Seven Blades in Black

by Sam Sykes

  And she had them. Quite a few, really. They loved her, but they couldn’t fly. They were concerned with problems on the ground, problems they couldn’t fly away from. The new emperor had been born without the light in his eyes. He was a nul. And he stood to inherit the throne. Many mages had rebelled. But not her friends. They had bigger plans.

  She couldn’t understand their problems. So when they asked for her help… she listened. She loved them. They loved her. That was how it was supposed to be.

  And on the night they killed her, she wasn’t flying.

  “There’s no need to be nervous.”

  I shot a glare toward Jindu. The light cast by the alchemical globes lining the walls of the Imperial crypts was dim, but not dim enough that I couldn’t see the smirk on his face.

  “I’m not nervous,” I said.

  “You’re walking,” he said. “You never walk.”

  I rolled my eyes. The next step I took brought me into the air, hovering off the floor. I gestured upward as my head almost struck the ceiling.

  “There’s no fucking room to fly in here,” I growled as I came back down. “Why the hell couldn’t this be done in, like, the gardens?”

  “The garden,” Jindu repeated flatly. “We’re planning to overthrow an illegitimate tyrant, reestablish order to the Imperium, and honor the sacrifices of our comrades… and you want to do it in the garden.”

  “Maybe with a nice bottle of wine.”

  “I feel like the Empress might notice that.”

  “Well, if she’s really illegitimate, so should her claims on the gardens, right?” I sighed, perhaps a touch too dramatically. “The ones beneath the palace have a lovely fountain and—”

  “She is illegitimate.”

  Jindunamalar’s growl caught me off guard. I was used to his easy laughter and his smiles. It sounded like someone else’s voice in his mouth.

  “And so is her son,” he spoke on seething breath. “He’s a nul, Salazanca. He has no idea what he’s been given and he’ll have no idea how to rule. The Empress refuses to renege on his claim, so we have no choice.”

  “Fine.” He was just skittish, I told myself. Soon, that smile would come back. “We’ll be all sneaky, if we must.” I sniffed. “Though, I don’t see why now. It’s been a year since the rebellion. It’s taken Vrakilaith that long to come up with a plan?”

  “He’s careful. Vrakilaith has been working on a solution.” Jindunamalar didn’t look at me. His eyes were locked straight ahead, rigid as a spear. “He and the others have an idea on how to take care of this. We aren’t going to serve a Nul Emperor. Not ever.”

  Right now, so many years and so much blood lost, it all seemed so obvious. His voice was always like a song, precise and effortless. This brusque snappishness, this growling, it wasn’t him. His stride was always relaxed, as though being next to me was the easiest thing in the world. This tense, determined stutter of a walk… it wasn’t his.

  I didn’t want to know what was going to happen. I wanted to pretend this was just a hard night for him, that it would pass. But when he took my hand, when his fingers felt cold and clammy around mine, something inside me told me that he had changed.

  I wish I had listened.

  “We didn’t enter this lightly.” He looked at me with a tense, awkward smile. “No matter what happens, it’s worth it, right? For the Imperium?”

  I didn’t do it for the Imperium.

  It was just a name, a collection of buildings, a place I was obligated to serve for reasons I didn’t care to understand. Everything I did, I did for the people I knew. For the men and women who marched beneath me. For the mages who laughed and studied and drank with me.

  For him.

  I smiled and squeezed his hand. And I tried to ignore how cold it felt.

  “For the Imperium.”

  The light grew faint as the voices grew loud. Our voices and our hands both fell from each other as the halls of the Imperial crypts turned into a vast circular chamber.

  A bigger crypt for bigger people with bigger ideas.

  Before our magic became art, before we knew what the Lady’s song was, before the Imperium was even a concept, we had the Council: wise men and women who gathered here, in this chamber beneath the earth, to discuss the lofty ideals for a free world beautified by magic.

  Then the first Emperor came, killed every last Council member, and that was that.

  But that was all in the past. They had built the Imperial palace over the chambers of the old Council and converted them into the crypts—a place to bury the last remnants of the last Emperors, their crowns. It was a place of beautiful ideas that were never achieved and, like all those places, deliberately ignored by those in power.

