by L M R Clarke
“We find ourselves in troubling times,” Queen Valentia said at length. “Have we had any official communication from the Masvams? Has the Youngling Emperor at least had the decency to give us a formal declaration of war?”
“No, Your Highness,” said Chucho Nu. He was a male of middling age, with a heavy chain around his waist and a sheer veil across his face. Mantos knew it had taken much effort and sacrifice for a male to gain such a high rank. “We have heard nothing from him.”
Nuko Otu, an older female gnarled by many cycles of battle, who had risen to the rank of Master of Armies, slid her narrow-eyed gaze to Mantos.
“The Masvams’ cowardice knows no limits,” she said. “They should at least grant us that courtesy.”
“They are without any honor,” Fylica said.
She and Nuko shot Mantos fierce looks, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Valaria regarded him coldly, and it seemed even her serpent looked at him with unveiled disdain. Mantos gripped the edge of the table. I will not disgrace myself, he thought, though temptation to loose his tongue through anger and fear was strong. These Althemerians should show more respect.
“Then we will give the Youngling Emperor no similar courtesy,” Valentia continued. “Our ships are faster, with superior weapons. We know that the Masvams will try to target tactical ports such as Athomur, and try to take over as many as they can. We must fortify our shores and seas.”
“Agreed,” said Nuko. “With a foothold on our shore, the Masvams can play a longer game. They can ship their troops in and amass an army without fear of having their numbers decimated in open combat.”
“Our ships are sinking as many of theirs as they can, or damaging them so much that they must turn back,” Princess Valaria said. “We’re also taking over their newfound slave-ships.”
Mantos sat straighter and blinked. “Slave-ships?” he asked.
Valaria’s lips pulled into a smirk. “It would seem the Youngling Emperor is trying to move in on the Valtat’s trade as well as our borders,” she said. “He’s shipping captives from his conquests back to the empire proper.”
“That...is a new tactic,” Mantos said. There were boulders in the pit of his stomach. He glanced at his mother. Her face blanched, her expression as horrified as he felt. “Masvams have never been in the business of taking slaves.”
“No,” Queen Valentia said, stroking her serpent’s long back, “just in the business of taking away other countries’ independence. Hardly a more honorable endeavor.”
It would seem that Bandim’s style wouldn’t be just like Braslen’s and Maram’s before him. The use of overwhelming force, yes, but never the taking of slaves. By the goddess, Mantos thought. We’ve never dealt in slaves. We allowed the Valtat through our borders, yes, but we never bought folk and never sold them. It’s wrong.
“What have we in the way of aid?” Queen Valentia asked.
“We know that Mellul is sending us ships,” Nuko said, “but we haven’t heard from the Linvarrans or the Valtat.”
“The latter might be more agreeable to helping us if the Masvams are destroying their ships and their business,” the queen replied.
Juhihas Oturul, Master of Messages, shifted and shook her head. Her long fronds were pulled back so severely it was like her face was stretched.
“More agreeable, perhaps, but the slavers are not warriors,” she said. “They’ve survived despite the Masvam threat because they’re too far south for conquest. They’ve had little need to protect their borders, for the lands in the south are more stable.”
“They’ve survived so far,” Princess Fylica interjected, “but they won’t be safe from the evil forever. The Masvams will come for them.”
Her glances at Mantos and Phen were vicious.
Juhihas spoke again. “Agreed.”
Valentia nodded and clenched one fist, and turned to Chucho Nu.
“Send a gargon to Oligarchy of Belfon,” she said. “We respectfully request they send ships and soldiers west to fortify us. Tell him we’ll give the troops whatever they need when they arrive. We’ll need to use our grain reserves but as I understand it, we can afford it—at least for now.”
She shot Dex Darajib, Master of Coin, a quizzical look. Dex, a female of few words, inclined her head in affirmation but said nothing. Her appearance was striking; white skin, white armor, and red eyes. In many cultures, including Mantos’ own, such a hatchling would have been cast out as tainted. On Althemer, however, attitudes were different. Strangeness was celebrated. Such is why Queen Valentia trusts the Stranger so much, Mantos thought. He glanced at Bomsoi’s purple and blue. She is indeed strange.
