Kyron tried a weak smile, a memory of his own time at this task. Time well spent given the last few weeks, but never enjoyable.
“I’d tell you to do it, but you don’t look well,” the man said. “Where is your master, Apprentice?”
“Dead,” Kyron answered, a chill sweeping through his body and he shook, unable to control his muscles.
“Oh,” the man said, leaning closer and examining him, “you’re Padarn’s apprentice. A good man, good magician too. You want me to get someone to look you over?”
“He just needs rest,” Emlyn said. “Got a little hurt in the battle, and it has been a long walk.”
“Aye,” the man said, “can see he isn’t right. Take him to his rooms, but don’t go wandering off, young lady. Most of the corridors are safe, but there are things here which might be dangerous if you go into the wrong place, at the wrong time.”
“I’ll stay with him,” Emlyn said. “He needs rest and good food.”
“More than likely,” the man agreed. “I’ll have an apprentice bring up some food and drink for you both.”
“I can make it to the refectory,” Kyron protested.
“Not if you’re asleep,” the man said, “which you will be soon as your head hits the pillow I’d wager.”
“Stop talking, Kyron,” Emlyn told him.
“Take him to Padarn’s room,” the man said. “There’s a spare bed if you need it.”
“Thank you,” he heard Emlyn say. “Which way?”
They followed the route, though in truth Kyron could have walked the path with his eyes closed. Magicians, apprentices and novices, wide-eyed and hurrying with quick steps, flitted about the corridors. The scent of magic drifted on the air, a heady mix of sulphur, pine, and ozone which tickled his nose. He sneezed and groaned as a stab of pain ran through his chest.
“Just here,” he said, nodding to a plain door on the right side of the corridor.
“It won’t open,” Emlyn complained as she grabbed the handle and pushed.
“Locked,” Kyron said. “We locked it on the morning we left.”
“You lock your doors?” she said, jiggling the handle once more.
“Here,” he said, reaching into his tunic and lifting the chain with its attached key he had taken from his master and kept safe for the entire journey.
The inside of Padarn’s rooms were tidy and warm. Light fell through a window high in the facing wall and splashed across the floor picking out the dust which floated and swirled in the air.
A tall bookcase stood next to the door, full of scrolls and precious books. Kyron recalled paging through these tomes, marvelling at illuminated manuscripts, poring over plain and simple texts, and staring at drawings which detailed everything from the internal workings of the human body to the circling of the stars in the sky. Much of it was beyond his understanding, but knowledge was a narcotic to which he was addicted, and his curiosity was an appetite which could never be sated.
A bench ran along the wall beneath the window and a bed, his bed, rested in the far corner. In the other wall was the door to Padarn’s room.
He stopped halfway to both, torn.
“I don’t need sleep,” Emlyn said, “and we’ll leave Padarn’s room as it was for a while longer. Get some rest, I’ll take the chair by the fireplace.”
Kyron looked over his shoulder at her and smiled. “Thank you.”
“Means I’ll hear the door when that apprentice gets here with the food,” she answered as she strode across the room and threw herself into the chair, stretching out her legs before her. He watched for a moment as she took one of the sticks from her belt, unsheathed her knife and began to carve.
The memory of his own bed was as nothing compared to climbing back into it after all the time away. Pillows sank beneath his head, rising like soft snow drifts around his ears, muting the noise from outside. His mattress was his mother’s arms enfolding him in the warmest embrace of youth.
A contented sigh and sleep took him.
LIII
The General
Four years ago:
He watched Master Vedrix unfurl the scroll, read a little and nod.
“Do you know what is wrong with him? Can it be cured?”
The large magician collapsed into his cushioned chair with a deep sigh. “We know what is wrong, and no it cannot be cured.”
“He is going to die?” The goblet of chilled wine shook in his hand, little ripples sloshing against the side.
“No,” Master Vedrix said, shuffling forward. “The boy can see magic, General. He needs training, to learn control, or the Church will come after him.”
