by Will Wight
Kern or Teach could still stop him with relative ease, but even so, you could hardly call him unarmed.
The Witnesses inspected him, presumably Reading him as they patted him down, and pronounced him clean.
“I admit,” he said, “I’m a little wounded by your lack of trust.”
He even managed to sound offended.
Estyr only moved toward the boxes when Kern did. The Head of the Champion’s Guild lowered his leather satchel into a box the size of his chest, letting out a relieved breath as he did so. Unlike the others, he seemed like he couldn’t wait to be rid of his weapons.
Estyr didn’t seem to care one way or another. She flicked a hand toward the largest box, big enough to hold her entire body, and the three reptilian skulls zipped toward it. They landed side by side, but Estyr had already turned away. She didn’t watch the Magister attendant seal the boxes up, instead slipping her hands back into her pockets and walking to the stairs leading up.
But Shera had spent a little time around Estyr. She recognized the tightness of the woman’s jaw, the tension in her stride.
Shera suspected that Estyr wasn’t as comfortable leaving her Vessels behind as she pretended. She just knew the value of appearing unruffled in front of her enemies.
Shera could respect that.
The room at the top of the Rose Tower was a large square that usually contained a long table, a series of chairs, and some decorative plants. As Shera’s Architects had predicted, the Imperialists had cleared out the room for this occasion, leaving the floor bare from wall to wall.
The western window was open, but the eastern window had been shuttered against the morning sun, letting in light only through the slits. There was a bit of a breeze, but Shera couldn’t help but wonder if the Imperialists had chosen this tower because it was just a little too warm.
If so, the joke was on them. Shera may not have been happy about her new gray outfit, but it was wonderfully cool.
Calder’s long jacket didn’t have the same advantage, because he immediately let it slip to the floor before stepping into a white circle painted on the floor. There were three such circles on either side of the room, where the participants were meant to stand during the debate.
He had taken the center circle on his side, and Estyr stood opposite him. Shera lined up next to her, as planned.
She knew what the circles represented. This was one of the ancient forms of negotiation, meant to appeal to Estyr. Many of the Guilds had been originally formed by meetings held in this way.
But she still didn’t see why they couldn’t have chairs.
Calder was flanked by the armored Kern and Teach, looking in his ruffled white shirt like a young noble escorted by his two guards. Shera stood to Estyr’s left, Bareius to her right, and Shera wondered what they looked like from the other side.
Like Estyr Six accompanied by two unimportant nobodies, she imagined.
Two more women stood in the room, standing between the two teams against the far wall as though trying to meld into it. Azea and Calazan Farstrider were Izyrian twins, tall and wiry with pale hair and wide, unblinking stares.
The Heads of the Witness’ Guild were famous for performing the roles of both Chronicler and Silent One interchangeably. They both wore cloths over their mouths—like the Consultant shrouds, Shera noticed—and candles at their belts. Both wore loose-fitting pants and shirts that were tied at the wrists and ankles, leaving them free to fight if necessary.
As they were both Silent Ones, neither ever spoke. At least not in front of outsiders. It would be pointless to address them, but Shera nodded in acknowledgement of their role. One of the sisters returned her nod.
The Witnesses provided accurate, impartial descriptions of important events in Imperial history. In a sense, the Farstrider sisters were the most important people in the room; their report on this meeting would shape the opinions of everyone else in the Empire.
“Farstrider sisters,” Calder called. “On behalf of the Imperialist Guilds, I’d like to thank you for being here.”
Idiot, Shera thought.
The twins stared at him together. There was a theory that the Farstrider twins had tied their minds together using some Soulbound power or that an Elder attack had blended their thoughts so that they were one soul in two bodies.
It wasn’t true. Consultant reports confirmed that when they were alone with each other or with trusted members of their Guild, they were perfectly distinct individuals like any other set of siblings.
Looking closely, Shera could see the subtle differences in timing as they matched each other’s motions with the grace of long practice. It was an act to discourage others from addressing them as individuals.
If Calder thought he had won their favor by speaking to them while they were working, he was very much mistaken.
The second the door slammed shut, Estyr spoke. “All right, let’s save some time. We’re willing to pretend to follow your Imperial Steward as long as he’s not named Emperor and the regional governors are fully supported.”
The Imperialists would be expecting as much. The regional governors did most of the work of ruling the Empire anyway—they had for centuries—and the Regents wouldn’t back down about their support.
They might compromise on Calder Marten’s title. Even if he called himself the second Emperor, it would be in name only, and history would remember him as little more than a footnote next to the Emperor.
“In return,” Estyr continued, “Jorin and Loreli and I will step down from rule. In a couple of years, if you’ve given the governors everything they need and there’s nothing wrong with the sky, we’ll go back to sleep. Deal?”
There would be dozens of details hammered out over the next few weeks between lawyers and Witnesses and Guild representatives, but Shera was confident that the final agreement would look similar to what Estyr proposed. The Regents didn’t even want to rule, and it was in everyone’s best interests to cooperate against the Elders.
