With quick, small steps, the aid hurried to the Prince and handed him the document. There was a moment of pause as Fadan read the letter. His grip on it tightened, the crunch of the parchment creasing between his fingers breaking through the silence.
“Our agents arrived in Lamash quite some time ago, but it would seem your brother spent a rather long spell in the deep desert,” Ultimer explained. “The Guild’s patrols have been getting longer and longer. When Lord Aric finally arrived, it was already too late. The Paladins had taken over Lamash.”
“Tarsus has seized the Guild?” one of the Arch-Mages sitting next to Persea asked. “What of our runium supply?”
“Operational control remains—” Ultimer began to reply, but never got the chance to finish.
“Fire take your runium supply!” Fadan snapped. “Tarsus has arrested my brother!” He threw the letter onto the table.
No one dared to say anything.
“First my mother disappears somewhere to the east, now this!”
“Our latest intelligence places your mother near Pharyzah,” Duke Nyssander of Ragara said. Effectively being the host of the Rebellion’s headquarters, he was the only high-ranking noble attending the meeting in person. “There is still hope we will find her before your father does.”
“I have already dispatched a search party,” Arch-Duchess Margeth Abyssaria added, the thick smoke of several incense sticks burning around her blurring her image on the hypervisor. “I have placed my own niece in charge of the operation. If the empress is nearby, Samyris will find her.”
The prince sunk deeper into his chair, eyes focused on some spot on the distant wall across from him. “Thank you, Lady Margeth,” he said at length. “Let’s hope your niece is luckier than our agents in Lamash.”
“I’m sure she will be,” Margeth said soothingly.
Fadan turned to Viscount Ultimer. “My father will want to take Aric to Augusta. A rescue attempt will be much easier while he’s still in transit.”
“With the council’s permission, I will contact our agents in the Paladins.” Ultimer looked around the table and received a string of nods.
“If Aric is allowed to reach Augusta, we might lose him for good,” the prince stressed. “It cannot happen!”
“I will make sure our best people are on it, Your Majesty.” Ultimer signaled another one of the aids to approach, whispered something in her ear, then waved her away. As the young woman scurried off with her instructions, the Viscount cleared his throat. “With this matter settled, and with your permission, Majesty, we would continue with today’s agenda…”
Fadan nodded, a tight, quick movement, as if it hurt.
“Very well, then,” Ultimer continued. “Would any of the esteemed council members like to say a few words before the vote is cast?”
“We have discussed this matter at length already,” the Marquis of Silusa declared. His name was Victor, a true son of House Agammar. Tall, elegant, and austere. The kind of man who talked with his sword and taught with his belt. “There is little more that can be said.”
“True,” Fadan agreed, “but, nevertheless, I would like to say something.” He paused and scanned the members of the council. Six months of hard negotiations had culminated on this vote, and now all he could think about was his mother trudging alone through the snow and his brother rotting in the darkness of a dungeon cell.
Fadan pushed those thoughts away. There was only one way forward. When he had left the Citadel, he had felt like he’d already done the hardest part—turning his back on his father. But nothing could be further from the truth. If his mother, his brother, his whole empire even, were to have any future, there was a war that had to be fought and won, a war against a vastly superior enemy, and he hadn’t even started it yet.
“It took me a long time to come to terms with what needed to be done, what my duty was,” the prince began, leaning his elbows onto the edge of the table. “It is not easy admitting to oneself that your own father is a tyrant. As the Crown Prince and heir to the throne, it is my responsibility to fix my father’s crimes, and I am lucky that all of you, Lords and Ladies of the empire, have accepted this responsibility as well—and at great personal risk, I might add. Your bravery in creating this rebellion has laid the path to our victory, a path we now need to walk.
“There is only one way forward, only one way that Tarsus will fall. It is when this rebellion emerges from the shadows and openly challenges him. Only then will the rest of the empire know that there are those who do not fear Tarsus V. Only then will the people know there is a flag behind which they can rally—and rally they will if you give them that chance. You have, all of you, shown great courage in getting this far. All that remains is the courage to take the final steps. Join me, and we will take this path together. Join me, and we will defeat my father.”
