by L M R Clarke
Those advisors had been quickly dispatched, replaced by those loyal to Bandim and Dorai. It was a practice Bandim spread through his whole court, even down to the servants. Lovers of the Light, out. True believers in the Dark, in.
Everything is coming together, Bandim thought, just as Johrann said.
There was one problem, however.
His mother.
Bandim’s soft-soled shoes were silent on the steps as he ascended Grieving Tower. It was so called because the consorts of emperors, upon the deaths of their husbands, locked themselves in its midst, shrouded in grief. Such was the tradition. One had flung herself from the topmost window, but it wouldn’t happen again. That empress had loved her husband. Love matches were uncommon. Marriages to empresses or emperor consorts were decided long before the younglings gendered. Love didn’t drive alliances and expand borders.
Snorting, Bandim continued the long climb, two hundred and fifty steps, spiraling up and up and up. As far as anyone knew—including his brother, including his father—Empress Phen had lost her wits, addled by the guilt of nearly killing her hatchling. Saved only by the intervention of a mysterious temple novice, Mantos had lived, and Phen’s spirit had died. At least, that was the story.
That novice had been Johrann Maa. The magic used was Dark, and the cost was dear. Phen had sacrificed herself for her son, but now, her work was for nothing. I will have what is mine, Bandim thought. I will have my right.
Climbing the last round of the staircase, Bandim’s thoughts grew bitter. Of course, his mother did what she felt she had to do. Mantos was the first hatched. Mantos was the heir. And what of Bandim? Cast aside, not good enough. Never good enough. Every muscle in his body tightened. She could have let nature take its course. She could have let Mantos die. She could have let Bandim’s fate unfurl as it was meant to: to fulfill his purpose, to become the emperor.
But she hadn’t. Since Bandim discovered the truth from Johrann, many cycles before, all affection for his mother had ceased. But he knew something Johrann did not. Truth burned within him. Not only would Johrann deliver him the empire, but she would deliver him the power of the goddess, too. He would be the goddess incarnate, and it wouldn’t matter that his mother didn’t love him as much as his brother. Everyone would love him as their goddess, the one who would save them all.
When he reached the final twist, Bandim stopped. He faced a window. Warm night air drifted through, and the three moons hung low. This was the topmost window; the window one empress had thrown herself from. Bandim’s lips curled. Perhaps, today, there would be a second.
With that, Bandim continued his journey.
Now that Johrann’s spell was finally broken, twenty-one cycles since it was cast, Mantos’ life was no longer saved. At last, he was dead. His body lay in state beside their father’s, ready for ritual burning on the temple pyre. Once again, Bandim snorted. They should have been burned already, their ashes scattered to the wind. But as beloved as both were, the ceremony was postponed to allow for sufficient grief. The emperor and his heir were to be given up in flames to Nunako, the Goddess of Light, on Midsummer’s Eve.
Midsummer’s Eve was never a normal day for the fools of the Light. But this cycle, something more brought a snarl to Bandim’s face. He reached for the brass latch on his mother’s chamber door—locked from the outside, not from within. He wrenched back the bolt. This cycle, Midsummer’s Eve was also the Lunar Awakening, a supposed gift from the goddess Nunako. All three moons would fall into line, one behind the other, and all prayers would be answered.
Moons and wishes and prayers, a conduit to a false god... Ha! That wasn’t the true nature of the so-called awakening. As soon as he was on the throne, Bandim would purge the blasphemy, and return the world to the truth of Dorai. Dorai would live within him, be him, and he would be her, just as it was written.
Bandim thrust open the chamber door. The smash dissipated. In its place was rustling—skirts on crisp rushes. A pair of golden eyes flashed in the gloom. Bandim smirked. “Hello, Mother.”
Phen crept from the shadows like a cautious animal. Her arms were tight against her flat chest, her dress hanging in rags from her bony frame. Glinting in the scant candlelight, her eyes languished in dark circles. They were the same bright yellow as his own, undiminished even after twenty-one cycles in solitude.
“Bandim.” The word rattled from her throat as her bony claws reached to him. “Is that you?”
“Yes, Mother.”
