Rise Of Empire: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “She’s just not used to standing straight all the time,” Amilia told him.

  “Perhaps a stiff board sewn into her corset and laced tight?” a steward proposed timidly.

  “Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Amilia replied. She looked at Nimbus. “What do you think?”

  “Better make it a very stiff board,” Nimbus replied sardonically.

  They waved over the royal tailor and seamstress and an informal meeting ensued. They droned on about seams, stays, and ties while Modina looked down from above.

  Can they see the pain in my face?

  She did not think so. There was no sympathy in their eyes, just awe—awe and admiration. They simultaneously marveled and quaked when in her presence. She had heard them whispering about the beast she had slain, and how she was the daughter of a god. To thousands of soldiers, knights, and commoners, she was something to worship.

  Until recently, Modina had been oblivious to it all, her mind shut in a dark hole where any attempt to think caused such anguish she recoiled back into the dull safety of the abyss. Time dulled the pain, and slowly the words of nearby conversations seeped in. She began to understand. According to what she had overheard, she and her father were descendants of some legendary lost king. This was why only they could harm the beast. She had been anointed empress, but she was not certain what that meant. So far, it had meant pain and isolation.

  Modina stared at those around her without emotion. She was no longer capable of feeling. There was no fear, anger, or hate, nor was there love or happiness. She was a ghost haunting her own body, watching the world with detached interest. Nothing that transpired around her held any importance—except Amilia.

  Previously the people hovering around her were vague gray faces. They had spoken to her of ridiculous notions, the vast majority she could not begin to comprehend even if she wanted to. Amilia was different. She had said things to Modina that she could understand. Amilia had told stories of her own family and reminded Modina of another girl—a girl named Thrace—who had died and was just a ghost now. It was a painful memory, but Amilia managed to remind her about times before the darkness, before the pain, when there had been someone in the world who loved her.

  When Saldur had threatened to send Amilia away, Modina had seen the terrible fear in the girl’s eyes. She had recognized that fear. Saldur’s voice was the screech of the beast, and at that moment, she had awoken from her long dream. Her eyes had focused, seeing clearly for the first time since that night. She would not allow the beast to win again.

  Somewhere in the chamber, out of sight of the dais, a door slammed. The sound echoed around the marbled hall. Loud footsteps followed with an even louder conversation.

  “I don’t understand why I can’t launch an attack against Alric on my own.” The voice came from an agitated well-dressed man.

  “Breckton’s army will dispatch the Nationalists in no time. Then he can return to Melengar, and you can have your prize, Archie,” replied the voice of an older man. “Melengar isn’t going anywhere, and it’s not worth the risk.”

  The younger voice she did not recognize, but the older one she had heard many times before. They called him Regent Ethelred. The pair of nobles and their retinue came into view. Ethelred was dressed as she usually had seen him—in red velvet and gold silk. His thick mustache and beard betrayed his age, as both were steadily going gray.

  The younger man walking beside him dressed in a stylish scarlet silk tunic with a high-ruffed collar, an elegant cape, and an extravagant plumed hat that matched the rest of his attire perfectly. He was taller than the regent, and his long auburn hair trailed down his back in a ponytail. They walked at the head of a group of six others: personal servants, stewards, and court officials. Four of the six Modina recognized, as she had seen the little parade before.

  There was the court scribe, who went everywhere carrying a ledger. He was a plump man with long red cheeks and a balding head, and he always had a feathered quill behind each ear, making him look like a strange bird. His staunchly straight posture and odd strut reminded her of a quail parading through a field, and because she did not know the scribe’s name, in her mind she dubbed him simply The Quail.

  There was also Ethelred’s valet, whom she labeled The White Mouse, as he was a thin, pale man with stark white hair, and his fastidious pampering seemed rodent-like. She never heard him speak except to say, “Of course, my lord.” He continuously flicked lint from Ethelred’s clothes and was always on hand to take a cloak or change the regent’s footwear.

