by Colin McComb
“Our king has sired his children in the winter of his life. He is old. He is infirm. His mind is not what it was. He is, in short, dying. His new wife is a scheming, power-mad shrew who cannot be trusted, and who focuses on trivial slights. He married her to strengthen his position with the High Houses. He does not trust her, and because she is a Bhumar, neither do the others. In fact, none will accept her as regent, and the civil war that will result in her ascension will tear our provinces apart.”
It was true what he said. It was an open secret that Bhumar was heavily invested in the underworld, and if they did not break Imperial law daily, they surely danced upon the line. Yet they brought money to the treasury and helped the Empire pay its bills, and the House spies and informants would have surely proven useful. Yet here I sat, next to the man who had made all those spies useless, and I could not help but agree with his assessment.
“I love this land, Glasyin. I love what we have become. But unless we receive fresh blood and new leadership, all that we have worked for and all that our forefathers achieved will be lost to time. I am not yet willing to let that go. Are you?”
“You’re asking me to choose between my oldest friend and the land I love.”
“Yes, I am. I am aware of what I’m asking, and I realize that it is a horrible choice.”
“The betrayal of my friendship or the betrayal of my duty.”
“Yes. But keep in mind that your friend has betrayed you, sacrificing you to ease strain on himself.”
“A betrayal you engineered.”
“It was a test for him as well, Glasyin. Had he stood fast, you and I would not be having this discussion. I do not think I have misjudged you. I think that you recognize the necessity of sacrifice. Your entire career has hinged around the understanding of this most difficult reality.”
We sat in silence for a while. The sky began to brighten with the predawn, roseate tinges breaking the relentless grip of night.
I said at last, “You have done me a great disservice. You have treated the king unjustly.”
Athedon snorted. “Loyalty and justice are opposites. Surely you realized this! You cannot serve a man and serve an ideal at the same time. Men die. But a civilization can last many years longer. You are at the linchpin of the Empire’s history right now, General, and you must make your decision. I must insist on it.”
“Answer this one question for me, then.”
“Absolutely. Whatever I can tell you.”
“Who will rule in Fannon’s place? And what shall become of him and his children?”
“You’re not asking where your place is in this?” he asked.
“I already know. I too have studied history, Athedon. Let me outline exactly how this falls out: when my… my former staff comes to me to ask my advice and possibly my leadership, for they will not trust Beremany, I will inform them that I accept you and yours as the new rulers. I will suggest that they do the same for the good of the Empire. The army then stays out of the coming battles. And then, for me, an honorable exile.”
“That is what I anticipated,” he replied equably.
“You won’t be able to trust me if I agree to this.” I held up a hand as he began to protest. “If I take a position against my old friend, that shows that I can be leveraged with a threat to our nation. If I do not take that position, I am giving up the oath I swore to protect the Empire. Either way, I break faith. As I said, you have done me a grave disservice. I know what happens to oathbreakers and traitors.”
“Glasyin, I would hold you in the highest esteem. I would not allow any to cast doubt or blame on you.” He kept his gaze steady on mine as he said this. I decided that he was lying, and I think that may have been the moment I made my decision.
“In exchange for this,” I said, “you will allow me to name my successor. I would not have that smirking toad Beremany leading my forces to war. I think he would kill too many of our men because he does not value them.”
He frowned. “I owe my cousin several favors. This appointment was to have wiped the slate clean.”
“That is my price. That, and the knowledge of what you intend to do with Fannon and his family.”
He sighed and looked to the sky. “Exile. We would need to take the king and his family someplace far away, where they could not build an army of loyalists to restore themselves to power. I love the old man, too, you know. You are not the only person who has a history with him. I would not see him suffer. I wish him no harm.”
“And our new ruler?”
He glanced down at his hands. “I have done the hard work of organizing this. I understand the course of history. I intend for the Empire to survive the coming years. As the man who brought us this far, as the man with the vision to see that it must be done, I believe that I am the one best suited to lead us.”
“Of course, of course.” The sun began to crest the peaks on the far side of the Carrerel Range. “How do you intend to deal with the Knights Elite?”
“I have planned for that as well. I flatter myself by imagining that I have a plan for nearly any eventuality. You are at one of the decision points right now. I need an answer so I know which strategy moves forward.”
“May I give you my answer tomorrow morning?”
“You are one of my key elements. By revealing my plans to you, since they are months from fruition and can still be stopped, you become a danger. I need to know where you stand.”
“You have given me much to think about. You know that I do nothing rashly.”
He looked inward and nodded toward the rising sun. “Are you sure it cannot be this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. Think deeply, sir. I am certain that you will come to the proper answer. Should you realize the right path, send a courier today.” He rose, turned, and gave me a slight bow. “It has been my pleasure, Glasyin. I do apologize for all that has happened, and all that is to come.”