His tone should have been warm. It should have been welcoming, supportive, a mother and son reunited after many cycles apart. But it wasn’t. It was cold as a Vhaun wind, and bit at the exposed skin of Phen’s throat.
“I...I don’t understand. How can this be?” She grasped the front of Bandim’s robes. “You were a hatchling when I last saw you. How is it possible that you’re so...grown?”
At the sight of his mother’s gnarled hands, Bandim’s face twisted with disgust. He shoved her off. Phen slipped on the ancient rushes and toppled with a shriek. Her unkempt fronds spilled around her like a grey pool. When she looked at him again, her eyes were bright with fear.
“You cannot be my son,” she whispered. “My son wouldn’t treat me this way. Who are you?”
Bandim chuckled. Phen’s wretched frame tried to clamber upright. As she dragged herself towards the bedstead, every fiber of muscle flexed under her dark skin.
“Oh, I am your son,” Bandim said. “But perhaps not the son you wanted.”
“What?” Phen asked as she struggled to stand. “I wanted you both, sons or daughters. It didn’t matter. I wanted you both.” She stilled, eyes darting. “Mantos,” she breathed. “Where is Mantos?”
“You see!” Bandim spat. “You call for Mantos because I’m not what you want. I’ve never been what you wanted!”
Phen leaned on the bedpost and jerked her head from side to side.
“No!” she cried. “I loved you both. I love you both. Exactly the same!” Realization spread across her face, memories of so long ago filling the lines in her skin. “Where is Mantos?”
Bandim’s laugh was eerily light. “Dear Mother,” he said, reveling in the news, “has no one told you?”
“Told me what?” Phen asked, throwing herself against Bandim’s chest. She grabbed fistfuls of his robes. “Told me what?”
Bandim’s laugh dissipated, but his lips lifted in a barbarous smirk.
“I’m so glad I can give you this news myself,” he said. “It might be the sweetest part of it all. Dearest Mother...” He paused, letting the weight of the moment crush her. “Your beloved son is dead.”
There was a beat of absolute silence. Phen’s eyes flickered, searching for a glint of truth. When she found it, she screamed. “No! It can’t be. I made a deal, my life for his!”
Bandim snatched her hands, clenching them so hard she keened with pain.
“I know the deal you made, Mother,” Bandim growled. “I know what you did for him.” He spat the final word like a curse. The bones of Phen’s wrists ground in his grip. “I know what you did for him,” he repeated, each word more ragged than the last. “You sacrificed your life to save him. And yet, you didn’t need to—because you had me.”
Phen’s eyes widened. “Bandim, I—”
He cut his mother off with a slap to the face. She spun across the floor. Bandim stalked towards her, nose slits flaring as enmity consumed him.
“No!” he cried, clamping his hands on her withered arms. “Don’t defend your actions! You had me. You didn’t need to save him. He was dead. He lost his life in the natural order of things, yet you chose to interfere. And not only that, you took yourself away from me! You left me with Father, who gave all his attention to Mantos—and I was left with nothing! No mother, no father, an endless string of nurses and housemasters and teachers—but no one who cared for me.”
Phen’s breath fluttered. “Bandim, I would have done the same for you! I did what I had to do to save my youngling. If it h
ad been you who fell from the nest, I would still have sacrificed myself.”
“Lies!” Spittle foamed at the corner of Bandim’s lips. “You showed how little you cared for me when you gave your life for him. I could have been the emperor. I was meant to be the emperor! Fate kept me back at first, but set itself to rights when that runt fell from the nest. But you destroyed my chances, all because you loved him more!”
His chest heaved. The scales and plates of his neck and shoulders pulsed and rose. Phen cowered like a wounded animal, her body trembling under his rage.
Tears tracked her cheeks, though they elicited no sympathy. Bandim kept his grip strong.
“You’re wrong,” Phen whispered. “You’re so wrong. My son, my son—”
She reached for his face, but Bandim thrust her away, fury bubbling anew. “Do not presume to touch me, Mother,” he spat, the words echoing his last with exchange with Mantos. “I am the emperor now.”
