The Complete Empire Trilogy

by Raymond E. Feist

  Hochopepa sidled closer to Fumita and Shimone in reaction to this emphatic demonstration of temple support for Mara’s intrigues. While no single priest could rival any magician in raw power, the High Father Superiors of Turakamu and Jastur, as well as the Sisters of Sibi, commanded respect, even from Great Ones. Spellcraft had preserved the audience hall intact, despite the Assembly’s mightiest conjury. Hochopepa was not so irreverent toward the will of heaven that he discounted the force of divine favor.

  Caution, he decided, was called for.

  Incense swirled on the air. The polished marble floor sparkled with dust from cracked plaster and powdered glass from the shattered skylight. Such signs of violence could not divert the magicians from noting further details on their approach to the high dais: two empty reed cages festooned with ribbons of imperial white. The carpet beneath the imperial thrones lay heaped with veils, lately removed from the bride in ritual order, according to the time-honored rites of a Tsurani state marriage ceremony.

  As the dismayed delegation of Great Ones reached the supplicants’ rail beneath, an imperial herald struck the floor three times with a bronze-shod staff, crying out, ‘Justin, ninety-two times Emperor!’

  The gold-armored royal honor guard knelt in homage as a boy in shining robes arose from the throne. The gathered nobles dropped to their knees. The boy did not look cowed; his shoulders were straight and his chin high despite the weight of his golden armor and the massive crown of state with its topaz stones and fretwork. At his side arose Jehilia, Princess no longer, but Empress in her own right, the diamond-set circlet of office fitted over her bridal headdress. As the magicians drew to a halt, Justin held out his hand to his Lady. She arose and stood beside him.

  Motecha went white. Around him some magicians bowed from the waist in the obeisance a Great One traditionally offered the Light of Heaven. Shimone, Fumita, and Hochopepa were among the first to give the Emperor and his bride due acknowledgment, while still other Black Robes deliberated in stupefaction.

  Motecha found his voice. ‘What mummery is this?’

  The High Priest of Juran advanced in stiff displeasure. ‘We come to honor the new Light of Heaven, Great One.’ Pointedly he added, ‘As is every man’s proper duty.’

  Sevean cried, ‘Upon what claim does this … boy presume to rule the Empire?’ He stabbed a finger at Justin, but his eyes sought out the Lady Mara, who had moved to the base of the dais among the priests, in robes as fine as her son’s.

  She did not deign to answer, but allowed the High Priest of Juran speech in her place: ‘Justin is of the blood imperial, his adoption into Ichindar’s family formalised when his mother was named Servant of the Empire.’ With that, the priest bowed in respect toward Mara. ‘He is the chosen husband of the Empress Jehilia – Ichindar’s direct blood heir – and the marriage just completed was sanctioned by the Imperial Consort, Lady Tamara. All has been done according to the laws of man and the higher Law of Heaven. If somewhat hurried, the wedding abided strictly by custom.’

  One of the most fervent traditionalists, Lord Setark of the Ukudabi, made his way in the wake of the Great Ones through the double doors, which remained open. He and his army had been sequestered inside the city, prepared to aid Jiro should the Omechan fail in their attack upon the walls. He overheard the priest’s recitation of protocols with disfavor and raised a contentious shout. ‘The High Council never ratified this choice!’

  Priests and magicians faced one another in uneasy confrontation. Redoubled tension charged the atmosphere at Lord Setark’s outburst, and now the lines were drawn: acknowledge Justin as the new Light of Heaven, or resort to force of arms as the strongest nobles contended through bloodshed to seize power.

  With the walls under assault by the Omechan, the catastrophe of the latter decision would be immediately felt. And the staid majority of magicians were still reluctant to become embroiled in politics. They were not of the Great Game of the Council; they were above it.

  Akani stepped to the fore, the swirl of his black robe the only movement in the frozen tableau. He took stance beside Motecha and raised his orator’s voice. ‘Your call for ratification is a moot point, I fear. According to record, the High Council was disbanded by the ninety-first Light of Heaven and, despite repeated petitions, was never again reconvened.’

