrinon explained. “So far, you’ve only been able to meet their emissaries. This is an opportunity to speak with the Senators directly, and in a non-formal situation. If you have any goals you wish to seek through senatorial votes, this is the place to begin working on them.”

  Raeth paused. Did he have any legislative goals? “Tarrinon,” he asked speculatively, “what would it take to have the Senate give me influence over the War Counsel?”

  “It would take a vote to change martial autonomy, my lord,” Tarrinon said, smiling slightly. “First you’d have to present the case to the Senate—something you can do yourself, because of your position. After that, eighty-percent would have to vote to give you control of the armies.”

  Raeth nodded. A difficult task, but at least it was something to work toward. He took a breath, noting where the stocky High Senator Laene was speaking with a small group of High Aedin.

  “Any other suggestions?” he asked.

  “Only one, my lord,” Tarrinon said. “You have one powerful bargaining tool. Don’t ruin it by playing favorites.”

  Raeth frowned, trying to divine what the short man was talking about. Then, with a sudden realization, he understood. He glanced up at the brides again.