This morning, though, the vertigo and sickness was lost beneath the mood of the camp. The tickle of energy which washed across his skin as he crossed the circle he had scratched in the earth last night usually brought a smile of accomplishment to his face, but today brought only a wave of sadness.
“There you are, Kyron,” Padarn said from his seat on a large rock by the fire.
“Master,” Kyron said, his voice falling flat on the air, “the Quartermaster wishes to remind us to renew the preservative markers on the stores.”
“I’m sure he does.” The older man ran his fingers through the short and carefully trimmed beard which framed his face. “Could you not have done it while you were there?”
“I offered, Master, but he wouldn’t let me,” Kyron admitted, moving to the fire and its bubbling pot of water, pouring in a hefty measure of oats.
“He wouldn’t let you?”
“Said he didn’t want no apprentice messing up his stores,” Kyron said with an apologetic nod at his master.
“Can’t have us all starving because you made some stupid mistake,” a new voice croaked out.
He looked away from the already bubbling porridge to see Elouera emerge from her tent. Her grey hair was tied in a ponytail which fell down her back and the long grey robe she wore with its line of symbols running down one sleeve was, he knew, more to stave off the cold than for any magical energy they contained.
“Good morning, Master Elouera,” he said, bowing in her direction.
“Don’t go good morning me, Apprentice, and I’m not your master, he is.” She pointed a wrinkled finger at Padarn, who favoured her with a smile. “And thankful you should be for that, young Kyron. I’d have set you aside for a candidate of quicker wits years ago.”
“He’s quick enough,” Padarn said, coming to Kyron’s defence as the younger man winced. “You train your apprentices your way, Elouera, and I’ll train mine my way.”
“Pah,” Elouera spat. “He’s got power, I don’t doubt that, but he hasn’t grown enough, neither in height nor intellect.”
“It will come,” Padarn answered. “I note your own apprentice has yet to rouse herself from bed. Mine has, at least, provided us with breakfast.”
The last tent, smaller than the others, had its flaps still tied and sealed.
“I work better at night,” Elouera said. “Don’t sleep as much as I used to. You’ll get there one day, when you’re as old as me, Padarn. When you do, remember it was me that told you. Youngsters need sleep so much more than the old. So much time you waste in your early years.”
“You don’t let me sleep in, Master,” Kyron said, a note of accusation entering his voice.
“If I let you sleep in, you wouldn’t wake until next year, Kyron,” Padarn chuckled. “Once breakfast is done, we’ll go back to the Quartermaster and you can renew the preservative markers. It’ll be good for you to practice.”
“Yes, Master.” Kyron felt the confidence his master had shown him should lift his mood, but it did not. “Master?”
“Yes, Kyron.”
“What will happen now?”
“I don’t know,” Padarn answered in a voice as heavy as Kyron’s heart. “I’m sure it will be fine.”
From the other side of the small fire, Elouera snorted.
“You foresee problems, Elouera?” Kyron’s master asked.
“Last succession happened in the city,” she answered, kicking the pole which supported her apprentice’s tent. “One before that was when I was but a child. As I recall, there was a lot of trouble in the city and countryside.”
“Trouble?” Kyron asked, confused. “Doesn’t the eldest child become Emperor?”
“It’s not always that easy,” she replied, stretching her back and groaning in pain. “Don’t give me that look, young man. When you get to my age, you’ll groan too. What was I saying?”
“Trouble in the city,” he reminded her.
“Yes, well, not everyone is happy that an accident of birth makes a man an Emperor. Some feel that just having a few more coins than the soul next to them is enough of a reason to make them Emperor instead. A few drops of poison, a knife in the dark, or a riot or two… it all whittles the field down.”
“Is that what happened when you were a child?”
“I remember hiding with my mother, Flame keep her, in the cellar while the riots went on,” Elouera said. “In the end, it was the army who made sure the Emperor’s son came to the throne. Don’t you go forgetting it, young Kyron. Control the army and you can impose your will on a country or an Empire.”
The rough-cut spoon in his hand stopped in its stirring of the porridge, and he felt a guilty stab in his stomach. “I’ll remember, Master Elouera.”
“See that you do,” she said and turned to the tent from which her apprentice was just now climbing. “What time do you call this, Ayita? Sun’s been in the sky for hours and you’re just now waking. You’ll amount to nothing if you don’t study.”
“We studied last night,” the young girl said, her long dark hair a contrast to her master’s grey.
“And we’ll study tonight too,” the old magician said. “Slacking off and laziness will just turn you into Kyron here, and we don’t want that.”
“No, Master Elouera,” Ayita said with a smile, “we definitely do not want that.”
“Thanks,” Kyron muttered under his breath and returned to stirring the porridge.
When the food had come to the boil and the bubbling porridge began to rise towards the rim of the pot, Kyron lifted it from the fire. Four bowls of carved wood were placed upon an upturned log, and he spooned the porridge into them in equal measure. Taking his own, he retreated to the tent he shared with his master and sat upon the earth near its entrance.
Padarn, Elouera and Ayita collected theirs. The two masters sat upon logs, shuffling to get comfortable while the young girl sat on the ground near Kyron.
