Almost.
He smiled in true that time. For there it was again, another threshold word, proof of his hesitation. Even his thoughts refused to take the leap. After so many millennia, he found himself on the brink of triumph, yet he was continually edging back from the final victory.
Why?
Well...he could certainly spare a few revolutions of the sun to assess the game newly for himself and see what his opponent had changed during his lengthy absence.
But more importantly, Cephrael had yet to return to the field for the final quarter. Baelfeir stood on the verge of his greatest triumph—of winning a game that had spanned millennia! Cephrael alone could appreciate the magnitude of his imminent victory. He couldn’t claim the prize while his opponent’s back was turned.
Yet in truth, he knew his hesitation stemmed from more than these alone.
Standing among the gentrified masses who’d gathered for Agasan’s Twelfth-day spectacle—for surely few of the observers took any real interest in the actual running of the empire—Baelfeir listened to the discourse between the Empress and the myriad plaintiffs come to take advantage of their apparent freedom to question the dictates of their betters twice each cycle of the moon.
He wouldn’t have suffered the boredom save that Shailabanáchtran was one of the petitioners—or, rather, the Malorin’athgul appeared to be occupying the mind of such a personage, standing as one of a group of five senators who were professedly acting as advocates for the people as they presented ‘the people’s case’ to the Empress.
Baelfeir wouldn’t have deigned to notice Shail’s little games had not the Malorin’athgul made such a stink about his return to Alorin, raising an outcry that had roused the empire to be on the alert for Warlocks.
Which wasn’t to say that any of their crude measures would be effective against him. They were looking for a Warlock of Vleydis’s ilk, who couldn’t find solidity in the Realms of Light even with a planet of harvesters fueling his power—as if Baelfeir would be walking the realm trailing wisps of smoke!
But Shail’s barking was chafing at his attention, and you didn’t let an upstart dog yip at your heels without disciplining it. The opportunity to put Shail in his place was too inviting to ignore.
“...thousands witnessed the miracle, Aurelia,” one of the senators was saying when Baelfeir tuned back in to the discourse.
“Which miracle would that be, Senator?” asked the Empress in her throaty drawl.
She made an admirable spectacle even to Baelfeir’s jaded eye, sitting on a dazzling throne beneath rays of sunlight, and wearing a pleasingly form-fitting dress so encrusted with diamonds that it made her seem a universe of radiant stars against the throne’s black velvet cushion. Seven gems slowly orbited her dark hair—the famous diamond crown, set in motion by a flow of elae’s fourth strand. Baelfeir found it an entertaining pomp.
In response to the Empress’s question, the senator exchanged a sardonic look with the others standing beside him. “Why, the Literato N’abranaacht working elae’s fifth strand, of course.”
“The fifth is worked daily across our great empire, Senator Lombardo. This is hardly a miracle.”
Low chuckles danced among the masses at this.
The senator bowed to her point. “But it is not worked by a na’turna, Aurelia.”
“No indeed, Senator. It would be quite impossible for a na’turna to work the fifth.”
Soft laughter bubbled that time.
The senator flushed. “A na’turna literato worked the fifth before thousands,” he boldly corrected the Empress. “Surely you see the miracle in this effort, even as everyone in the stands observed it with their own eyes. The pattern in question woke the Literato N’abranaacht to elae just in time for his heroic battle. We’ve collected thousands of testimonial signatures from those who stood in witness,” and he extended several scrolls as proof; the Lord Chamberlain flicked a finger, and a functionary came to collect them, “along with thousands more signatures upon our petition, which we present here today.”
After Shail had raised the war cry against him, Baelfeir had taken it upon himself to discover what the Malorin’athgul had been up to and had quickly learned all about the heroic Literato N’abranaacht. He’d even gone to the Palmer’s shrine to observe the well-preserved literato on his sunlit bier. He had to admit that Shail had certainly set up an elaborate game for himself, even if it amounted to a toddler playing with dolls when compared to Baelfeir’s contest, but...to each his own.
