His breath was whistling between his teeth and in his ears the heavy beat of his heart almost drowned out their words. The spell continued though, and the motes whizzed about the construct, holding to their paths with a stubborn grace he found beautiful.
“Not yet,” his master answered. “Though often one construct, one spell can be put to many uses. The only limiting factor is imagination and strength of will.”
“Master,” Kyron wheezed. “Make her stop.”
“Desperation is the mother of invention, Kyron,” Padarn chuckled. “You stop her.”
Another branch, a twig, a stone, a pinecone, struck the shield and Kyron felt it begin to waver. The motes stuttered in their paths and the knots he had tied began to fray.
“Master,” he pleaded.
“I won’t always be there for you, Kyron,” Padarn said. “You stop her.”
“Emlyn,” Kyron whined as another stone struck the shield. Cracks formed in the shield, blockages in the paths, threads, and arteries which the motes sped along. “Stop.”
“Stop me,” she taunted and another stone, larger and jagged, hit his construct.
The knots started to come undone and the threads unravelled as another stone struck the shield. He fought to hold them together, to ease the flow of their passage, to constrain them with his will, his power, but they refused to answer his call, to follow his demands.
Another stone and the cracks widened. His stomach twisted in desperation and anger. She was taunting him, stealing his accomplishments. To her they were nothing. His magic was nothing. He was worthless and a fire of shame burned in his gut, its flames licking at his mind.
“Enough,” Padarn called. “You did well, Kyron, to stop so many missiles.”
The stones stopped and his shield steadied for a moment before flickering from existence, the motes fleeing back into the world. His anger died and the flames in his mind went out.
Opening his eyes, he saw the smile on his master’s face. Glancing around, he saw a similar smile on Emlyn’s, but where his master’s was one of pride, hers had the look of a predator sensing easy prey.
XXI
The General
Nine years ago:
“Did Dorus really found the Empire?” the boy asked despite the talk around the table being of the foul winter coming in off the sea.
“No one really knows,” he answered. “There are a few legends, some go back thousands of years. What did your Grammaticus say?”
“He said it might have been a girl,” the boy replied, his face twisting in distaste.
“Bellona,” he said, keeping the smile from his face. “As I say, no one really knows.”
“You seem concerned, General,” the High Priest said as he took his seat.
“There is much to be worried about, my friend,” Bordan replied, still seeing the soldier beyond the raiment of the priest.
“Pass your worries on to me and I will cast them into the flames,” Godewyn said, a gentle smile upon the large man’s face.
“I wish it was so easy,” Bordan said, dragging his goblet of wine across the wooden table and taking a drink.
“Is that why you are here so early?” Godewyn picked up his own goblet but did not drink.
“The council room is quiet and secluded,” Bordan acknowledged, resting his hand on the leather-bound sheaf of papers in front of him.
“Until the council arrive. You needed a space to think?”
Bordan nodded. Looking down, in the deep red wine the dark reflection of his eyes stared back at him, measuring, taunting, questioning. “Some time away from my desk, the constant reports, and distractions. Finding a place to sit and gather my thoughts is becoming more difficult with each passing day.”
“Age or the heir?” Godewyn said, now lifting the goblet to his lips and taking a sip.
“Both, probably,” Bordan answered with his own smile. “Once the coronation is complete, I think it might be time to take a step back and let others shoulder the burden.”
“Retirement? I never thought you would ever consider that,” the High Priest said. “I felt sure I would be sending you to the Flame dressed in your uniform.”
“I’d still want that,” Bordan replied without hesitation. Priests and soldiers, the only two professions who could talk about death without getting maudlin about it.
“I’ll be sure to make it happen,” Godewyn said and paused before adding, “when the time has come. No need to rush these things, my friend. The new Emperor might need a little guidance from old hands such as you and I.”
Bordan grunted. “He will need guidance, Godewyn. Someone he will listen to and take account of. I tutored him for a time, when he was small, and I held high hopes. You tutored him too?”
“For a time, before my ascension. I found him to be a pious boy. Belief came easy to him,” Godewyn answered.
“And questions?” Bordan asked, meeting the gaze of his old friend and smiling before picking up his goblet.
“Less easily,” the priest admitted. “You worry about him?”
“I worry about the Empire, Godewyn.”
“You think he is not ready?”
The question caused Bordan to pause before answering, his concerns and worries encapsulated in the High Priest’s words. “I think he is young, inexperienced, and untested. His father raised him, so there is that. We, along with others have tutored him, so we know his weaknesses and flaws.”
“We all have flaws, Bordan,” Godewyn smiled, “even you.”
“True,” Bordan sighed. “On the ride and in the town, I saw promise. With the right guidance, he has potential.”
“Was his father any different at his age?”
“I don’t know.” Bordan chuckled. “I remember his succession, but little of those years.”
“Assume he was,” Godewyn said. “For the sake of argument. With your guidance, and mine, Alhard could be a good Emperor.”
“You’re just trying to get me to reconsider my retirement,” Bordan accused.
“Possibly,” Godewyn acknowledged. “However, you are the famed General. He will listen to you and you can set his feet on the right path. Have hope alongside your faith in the Empire, my friend.”