“Camp’s quiet,” she said, her dark eyes meeting his.
The familiar catch in his throat and the tightness in his chest caught him, as it always did, by surprise. He covered his reaction by taking a hot spoonful of porridge. It burned all the way down his throat and into his belly. “No one can believe it.”
“People die all the time,” Ayita said.
“Not Emperors,” replied Kyron. “He wasn’t old. Not as old as Master Elouera anyway.”
“Older than Padarn?”
“I think so, but that’s still young. Master Padarn is barely past his fortieth summer.” The fire in his belly cooled, as did the heat on his cheeks.
“Has anyone said how he died?” she asked, her eyes fixed upon the lumpy porridge in her bowl.
“Not that I’ve heard.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “We’ve not fought a battle in weeks, and he wasn’t wounded.”
“Old people just die from age or being ill,” she offered.
“Elouera doesn’t look in danger of dying.”
“The Flame couldn’t burn her if it tried,” Ayita answered with a giggle he found at once irritating and enticing.
“The Emperor was a strong man. A great man,” Kyron said. “He shouldn’t be dead.”
“Even Emperors die, Kyron,” Ayita said, speaking around her mouthful of porridge.
“Too soon.” The sadness which had lifted while he had cooked breakfast returned. “He had so much more to do. Bringing peace to the north was a worthy deed. His name would have been spoken about for all time. Now that glory will go to his son.”
“How do you bring peace by starting a war?” Ayita asked as she drew symbols in the porridge which slowly flowed back to level, obliterating each a few seconds after she finished. It was as if they had never been.
“They war with each other,” Kyron protested. “Constantly. Petty tribal conflicts and clan wars. Once they join the Empire they’ll be at peace, just as the rest are.”
“My people aren’t always happy to be part of the Empire.” He noticed how her brow furr
owed and nose wrinkled as she spoke.
“That’s treasonous,” he whispered furiously.
“Why?” Ayita turned serious eyes upon him. “To say you are not always happy, how can that be treason?”
“You speak poorly of the Empire and of the Emperor.”
“The two are the same then?”
“The Empire is the Emperor and the Emperor the Empire.” Kyron repeated the phrase he had heard so often at his grandfather’s knee.
“But the Emperor is dead,” she pointed out, a ruthless stab to his heart, “and the Empire continues.”
“His Flame will never die,” he protested. “It will be passed on to his son. They will merge and he, like those before him, will become immortal.”
Ayita opened her mouth to reply, but the words did not come. She looked at something over his shoulder and her eyes widened. He turned sharply, dropping the spoon and reaching for the pugio at his waist.
From the trees five men in the uniform of the Empire appeared. None had weapons drawn and Kyron sighed in relief, letting go the hilt of his dagger and staring forlornly at his breakfast spoon now spotted with forest dirt.
“Magician Padarn?” asked the lead officer, a Cohort by the colours on his helm and belt.
“That’s me,” Padarn replied, standing up and moving around the fire. “What service can I perform for the Empire, Cohort?”
“Legion Arcterus has commanded you appear before him,” the cohort said without ceremony.
“Does he need something particular?” Padarn asked. “I will need to gather the right supplies.”
“He did not say so.” A look of puzzlement passed across the officer’s face. “I was ordered to bring you to him.”
“In that case,” Padarn said, “lead the way. One question though, if I may. Can my apprentice accompany me? If there is some task to perform, I can send him back for the right supplies. He will know what to look for where a soldier may not. It will save time.”
The cohort glanced down at Kyron and Ayita who were sat on the earth. Kyron watched the man chew his bottom lip and his eyes narrowed. It felt as though he was being measured, assessed, and found wanting. It was unpleasant and a slow ember of anger kindled in his belly.
“Bring him if you wish.” The cohort turned back to Padarn; a dismissive gesture which blew fresh air on the flickering coal.
“Thank you, Cohort,” Padarn said. “Come on then, boy. Up you get. Dust yourself down as we walk. We cannot keep the Legion waiting. Bring your bag too. Just in case.”
III
The General
Ten years ago:
Scrawny, was the first word that entered his head as the boy was ushered in. A lump rose in his throat as the sunlight through the narrow window caught the young boy’s face. He looks like his father.
“You’ve grown, boy,” he said.
Light from the mid-afternoon sun fell heavy upon the large desk. Made of dark wood with graceful carvings of a stag in the forest upon its legs, it was the central feature of the room, drawing visitors’ gaze back to it wherever they looked. Books and scrolls littered the shelves, and the cold fireplace in the opposite wall—alongside the faint layer of dust which covered the stone floor—said this room had not been used recently.
Despite the luxury of the Emperor’s study, there was little chance of the General enjoying the peace and quiet. The letter, with its broken wax seal, lay folded inside his tunic: a weight upon his heart, colder than the glass of wine in his hand or the deep snows of the winters in the far north. The creases in the parchment were sharp edged, as were the words written upon it; and on each breath, he felt them slice into the barricades he had erected around his emotions.
