“Sound the retreat,” he said. “Get those men out of there.”
The messenger’s eyes widened with surprise, but he did as ordered. Immediately, the Senate began to speak, but for once Raeth actually didn’t care what they were saying. He turned toward the map, toward the pieces both colored and black.
How did they know? He wondered. Can they sense Aethers somehow? He paused. What if the answer was far more obvious? What if they knew what the Imperium troops were going to do because they had a spy in Vae Annitor? But who would work with such creatures.
Unless, the spy wasn’t a willing one… .
Raeth looked down at his palm, at his Amberite. He could detect faint wisps of darkness flowing through its otherwise rosy structure. He heard voices in his head, he had strange powers—powers that were powered by the same darkness that seeped from Forgotten wounds.
The creatures had mysteriously anticipated the Imperium plans twice now. Both times Raeth had been in the Counsel room.
Twins! He thought with shock. What if it’s me? What if they know our secrets because of me, because of the bit of darkness I carry within me?
He looked up. The regular troops, those under the command of Taenen, were disengaging as ordered. The High Aedin, however, were not doing likewise. Their pieces still mixed with the increasingly large numbers of Forgotten.
“What is going on?” Raeth demanded.
“They claim to be unable to disengage,” a messenger informed.
Raeth felt a chill. This was another possibility he hadn’t considered. What if they refused to listen to him?
“Reiterate the command for retreat!” he ordered, watching the High Aedin pieces. The mapkeepers had already begun to remove colored pieces from the board as High Aedin troops fell, a move prompting murmurs of surprise from the Senate.
The messenger dashed away to do his bidding, and Raeth watched, sweating, as the Mahallen cavalry swept in to try and divert the Forgotten. The stubborn High Aedin refused to disengage, however, even as more and more of them began to fall. Raeth cursed quietly.
“They won’t listen to you, my lord,” a quiet voice said. “But they might listen to me.”
Raeth looked up. General Gaedin was standing a short distance away. There was no disdain in his face, only concern. He realized it too—the border was lost. They needed to fall back. Gaedin didn’t move, however, to give the command. Raeth could see in his eyes what he wanted—he stood by his earlier declaration. The War Counsel would not help with the war unless they had autonomy.
Raeth paused. Could he do it? After the fight he’d gone through to get control of the armies, could he relinquish them now?
There’s no other way, Raeth, he realized, turning eyes back on the troops. A week ago you cursed Gaedin for refusing to listen to you because of his pride. Don’t make the same mistake.
“Very well, general,” Raeth said. He turned to the Senate. “Lord Rall Hannin. Please cast your vote—against me.”
“You are certain that is what you want?” the Mahallen asked.
Raeth turned back toward the fighting. The High Aedin were growing increasingly outnumbered as more Forgotten crossed the wall. A few more moments, and it would all be over. They move so fast! Raeth thought with concern.
“Yes,” he finally said.
“Very well,” Rall Hannin said. “I vote against autonomy.”
“The Senate has spoken,” Laene announced. “Martial Autonomy remains with the War Counsel.”
The Counsel immediately burst into motion, motioning for messengers and giving orders. Raeth stepped back from the map as the Counsel moved up and began to organize the retreat.
For the first time since the Imperium was founded, the northern border had been breached.
Chapter Fifteen
Raeth sat disconsolately on his throne, paying attention only half-heartedly as a merchant explained why he needed extra compensation for his goods, since he’d had to divert his caravans to avoid the Forgotten’s path. After over a week spent in the thrall of political maneuverings, it was difficult for Raeth to return to the mundane cases that had occupied his time during his first few days as Emperor. He knew they were important—these cases provided for the day-to-day functioning of the Imperium. But it was hard to wait idly on his throne, listening to complaints while his nation slowly fell apart.
And, unfortunately, he knew there was no better place for him. At least here, under the careful coachings of a dozen aids and lawyers, he wouldn’t make any more horrible mistakes. He’d put the Imperium through enough already.