  Then there was The Candle, so named because he was a tall, thin man with wild red curly hair and a drooping mouth that sagged like tallow wax.

  The last of the entourage was a soldier of some standing. He wore a uniform that had dozens of brightly colored ribbons pinned to it.

  “I would appreciate you using a formal address when we are in public,” Archie pointed out.

  Ethelred turned as if surprised to see they were not alone in the hall.

  “Oh,” he said, quickly masking a smile. Then, in a tone heavy with sarcasm, he proclaimed, “Forgive me, Earl of Chadwick. I didn’t notice them. They’re more like furniture to me. My point was, however, that we only suspect the extent of Melengar’s weakness. Attacking them would introduce more headaches than it is worth. As it is, there is no chance Alric will attack us. He’s a boy, but not so foolhardy as to provoke the destruction of his little kingdom.”

  “Is that …” Archibald stared up at Modina and stopped walking so that Ethelred lost track of him for a moment.

  “The empress? Yes,” Ethelred replied, his tone revealing a bit of his own irritation that the earl had apparently not heard what he had just said.

  “She’s … she’s … beautiful.”

  “Hmm? Yes, I suppose she is,” Ethelred responded without looking. Instead, he turned to Amilia, who, along with everyone else, was standing straight, her eyes looking at the floor. “Saldur tells me you’re our little miracle worker. You got her eating, speaking, and generally cooperating. I’m pleased to hear it.”

  Amilia curtsied in silence.

  “She’ll be ready in time, correct? We can ill afford another fiasco like the one we had at the coronation. She couldn’t even make an appearance. You’ll see to that, won’t you?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Amilia curtsied again.

  The Earl of Chadwick’s eyes remained focused on Modina, and she found his expression surprising. She did not see the awe-inspired look of the palace staff, nor the cold, callous countenance of her handlers. His face bore a broad smile.

  A soldier entered the hall, walking briskly toward them. The one with the pretty ribbons left the entourage and strode forward to intercept him. They spoke in whispers for a brief moment and then the other soldier handed over some parchments. Ribbon Man opened them and read them silently to himself before returning to Ethelred’s side.

  “What is it?”

  “Your Lordship, Admiral Gafton’s blockade fleet succeeded in capturing the Ellis Far, a small sloop, off the coast of Melengar. On board, they found parchments signed by King Alric granting the courier permission to negotiate with the full power of the Melengar crown. The courier and ship’s captain were unfortunately killed in the action. The coxswain, however, was taken and persuaded to reveal the destination of the vessel as Tur Del Fur.”

  Ethelred nodded his understanding. “Trying to link up with the Nationalists, but that was expected. So the sloop sailed from Roe?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure no other ship slipped past?”

  “The reports indicate it was the only one.”

  While Ethelred and the soldier spoke and the rest of the hall remained still as statues, the Earl of Chadwick stared at the empress. Modina did not return his gaze, and it made her uncomfortable the way he watched her.

  He ascended the steps and knelt. “Your Eminence,” he said, gently taking her hand and kissing the ring she wore. “I am Archibald Ballen
tyne, twelfth Earl of Chadwick.”

  Modina said nothing.

  “Archibald?” Ethelred’s voice once more.

  “Forgive my rude approach,” the earl continued, “but I find I can’t help myself. How strange it is that we haven’t met before. I’ve been to Aquesta many times but never had the pleasure. Bad luck, I suppose. I’m certain you’re very busy, and as I command a substantial army, I’m busy as well. Recent events have seen fit to bring my command here. It’s not something I was pleased with. That is, until now. You see, I was doing very well conquering new lands for your growing empire, and having to stop I considered unfortunate. But my regret has turned to genuine delight as I’ve been blessed to behold your splendor.”

  “Archie!” Ethelred had been calling out to him for some time, but it was not until he used that name that the well-dressed man’s attention finally left her. “Stop with that foolishness, will you? We need to get to the meeting.”

  The earl frowned in irritation.

  “Please forgive me, Your Eminence, but duty calls.”