Up on the dais, Valentina gave the senator an arch look. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Senator Lombardo, but the miracle, as you claim it, is not that a man worked the fifth, but the purported awakening of a na’turna to elae, supposedly through the use of an arcane pattern. However, from all accounts, no one witnessed this event.”
Another senator spoke out forcefully, “Aurelia, thousands saw N’abranaacht work the fifth in combat.”
“Which proves nothing of the Literato N’abranaacht’s pattern, Senator Aldo,” the Empress pointed out mildly. “We have only his statement that this so-called Pattern of Awakening woke him to elae, and no proof supporting it.”
“Except an Arcane Scholar working the fifth!” Another senator threw up his hands exasperatedly. “How do you suppose N’abranaacht came to work it, Aurelia?”
“That’s a fair question, Senator van Diek. Tragically, we cannot ask the literato.”
Another senator growled, “Because he died protecting the people—what your Adeptus should have been doing!”
The crowd roused with loud murmuring upon this utterance.
The Lord Chamberlain clapped his gavel for quiet. “Senators, you well know this isn’t a forum for oratory or debate. Make your petition according to the guidelines of Twelfth-day or stand aside for others who have a more rightful claim upon the Empress’s valuable time.”
The heretofore silent senator whose shell Shail was occupying spoke then. “Very well, Lord Chamberlain, if I may?”
“Go ahead, Senator Schiavone.”
The senator nodded politely to him, then broadly addressed the court. “We stand before the Empress to speak on behalf of the thousands who have entrusted us with their hopes for the future. As the people’s advocates, we submit this petition,” and he lifted a fat scroll for the entire hall to see, “which requests that the Literato N’abranaacht’s Pattern of Awakening be released broadly to any who would study it for the good of all. With the Balance awry and the Adept race on the wane, the people have a right to pursue any avenue which might potentially revert the realm’s decline.” He handed off the scroll to the functionary who’d come for it, and added rather loftily, “I would think the empire would want to support such an effort, especially in light of recent events.”
While the crowd muttered, the Empress exchanged a look with her Lord Chamberlain, who returned a hooded gaze to the senators. “Pray enlighten the Empress as to which recent events you refer, Senator Schiavone?”
Shailabanáchtran’s characteristic contempt was unmistakable in the senator’s veiled smile. “I refer to the Tower alarm, Lord Chamberlain.”
Susurrant whispering swept the hall, reminiscent of the misgiving that had swept the city during the aforementioned alarm.
Oh, yes, that baleful alarm, Baelfeir smirked. He could just imagine the poor mortals running in the streets, waving their arms and shouting hysterically, Warlocks are coming! Warlocks are coming!
The Empress’s eyes tightened on Senator Schiavone. “Help me understand what relevance the Tower alarm could have on your petition, Senator.”
The senator’s lips assumed a faint sneer. “Forgive my bluntness, Aurelia,” and he glanced around at the many expectant faces, as if they all knew he was about to speak a truth that should’ve been spoken long ago, as if the entire hall stood in conspiracy alongside him, “but it’s no secret that the Imperial Adeptus had their arses handed to them—”
Gasps flew like startled birds through the hall.
“...by demons known as the legendary minions of Warlocks—”
Shock and speculation buzzed.
“...and if not for an apparently na’turna literato—”
Snickering whisked among the discordant murmur.
“...many more lives might’ve been lost than just those unfortunate Adepts taken captive.” He added patronizingly, “If two score Varangians and a pair of demons can so easily overwhelm the Empire, what chance have we against true immortals?”
Whereupon the hall exploded into shouting and argument.
The Lord Chamberlain repeatedly hammered his gavel, but the clamor continued, even as an undercurrent of derision started snaking through the crowd. None dared openly laugh, but the obvious ridicule darting from face to face as knowing glances were exchanged made a sludge of the fourth strand currents.
The Senator spoke loudly over the melee, “After such an astonishing spectacle of incompetence against their minions, it is clear the empire would stand sorely unmatched against actual Warlocks,” and he added, as if an afterthought, “Aurelia.”
