by Will Wight
By now, Shera would have replaced one of Yala’s watchers. If Lucan looked like his life was in danger, she would save him.
As further insurance, there were letters detailing what he’d learned that would go to the other High Councilors and a select few other Consultants.
He expected Yala to ask about those preparations, but instead she surprised him. “Correct on all counts. The Emperor warned the High Council to prepare to release the Regents when he was at the end of his reign. That was the sum total of his command.”
It felt like Lucan had thrown a punch only to find out he was boxing with a cloud.
He did not let it affect his response, however, speaking with well-trained Consultant composure. “Very well. So why did you not release the Regents?”
Yala placed the pen carefully down on the desk, then leaned back in her chair, lacing her fingers together. “Why do you think, Lucan?”
Yala almost never called him by name. She called him ‘Reader,’ or ‘Gardener,’ or ‘Consultant.’ Treating him like one disposable part in a machine she owned.
Lucan slowly let one hand drift down below the desk, closer to his shear. “The Guild has made a fortune in the last three years. Chaos is good for business. But that can’t be enough on its own; the Regents would have made good customers themselves, as their first years would be difficult. I assume that, in some way, you believed that the Guild was threatened by them taking power.”
Yala continued to rest in her chair, and he would have thought she was relaxing if not for her iron-hard eyes. “And?”
“I’m sure that the Emperor’s deteriorating mental state was another concern. You knew Nakothi had been working on his mind, and you wanted him gone before he was unreliable. If you waited until he determined he was ready, it might be too late.”
In Yala’s silence, Lucan found permission to continue.
“I’d prefer not to speculate on your motivations. This would be a great deal easier if you would tell me what happened.”
Despite Yala’s act, Lucan was the one in control of this situation, and he never forgot it. He was the deadlier of the two, he had Shera as backup, and he had his contingency plan in case something happened to him. He was willing to lay his cards bare in order to force Yala to show hers, but there was a limit.
Now it was his turn to lean back and wait for her to respond. And thanks to the fact that she had taken the Consultant’s chair and left the client’s to him, his was far more comfortable.
“You didn’t learn anything else in your research?” Yala asked finally.
Lucan had learned many things on his quest to unravel the High Council’s actions, but he didn’t know which of them were relevant, so he simply stayed quiet and adopted an expression of pure confidence, as though he held half a dozen Guild secrets in reserve.
When he didn’t respond, Yala reached into a pocket—slowly, so he didn’t think she was pulling a weapon—and smoothly removed a black linen bag. She tossed it to him, where it landed as though it was filled with feathers.
He made no move to open it. “What is this?”
“Another reason.”
One finger at a time, never taking his eyes from Yala, Lucan pulled the glove from his right hand. It was made to stifle his Reading, for his own good. As though to feel the heat from a quicklamp, he held his fingers over the bag.
He sensed weak Intent from the bag itself, but no intention to conceal traps. And the Intent from the objects inside was weak as well, not hostile.
With his gloved hand, he picked up the bottom of the bag and upended it, shaking out its contents. It contained a scrap of burned paper, a splinter of wood smaller than his thumb, a small string, and a stub of wick with a lump of half-melted wax that must have once been a candle.
Lucan flicked his eyes back up to Yala, who hadn’t moved. She could easily be waiting to strike when he fell into a Reader’s trance, so he spread out the scrap of paper first. It had the weakest Intent and was the most likely to give him information from mundane examination.
“…rather ride a fish into the great storms than sit on a throne. When the Emperor dies, so does the Empire. Sure as the grim dawn, the Empire will fall someday, but the people are too quick to equate Imperial rule with humanity. So long as our scholarship progresses, technology…”
The remaining feel of Intent in the scrap reminded him of one of the coffins down in Zhen’s basement. Jorin Maze-walker, the Regent.
He glanced up at Yala again. Seeing that she hadn’t moved, he gripped the splinter of wood in his bare hand. The power of its Intent pressed against him, begging him to open up and feel it, but he kept it out.
He closed his eyes and waited for one breath…two…three. Most visions didn’t last long; if she was going to strike at him, she should have done it as soon as he shut his eyes.
When he heard no movement, he truly Read the splinter. The wood was as fragmented as Jorin’s burned piece of paper, having once belonged to the haft of an axe, but he recognized this Intent as well. It was as welcome as a long drink after a march in the desert.
At least, the nature of the Intent was. The actual message Loreli had left in her weapon was anything but soothing.
This weapon will root out secrets, will defend against the Am’haranai, those who hide in the shadows like criminals and liars. Embedded with the sight of a Kameira and the light of the sun, it will shine in the presence of hidden attackers, protecting those of good moral character against the skulkers in the dark.
He put the splinter back. Yala still watched him.
Next was the candlewick that had clearly, from the arrogance it radiated, once belonged to Alagaeus.
This candle has the honor of illuminating the Heir to the Empire, he who will rule when the Emperor is gone. The light will confuse the eyes of any Guild member who tries to see in its presence, for the Guilds are weak and untrustworthy. They must be kept in the dark, for they are not fit to hold power.
