“I thought that, but no one seems to have seen him or knows who sent him back out into the countryside,” Abra said with a shake of his head. “As you say, messengers are always coming and going, but there are enough to let one man rest his weary horse.”
Bordan let his hand rest upon the buckle of his belt, not far from the hilt of the pugio dagger. “Is this what occupies your idle hours, Duke Abra?”
“Many things do, my dear General,” Abra responded and a soft chuckle followed the words. Forced and strained, Bordan thought. “I would have thought a missing messenger would be one of your concerns. After all, often they carry important information and messages. Should one of those be intercepted by the wrong people?”
Bordan let his eyes rest once more upon the door to the council chamber, willing it to come closer so this conversation would end. “Do you wish me to task someone to look into this matter for you?”
“No. No,” Abra protested, both hands raising, palms out in a placating gesture. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”
“It is no trouble, Duke,” Bordan pressed. “Such matters can be easily solved and if the findings bring some relief to your curiosity, I would consider it a favour.”
“It is kind of you to think of my well-being, General.”
“I often find myself so concerned, Duke,” Bordan said. “It will be a simple matter to discover who this messenger saw and where they were sent.”
An investigation, even one as rudimentary as this, would enable him to create whatever story he wished to tell, to give credence to a fiction. Maybe the Duke’s desire to invent problems and to stick his long nose into every aspect of palace business might be an advantage, this time.
“Let me get the door for your, General,” Abra said, skipping ahead a few steps to reach the door to council chambers ahead of him.
“Thank you.”
“A pleasure. You’ve served the Empire well and faithfully for your whole life, such a little service as this is nothing compared to your legacy.”
Bordan allowed a little bow of his head to demonstrate the proper respect and thanks even though he ground his teeth together at the implication.
“And as for the investigation,” Abra continued as Bordan stepped past him. “There is no need to bother. I know who the messenger saw. I am sure he was well rewarded for his diligence.”
It was said with a politeness that only a truly political mind could muster that it caught Bordan unawares. He stumbled half a step before recovering his balance. Checking over his shoulder he saw the smirk; a knowing, vicious slash which bisected Abra’s face and vanished in an instant.
“A loose tile, General?” Abra stepped forward, kicking the toe of his expensive leather boot at the offending stone. “I will mention it to the Palace steward. It wouldn’t do for the Empire’s foremost military mind to fall flat on his face in front of the council, would it?”
“You are too…” Bordan said, letting the pause stretch between the two men, “kind.”
“Think nothing of it.” Abra smiled, waving away Bordan’s words.
“On the contrary, such kindness is to be treasured, Duke Abra.”
A brittle silence which chilled the air between them was broken by the appearance of the High Priest at the door.
“Are you intending to take your seats, gentlemen?” The priest had a deep, sonorous voice which caught every falling shard of the broken silence and turned them to soft motes of dust which drifted to the floor.
“Of course, Your Eminence,” Bordan said, smiling at the only other man on the council who came close to his age. Six decades was a good age in the Empire, especially for a career soldier. The High Priest was approaching his fifty-fifth summer and had let his moustache grow long and bushy in the manner of his people from the southern continent.
“You all right, Bordan?” the High Priest asked, squinting at him.
“The General tripped on a raised flagstone, Your Eminence,” Abra said. “I was speaking and must have distracted him, for which I’ve offered my apologies.”
“I’m fine, Godewyn,” Bordan grunted at the High Priest. “I tripped.”
The priest stroked his moustache idly for a moment before speaking. “Lift your feet, Bordan. Shuffling and tripping are the marks of age and you’ve never been one to give into that enemy.”
“I can still give the recruits a good match,” Bordan answered, feeling his spirits lift a little at the priest’s words.
“I’ve still got the scar you gave me,” Godewyn replied, a genuine smile creasing his face.
“You’d have made a good Legion, Godewyn,” the General admitted.
“The Flame found me and took my path elsewhere, General. We each serve where and when we can. Sometimes we trip and fall on our path, but we must always seek to rise above such failures in the service to the Flame and the Empire. Isn’t that true, Duke Abra?”
“Of course, High Priest,” Abra responded quickly, looking away from the two men and back down the corridor.
Bordan noted the nervous swallow of the younger man and faintest twitch of his fingers towards the knife at his belt. The reaction was gone in a moment and when Abra turned back, the smile was on his face as if it had never left.
“I suggest we take our seats,” Godewyn said, unruffled and calm. Secrets were stock-in-trade to both the Army and the Priesthood, and Bordan knew well enough that Godewyn would take his to the grave. Still, Abra’s reaction was interesting.
Looking down the table, the Emperor’s high-backed chair was at its head and to either side were lower, but ornately carved, chairs for the Empress and two children. Today plates and cutlery had been set in front of those chairs, a sure sign the imperial family would be in full attendance.
Bordan’s position, to the left of the imperial seats, was as traditional as it was practical. The Empire prized military might. All citizens were made to serve for two years and many stayed longer, finding the discipline and order suited them, or contained and focused their youthful energies towards something other than trouble. A position near the top of the table reflected that ideal of servitude, of duty, and honour.