The Lord Chamberlain banged his gavel three more times, and the crowd finally began to quiet.
Senator Schiavone continued then, smoothly disparaging, “With the lords of Shadow returned to our realm, Aurelia, it would appear the empire needs all the Adepts it can get its hands on.”
Silence overcame the crowd, for this was a truth none could contest.
Shail continued his oration, but Baelfeir had ceased listening.
It took no stroke of genius to determine that any pattern Shailabanáchtran was advocating harbored chaos at the root of its intent, but what Baelfeir couldn’t understand was why Shail would’ve thought he’d care.
Perhaps the other’s barking was only a territorial display—Malorin’athgul were, after all, a predatory race and prey to their own animalistic desires. Yet more germane to the moment, what Baelfeir had unequivocally determined from the other immortal’s yipping was that Shailabanáchtran had elected him as an enemy.
Only a being who created universes might ken the devastating power bequeathed by such a choice. By declaring someone your enemy, you were conceiving in them—even investing them with—a power equal to or greater than your own, all but handing them the ability to become your downfall. These were possibly not concepts that Shailabhanáchtran understood.
But Cephrael assuredly did. In all of their eons of contention, he and Cephrael had never made enemies of each other. The angiel was far too savvy to make that mistake. He would never give Baelfeir that much causative power over his actions. Thus, their rivalry, although not always amiable, rode upon a tide of respect and admiration—his burying of the other under a mountain notwithstanding.
Baelfeir began moving slowly through the crowd, matching starpoints, permeating, pervading...in a sense becoming every mind in the hall. Into these rich fields he spread gossamer spores, seedling ideas that would find sure purchase in malleable thoughts and take root there to flower.
Each time the crowd newly erupted in response to Shail’s oration, Baelfeir planted another kernel within the tumbled ground of their thoughts.
He looked forward to the disruption these blossoming ideas would bring to Shail’s game, in part because the impudent immortal had manufactured a rivalry that needn’t have existed, but mainly because upsetting Shail’s plans would prove to be so entertaining.
***
Something in Senator Schiavone reminded Nadia with a shudder of the Literato N’abranaacht. She couldn’t say if it was the patronizing arch of his eyebrow, or the way his mouth said one thing while his eyes said another, or the general scheming in his gaze, but while he looked nothing like N’abranaacht, yet the resemblance in manner was uncanny.
Nadia recalled a citizen speaking in the Piazza della Studioso; he’d been petitioning the populace about N’abranaacht’s pattern on the same day Shail had battled both Darshan and Pelas, the day Nadia had told the Endoge of the Sormitáge about Malorin’athgul and earned her mother’s enduring censure.
But honestly, how could she not tell the Endoge the truth after he’d witnessed people being evaporated by invisible energy fields and the hurricane of Darshan’s storm whirling the piazza pavers like dry leaves? They’d only just finished replacing all the broken windows in the Physical Sciences building.
All that is to say, she’d expected that petition to rouse its viperous head at Twelfth-day eventually, but she hadn’t expected the republic’s own senators to appear as the five heads of the beast, the worst of them clearly being Senator Schiavone.
Nadia knew her mother would be reading the senator—her mother could read a man from a hundred paces and know the truth in his thoughts—but to Nadia, the senator’s mind was honeycombed, a maze of dead ends and false walls. Most of his thoughts went nowhere, even while his mouth was speaking them. They just...fell off the edge into nothing after each word, as if he didn’t understand what he was saying or even why he was saying it.
It’s like someone else is speaking for him, Caspar observed across their bond, picking up on her thought. The darkly-clad Marquiin stood to the side of the dais with her Praetorian Guard, seeming hardly more than Lieutenant di Corvi’s shadow.
So I’m a shadow now? Caspar feigned injury along with a dramatic mental sigh. Soon I’ll be naught but a ghost in your eyes.