Teach lifted her chin, and it seemed like she’d finally mastered herself in front of her childhood hero. “We need you to endorse Calder Marten as Emperor. We will support the governors. If we fall apart in the end, so be it, but we must first give the unified Empire a chance.”
That was within their expectations, and Estyr responded easily. “That’s what I’m doing.”
Maybe he’d felt left out, because Calder Marten straightened his back and spoke. “We also need guarantees that your Guilds will continue to work together with ours. The Consultants and the alchemists especially play a vital support role, without which some of the other Guilds will cease to function.”
Bareius seemed as though he had been waiting for this topic, leaning over his painted circle in his eagerness to speak. “That’s a critical concern, critical, and with it comes the question of hierarchy.”
Shera was becoming convinced that, no matter how rich the man was, they should have never allowed him in this room.
“Not that I’m a man of pride myself, but the current circumstances suggest that our Guilds may be seen as subordinate to those that pledged their loyalty to you, which would be a truly uncomfortable notion.”
Judging by the look on General Teach’s face, both sides might soon find common ground in their distaste for Nathanael Bareius. “We’ve had a number of proposals drafted up. We can’t undo the damage that we’ve done to each other in the news-sheets, but we can agree to make public proclamations emphasizing the efforts your Guilds make toward unification or mutual defense.”
Which would, of course, put the burden of making such efforts on the Independent Guilds.
Shera looked over to the Witnesses, sharing a look with one of the sisters. They quickly glanced back to Teach, their hands moving in unison down to their candles.
Which signaled to Shera that they were catching everything verbatim. She had expected no less from the Head Witnesses, but she appreciated the reassurance.
It was the Independents’ tu
rn to add a demand, which Estyr noticed and pounced on. “We also need the Gray Island back. There’s more to it than just the Consultant’s Guild headquarters.”
The Imperialists had no doubt already found the Regents’ coffins, but they might not know what they had. The Regents needed the island back before all its ancient secrets were uncovered.
But that wasn’t their most important demand, and Shera was surprised no one had said it aloud.
Well, Shera hadn’t spoken yet. Let her be the one to keep them on the right track.
“The Great Elders are moving,” she reminded everyone.
Baldezar Kern’s arms were crossed in front of him, and his armor scraped against itself as he unfolded them, nodding to her. “We’re all locked in the same burning house.” His voice was calm, almost fatherly. “It benefits no one to fight while the flames rise.”
The Champion had begun to sweat slightly, but it didn’t make him look nervous. If anything, he looked like a boulder placidly ignoring the rain.
Calder, by contrast, couldn’t stand still against the heat. He rolled his sleeves up as he spoke. “More than anything else, even if we bicker and squabble over details, we have to make an agreement of honor between those of us in this room: we must join together in mutual defense.”
What happens if we can’t?
Shera shivered at the thought, though she was still largely hidden by her hood. What if they didn’t come to an agreement today?
Then they would need to end the conflict as quickly as possible. The Consultants would bare their blades for real, and the Regents would wage war to the full extent of their powers.
In the best-case scenario, they would win quickly and remove Calder as a point of vulnerability to the Elders. But even so, the Empire would be weaker for it.
Was that the Great Elders’ plan?
While she was still thinking, Shera felt a strange breeze brush against her elbow. She glanced to her right and saw that the ends of Estyr’s hair had begun to drift upward.
Estyr was staring at Calder. “What happened to your arm, Steward?”
At the Regent’s words, Shera focused on part of his arm that had been covered by his sleeve. There was a bit of a wound exposed, like a reddish burn scar.
“Ah, this. Yes.” Calder had the distinct air of a man trying to think up an excuse, which made Shera’s stomach drop. “I have nothing to hide from you, Regent, and I would love to get your guidance on this…mark…after the meeting is over.”
“Roll up your sleeve,” the Regent commanded.
Shera focused on Calder as he looked around the room as though for any way out. There was only one thing Shera knew of that would grab Estyr’s attention like this: the Elders.
Shera had seen Calder fight against Elders. Meia had vouched for his character. He couldn’t be a tool of the Great Elders. They would have seen it.
His wife is one of the Sleepless.
Calder didn’t roll up the sleeve. “As you suspect, I did receive this from an Elder. But he has no influence over me, I assure…”
He lost his breath as Estyr’s hair and coat began to blow in the beginnings of a storm. Even separated from their Vessel, a Soulbound didn’t lose all their power, and Estyr’s rage was stirring up the tiny remaining fraction of her gifts. She looked like she was about to leap on Calder and tear him apart.
Shera felt sick. If he’s a tool of the Great Elders…
Then peace might have never been possible in the first place.
The Regent’s voice echoed through the tower like a great bell. “Do you know who blinded Kell’arack? Who circled his head in bands of steel and drove spikes through his eyes, nailing him to the floor of the Aion Sea?”
As Calder trembled, Estyr pointed to his arm. “That is the mark of Kelarac. He placed it on his favorite slaves.”
