Rise of the Blood Royal

by Robert Newcomb

  “Thank you,” Tristan answered. He turned to look at Tyranny. She in turn looked at Mashiro before answering.

  “I have no endowed blood,” she said. “I want to help, but how?”

  Mashiro smiled. “Although you cannot summon the craft, you have unique seafaring talents,” he answered. “I’m sure that something can be arranged to your liking.”

  “Then I’ll join you,” she said. “It’s good for a simple privateer of unendowed blood to know that she can contribute to the cause.”

  Tristan let go a short laugh. He then looked into every face around the table and raised his cup. Everyone followed suit.

  “We’re yours,” he said. He raised his cup higher, as did the others.

  “To new beginnings!” he offered.

  “To new beginnings!” everyone answered.

  After draining his cup, Tristan looked across the table to see Hoshi smiling at him. This time her smile was genuine and offered without reservation.

  CHAPTER XLII

  AS THE BOY AWAKENED, HE AGAIN FOUND HIMSELF LYING on a cold stone floor. Something hard lay between him and the stones, biting into his skin and causing him pain. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up. The familiar room was dark, but this time a burning candle in a golden holder stood atop the usual wooden stool. The candle seemed out of place, the boy realized, but it provided some welcome light.

  Coming to his feet, he felt an unexpected heaviness clinging to his left hip. He looked down, and what he saw surprised him. A short sword in a tooled leather scabbard lay there. The scabbard was attached to a leather belt cinched around his waist. Reaching down, he grasped the sword hilt and slowly drew the weapon. As the blade came free, it produced a ringing sound.

  Holding the sword before the faint candlelight, the boy regarded it carefully. It was at once a beautiful and a terrible thing, and its weight felt good in his hands. Lowering the sword a bit, he ran one finger across the blade to find that it was razor sharp.

  Still wondering why he had been given such a magnificent weapon, he slid the sword into its scabbard, then walked to the shabby stool. Taking the candleholder into his hands, he climbed atop the stool to wait in silence for his master to arrive. Although the sword was a mystery, the boy believed that he would have the answer soon.

  Unlike the times before, today he was unafraid. During his last training session with the still unidentified master, the boy had lost something but gained far more. His dreaded fear of the faceless man in the hooded robe was gone, replaced by a strange gift that the master called K’Shari. With the coming of that gift, rather than dread the imminent arrival of his teacher he hungered to learn the object of today’s lesson. He was sure that the sword lying at his hip would be instrumental in his understanding, although he couldn’t imagine how.

  The door slowly opened and a shaft of light streamed into the room, hurting the boy’s eyes. This time I will not look away, he resolved, nor will I cover my face with my hands. I will stay strong and look into the light with courage.

  The robed figure walked into the room. Saying nothing, he placed his hands into opposite robe sleeves. The boy gazed unafraid into the dark recesses of the empty hood to again see nothing but blackness. This time the sight did not frighten him, and for a time neither student nor master spoke. Finally the hooded master took a step nearer.

  “You didn’t shield your eyes from the light this time,” he said. “Did its sudden brightness not hurt them?”

  “It did,” the boy answered. “But I now know that keeping my eyes open was needed, despite the pain it brought.”

  “And why would that be?” the master asked.

  “Because a warrior cannot fight what he cannot see,” the boy answered. “I could not know who was entering the room. The pain caused by the light would surely be less than that of being killed by an unseen enemy.”

  “Well done,” the master said. “It is time for your next lesson.” Reaching out, he beckoned the boy to leave the stool and follow him.

  The hallway was just as the boy remembered it. Endless and stark white, it held countless doors with golden handles. Saying nothing, the master turned left and started walking. The boy followed willingly, the heaviness of the sword at his side a reminder of its still unexplained presence.

  After a long walk the master stopped before a door. He pointed a finger at the golden handle, and it levered downward. The boy and his master entered the room beyond, the door closing behind them with quiet finality. The scene before the boy was surprising. Like the hallway, the room was stark white. Two incongruous things stood before the boy, neither of which made sense to him.

