by Alec Hutson
She has his loyalty, the emperor realized. He’d hoped to gain an ally in the court of this Cein d’Kara, but d’Kelv was too polished and clever by half.
The Crimson Queen. Gerixes restrained himself from sneering at the thought of her. Rumors had swirled for almost two decades that her father, Jeryme d’Kara, had fathered a bastard while adventuring across the Derravin Ocean, but not much credence had been paid to those whisperings until Cein had suddenly appeared at his side about ten years past, barely more than a child, sporting the same fiery hair that defined the d’Kara line. The sickly, childless king had declared her his successor, and she had formally ascended to the Dragon Throne two years ago when he had succumbed to a wasting disease.
Nothing to truly alarm Menekar – Dymoria had traditionally been a minor kingdom north of the Gilded Cities, a rolling, forested land in the shadow of the Bones of the World, raided by the barbaric Skein and in turn making war on the Gilded Cities to the south. But the kingdom’s transformation over just a few years had been . . . remarkable. First, the young queen had led her army north to confront a feared Skein king, who had raided with impunity across the Serpent for a decade, and had dealt a crushing defeat to the northern barbarians. Then the poet-prince of Vis, with its iron walls and oracular birds, had offered his sword to the queen. Her northern flank protected, the new queen had turned her attention south, reclaiming territory lost over the centuries to other cities. In a few bold strokes Dymoria had become the greatest power in the West, and suddenly a threat to Menekar. Not since Min-Ceruth and the Mosaic Cities of the Kalyuni Imperium had immolated each other on a sorcerous pyre nearly a thousand years ago had such a nation resolved from the shifting chaos beyond the Bones, and the emperors of Menekar had played no small part in that.
The emperor raised his flail to show his appreciation for Count d’Kelv’s words. They could have been lifted almost verbatim from Beneath God, Emperor Chalcedon’s classic treatise on ruling, and a book Gerixes had grown up reading. He knows my tastes, and tries to play to them.
Indeed, usually these sorts of diplomatic exchanges devolved into bouts of mutual flattery, but this was no typical audience. He must try and knock the count off-balance, glean what he could about this queen’s true intentions.
“Tell us, Count d’Kelv, why your queen has waited nearly two years to send her first emissaries to us. D’Tarren graced these halls at least once a year, bringing with him gifts of amber, ebonwood, and spices from across the ocean, and always remembered to thank us for our assistance during the Cleansing.”
A tremor in the count’s face at the mention of the Cleansing, almost instantly controlled. Satisfaction flooded Gerixes – he had hit upon something. But what, exactly? He had his suspicions, though it would be foolish to leap to conclusions.
And, admittedly, d’Kelv was showing little emotion standing within two columns of the Pure, the primary architects of the Cleansing. The sorcery-scenting warriors of Ama, immune to magic, their very presence debilitating to those who corrupted the natural order, had washed over the shattered western lands in the wake of the cataclysms that had ended the wizardry wars, helping to put all the surviving sorcerers to the sword. That had been the zenith of Menekarian power, with imperial legions spanning the continent, and if the Shan’s black-bellied junks had not arrived in the devastated south, fleeing a mysterious disaster in their own distant homeland, then the empire would have long ago have fulfilled its destiny of bringing Ama’s light to all of Araen.
“Menekar’s help in restoring order after the destruction of the old world will never be forgotten.” Count d’Kelv snapped his fingers, and one of his subordinates stepped forward, holding something in cupped hands. “As thanks we have again brought the riches of our land to you, amber jewelry for your concubines and great planks of ebonwood ready for carving. And this.”
The younger Dymorian went to one knee, lowering his head and extending his arms towards where the emperor sat. Light glinted off whatever it was he held.
Gerixes gestured, and Torrinis tottered over to take the proffered object. The white vizier turned it over a few times, prodding it for hidden needles or other traps, and then climbed halfway to where the emperor sat and held out the gift. It was a tiny bird, ingeniously crafted from shining metal, with gems for eyes and copper-wire wings inset with chunks of colored glass. A silver key sprouted from its back.