“This armour was never comfortable,” Bordan complained as the red cape was fixed to the shoulders and he fastened the sword belt. The sheathed gladius would rest in his office today, but the pugio in its ornate, decorated scabbard would remain. A soldier never went anywhere unarmed, a lesson drilled into him through far too many inspections during his early years in the army.
So many friends, and so few still living today. Old age had taken some, illness others, but many had fallen to the blades of enemies on campaigns which were now part of history. In the blurred reflection of the silvered mirror, he saw the armour of the Empire and the face of an old man who had lived for duty and service. Hard lines around the mouth, wrinkles creasing his forehead, and eyes of dark pride and sorrow.
“You made your choice a long time ago,” he muttered to the reflection.
“Sorry, General?” Cohort Cypria said, stepping into view.
“Talking to myself,” Bordan said. “Getting into bad habits.”
“We’ve all got those, General,” Cypria said with a smile.
“A lifetime of practice,” Bordan smiled. “Are the troops ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then we’d best get to it,” Bordan said, straightening his back and settling the armour on his shoulders.
Hand on the pommel of his pugio, Bordan swept from the room, keeping his pace measured and face calm. Yet his heart beat faster with each step and his mind raced behind his eyes. Soldiers and staff saluted as he passed, and he returned the honour as a reflex.
The last time a day like this had happened, the old Emperor had been a young man and Bordan had possessed a spring in his step. Today was different: the elation he had felt as he marched as part of the General’s staff, a newly raised Legion in the Empire’s army, was absent.
Outside the sun shone down upon the palace and city. From the wall, the church, its symbol of the Flame and its towers built tall to accentuate the power of religion, was bright and clear to see. A simple march down the avenue which connected the martial power of the Empire to its religious heart. The crowds were growing, kept back by fences erected over the days since the battle at the bridge, and the noise of their chatter carried to his ears without pause. A thousand voices, two thousand, an army of civilians who had gathered to see the new Emperor crowned.
At the opposite end of the avenue, the barracks and yards of the army. There, he knew, rested the Emperor’s waggon. A decorated, more ornate, open waggon had replaced the one which had carried his body without complaint or falter from the north. Its labour was complete, and it would be retired with honour, or more likely chopped into firewood ready to stave off the bite of winter.
Resting a hand on the sun-warmed stone of the wall, he took a deep breath, drinking in the sight of the Empire’s heart. Is this how the old General had felt before he had descended the steps to lead the funeral guard to the church? An ending to one chapter and the opening of another, hoping it would be a lighter, better, happier story, and fearing it would not.
He shook the thoughts away and put his feet on the first smooth step, forcing himself down them one at a time. No rush, he told himself. Calm and steady. Service and duty.
“They are ready,” Sarimarcus said as Bordan joined him at the head of the guard.
“Thank you, Prefect,” Bordan replied. “The new rank suits you.
”
“Thank you, General,” Prefect Sarimarcus replied.
“You’ll be a Legion before too long,” Bordan said. “Duty and service, if you can balance both there won’t be anyone to stop you.”
“The higher you go, the more responsibility,” Sarimarcus said. “I am in no rush.”
“You are wise too,” Bordan said, glancing at the ranks of soldiers behind him, and in their centre the Emperor’s funeral waggon. Pageant and ceremony were the symbols and strength of the Empire. The passing of power today would be cemented in the heart of the populace by the rituals conducted. “I think it is about time. Issue the order.”
“Yes, General,” Sarimarcus said and wiped the sweat which dripped from beneath his plumed helm from his face.
Trumpets sang out across the avenue, echoing from the walls and the sounds swelled in his heart. Everyone fell silent in their wake, the city stilled, and the soldiers took their first step.
They marched past the crowds on either side. No one cheered, none shouted, and no banners were waved. Only the feet of the soldiers against the stones and the creak of the waggon’s wheels broke the silence. Overhead a single raven fluttered from the church tower, crossing the cloudless sky and vanishing behind the palace walls.
