“Abra certainly,” Bordan said, swallowing his irritation and keeping his voice level, “though he has done nothing overt nor spoken of his desires. With his control of the merchant fleet, it is feasible that he could engineer some way to make a play for the throne, but it is not likely. He is not a man prone to rash actions. To hire his own army—enough mercenaries to pose a threat to our two armies on this continent—would be hard to disguise. There will be others.”
“Trenis?” The Prince stood in a rush, his chair legs scraping across the stone.
“Possibly, my Prince. We will keep watch on them all. Once the ceremony is complete, you will be Emperor,” Bordan explained. “If we need to take action before, we will.”
“Arrest them now,” Alhard said. “Take Abra’s ships. I’ll issue the declaration. The risk is too great. Let’s put them back in their place before they get too bold.”
“We cannot, my son,” the Empress said. “The Empire is based on the rule of law. If we break it then everyone else is free to do so.”
“We have the army,” Alhard argued. “We command and they obey. Bordan, summon troops back to the capital. The peasants will fall into line quick enough if we march troops through the city’s streets.”
“And in the countryside where many Dukes hold land and have mercenary groups alongside their own guards?” Bordan paused for a moment, taking a drink from his goblet, watching the thoughts stray across Alhard’s face. “Would you give up the farms and forests where our food and fuel comes from? It would give a Duke such as Abra greater leverage, and we cannot fight a war on the plains and the oceans at the same time.” He paused, examining the shimmering reflection on the surface of the wine. It hid the lines around his eyes, but not the sadness. “In the city, they are contained, Prince Alhard, and under careful watch. The traditional period of mourning will make any action stand out to our watchers. I know it is difficult, but better to be calm and consider all options and strategies before launching an attack. When you are crowned Emperor, the Dukes will fall into line, my Prince, and your throne will be secure.”
“But…” Alhard began.
“Should action be needed, it will be taken at the right time, and when we are sure of the support of others. For that we need proof. General?” the Empress asked, cutting off her son’s response.
“My spies report daily, Your Highness,” Bordan said, offering the Empress a grateful nod.
“A summary of their findings would be useful.”
“I will bring it every morning, Your Highness,” Bordan agreed.
“I don’t like it,” Alhard said, sinking back into his chair and staring at the ruins of his meal.
“What, my Prince?”
“That they want to take my place, to steal my birthright and throne.”
“They will not, my Prince,” Bordan assured the young man. “Your father was a man of patience who knew the right time to strike was not always at the outset of an endeavour. You are his son, his heir, and have that same blood running through your veins. Be guided by us, your mother, sister, and myself, until the amulet is yours and the souls of every Emperor joins with your own. You will be Emperor, my Prince.”
“I must be,” Alhard said, reaching across the table for his discarded knife and stabbing it into another slab of meat. “And once I am, we will deal with the traitors properly.”
“A show of force, a parade, might settle the people, General,” Aelia said, though her eyes were fixed upon the last of the evening light streaming in through the window opposite. “And my dear brother should be seen by the people. At our father’s side he was, forgive me, just the heir. Now he can ride at the head of the column.”
“Yes,” Alhard said, his sullen mood evaporating, and the food forgotten once again.
“It cannot be… too big a parade,” Bordan cautioned. “The period of mourning must be observed, and the people expect certain things of us all at this time. We cannot step too far from the rituals and rhythms of the Church. There have been reports of some unrest amongst the people as well. It might be best to—”
“A procession,” Aelia mused, talking over the General, her gaze still distant. “An observance.”
“To the Church?” Alhard’s tone was less than enthusiastic and Bordan could only agree.
“To an ancestor,” Aelia’s voice rose and she turned to face them. “To the statue of this city’s founder. Pay respects.”
“And forge some links to our past,” the Empress added. “The people would understand the symbolic journey.”
“It is a good suggestion,” Bordan replied, though deep in his belly a worm of worry began to burrow. “We would need to plan it most carefully.”
“Tomorrow,” Alhard said. “We will go tomorrow. I cannot stay locked away forever behind these walls, only attending Ruling Council meetings. The people should see me and the troops.” The Prince held up a hand as Bordan opened his mouth to argue for another day to prepare. “I have made my decision, General. You now obey me as you did my father.”
Bordan glanced at the Empress but her face was impassive, giving nothing away. “Of course, my Prince. I will have the troops assembled for you in the morning.”
X
The Magician
Ten years ago:
No one woke him. No one called his name. No warm arms enfolded him, and no soft kiss was planted upon his forehead. They were gone.
He pulled on a tunic, his only one, and stumbled down the stairs of the unfamiliar house. The scent of baking bread wafted to his nose and he breathed deeply, a memory of a home no longer standing. Bittersweet.
“Kyron.”
His master’s voice broke him from a daydream and the image of dark eyes fled back into the recesses of his mind. “Master?”
“It is time to renew the markers on the Emperor’s funeral bier,” Padarn said. “Daydreaming is all well and good, but if you’re not going to study you may as well be of some use.”
“But, Master, you know the priests don’t like me,” he protested.