  The ideal place for the Crown Conspiracy, as they’d later call us, to gather: a new power plotting the death of an old power from the graveyard of an even older power.

  Thirty-two bodies gathered in the chamber, around the empty thrones of the long-dead Council. Only a few faces looked up at us as we entered.

  Kreshtharan spared a glance, let out that laugh of his that made my skin crawl. Galtathamora scratched the newest batch of thorns that had burst from her skin and grunted at me. Grishoktha, one hand on his gigantic cudgel, waved a massive hand at me and bellowed a greeting. But even his thunderous voice wasn’t enough to distract the assembled.

  Vrakilaith was holding court.

  Even back then, he had looked thin. His hair was a messy red mop that hung around a face too gaunt for his young age. The Imperium had bedecked their prized Prodigy in as much finery as their tailors could make, but his clothes still hung loose and baggy around a scrawny frame.

  If you looked too hard at him, you’d break him.

  If you didn’t look into his eyes, that is.

  The Lady’s song was only for her mages. But her light, the violet glow that flashed in her chosen’s eyes, was for everyone else to know her mark. It came out sparsely, lighting up and fading out as a spell was born and died.

  But Vrakilaith’s gaze, so hard and sharp he couldn’t blink for fear of cutting his eyelids, always had her light burning in them. Somewhere deeper than any of us could hope to see.

  I felt those eyes, through the darkness and bodies cloistered in the gloom, when he looked up.

  “It can’t be that simple.” Zanzemalthanes stared up at the Prodigy. Years of being a Maskmage had worn away the features of his face, but the awe in his eyes was still apparent. “We just… make a new Emperor?”

  “It isn’t that simple.” Vrakilaith’s voice was soft, but there was no doubt that everyone was listening. “Not in execution. But there is no other choice.” He gestured up to the thin shaft of light piercing through the ceiling. “A nul has been born to the Imperial family. The Lady Merchant has forsaken them, clearly, as she’ll forsake us all, if we do not act.”

  “But to do what you propose…” Rogonoroth, weary and rigid, let out a contemplative hum. “Summoning is already a reckless art. Even you have trouble controlling it, Prodigy. To draw a Scrath out is one thing, to make it an Emperor…”

  “I am honored by your counsel,” Vrakilaith replied, inclining his head. “But I am not stumbling into this blindly. Even the sages do not know as much about the art of summoning as I do. I know what its limitations are.” He smiled softly. “And I know what we can do with it.”

  “Bad idea.” Ricculoran whimpered, cowering away as he shook his head. “Bad, bad, bad idea.”

  “He’s right,” Dorukana growled in agreement. “The sages don’t know for a reason. The art is forbidden to—”

  “Attend me.”

  Vrakilaith never raised his voice. He never had to. When he spoke now, his voice boomed as though the Lady herself wanted us to hear him. And all fell silent.

  “I am aware of the risks. I am aware of your concerns.” He sighed, closed his eyes. “But I am even more aware of what we stand to lose by letting a nul inherit the throne. For the honor of our fallen comrades, those
who gave their lives, we have no alternative but risk.”

  “How can it even work?” Grishoktha rumbled.

  “A Scrath is summoned as a spirit,” Vrakilaith said. “The world cannot abide the presence of something so unnatural. It will explode, destroying everything, if not introduced to a host.”

  “And if it is?” Shorakaia covered a haughty chuckle with the back of her hand. “It twists the host into a monster. Who would follow such a beast if you put it on the throne?”

  Vrakilaith fell silent for a moment, staring at his hands. The light in his eyes danced, contemplative. And a small, cruel smile that I would one day come to loathe spread across his face.

  “What if we could summon it… without a host?” he asked. “What if we could summon it in its purest form?”

  “Impossible,” Talthonanac rasped from the darkness.

  “He’s right. That’s crazy, even for you,” Galtathamora growled. “What’s the use in jabbering about this shit, anyway? The army is behind the Empress. We should just go Vagrant, like the others.”

