by Nat Russo
“I serve at the Glorious One’s behest,” Lucian said. He folded his arms and rolled back his right sleeve, so his golden bracelet of office was visible.
“As do I. And I assure you a low-ranking priest from a small temple will not be missed by the court, regardless of your association with the admiral.”
“I trust you will not interfere with my mission here.”
“Have you ever seen battle on foreign soil?” Zorian said. “You’d have no reason to know this, but before becoming Zhuma, I was a naval commander. I’ve lost many good men to accidents along the way.”
“I’m not the sort of man who—”
“Don’t be one of them.”
Zorian continued climbing the stairs as Lucian stopped.
Among other things, the palace was an impressive display of military power. Guards stood along both sides of the wide entrance hall. They dressed like desert nomads, in billowing white robes that could be swept over their heads to provide shade, but there was no mistaking their true purpose here. Two short and curved scimitars hung at their waist from a belt that partially concealed two daggers and a pouch. Scouts reported those pouches carried small, circular blades used as throwing weapons.
No, these weren’t desert nomads. They were warriors, pure and simple.
The arched roof above the hallway was plated in gold mosaic. Oval windows along the sides of the arch allowed natural light to flood the hallway with an amber glow, accentuating the gold trim that ran along the walls and baseboards, and spotlighting the portraits along the way.
Pristine for a nation that suffered from decades of ground quakes.
When they arrived at the intersection at the end of the hall, their guard escort stopped. The wall across from them was a masterwork of ostentatiousness. Two latticeworks of gold filigree worked their way in from the edges of the wall in thick lines until they converged at the center and spread out, up and down, surrounding a portrait of a man that was thirty feet from floor to ceiling. The man was younger, in his twenties or thirties, with jet hair that hung below his shoulders. A bushy black mustache covered his upper lip, ran down both sides of his mouth, and hung to the center of his chest. His head was topped with a delicate gold crown laced with an ivy design that matched the gold chains hanging from his neck and waist. Precious stones decorated a chain that draped over his chest and swept over his back. His robe was form-fitting, emphasizing the muscled chest and arms resting at his sides. He held a rod in one hand and an orb in the other. He stood upon a map of the Three Kingdoms, with one foot in the Bay of Relig, and the other foot off the west coast of the Shandarian Union.
A golden plaque at the foot of the portrait read The Destiny of Toren Relig.
Cavernous hallways ran from left to right in front of the portrait, and a quick glance revealed similar portraits and gold filigree in each direction, on both sides of the hall.
The attempt at opulence was laughable compared to the Palace of Ages, within which sat the Diamond Throne. The Builders themselves had created the Palace of Ages in a time before recorded history. Nothing could compare to the way in which crystals and precious gems were grown to form the passageways and rooms…and even the Diamond Throne itself. This place might be lavish by Three Kingdom standards, but many Barathos nobles lived this way.
A woman whose face was painted as gold as the filigree approached them. A yellow silk veil hid the lower half of her face. She wore no shoes, and her form-hugging blouse and sheer billowing pants would be considered scandalous even at the Palace of Ages. The woman exposed her naval, which was the mark of a courtesan in Barathosia.
Lucian must be thinking the same, the way he gazed at her bare midsection.
Strange. Zorian had been told prostitution was frowned upon here. Perhaps the reports were wrong. A society could change in many ways over the course of forty years.
“Arin’s peace upon you,” the woman said.
It was disconcerting when she blinked. Painted on her eyelids were exact replicas of her own ocean-blue eyes, creating the illusion of a perpetual stare.
Zorian nodded without responding. She’d offered no name or title, so protocol dictated it was safe to assume her beneath his station.
“The emperor will see you now,” she said. “This way.”
She began walking down the hallway to the left. Long black hair spilled from the back of the yellow veil and fell to her waist.
Lucian lowered his head, but Zorian could tell where his eyes were staring.