Something changed within Phen at those words. Her yellow eyes strengthened, and she regained her balance. She straightened her crooked back and drew herself to her full height, eye to eye with Bandim. Her tail twitched from side to side, the muscles flexing after an eternity of stillness.
“And I am Empress Phen of House Yru, wife of Emperor Braslen of House Tiboli. And more importantly, I am your mother.”
Bandim’s cold chuckle echoed off the chamber walls. Phen’s courage flickered in the darkness. He would snuff her insolence out soon enough.
“My mother you may be,” he said, taking a few slow steps towards her, “and you were wife of the emperor. You were the empress. But Father is dead. You’re a widow. No empress has reigned supreme on the throne. You have no choice. I own you now, and I’ll do with you as I please.”
Defiance blazed in Phen’s eyes, though there was a new waver in her voice. “And what will you do with me?” she asked. “Keep me locked up to rot in this prison?”
“Dear, dear Mother,” Bandim said gently. Then, without warning, his hand shot out, gripping her chin. “Why would I keep you here? You’re the dowager empress, after all.”
A fleeting moment of relief spread across Phen’s face. At that, Bandim locked his jaws on his prey.
“I won’t leave you here to die.” He brought his mouth to her ear. “I’m going to kill you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Emmy
Sunlight crept through the cracks in the shutters. Emmy buried further into the pile of blankets on the hard floor, shivering against the cold. Then she realized: hard floor? Cold?
This wasn’t her bed.
Emmy jerked upright, fronds cascading over her shoulders. She blinked, taking in her surroundings. It was dark. Her sandals were by the door, parallel with the wall as always.
The scarred female was still in her bed.
Pressing a hand to her head, Emmy frowned. Material—a bandage. How?
Memory flooded back. Zecha.
The cloth came away in a stiff clump of dried blood and frayed edges. A bad job, Emmy thought, lips pulling in a soft smile, but at least he tried. She struggled to her feet, winding the bandage around her hand. She turned to the bed.
The creature nestling between her sheets was pallid, the rise and fall of her armored chest shallow. At least she didn’t die in the night. That would have been hard to explain.
The acrid stench of the female’s unwashed body caught in the back of Emmy’s throat. She reached across, throwing open the shutters. The salty tang of sea air flooded in with morning light. Emmy took a few deep breaths, willing the stink to leave. “Now,” she said, “let’s see how your wound is healing.”
She exposed the female’s gash. Already it looked better. It was red, now ringed with bruises that stood in sharp relief against her yellow skin, but the stitches held firm. Considering the depth of the puncture, she’ll have a deep scar. Emmy gave a gentle snort. I don’t think she’ll mind.
She traced the white web of scars that covered every part of the female’s skin like cobwebs. They even crossed the top of her plucked head. What did she do to deserve such torment? Emmy wondered. A flash of the hag upstairs and her walking stick made Emmy shudder. Perhaps not a lot...
She pulled the covers up, then threaded her talons through the female’s chipped horn crest. Her skin was warm, but not alight with fever. Emmy clucked her tongue. A good sign.
Trying to ignore the thump in her head, she dressed and went to the shop. The memory of dirt and blood curdled in her throat. She had a lot to do before she could open the apothecary. She had to open every day except templeday, and that only came once a week.
But as it turned out, she didn’t have a lot to do at all.
Emmy noticed two things. Firstly, the floor sparkled. Secondly, Zecha was propped against the shop door, his head bowed in sleep. A dagger rested on his lap.
“Zecha?” Emmy asked.
He didn’t stir. Emmy repeated herself, loud enough to send Krodge into a fury.
Zecha jumped, dagger poised to strike. As he found his bearings, his eyes went from wide with fear to crinkled with sheepishness. “Oh.”
He looked from the weapon to Emmy and back again, then sheathed it with a blush. “Good morning,” he said, as if the circumstances were entirely ordinary. “Did you sleep?”
“I did.” Emmy shook her head. “You didn’t need to stay.”
“I couldn’t leave,” Zecha said. “I couldn’t rouse you. And after I cleaned, I couldn’t find your keys. If I’d left, anyone could have walked in.”