  “And then what?” Vrakilaith’s voice, deep and resonant like a knife plunged into flesh, boomed. “After the Imperium built its palaces over our Dust, after we conquered their new world and threw down the upstart Revolution that would tear it apart, you would have us simply leave?”

  “What other way is there?” Ricculoran muttered. “The Empress will have no more children.”

  “Hardly her call to make, is it?” Kreshathalar chuckled as he cleaned his nails with a knife. “So she made one nul. Throw it away and try again. She owes that much, surely.”

  “The army’s thrown its lot behind her.”

  I started when I heard the voice beside me. It didn’t sound like Jindunamalar. He didn’t look like the person I had walked in with. He stood rigid as a spear, his face carved into a deep, angry scowl, and in his eyes flashed an uncomfortable intensity.

  The same intensity I saw in Vrakilaith’s.

  “They all swore to her oath after the Dogsjaw Rebellion,” he said. “They cowered. It falls to us to honor the sacrifices of those who came before and those who will come after.”

  “The Nul Emperor will lead us to ruin,” Vrakilaith said, nodding. “He cannot hope to comprehend the power at his fingertips, let alone use it responsibly. The Empress has chosen her spawn over her nation. It falls to us to remedy this.”

  “Recklessness cannot be cured with recklessness.” Rogonoroth sighed, shook his head. “Even a Prodigy cannot hope to control a Scrath.”

  “Summoning is an art, like any other,” Vrakilaith said. “It is a power offered, a Barter demanded.”

  “You speak of summoning a living, thinking creature,” Moraccus protested, adjusting his glasses. “A life. What Barter could you possibly offer in exchange for that?”

  “Nothing.” Vrakilaith held out his hands, empty. “There is nothing we can offer from ourselves for a life. But the Lady Merchant does not want us to Barter.”

  The mutters of the crowd quieted. Vrakilaith’s eyes settled upon me. And all of theirs followed.

  “She wants us to give something back.”

  There was scarcely any light down there. Just the barest glow offered from the shaft of light piercing down from the ceiling above. I couldn’t see their faces—whether there was doubt or fear or hatred on the visages of the people I had once called my friends. All I could see were their eyes, the tiny pinpricks of light reflected in their gazes.

  As they stared at me.

  “What are you saying?”

  My voice came out as a growl. I tensed, feeling the air stir around my feet. Something was wrong—my heart was beating faster; my scalp grew taut against my skull. It felt like there wasn’t enough air down here, like there were too many bodies.

  “To be a Prodigy is a gift,” Vrakilaith said, softer than he had ever spoken before. “The Lady Merchant gives us power and asks for nothing in return. It is a sign of her favor. And if we return it…”

  “Then we can get something else,” Galtathamora said, nodding. “Like a Scrath. It’s an exchange.”

  “A Barter,” Rogonoroth muttered. “I suppose that is… logical.”

  “A Barter?” My voice came out as a shriek. “That’s what you think I am? Something to be traded?”

  “Not you,” Vrakilaith said. “Not Salazanca ki Ioril. Not Red Cloud. Just the power inside you, the gift she gave you.” He talked like that was supposed to soothe me. “To restore the Imperium, to return a true Emperor to the throne, all we require is that.”

  “Possible,” Talthonanac hissed.

  “An equal exchange,” Moraccus whispered. “That much power returned would demand an equal amount of power back. The theory is sound.”

  “Sound?” I shouted, scowling into the darkness. “Sound? What’s sound about this shit? A theory is just a fucking theory. There’s no guarantee anything about it will work!”

  “I have seen it.”

  Vrakilaith held his hands out wide, like I was just a child who needed to be calmed down. Or like he was a savior no one had asked for.

  “I have opened gates to worlds beyond imagining,” he said. “I have heard a song so pure that it was language in my ears. I have seen what lies on the other side. I understand your doubts, but it is all we have. A gift must be given for the Lady to show us her favor.”

  “Then why not you?” I snarled, thrusting a finger at him. “You’re a Prodigy, too. Give up your own power, if you’re so certain.”

  “He needs his power to perform the summoning,” Zanzemalthanes whimpered. “No one else can do it. Try to understand, Salazanca. It’s not an easy choice for any of us.”