  The moment the practice had ended, they changed Modina back into her simple dress and she had been escorted to her cell. She thought there had been a time when two palace soldiers had walked with her everywhere, but now there was only one. His name was Gerald. That was all she knew about him, which was strange, because she saw him every day. Gerald escorted her wherever she went and stood guard outside her cell door. She assumed he took breaks, most likely late at night, but in the mornings, when she and Amilia went to breakfast, he was always there. She never heard him speak. They were quite a quiet pair.

  When she reached the cell door, it was open, the dark interior waiting. He never forced her in. He never touched her. He merely stood patiently, taking up his post at the entrance. She hesitated before the threshold, and when she looked at Gerald, he stared at the floor.

  “Wait.” Amilia trotted up the corridor toward them. “Her Eminence is moving today.”

  Both Gerald and Modina looked puzzled.

  “I’ve given up talking to the chamberlain,” Amilia declared. She was speaking quickly and seemed to address them both at once. “Nimbus is right—I’m the secretary to the empress, after all.” She focused on Gerald. “Please escort Her Eminence to her new bedroom on the east wing’s fifth floor.”

  The order was weak, not at all in the voice of a noblewoman. It lacked the tenor of confidence, the power of arrogance. There was a space of time, a beat of uncertainty, when no one moved and no one spoke. Committed now, Amilia remained awkwardly stiff, facing Gerald. For the first time, Modina noticed the largeness of the man, the sword at his side, and the castle guard uniform. He was meticulous, every line straight, every bit of metal polished.

  Gerald nodded and moved aside.

  “This way, Your Eminence,” Amilia said, letting out a breath.

  The three of them walked to the central stairs as Amilia continued to speak. “I got her eating, I got her to talk—I just want a better place for her to sleep. How can they argue? No one is even on the fifth floor.”

  As they reached the main hall, they passed several surprised servants. One young woman stopped, stunned.

  “Anna.” Amilia caught her attention. “It is Anna, isn’t it?”

  The woman nodded, unable to take her eyes off Modina.

  “The empress is moving to a bedroom on the fifth floor. Run and get linens and pillows.”

  “Ah—but Edith told me to scrub the—”

  “Forget Edith.”

  “She’ll beat me.”

  “No, she won’t,” Amilia said, and thought for a moment. With sudden authority, she continued. “From now on, you’re working for the empress—her personal chambermaid. From now on, you report directly to me. Do you understand?”

  Anna looked shocked.

  “What do you want to do?” Amilia asked. “Defy Edith Mon or refuse the empress? Now get those linens and get the best room on the fifth floor in order.”

  “Yes, Your Eminence,” she said, addressing Modina, “right away.”

  They climbed the stairs, moving quickly by the fourth floor. In the east wing, the fifth floor was a single long hall with five doors. Light entered from a narrow slit at the far end, revealing a dust-covered corridor.

  Amilia looked at the doors for a moment. Shrugging, she opened one and motioned for them to wait as she entered. When she returned, she grimaced and said, “Let’s wait for Anna.”

  They did not have to wait long. The chambermaid, chased by two young boys with rags, a broom, a mop, and a bucket, returned with an armload of linens. Anna panted for breath and her brow glistened. The chambermaid traversed the corridor and selected the door at the far end. She and the boys rushed in. Amilia joined them. Before long, the boys raced back out and returned hauling various items: pillows, a blanket, more water, brushes. Modina and Gerald waited in the hallway, listening to the grunts and bumps and scrapes. Before long, Anna exited covered in dirt and dust, dragging armloads of dirty rags. Then Amilia reappeared and motioned for Modina to enter.

  Sunlight. She spotted the brilliant shaft spilling in, slicing across the floor, along a tapestry-covered wall, and over a massive bed covered in satin sheets and a host of fluffy pillows. There was even a thick carpet on the floor. A mirror and a washbasin sat on a small stand. A little writing desk stood next to a fireplace, and on the far wall was the open window.