Emmy folded her arms, but a smile pulled at her mouth. “Well, thank you,” she said. “That was very kind.”
“It’s okay,” Zecha replied with a lopsided grin.
Emmy raised an eyeridge. “Why did you come back?” she asked. “I remember the knocking at the kitchen door, then I saw you, and then...” She shrugged. “I woke up this morning.”
Zecha stretched his arms wide, their muscles flexing. “I had a feeling the old crone wouldn’t be happy,” he said. His face twisted. “I came back to make sure you were all right—and I’m glad I did.”
wouldn’t
Something shifted in Zecha’s face. There was a new fire in his eyes. Emmy shook her head, turning away. They’d danced this dance many times. “No, Zecha,” she said. “I’m not leaving. Not yet, anyway.”
Pouting, Zecha folded his arms. “We could go anywhere,” he said. “We could hop on a boat and just leave. Althemer, Mellul, Haelog, Linvarra...” He threw up his hands. “Anywhere would be better than this place.”
“It’s not that simple,” Emmy said. “I can’t leave Krodge. Without me, she would die.” This was true, but also a lie. Emmy would happily let the crone rot in her bed. But Bellim, as unwelcome as it made her, was an ironic safe haven. At least here, the folk knew enough not to kill her, since she had the apothecary’s knowledge. That was her only saving grace. “And anyway,” she continued, pushing that thought aside, “who knows what we could sail into? You know the Masvams prowl the seas, not to mention the danger from Valtat slave ships. We could leave our lives here and sail into something much worse.”
Sensing defeat, Zecha let his arms hang loose. “I know. I just... I wish things were better.”
Emmy patted his shoulder. “Maybe one day we can be who we are. For now, we put up with what we have.”
Zecha’s grin returned, though its sparkle had dulled. “You’re right,” he said. “You’re always right.”
Beckoning him to follow, Emmy led him to the rear door. “Stay safe today, Zecha,” she said. “Try not to get into trouble.”
“No promises,” Zecha replied.
Before he left, he reached out an arm. Emmy offered her own. Zecha grasped her bicep and she did the same to his, squeezing each other in a traditional Metakalan goodbye.
Releasing her, Zecha slipped through the gate and disappeared. Emmy exhaled and closed the kitchen door. Inside, Krodge banged anew.
But a new noise diverted her attention. There was
scratching at the back gate. A head of unruly brown fronds appeared, seen through the slats, and then disappeared again. Emmy touched a claw to her temple. Of course.
Curly-fronded Kain, the youngling with unruly brown fronds, skipped into the rear yard. Like all younglings, they were neither male nor female. Their father Leeve, a dark-skinned male with a permanent glower, followed behind. He trailed his cart into the yard. It was laden with wood, chopped by his wife the day before.
“Morning greetings, Leeve,” Emmy said.
Saying nothing, Leeve piled the wood in a small lean-to as Emmy fetched the weekly payment.
When she returned, Leeve was watching as Kain kicked a row of her precious plants. As she saw leaves fly from her bindlewart bush, Emmy’s nostrils flared. Her neck scales rose. “Stop that!”
Kain blanched and ran to Leeve’s side, clutching the hem of his coarse over-tunic. With narrowed eyes and tight lips, Leeve reached for his payment.
Emmy passed him the coins, five bickles, and an extra cren for Kain, the payment she had given every week since Leeve had first come around, peddling his wife’s wood.
Leeve accepted the payment, but plucked up the red cren and turned it over in his hand. He looked at her from under his drawn brows, and Emmy swallowed. There was something in his eyes that spoke of anger, of disgust. It was a look Emmy was used to, since she was a Moon Rogue, and therefore not worthy of courtesy.
In a swift movement, Leeve launched the cren at Emmy.
The coin bounced off her armor and clattered to the ground with a dim clink. Leeve glared anew through his tangled fronds, then lifted Kain onto the wagon.
Emmy wrenched the discarded coin from the ground. She turned it over in her own hand. She brushed the pad of her talon over the hole in its center. I’ve given Kain a cren every week for as long as I remember, she thought. Why not accept it now? Because I spoke sharply?