Three days had passed since the disaster, and its repercussions could be seen throughout the city, amongst all of its various peoples. The army had sustained heavy casualties, especially amongst the High Aedin ranks. Two thousand High Aedin, many from prominent families, had died. What was worse, over seventy percent of the High Aedin losses had been from the Amberite Line—his own house. He’d earned the distrust of those who should have been his strongest allies.
They were blaming him, of course, and rightfully so—though they didn’t know the true reason for his guilt. They said that the disaster had come because Raeth had held back the High Aedin, trying to humiliate them by taking their cloaks. They didn’t know the truth. The slaughter had occurred because he himself had been an unknowing spy for the enemy. His eyes were tainted; somehow, the Forgotten knew what he knew.
Raeth was a traitor—an unwitting one, but a traitor nonetheless.
The merchant finished his petition, and Raeth turned to Tarrinon. Tarrinon paused, then whispered the proper decision into Raeth’s ear. Raeth repeated it verbatim, trying to ignore the look in Tarrinon’s eyes. The scribe didn’t approve of Raeth’s attitude. However, at least this way Raeth knew he wasn’t being manipulated by the taint of darkness that slept within him.
The herald announced the next case, but Raeth didn’t look up. He knew he looked like he was brooding—and, truth be told, he did feel a bit of self-pity. However, mostly he was just worried about what he’d done. The fall of the Imperium could very well be upon his hands. He wasn’t trying to act petulant—he just didn’t know what else to do. If the Forgotten saw what he saw—or, worse, knew what he thought—then the less he paid attention, the better off the Imperium would be.
“Um, my lord,” Tarrinon said quietly. “You might want to pay attention to this one. I can’t help you with it.”
Raeth looked up, frowning, then his eyes widened with surprise when he saw who was standing before him. Shateen, the Shentis ambassador, stood with his arms still wrapped in chains, several guards at his side.
“Good afternoon, your majesty,” the black-skinned creature said with a bow of its head. “Here I am for our weekly appointment. You haven’t forgotten about me, have you?”
He had. Raeth frowned to himself, thinking back to that day, nearly three weeks ago, when the first attack had come. It seemed so long ago—so much had happened. Shateen’s crime almost seemed negligible compared to the events of recent days. After all, hadn’t Raeth caused the deaths of far more people in the failed battle?
“Do you have an answer for me yet, Shateen?” Raeth asked.
The Shentis raised his manacled hands. “I’ve always had an answer for you, my lord. Unfortunately, it’s still the same. I can’t tell you what happened to those children.”
Raeth sighed. “You realize if you don’t tell me in little over a week, I’m going to have you executed?”
The Shentis man shrugged. “The way things are going, I don’t know that there will be anyone left to perform that execution, your majesty.”
Good point, Raeth acknowledged, waving his hand. “Take him back.”
The soldiers bowed and led Shateen from the room. Raeth sat, waiting for the herald to announce the next case, but the man remained quiet.
“That’s it?” Raeth asked with surprise.
“Only one more item, your majesty,” Tarrinon said, shuffling papers. “A document for you to s
ign.” He pulled out a neat sheet of pressed paper and turned it for Raeth, handing him a pen.
Raeth scanned the document, frowning as he read—it wasn’t very long. It was a formal announcement from the Khur King, a denunciation of Raeth for his Sending of Frana three weeks before. The second paragraph was a threat that if Raeth didn’t atone for his act by choosing Frana as his bride, the Khur intended to formally cede from the Imperium.
“They’re still mad about this?” Raeth asked incredulously.
“Apparently, my lord,” Tarrinon said, his face betraying a bit of concern. “You simply have to sign, showing that you received the news.”
“They won’t carry out the threat, will they?” Raeth asked.
“I…don’t know, your majesty,” Tarrinon said. “They’re always rebellious, but this is the most firm step they’ve ever taken.”
They know we’re weak right now, Raeth thought with frustration. They think they can get away with more. Shrugging, he signed it, careful to use Hern’s symbol instead of his own. If the Imperium lost the war, it didn’t really matter what Khur did.
“That’s everything?” Raeth asked.
“It’s time for lunch, your majesty,” Tarrinon informed. “The day’s bride is waiting.”