Finally, he moved to the object he had avoided. The small gray string that gave off Estyr’s powerful, confident Intent. The string was only a small fragment of the whole, so it contained only a brief message, but it was enough.
You will be a hood for the Mistress of the Mists. If they won’t appoint a Guild Head, I’ll do it myself, because I can’t trust their Council…
Lucan took a moment to catch his breath after he settled the string next to the others. “Oh,” he said at last.
“Yes.”
Lucan spent another minute digesting the knowledge.
The Regents didn’t trust them.
He had known that the Consultants would be giving up power by raising the Regents—without them, the ten Guilds essentially ruled the world. That was enough reason for the Council of Architects to be hostile to the idea.
He had never considered that the Regents might actively work against the Guilds. They were both part of the Aurelian Empire; this was only a matter of who stood at the top. But from the feeling of those visions, the Regents might all try to dismantle the Guilds. Loreli and Alagaeus would be after the Consultants in particular.
Small pieces of research he’d unearthed over the past three years now clicked into place. The power and influence of the Consultant’s Guild had dipped during the years in which the Regents were free and active, but Guild scholars had attributed it to the increased stability of the Empire. Now, he wondered if the Regents had been strangling them.
The few mentions of the Consultants in Estyr’s journal were either brief, dismissive, or critical. To his knowledge, Loreli had never mentioned the Consultants by name, but she preached often against the use of saboteurs and assassins.
Watching his face, Yala spoke. “I kept a log of what you took out from the archives. When you asked to meet me tonight, I knew what it was about.”
Lucan hadn’t bothered to wonder why she’d brought these objects when she wasn’t a Reader. He had known Yala would have researched him as soon as she received his request. He wa
s only relieved that Zhen hadn’t been interrogated.
“If you weren’t still on active Gardener duty,” Yala continued, “you’d be an Architect yourself. The High Council didn’t make this decision alone; we consulted first with other Architects, primarily Readers and those with training in history. Their analysis agreed with ours: the rise of the Regents will mean the collapse of the Consultant’s Guild.”
The High Mason reached across the desk, pulling the disparate objects back into her pouch. She pocketed the small bag as she stood.
“Assassinations don’t work when the victim gets to determine the exact time and method of his death,” she said. “We would have moved up the Emperor’s timeline without his knowledge anyway, in service of him.”
Lucan was still shaken, but he extended his bare hand, holding it as close to Yala as he thought he could without getting stabbed. He opened his senses, tasting her ever-shifting Intent. It was tricky to Read a living human being, but the practice could give him a sense of her feelings and intentions as she answered his question.
“So you acted with loyalty to the Emperor?” he asked.
Her Intent was steel determination, but he felt suppressed pain, mournful regret, and heartfelt belief beneath the surface. “To the Guild and the Empire,” she said.
Lucan pulled back his hand and slowly slipped his glove back on.
“The Guilds can keep the Empire together,” Yala went on. “There will be tough times ahead, but we’ll weather them. And if our containment is not enough to hold the Great Elders, then we’ll release the Regents. Not as our rulers, but in their intended function as warriors who can stand against the likes of Kthanikahr or Ach’magut.”
It had been easier to think of Yala as someone who simply valued profit above the prosperity of others. Now…he had to admit, it would be hard to take the world from Guilds who were a part of it and then hand it over to immortals who had slept through the past two centuries.
After a long moment of silence, Lucan stood and left the room side-by-side with Yala.
Chapter Eleven
Who trims the bushes on the Gray Island?
No one. Gardeners don’t exist.
—Old Guild joke
present day
Interion Darovish had been raised a Champion. When he entered the battlefield, the enemy surrendered.
He had followed Baldezar Kern to the Imperialists. Personally, he didn’t care who ruled the Empire; he had worked for private bidders before the Emperor’s death, and he would again no matter who sat on the throne.
But Kern was a legend. He deserved to be respected as a Guild Head, even if the Guild hardly existed anymore.
The snakes of the Independent Guilds had killed him.
Yes, he knew it was Estyr Six. Some of his brothers-in-arms maintained that Kern was killed in a stand-up duel, so there was nothing to avenge. What death could be better than a battle against the greatest Champion in history?
Interion didn’t see it that way. Kern had gone to their peace treaty unarmed and unarmored, and they had attacked him. That made them cowards and him a victim.
So he was going to make them victims.
The gate of Hightower was three stories high, but he leaped over it, the Windwatcher feathers on his boots controlling the wind to carry him.
The headquarters of the Luminian Order had been invested by centuries of petitioners to carry an aura of peace and tranquility, but he was immune to such things. He was war itself.
The massive tower for which the town had been named loomed over him, the gem at its top blazing like a white sun.
He was surrounded by ordinary homes and shops. Most of the Order was quartered with the rest of the Independents in Rainworth, so these were the dregs. Knights too old or too young hurried toward him in their gleaming silver armor, ordinary guards raised pistols, and untrained families ran.