Fadan leaned back in his chair and, for a moment, no one said anything, his words hanging in the air. Viscount Ultimer opened his mouth to speak, but Lady Margeth spoke over him.
“The Prince is a brave and selfless young man,” Arch-Duchess Margeth Abyssaria said. “But the path he would have us take can be considered by some as…” she chose her words carefully, “brazen.”
“I would prefer the word ‘audacious’,” Fadan said. “But wouldn’t you say it takes a degree a brazenness to rebel against the emperor?”
Margeth grinned. “I would.”
“Maybe,” Lord Victor chimed in. “However, I would personally choose different words as well. Youth and idealism. Your Majesty, the course of action you propose would, I have no doubt, be our end. The emperor’s Legions outnumber our forces twenty to one, and that is assuming all remaining noble Houses would refuse the emperor’s call to arms, which is doubtful.”
“I’m the rightful heir,” Fadan argued. “And my father is unpopular even among the Legions. Many of them would flip to our side.”
“That is a promise you cannot know if you can keep,” Victor told him.
“Promise?” Duke Nyssander asked. He sat right next to Fadan. “We all thought the exact same thing when the Prince walked through our doors a few months ago. This is how we beat Tarsus. We steal his Legions from under him. Who else is in a better position to do that?”
“The Legions will follow High-Marshall Intila,” Victor said. “Can the prince turn him to our side?”
Everyone turned to look at Fadan. The High-Marshall’s reputation was legendary—a natural-born leader, groomed from a young age to be the successor of the great Faric Auron, and there was little doubt he had lived up to his mentor’s legacy. Starting his career when the empire was still reeling from the Thepian Revolt, Intila had managed to reorganize the empire’s defenses, reaffirmed Arreline influence in the northern protectorates, and, of course, completely decimated the mighty Academy of Mages in a matter of weeks.
“The High-Marshall’s loyalty is to the throne,” Fadan explained, “not necessarily my father. There is an argument that can be made that supporting me would not constitute a violation of the High-Marshall’s duty or honor.”
Victor rolled his eyes. “Intila is not a magistrate you can convince using the letter of the law.”
“What is your alternative, then?” Nyssander asked heatedly. “How do we defeat Tarsus?”
“Slowly and steadily,” Victor replied without missing a beat, “the way we’ve always done it. We whittle away at Tarsus’ powerbase, undermine his rule until it crumbles.”
“Are you serious?” Fadan asked. “Does Tarsus’ rule seem to be crumbling to you?”
“A tower does not bend if you strike its foundations,” Victor retorted. “It remains upright until it collapses at the very last moment.”
Fadan looked from one side of the table to the other. “Does everyone here share this view? Does the Academy?” He leveled his gaze at Arch-Mage Persea. “Do you also think Tarsus’ rule is crumbling?”
“Our opinion is irrelevant in this matter,” Persea replied. “You have our all
egiance, but we do not fight the wars of kings, so we will not participate in this vote.”
“No, of course not,” Lady Margeth sneered.
“I tell you what, Your Majesty,” Victor said in turn, “persuade your fellow Mages to fight beside my soldiers, and I will field them immediately.”
Fadan felt a headache coming. This was what always happened. Whatever the route he chose, no matter what arguments he presented, the councilors always found a way to end up bickering amongst themselves. “In a few weeks, my father will bring his new law to the Landeen,” he seethed losing his temper. “What happens when he forbids the nobility from possessing their own military forces? Will you just disband your armies peacefully?”
“The emperor will not win that vote,” Arch-Duchess Margeth Abyssaria assured him.
“I was there when you called for the Landeen on this law, my Lady!” Fadan reminded her. “My father only agreed because he knows he has already won it. Chancellor Vigild has made sure of it.”