Raeth shook his head. “I don’t feel like it today,” he said. “Postpone the lunch.”
“My lord,” Tarrinon said sternly, “with all due respect, you’ve already postponed this young lady twice. And, since you forced me to rearrange your schedule so you could meet with her in the first place, your behavior is growing increasingly childish.”
Raeth looked up, meeting the shorter man’s eyes. Then he smiled slightly. “I suppose I deserved that, didn’t I?”
“Yes, your majesty. You made a mistake, but you’re still Emperor.”
“For a while, at least,” Raeth mumbled. “All right, tell Lady D’Naa that I’ll be there after I change.”
Tarrinon nodded, motioning to a lesser aid. Raeth sat for a moment before moving, however. Something about Tarrinon’s words had sparked his thoughts. You made a mistake.
That was the problem. Raeth hadn’t made a mistake—at least, not one that he could see. Every time he went over the battle in his mind, he couldn’t think of anything major he would change. His strategy had been good—or, at least, as good as he could manage. The acknowledgement brought his mind back to his life as a Dari, painting and writing poetry in the Ynaa. What did it mean when his best still wasn’t good enough?
#
“Lord Hern is on his way, my lady,” the aid said, bowing slightly.
D’Naa nodded, dismissing the man. ‘On his way’ probably meant she had another thirty minutes to wait; she knew how bureaucracies worked. She stood with a sigh, her lace dress ruffling in the quiet stone dining hall. Several serving men stood on either side of the room, so stiff that they might as well have been pillars. The chamber was lit by three enormous windows filled with marvelous clear glass, and the light reflected off the marble floor and walls.
Though a Corpate heating pillar burned a deep red on one side of the room, D’Naa still felt a bit cold—which was odd, for her. It was probably the room itself, and not the actual temperature. The pale green marble and quiet, open room just felt like it should be cold, no matter what mystical heating it had.
She wandered across the room, passing the dining table set with various golden candelabras and plates, walking toward the windows. The only sound in the room was that made by her rustling dress and her shoes clicking against the tiled floor.
The city had changed drastically in just a couple of days. Though it was still more busy than any town in Kavir, it was far less occupied than it had been before. People streamed from the gates, abandoning the mighty capitol despite repeated assurances from the Senate and War Counsel. They had been able to ignore the threat as long as it stayed beyond the border, but they were unprepared to deal with a danger actually within the Imperium. Not everyone was leaving, of course—in fact, only a small minority was. However, with such a large population in one place, even a small percentage translated to large numbers.
There was a visible tension in those who remained behind. There was a frantic, desperate edge to the eyes of the people—fear. D’Naa had seen it before in the eyes Kavir border-towners. It was the fear of confusion, of worry. They didn’t know what was happening, or how to deal with it. Their sacred homeland had been invaded for the first time in centuries. The last force to successfully invade from the north had been the Aedin themselves. It was horrible to imagine a foe that could defeat even the might of the Aethers.
D’Naa turned from the window, looking instead across the dining room. Its perfection—with carefully-arranged table settings, flat-faced servers, and polished marble on all sides—was so statuesque it could have been part of a painting. Everything was in its place. She’d noticed that about the palace lately—it was as if its occupants were trying to deny the chaos to the north by reinforcing the order of their own home. It was a poor facade. The Forgotten marched closer to Vae Annitor with each passing day, never deviating from their course, destroying any who happened to get in their way. Ignoring the threat would not neutralize it.
Actually, D’Naa was surprised at how well she herself was taking events. She knew that the invasion was disastrous for the Imperium, but she had dealt with disasters and invasions for most of her life. In a twisted way, she was kind of glad to see the Aedin dealing with it for once—perhaps, when this was all over, they would be more willing to listen to Kavir’s petitions for help against the Harrmen raids.
If, that was, the Imperium survived the invasion.
#
Raeth threw off his formal red cloak and shirt, moving to take something more comfortable from a newly-cleaned stack left by one of the palace maids. One thing, at least, had gotten better during his time as Emperor—Hern’s gaudy decorations had stopped bothering him. It was odd; so many people had been calling him Hern, and he had grown into the position so quickly, that sometimes found himself thinking that he was actually the Emperor.