“There is promise,” Bordan acknowledged, “and perhaps I am getting too old and too impatient. With fewer years ahead, I feel the need to see change happen quicker than nature allows.”
“He will need your wisdom, Bordan,” Godewyn said. “Speaking of the Prince, I have heard of his great victory over the tribes.”
“You have?” Bordan looked up from his wine and back across the table to the High Priest. There was something about the tilt of the other man’s chin, the way his eyes narrowed, and his lips were a little thinner than he remembered. “What have you heard?”
“An interesting tale is circulating the Church’s lower orders…” Godewyn began, glancing towards the door to the imperial chambers.
“We have some time,” Bordan said, resting the goblet on the table and shifting in the wooden chair to get comfortable. It also gave him a moment to focus on his heart rate and to still the expression on his face.
“The story I heard says that the legion were attacked near the border while riding to the rescue of a village. It seems, from the story, that the village had been plagued by outlaws, tribes from the nearby forest, who stole all their food and supplies, who beat their children and raped their wives.” Godewyn paused to sip his wine. “The Prince had brought, I am told, a cohort of soldiers with him. Just in time, so the story goes, they spotted the villagers being herded into the forest and gave chase.”
The High Priest paused once more and Bordan felt a tug in his chest, a feeling he should be saying something, correcting or adding detail to the story. It was an effort of will to hold the words within, unsaid, to hide the truth from the High Priest, though he allowed a small nod of his head.
“The Prince and the soldiers chased them into the trees. A great battle ensued, so I am informed, wi
th the Prince leading the charge. Seeing no way out, the tribes slaughtered the villagers before the Prince could rescue them. With tears in his eyes, so they say, the Prince attacked once more. With a mighty display of skill and feats of arms beyond that of normal men, the Prince slew twenty of the tribesmen himself before they were all put down.”
Godewyn’s stare never strayed from his and Bordan knew he was being tested, though he did not know to pass or fail. “They say that the Prince, his sword and anger slaked by the blood of the tribes let it fall to the floor so he might cradle a dying child and aid its small soul onto the flame and the peace it promised in the next life.”
Bordan did not move as the story ended but focused on keeping his breathing even and his eyes as neutral as he could manage.
“A heroic story, General,” Godewyn said, “and so sad that the villagers could not be saved.”
“Heroic indeed,” Bordan agreed, cursing at the slight tremor in his voice. For a heartbeat he considered reaching for his wine but knew his shaking hand would betray him. “I share your anguish at the loss of the innocent villagers. War can do strange things to a person, and it is true that no one truly leaves a battle unchanged or unmarked.”
“Even you?”
“I am not as young as I once was, Godewyn,” Bordan admitted, using the truth to cloud the answer. “I think—I hope—that that was my last ride out with the troops. Though I’ll miss it, there are many fine officers who will serve with honour. Maxentius will be an excellent General when I retire.”
“I fear you are wrong, General. Not about Maxentius,” the High Priest said, raising his hand in apology. “Every succession is fraught with peril and there is a change coming, I can feel it in the warmth of my soul.”
“The Flame flickers?” Bordan asked, glancing at the wine once more suddenly in need of a drink.
Priests had forecast change before, and it had always come to pass. Perhaps not in the exact way they prophesied, but seeing the ever-changing future was an imprecise skill which had sent many a prophet mad. The last he could remember—a shopkeeper from the old quarter—had ended his days chained to a stone pillar in the Temple of the Flame, fed by the priests who took down his every word. Much had been gibberish, but there were kernels of truth which had come true.
“Not in my sight,” Godewyn said, “but I can feel the mood of the congregation and the city.”
“To be expected,” Bordan replied, his heart calming, “we are in a time of uncertainty. Once Alhard is crowned, the city and Empire will calm and stabilise once more.”
“You truly believe that?” The High Priest arched an eyebrow.
“I must,” Bordan said, giving in and reaching for the wine, taking a deep draught and letting the taste of a fruitful summer coat his tongue. “Your guidance will keep him on the true path.”
“I wish my faith in the city was as firm as yours,” Godewyn said.
“A long history of service to the Empire,” Bordan said, raising his goblet in salute. “It bends and flexes but never breaks.”
“I hope you are right, General, though the stories I hear concern me. I fear we are heading into an age of change,” Godewyn answered, raising his own goblet.
The door at the far end opened and Duke Abra stepped in. Both men at the table stopped talking and let their goblets rest on the table.
“Do not let me disturb you, gentlemen,” Abra said, his tone bright and carefree as he slid into his chair. “Ah, wine. It is early, but never too early to share a fine vintage with friends.”
Bordan bit his tongue, refusing to allow the words his mind conjured to be brought into existence. A sword might end a single life, but a word could lead to the death of thousands.
“You seem in a cheerful mood this morning,” Godewyn said.
“I should not be?” Abra said, pouring wine into his goblet and selecting some fruit from the tray. “The Prince has returned from a victory against the tribes of the forest, gaining glory for the Empire and proving his mettle in battle. It bodes well for the future of the Empire, does it not?”
Bordan watched the other man’s face, hearing the trap within the words and seeing willingness to pounce in Abra’s eyes.