“Wind the key,” d’Kelv said from below, and after a quick nod from the emperor, Torrinis gave the key a few sharp twists.
The white vizier gasped and almost dropped the bird as it stirred to life in his palm. Glittering wings flexed, and as the tiny automaton’s beak opened and closed Gerixes heard snatches of metallic-sounding birdsong.
The emperor cast a glance at Velimus, but the captain of the Pure shook his head. Not magic, then.
“Wondrous,” Gerixes intoned flatly, “does it fly?”
That seemed to take the count aback. “No, Light of the East.”
“Pity,” said the emperor with a sigh, relishing the annoyance he thought he glimpsed in d’Kelv’s carefully guarded face. “I almost thought it a worthy present for one of my nephews.”
“If our gift displeases the emperor, my apologies. All know that the wonders of the west appear pale in the light from the east.”
Gerixes shooed Torrinis and the strange, little bird away. He would have his learned men dissect the thing later, though he harbored little confidence that they could puzzle out the workings of its mechanical innards. Similar objects had come before his court and retained their mysteries, despite much interest from the astrologers and mathematicians of Menekar.
“It is good that you brought us such a toy. There have been rumors – vile and baseless, of course – that your queen has opened her arms to sorcery. Now we see that it is only the clever craft of the artificers that has fueled these malicious lies.”
Gerixes leaned forward, trying to bring the entire force of his imperial presence down upon the Dymorian emissary. “It is a lie, isn’t it?”
D’Kelv stiffened, matching the emperor’s stare. “Dymoria has long been more forgiving of sorcery than other kingdoms. Without the windwarden’s help we never would have crossed the Derravin and discovered the Sunset Lands. Soothsayers and bonewhisperers have plied their trades in our kingdom for centuries.”
Gerixes waved away the count’s words. “We are not referring to hedge wizardry. Minor village charms did not come within a hair’s breadth of cracking open this world and plunging us all into eternal darkness.” The emperor paused and breathed deep, trying to still his shaking hands. He was dangerously close to losing control. “If your queen should aid or abet the exploration of deeper sorceries . . .” The threat hung heavy in the silence that followed.
Finally, d’Kelv cleared his throat. “I assure you, Light of the East, that no one would dare court the same black arts that produced the cataclysms of the past.”
Gerixes rose suddenly from his seat, and the count took an instinctive step back. Good – he felt fear. “Look!” cried the emperor, gesturing at the russet stains that marred his alabaster throne. “Do you see? The blood of the last Warlock King of Menekar, dead now for near two thousand years!”
The necks of the Dymorian delegation craned forward to glimpse this legend made real. “Once sorcerers ruled here, as they did in Min-Ceruth and the Mosaic Cities. Our souls fed their magics, our flesh their bodies as they pursued their dreams of immortality. We were but chattel . . .”
The emperor paused when he noticed Velimus climbing the steps towards him. The captain of the Pure’s expression was strange . . . He looked almost uncertain, which Gerixes had never seen before.
“Your Grace,” he whispered, leaning close to the emperor’s ear, “there is something odd about one of – ”
The world tilted, shuddered. A cacophony of shattering glass came from behind the throne. “My lord!”
Velimus cried, knocking Gerixes to the floor and covering him with his body as shards from the destroyed window rained down.
The light flickered and dimmed as chaos erupted in the audience chamber. Gerixes watched in mute astonishment, his cheek pressed to the cold marble, as one of the Dymorians sketched a shimmering blue shield in the air while the Pure broke ranks and closed on them. Sorcery! In the Selthari Palace!
The count held up his hands, and Gerixes could briefly hear his voice over the din, “No! We did not – ” and then he disappeared beneath flashing swords and swirling white cloaks.
Moments later the crackling blue barrier faded as a warrior of the Pure burst through it unaffected and thrust his blade into the wizard’s chest.
Velimus’s weight vanished from his back and Gerixes pushed himself to his feet, staggering slightly. “Kill them!” he shrieked, waving his arms at the few huddled Dymorians still alive. “Kill them all!”