“They are not overly fond of me either, Kyron, but the Emperor requires our service and he was long a supporter of the Gymnasium when others counselled him against it,” his master replied. “Do not give them the shot to sling back at us, my apprentice. Renew the preservation wards, be polite, and serve the Empire.”
“I know about service,” he snapped back and regretted it immediately. “I’m sorry, Master. A word I heard too often used as a reason growing up.”
Waiting for admonishment, he was surprised to see a small smile crawl across his master’s face. “Master?”
“I met your grandfather, briefly, when he presented you at the gymnasium,” Padarn mused. “A man of dedication, but a pragmatist too. He saw your path was not his. To some men service is the pinnacle of their expectations, to others it is the core of their being, and yet to a rare few it is just the beginning. The Emperor understood that; at least I choose to believe so. Where you stand is yet to be determined, Kyron. However, right now, at this moment, your master is giving you a task and you will carry it out to the best of your ability.” The words were tempered by the smile which still creased Padarn’s face. “Don’t let any of us down.”
Kyron took a breath. “Of course, Master.”
He stood, brushing the leaves and dirt from his clothes. He threw the leather strap of his satchel over his shoulder, settling the weight against his hip and giving it a reassuring pat.
“Be polite and don’t rise to anything they say or do,” Padarn warned him. “Remember, they need you if they are to fulfil their own duties.”
“Master, what if…” he began.
“And no magic but that which the markers require,” Padarn said, raising a finger. “Not even an itch or bee sting should befall the priests.”
Kyron sighed. “Yes, Master.”
“Good boy. Off you go,” his master said, “and don’t take too long. We’ll be moving again soon.”
This time he contained
the sigh and settled for a nod of acknowledgement. Trudging through the resting column towards the funeral bier and the priests who clustered around it, he was forced to step across the deep muddy ruts left by the waggons ahead. On both sides of the track, soldiers sat, chatting and eating their rations of hard bread and cured meat, swigging from water skins and checking the fit of their armour. Despite the relaxed atmosphere, Kyron knew there were scouts out amongst the trees and other troops keeping watch.
Too soon the Emperor’s bier came into view: a waggon painted in the Emperor’s colours with a ring of guards stationed around it. These did not sit, chat or eat, but kept a watchful stare at the forest. Clustered together, a short distance from the waggon sat the small cadre of priests who had been chosen to accompany the body back to the capital. Kyron saw one look in his direction and nudge the priest next to her.
Gritting his teeth and forcing a neutral expression on his face, Kyron kept his steps even and his eyes focused upon the waggon. The priests did not call out, but their stares weighed as much as a merchant’s cheating thumb on the spice market’s scales.
Stopping before the soldier who stood between the tracks, he looked up into the man’s hard eyes.
“Immunis,” Kyron began, cursing the crack in his voice, “my master sent me to renew the markers.”
“Pass, Kyron,” the Immunis said without looking at him.
“Thanks,” the young man said and stepped around the soldier.
“Don’t let them get you annoyed,” the Immunis added in a quiet whisper. “You’re serving the Empire with honour. Don’t forget that.”
Kyron stopped, level with the Immunis but looking towards the waggon and the priests who had lined up before it. “Always service.”
“What else is there to life?” the Immunis replied.
Kyron bit back his initial response. “Thank you for the advice.”
“Anytime, Apprentice.”
Kyron moved again, thinking over the guard’s words and forgetting to look at his feet. The churned-up mud was slippery and his foot skidded, his balance abandoning him. Wheeling his arms, he lurched forward and down onto one knee. Both hands slammed into the mud to prevent him going any further and there was a burst of laughter from the line of priests.
Standing, he looked at his dirt-covered hands while the laughter rang in his ears. A fire of anger flashed down his throat and warmed his belly, but he damped it down, remembering his master’s words.
“Here,” the Immunis said, handing him a cloth which Kyron used to wipe most of the dirt from his hands. “I’ve slipped twice today myself.”
“Thank you,” Kyron said, returning the cloth.
“Keep it,” the Immunis said, “at least until you’ve had a chance to clean it.”
“I’ll bring it back to you,” Kyron promised. “Immunis?”
“Juncus,” the man said.
“Thank you again, Immunis Juncus.” He folded the cloth into a square and tucked it inside his clothes.
“Welcome, Apprentice,” one of the priests said as Kyron turned back to them. His robe was like the others but trimmed with a grey the colour of ash.
“Deacon,” Kyron replied adding a small bow. Scanning the other priests, he saw there was one other wearing the grey trim of rank, every other robe was plain black. The highest priest of rank amongst the honour guard was absent and the three Justices had stayed with the main bulk of the army, for which Kyron was grateful. “How fares the Archdeacon today?”
“His arm is healing,” the Deacon replied, his eyes narrowing as he focused on Kyron.
Under his own clothes, the young apprentice began to sweat. “I am glad. If you would permit, I am sure I can…”
“No,” the Deacon snapped. “The Archdeacon’s arm will heal without the taint of your magic.”
Kyron swallowed down the response and settled for a calm nod and the words, “Of course, Deacon. It shall be as you say.”