I waited a few moments after he departed. By the gods! Where were the Imperial spies in this? Where were the High Houses? Where, indeed, were the Lesser Houses? Athedon had been thorough indeed. How long had he been planning this, truly? It must have been well before the king began his dotage. I could not help but think that he had been plotting his treason for at least a decade to have so many of these pieces in place. There was nothing honorable in this. His concern for the Empire was a cover. Thus decided, I rose to stretch.
As I did, I felt a presence behind me. I cursed inwardly and scrabbled for my blade, trying to turn quickly enough to dodge the inevitable killing blow. Of course Athedon had taken even this small delay as refusal! Even as I turned, I imagined the knife slicing my throat open.
Instead I saw one of the younger Knights Elite standing back, his gauntleted hands held before him, empty. “My apologies for surprising you, sir, and I’d appreciate if you didn’t draw your weapon on me. My conditioning might kill you.”
My reflexes were fast enough to loose the hilt before the sword was halfway from its sheath, and it slid, hissing, back into the scabbard. “Sir Knight, you gave me a hell of a scare.” I thought, at first, he might be a witness, that he could help me to expose this plot.
“Pelagir, sir. Knight of the Order Elite, Class of the Crown.” I studied him. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Strong, lean frame. Formal armor. And, of course, the cool, dead eyes and dispassionate voice of the Knights Elite.
“Of course. I have seen you guarding the king. What can I do for you?”
With his order’s bluntness, he said, “Accept his offer.”
“What?”
“I said to accept the duke’s offer. It may not be too late. You have my utmost respect, General Glasyin, but if you do not accept his offer now, you will be dead before the sun rises tomorrow.”
I chuckled. “So the king is still watching, is he? And he wants an agent in the duke’s camp?”
“The king is not watching. The king is as good as dead. The focus of his spies is scattered, like light through a prism.
They have no direction. The duke’s plan is the Empire’s only hope.”
I was shocked to the core. “I thought the oaths of the knights were unbreakable!”
“The oath I took in initiation is to the security of the Empire. I have seen the king’s fallibility.”
“How did they turn you?”
He frowned. “I have not turned. I have seen that there is no loyalty to us from above. Without loyalty above, there can be no true service below. General, I have no more time to talk to you. Great events are in the making. You can stand with us at the wheel of history, or you can be crushed by it. Your time is running out. I hope you will make the wiser choice.” He turned and moved quickly toward the palace doors.
I returned immediately to my room and gathered my most important effects: papers and money, for my seals will be useless and my clothes will scream my identity. I have found this inn, and I have been writing all day. I intend to depart tonight, cloaked and disguised, and will entrust these pages to a friend in the city if I am certain I have not been followed. I must ready myself for the journey I have put off for too long. I shall leave Terona, most likely for the last time. They will have noticed my absence in the palace, but will likely have put it down to conferring with advisors and preparing the transition of command. No one knows where I am now.
I do not believe Terona will survive the storm that rides on the heels of this autumn rain. After a life of decision, I am presented with a dilemma that I cannot break. I cannot betray my friend as he has betrayed me. I do not know if I could alter events even if I chose to. I cannot make this decision, not even for the sake of the Empire. I cannot make it for Athedon, a blandly ambitious man who would lie to my face for his own gain. After the sudden shock of having my command stripped and my identity as a leader torn apart in a single night, I do not have it in me. I hope that others will resist him better than I can.
I flee for my life and for my honor, but in truth, I am weary of the endless politicking, the lies and slanders, the needless outrages so that one faction may gain a slight advantage over another. When betrayal is the grease that keeps the wheel of Empire turning, I can no longer remain within its cycles. Our Empire is sick. I know the cancer that lies at its heart. I do not believe we will recover.
The time is past midnight now.
There is a knocking at my door. It must be a word from one of my lieutenants. I had not thought they would come so quickly.
They have underestimated me. It is certainly not the first time. Let us hope it is not the last. My assassin is dead and I live, though with a wound that will take some time to heal. Athedon did not even respect me enough to send one of his traitor knights for me. Who was that man? He was barely at the level of a household guard. Their mistake, and my blessing. Once again, I am glad of my wrist knife. I suppose I should also be grateful for having thought to bandage myself to escape the dance. They must have thought I’d move more slowly than I did. Sometimes, I suppose, the little details in our lives mean the most.
Was I tracked to this place? Who betrayed me? Was it Hargrave? Westkitt? M’Cray? All my dreams of mustering a resistance to this coup are dust. If I cannot trust even those three, who will follow me? Whom shall I lead? No. I must flee the city and slink into exile.
There can be no hope for the king. I pray that his children will survive. I do not think there is any hope, but I pray that I am wrong.
I bid you farewell, my home. I weep for you. The storm outside howls its grief with me.