The furniture between the giant portraits caught Zorian’s eye. They didn’t have much dark wood in Barathosia, and the deep browns and reds of the buffets and cabinets struck him as unnatural. But like everything else in this pompous monstrosity, they too were trimmed in gold.
He thought he’d seen the worst of it, but he was proven wrong when they turned a corner. Two golden doors that ran thirty-odd feet from floor to ceiling, and spanned thirty feet in width, gave the appearance of a giant golden square on the wall in front of them.
Zorian wanted to laugh. Emperor Relig was nothing more than a petty man who flaunted wealth and religion to control his people.
Or, Zorian could be underestimating this emperor. Emperor Relig may, in fact, flaunt wealth. But he had managed to conquer half a continent in the last forty years. And Zorian doubted he’d purchased it.
A little less arrogance from now on.
Arrogance could blind him to a truth that would otherwise be apparent. He couldn’t afford that kind of mistake. Not here…not now. He would outmaneuver Admiral Unega, and he needed to keep his wits about him to do so.
A small door cut into the larger golden monstrosity of a portal swung open, and the woman stopped.
“Only one may enter,” she said.
Lucian took a step forward and Zorian stopped him with a stiff arm.
“You have a short memory,” Zorian said. He faced the woman. “I am Zorian Osa. I have been sent by Admiral Unega to speak with your emperor.”
“As you say,” the woman said and stepped aside, allowing Zorian to walk past her.
Zorian entered the Religarian throne room and the woman followed. The door swung shut behind them, sending a deep echo through the vast chamber.
Guards stood around the throne room as they did in the hallway outside. A lone assassin might manage to make their way in here…but they wouldn’t leave.
The throne room’s central ceiling was a dome with an inner walkway running around the rim. Archers with longbows stood at intervals around a banister on the walkway’s edge. Above them, a mural depicting the ascension of Arin into the heavens spanned the dome ceiling.
Did the Religarians believe the gods were once human? He’d have to make it a point to study their local superstitions. Such knowledge could be useful in the hands of the right person.
As Zorian’s eyes drifted back down beneath the dome, his gaze fell upon a platform on the other side of the room. Polished stone stairs led to a golden throne, upon which sat Emperor Toren Relig, expressionless.
Another man stood to the emperor’s left in a simple blue robe; he was old, with a hooked nose that had seen the end of a fist or two, and eyebrows that could attract nesting birds.
The emperor’s lack of expression troubled Zorian. What most people considered expressionless was a myriad of subtle movements that, when examined by one such as he, could reveal the most well-concealed feelings. But Zorian saw nothing.
The woman stopped at the base of the platform, bowed, then climbed until she stood next to the throne. Her pose was…casual.
“I do not know who you are, though I know whence you came,” Emperor Relig said. His was the voice of an old man. An old man who would have little trouble winning a sword fight.
The uniform Emperor Relig wore was identical to the one in his portrait. But hair that was once jet black was white as spider silk on the man who sat the throne.
Zorian bowed at the waist and remained staring at the marble floor. No need to break
protocol just yet.
“Rise,” Emperor Relig said.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” Zorian said as he stood. “Allow me to introduce myself and make your knowledge whole. I am Zorian Osa, and I represent the Glorious One, Grand Empress of the Barathosian Empire, Servant of the Gods, Mother of Yantoo.”
Zorian waited for the emperor to speak the traditional response, long live the Glorious One, but the response never came.
So much for protocol.
“Need I remind you, Emperor, that the Glorious One is also the Mother of Yotto?”
“How dare you address the emperor in such a tone?” the blue-robed man said.
“Forty years may be long enough for you to have forgotten your oath, Emperor, but I assure you the empress has not forgotten.”
The blue-robed man took a step forward. “You will—”
Emperor Relig waved his left hand and the man grew silent. The emperor stood and began climbing down the raised platform, his steps emphasizing every word as he said, “This is my empire.”
“The Diamond Throne is not interested in your empire, Emperor Relig. Only your obedience.”
“You’ll find my army has grown considerably since your predecessor last visited.”