“No one can doubt the Prince’s skill at arms,” Bordan said in a soft voice.
“And a nascent rebellion has been stymied.” Abra took a sip of his wine. “A good day for the Empire and so I am happy. I am grateful to you, General, for guiding the heir into battle and seeing him safely from it. The people will rejoice under a strong leader.”
Before Bordan could answer, the door opened once more and Vedrix stepped in. The old man stopped and peered at the three men. He raised a nervous hand in greeting.
“Good morning,” he said. “I thought I was late, you know. Seems I am not. Good. Good.”
“Welcome, Vedrix,” Abra said, waving towards the table. “Take a seat and a goblet of wine. We were just discussing the Prince’s victory over the tribes.”
“Victory?” Vedrix mumbled as he slid into his chair and took the jug of wine from Abra.
“In the forests,” Abra said. “With the General here. You must have heard the stories?”
“No, um…” Vedrix said, flicking a glance towards Bordan. “I heard from some in the market square of a slaughter in the forests. A village full of people were killed?”
“Sadly,” Abra said when neither the priest or General spoke up, “the General was too late to save the villagers from the tribesmen, but the Prince led a charge and killed all the tribesmen involved.”
“Strange they are so far south,” Vedrix said, sipping his wine, “these tribesmen, I mean. I wonder how they got there.”
“They didn’t come south,” Abra said, looking to Bordan for assistance. The General raised his goblet to his lips and Abra shook his head. “They live in the forests already.”
“In the north, I know, Duke Abra. I was referring to those in the west, where the Prince and General marched,” Vedrix said. “Am I mistaking the stories? Forgive me, I wasn’t listening too closely.”
“No,” Abra said. “They are the same stories.”
“Ah,” Vedrix nodded. “Forgive my lack of knowledge of the world outside the gymnasium. I do try to take an interest but there are so many things to occupy my mind. I thought that people of the western forest were of the Empire?”
“Tribal history,” Abra said. “They were of the tribes once and harbour the desire to be part of them again.”
“Centuries ago, I believe,” Vedrix said, “before they joined the Empire, but as I say my knowledge is lacking in this area. I’m glad the Prince was able to protect the Empire from its enemies.”
“As are we all, Master Vedrix,” Bordan said into the quiet. Godewyn, across the table from him, grunted.
The room quietened as the rest of the Ruling Council arrived one by one, taking up their seats and whispering to each other. Bordan let his eyes close and listened to the secretive discussions, catching only snippets and single words. Enough to feel the mood of the council. All talk seemed to be of the Prince’s victory over the tribes… he corrected himself, the people, in the forest to the west.
As they talked, the image of the blood-soaked Prince and the slaughtered villagers painted itself in the red and orange splotches on the inside of his eyelids. Trained soldiers who should know better joining in, and those who did know better standing back, unable to intervene as the villagers were shown no mercy.
At last the door to the imperial quarters opened. However instead of Prince Alhard, a member of the imperial guard stood there. He looked nervous, a sheen of sweat across his head and a flush of red around the base of his neck.
“What is it, Immunis?” Bordan spoke before anyone else could utter a word.
“General,” the soldier turned his eyes to the General, grateful to be speaking to his superior, “the Empress asks that you and High Priest Godewyn join her at your earliest convenience.”
“Did she say why?” Abra call
ed along the length of the table.
“I’ve delivered the message as ordered, General,” the soldier said, his head twitching as he fought to ignore the Duke’s question.
“We will come with you now,” Godewyn said, sliding his chair back and rising to his full height. “An Empress’s wishes must be obeyed.”
“We will wait for Prince Alhard and tell him where you’ve gone, if you have no objections,” Abra said and Bordan watched the others nod, apart from Vedrix who was staring at him with eyes that seemed anything but confused.
“Your assistance is always gratefully received, Duke Abra,” Godewyn answered.
The words were innocuous but Bordan saw the smile on Abra’s face falter for a moment. There were mutters from the rest of the council as Bordan stood from his chair and followed the soldier through the door. At the sound of the solid click of the latch on the closing door, the soldier ahead sagged in relief as he turned to the General.
“What is it?” Bordan asked, noting now the pale skin and shaking hands of the guard.
“The Prince is dead, General.”
XXII
The Magician
Nine years ago:
“Your grandfather was a dirty street urchin, boy,” Linus said when Flaccus strode off into the market to buy lunch.
“He’s a soldier,” he said, stretching to his full height and thrusting out his chest. “You wouldn’t say that if he was here. It’s a lie and liars get the birch.”
“My father told me he was,” Linus said, balling his fists and striding up to him. “And if you’re calling him a liar, I’ll beat you.”
There was a warm trickle down his leg and the sound of laughter.
The cry of warning rippled through the guard. Soldiers ahead and behind Kyron gripped shields tighter, took hold of weapons and turned to face the forest on both sides of the column. Such a smooth, practised reaction it filled him with confidence.
“What is it, Master?”
“You know as much as I do, Kyron,” Padarn replied, standing up from the cart’s seat and looking forward, over the heads of the soldiers. “For now, we will sit tight and stay out of the army’s way.”
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