“We must also send messages to the Va Chressans and the Merr,” Queen Valentia continued, turning back to Chucho, “and even the Kingdom of Khin.”
“I don’t think that will bear fruit,” Chucho said, her mouth down-turned. “The Khinish made themselves perfectly clear last time—”
“Last time the Masvams hadn’t penetrated our borders,” Valentia snapped, pulling herself upright. “The Khinish can no longer sit in their mountains and pretend the Masvams cannot touch them. We thought we were safe, but the rules of the game have been rewritten. I imagine the Khinish will understand that well. If the Masvams are willing to cross the ocean to come for us, they will be willing to cross the Kingdom of Khin’s mountains and crush them. I think that Queen Consort Sarkin will understand that, even if the Puppet King Jaka Narr cannot.” She kissed her fist and laid it on her heart. “May the gods be kind to him in his madness.”
Mantos said nothing, focusing his gaze on his claws. She’s right, he thought. Bandim will not stop. The Selamans have fallen, and now the Metakalans. Next, the Merr and the Althemerians. After that the Linvarrans, the Va Chressans, the Belfoni, the Khinish... He shook his head. He will stop at nothing.
“Have you something to say, Masvam?”
Mantos’ head snapped up. It was Nuko Otu. She looked at him with her chin held high and her eyeridges drawn together. There was no attempt to hide her hatred. Beside her, Fylica’s lips curled into a vicious snarl.
“We understand you are prepared to give us information,” Nuko continued. “If you have something to say you will say it, or I will cut out your tongue.”
Beside him, Phen shifted in her chair. Mantos shook his head again and shuddered.
“Nuko, cease,” Queen Valentia said. Her serpent hissed. “Do not speak such words. It is unbecoming of you.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” the Master of Armies replied. “You have my apologies.”
All eyes were on Mantos. Princess Valaria waved a hand. “Well?” she asked. “What have you to say? Speak or leave.”
Mantos glanced at each of them in turn. His heart was in turmoil. Would he betray his folk and his country? Or would his silence in itself be a betrayal, as it would if Bandim was an unfit emperor? Eventually he managed to speak.
“I no longer know the limit of Masvam power, but you cannot be complacent. The emperor is carrying out a plan that has long been in motion, from as far back as the time of his grandfather. Don’t underestimate the lengths he’ll go to get what he wants.”
Nuko snorted and turned in her chair, facing Mantos straight on. “And how do you know this, Masvam?” she asked. “You could be here as a spy, a part of his plans sent to feed us false information and send intelligence back to your kin. You know what they say about Masvams.” She pointed a wizened claw at him. “The only good one is a dead one.”
There was silence after that. It weighed as heavy as the phantom crown on Mantos’ head and the thoughts that plagued him. A stranger in this land, ensconced in a tower, trying to reconcile killing his own folk or being killed himself. I don’t know what to do... Oh, how he wished for the simplicity of the battlefield and holding a weapon in his hand.
“Speak, Masvam,” Valaria growled. “I can only keep my sword in check for so long.”
Licking his lips, Mantos spoke. “My military experience was gained in th
e reign of Emperor Braslen,” he said. “He ruled with fist and sword, just like his father before him. Under Braslen came the decimation of Selama, as you know, a vassal that existed alongside the Masvam Empire for hundreds of cycles. Now it’s gone, its government persecuted by Maram and finally crushed under the boot of my—” He stopped himself before his dreadful misstep. “—Of Emperor Braslen.”
One piece of information shared led to another. He sucked in a deep breath as more truths spilled out.
“The Masvams are coming with the intent to kill as many Althemerians as they can, and to seize the land for themselves. That is always the Masvam goal.”
The queen sat forward. Her serpent regarded him with narrow eyes. “So, Masvam,” she said. “Have you made your decision? What are these plans? What is it that your folk have been planning all these cycles, skulking behind our backs while smiling at us with painted faces?”