“Yes,” Zorian said. “I understand you’ve expanded to the Great Orm river. A glorious military accomplishment. It takes the combined might of two kingdoms to hold your empire at bay. And now that your so-called…Treaty of Three Banks is it?…is null and void, I suppose there’s nothing stopping you from picking them off one by one. Your manifest destiny will finally be complete, and that portrait of yours out in the hall will become reality.”
The upward turn of the corner of Emperor Relig’s mouth was subtle.
So he can display emotion. Time to remind him of reality.
“I trust you’ve expanded your navy in the intervening years as well?” Zorian asked. A rhetorical question, of course. Zorian had his answer before he’d set foot on land. The only ships operating in the Religarian Empire were fishing vessels and merchant transports. “They must be hiding. Not one of the two thousand ships I arrived with reported any resistance.”
The emperor’s subtle smile faded.
“You swore a holy oath to Yotto, Emperor Relig. And in return, the Armada allowed your city to remain standing. Do you think your oath was somehow invalidated because of that…shield you concocted?”
“That was Archmage Kagan’s doing, not mine,” Emperor Relig said.
“Yes, Kagan has much to answer for,” Zorian said.
The emperor narrowed his eyes in an expression of confusion.
“Now you threaten the holy archmage?” the blue-robed man said.
Zorian glared at the hook-nosed man and spoke slowly. “Who is this inconsequential man who keeps interrupting us?”
“Silence yourself, Saleem,” Emperor Relig said in the tone of a father to an unruly child.
“Saleem, is it?” Zorian said.
“Saleem Abdul Bishara,” Saleem said.
“I’ve learned something of your language,” Zorian said. “Peaceful servant of the gods, is it?”
Saleem nodded.
Realization struck Zorian.
This is the cognitomancer. This is one of those blue-robed demons our chimeramancers are so afraid of.
“Well, servant,” Zorian said. “You and I are going to have a productive relationship.”
“I’ve heard enough,” Emperor Relig said. “You will return to—”
“I speak with the authority of the Glorious One,” Zorian said. “I and the armada will leave when her purpose has been fulfilled. Not a moment sooner.”
Emperor Relig stepped forward until one foot was on a lower step.
“Speak to me in that tone once more, and you will no longer be Zorian Osa,” Emperor Relig said. “You will be whomever my imagination sees fit to make of you. Won’t he, Saleem?”
“As your Imperial Majesty commands,” Saleem said. He bowed.
Zorian retrieved Admiral Unega’s letter from his overcoat and handed it up to the emperor.
When the emperor read what Unega had written, he crumpled the letter and threw it back. It struck Zorian’s chest and fell to the marble floor.
It irked Zorian that it had come to this. The emperor’s decision was all but made. He could tell by the awkward silence. He’d seen it time and again in other lands, across oceans this paltry potentate didn’t know existed.
And each time it was like a slap in the face. He shouldn’t need the hasty scribble of a naval officer to add weight to his command.
When I’m Sian’jo, my words will carry all the authority I need.
The emperor’s shoulders sagged by an amount most people wouldn’t perceive. Now he’d relent. It happened the same way every time Zorian had to deliver the message, and to rulers far more powerful than Toren Relig. No one stood against the Diamond Throne for long.
“What do you want of me?” Emperor Relig asked. “Give it voice so we might bring an end to this. Your empire has been a ghost in the shadows of my palace for far too many years, and I’d have you exorcised. Once and for all.”
Zorian smiled. “Then this will be easy, and everyone will soon be happy.”
“Speak it.”
“Bring me your archmage,” Zorian said.
The emperor’s face lost some of its color.
“Turn Kagan over to the Glorious One,” Zorian said, “so that he can answer for his crimes against the Diamond Throne. It’s quite simple.”
“Why not take him yourself, with the two thousand ships you arrived with?”
“And destroy ourselves while navigating the most inaccessible sea on Erindor?” Zorian asked.
Something changed in Emperor Relig’s expression. Was he growing paler still?