  On one side of the room stood a huge white bull. An iron ring was secured through its nostrils, and a chain led from that ring down to another one embedded into the floor. The bull was magnificent. Two wide black horns protruded from the top of his skull, each curving forward to nearly touch the other’s point. His face was broad, his dark eyes wide apart, large, and lustrous. Strong muscles rippled beneath his skin, and as he stood there he turned to look at the boy. Everything about the animal conveyed power, courage, and strength.

  On the other side of the room stood a large artist’s easel. The simple wooden tripod was two meters high and one across. It held a stark white canvas, its four sides framed with simple wooden slats. An identical canvas stood propped against one wall. Save for the deep, rhythmic breathing of the great bull, the room was silent. Although the scene was bizarre, the boy did not ask about it, for he knew that the answer would come soon enough.

  The master stepped forward to face the boy. The darkness of the hood seemed limitless, all-knowing.

  “Slaughter the bull,” the master ordered. “Do not question my order—simply follow it. Draw your gladius and kill the beast with a single stroke across its neck.”

  The boy did not hesitate. Reaching down to grasp the sword hilt, he pulled the weapon free with a quickness and economy of movement that he didn’t know he possessed. As the blade appeared, it shone in the bright light of the room. The boy took three steps toward the white bull and raised his sword.

  Without hesitation he brought the blade around in a perfect arc, slicing the bull’s throat. At once the arterial spray from the gaping wound showered the boy’s hands and face, but he remained undaunted. The boy again raised his sword, ready to strike again if need be.

  The beast screamed in agony, then slumped to the floor on its massive cloven forelegs. As its blood poured onto the floor, the mammoth creature’s hind legs also collapsed, and the bull crashed heavily onto its side. Moments passed as the exsanguination became complete and deep red blood flowed across the floor to approach the boy’s boots. As if it were second nature, the boy started to wipe the sword blade against the simple robe he wore, but the master reached out to stop him.

  “No,” the master said. “Do not clean your weapon. Instead, dip it in the warm blood and collect more of it onto the blade.”

  Again the boy obeyed. Walking toward the dead bull, he bent down and ran the flat side of his sword as best he could through the growing blood pool. When he lifted the blade, the blood ran freely down the groove and onto his hands. The sight did not deter him.

  “Come here,” the master said. “Bring your sword and stand before the easel.”

  The boy did as he was told. The stark white canvas was devoid of markings. The master then walked nearer and reached out to touch the bloody sword. At once it shrank to the size of a dagger, its blade still covered with dripping blood.

  “Hold the dagger not as you would a weapon, but as you would an artist’s paintbrush,” the master ordered.

  The boy scowled, not from a wish to disobey but because he found his master’s words bizarre. Even so, he adjusted the dagger in his grip, awkwardly holding it as best he could the way an artist might hold a brush. To his surprise, the blood no longer ran down the blade, but magically collected near the dagger’s tip.

  “Good,” the master said. “Now look at me. Take in my ro
be, my hands, my faceless hood. Then use the dagger to paint my image on the canvas in blood. Do the best that you can. When you have finished I will comment on your effort.”

  Again the boy did as he was told, and to his amazement the blood flowed evenly from the dagger blade onto the canvas, just as paint would from a brush. He did the best he could, but when he was finished the result was unremarkable. Standing back from the canvas, he told the faceless one that he was done.

  “A poor likeness of me, is it not?” the master asked. “Do not fret, my young charge. The results were as I expected. Can you tell me why you failed?”

  The boy thought for a moment. “The tool was wrong for the task,” he answered.

  “True,” the master answered. “But there is more to it. Think.”

  Again the boy pondered the question. “I am the wrong person for the job,” he answered. “I am a warrior, not an artist.”

  “Also partly correct,” the master answered. “You are a warrior—that much is true. But because your blood carries the gift of K’Shari, you are also an artist—a martial artist.”

