Kyron took a breath and squared his shoulders. He slipped the bound and sealed scroll from his pack and tapped it on his hand as he walked towards the guards.
“Stop,” the first one said.
“My name is Apprentice Kyron,” he said. “I have a message for Master Vedrix.”
The second guard glanced down at the scroll. “I am not sure he is here.”
“I was told by the Gymnasium that he came earlier,” Kyron said. “I don’t want to have to walk all over the city trying to find him.”
“Don’t you magicians have ways?” the first guard said, wiggling his fingers in what he must have thought was an arcane manner.
“I wish,” Kyron answered with a sigh. “Can I just go to his office and leave it on his desk?”
“Well…” the first guard said with a shrug.
“I want to get back to the celebrations,” Kyron added.
“And we’re stuck here until the watch changes,” the second guard replied.
“That’s too bad,” Kyron said. “I’ll have a drink or two for you, if that helps.”
Both guards chuckled and the second one said, “It won’t, but I don’t see why you should be missing out. You’ve got identification?”
Kyron fished his Gymnasium amulet from out under his clothes and held it up for them to see.
“Off you go then,” the first guard said, stepping aside. “If Master Vedrix is there, hope he doesn’t give you another job to do.”
“An apprentice’s work is never done,” Kyron said. “At least, that’s what they tell me. Usually it is doing all the things they think they’re too good to do.”
“Same with officers, lad,” the first guard said. “Now, get along with you.”
“Thank you both,” Kyron said as he hurried through the door and down the empty corridor. He heard the door close behind him and only turned to check once he was at the far end.
Vedrix’s office and the whole administrative section was to the right, so Kyron turned left. He kept the scroll in his hand, his one disguise and excuse for being here. However, encountering the first servant proved that he did not need it. Once past the door, it seemed, you belonged.
Stopping at another junction, he called up his mental map of the palace, placing the door to the dungeon upon it and planning his route. Now he walked with purpose, head held high, though the hood of his cloak was up to create shadows across his face and, he hoped, a bit of mystery. Magicians should always have an air of the other, Padarn had told him. Confidence and a competent demeanour was worth more than a sword at your hip, he had been fond of saying.
There were more guards and as he stepped back around the corner, he cursed himself for a fool. One stood next to the door and there would doubtless be others down the stairs and in the dungeon itself. Not many, he hoped, and they would all want to be celebrating with the rest of the populace.
Well, he reassured himself, at least he’d come prepared.
Kyron drew upon the motes and built the construct with calm urgency. Invisibility was a difficult construct, one only attempted by a master who had spent decades in study, so the tomes said. However, making someone not see or hear was much simpler, at least for a short time.
He closed his eyes and lifted the construct over the glowing form of the guard, settling it around the man’s head. With a twist of his fingers he set the knots on the magic and stepped around the corner.
The guard stared straight ahead, his eyes unblinking and his chest rising and falling in a regular rhythm. It would not last long, a few heartbeats at best, so Kyron ducked around the man and slipped through the door. As it clicked shut behind him, he felt the construct come apart.
Getting out would be a worry for later, he decided.
The stairs were narrow and the air cool as he descended. His soft boots made barely a whisper on the stones and he listened out for the sounds of guards below. As the stairs spiralled deeper the air began to cool and there was a damp smell upon the air. The lanterns which lit the way were burning low and casting shadows upon the walls as he passed.
A change in the air, the way it brushed across his cheek or the smell, told him he was close to the bottom, and he drew magic to him. Reaching out with his new sense of life, of the motes which made up everyone and everything, he felt for the presence of a guard.
There was another, sat in a chair before the last door to the dungeon. Beyond the door, as far as he could reach, there was only the hint of others.
Building the construct in his mind, he went over it again and again, making sure it would do as he required. Simply having the guard ignore him and any sounds for a few moments would not be enough. Beyond that door Kyron needed time to find and talk to his grandfather.
He took another breath, firming his course of action. The guard was just doing his job and, more than that, he was a soldier. Grandfather would never forgive him if he hurt a soldier unnecessarily.
The construct net of motes wrapped itself around the guard’s neck and Kyron felt rather than saw the man lift a hand to scratch at the feather light tough. Focusing his senses, Kyron felt for the flow of life in the guard’s neck, the major arteries which carried blood to his brain and closed them off.
On his chair the guard’s legs stiffened and his hands clawed at his neck for a moment. Kyron gritted his teeth and held his own breath, focused upon that pulse of life in the man’s neck. Constrict the flow for too long and the soldier would die, too short and he would wake up too soon.
The pulse fluttered, the heartbeat stuttered, and Kyron let the magic go. He ducked around the corner, wiping the sweat from his face which even the cool air of underground had been unable to prevent.
Slumped in his chair, the guard looked pale, but his chest rose and fell. Kyron approached with caution, stepping lightly and keeping his distance, ready to run the moment the guard shifted. When the man did not move, Kyron pressed two fingers to the soldier’s neck and felt for the pulse. It was steady and his flesh was still warm. He would live but wake with a headache worse than a hangover courtesy of three days’ heavy drinking.
