The Complete Empire Trilogy

by Raymond E. Feist

  The sky darkened, though no cloud gathered. The garden courtyard lost clarity, seeming to brood with a greenish tinge.

  ‘Now,’ Motecha cried out.

  Power speared down, lightning-bright, a sizzling bolt that appeared to bisect the heavens. It struck in a crack of violet sparks, but the ward seized the power, deflected it along the curve of its surface, then absorbed it. Heat flew back in a scorching wave. The stone faces of the buildings opposite blackened and cracked. Trees singed, and an ornamental fountain boiled dry in a puff of steam.

  Untouched by the backlash, protected by their own wards, the gathered magicians exchanged dark looks of astonishment. They gathered for a second blow. A rainbow play of energies cascaded down upon the cho-ja barrier. It flared back a black opaqueness.

  The Assembly magicians increased the force of their attack. Sparks jagged and flew, and thunder rumbled. Fire rained from the sky, and then charges of incandescent force.

  ‘Keep up the assault,’ shouted Sevean. ‘Spare no effort. The wards must eventually weaken.’

  Winds howled, and fires raged. Tremors shook the earth, and paving cracked as gaps opened in the courtyard. The protective bubble of spells that sealed off the audience hall seemed to buckle, and shrink slightly inward.

  ‘Yes!’ Motecha redoubled his efforts. Lightning scored the invisible surface, and the winds raised by disturbed forces screamed around the spires of the Imperial Precinct like the howl of demons released.

  One of the Black Robes with lesser strength crumpled to the pavement. The rest stood firm, sure now: the wards must break, over time. No magical defense could withstand such a concentrated onslaught for very long. As power hammered down, and split, and the rush of the gusts drowned even the din of the armies besieging the outside walls, the Assembly magicians immersed themselves in spells. In their collective fury only one objective remained: the hall of the imperial audience would be breached, now at the cost of any lives; even their own.

  The high, vaulted skylights of the imperial audience hall went dark. Plunged into sudden gloom, gathered courtiers and priests shifted nervously in their places. The only remaining illumination was cast by the wildly flickering lamps kindled in honor of the Twenty Higher Gods. On the dais, the priest of Chochocan who presided over the imperial marriage ceremony faltered in his lines.

  A bang of nearby thunder shook the walls. While many in the chamber trembled, and more than one priest made signs to ward off heaven’s displeasure, Justin’s voice arose over the early murmurs of confusion. ‘Proceed,’ he stated clearly.

  Mara felt her heart nearly burst with pride. The boy would make a fine ruler! Then she bit her lip; first, he would have to survive his wedding and coronation.

  The Princess Jehilia at his side looked white with fright. She fought to keep her chin high, as royalty ought; but more than anything, she wanted to cower behind her veils. Justin’s hand stole out and clamped around hers in a desperate attempt to share comfort.

  After all, they were only children.

  The floor shook under another concussion. The priest of Chochocan glanced about, as if seeking safe refuge.

  Mara straightened. All must not be abandoned because one fainting priest lost heart! She tensed, prepared to intervene, although to do so was a risk: their holinesses would perhaps resent any further pressure from her. If she drove them too hard, they might mistake her motives for ambition, or worse: they might withdraw the power of their office and pronounce that Justin’s wedding to Jehilia went against the will of heaven.

  Time was too short, and circumstances were too dangerous, to allow for long-winded justifications that after all had only circumstantial proof that the strike upon the cho-ja’s wards was effected by mortal men who happened to be magicians, and that their will was no more that of heaven than the actions of any Ruling Lord who murdered out of greed or ambition for power.

  The noise from without reached another crescendo as yet another arcane assault battered the wards. Rainbows of fractured light played through the skylights, bathing the chamber in unnatural colors. Mara’s discomfort increased as the priests and officials in attendance began to shuffle feet. Old Frasai of the Tonmargu was trembling outright, perhaps on the point of cracking.

  Support arose from an unexpected source, as the Red God’s High Priest pressed to the forefront of temple representatives gathered beneath the imperial dais. ‘Brother,’ he exhorted his wavering fellow priest, ‘we are all Turakamu’s, in the end. Were heaven displeased, we should already be struck down, and my God is silent within me. Please, proceed with the ceremony.’