It also served to put a soldier’s sword arm—the right for all soldiers, even those who were born favouring the left—towards the council. Though no physical swords were permitted in the council chamber, it made sense to have your best and most favoured warrior able to draw their knife and defend the imperial personages without the disadvantage of having to turn or have the table get in their way.
Opposite the General’s chair sat Godewyn: the spiritual and physical on opposing sides of the long council table. In reality there was no such opposition, only mutual respect: but in past centuries, Bordan knew, that had not always been the case.
Duke Abra had taken his seat further down the table, not far from Duke Primal. The other councillors, nobles, and senators of standing took their own chairs and conversation became a muted buzz which fluttered around the room on the edge of hearing.
The door opened once more and a portly man in a robe too small for his frame bumbled in. His thick beard hid much of his face and from beneath bushy eyebrows, which appeared to be mounting a successful invasion of his forehead, piercing blue eyes stared at the gathered council.
“Apologies,” the man said, with not a trace of shame or embarrassment. “I thought I’d given myself enough time, but it is like the finest sand of a master glassblower. You hold it in your hand, sure you have enough for the task at hand, but do not notice the subtle trickle between each finger until too much is lost.”
Bordan snorted and even Duke Primal, a man not noted for his sense of humour, allowed a small smile to pass across his lips. Godewyn said nothing but glared at the newcomer.
“Come, sit,” Duke Abra said, indicating the empty chair at the far end of the table. “The Master of the Gymnasium of Magicians is always welcome at the council table.”
“And often late,” Bordan heard Godewyn mutter. It was a truth hard to deny
, but between priesthood and magicians little love was lost.
Another door opened and a hush fell across the table. A moment later, they all stood and bowed as Prince Alhard and the Empress, followed by the golden-haired Aelia, entered the council chamber.
VI
The Magician
Ten years ago:
He felt the warmth of the embrace, of the old man’s arms around him, but it was distant. He did not recognise the man’s smell although there was something about his face, a memory or similarity which held an edge of comfort.
Hot tears fell down his cheeks and his fingers dug into the man’s clothes, drawing forth what comfort was offered.
Travelling through the forest was boring, Kyron decided. There were no long views across grassland, no peaks rising from the horizon to take giant bites from the sky, no rivers winding through valleys or across plains to draw the eyes into the distance. Instead you were faced, constantly and unendingly, with trees—one after another, each swarming with spring’s young leaves which drank the sunshine and dripped pools of chill shadow upon the track.
Five hundred soldiers, some carts, and the few horses the army could spare tramped through the woods, following the trail they had broken on their way north. It had been one used by the tribes of the forest; however, the army had widened it by cutting down the saplings and branches which encroached upon their freedom of movement. It was now a cart and a half wide at its narrowest, and in places would allow three carts to travel side by side. Kyron looked forward to those parts.
Hemmed in by the trunks of tall trees and being unable to look up and see anything but the narrow ribbon of light afforded by the burgeoning canopy was unpleasant. The tribes moved through these forest mazes with a stealth and silence no one could match. Kyron found it hard not to imagine a tribesman behind every tree, in every dip and shadow, bow drawn and selecting his back as their target. He started at each shaft of sunlight which pierced the clouds and leaves, eyes darting to the slightest hint of movement.
In amongst the full strength of the First Army, the march through these trees had been… if not relaxing, at least comforting. The tribes had hardly struck. An arrow here, a quick raid there, nothing the army could not repulse with ease. Further on, as they moved north through the great forest towards the hills and mountains, the attacks had grown in strength and ferocity as if there had been, finally, some organisation to them. After a time and after heavy losses on the part of the tribes, the attacks had ceased.
Now, in the middle of the marching order, one cart back from the covered waggon carrying the Emperor’s body, he felt exposed. To make matters worse, the carts which led the funeral procession were full of priests whose low, chanted prayers drifted back to his ears with every step. The creak and groan of the axles punctuated each verse, creating a discordant rhythm which grated on his teeth.
“Master?” Kyron said, looking up from his lonely walk to the cart where his master sat next to the driver.
Padarn looked away from the leather-bound sheaf of papers he was studying and sighed. “Yes, Kyron?”
“It’s not fair,” Kyron said, the words he had meant to say slipping from his grasp, and he heard the whine in his voice.
“Which particular part is not fair, my apprentice?”
“Her.” Kyron gestured with the point of his chin towards the front of the column.
“It is her forest.”
“It is part of the Empire,” Kyron said. “The Emperor has brought civilisation to it. It is ours now.”
“Ours?” Padarn said with a chuckle. “Which bit do you own, Kyron? Which tree is yours? Choose wisely.”
“The Empire’s, I mean. You know what I mean.”
“I do, Kyron. My apologies. I do not make fun of you, but you should think before you let words fall from your mouth.”
“Is it not part of the Empire? Is that what you mean?”
“One day it will be,” Padarn acknowledged, “but today is not that day.”
“But we’ve conquered it,” Kyron said. “This bit anyway.”