In that moment, Mantos was on the edge of a cliff. Before him, a dark abyss stretched out. Behind him, a battle charge of swords and daggers. No matter what I do, I will do wrong, he thought. If I speak, I am a traitor. If I don’t, I become part of my brother’s malice.
He turned as Phen placed a hand on his arm. She tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“Tell them,” she said. “Tell them so we may save him.”
Across the table, Fonbir mouthed words of comfort. Be brave, Toketa, and do what is right.
Mantos held his gaze for a moment. Then he looked at his mother. Then he turned to the queen.
And he told all.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Emmy
The world had turned on its head. Everything Emmy did took an age, for her mind was on nothing but Rel’s revelations. That strange word: Uloni. Rel’s friend Bomsoi. The strange ideas. The idea that once, she had a family.
Emmy hefted the yoke across her shoulder and began the journey from the healers’ building to the well. The two buckets swung and clanked as she walked. Fetching water was usually Medicine-Yarim’s chore, for while it was heavy work, it gave a reason to leave the building full of sickness and injury for a time. Emmy could count on one claw the amount of times she’d been allowed to fulfil the chore. She’d barely left the building since being brought there by Rel. Not permitted to leave or move freely in the encampment, Emmy keenly felt the tight grip of capture around her throat.
But this time, glad to be rid of the clumsy oaf Emmy had become, Medicine-Yarim had cast her out by her neck scales. “Feel free to take your time, freak,” she’d said.
Emmy had collected the yoke and buckets in a daze, the razor-sharpness of Medicine-Yarim’s tone unable to slice her. It was impossible to worry about such triviality when an entire new world had opened in her mind.
Weaving her way through the compound, Emmy stayed clear of the columns of marching soldier-slaves. The sun beat down upon them all, baking the ground. Clouds of dust puffed from the sets of regimented feet, rhythmic as the march itself. Sweat poured down Emmy’s face from both heat and exertion, but she kept going. And kept thinking.
It wasn’t a surprise that Krodge was not her mother. Emmy had never labored under that illusion. The old crone never wanted to claim the deformed blue and purple monster as anything other than an unwelcome parcel.
Emmy blinked against the sun as she made the final turn towards the well. She had always known she had different parents—real parents. In her mind, it was impossible for them to be worse than the heartless stand-in guardian Krodge became. They were poor Metakalans with a huge brood, unable to care for one more mouth, or perhaps a single Althemerian escaping persecution to protect his strange hatchling, only to succumb to tyranny while keeping his offspring from death. Or maybe one or more of the Khinish, too far from home to travel back with a hatchling and keep it alive...
A thousand scenarios had played out in Emmy’s head through the cycles. But never once had she imagined her parents were like her.
She reached the well, still sweating as she joined the end of the queue. Midsun was brutal in Decos, especially on a day like today, when no cooling wind blew in from the sea. Emmy kept the yoke across her shoulders as the line crept forward. The wooden frame dug into her shoulders, for the weight of the buckets alone was enough to pain her. She didn’t dare put it down. The exertion of hefting it back on bruised shoulders wasn’t worth the brief respite from pain.
Despite this, Rel’s words took the edge from the yoke’s teeth. She was an Uloni. Once she must have lived among them, with her parents. Not only did she have folk of her own, but those folks were powerful. She was powerful. It explained the coldness, and...
A thump between Emmy’s shoulder blades propelled her forward.
“Get a move on,” the male behind grunted. “We’re all tired of waiting.”
At last it was Emmy’s turn at the well. Muttering an apology, she bent to allow the buckets to settle on the ground, then removed the yoke from her shoulders.
Powerful. The word kept echoing back as Emmy lifted the first bucket. That was a word never associated with her before. Freakish, yes. Weak, absolutely. Moon Rogue, used most of all. But never powerful. Even when accused of possessing Dark magic—the ability to suck out souls, kill crops, and the endless ream of horrible circumstances she’d been blamed for—she had never been accused of being powerful.