  The High Priest of Chochocan swept into a bow as polite as it was firm. ‘The forms have been observed. The succession is established. Justin of the Acoma is ninety-second Light of Heaven, and the gods themselves are his judge. His ascension to the golden throne will stand, and the temples will cast out for heresy anyone who dares disrupt his rule.’ He looked squarely at Motecha as he said, ‘Even if such were a Great One.’

  Motecha’s glower deepened. ‘You dare!’

  Then a voice that grated upon the ears like a cry of pain said, ‘Do not oppose us, Great One.’

  The timid cringed, while the boldest turned toward the shrouded figure of the most senior Sister of Sibi, whose speech echoed from the depths of her cowl. No light would ever reveal her features – it was held the Sisters embraced death within themselves when they joined their Goddess’s order. ‘Would you have us unleash our Mad Dancers in your City of Magicians?’

  Many nobles shuddered at the mention of those warriors who served death, whose mere touch was fatal, as they leaped and gyrated until exhaustion claimed their lives.

  The High Priest of Jastur struck his metal breastplate with his gauntlet. ‘And will you face my warrior priests? We have little to fear in your magic, Great One, when our god is invoked as our shield. Can you face our blessed war hammers with impunity as we smash the walls of your city?’

  Motecha felt as any ordinary Tsurani would in his position; beliefs ingrained since childhood were not absolutely dispelled by the sureties of his authority. In an effort to conciliate, he said, ‘We do not argue the legitimacy of Emperor Justin.’ Irritation edged his manner as, in concession to this point, he bent his aged back in the bow he withheld earlier. He straightened up and leveled an accusatory finger at the Lady who stood at the foot of the dais, and whose actions had escaped all restraint. ‘Lady Mara of the Acoma,’ he intoned, ‘you have flouted tradition until your actions are a stink in the nostrils of our ancestors. You have hidden behind your office, misused public opinion, and caused confusion in the Assembly’s ranks, all for the purpose of breaking our edict against waging war upon the Anasati. Your armies attacked on the Plain of Nashika, and Lord Jiro died at the hand of your husband. I name you guilty, and as Great One of the Empire, I am mandated to do that which the Assembly has voted best for the Nations! Our kind are outside the law! Your son shall be Emperor, may he live long and rule wisely, but you shall not be left at large to stand as his regent!’

  ‘Who would you appoint in Mara’s place?’ Shimone called out acerbically. ‘The Omechan?’

  The comment was ignored. Unopposed by his colleagues, Motecha raised his arm high. Green energies sparked around his fist, and he chanted in a harsh language known only by the magicians.

  Hochopepa and Shimone flinched at his utterance, and Akani stepped quickly away. Fumita cried out, ‘No!’

  Motecha continued his incantation, secure in his right as a Black Robe.

  Lady Mara turned pale, but did not flinch or flee. The lights of Motecha’s gathering spell flickered across her face and caught sparks of reflection in her eyes. Calmly, she murmured something inaudible to the bystanders.

  Motecha’s lip curled as he called out in contempt between phrases, ‘Prayer will not save you, Lady! Neither can these priests, whatever powers they may have wielded in warding this hall against our entry! The gods themselves might save you, but they are the only power capable.’

  ‘The priests had no part in the warding!’ Mara retorted clearly. ‘You may hurl your spells at me, Motecha, but hear warning. Your magic shall harm none, least of all me.’

  Motecha’s features pinched with fury. The Lady was not even afraid! Her end would be painf
ul, he vowed, as he drew breath to snap off the phrase that would release his gathered death spell. The retribution Lady Mara had more than earned would sear her to a husk where she stood.

  Mara closed her eyes, shaken at last by the immediacy of her peril.

  ‘No!’ intoned a voice with a resonance that held nothing human. Its tone shot chills through every person present. On either side of Mara, unseen where they crouched behind the enveloping vestments of the priests, two figures reared erect. Their bodies were patterned in intricate colors, and with a clap of disturbed air, they extended twelve feet of iridescent wings aloft. The majesty of the cho-ja mages made the most costly imperial raiment seem tawdry by comparison.

  ‘The Lady Mara shall not be harmed!’ the creatures cried in unison. ‘She is under the protection of the mages of Chakaha!’

  Fumita cried out, speech wrenched from him in stupefied recognition. ‘The Forbidden! Daughter, what have you done?’