The humor in his words was darkened by the truth layered beneath it, one that neither of them wanted to confront, yet which confronted them with every howl that the Prophet’s continuing storm imposed over their shared minds.
Still, maintaining the semblance of levity was important. Nadia cast him a spectral frown. If you’re going to listen in on my private thoughts, you should at least take them in context.
She felt his smile, though a darting glance told her his expression remained as remote as her stolid Praetorians.
In what context should I take that last, Princess?
Nadia sent the image of herself primly sweeping her hair off one shoulder. That you’re good at blending in.
Apparently too good, if you only see me as di Corvi’s shadow. I must take action to make myself more apparent to you.
Nadia rolled her eyes. Trust me, you’re very apparent.
A soft mental chuckle met her ears. Do senators usually speak at Twelfth-day?
No. It puzzled Nadia as well. The Senate was the forum for airing grievances and open debate. Twelfth-day is for the people, not politics.
These senators seem to have missed that memo.
Especially Senator Schiavone, Nadia agreed.
She didn’t know how her mother did it, just sat there calmly while these haughty autocrats ridiculed her Adeptus and openly criticized her rule before the assembled aristocracy. Nadia would’ve been a burbling, sputtering mess by that time.
After the hum of the latest shocking audacity voiced by Senator Schiavone died beneath the Lord Chamberlain’s gavel, her mother sat in an aching silence, letting the tension build like heat in the hall while she traced a solitary finger in light circles on the arm of her throne.
Then she shifted her colorless gaze to her Lord Chamberlain, who cleared his throat and stood up behind his ornate desk. “Senators, to be clear, you are not here in any official capacity?”
The senators exchanged puzzled glances at this.
“Because were you to stand before this assemblage from your positions as official representatives of the republic and declaim against the order of the Empress’s rule as you have so done, it must be received as an open declaration of rebellion.”
Instantly the hundreds of Praetorians lining the walls drew their swords and came to attention with a thunderous clap of armor.
Shocked murmuring among the crowd followed on the heels of this, nearly drowning out the hasty apologies voiced by the senators. Senator Lombardo raised his voice to declare, “We are not senators today, my lord, just concerned citizens!”
When the noise died down, the Lord Chambe
rlain inquired, “Then in what capacity do you address the Empress?”
“As landholders,” one said.
“By right of noble blood,” replied another.
“By right of ancestry!” declared a third.
Senator Schiavone, unruffled by the Lord Chamberlain or the alert Praetorians, announced smoothly, “As citizens ourselves, we have taken up the people’s banner to declare that our rights are being infringed upon. By keeping this vital pattern locked behind Tower doors, or buried in the Sormitáge’s scholarly morass, the people are being denied a fundamental liberty.”
Vast, disaffected murmuring accompanied this.
That doesn’t sound good, Caspar whispered in her thoughts.
Nadia gave a frustrated puff into her veil. My father says the people can always be counted on to protest any infringement of their fundamental liberties, even if they have no idea what those liberties are supposed to be.
Schiavone continued over the angrily murmuring crowd, “The literato wrote in his journal that his Pattern of Awakening was intended for the good of all, not the good of the privileged few.”
Nadia caught her breath. By the Lady, but every other word out of the man’s mouth cast aspersions on the Empress’s rule.
The air around her mother was veritably crackling with her simmering anger, but the Empress merely shifted her head slightly to the left to inquire, “Pray, by what right, Senator?”
Schiavone tilted his head the other direction. “I beg your pardon?”
“Yes, you should,” she said stiffly, eliciting many indignant grunts on her behalf from the gallery where the foreign ambassadors gathered.
The Empress put the fourth strand beneath her words to be heard by the entire hall. “After a lengthy study, a Sormitáge Tribunal ruled the Literato N’abranaacht’s Pattern of Awakening too speculative for broad study. This was not my decision, though I support it. The pattern is being investigated by the best minds in the empire, yet you declare that the people’s rights are being violated by said action. Please educate me, Senator, as to what right of the people is being violated?”
The Sixth Strand Page 48
