by William King
“And you too will have a place in the new order of things, do not worry, Tamara. Your place among us is assured.”
“I am glad to hear it,” she said. “You have taken so much else for granted.”
“The Brotherhood values you very highly,” he said. “Just how highly you shall soon find out.”
“You have a mission for me, I take it.”
“Soon. Soon. Sweet Tamara. After you have renewed your vows of service.”
“To you?”
“To the Brotherhood. We have introduced a new oath and it must be sanctified in the sight of the Enlightened Ones.” Tamara thought she understood where this was going, and she did not like it in the slightest.
“You mean I must look into the Mirror.”
“You grasp the essence of matters so quickly.”
“And what will that do to me?”
“It will give you power beyond your wildest dreams.”
“As it has done for you?”
“Yes.”
“And what else has it done to you, Xephan?”
“What do you mean?”
“I fear you are no longer quite yourself.”
“I do not follow you?” It came to her suddenly, with a certainty that brooked no doubting. The sudden shock of the knowledge made her indiscreet.
“You are something else. Or something shares your body? I fear you are possessed, Xephan. I have seen others like you.”
“There are no others like me.” Anger and fear made her voice harsh.
“I think there are. Someone like you killed my father.”
“I can assure you I had nothing to do with that, Tamara.”
“But it does not sadden you that he is dead.”
“I would be lying if I claimed that was so. His time had passed. A new generation must take their place in the fore. It is our turn to shape the world.”
She could see that he believed that utterly, and he seemed perfectly sincere in offering her a place alongside him. She was no longer sure that she wanted to be there though, if it meant becoming like him, or the thing that was in him. She did not want to become like him or her father or Rik. She wanted to remain herself. She schooled her features to blandness, and smiled at him, not wanting him to know what was on her mind.
“Yes,” she said. “You are right. It is long past time.”
“Then you will come to my apartments tonight and we shall go into the Labyrinth below. The coven meets. You will be initiated into a new and greater mystery.”
His touch made her flesh crawl. She made her smile warmer. “I look forward to it,” she said.
“Then until this evening, sweet Tamara, I bid you adieu.”
She walked back into the outer chamber with a measured tread, feeling as if she were stepping between worlds. Out here everything looked normal. Back in the Prime Minister’s chambers insanity waited. She kept her smile fixed on her face as she departed, wondering what she was going to do now.
Chapter Twelve
Guards waited for her as she exited Xephan’s chambers. Briefly she wondered if this was a trap, and whether she was to be whisked off to the dungeons for imprisonment and torture. Had Xephan’s words been meant merely to lull her into a false sense of security? Had he planned this all along? Perhaps she should have killed him while she was within striking distance, if that was still possible.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to relax. If it was a trap, there would be chances to escape if she kept her wits about her. She needed a clear mind to see her opportunities. She cocked her head to one side and smiled at the guard captain.
“Yes,” she said, putting a hint of empty-headed flirtation into her voice. It never did any harm to have people underestimate her, and such thinking came naturally to male Terrarchs of her generation.
“The Empress commands your presence,” he said, courteously enough. His gaze ran over her body, as if he were imagining what she looked like naked. She held his glance while her thoughts were elsewhere. It seemed she was due for an audience with the Imperial presence today after all.
“I hear and I obey,” she said. She put stress on the word obey and was certain she knew what he was thinking.
The presence chambers were huge. Ornate crystal windows gave a sweeping view down upon the city and the harbour beyond. Tall Terrarch guards stood by the doors and hordes of courtiers flocked in the antechambers. Tamara sensed a brittle tension as she entered that had not been there on any of her previous visits. She studied the Court-uniformed Terrarchs surrounding her, picking out familiar faces and noticing the changes in them. Here was old Zhal, the Court Chamberlain, silver haired, silver bearded, subtle and languid. He nodded to her and smiled, warmly. His glittering teeth were porcelain and starmetal. Nearby was Lady Usquoth, unusually plump for a Terrarch, her ringed fingers stained with the sugar of the sweetmeats she munched delicately but ravenously. In the corner a group of her father’s old friends and rivals huddled in conversation, plotting no doubt.
She smiled again at the guard captain, feeling a sudden warm nostalgia, happy to be standing once more at the centre of the world, at least as far as the Empire was concerned, and more than a little disturbed by the unease on the faces looking at her. She flicked her fan open and smiled at each of them in turn, not letting the coolness of certain responses discourage her, or diminish for a moment the warmth of her greeting.
The guard captain moved his head slightly, and touched her arm, letting his hand rest there for longer than was strictly necessary as he indicated that she should keep moving into the inner audience chamber. She moved to the door where Zhal stood waiting. He leaned forward and whispered in her ear.
“Be careful. Her Majesty is in no good mood.”
She giggled as if he had made some small joke for their private amusement, and he smiled as if appreciating her simple sense of humour and swept the door open for her to enter the Imperial presence.