  The High Priest of Chochocan nodded. He licked sweat from his upper lip and drew a deep breath, and his sonorous voice resumed the next lines of the ritual.

  Mara exhaled in relief. At her side, the High Priest of Juran flashed her a look of understanding. ‘Bide, my good Lady Servant. You have allies.’

  Mara returned a slight nod. She did have allies; many more than she knew. The magical assault might intensify, but not all of the priests would be easily cowed. The twists and reverses of state politics over the course of centuries had taught them to be canny. If their hold slipped now, if Justin’s wedding did not proceed according to law, and if his subsequent coronation were not to go forward and stand, they understood how greatly the authority of the temples would be ceded to the Assembly. The Sisters of Sibi stood like creatures from the realm of the dead, untroubled by the possibility that the Imperial Palace might collapse upon their heads.

  For any portion of heaven’s due influence and power to fall under mortal dominion was a perilous course, one that invited divine displeasure. Then would the gods curse misfortunes upon mankind that could make the wrath of an aroused Assembly seem but the tantrums of children.

  Justin’s reply to the next ritual question rang strongly over the din of another attack. Thunder rumbled, a seemingly endless peal. An ornamental bead shook loose from the imperial throne and rattled down the pyramidal steps. The crystal in the skylights cracked, and shards tumbled sparkling in the lamplight to shatter against the marble floor.

  No one, thankfully, was in harm’s way.

  Mara closed her eyes. Hold, my children, she prayed. Hokanu’s hand tightened over hers.

  She returned a half-smile that warmed as Jehilia replied to the priest. The Princess was subdued, demure as befit her station; if she also clung to her new husband, she was still royalty. Her bearing stayed straight as the wicker cages with the ritual marriage birds were raised for the blessing. The reed doors were solemnly cut by the High Priest’s knife.

  Mara bit her lip, fighting tears, as the pair of birds inside took wing at their offered freedom. Fly, she willed them, fly up and mate and find happiness.

  The omen of the birds at her own first wedding had been unfavorable. With all of her heart, she longed for this one to be different. She and Hokanu might not rule their lives by portents and tradition, but there were elderly priests present who did.

  The birds shot aloft just as another bolt of thunder slammed the air. They winged over in alarm and, as one, arrowed up and out, through the gap in the cracked skylight.

  ‘Thank the gods,’ Hokanu murmured. His hand squeezed Mara’s, while the tears spilled unabashed over her eyelids. She could not hold in her emotion. Neither could she see as two Imperial Whites in ceremonial Force Leaders’ armor stepped forward with the cloak edged in gold and sarcat fur: the mantle of the Emperor of all Tsuranuanni, which they spread over Justin’s shoulders.

  Tall as he had grown, the boy looked lost in the garment. Mara wiped her eyes and was struck by a poignant recollection of Ichindar, who had been as slender, and who in the end had been bowed down by the weight of imperial office.

  Justin bore up well. He took Jehilia’s hand as if he had been born being gallant to ladies, and led her up the stairs to the dais.

  ‘His father’s son indeed,’ Hokanu murmured proudly.

  Singing acolytes followed the newly wedded couple, along
with the priest of Juran, who bore the jeweled golden cushion that supported the imperial crown. The singing was ragged, cut across and half drowned by the rumble of continuous arcane attack from without.

  The blows came much more closely spaced.

  A pillar near the rear of the hall cracked with a sound like a whip. Mara started. She forced herself to focus wholly on the tableau that unfolded on the dais. She could not ignore signs of impending peril: that the air was growing warmer. The wooden railing beneath the dais where petitioners came to kneel before their Light of Heaven showed peeling layers of varnish. The stone floor grew hot enough to raise blisters, and courtiers shifted from foot to foot, as the leather of their sandals failed to protect from the growing heat.

  ‘The cho-ja mages are hard pressed,’ Hokanu murmured in Mara’s ear.

  Thunder slammed again, rocking the chamber. Priests reached out to steady their colleagues, and more than one of the High Ones presiding on the dais looked frightened. They held to their purpose, grimly.

