Rise of the Blood Royal

by Robert Newcomb

  Before the boy could answer, the master waved an upturned palm. At once a gleaming sword appeared in his hand. He held it out.

  “Take it,” he said. “Make your choice, but first know this: If you wish the slave to die, it must be by your own hand. Moreover, should you choose to free him, unpleasant consequences could arise.”

  With trembling hands the boy took the sword. Despite its heaviness it felt like it belonged in his grasp. The feeling surprised him.

  “What consequences?” the boy asked.

  “I will not say,” the master answered. “In life one must suffer the unknown results of his decisions, whatever they might be. That is how it will be today. Choose.”

  As the boy looked at the slave his whole body started to tremble. Why should the decision be mine? his mind cried out. Who am I to have the power of life and death over others?

  The boy lowered his sword. “I will not choose,” he answered. “Nor can you force me to do so.”

  He raised his face to again look into the empty, frightening hood. “The choices you offer are worse than nothing. You say that I must either condemn this helpless man to slavery for the remainder of his life or kill him here and now…I do not know which fate is worse.”

  The master stepped nearer, his imposing presence stabbing even greater trepidation into the young boy’s heart.

  “You will choose,” he ordered. “And you will do so this instant. Indecision can be as deadly as the blade in your hand. Choose—or you will remain in this place, learning one harsh lesson after the next until you are an old man and your bones turn to dust. What is it to be—mercy or death?”

  The boy looked back at the seething slave. “If I must choose, I choose mercy,” he said. “Free him and return him to the auction block.”

  “Very well,” the master answered. “Be prepared to deal with the consequences of your decision.”

  Before the boy could answer, an azure cloud gathered around the faceless master. Two seconds later the cloud vanished, taking the master with it.

  Stunned, the boy quickly turned to look at the slave. As he did, several smaller azure clouds formed around the slave’s hands and feet. Soon the Shashidan’s manacles vanished, leaving him free.

  To the boy’s astonishment the slave let go a wicked smile and charged straight for him, tendons knotting and teeth flashing.

  This can’t be happening! the boy thought. I just saved him from certain death! Surely he knows that!

  But the time for wondering had passed. There was only one course of action, the boy realized. He would have to defend his life.

  As the slave neared him the boy felt a sudden, unbidden tingling course through his veins. As though it were second nature he quickly turned on the balls of his feet, then raised his sword high and brought it around with everything he had, taking the slave’s head off at the shoulders with one cut. As the blade passed through the slave’s neck, for the briefest of moments the boy thought that he saw it glow azure. Then the severed head and the body to which it had once belonged crashed to the white floor, spurting blood as they went. The headless body convulsed and bled for several moments before finally going still. The killing had taken less than six seconds.

  His chest heaving, the boy again lifted the sword and regarded it with wonder as the slave’s still warm blood ran down it and onto his hands. He watched as the strange azure glow slowly left the blade.

  Has all this been a dream? he wondered.

  Dropping the sword, he lifted his hands before his face and stared at them with horror as if they belonged to someone else—a cattle butcher, perhaps, who cut into flesh as a way of life and was accustomed to having his hands bathed in blood.

  Yes, he thought. He stared back down at the dead slave, marveling over how simple a thing it had been to kill another human being. I am much like that cattle butcher. But I have now become a butcher of men…

  Just then another azure cloud appeared. Seconds later, the faceless master stepped from its midst. With a wave of one hand he caused the cloud, the corpse, and the severed head to vanish. As he turned toward the boy he again placed his hands into opposite sleeve robes.

  At first the boy couldn’t find his voice. Finally the words came in a whisper.

  “How?” he breathed. Had the boy been able to see his master’s face, he would have found the approving expression that he had hoped for earlier.

  “You possess a rare gift,” the master said. “It is called K’Shari. I granted it to your blood as you lay asleep on the stone floor. As you grow to manhood you will learn much more about it—how to harness it, embrace it, and make it your own. But for now that is all you need to know about it.”