Kyron slid the key from the guard’s belt and unlocked the door. Beyond were the cell doors and only the light from the guard post’s lamp illuminated the floor. Prisoners were denied even the comfort of light.
Closing the door behind him, Kyron shut his own eyes and let the motes of magic create an image for him. There were no hard lines, no greys of stone, but a rainbow of hues which flowed, mixed and swirled. Each picked out something different, something unique, but despite the confusion it made sense.
Reaching out, he found the prisoners in their cells. Most were sleeping, though one or two had shifted at the closing of the door. Kyron crept down the corridor, looking for the signature of his grandfather, certain he would recognise it above all others. If he did not, his plan would change and the risk of discovery would increase.
In the end it was not the man’s signature, but the presence of an oil lamp in the cell which gave it away. Using the guard’s key, Kyron unlocked his grandfather’s cell and stepped in.
“What time is it?” His grandfather’s voice was tired and flat.
“Grandfather,” Kyron said, letting the motes slip from his grasp and in the meagre light of the oil lamp he saw the rumpled form of the old man shift on the bed of straw.
“Kyron?” The man’s voice was suddenly sharp, and he sat up swiftly.
“I can get you out of here,” Kyron said, stepping in and kneeling before his grandfather.
“Damn it,” his grandfather cursed. “I told them to keep you away.”
“Master Vedrix warned me off,” Kyron admitted, “but you are my grandfather. I can get you out of here.”
“To what end, Kyron?” The words were accompanied by a deep sigh.
“To get you to safety.”
“And start a civil war?” His grandfather reached out and took his hand in his own. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“I couldn’t le
ave you here,” Kyron said, finding his throat full of sadness and the words hard to find. “You didn’t do what the Emperor said.”
“How do you know I did not?” his grandfather asked.
“Because I know you,” Kyron answered with hesitation.
“I did not do it, but that doesn’t matter anymore,” his grandfather said. “You have to get away and stay safe.”
“Someone else did? If I can find them and evidence, I can present it to the Emperor and she will free you,” Kyron said, swallowing a sob. “You must suspect someone?”
“What and who I suspect is no matter, Kyron,” his grandfather said.
“Tell me,” Kyron demanded.
“No,” his grandfather replied. “It will do no good. I’ll keep my thoughts and suspicions to myself. They’ll only serve the Empire ill.”
A sudden image of the old man scribbling in that leather-bound journal he kept with him. A record of this thoughts, perhaps.
“I can help,” Kyron pleaded.
“You must go. Leave the city, if you can. The coming days and years will be tough, and I would know you are safe.”
“What will happen to you?” Kyron asked, a tear welling in the corner of his eye and tracking down his cheek.
“Best not to think on that,” the old man said. “You’ve done well, boy. I never got to tell you that enough. Your father would be proud of what you’ve become, of who you are. Your mother too. Now, go, get out. Get out of the city and don’t look back.”
“I want…” he started to say and changed his mind, saying the words he knew his last relation needed to hear, “I will, Grandfather.”
Kyron shuffled forward and threw his arms around the man who had raised him since the death of his parents. He felt arms wrap around him and squeeze. There were no words to say because language fell far short at moments like these. He could feel the old man’s love, his pride and respect, and only hoped his grandfather felt the same from him.
After a timeless while, they relaxed their arms and Kyron stood up.
“I will see you soon enough,” Kyron said, recalling the grove. “I know who we are, where we come from, and where we return to.”
“Be safe, boy. I do love you,” General Bordan, Grandfather, said and turned away to bury himself into his straw bed.
LVII
The General
Three years ago:
“You’ll be fine, lad,” he said, resting a callused hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I think you are right, this is the place for you.”
“I will visit,” the boy said, looking to the magician for permission. The fat man nodded and smiled.
“We are the Gymnasium, not a prison,” the magician said.
“I will make you proud,” the boy said.
“I know you will,” he replied. “You always have.”
Bordan awoke sore and stiff. The blanket and mattress of straw had kept the worst of the chill from his bones, but age had stripped much of his natural defences. The days of laying out under the stars, only a low fire and hard earth for comfort, were long gone.
He sighed and rolled over, clambering to his feet, using his hands against the cold stone wall for balance. They came away damp and slick and he wiped them down his tunic.
In the corner, the little oil lamp still flickered. It was a small mercy and a reminder of the sun, of the world outside. At the thought of the morning sun his belly grumbled. Last night’s wine was gone. Godewyn’s gift was tucked beneath the straw and he swept some aside to drag out the last of the bread.
Biting down on the hard crust, he drew as much saliva to his mouth as he could. On each swallow it was harder and harder to moisten the bread sufficiently. In the end, it was impossible to eat any more, the bread turning to dust in his mouth.
Bordan paced his cell, back and forth, stretching his back and groaning in pain. It was good to move and feel the cool air of the cell brush against his face in an imitation of a breeze.
“Stupid boy,” he muttered and slapped the wall with his palm, the sting giving him something to hold onto. “If he got in, he got out.”
He stopped at the wall, leaning against it.
“What if he didn’t?”