At his words the Pure closed with ruthless efficiency. Swords rose and fell, and blood splashed the marble floors. Very soon only the Scarlet Guardsman remained, his back to one of the pillars, fending off three of the Pure with a sword he had managed to wrest from somewhere. His face showed no fear, only grim determination, as he struggled to keep the white-metal blades of the Pure at bay. He was skilled, no doubt, and facing death he fought like a cornered lion. A sword slipped past his defenses to score his side, and he stumbled to one knee; as the Pure lunged forward, Gerixes found himself yelling.
“Stop!”
As if of a single mind the white-clad warriors pulled back and raised their blades toward where he stood panting beside the throne. Behind them the Scarlet Guardsman leaned heavily against the pillar, clutching the wound in his side, his gray tunic rapidly darkening.
Gerixes steadied himself against his throne. Yes, best to keep this one alive. Wen had an amazing facility for extracting information from even the most conditioned, and there were many answers he wanted.
“Lay down your sword, warrior, and you will not be harmed,” he said, summoning as much of the imperial command as he could muster.
Wincing, the guardsman straightened, meeting the emperor’s gaze. His eyes were still calm, Gerixes realized, feeling his skin prickle. Without fear.
The warrior raised his sword in a mimicry of the Pure’s salute, then without hesitation reversed the blade and fell forward. He made no sound, only twitched and was still.
Silence. Among the carnage the Pure stood motionless, staring up at him expectantly with pupilless eyes of shining gold. His small flock of advisors and sycophants poked heads from around the pillars they had fled behind, also watching him. There was something warm and moist in his left palm. He glanced down. A sliver of glass had sliced his hand, and without truly knowing why he did so, Gerixes held his closed fist over the alabaster throne of Menekar and allowed a few drops of imperial blood to fall and splatter among the ancient stains.
“Velimus,” the emperor said absently as he studied the falling droplets.
“Yes, Your Grace,” answered the captain of the Pure, hurrying to kneel beside him.
“You have failed me.” Gerixes turned towards Velimus and struck him across the face, leaving a bloody smear upon his cheek.
The warrior did not flinch. “I have, Your Grace. I should have sensed the sorcerer long before he even entered this chamber. The Dymorians disguised him somehow . . .”
“Or perhaps Ama did not want you to recognize him,” called out Wen Xenxing from below, daintily picking his way among the sprawled bodies.
“No.” Velimus said with certainty, staring at something beyond Gerixes. The emperor turned.
Splayed upon the highest dais in a tangled heap of bloody feathers and long, stick-like legs was a white heron. Glass crunched beneath his slippered feet as the emperor approached the holy bird of Ama.
“Sliced to ribbons,” Gerixes murmured, glancing up at the shattered window.
“It flew through,” Velimus said, “there was no attack.”
Gerixes whirled on his captain. “Bringing a sorcerer here, before me, is the same as a declaration of war.”
“Why would their queen take such a risk?” Torrinis asked, crouched beside Count d’Kelv’s corpse.
“This was a test,” said Wen. “The Dymorians must have thought that they had uncovered a way to hide the taint of sorcery from the Pure.”
Cold fear coiled in the emperor’s stomach. For two thousand years the Pure had been the backbone of imperial rule, Ama’s gift, the only advantage men had against the obscene power of sorcerers. And now they knew it could be subverted.
Velimus prodded the dead heron with his boot. “It must have escaped from the temple grounds.”
“It did not escape, you simpleton,” snapped the emperor, “Ama brought it here to unmask the sorcerer, since you and your brothers were failing me so spectacularly.”
“Your Grace, I will gladly fall upon my sword if you give the order. But you should remember that the Dymorians’ disguise was not perfect . . . the longer they were here, the greater the sense of creeping wrongness we felt.”
“Ah, well then, let us just ask future assassins to dally so that you have time to uncover their plots.” Gerixes fought to push down his anger. “No, no,” he sighed, approaching Velimus and laying his hand on the captain’s head. “You have served the empire ably for many years. Whatever new magics this Crimson Queen has birthed, we are certain that with the blessing of Ama the Pure will rise to meet this challenge.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Velimus said, his voice solemn, “I will never fail you again.”