  For the first time since coming to this bizarre place, enough anger roiled up inside the boy to finally overcome his fear. He took a threatening step closer to the frustrating mystic.

  “You left me alone with that freed slave!” he shouted. “You knew that he would try to kill me, didn’t you? Yet you vanished, you coward, only to reappear after it was over! Why bother to teach me these strange lessons if you value my life so little?”

  “You are wrong,” the master answered. “Your life is more highly valued than you could possibly imagine. Despite your youth, because of K’Shari you were never in danger. I vanished because I wanted you to know that you must not rely on others to save your life. But that is not what we must discuss.”

  “What, then?” the boy demanded.

  “Your wrong choice,” the master answered.

  “Why was my choice wrong?” the boy protested. He had become so angry that his voice shook.

  Good, the master thought. He is starting to assert himself.

  “You chose to be merciful toward someone whom you knew to be a dangerous enemy,” the master answered, “and toward someone who had already killed one of your own kind. Your only reward for that generosity was to be forced into defending your life. That is all that Shashidans know—how to hate, take, and destroy. Never forget that. You must always strike first, and strike to kill.”

  The boy calmed a bit. Turning, he looked at the blood on the floor. “Surely there must be some good in everyone, no matter what they believe or where they come from,” he offered.

  “No,” the master answered. “Now, then—tell me what you learned here today.”

  Perhaps the master is right after all, the boy thought, as he felt his dread of the faceless mystic continue to wane. It was kill or be killed. And I’m the one still standing. This time the boy’s answer came quickly.

  “Mercy is a weakness,” he said.

  “True,” the master replied, “but that answer is not definite enough—especially coming from someone so gifted as you.”

  Stepping closer, he placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. This time the young man stood his ground and did not shrink from the mystic’s touch.

  “Purify that thought, then take it one step further,” the master ordered. “The words are in your heart—you have but to say them.”

  The boy thought for a moment. As his new response formed, he found that he longer mourned the slave who tried to take his life.

  “Mercy has no purpose whatsoever,” he said softly.

  “Not quite,” the master answered. “Sometimes a display of mercy can enhance one’s image, among other things. Even so, it always comes at a price—one that might be too steep to merit payment. Should you choose to be merciful, always do so to further your own goals rather than for mercy’s sake alone. Mercy without a secret purpose is worse than weakness—it will soon rot away your power over others. You will then become the one needing mercy rather than the one who grants it.”

  The master snapped his fingers and the azure cloud reappeared. Placing one arm around the boy’s shoulders, he escorted him toward its foggy embrace.

  “You still have much to learn, my young charge,” the master said. “But you have taken a great step forward. You have not only grasped today’s lesson, you have also lost your fear of me. We w
ill be together for a long time, you and I, and these small victories of yours will serve us well in the days to come.”

  As they stepped into the azure cloud it gathered closely around them and they were gone.

  AS THE ROYAL LITTER JOSTLED ITS WAY THROUGH THE streets of Ellistium, Persephone looked down at her husband’s face. Holding him close, she removed the crown of golden laurel leaves from his head and lovingly smoothed his curly blond hair.

  Vespasian’s face looked pale and drawn, and he sweated so profusely that his dress uniform was starting to soak through. Suddenly he let go a quiet moan, causing the empress’s concern to rise even further.

  Not knowing what else to do, she decided to allow the litter to continue on its way home. Somehow she must find a believable excuse to explain why she and the emperor did not return to the games. Worried beyond reason, she rocked Vespasian to and fro in her lap much as she might have cradled the child that she never had.

  What can be causing these terrors? she wondered frantically. And how can we possibly hide another one?

  Then she struck on an idea. After making sure that the litter’s curtains were fully drawn, she called the craft and pointed a finger at Vespasian’s wrist.