He had to remember that he was not. These rooms, with their overdone luxury, were not his. The decisions he made every day were not really his to make. It was all a lie.
The door to his rooms opened, and Raeth turned with surprise. There was only one person the guards would have let in after an express command to allow no visitors.
“Darro,” Raeth said, pulling on the shirt.
Darro folded his arms, frowning at Raeth. The muscular man had a bandage on his right arm, but it didn’t seem to impair his movement.
Raeth turned from his brother, reaffixing his cloak. “I’m busy right now, Darro,” he said. “We can talk after lunch.” With that he walked toward the door, passing Darro.
Darro’s hand reached out and grabbed Raeth’s shoulder in a light, but immovable, grip. “You’ve been avoiding me,” Darro said flatly.
Raeth paused. How could he explain? He couldn’t spend time with Darro. What if his brother let slip some secret of military importance? A secret that would pass into Raeth’s traitorous ears and go right to the enemy? It hurt to stay away from Darro—after just a few weeks outside the Irae, he’d come to rely on his brother’s staunch personality more than he would have thought possible. But he could not ignore the danger.
“You’ve been busy,” Raeth said slowly. “There’s not much time for discussion.”
Darro snorted. “What’s going on Raeth?” he demanded. “The talk of the court is that you’re wallowing in pity, but I know you better than that. Something’s wrong.”
Raeth shook his head ruefully. “Our nation is being invaded, Darro. Isn’t that ‘wrong’ enough for you?”
Darro stood stubbornly, his hand still on Raeth’s shoulder.
“I don’t have time for this, Darro,” Raeth snapped, trying to pull himself free from Darro’s grip.
Darro held on tightly. “What is it, Raeth?” Darro said firmly, his voice uncharac
teristically serious. “What aren’t you telling me? Is it true? Are you feeling sorry for yourself while your country dies? What about duty?”
“Duty?” Raeth snapped, turning to face the larger man. “What know you of duty? Have you forgotten that this seat should have been yours? That you wiggled free from it, running just like you’ve run from every responsibility you’ve ever been given? Don’t speak to me of duty, brother. Go back to your bars and your women.”
Darro growled softly, his eyes burning. Then, however, his grip weakened and he bowed his head. Raeth pulled free and moved to leave. I’m sorry, Darro, he thought. You didn’t deserve that.
“No,” a firm voice said behind him. Raeth paused, hand on the door. He turned to see Darro’s head raised, his eyes still firm, his arms folded. “People have been shaming me into things since I was a child, Raeth,” he said. “I’m not perfect, but I’m not stupid either. You’re hiding something, and you’re going to tell me what it is.”
Raeth groaned quietly. Then he ground his teeth in annoyance. “You want to know what it is?” he asked. “You really want to know?” He held up his arm, frustration seething inside him—frustration at his inadequacy, frustration at not being able to do anything but watch as the Imperium fell. He commanded his Aether to grow.
Dark Amberite sprouted from his hand growing quickly up his arm, forming joints where he instructed. It grew down his leg, crackling as it moved, until it touched the floor and began to spread. Raeth commanded it stop just before Darro’s feet.
Darro stood with a stunned expression on his face. “Raeth,” he said with surprise. “Your Amberite… .”
“It’s not Amberite, Darro,” Raeth said, his frustration waning, replaced by simple tiredness.
“Then, what?” Darro asked.
“It happened three weeks ago,” Raeth said quietly, “during the first attack. When father was pulled into the pool, he floundered. A drop of the blackness splashed out and hit me in the cheek.”
Darro blinked in shock. “But, you should be… .”
“Dead?” Raeth asked. “I know. But I’m not, but instead… .” Raeth sighed, releasing the false Amberite from his control. It began to crumble, then dissolved into dark smoke. “There’s one of them inside of me, Darro,” he whispered. “I can feel it—sometimes I can even hear it, talking to me. I think it can see through my eyes. That’s why my plan for the border defense failed—the Forgotten saw through my ploy. They saw through it because I knew the truth.”
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