  “For you, perhaps,” Kreshtharan said, casually spitting on the floor. “It’s not like she was using her art for anything important, anyway.”

  “You fuckers.” I could feel the power boiling up inside me, fire on my breath and thunder in my ears. “You pieces of shit. I’ve fought with you, protected you, saved you.”

  “And now we’re asking you to protect us once more,” Vrakilaith said. “A final sacrifice for the Imperium we agreed to protect, for the people we agreed to serve. It is the only way, Salazanca.”

  “The only way,” Rogonoroth sighed. “I suppose it is.”

  “Sorry, kid,” Grishoktha rumbled. “If I could do it for you, I would, but…”

  “Why are we even still talking?” Rinatana sighed dramatically. “Can we not just be done with it and get things back to normal?”

  “Every minute we waste down here is a liability,” Korthanos growled. “They’ll find us if we don’t act soon.”

  “Imperative,” Talthonanac rasped.

  I caught their faces in glimpses, in shadowed sneers and in half-hidden frowns and in cringes that disappeared when they couldn’t bear to look me in the eye.

  They weren’t the faces I remembered laughing in the barracks when we shared a bottle of wine, the faces I remembered smiling wearily as we fought our way through savage battlefields. I didn’t recognize the faces that looked at me with fear, with hatred, with envy now.

  I didn’t recognize any of them.

  Only their black blades hanging at their hips.

  “I am asking you, Salazanca.” Vrakilaith clasped his hands together, plaintive. “I am pleading with you. For the Imperium, for the mages who have fought and died for you, for the duty we all swore.”

  Silence fell over the chamber. I saw them all looking at me, these nightmares that wore the faces of my friends, waiting for an answer. Not one of them saying there had to be another way, not one of them speaking up for me, not one of them moving to stand beside me.

  Not one of them, except…

  I turned and looked to Jindunamalar. He stared back at me, his perfect smile a frown now, his perfect face hidden in shadows. He stared at me, eyes alight with that awful power. Never once did he look away from me.

  Not as he turned aside.

  Not as he walked across the chamber.
>
  Not as he stood with them.

  And I looked over them, those half-shrouded nightmares. And my feet slowly left the floor. I drew in a deep breath, I opened my mouth, and I gave my answer.

  And it was her song.

  My shout burst from me in a tremendous wall of sound. It flung them from their feet, sent them flying across the room to smash against the wall and be dashed against the floor. Some of them got back to their feet quickly, some of them staggered up slowly, some of them just stayed on the floor.

  Their swords came out, blades so pitch-black they were as shadows against the darkness of the chamber.

  It wouldn’t save them. I wouldn’t forgive them.

  I flew. I rose like a monolith, ancient and terrible, into the sky. I called the magic to my hands, felt the fire pour out of my fingertips in great waves. The Wardmages drew their shields as fast as they could. The Siegemages tried to weather the heat. But it burned them still, magic as pure as mine, and they screamed.

  And that wouldn’t save them, either.

  Grishoktha roared, leapt at me with his massive club. I swung a hand and sent him, all four hundred pounds of him, smashing against the wall. Rogonoroth vanished, reappeared behind me, was swallowed in the embrace of ice that came pouring out of my hand and fell to the ground, frozen. Talthonanac wove his dark illusions around me, made the shadows stir to life and shroud around me—I let out a roar and light burst from my eyes, banishing his shadows and sending him cowering. Zanzemalthanes twisted his shape into a great black bird, his feathers sheared from his body as a bolt of lightning swept from my fingers and struck him in the chest.

  They came leaping, they came casting, they came howling. And they fell to the ground frozen, burned, dashed, and maimed. Some kept getting up, some ran for cover, some sat and wailed. Not one of them apologized. Not one of them begged me to stop. Not one of them looked at me with the faces I remembered.

  It shouldn’t have been this easy. I should have felt some pang of guilt, some hesitation, something that would make me realize I was fighting my friends. But I couldn’t see their faces in the darkness. And their voices were twisted with rage and pain. They weren’t my friends.