  A small incision opened in his skin, allowing one drop of his blood to rise into the air. Persephone used the craft to close the wound, then looked at the evolving blood signature. Soon the familiar design formed fully. As always, angular lines made up one half, while flowing lines comprised the other half. Also as usual, hundreds of forestallment branches led away from the signature. Like the blood signature of every endowed person, Vespasian’s was an amalgam of those inherited from his father and his mother.

  Vespasian had never known his parents, and for that Persephone had always been sorry. The Pon Q’tar said that they had died in a tragic accident while Vespasian was still an infant. They went on to explain that when they first became alerted to the nature of his magnificently endowed blood, for the sake of the nation they had raised him, trained him in the ways of the craft, and decided that he should one day become emperor. After Gracchus convinced the reigning Suffragat that Vespasian might well be the one to lead Rustannica to her final victory over Shashida, the governing body had eagerly voted to one day crown him emperor.

  We have much to thank Gracchus for, Persephone realized, even though Vespasian is coming to distrust him.

  As Vespasian lay in her arms, Persephone continued to examine his hovering blood signature and its many branches. When she saw that it looked normal in every respect, she didn’t know whether to feel anxious or relieved. His blood holds no answers for us, she thought sadly. With a wave of her hand she caused the blood signature to vanish.

  Just then Vespasian groaned again, and his shallow breathing deepened. Soon he regained consciousness. Unlike when he awakened from his previous terror, this time he seemed calmer. As he looked up into Persephone’s eyes she gave him a reassuring smile.

  “We are in my litter…” he ventured weakly.

  Persephone kissed him on the forehead. “Yes, my love,” she answered. “We travel home now.”

  “And the games?” he asked. “Did we manage to leave without my attack being detected by the others?”

  “Yes,” she answered softly. “But we must make some excuse to explain why we did not return.”

  Vespasian shook his head. “No,” he said. “I am the emperor and my new campaign has already been heralded among the populace. The Pon Q’tar, the Tribunes, and the Priory all need me more than ever. They will simply have to accept our absence.”

  Vespasian reached up to gently touch her cheek. “Do you want to hear about my dream?” he asked.

  “Of course, my love,” she answered. “Together we will discover what these dreams mean and how to put an end to them.”

  “Do you remember the Shashidan general I tried to free that day not long ago in the coliseum?” he asked. “To spite Gracchus, I decided to grant the general mercy.”

  “Of course I remember,” she answered.

  “My dream has much to do with that day, I fear,” he said. “But I’m not sure why.”

  As the emperor told her of his recent terror, tears gathered in Persephone’s eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

  CHAPTER XXII

  TRISTAN SAT ON THE BALCONY OF HIS PRIVATE QUARTERS and took another sip of wine. The day had been tiring and the drink was producing its welcome effect. He would purposely imbibe a bit too much this night, he decided, and with good reason. Tomorrow might prove the most momentous day of his life, and he was determined to enjoy this evening.

  At the least, the morrow would see his departure from Tammerland—perhaps forever. At the most, his expedition might reach Shashida. What will happen if we do? he wondered, thoughtfully rolling the wineglass between his palms. His emotions about the impending journey remained in conflict, for the prospect of reaching Shashida both thrilled and unnerved him.

  He turned to look at the table by his side that was laden with his favorite foods. Roasted quail, loin of beef with ground horseradish, fresh vegetables, black bread, and Shawna’s famous redberry cake all sat waiting to be consumed, their wonderfully pungent aromas drifting into the air. He smiled as he remembered how it had all come to be here.

  The ever-industrious Shawna had cooked up a great feast, then insisted in her own inimitable way that the Conclave members hold a farewell dinner before parting ways in the morning. But to her dismay, Tristan put his foot down and ruled against it. He knew that Wigg and Abbey would want to spend this last night quietly, just as he wanted to dine alone with his sister. He might never see Shai again, and he needed to bid her farewell in private.

  Putting down the wineglass, he rose from his chair and wandered into his private bedchamber. The room was large and magnificently appointed, and as usual his weapons had been casually tossed atop the great four-poster bed. A marble fireplace stood in one wall, its logs burning brightly.