“Good,” replied Gerixes, turning from the Pure captain. “Now I think we all have things we must do.”
Much later, after hurried councils with his most trusted advisors and an interminable ablution ceremony performed by the half-senile High Mendicant of Ama, the emperor found himself upon the ceramic paths of his pleasure garden. Above him the final blush of day was fading to night, yet his way was clear, illuminated by brightly colored paper lanterns hanging from the branches of flowering dogwood trees. Away from the path, ethereal nightblooms shimmered palely in the dying light, unfolding for the moon just emerging from the darkness, and a warm breeze tinkled the chimes scattered among the lanterns, a sound that reminded him of her laughter. His heart quickened in anticipation.
Such a day! Assassins had come perilously close before to bringing the reign of House Meneum to bloody closure, but never had the threat come from inside the palace, with his Pure standing guard only paces away. Where was safe, if not the imperial audience chamber? Here, in the lavender-scented arms of his concubines?
Long, lean shapes moved seductively behind sheets of diaphanous cloth strung between the trees. Once he would have been tempted to slip within those silks belling in the wind and discover which beauty awaited him, but these days he hungered only for Alyanna, her cinnamon skin and eyes of liquid dark. Whispered entreaties followed him, promising delights that would make any man blush, but they fell on ears deaf to all but one voice.
Finally, he came upon her pavilion among the cherry blossoms, shining in the evening gloaming.
“Alyanna!” he cried, pushing through the hanging flaps.
She sprawled upon a wide, low bed, surrounded by mounded cushions, a single streamer of colored silk twined about her naked body. Smiling at him as he entered, she arched her back and stretched, and at this display of her full, perfect breasts his breath caught. She let out a throaty laugh when she realized what it was he stared at.
Alyanna, his flame, his ardor. She sat up, cupping one of her breasts, her eyes widening provocatively.
“Your Grace,” she purred, “did you miss me?”
“More than a caught fish does the water,” he replied, shrugging out of his imperial vestments and reclining beside his concubine.
She traced his
nipple with a long nail; pleasure shuddered through him. “Such a poet’s soul you have. These words should be set to paper, not wasted on ears like mine.”
He lay back, sinking into the bed’s luxuriant softness, and she settled beside him. Staring at her face he wondered again where she had come from. The old minister in charge of procuring concubines for the imperial harem had found her at the slaver’s auction block in Palimport nearly five years ago, and even dirty and disheveled from weeks huddled below deck her beauty had burned through, gold shining among the dross. Shortly after purchasing Alyanna that minister had been gifted with a satrapy. Gerixes could be generous with those who pleased him.
Yet her time before the slave ship remained a mystery. Her first memories were of the reeking warmth of the hold, pressed against strange people speaking strangely flavored words. With her dusky skin she could have been Myrasani . . . but the half-dozen cities those slavers had purchased their wares in on their way to Menekar were all thousands of leagues from where that people lived beside the Bones of the World. He had seen others vaguely like her from the Eversummer Isles, and certainly the islands were much closer to Palimport and the slaver’s other ports of call, but she did not speak their tongue, nor did they share her strangely shaped eyes and glossy black hair. He could only conclude that she was a gift from Ama.
“My Grace thinks deep thoughts,” she sighed, snuggling closer. He breathed deep of her heady scent, better by far than any of the perfumes his satrap’s painted wives drenched themselves with.
“It was an . . . interesting day,” replied the emperor, stroking her hair.
“And why was that?” she murmured into his chest. “You know I find your stories so exciting.”
“Well,” the emperor began, pulling her tighter, “my vizier tells me that an archon of Lyr was killed in council over a courtesan.”
“Oh, scandalous,” she breathed, squirming against him. “How is it that women excite men’s passions so?”
“Perhaps you all have a touch of sorcery in you. That could be why you make the Pure so uncomfortable.”