Interion hefted his sword and shield and went to work.
He left a trail of blood, bodies, and rubble from the gates to the base of the actual High Tower itself.
Anyone carrying a weapon died. As did those with no weapons, if they came too close.
Arrows and bullets rained down on him from nearby defenders, but they either fell on his shield or made wounds too small to be worth mentioning.
Champions could fight longer than ordinary people, but that didn’t mean forever. When he reached the base of the tower, he looked up at the defenders beneath their white sun. He smiled a bloody smile up at them.
“See you tomorrow!” he called.
As he strolled casually out, past the homes and shops he’d left in ruins, he made sure his laughter boomed over the streets.
Everything about him was superior to mortals, including his eyesight, so he caught a detail no one else would: a figure in black ducking from one nearby rooftop to another.
Consultants. Spying on him.
“Take your shot!” he roared at the shadow. “Darovish does not hide!”
They did nothing, of course.
He had prepared a carriage to take him back to the Imperial Palace. He tossed his shield and sword into storage in the back, hopped inside, and shut the door gently enough that he didn’t shatter the entire doorframe.
“Drive,” he called to the coachman.
Obediently, the man cracked his whip. The carriage began to move, and Interion let his head rest against the back of the seat.
The Steward was dragging his feet, hoping to curry favor with the people. He was an ordinary man, and a kid at that. He didn’t have the resolve to do what was necessary: send the Champions to Rainworth. Destroy all the Independents in one stroke.
So Interion would attack their homes until the rats were driven out of hiding.
His thoughts were interrupted as the carriage slowly rolled to a stop.
He heard wheels and horses around them, so this would be an inspection by the Imperial Guard. It was an irritation, and all he had to do was reveal himself to put it to an end, but he respected the necessity. Couldn’t have Independents crossing into the Capital these days.
Voices demanded to know the identity of the carriage, which had been hired from a reputable transportation company. When the coachman said his passenger was a Champion, Interion was pleased to hear the questioner—presumably the Imperial Guard—swallow deeply and say there was no need to search the interior, but they would need to stop the carriage temporarily to search the exterior.
The carriage shuddered, and Interion frowned. Flattering as his reputation was, this was shoddy work. He heard horses, or maybe an Imperial Guard with hooves, trotting around him, but the conversation didn’t continue.
He couldn’t let this lack of security go. Interion pushed the door open, leaning half his body out.
There was no one there.
The horses were gone. The carriage was propped up on crutches that looked like they had been made for that purpose.
Rage boiled up in Interion. They had dared to rob his carriage? His sword and shield would be gone from the back, but the robbers had made a fatal mistake. There really was a Champion inside, and neither the sword nor the shield were his Soulbound Vessel. They could not have gotten nearly far enough away from him.
He placed one foot on the step before the alchemical munitions detonated.
The explosion scorched him in an instant, sending his flame-ravaged body tumbling into a ditch. He had no idea how far he had been thrown, but the pain was…all-consuming.
His Champion enhancements worked against him now, keeping him conscious and alert though his eyes were gone and his throat was burned too badly to speak.
He heard footsteps, and he reached in their direction. Eventually, he would heal, but until then he needed help. He grasped blindly, trying to find a foot, to reassure himself that someone was there. Someone who could save him.
Cold blades slit his throat.
Oleana kicked the alchemist all the way across the makeshift arena she’d made out of an Imperial Palace basem
ent. The man landed hard, coughing up blood.
She pulled him up one-handed and looked him in the eye. “How you feeling now? You feel like laughing?”
The members of his Guild who had poisoned her, gassed her, and tied her down with glue had laughed at her. They’d mocked her, saying that a real Champion would snap her bonds. It had taken her lungs weeks to heal from what they’d done to her.
She hurled him into the wall, where he broke.
“Send in the next one,” she ordered.
The Palace servant shivered and didn’t look at the man’s twisted body. “We’re almost out of…”
She met his eyes, and his voice trailed off. “There are always more alchemists.”
The servant obeyed.
Oleana liked to start by making it a battle. She gave them their choice of weapon while she went in bare-handed. When they realized that they couldn’t kill her with a spear or a sword, even if she stood there and did nothing, they started to plead.
That was when she batted them around like a ball for as long as they lasted.
Which usually wasn’t long.
After a long afternoon, she went upstairs and showered off the blood, but she didn’t stay in her Palace rooms. She never did. This wasn’t her place; everything was too clean.
She made her way down to the docks, near where Oleana had been born. The inns there were more her style, and the workers roared and lifted their drinks as she slammed open the door. They couldn’t wait to buy her drinks in exchange for stories of battle, and she had plenty of those.
They had to keep the cups coming, because Champions needed more and stronger drinks than anyone else. The server never left her side…and he was adorable, with huge brown eyes and a quick laugh any time she said anything remotely funny.
He grew more adorable with every drink.