  Motecha stood frozen; the powers he had summoned crackled and dissipated into air, the spell incomplete as his concentration was disrupted by shock. Other magicians blanched as the significance of the creatures before them registered.

  ‘Lady Mara is blameless,’ contradicted the cho-ja mages, their oratory locked in a fluting two-part harmony. ‘It was by your own deed, magicians, that the ancient pact was breached, for until you destroyed a hive our Queens within the Empire stayed bound to the requirements of the treaty. Never once were magical arts employed or outside aid given to Mara, until you broke the covenant! The blame lies with you! It was cho-ja arts that protected this hall. In those lands outside imperial borders, human, our arts have grown and flourished. In protection and preservation, you are not our equal. If we choose, the magicians of Chakaha can ward Lady Mara from your death spells for the rest of her life.’

  As one, the Black Robes hesitated. Never in history had any human not gifted with magic dared to defy the Assembly, and never with a plot so devious: to lure the magicians themselves into destroying the very treaty their predecessors had forged.

  No Black Robe could doubt the abilities of the cho-ja mages; their kind could not lie. By their word, they held means to thwart the most destructive of spells the Great Ones could conjure. Each candidate for the Assembly had studied the old texts; not one who achieved his master’s robe failed to understand the significance of the markings on a cho-ja magician. The complexity of their patterns grew with the ascendance of their mastery; the pair who allied with Lady Mara were old in their art, and powerful beyond imagining.

  Still, some Black Robes remained unmollified. The High Priest of Chochocan made a sign of protection as Sevean shouted to the cho-ja, ‘You are foreigners! How dare you raise your arts to protect the condemned!’

  ‘Wait.’ All eyes turned as Mara stepped forward, boldly claiming the authority in the new order she had dreamed to achieve. Her bullion-edged sash of office proclaimed her Imperial Regent, even if the appointment had not been official. ‘I have a proposal to make.’

  Those gathered in the hall stilled expectantly, and all eyes regarded the Lady who was Servant of the Empire as they waited to hear what she said.

  Mara buried her doubt deep within her heart. Despite their inference to the contrary, the Chakaha mages had spent their powers in their warding of the great hall. After long rest, they might be able to defend her as they had boldly led the Black Robes to presume. As their magic had improved with the centuries, so had their understanding of their enemies. Cho-ja had cleverly manipulated the truth, implying what Mara had every reason to believe: that should the hive-home at Chakaha send reinforcements to Kentosani, she stood beyond harm from the Assembly for the rest of her life.

  But now appearances were all she had to keep her opposition off balance. She dared not provoke any test of the cho-ja mages’ abilities. Between herself and a horrible death she had no weapons beyond words, bluff, and the politics of the Great Game. And the Black Robes were no fools. Mara took an inward grip on her poise and answered Sevean directly. ‘The cho-ja mages dare nothing, but act in the cause of justice! This embassy from Chakaha has come to make amends for the oppression of all our ancestors.’

  Motecha shook his fist. ‘This is Forbidden! Any Empire cho-ja who supports uprising is forsworn! The Great Treaty Between Races has stood for thousands of years.’

  ‘Thousands of years of cruelty!’ Mara flung back. ‘Your precious Forbidden! Your hideous crime against a civilisation that did nothing more than resist the rapacious conquest of their lands! I have journeyed to Thuril. I have seen how the Chakaha cho-ja live. Which of you can say the same, magician?’ The lack of the honorific ‘Great One’ was lost on few in the room. Many Lords gasped in admiration. The Imperial Whites stood sword-straight in their ranks, and Jehilia and Justin clasped hands.

  The priests maintained solemn formality as Mara continued, ‘I have explored the beauty of cities raised by magic, and the peace of this great culture. I have seen what our vaunted Empire has stolen from the cho-ja, and I am determined to give it back.’

  Hochopepa cleared his throat. ‘Lady Mara, you had allies within our ranks, until now. But this … obscenity’ – he gestured to the cho-ja magicians – ‘will unite us to a man.’

  ‘You aren’t united already?’ Mara lashed back in sarcasm. ‘Did the destruction of my litter and my closest retainers not indicate your Assembly’s decision on my execution?’

  Here a few of the Great Ones shifted their weight and looked abashed, for Tapek’s impulsive act had not been regarded with favor. But the Assembly itself was Tsurani; that one of their number had shamed his office must never be admitted in public.