He resumed his walking, the pace increasing as thoughts and conjectures tumbled about his brain.
“You’d know, Bordan,” he said to himself. “There would have been an outcry. Even down here you’d have heard it. Surely.”
“Not if it was far up in the palace,” he answered his own question on the next circuit. “What can you do about it?”
He slowed as he reached the wall once more, his breath heaving and his heart pounding in anger rather than exertion. “Nothing. That’s exactly what I can do about it. Nothing.”
The sound of footsteps came from the corridor outside and he turned towards the door as it opened.
“Is it time?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“I hope not,” Master Vedrix said as he stepped into the cell and turned to the guard. “Thank you, soldier. I promise not to take too long.”
“What are you doing here?” Bordan stepped forward.
“I came to see you, my friend,” Vedrix answered, his gaze sweeping the room. “Though I had never thought to pay you a visit here.”
“Which makes two of us,” Bordan said, crossing to the cell and sliding down the wall to sit on his bed of straw, gathering the blanket to him. “I’d offer you a seat, but they have yet to deliver all the furniture I requested.”
“You seem in fine mood this morning,” Vedrix said.
“I’m not,” Bordan grunted. “I’m angry and powerless.”
“To be expected,” Vedrix answered, swinging his satchel around and producing a wrapped parcel of food and a water skin. “The young guard has a cousin at the Gymnasium.”
“Thank you,” Bordan said, “and thank him for me.”
“I am sure he would have let me through with the food no matter,” Vedrix said, tossing the food onto the straw next to Bordan. “They would still fight for you, you know.”
“You don’t want a civil war,” Bordan said, pulling the stopper from the water skin and drinking. The cool and fresh water coated his tongue and a sense of hope washed through him, clearing the cobwebs of depression away. As soon as the thought occurred the little spiders returned, stringing their silken strands from one worry to another, drawing them together into a dark ball which settled in his guts once more.
“You are so sure?” Vedrix said, his voice a whisper.
“You?” Bordan’s head snapped up, and his voice echoed around the cell.
“Me?” Vedrix answered, waving his hand to dispel the question. “You think I have not considered it? I spend my life protecting the Gymnasium, General. A seat of learning and knowledge. We contribute to the defence of the Empire. We bring fresh water to the city through our inventions. We have developed medicines, healing draughts and potions which have saved lives. The amulet which brings stability to the succession was created by magicians so long ago that we’ve lost the method.” The Master Magician heaved a sigh. “And our reward? To be feared and hated. To be cast as the great evil in the Empire. The Church speaks against us from their pulpits at every sermon.”
“Godewyn understands your place here, your worth,” Bordan said, “and the last Emperor did too.”
“And the new one?”
“I… don’t know,” Bordan confessed. “There are so many things about her which I do not know. Civil war, Vedrix, would you truly wish that on the Empire?”
“All I said was I had considered it, just as you did in the church. I saw it on your face. All those soldiers, armed, skilled, and ready to follow your orders. It would have been one word, Bordan. One word and you could have changed the path of the Empire,” the magician said.
“For the better?” Bordan scoffed. “A civil war serves no one.”
“Something with the Emperor is not right,” Vedrix offered. “You see that as much as I, as much as Godewyn, as an
yone who spends but a few hours in her company.”
“When Aelia comes to terms with the memories in the amulet, she will calm and be reasoned in her rule,” Bordan said and cursed himself for the excuses he made.
“You protect the Empire even now,” Vedrix’s eyebrows rose. “Look at you, my friend, imprisoned and facing a traitor’s death.”
“The order has been given?” Bordan looked up into his friend’s eyes and sighed.
“You were not informed? The proclamation was made this afternoon,” Vedrix said, with a shake of his head. “This is not the Empire you knew.”
“It is still the Empire,” Bordan stated. The execution order was expected, and despite Godewyn’s wish to change the Emperor’s mind there was only one punishment for treason. Even so, he shivered. “I have given my life to it, to keep it safe and strong. Given that, I cannot, I could not drive us into war. Too many innocents would suffer.”
“And you think Aelia’s rule will be stable, that the people will not suffer,” Vedrix snapped, taking half a step in Bordan’s direction before the sudden fire left his eyes. “My apologies. I see the end of the Gymnasium coming. I see the magicians in my care, all their knowledge and learning lost, and the Empire sliding backwards into a dark age from which it may never emerge.”
“The Empire has survived poor Emperors in the past,” Bordan said. “Godewyn, you, and Maxentius will keep the peace.”
“And you are giving your life so that it must endure another?”
“So that it can endure,” he corrected.
Vedrix sighed. “I understand the concept of a noble sacrifice, and there are many things I would let go of to preserve the Gymnasium, but this, Bordan, when there are other paths to take?”
“There are no other paths, Vedrix,” Bordan answered. “The Emperor cannot back down from her order of execution, and my freedom would only come at the cost of a war. It is too high a price to pay. You say you would sacrifice much to preserve the Gymnasium? Is one life not enough when weighted against hundreds or thousands? Would you strike at the Emperor to preserve your precious Gymnasium?”
Seven Deaths of an Empire Page 45