The old man had tripped over something on the first day of the journey—exactly what no one would say or seemed sure—and in the fall had broken his arm. The cry of pain had echoed along the column and they had halted, letting daylight pass while they treated the man. Padarn had offered his assistance but was rebuffed just as Kyron had been now. It was important, his master had told him, to make the offer nonetheless.
“The markers?” Kyron prompted when no one else seemed to want to speak and risk the Deacon’s temper.
“Yes,” the Deacon said. “Curate Livillia, go with the apprentice and see he carries out his duties appropriately.”
“Yes, Deacon,” the voice of a woman floated out of the hooded cowl she wore.
“Don’t touch anything else.” A bony finger with its sharp nail tinged with unhealthy yellow punctuated the Deacon’s words, jabbing at Kyron upon every word.
“Of course, Deacon,” Kyron said, his hands curling into fists and spine stiffening as he forced himself to bow to the priest.
“I’m glad you’ve been taught proper respect for the priesthood,” the Deacon said, oil dripping from every word as he swept away followed by the other priest.
The lonely figure of Curate Livillia did not move for a long moment, but once the Deacon and followers had rounded the corner of the waggons a deep sigh emanated from the cowl. “Come then, Apprentice. Let’s get this unpleasant duty done.”
“I know where the markers are, Curate,” Kyron said. “You don’t have to watch me.”
“Much as I don’t wish to, Apprentice, the Deacon has ordered it,” she said, “and to be a priest is to always follow the higher order. Even one as unpleasant as this.”
Without another word, the Curate turned and led Kyron to the corner of the Emperor’s bier. Even from the length of four horses away, the scent of magic, the power contained and re-purposed washed across him. It was a dry smell, an old aroma—not of the grave or decay, but of the ancient and treasured. His grandfather had owned swords: some were gifts from other kingdoms, some were from the Empire, but all were too old to be used. They had a similar smell and feel, not of magic but of time.
The markers themselves were nothing more than symbols painted upon each corner of the bier. Permanent preservation—or at least as his master explained it preservation which would last so long as to be viewed as permanent—was possible, but expensive. The materials needed to contain the magic, to prevent its essence from eroding the material, was rare and only a few knew the correct combination of minerals, metals and gems along with the forging technique.
Most magic, that which was designed to last, was written on parchment or painted on objects. Constant upkeep and maintenance was required, but that kept the magicians in employment—so Padarn said.
Kyron breathed deeply as he knelt before the first marker. The shape was stylised, somewhere in-between a picture and a letter and each observer read it differently. Beyond that it had no meaning or special power. It was part of the artifice of magic, the outward show of the years of study.
Taking a pot of ink and brush from his satchel, he painted over the symbol, defining the lines a little more and adding a twist of his own. It was a moment of stillness, of calm and practice which helped to focus his mind.
Closing his eyes, he placed the implements upon the floor, and let his mind drift to the magic. The sounds of the world melted away, the whinny of horses, the scrape of whetstone on metal, the chatter of the soldiers, even his own heartbeat faded from his consciousness.
Yet around him the world buzzed. With eyes shut, he could not see the landscape and forest, but the magic outlined it all in his mind. The priest who stood close by, the shape of the bier, its fabric and wood, the trees and dirt. The further away, the less distinct it became until the world faded into a blur of impression and mists.
Only the minute specks of magic remained, passing through and bouncing off all that surrounded him. They were everywhere, in everything, a million tiny flies buzzing past his ears, a billion minuscule stars wheeling around the sky. The
y called to him and he to them, commanding, cajoling, explaining, demanding, and controlling.
This was magic. This was where he existed.
XI
The General
Ten years ago:
The soft footsteps intruded on his thoughts and he looked up from the scroll. The boy had cried himself to sleep last night in his arms, his little body wracked with sobs. It had been an easy decision to let him sleep late. He put away the pot of ink and rolled up his journal, tucking it into a desk drawer.
“I am still not convinced this is wise, my Prince,” Bordan called over the sound of horseshoes on cobbles.
“We are surrounded by your best guards, are we not?” Alhard replied, sweeping his hand in a gesture which encompassed the ring of soldiers who surrounded them.
“We are.”
“And you said it yourself, General, to keep the peace it is important the people see their future Emperor,” Alhard said.
“From castle walls, my Prince, at feasts, attending the theatre, at the Colosseum. Not riding amongst them.” Bordan looked across at the heir. They had argued for a short time, but the Prince had finally agreed to wear the lorica hamata, the vest of chain, beneath his tabard. “The Dukes need to see you out and about. The lords and ladies who control the trade, the tax collection, the flow of food into city. The guild masters and merchants, those are the people who need to see you, who you need to talk to and impress.”
“Impress, General? I am their Emperor. I don’t need to impress them. They just need to do what they are told,” Alhard grunted.
“They will, my Prince, but sometimes you will find their support will come with more… alacrity if they find you agreeable to their interests,” Bordan suggested.
“Agreeable?” Alhard turned in his saddle to wave at a resident who gazed out at them from a window. “Once I am Emperor, General, are not their interests mine?”
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