  Mara watched as the priest of Lashima, Goddess of Wisdom, stepped forward to anoint her son’s temples with oil. His vestments were knocked askew, and his hands shook. Much of the holy oil spilled on the intricate border of Justin’s mantle. Jehilia was on the verge of panic, her hand locked white around her husband’s. The priest of Baracan came next and presented Justin with the ancient golden sword of the Emperor, which would be brought forth again only when another Emperor was crowned. Justin put out his hand and rested it upon the sacred blade, and Mara, anguished, could see his young fingers trembling.

  She must not think of failure! Annoyed with herself, she raised her chin and risked a glance back. The cho-ja mages stood by the door, no longer towering with their magnificent wings raised high. Now, they crouched on the floor, incanting counter-spells with a buzz that was like a dissonance beneath the rumbling booms of outside blows. The insectoids’ strength was great, but the powers of the united Assembly were more than even they could stand off indefinitely. No matter how greatly they were provoked or threatened, their stance had been made emphatically clear. Chakaha still ruled them. Under no circumstances would they use their magic to attack.

  When at last the ward failed, the Assembly would be freed to exercise the extent of their wrath upon the convocation in the audience chamber.

  Strangely, Mara felt no fear. Too much had been risked, and too much lost. As if the part of herself that had known consternation at the prospect of horrible death had been seared out by degrees since the events that had harrowed her in Thuril, she was beyond acknowledging risk. In her rock-deep state of confidence, she seemed to radiate unearthly power.

  Even Hokanu regarded her with the beginnings of awe. She barely noted. She stepped back from the front rank participants in Justin’s coronation, saying quickly, ‘Praise our new Light of Heaven for me, when the crown is at last in place.’

  Her husband showed surprise, even yet taken aback by Mara’s poise, though he had thought he understood all there was to know of her character. ‘What are you going to do?’ His voice was falsely firm; even he must acknowledge that the mages who defended them were failing.

  Mara gave him a firm look. ‘Subterfuge,’ she murmured. ‘What else is left?’

  He bowed to her. ‘Good Servant.’ And then he stared in amazement as she walked to the back of the hall. He would remember her in this moment, he resolved, and cherish her unflagging spirit, even as the spells of the Assembly burst the wards and all of them became consumed by arcane fires.

  Mara did nothing extraordinary. She reached the arched doors of the hall and bowed her respect to each of the cho-ja mages. They were too hard pressed to acknowledge beyond the merest flick of a forelimb. Then she paused by the portals and touched the wrists of the two imperial heralds who stood stationed at either side.

  She conferred briefly with them. Hokanu, watching, was mystified. What was she doing? Her glance flashed up, met his: watch the ceremony, she seemed to chide.

  He gave her a half-shrug and faced forward.

  The earth rocked. On the dais, the priests’ incantation went raggedly out of rhythm, and yet, stubbornly, they persisted. Sparks shot across the closed screens. The wards were breached. They were failing. The next hard blow would shatter all protections.

  The coronation was nearly completed. ‘Hail!’ cried the priests. They bowed, as the floor shook in thunderous report. ‘Hail!’ The crown was raised up by the High Priest of Chochocan. He frantically mouthed the blessing.

  Lightning flashed. A stone fell from the domed skylight and struck the agate flooring with a crash. The crown slipped from the priest’s nerveless fingers and dropped crookedly to rest upon Justin’s red head.

  The act was accomplished. The heir to the Acoma, child of a slave, wore the sacred imperial regalia of Tsuranuanni, and no power short of heaven could rescind his anointed authority.

  ‘Hail!’ shouted the priests in convocation. ‘Hail, Justin, ninety-two times Emperor, and new-made Light of Heaven!’

  The words tangled with an annihilating crash of thunder and Mara’s shout to the heralds: ‘Now!’

  Glittering gold in their ceremonial tabards, and pressed by a howling gust of air, the officials moved. They stepped to the great doors even as the cho-ja mages crumpled, grasped the rings, and threw wide the doors.

  Against an onrushing wall of Black Robes, they performed their bows in perfect mirror image. ‘Hail to the new Light of Heaven!’ they rang out in unison. White-faced, but inarguably firm, they straightened and the one with the most imposing voice qualified. ‘Great Ones of the Assembly, hear me! You are hereby summoned to the Imperial Court.’