  He sighed as he looked at the lonely urn that held his late wife’s ashes. It rested atop the mantel beside her farewell letter. For a time he had considered taking them with him, then he realized that their rightful place was here, where he and Celeste had spent so many loving hours. As he sadly realized that he might be leaving them behind forever, he closed his eyes. What would she think of this mad scheme? he wondered.

  For the thousandth time he recalled his late wife’s beauty, her intelligence, her sensitivity. Celeste had been the love of his life, but now she was gone. She would say that that he must go, he decided, even if it meant never seeing each other again. After all, that was the risk that Wigg and Abbey were taking. Were Celeste alive today, could she and Tristan do less?

  Placing his thoughts aside, he walked deeper into the bedchamber and toward a large oak table that stood near the far wall. As he looked at what sat upon it, he again found himself filled with awe.

  Late in the afternoon, Wigg and Faegan had attempted the miniaturization of the Tammerland and the Ephyra. To Tristan’s amazement, the experiment had been a complete success, right down to the thousands of crates and sundry items that the Minions had loaded aboard the ships beforehand. It had been a mesmerizing process to watch, and were the two ships not sitting on the table before him, Tristan would have never believed such a thing possible.

  Each Black Ship now measured just over one meter long from bowsprit to stern and about the same distance from the keel to the top of the mainmast. Had he not known differently, he would have thought these ships nothing more than amazingly accurate models. Their sails were furled and they nestled in their new cradles, which had also been miniaturized. When the process was finished, Tristan ordered the ships brought to his quarters for safekeeping. Tomorrow morning they would be crated, and the free space in the crates would be enchanted by Faegan to cushion the vessels during what would surely be a hazardous journey through the labyrinthine caves.

  Bending down, Tristan looked more closely. Each ship still twinkled with the subtle matt
er that had accomplished their miraculous transformations. Wigg and Faegan thought that they might stay that way permanently, and Tristan suspected that the twinkling substance might help camouflage the vessels when sailing on the Azure Sea. Is this something that the Ones planned for? he wondered. Unless we reach Shashida, we might never know.

  Walking back to the balcony, he again took up his wineglass. The sun was starting to slip down behind the western horizon. As he watched it disappear, his mind drifted back to the Conclave meeting that he had called immediately after the miniaturization of the ships.

  Because of the many important issues to be settled, the meeting had become a spirited, often raucous affair. More than once Tristan had been forced to intervene to keep the discussion civil. The stressful tenor of the meeting had not been because of any personal rancor among the members, he knew. Rather, it was that they would soon be splitting into two groups, and those in each group might never see the others again. Because everyone was eager to see Shashida, trying to decide who would go with Tristan had been a particularly difficult issue to resolve.

  In the end it was agreed that Wigg, Tyranny, Scars, Astrid, Phoebe, and Jessamay would accompany Tristan on the expedition. Faegan, Traax, Aeolus, Abbey, and Adrian would stay behind to follow Shailiha into battle against the Viper Lord. Also, the Tammerland and the Ephyra would carry the same two Minion phalanxes that had trained with Tyranny and Adrian during the recent sea trials. By common agreement it was decided that the Tome, the Scrolls of the Ancients, and the Paragon would stay behind under Faegan’s care.

  Tristan refused to allow personal relationships to play a part in these decisions, demanding that his group members be selected only for their unique abilities. Wigg was chosen rather than Faegan largely because of Faegan’s limited mobility. Faegan had been deeply disappointed but agreed that of the two of them, Wigg should be the one to go.

  Tyranny was selected because of all the Conclave members she had the most seagoing experience, and that could prove vital. As usual, Scars would serve as her first mate. Because Jessamay commanded the unique ability to determine an endowed’s blood signature lean by looking into his or her eyes, she too was chosen. The acolytes Astrid and Phoebe would relieve Wigg and Jessamay in the piloting of the Black Ships. Marissa and another acolyte would remain behind to pilot the Cavalon and the Illendium under Shailiha’s command.