Interlude: Out of the City
Pelagir bent low across the neck of his steed and whispered into its steel ear. The machine leapt forward, streaking across the farmland. He shot a glance behind him and saw the city in flames. His doing, he thought, and perhaps his undoing. But then … he looked down at his bundle, the baby girl, and his jaw hardened. He had made his choices. He carried the future. He bore the princess Caitrona, by now surely the last of her line. He was headed for the King’s Forest. Miles of countryside and farms stretched ahead of him, interrupted here and there by towns and hamlets: Knollside, Warsend, Colm, Highridge Glen, and more, strung like drab jewels along the roads. The sun settled ahead of him as the city burned behind.
Year 1 – CY 578
Pelagir’s first year of training was not turning out as he thought it might.
The freedom of which he had dreamed during nights in bed at home had been replaced with a harsher discipline. He lay in the darkness of the high-ceilinged dormitory with the west wind overturning the peace of the night outside, and he thought of the endless days ahead of him echoing the days he had left behind: days of standing motionless under the hot sun and cold rain, days of menial chores, days of backbreaking weapons work, days and days and days and days. This was not freedom. This was slavery, and toward what goal? Service. Service to fat men making stupid decisions, and he would be expected to rectify their mistakes with blood. He had sold himself to death at an enemy’s hand, or at the executioner’s, or the little death of disgrace. He had traded his father for the people who had created his father.
He thought he had buried his heart long ago, but now he discovered it bleeding on the pillow beside him, and he wept bitter tears—bitter but quiet, because showing emotion was punishable by a morning whipping.
When he awoke, his pillow was wet, and they took him to the courtyard and whipped him in front of the other students. And then they sent him to stand in heavy armor in the hot sun for the day.
It was one day among hundreds. The trainers drove their students mercilessly, and this first year was constant marching, drills, hand-to-hand exercises, and training in basic weapons. Those who complained or broke were beaten, as Pelagir had been, and some of them died between the whipping posts. No one was allowed to mourn the dead.
Year 2 – CY 579
Pelagir’s second year of training was little better. The discipline was harsher, his instructors less forgiving, and his training more dangerous than the year before. He bore scars from lashings for failure to obey—or remember—the rules or the Code. It was better for him than for many of his compatriots. Two thousand youths had been gathered from all the reaches of the Empire, and half of them had been expelled for one reason or another. Some of them had died. They were fourteen years of age.
Those who remained were harder, stronger. They studied harder and learned faster. They understood that it was not their bodies and minds being tested but their dedication. Most of them would fail and fall into a lesser position in the military. Some would serve in the High House to which their family swore loyalty. Others might become mercenaries. They would be tougher than many of their conventionally trained counterparts, but they would live with the knowledge that they had failed the knighthood. Some, armed with this insight, took their own lives.
Pelagir didn’t have time to give them a second thought. He was trying to survive.
This year, amid the constant training in arms of all shapes and sizes, he learned Imperial history: the mythical Golden Age, an age of casual miracles and everyday wonders, and its fall. The horrific and destructive war, and the wonder-workers called “scientists” who fled to strong men for protection from the rabble who blamed deep knowledge for the destruction of the Age. This was the Great Uprising. More war, and the terrors of wizardry truly unleashed as the mages worked to save their lords from their enemies, earning a greater place in the nightmares of the common folk. Generations of struggle as small men fought with one another to make large their dreams, and from these small men at last rose a great man: Martyn Strangaers, our first king, who had the charisma, wit, and will necessary to bring the warring lords under his control. He established a central government in the hilly town of Terona, his birthplace, and with his warlords at his side and his pet wizard at his back, he began to subjugate the lands around his hometown. By the time of his death, he sat on the throne of empire and had rebuilt civilization, dragging it screaming from the dark age that had settled upon the land.
As a broad s
troke, this was all essentially correct. It was in the details that this history was wrong, but it was wrong for a purpose: it helped fill the young knights with devotion for the Empire they were sworn to defend.
That devotion came with the Code, ritually repeated, used as a marching cadence, as a breathing exercise, fit into every corner and cranny of their waking minds. At first they hated the Code, but they grew to rely on it as the sole touchstone in their training that never changed. They could recite it in their sleep.
“Honor is strength. Honor is integrity. Honor is dedication. My life is my honor, my honor my life. I value my honor more highly.”
And another oath, as well:
“I am the stone on which my order rests. My order is the stone on which the knighthood rests. The knighthood is the stone on which the realm rests. I am stone, and when I stand fast, so too does the realm. If I fail, the realm fails. I am its defender. My commitment never dies.
“I am the steel of my country. I do not bend. I will not break.”
Year 3 – CY 580
By his third year, three hundred of his classmates remained. Half of them would go on to the Knights Lesser. Many of the remainder would go to the ranks of the Knights Faithful. A select handful would achieve the honor of Knight Elite. Only ten such slots were available per year, and they were not filled if too few candidates were suitable. The competition was fierce. Though the students had been trained against desire, they sought honor, and the greatest honor and glory would belong to those who belonged in turn to the Empire, body and soul.