  The master reached out and again touched the bloody blade. At once the dagger morphed back into the original sword.

  “Go to the blood pool and again dip your ‘brush,’” he ordered. “Then return to me.”

  As the boy again dipped his sword into the blood, the master waved one arm. The crude, bloody painting sitting on the easel rose into the air and flew to the far side of the room to land on the floor. The second blank canvas then levitated to take the place of the first one. The boy returned with his bloody sword and stood before the fresh canvas.

  “This time I want you to call on your gift of K’Shari,” the master said. “I know that the sword is cumbersome, but wield it as best you can. Use it like a great paintbrush and again try to fashion my portrait.” Standing back a bit, the master clasped his hands before him and he waited.

  The boy called on his new gift. As it came, he felt his blood tingle, telling him that its arrival was a matter of letting it rise to overtake his senses rather than trying to summon it from his blood. As it came, he surrendered to it willingly. Soon his sword blade glowed azure beneath the blood.

  Again the boy painted his master’s portrait, and this time the result was far different. As he used the sword, his movements became more abandoned, his strokes surer and more unthinking. Soon he was wielding the sword as it was intended, using great, swinging strokes and stabbing lunges as he cast the bloody “paint” onto the canvas. Exhausted, the boy finally stopped, then stood back from the easel and lowered the bloody sword. What he saw astonished even him.

  The once blank canvas now held a perfect image of his master, fashioned from the blood of the bull. Every nuance of the faceless one had been captured, right down to the haunting feeling the boy always experienced when looking into the empty hood. Coming nearer, the master laid one hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “Excellent,” he said. “I could not have hoped for more. Can you tell me the object of today’s lesson?”

  All that the boy could say was to repeat his earlier answer about being the wrong person using the wrong tool. The master’s hood shook to and fro, telling him he was wrong.

  “There is far more to it than that,” he said. “Because the answer is unusually elusive, this time I will tell you, rather than force you to search for it. As I said before, you are a martial artist, not a painter. Your task in this world is to take life, not to create beauty. When you summon your gift, wield your sword like a paintbrush, and your death-dealing will be as flawless in its own way as the portrait that you just created. Use your sword like a paintbrush, my young charge, and every stroke of your deadly art will be perfect. As it is now, your sword will again become bloodied, but no enemy will defeat you.”

  “I understand,” the boy said quietly. Lifting the sword before his face, he looked at the drying blood that still lay on it. How long will it be before my sword blade drips with human blood? he wondered.

  “And the bull?” he asked, turning to look into the dark hood. “Why did you have me slaughter the bull when red paint would have done as well?”

  “Would it have?” the master asked. “I think not. I asked you to kill the bull so that your ‘paint’ would be more meaningful in the context of your lesson. Blood is the source from which all our endowed gifts flow—there is nothing else like it in the world. I wanted its warmth and texture to flow onto your hands so that you might understand how it will feel in battle, and what it means to kill. Slaughtering the bull served another purpose. Sacrificing the strongest and proudest animal in creation takes heart. It will be that same great sense of heart that will see you through your most challenging battles.”

  The boy nodded. “Thank you for the lesson.”

  “It is I who will one day be thanking you,” the faceless one said.

  No sooner had the master spoken than the boy heard a voice tugging at his mind. It was a woman’s voice, he soon realized, coming from somewhere far away. His master was suddenly gone, as were the dead bull, the blood, and the two canvases. As he felt his consciousness slipping away, the voice grew louder and more insistent.

  “Vespasian,” the somehow familiar voice called out from everywhere, nowhere. “Vespasian…Vespasian…”

  VESPASIAN AWOKE FROM HIS DAY TERROR WITH A GASP. AS he came around, he found himself lying on his bed in his private tent chambers. Persephone and Lucius sat by his side, worried expressions on their faces. He had been stripped of his dress armor and lay clothed only in a silk robe. Exhausted, pale, and bathed in sweat, he looked at them weakly. Then he remembered what had happened, and panic threatened to seize him anew.