“Yes,” Zorian said. “We know of the challenges of your Sea of Arin. You will fulfill your oath and bring him to me. Personally.”
“This…thing you ask,” Emperor Relig said. “It’s not as simple as you think.”
“You’re a powerful man, Emperor.”
“No one is that powerful.”
“You have one day to devise a plan and inform me,” Zorian said. “One day only. I trust you will have prepared sufficient quarters for my stay?”
Emperor Relig glanced at the woman who had led Zorian to the throne room. “Anisah, see to it.”
“Yes, father,” Anisah said.
His daughter, eh?
“You traveled with another,” Emperor Relig said. “What of him?”
“Tullias, my manservant.”
“The other one. With the gold bracelet.”
Zorian’s gaze came to rest on Anisah. “I doubt he’ll be with us much longer.”
Anisah climbed down from the platform and led Zorian from the throne room.
Lucian and Tullias sat right where Zorian had left them, the former fondling his bracelet, as he often did when making a show of his status. He seemed confused when Anisah and Zorian kept walking, and he struggled to catch up.
“Will he not see me?” Lucian asked.
“Afraid not,” Zorian whispered. “Only one audience per day. He did, however, offer some small comfort for the inconvenience.”
“What did he offer?”
Zorian glanced at Anisah. “One of his courtesans. She’s yours for the night. He implied she enjoys it rough, though. Are you all right with that?”
Lucian smiled.
For once, Zorian couldn’t help returning the smile.
CHAPTER SEVEN
1The Prison
2Arin called his siblings to him and told them of a new plan. 3“I will not embrace chaos. 4I will not embrace wickedness. 5All power in the heavens has been given to me. 6I will lock The Power in a great prison.”
7;Zubuxo stepped forward. 8“Mine is the dominion of last things, for I am the last as you are the first. 9I will be the one to create this hell, for it is to be our father’s last home.”
10Arin agreed a
nd empowered Zubuxo.
11“I will create six prisons for the six sins of humankind; the proud, the deceitful, the murderous, the wicked, the mischievous, and the lustful,” Zubuxo said. 12He spread his arms and the Six Planes of Hell stretched out before him.
13“I will send my children into the prison to purge my charges,” Zubuxo said. 14And he spread his arms and called his children unto him, casting them into the Six Planes of Hell.
- The Mukhtaar Chronicles, attributed to the prophet Habakku
Origines Multiversi, Emergentiae 6:1-14
If the text seems disjointed, I can only reiterate that much of the Origines is presented as such. What strikes discord in the modern ear rang as pure harmony in the ancient. There is no explanation for who these “charges” of Zubuxo are, nor how they came to be in the six planes moments after the planes were created. It is clear that Zubuxo is referring to the souls of sinful departed, and we must accept that some indefinite period of time passed between the events in verses twelve and thirteen.
- Coteon of the Steppes, “Coteonic Commentaries on the Origines Multiversi” (circa 520 RL)
The sting of fear pierced Nicolas when the wall of Caspardis materialized about three-hundred yards in front of him. He hadn’t been expecting that, though in hindsight it was foolish not to; he’d nearly been killed behind that wall.
He, Kaitlyn, dead Kagan, and Toby appeared on the crest of a hill overlooking the city and Lake Caspardis beyond.
The translocation orb brought them to within three hundred yards of the eastern wall of Caspardis. The dilapidated edifice was much as he remembered it; sandstone, crenelations crumbling in places, iron portcullis blocking the road that snaked its way into the city, and red flags with a cat’s eye set in the center spaced evenly between the crenelations that hadn’t collapsed.
Toby jumped and clamped down on his gatorpickle when the world reappeared, but it didn’t take long for him to calm down, spit the toy out, and hop up on Nicolas’s leg.
“That was disorienting,” Kaitlyn said. She turned around, scanning the lake and surrounding countryside. “Crazy. It’s like someone plopped a medieval city down in the middle of Wyoming. You know what I mean?”