  Modina walked forward and looked out at the sky. Breathing in the fresh air, she fell to her knees. The window was narrow, but Modina could peer down into the courtyard below or look up directly into the blue of the sky—the real sky. She rested her head on the sill, reveling in the sunshine like a drought victim might douse herself with water. Until that moment, she had not noticed how starved she had been for fresh air and sunlight. Amilia might have spoken to her, but she was too busy looking at the sky to notice.

  Smells were a treat. A cool breeze blew in, tainted by the stables below. For her, this was a friendly, familiar scent, hearty and comforting. Birds flew past. A pair of swallows darted and dove in aerial acrobatics as they chased each other. They had a nest in a crevice above one of the other windows that dotted the exterior wall.

  She did not know how long she had knelt there. At some point, she realized she was alone. The door behind her had been closed and a blanket had been draped over her shoulders. Eventually she heard voices drifting up from below.

  “We’ve spent more than enough time on the subject, Archibald. The case is closed.” It was Ethelred’s voice, coming from one of the windows just below hers.

  “I know you’re disappointed.” She recognized the fatherly tone of Regent Saldur. “Still, you have to be mindful of the big picture. This isn’t just some wild landgrab. This is an empire we are building.”

  “Two months at the head of an army and he acts as if he were a war-hardened general!” Ethelred laughed.

  Another voice spoke, too softly or too distant from the window for her to hear. Then she heard the earl once again. “I’ve taken Glouston and the Rilan Valley through force of arms and thereby secured the whole northern rim of Warric. I think I’ve proved my skill.”

  “Skill? You let Marquis Lanaklin escape to Melengar and you failed to secure the wheat fields in Rilan, which burned. Those crops would have fed the entire imperial army for the next year, but now they’re lost because you were preoccupied with taking an empty castle.”

  “It wasn’t empty …” There was more said but the voices were too faint to hear.

  “The marquis was gone. The reason for taking it went with him,” the bellowing voice of Ethelred thundered. The regent must be standing very near the window, as she could hear him the best.

  “Gentlemen,” Saldur said, intervening, “water under the bridge. What’s past is past. What we need to concern ourselves with is the present and the future, and at the moment both go by the same name—Gaunt.”

  Again, there were other voices speaking too faintly, their sounds
fading to silence. All Modina could hear was the hoeing of servants weeding the vegetable garden below.

  “I agree,” Ethelred suddenly said. “We should have killed that bastard years ago.”

  “Calm yourself, Lanis,” Saldur’s voice boomed. Modina wasn’t certain if he was using Ethelred’s first name or addressing someone else whose voice was too distant for her to catch. “Everything has its season. We all knew the Nationalists wouldn’t give up their freedom without a fight. Granted, we had no idea Gaunt would be their general or that he would prove to be such a fine military commander. We had assumed he was nothing more than an annoying anarchist, a lone voice in the wilderness, like our very own Deacon Tomas. His transformation into a skilled general was—I will admit—a bit unexpected. Nevertheless, his successes are not beyond our control.”

  “And what does that mean?” someone asked.

  “Luis Guy had the foresight to bring us a man who could effectively deal with the problems of Delgos and Gaunt and I present him to you today. Gentlemen, let me introduce Merrick Marius.” His voice began to grow faint. “He’s quite a remarkable man … been working for us these … on a …” Saldur’s voice drifted off, too far from the window.

  There was a long silence, and then Ethelred spoke again. “Let him finish. You’ll see.”

  Again, the words were too quiet for her to hear.

  Modina listened to the wind as it rose and rustled distant leaves. The swallows returned and played again, looping in the air. From the courtyard below came the harsh shouts of soldiers in the process of changing guards. She had nearly forgotten about the conversation from below when she heard an abrupt communal gasp.

  “Tur Del Fur? You’re not serious?” an unknown voice asked in a stunned tone.

  More quiet murmurings.

  “… and as I said, it would mark the end of Degan Gaunt and the Nationalists forever.” Saldur’s voice returned.

  “But at what cost, Sauly?” another voice floated in. Normally too far, it was now loud and clear.