Every face turned as they passed, following their progress along the avenue, and Bordan felt the weight of each gaze. History walked beside him, and he felt her presence, heard her subtle whispers in his ear and knew she saw everything in his heart. His fingers itched for his diary and stylus. Someone, somewhere, would document this day and get everything wrong, miss every subtlety, and read the wrong portents in each action. She would know the truth. It was small comfort.
At the base of the church steps, the procession halted, and the ranks widened, spreading out to protect the entrance. Everyone important, all those invited, would already be inside, sat, waiting.
“Prefect,” Bordan instructed and with whispered orders the Emperor’s pallet, carved from southern oak, was slipped with exquisite care from the waggon.
Flowers surrounded his body and as the bearers drew level with the General, he noted the makeup which had been applied to give the man a semblance of life and cover the wound a borrowed arrow had made in his face. Nothing could disguise the sunken skin, the stillness, the lack of an inner fire. The man he had called a friend, his Emperor, was no longer present.
The dark red gem on the corpse’s chest absorbed the sunlight and appeared, to Bordan’s eyes, to ripple with each step as if it contained a liquid which sloshed against either side. All for this, a holy object which Emperors had worn for thousands of years and which owed as much, he suspected, to magic as to religion. If the legends and stories were true, that was, if the memories really were stored within and it was not just another ceremony, another symbol which helped glue the Empire together.
He led the bearers up the steps and into the church. They passed the mass of nobles, influential civilians, rich merchants, their husbands and wives. The aisle from the door to the altar which looked down upon the fire at the far end was clear. Priests in white, the symbol of the flame upon their chests, walked along the rows swinging censers which gave off a sweet-smelling smoke of sea dew and jasmine. Tendrils drifted towards the high vaulted ceiling.
General Bordan paused in the door for moment, knowing the next step would mark the beginning of the end. His life, almost as much as the Emperor’s was over, finished, and incomplete. It must be the same for everyone, he thought, to have lofty ambitions which are kept out of reach by the infinite power of time.
He took the first step, marching in a measured pace towards the sanctuary, its altar, and an ending. Prefect Sarimarcus was a step behind and the bearers carried the dead Emperor into the church.
At the far end, Godewyn stood waiting, dressed in his long robes, golden staff in hand atop which a candle burned. Princess Aelia, in fine robes and with a circlet taming her golden curls, looked down the aisle towards them.
She looked regal, powerful, Bordan thought as he drew closer. The imperial purple spoke of power and command, but only by hiding the truth behind fine embroidery and rich furs. Few would look further, and fewer still would meet the heir’s eyes. The girl, the young woman, had lost her family to murder and ill-fortune. All present today and those in the city would share her grief. Yet worry gnawed at Bordan’s belly with little teeth and scurrying claws.
“Your Highness,” Bordan bowed as he stopped in front of the Princess. “A sad day and one I thought never to experience.”
“General Bordan,” Aelia replied, “thank you for bringing him back to us.”
Bordan saluted and stepped aside, sliding into the seat which had been saved for him. Vedrix, looking uncomfortable in his own robes shifted across slightly to give him room. Sarimarcus directed the bearers to place the Emperor upon the altar. They slid the wooden pallet across the polished metal surface.
The soldiers turned as one and Sarimarcus led them in silence to the rear of the church.
“Today,” Godewyn’s voice was rich, warm and comforting, reaching all aspects of the church and congregation, “we come together to give the Emperor to the Holy Flame. We should feel grief and sorrow at his passing, but joy that he goes to join the Holy Flame, becoming part of it once more as we all were before the world was formed.”
The silence hung in the air as Godewyn paused and scanned the seated audience. Bordan felt uncomfortable on the wooden seat as the moment stretched to breaking point. It was an oppressive quiet, one that forced all present to look around the church, note the icons, stained windows, its height and the heat from the pit just beyond the altar. Flickers of flame rose like the beaks of hungry chicks, snapping and snipping at the air, casting shadows against the wall as they waited, impatiently, for a meal.