Arachne sat on the Purple Throne, tall and beautiful as ever, her face still youthful despite her centuries, her hair purple-black, her lips full and red and startling against her pale skin. She was more beautiful than any of the ladies-in-waiting surrounding her, who had all been chosen for that exact degree of loveliness. For a moment, under Arachne’s cold, hawk-like gaze, Tamara felt self-conscious, a child being studied by watchful adults, a gawky adolescent under the eyes of her sophisticated elders. The Empress always made her feel that way. She fought to keep down the surge of loyalty she felt. She could not help it -- it was almost bred in the bone to all subjects of the Sardean monarchy.
She made the full Court curtsey, waited to be recognised and told to advance, and then proceeded through the intricate quadrille of Imperial protocol till eventually she stood, head bowed before the throne, looking exactly like a properly submissive subject of the Empress.
“Lady Tamara. It pleases me to see you once more.” The Empress’s voice was low and thrilling but it had a falseness in it, a lack of warmth or empathy, a brittle quality that at this moment was somehow emphasised. “You have our leave to speak freely and without awaiting our permission.”
“I thank you, Majesty. It pleases me to stand within the radiance of your august presence.” The surprising thing was that she did feel that way. Old habits died hard.
“There are matters I wish to discuss with you. Step out onto the balcony with me.”
Tamara waited for the Empress to pass through the doors onto the great balcony and then followed her. The platform was massive and decked with flowers, a greenhouse with a fine view of the city and sea below, a place protected by the strongest warding spells, where things might be discussed in utter privacy when the crystal doors were shut. Tamara was suddenly acutely aware that she was alone with the Empress, as she had not been since she was a child.
Arachne turned to look at her, her face no longer a rigid mask, fear written in her eyes. “I am sorry to hear about what happened to your father,” she said.
“I am not entir
ely certain I know what happened to him,” Tamara said.
“He is dead, or so Xephan tells me. Asea killed him.”
“She was always his enemy.”
“Not always. Only in the struggle that emerged after my mother died.” There was an odd stress on the word mother. Arachne was about the same age now as Amarielle had been when she was murdered, Tamara thought. No wonder she was sensitive about Kathea’s death.
“I know he feared her.”
“He was right to do so. She is the most formidable sorceress the Terrarchs ever produced and even here on this sadly diminished world her magic is deadly. Apparently she has a new tool now —some renegade half-breed killer she plucked from the gutter and made her apprentice. I understand you have met him.”
Was that what this meeting was about? “His name is Rik. I believe she has been teaching him sorcery — he is very powerful.”
“Is it true he killed your father?”
“Rumour would have it so.”
“Then he is to be feared indeed. Your father was a very dangerous Terrarch.”
Tamara sensed she was being watched closely and her reactions weighed in the fine scales of the Empress’s mind. Caution whispered soft warnings in her mind. She had been away from Court too long, and she was not able to judge things as well as she once had been.
“I do not think your Majesty has anything to worry about from him,” she said.
“From him, perhaps. The ones I fear lie closer to home.” The Empress’s nostrils flared and her stare was intense. Her lips were compressed into a thin tight line. Be very careful, Tamara thought.
“What do you mean, Majesty?”
“Why did you go to see the Prime Minister before you came to see me?”
“Lord Xephan sent a note requesting I attend him.”
“Is it necessary for the Empress to request her subjects attend her?”
“Of course not, Majesty. But your Majesty is busy and I had no idea that you had any interest in your most humble subject.”
“Please Tamara, we are alone. Neither you nor your father were ever humble.”
“I cannot contradict your Majesty’s judgement.”
“And please dispense with the false humility. It smacks too much of mockery.”
“I do not understand what your Majesty means.”
“Perhaps I should make myself clear then…I want to know where your loyalty lies. To your Empress or to the Prime Minister.”
To myself, thought Tamara. Her lips said, “To my Empress, of course. I am shocked that your Majesty could think otherwise.”
Arachne’s smile was mocking and, what was worse, contained a hint of fear. It was the nervous grimace of one counterfeiting humour in the face of terror. Tamara had seen the look on the faces of some of the people she had killed as they had tried to talk her out of it. Was the Empress really afraid of her? Did she know the truth about her Shadowblood upbringing? What had Malkior told her?
“Your father and Xephan were not friends,” she said eventually. “Not at the end, at least.”
“That is a fair judgement, your Majesty.”
“Then it is one of the few I have made of late.” Tamara let the silence hang, tempting the other woman to speak. The Empress cleared her throat and continued. “I was not a friend to your father in the last few years of his life. I think that was a grave mistake.”
“My father never doubted that you had his welfare at heart,” she said, knowing full well that her father had cursed Arachne’s fickleness every day when she was the only one around to hear.
“That was kind of him,” said Arachne, as if there had been no irony in Tamara’s statement. “I feared your father, you know. I feared what he was capable of. I feared the power he held. I feared that his subordinates were more loyal to him than to me.”
And that is why you slowly promoted his rivals, Tamara thought, eroding the power base he had built up subtly and over the years. She said, “None of your Majesty’s subjects could possibly feel that way.”