“We’ve marched through it,” his master corrected, a chuckle softening the words. “We’ve fought some battles and taken forts and villages. Conquered, though? It is a word filled with many meanings and vague because of it. All of which leads us away from your feelings of unfairness related to Emlyn.”
“Why must she stay with us?” Kyron stepped around a pile of horse dung left by one of the cart horses or an officer’s mount ahead.
“Where would you like her to sleep, Kyron? With the priests?” Padarn tucked the sheaf of parchment away in his pack. “They like her even less than us. Heathen gods and strange ways which don’t conform to their view of the world. They have little in common, and I’m sure they’d be bound to try and convert her to the Flame.”
“Would that be so bad, Master? The Empire follows one religion, the true way.” Kyron answered without thought, the words drummed into his skull at the feet of priests in the capital city.
“You know better than that,” Padarn chided him, casting a glance at the cart driver next to him. “All those years of study and you fall back upon rote learning. I taught you better, as did your grandfather before you joined us.”
“He believes,” Kyron protested.
“I don’t doubt his faith. I merely praise his questioning mind and practicality.” The Master Magician shook his head and looked back down at Kyron. “So, not with the priests. What about with the army and officers?”
“Why not?”
“The very same people that burned her village, took her fort, and stole her friends’ lives away?”
“Did her village burn?” Kyron turned his gaze in the direction of their guide.
“I don’t know, Kyron. I haven’t asked her, but one of those things, or more, is likely to have happened. You would force her, or the soldiers, into the position of sleeping so close to an enemy? How many nights until one or the other fails to wake in the morning? A knife in the night cuts quick and deep.”
“She wouldn’t.” He choked the words out, half shocked and half appalled.
“They might,” Padarn replied. “I don’t know for sure, but neither does Spear Astentius. It is better to make sure everyone is safe, and our journey continues without incident.”
“But we don’t need a guide,” Kyron protested, trying another tack. “We just have to follow this track back out of the forest.”
“And how far is that? The army marched for weeks to reach its present position. Fifteen thousand soldiers, camping, guarding, watching out for each other. A force that few, even in the far south, would choose to stand against. Now we are five hundred strong, a better target, an easier target.”
“Then Legion Arcterus should have sent more with us,” Kyron answered. “Not just us and a guide.”
“And weakened his forces to the point where the campaign would fail? Where the army might be defeated?”
“You just said fifteen thousand was a force no one wanted to face, and now you say they could all be killed,” Kyron pointed out, a smile creasing his face. “You cannot have it both ways, Master.”
Padarn clapped and smiled. “At last, you are thinking again and with your brain rather than your prejudices. The Empire army is used to fighting on plains, where the shield wall is unbreakable, and the swords run red with the blood of those who stand against them.”
“We don’t lose,” Kyron nodded.
“On land of our choosing,” Padarn said, raising a finger as he always did when he wanted to have Kyron take careful note. “The mountains of the north won’t allow the legion to deploy its full strength all in one go. You’ve been to the low hills to the west of Sudrim. Take those wide valleys and gentle slopes, make them as narrow as a cart and the slopes as steep as castle walls. The legion marches through those to reach its goal. All of which, again, leads us away from your initial complaint.”
“I’m not complaining, Master.”
“Of course not.” Pa
darn smiled. “You are questioning?”
“Yes, Master.”
“And have you come to an answer?” Which was how almost every teaching session ended, Kyron having to come up with the answer he’d wished to receive from his master.
“She is with us because we can keep her safe and no one likes us much anyway,” he answered with a sour tone. On the cart, the driver snorted and Padarn chuckled.
“Wisdom is gained one step at a time,” Padarn said.
“Just don’t step in horse shit,” the driver added with a loud laugh.
The small fire between the two tents sent shadows capering through the trees where they joined those conjured by other fires to dance with each other beneath the new boughs of spring.
“Don’t burn your fingers,” his master advised.
“I can cook the ham without burning anything, Master,” Kyron answered.
“Ham,” Emlyn, the guide and tribeswoman said, “again.”
“You don’t have to eat it.”
“You’re going to cook something else?”
“Not for you.” Kyron looked through the flames to the young tribeswoman sat across from him. She returned the look without expression.
“Then I’ll eat it,” she answered. It was difficult to read her tone and her eyes had given little away on the journey so far. She left every morning, packing her basic shelter away, a simple sheet of waxed cloth that she tied to a tree and then pinned two corners to the earth.
“You could help with the cooking.” He looked over towards Padarn for support and found none forthcoming.
“Why? You do what your master tells you, boy,” Emlyn said.
Through the flames Kyron could see she was occupied with something in her hands. “Master, why doesn’t she help with the cooking?”
“I don’t know, Kyron. Have you asked her?”
“Well…” he began, replaying the words he’d spoken.
“Then ask,” Padarn said, looking up from his book. A spark of light hung above the pages, illuminating the words.
“Yes, Master.” Kyron sighed. “Emlyn, would you help with the cooking?”
Seven Deaths of an Empire Page 4