There was no reply, only an uncomfortable silence, as no one seemed to have a counter-argument.
“We should take the vote,” Margeth murmured uncomfortably.
“Wait!” a sharp voice said from one of the mirrors. It was the Countess of Umbarad, a lively girl almost as young as Fadan. Her father, one of Tarsus’ most vocal opponents, had recently perished under suspicious conditions while on a river barge. “Margeth, are you saying you agree with Lord Victor?”
“I’m…” The Arch-Duchess weighed her words. “The Marquis raises valid points.”
“Margeth!” The young Countess was in shock. “You’re the bravest person I know. How can you say that?”
“This isn’t about bravery!” Victor protested. “This is about tactics. If we declare open war, we won’t just be outnumbered. We will be spread out across the empire in isolated pockets. We won’t stand a chance.”
“Alicia, Lord Victor is right,” Margeth said. She sounded like an old mother still trying to bestow some wisdom upon an already grown child. “I agree with the prince that we have stalled, that something must be done, but this is not it.”
Fadan raised a hand. “If I may,” he said. “Marquis Victor raises interesting operational questions, but they are easily addressed. We can coordinate to make sure solid frontlines are established.”
“How exactly?” The question came from Count Udo, an obese man lying on a long couch at the end of the line of hypervisors. He had been chewing on a turkey leg since the beginning of the meeting, and mostly just bone remained. “Would some of us need to mobilize first? Which ones of us? Won’t they be at even greater risk?” He threw the bone on a silver platter on the floor next to his couch and exhaled loudly, rolling his eyes as if the question was too much of a mental strain. “This just will not do. I propose we delay this vote while the prince and his military staff draft an operational proposal of this offensive.”
“Another delay?” Alicia asked. “We’ve already postponed this vote twice!”
“Well it makes sense to me,” Victor said. “If the prince has solutions to the problems I’ve laid out, I’d like to know them before making a decision.”
“Lady Alicia is right,” Nyssander agreed, his voice growing. “The only thing worse than a bad decision is indecision. We cannot allow ourselves to get bogged down by endless discussion. We need to act.”
“Nyssander, we all thank you for hosting our headquarters in your lands, but you are not in charge here,” Udo said. “We will vote on this as we do for all matters.”
Nyssander leaned back on his chair wearing a defiant frown but defeated nonetheless. Next to him, Fadan studied the faces in the hypervisors. There were fifteen members to the Council of the Rebellion, as they called it. The Academy always attended the meetings with several Arch-Mages, but was considered a single member, and had only one vote, which, in this case, they wouldn’t even be using. Fadan himself was not a member of the council, since he had never formally joined the rebellion, and was instead seeking their support. That left the fourteen nobles. Nyssander and Alicia had already stated their support, which meant he needed six more votes to win. By his calculations, he barely had four.
Viscount Ultimer cleared his throat. “A vote has been called by Count Udo requesting the postponement of today’s planned vote, which would be held after a detailed operational plan is drafted by the Prince and delivered to the council. All those in favor of this proposal, please raise your hand.”
Eleven hands rose to the air in the hypervisors. It wasn’t even a close call.
What a monumental waste of time. Six months stuck in these tunnels. Hours and hours locked in this room in discussions and negotiations, listening to these people bicker about pointless things, and for what? Nothing. Not even a refusal. Just another delay.
“It will go better next time.”
The prince turned to the voice. Duke Nyssander stood at his side. They were now alone in the room, the hypervisors having returned to simple mirrors. Fadan hadn’t even noticed the end of the meeting.
“I have very competent generals that can help us elaborate a plan of attack,” the Duke continued. “Lord Victor will be persuaded, and the others will follow. You’ll see.”
Fadan nodded absently.
Nyssander sighed. “You have to understand. These are good people, but they have a lot to lose.”
“I know. But they can rest assured. By the time Tarsus is finished with them, they won’t anymore.”