  Mara’s eyes narrowed. ‘As for obscenity, that is a false charge! Why?’ Her wave encompassed the winged beings who flanked her. ‘Because these gentle creatures, who harbor no ill will to any of you, despite your persecution of their race, practice arts greater than your own?’ She quieted her voice to a whisper of menacing accusation. ‘Hochopepa, how can that be an obscenity to a body of men who kill children with power because they are female?’

  At this disclosure, several Black Robes expelled breaths in frantic dismay. Motecha whirled and gestured to a nearby soldier. ‘Kill her!’ he commanded. ‘I order you.’

  The Force Commander of the Imperial Whites stepped before Mara, his sword half drawn. ‘I will cut down the first man, soldier or magician, who threatens the Good Servant, even should I die in the attempt. My life and honor are pledged to protect the Imperial Family. Before the gods, I will not forswear my first duty.’

  Motecha did not shout, but power radiated in waves from his person as he demanded, ‘Stand away!’

  The Imperial Force Commander met the magician’s authoritative gaze. ‘I will not, Great One.’ He snapped a hand signal.

  Other white-clad warriors closed on the dais. Their armor might be ceremonial, but the blades they carried were sharp, flashing in the gloom as they drew weapons in a single motion. Akani rushed out and stayed the single warrior who had moved to obey Motecha out of fear. ‘No, wait.’

  Motecha advanced on his colleague as if he faced an adversary sworn to murder. ‘You deny the law!’

  ‘I’d still rather not turn the Imperial Palace into a charnel house, if you don’t mind.’ The young magician gave Mara a wry shrug. ‘Good Servant, we have reached a difficult impasse.’ He indicated the Great Ones at his back, many of them eager to call down immediate attack on her person, a hundred Imperial Whites, and two cho-ja masters who might or might not have skills enough to defend. ‘If we don’t find a quick solution, many will die.’ He smiled in sour humor. ‘I don’t know if we must take your cho-ja friends at their word, or test to see whose magical prowess is the greater.’ He glanced at Motecha. ‘But given the difficulty we had in entering this very chamber, I have an inkling of the disaster that might result.’ Again he considered Mara, not entirely without warmth. ‘I have no doubt you wish to live and guide your son’s steps to maturity.’ He sighed and ad
mitted, ‘There are those of the Assembly who would spend their lives to eradicate you for this rebellion immediately. Others would prefer peace, and use the opportunity to study what our cho-ja counterparts could offer to expand our knowledge of the great arts. I exhort every man and mage to step back and refrain from profitless destruction until we have exhausted all other options.’

  The cho-ja magician at Mara’s right hand furled its wings; its companion followed suit and said, ‘In this, perhaps we can assist.’ It added a cantrip in its native language and waved short forearms. An unseen disturbance seemed to pass across the chamber, and the tension between the combatants began to leach away.

  Motecha fought to preserve his anger. ‘Creature!’ he cried. ‘Cease your …’ But speech died in his throat. Against his will, his contorted face relaxed.

  The cho-ja magician chided gently, ‘Magician, your fury clouds reason. Let peace ever be my gift to you.’

  Akani studied the magnificently marked carapace, veiled now in a translucence of folded wings. His shoulders relaxed and settled. ‘Although I revere our tradition,’ he admitted, his regard encompassing his fellows, ‘I also recognise what I sense in these emissaries from Chakaha. Look well and deeply. They bring us something … rare.’ To Motecha he added, ‘Their presence is not an offense. We are fools to cling mindlessly to tradition and not explore the wonders we are offered.’

  Hochopepa pushed to the fore. ‘Yes, I feel this, too.’ He sighed. ‘I know both … wonderment and’ – the admission came with difficulty – ‘shame.’

  Mara broke the stillness, ‘Can any Great One deny that nothing of hate or anger motivates this act of kindness?’

  Hochopepa allowed the wave of calmness to envelop him wholly. He smiled. ‘No.’ Then his pragmatism reasserted as he said, ‘First, your son’s ascension to the Throne of Heaven may be proper according to law. But your transgressions are … unprecedented, Good Servant. We may never be moved to forgiveness, Lady Mara.’