Arachne smiled again and there was humour there this time. Perhaps I let a little too much irony show in my voice that time, Tamara thought. The Empress was not a fool after all, merely a Terrarch whose judgement had been warped by being the centre around which the world orbited for far too long. “I am afraid that there are those who do.”
“Surely all tremble in your divine presence.”
“I have asked you to please spare me the mock humility Tamara. Now I am commanding you to.”
“To hear is to obey. Who is it that worries you so, Majesty?”
“You have come from his presence.”
“Xephan? Surely you have but to dismiss him from his post. He is your creature, Majesty. You made him. You can break him.”
“I promoted him as a counter-balance to your father — that is true. The young are ever ambitious and seek to prove themselves. Your father was of the old breed, and was thought too conservative for this new age.”
“Sometimes it is best to stand by that which is time tested.”
“It has taken me some time to appreciate that.”
“Why do you fear Lord Xephan is disloyal, Majesty?”
“He has grown arrogant, and he has grown powerful.”
“Dismiss him.”
“I wrote a warrant of dismissal. My chamberlains did not deliver it.”
Shock rippled through Tamara. It was unheard of for the chamberlains to disobey the reigning Empress. “Dismiss your chamberlains,” Tamara suggested. “Have your guards scourge them and drive them from the Palace.”
“I fear my guards would not obey. I have not dared give the order. I am a prisoner in my own Palace.”
Tamara’s mind whirled. What game was being played here? Was the Empress testing her, or was Xephan really so powerful? Perhaps this whole audience had been arranged simply to show her that power. Deadly currents swirled here. She needed to be careful and cautious. The Empress seemed almost embarrassed by what she had said.
“And there are other reasons for not making the attempt. We are at war with the West now. Any show of disunity would be disastrous.” Tamara thought she saw a scared woman saving face, but chose to disregard the intuition. After all, the Empress might just be acting, or saying these things for reasons of her own. What had happened at Court while she was in the West, Tamara wondered?
“Your Majesty’s words are wise.” Tamara calculated swiftly. It would not be the first time a faction had grown over-powerful at Court. It had happened with Asea and Azaar, and with her own father, but in the end an Empress could always outwait her followers. She held the divine mandate after all, and while circumstances always changed, the bedrock truth of Terrarch society was that the Empress was the chosen one.
“There are times when I think I was the only one who did not want this war,” said Arachne. Tamara wondered at the bare-faced effrontery of that statement. She could never recall the Empress objecting to war in any shape or form before now. Still, it would not pay to point that out. What the Empress chose to believe was the truth. “But your father was for it, and Xephan was for it, all my advisors counselled it.”
“Your Majesty has doubts now?”
“It seems all our clever plans have gone awry. The hill men did not rise. The Harvenites are against us, not with us. Now we try sorcery and this plague is a two edged sword.”
Tamara thought she could see what was really bothering the Empress. No one liked to be associated with failure. If the war was going wrong, it did nothing for the prestige of the throne. She also noted that most of these plans were ones associated with her father, and his desperate schemes to clamber back into the seat of power.
“With all due respect, Majesty, the Harvenites are against everybody. The Quan have closed the Northern sea lanes to all.”
“We do not know that, Tamara. Not for certain. All we know is that they have closed them to us. How do we know that the Taloreans are similarly blockaded?”
“Surely you
r Majesty has sources of information?”
“Our spy networks have not proven entirely reliable recently.” Another veiled criticism of her father, Tamara thought. Malkior had been responsible for setting up most of those networks. She was starting to wonder whether the Empress has summoned her simply to work out her frustration with the father on the daughter. She studied the Empress closely, taking in Arachne’s body language and expression in the way her father had taught her and decided it was not the case. The Empress really was scared.
And why not? For the first time the enormity of these matters washed over Tamara. If the war with Talorea was lost, the Empress would lose the throne on which she had sat for centuries, and probably even her life. For her, this was an enormous gamble. If they won, she would certainly eliminate her sister. She must expect Arielle to do the same to her.
Tamara tried to see matters as if she were the Empress, cocooned in power and privilege for centuries, and threatened with the loss of what for her would be nothing less than her entire world. Suddenly, the impact of Kathea’s death became understandable, a reminder that even royalty were mortal in the end, that the deadly political game could claim even the lives of those who thought of themselves as players not pawns, that these games were more than a simple amusement to while away the ennui of centuries long lives. The Empress had every reason to be nervous.
“Lord Xephan intends to win the war.”
“I am sure he does,” Tamara said, not bothering to hide the irony this time.
“I am wary of clever schemes for winning wars.”
“That seems wise, Majesty.”
“Tell me honestly Tamara, do you think we can win? You have been in the West recently. You know what they are like.”
Tamara thought about what she had seen. She thought of the great armies, and the bustling cities, and the endless industry of the humans. She pictured the destruction of the Serpent Tower, and Lord Azaar, and Asea and Rik.
“The West is stronger than we were led to believe, Majesty. My father thought they were weak, giving way to the humans as they do. I am not so sure.”