* * *
Doric read from the parchment in his hand—a list of basic food supplies. Some kind of request, or maybe an accounting ledger, he didn’t read it long enough to find out. Instead, he tossed the parchment back into the pile and picked another one. He wasn’t supposed to read these. Heck, he wasn’t even supposed to be in this place, but the clerk responsible for the post station had long given up on trying to kick him out. Besides, being friends with the Prince gave him enough clout to push low-level bureaucrats around.
“Anything from her?”
Doric turned at the voice. Hagon was standing on the threshold of the post office, steel armor plate gleaming from the oil lamps hanging on the wall. The clerk was nowhere to be seen. The coward had probably fled at the sight of one of the rebellion’s high-ranking officers so as not to explain why he had allowed someone without any real station in the rebellion to read the day’s correspondence.
“Not yet,” Doric replied.
“Hardly anyone knows about the existence of this facility,” Hagon said. “The likelihood she will write here is—”
“I know.” Doric turned around and resumed siftingthrough the pile of mail.
Hagon stepped inside. “You should dedicate your time to something more useful. There are plenty of jobs you could do for us.”
Doric shook his head. “Finding her is all that matters. I know she’ll be looking for her sons, but if she had gone to Lamash, the Guild would’ve informed us, so…” He stopped midsentence, reading the letter in his hand, but quickly discarded it. “So she must be looking for Fadan.”
“He put you on this?”
“No, but I’m pretty sure he’s glad to know I’m giving it a try.”
Hagon nodded. “So, uh… would you like to go for a beer?”
Doric’s eyebrows jumped, and he turned around slowly. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”
Doric and Hagon had known each other for decades. In fact, since Hagon was Cassia’s cousin, they were practically family. But they had never liked each other. Or, rather, Hagon had never liked Doric, a feeling that had only intensified in the years following Doric and Cassia’s forced divorce. Tarsus’ rule had gone from iron-fisted to cruel tyranny, and even when things had gotten personal, Doric had still refused to join the Rebellion. Hagon had labeled him a coward and lost all respect for him—what little remained, anyway.
Their recent spell together in Tarsus’ prison, as well as Doric’s role during the fight aboard the prison ship, had brought them c
loser, but not enough to make them pals—or at least so Doric assumed.
“Can’t I just buy an old friend a drink?” Hagon asked heatedly.
Doric raised both hands as if surrendering. “Hey, you know me. I never refuse a drink.”
“Good,” Hagon said awkwardly, then motioned his head for Doric to follow and left the post office.
The Rebellion’s underground compound had several taverns on each level. They mostly served as mess halls for guards and staff and weren’t particularly well stocked in alcoholic beverages in order to avoid too much… fraternization. Still, it wasn’t like there was a better alternative.
The tavern nearest to the post office was located on the upper level, so they climbed a narrow staircase whose steps were so worn their edges curved downwards. Like all other taverns in the compound, this one was a tiny affair with only a handful of small tables. A couple of half-melted candles burned on top of the counter, rendering the space even darker than most tunnels in the lower levels of the compound. Lunch had been served a few hours ago, so the tavern was almost empty. Besides a fat barkeep, there were two guards, practically sleeping over a card game, and a young mage reading a book in a corner, a tiny, magical ball of light floating above his head.
Doric chose a table in the middle of the tavern and sat down while Hagon fetched them two beers. Froth spilled onto the table when Hagon returned and placed them down.
“Thanks,” Doric said, taking a sip of his drink. It was bitter and cold. Not bad, all things considered.
Hagon nodded, drank of his own beer, then stared silently into the contents of his mug like a Samehrian Shaman searching for the future in a tea cup.
Was this it? Had Hagon brought him here just so they could sit in silence over a beer? Doric decided not to ask.
“It’s her birthday today,” Hagon said after a while.
Inside Doric’s mind, the pieces fell into place. “Shayna’s?”
Hagon nodded.
Goddess, Doric thought. The poor man. What sort of mess would he be like right now if Cassia was dead?
The Shadow Of Fallen Gods Page 5