“An Emperor,” Godewyn resumed, “is the heart of the Empire just as the Holy Flame is its soul. Each needs the other to thrive. We have lost our heart today, but the soul is eternal. It can be reborn into the heart of another and so the Empire endures.”
Bordan watched as Aelia stood and stepped up to the altar. Godewyn took the young Princess’s hand, covering its shaking with his own firm grip and placed it down upon her father’s chest.
“From father to daughter, the Flame will pass, and the Empire will rise once more. Renewed. Reborn. And the memories of the past, the wisdom of ages imbued by the beating heart of each Emperor since the founding will stay with us forever.”
Around the body of the Emperor, a yellow light grew to encompass the three at the altar. Bordan sat straighter and next to him Vedrix twitched in his seat as the light brightened into a halo.
“We are the Flame, a part of the whole, ready to be reclaimed,” Godewyn intoned in his sonorous voice and the light darkened, turning red like the gemstone in the amulet, pulsing like a heart. “What once we were, we will be again.”
A bell tolled in the tower. A single note which rang out across the city, its echoes amplified by the thick stone walls of the church.
“To the Flame we give his body,” Godewyn continued as the echoes died and pulled upon the lever embedded in the altar. The metal rose at the end nearest the congregation forming a slope down which the wooden pallet slipped.
Bordan’s last sight of the man he had served and followed was of his body falling into the flame. There was a hollow crash, the crackle of wood and fire, and dark smoke began to rise from the pit drawn by the chimney above.
Aelia stood silent and still, looking down into the pit where her father’s body burned. No one moved or spoke.
Bordan focused upon the Princess as she slowly turned away from her father and held up the blood red amulet for all to see. It pulsed in time with the General’s heart and he swore he could hear the beat, feel it through the church floor.
“The Emperor has joined the Holy Flame,” Godewyn called out, his voice rising as the flames behind him surged. “Long live the Emperor.”
He took the amulet from Aelia’
s hands and lowered it over her head. Godewyn stepped back and Bordan had a clear view of the new Emperor.
Aelia’s eyes burned with an inner flame and her body shook. Her hands curled into fists and the cords upon her neck stood proud, etched as if on a marble statue. Her lips were pressed tight and Bordan noted the slow trickle of blood which bloomed in one corner of her mouth and dripped down her chin.
From the fire pit there was snap and hiss as once more the flames surged higher, driving dark smoke before them, pushing it higher into the vaults of the church roof.
“Long live the Emperor!” Godewyn shouted above the roar of the flames and the congregation took up the chant. Vedrix, next to him, flashed a concerned look at Bordan even as he called out the chant in time with everyone else.
No words would come. His mind knew what to say, could read the rhythm as well as anyone, but the sounds died in his throat, his tongue was still, and only his eyes moved as he watched the new Emperor raise her clenched fists to the ceiling.
Fear. Vedrix’s eyes had radiated fear.
The chant hit a crescendo and died altogether on the next breath. A silence heavier than iron settled about the church.
“My people,” Aelia spoke and her voice was deeper, darker, colder than before. Age now altered the pitch, years passing dropped the timbre, slowed the cadence, and took on a masculine tone. “My people, people of the Empire, a new age has dawned with the passing of my father. A new Emperor, Aelia, is crowned and the wisdom of ages past is mine to guide us.”
The Emperor paused, coughed, and shook her head.
“A new age,” the Emperor continued though now the voice was her own, but the newly gained confidence remained, “of glory and wealth. The Empire will grow beyond its borders. Those tribes who killed my father will pay the price in blood and fire. Those who, through mendacious means and traitorous plans, killed my mother and brother will be brought to such justice as will be spoken of for centuries to come.”
Seven Deaths of an Empire Page 42