The owner of this room had sat at that desk in months past and discussed the war with him. Servants brought wine and ale, sweetmeats and thin parcels of pastry to fuel them through the long nights. Plans had been drawn up and discarded, maps inspected and the latest reports from the Legions read. Troop numbers, supply lines, and costs had been scrawled on parchment only to be burned in the fire.
A smile found its way to his face as the memories played out. A last great war, the largest conquest of his career, had been planned in this very room. Every action, strategy, and tactic had some mark of his about it.
As winter broke its hold on the south, the plans had been written up by the clear hand of a scribe and placed in the leather satchel which was guarded day and night. The excitement rising within him when the day had come. The glass in his hand trembled at the vision of the Emperor, leather satchel in one hand, the other resting upon his golden-hilted gladius, as he stopped at the top of the ship’s ramp and turned.
“You should be coming with me,” the Emperor had said.
“I’m too old, Your Highness,” Bordan replied.
“Then I will bring back the glory in your name as well as my own,” the Emperor laughed. His final words before disappearing into the distance, the oars of the long ship digging into the calm waters of the bay under the early morning sunlight. An auspicious beginning to the grand conquest.
A dream shared since the Emperor ascended the throne, now turned nightmare by the words inked on the folded parchment concealed close to his heart.
The glass of wine was almost empty when the door opened and the Empress swept in, her modest dress accented by threads of gold and bright gemstones. Bordan struggled out of his seat, grunting at the ache in his legs and the twinge in his lower back. Nevertheless, he executed a respectful bow and placed the wine glass down upon a nearby table.
“Sit, General,” the Empress said and with a wave of her hand indicated the chair he had just clambered out from.
“You are gracious, Your Highness,” he answered, settling back into the cushions.
“Now,” she began, glancing around the empty room, “what news is so urgent that you disturb such a carefully orchestrated dinner? I almost had Duke Primal agreeing to reduce the cost of wheat bushels come harvest.”
“Your Highness,” Bordan said, the words cascading around his head as he sought to soften the blow he was to deliver, “a messenger arrived from Legion Arcterus of the First Army.”
“Is something amiss, General?” She turned towards him with a raised eyebrow.
“Your Highness,” he started, the words like boulders in his chest and heart, “Legion Arcterus is saddened to report the sudden death…”
“No,” the Empress said, face draining of colour and her hand rising to cover her open mouth.
“… of your beloved husband, the Emperor of Sudrim,” Bordan finished.
“No,” the Empress, widow of the Empire, repeated.
He struggled once more from his seat, caring not for the aches and pains, and moved towards her. Her eyes were already filling with tears and her hand trembled as he took it in his own and guided her to the chair he had vacated.
“Sit,” he said, pitching his voice low.
She followed his gentle command without thought or resistance, her dress gathering around her legs as she sank into the cushions. “No.”
“I am sorry, Your Highness,” he said. “The messenger had few details, though I expect further news to follow soon.”
“Where is the messenger?” She looked up at him, the glimmer of a wish in her eyes.
“Hidden away, Your Highness,” he answered. “The news must be contained until preparations are made.”
“My sons.” The wish died and a hard glaze fell across her eyes.
“Alhard is the heir,” Bordan nodded.
“He must be guarded,” she said, pushing herself up from the chair. “I loved my husband, General.”
“I know, Your Highness,” Bordan replied, though that was a practised lie. Both Emperor and Empress had done their duty and provided an heir and a spare, as Aelia was known in the taverns of the capital, but that had marked an end to their sharing of a bed. It was common knowledge that the Emperor had enjoyed the company of many during the long nights, some highborn who foun
d his power erotic, and others chosen for their youth and looks who had little choice in the matter. Amongst those had been the occasional officer who caught his eye. But the Empress too had dallied with minor lords, young men and women who had been selected for a private audience in her chambers. Such things were the way of the Empire.
“But I must set that aside for now,” she said, her tone turning as cold as the ache in his chest and as practical as the dagger on his hip. She smoothed her dress. “Where is the Amulet of the Empire?”
Bordan chose each word with more care than he sharpened his sword. A cut here would not be healed with a simple bandage, but could put him in a grave of his own, next to the messenger, no doubt. “As custom dictates,” he said carefully, “the Emperor’s amulet is with him, guiding his soul to the Flame and everlasting life.”
“I would never question the Holy Flame, but, war is risk, General. I am not so foolish or naïve as to ignore that fact, and now we face an even greater peril with the succession.”
“The Emperor’s body is being escorted to Sudrim by an honour guard of five hundred hand-picked soldiers,” Bordan said.
“This is not the time for custom, General,” she snapped. “Is five hundred all that can be spared? His body and the amulet must be returned to us as soon as possible. Can we not, this once, use a ship?”
“Flame cannot travel over water,” Bordan said, fighting to keep his voice level. “His flame of life, protected by the amulet, would be extinguished by such a trip, and could never be used to pass his soul and wisdom on to your son.”
“Religion,” she said, as if the word were a curse.
“And custom, Your Highness. Of these things is the Empire made and maintained. The succession must be carried out accordingly if your son is to ascend the throne, as is his birthright, without conflict.” He stepped away and watched her pace for a moment. Her hands fluttered at her side, and he noticed she was chewing her lip in thought.
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