  The lead ranks of Black Robes stumbled and rocked to a stop.

  ‘Summoned?’ shrieked a stupefied Motecha. Soot streaked his habit, and his red face sparkled with sweat. ‘By whom?’

  The imperial heralds were well versed in maintaining poise in the face of intransigent courtiers. They performed impeccable bows. ‘By the Light of Heaven, Great One.’

  ‘What!’ Sevean shoved forward, his colleagues crowding on his heels.

  The heralds held to their dignity. From the dais, beside the high priests, the imperial Seneschal called out, ‘Justin! Ninety-two times Emperor!’

  Motecha spluttered. Sevean looked pole-axed. Hochopepa was for once in his life left speechless, and even the austere Shimone never thought to press the issue with magic, as every other man and woman in the hall bowed before their ultimate monarch.

  Between the slowly rising forms of two utterly spent Chakaha mages, Mara smothered exultation. The heralds had handled themselves admirably. Their confidence had seemed so unimpeachable that even the Great Ones had not yet thought to question the implicit inference: that the defenses of her allies were not spent unto exhaustion, and that protective wards had not in fact collapsed, but had been dropped deliberately.

  ‘We have no power left,’ the Chakaha mage to Mara’s left murmured in a near-inaudible frequency.

  Mara waved a placating hand. ‘The Great Game,’ she murmured. ‘Now we must all play, or die.’

  • Chapter Thirty-Two •

  Emperor

  The Black Robes gaped.

  Flanking the entrance to the audience hall, Imperial Whites in gold-edged armor stood at smart attention. Nowhere were warriors in Acoma or Shinzawai colors in evidence, as the magicians had expected to find.

  They had anticipated the aftermath of struggle, with triumphant soldiers guarding their claimant until such time as the losers swore fealty. That was how disputed successions had been resolved in the past. But the Good Servant had not used compulsion to achieve her triumph. None rushed forward to hurl themselves in prostration and beg the mercy of the Black Robes, pleading for a reversal of Mara’s usurpation of authority. Quite the contrary, the magicians at the forefront noticed that any discomfort on the faces that greeted them stemmed instead from their own precipitous arrival. Everyone present seemed involved in conspiracy with the
end Mara had achieved.

  Drums thundered in tattoo, drowning Motecha’s shout for silence. He waved his raised hands to no avail, while colleagues on either side looked disgruntled by the flourish of trumpets and horns that sounded over the city in a peal not heard since the death of Ichindar. The notes even drowned the thudding of rocks from the siege engines.

  Not far behind the leading magicians, Hochopepa leaned over to speak to Shimone. ‘Servants must have been creeping in here making preparations for hours.’

  Though his words were intended to be private, Sevean overheard. ‘You imply a great deal of planning.’

  Shimone treated his colleague to a gaze that masked contempt. ‘Of all rulers in the Nations, Mara of the Acoma has never achieved anything without a plan.’

  The fanfare rang away, leaving silence. ‘You are summoned,’ the imperial heralds repeated, stepping back to clear the entrance. A long corridor opened between the ranking courtiers and officials who waited inside. A glowering Motecha hastened ahead, the rest of the magicians crowding at his heels. All stared. The panoply of personages gathered at the head of the hall formed an impressive sight.

  At the base of the imperial dais, the High Priests and Priestesses of the Twenty Gods of the Higher Heaven and Twenty Gods of the Lower Heaven stood in full regalia. Only at the coronation or the death of an Emperor would such a convocation be called for.

  High, curved headdresses framed their faces, sparkling with lacquerwork, precious stones, and rare metal. Attendant upon each was a pair of acolytes, bearing the ceremonial badges of office each prelate was entitled to display. These, too, were gem-studded or adorned with metal bands and silk streamers. Only the Sisters of Sibi were plain; their black, featureless appearance in ominous contrast to the panoply of plumage and finery. The community of temples was represented in its entirety. A delegation of one hundred and twenty from the holy orders of every significant divinity in the Empire made an impressive sight.

  The Great Ones gave way to reluctant awe.