  Lucius and I, he thought. On our way to the front…the chariot…the rows of tortured katsugai mosota…I fainted…

  When he again looked into Lucius’ worried face, he knew. More than just he and Persephone now understood his terrible secret. He had unwittingly drawn his best friend and greatest tribune into his lie, and for that he would be eternally sorry. Not for himself, he realized, but for his dear friend who would also be forced to carry this heavy burden of secrecy and intrigue.

  After trying to smile at Persephone, he again looked at Lucius. Lucius bent down and clasped his forearm to Vespasian’s as one legionnaire to another.

  “I’m here, my friend,” he said. “Persephone told me all about it. Your secret is safe with me.”

  Vespasian was about to answer when Gracchus’ booming voice was heard just outside the entrance to the emperor’s chambers.

  “I don’t care whether the empress left orders not to be disturbed, you fools!” he shouted at the two centurions standing guard. “There’s been a report that the emperor has been taken ill, and I demand to see him! Stand aside or there will be two more sudden deaths to add to the legions’ casualty lists!”

  Gracchus burst into the tent and immediately rushed to Vespasian’s bed. Remembering her promise to Vespasian that his secret be kept from the Pon Q’tar at all costs, Persephone angrily leapt to her feet and confronted the cleric.

  “How dare your enter our private quarters without permission!” she shouted. “I could have you shackled for this intrusion!”

  Without responding, Gracchus stopped and looked over Persephone’s shoulder at Vespasian. He then projected a commanding gaze toward the empress that rattled even her.

  “Don’t pretend with me, Persephone,” he said sternly. “Besides, the chains have yet to be forged that could hold me, and we both know it.” The lead cleric cast another quick glance at the stricken emperor.

  “He has suffered an unconscious terror, hasn’t he?” Gracchus demanded. “You may calm yourself, Empress, for they were expected. So, at long last they have come—and not a day too soon, I might add! Your husband isn’t about to die, nor is he ill. Tell me—how many terrors has he suffered?”

  Unsure what to say, Persephone looked at Vespasian. Realizing that Gracchus somehow understood what was happening,
Vespasian nodded his consent.

  “This was the third,” Persephone answered angrily. “What is happening to him? Explain yourself, cleric! I demand to hear what you know of this!”

  Ignoring her pleas, Gracchus brushed past her and hurried to Vespasian’s side. Sitting down beside Lucius, he reached out to take Vespasian’s free hand. The emperor’s skin felt cold and lifeless.

  “What is wrong with me?” Vespasian whispered. “Am I going mad?”

  Gracchus smiled and stroked Vespasian’s brow. “No, my liege,” he answered. “You are anything but mad. Your blood has finally matured to its fullest, and some wondrous gifts that you didn’t know you owned are calling out to your mind, begging to be used. That’s why the terrors have come—they are the signs that I have been waiting for. Trust me when I say that despite your fears, all is well. Tell me of your dream.”

  “I slaughtered a bull,” Vespasian said weakly. “I used his blood to paint two portraits…I was but a young boy…”

  “Ah, yes,” Gracchus answered. “I remember.”

  Reaching out, Vespasian seized Gracchus’ white and burgundy robe and pulled the cleric nearer. “How could you possibly remember my dream?” he shouted.

  Calling the craft, Gracchus gently freed his robe from Vespasian’s grasp. “Because I was there,” he answered. “Your day terror was no dream, Vespasian. It was real—they all were.”

  Vespasian slumped back down on the bed. “Can you make them stop?” he begged. “I fear that they will tear my mind apart!”

  Shaking his head, Gracchus smiled again. “Only you can make them stop,” he answered.

  “How?” Vespasian demanded. “I will do anything!”

  “You can stop the terrors by using your untested gifts to help us win this war,” the cleric answered. “The story is a complicated one, and at long last it is time for you to hear it. Please allow an old mystic to tell the tale.”