In this ancient arrangement, a delegate leaving their circle meant abandoning peace for war. Estyr strode over it now, locked on Calder like an eagle on its prey, and Calder scrambled backward to get away.
“His soul belongs to Kelarac,” Estyr declared, “and he will not leave this room alive.”
As Calder backed into the wall, Teach and Kern moved to protect him from the Regent.
Kern spoke first, holding his hands out as though to push Estyr away. “The Head of the Blackwatch has vouched for him.”
“We have kept him under observation in the Palace,” Teach said, and her voice sounded like a plea. “And he has shown no cooperation with Elders or the Elder powers.”
Estyr had continued her slow, implacable march forward. “I will Read the truth from him myself.”
She reached out, and whatever she was about to learn, Shera suspected Calder wouldn’t survive it.
Kern must have thought so too, because the Champion grabbed Estyr’s wrist in a hand twice the size of hers. “Regent, please.” He didn’t seem to notice that she was still easily pushing against him. “Let’s take a moment to…”
Estyr started pushing her arm down, showing no strain. Kern grunted, bracing his grip with both hands, shoving upward with the entire strength of the Champion’s Guild Head. His skin reddened, and the room filled with noise as his armor started to crack. So did the stone floor beneath him.
He fell to his knees, Estyr pushing him down with one hand.
General Teach tackled the Regent, but bounced off as though she’d run shoulder-first into a mountain.
Estyr’s free hand closed into a fist, and Shera saw any hope of peace crushed between those fingers.
They had never been negotiating with people after all.
Calder had been an Elder puppet from the beginning, and if Estyr hadn’t noticed, they would have fallen right into Kelarac’s hands.
“Elderspawn,” Estyr declared, and her hatred and fury echoed Shera’s own.
Then the Regent punched Baldezar Kern through the stone floor.
Chapter Six
two thousand years ago
The Mistress of the Mists had inherited her title in the same way that humans inherited anything: by killing her predecessor.
As their clan reckoned matters, that meant she was more deadly than their previous leader and thereby more suited to rule. Such a system would typically lead to squabbling and infighting, the death of any organization.
Above all, the Am'haranai needed to balance themselves. So they'd created another system.
Each one of their order had to swear absolute obedience to their leader, enforced by the power of Bastion's Veil. Any order from the Mistress was law, and the subordinates were powerless to resist.
There were only two exceptions: the Mistress could not order her servants to their inevitable death, and she could not stop them from seeking her life. Therefore, the Masters and Mistresses before her had to learn to exercise their power only sparingly.
If they abused their abilities by issuing too many commands, they would foster only resentment, and they could never stand against all the attempted assassinations. She had to balance efficiency with the satisfaction of the killers she was training.
Which was as it should be. She thought of herself as an agent of balance, so it was only appropriate that a force should exist to balance her.
She stood on a cliff overlooking the sea, staring through Bastion's Veil; to her, the wall of cloud was clear as air. Someone watching might not see her at all, her gray robes blending into the Veil, but she saw most clearly when she looked into the mist.
From the images the Veil delivered to her, she divined the future: war was on its way.
One of the Great Elders was moving against its siblings.
A Shepherd knelt behind her, dressed in ceremonial black. Every member of her order wore the same color except her.
“The delegation from Othaghor has arrived, Mistress,” the man said, his head bowed.
“Lead the delegate to me,” she said. Another step of balance. This island was far enough from any land that none of the Elders dared claim it for their own. If
one tried to seize it, that would undoubtedly be seen as an act of aggression, inviting war.
It was for that reason that her ancestor, Bastion, had set up his Veil. His was the greatest protection against Elders in the world, so far as she knew, and it was built to repel any attack short of the direct will of a Great Elder.
Only here could humans have neutral ground, meeting on equal footing with Elders. Anywhere else, their overlords could tear apart human minds and bodies as easily as breathing.
So it was that she ordered Othaghor's representative to her, rather than going to visit him. It was an illustration; here, humans were not slaves to the Elders. Rather, they were potential business partners.
She couldn't offend Othaghor, but she could start her negotiations with him on the correct note.
The Shepherd returned a few minutes later, guiding a man in a cloak more appropriate to a tempest. A wet hissing came from within the hood, like a man sucking air through his teeth.
“The honorable delegate of the great Hordefather, Mistress,” her Shepherd intoned. “And may I present our leader and representative, the Mistress of the Mists.”
The Shepherd bowed his way out, but neither the delegate nor the Mistress bowed. They watched each other, Bastion's Veil looming behind her like a castle wall.
After a handful of seconds, the delegate lowered his hood.
His face looked as though it had been ravaged by some disease. Boils and bubbles covered his skin, his eyes were swollen practically shut, and the remnants of his hair clung stubbornly to his scalp. His mouth was twice as wide as a human's should be, and on either side of his neck, layers of skin formed gills that flapped pathetically in the open air.
Hence the hissing, she supposed.
She felt not a quiver at the sight of his hideous face. She'd seen worse done to men by the power of the Elders.