The bucket hit the water and slowly sank. Rel had told her of her powerfulness, but for a good purpose. It wasn’t to condemn her as a demon, but to laud her. And it was told to her by someone like her. Emmy grunted as she turned the well-worn wooden handle to bring the full bucket back up. Seeing Rel change her colors had set fireworks off in Emmy’s head: not just because of the impossibility, but because it confirmed Emmy wasn’t alone. And it showed that what Rel said was true.
At least, Emmy thought as she swapped the full bucket for its empty partner, it seemed to be true.
Emmy wanted it to be true.
She went through the process of dropping, lifting, and filling the second bucket, then attached them both to her yoke. With that she lumbered past the queue of sweltering faces, back to the healers’ building. Her back trembled from the weight of the water, and the yoke dragged on her shoulders. The sun pressed in harder, sending shimmers up from the baked ground.
Rel said she would get her out, away from Althemerian enslavement. Charo and Zecha, too. That was reason enough to go along with her. Charo was safe for now, but who knew how long it would remain that way? With the Althemerians fighting the Masvams, she could be called out of training and into service at any time. And Zecha...who knew what they’d do with him when he awoke? To stay with the Althemerians would be no life for any of them.
At the very least, they could use Rel to escape. At the most, Rel could change her life. As the healers’ building swung into view, Emmy grunted. The decision needed no contemplation.
And if it was a trap? Some elaborate ruse to prove her disloyalty or her tainted nature? The Althemerians would probably kill her, and even that was better than living life as a slave. Listening to Charo’s stories of hardship had taught her that.
Emmy set the buckets down outside the main entrance to the wooden building and brought the buckets in by hand, leaving the wide yoke outside. Medicine-Yarim cast her a sidelong glower, as if she’d returned too quickly. Emmy ignored it and emptied the buckets into the water butt in the center of the room. She glanced around, but Rel was nowhere to be found.
Sighing, Emmy glowered at the chaos of stretchers that spread around her like jagged edges. The constant movement of the sick, the injured, and the dead meant it was impossible to maintain order. Old habits were hard to break, and Emmy’s fingers twitched as she beat back the urge to straighten the rows. She wasn’t in the apothecary now. She didn’t need to have everything sit just so.
And yet she did.
But before she could start straightening, a weak voice called out.
“I can tell you want to tidy.”
Emmy’s
frown exploded into a smile and she spun around, placing the sound. That voice.
“Zecha!”
She rushed through the mess of cots and fell at her friend’s side. “You’re awake at last!” she breathed, giving him a careful hug.
Though they were watery and drooping, Zecha’s red eyes were finally open. His mouth stretched into a tired smile. “My, my,” he said, weak arms returning the embrace, “it’s nice to be so loved.”
Emmy clucked her tongue, her face flushing with delight. She pulled away, but kept one hand on Zecha’s arm.
“I’m so glad you’re awake,” she said. “I was worried you wouldn’t...” Her breath caught, and she swallowed against a lump. “But you’re awake now. That’s all that matters.”
Zecha chuckled at her concern.
“It’ll take more than a Masvam to kill me,” he said. He peered at his stomach, though the movement pained him. “Is it bad?”
Emmy gave a solemn nod, the slow movement giving her time to think. It should have been much worse. He should have been dead. But he wasn’t—because of Rel.
Because she was Uloni, just like Emmy.
It wasn’t time to broach any of those thoughts with Zecha. Instead, Emmy squeezed his arm.
“It was a deep wound,” she said, “but the Althemerian healer did a good job of cleaning it. Her stitching, however...” Emmy tilted her head to one side and smiled. “Well, it doesn’t hold up to mine.”
Zecha barked a laugh, though his face drained of color as he suffered for it. “Whose would?” he rasped. As his color returned, he glanced at his stomach. “Can I see it?”
Emmy hesitated, but eventually drew back the covers. It was his body and his choice. Zecha propped himself up on his elbows and stared as she hitched up his shift. When the wound was revealed, he gave a low whistle. “That will leave a nasty scar.”
