She turned to bring the books back to the bed, and before she had taken two steps she heard a voice.
"There are no poppets here," said the voice.
Samira turned back. A little girl stood in the doorway. She looked like she had perhaps five Turns to her life. Beautiful, straight black hair streamed down past her shoulders, bound in a bright purple bow. Her skin was so white it seemed to glow, and set off the –
Samira blinked. Looked closer.
The girl had red eyes.
The little girl cocked her head. "No poppets at all," she said. She held up a small doll. Samira had never seen a doll up close, and she decided she didn't like them. The little girl's plaything was torn and ragged. But it didn't seem like it had gotten that way through play and love. Rather it seemed almost… abused. One of its eyes had been gouged out so deeply that the wood around the hole was cracked. Its mouth bore burn marks. One of its ears had been hacked off.
"Do you think you'll make some for me?" asked the little girl.
"I don't understand. Make what?" said Samira.
"Make me more poppets." The little girl shook her toy impatiently. "This one's broken."
"I… I don't know how to make poppets."
Now the little girl grinned. An impish smile that transformed her face into something less innocent, something that made Samira's skin crawl. The little girl didn't come in the room, but she leaned forward. "You will, girl." She laughed. A mad laugh that danced and whirled and then fell to crackling pieces just as Samira's mirror had done. "You will make me many poppets."
She reached in and closed the door.
Samira was alone. She was so stunned she remained motionless for a while.
What was that?
Then she managed to make herself move. She put the books down on her bed, and went to the door. Opened it.
The little girl was gone. Whether she had gone into one of the other doors, or simply gotten to one end of the hall or another and turned to wherever the corridor went, Samira couldn't tell.
She finally closed the door. Went to the bed and opened the first book and began to read. But for a long time she couldn't concentrate on the words. Not just because it had been years because she had practiced Letters, but because all she heard was the little girl speaking; all she heard were words that made no sense to her but that nonetheless delivered a chill to her heart.
You will, girl. You will make me many poppets.
12
The books opened worlds.
She had not known much. She had not even known that she hadn't known much. She had learned the basics, but most of her learning had been things geared to what a housemaid or companion would need to know: basic plant husbandry, care of housewares, how to make light conversation.
She didn't even know that the place she lived, the Empire, was a place called Ansborn. That it was atop five huge mountains that no one could climb down, partly because they were so steep on the sides that to attempt it was certain death, partly because it was forbidden by the Gods who lived below and watched from above.
She wondered how Ansborn had come to be atop the mountains in the first place; if no one could climb down the mountains, could pierce the clouds that ringed all below them, then how could anyone have climbed up? The books did not say.
She read about the current Emperor, Malal, who was seventeen, who had been only four when his father and mother and twin sister were slaughtered. Who had been Emperor since then, guided by a regent, and who would take full rulership of the Empire in two more years.
She read of Gifts. Of Pushes and Shocks and Threads, of which she had already heard from Devar and from Armor. But also of Readers and Ears and Fades and more.
She read of the Blessed Ones: the most powerful Gifts, sworn to the Empire and to Malal. Though there was not much in the texts beyond what Armor had already told her. Simply that they existed, and served.
She read and read, of the five States of Ansborn: Faith, where the Gods' Church resided; Strength, where the military trained; Fear, where the slums and the prisons and many Army bases could be found; Knowledge, where the universities taught and the Gifts were trained.
And Center. Where the Capitol was. The heart of a world among the clouds.
She read through the books – slowly, since she had not read in Turns – barely pausing to feed herself with food that came to her door. Some of what she read was too large for her to understand – either words too long for her to read, or simply ideas too grand for her mind to accept. But she understood much. And understanding made her feel….
What?
Belonging. Power.
She had felt power when she touched the knife. That electric surge that made her into something more than she had been. And now she felt a surge in her mind. Not as palpable, but no less real for all that.
She was reading. She was learning. And perhaps that was a different kind of weapon, a blade less visible but no less sharp for all that.
No wonder they taught us as little as possible in the learning kennels. And taught the Dogs not at all.
Someone coughed. She jerked, and realized that her joints were stiff, her bones felt like melted iron had been poured into them. She groaned without meaning to, turning as she did.
Armor stood in the door.
"How long have you been reading?" he said. He was still wearing his red uniform, his gold braid, his silver sword. Samira wondered if he ever took them off.
"How long have I been here?" she said.
"All night," he said. "And you have not touched your food to break your fast."
He nudged something beside him. Sure enough, there was a tray with some soup in a bowl. Samira hadn't heard anyone knock, hadn't heard the soup left for her. The hunger for knowledge, the quest to sharpen the long-dull blade of her mind so acute that she had failed to stop to eat, to sleep, or anything else.
Now, though, she fell to it with a hunger nearly the match of what she had felt the day – night? – before. And the food was just as delicious.
"Can I leave now?" she asked when she finished.
"Yes," said Armor. He seemed both pleased and relieved. He looked at the broken mirror, the shards of glass on the floor. "Is this how you got your first meal?" She nodded. He laughed. "There was a cane under your bed."
She blushed. Embarasssment flooding her. Then she cringed away in spite of herself. Knowing that she had broken a glass, and that meant she would be punished. Beaten, or worse. Perhaps even killed.
Armor stepped toward her. He held out a hand. Spoke softly. "It's all right, girl. That was part of the test. To see what you would do. You don't get points for careful planning, but you seem fine on the ingenuity scale." He smiled at her. "Did you cut yourself?"
She shook her head. He looked relieved.
Relieved. Always relieved. She wondered why. Asked. "What would have happened to me if I left the room?"
Armor looked uncomfortable for a moment. Then his features hardened. In a flat voice he said, "You would have died."
13
Armor looked rueful and perhaps a bit apprehensive. Not like he was afraid of her – Samira doubted that he was afraid of much, if anything – but as though he worried she would get hysterical or fly into a rage. She did neither. She just nodded.
"Are you angry?" he asked.
"No."
He took a moment to think. "All others who face this part of the test are angry. I was. To think that death was on the line, and I did not know."
"Death is always on the line."
That gave Armor pause. His mustache crinkled, his face twisting slightly as he thought, then he nodded. "Just so, Samira."
"Who was the girl?"
The question seemed to take him by surprise. "What girl?"
"There was a girl who came here. A little girl with red eyes who talked about nothing but her 'poppets.'"
A dark expression fell over Armor's face. "Never you mind her. You shall meet her by and by and soon enough." He
bent down and picked up the tray. Brought it in and put it on the dresser by her bed. He bowed to her, that courtly bow that seemed to be the signature of who he was and how he lived.
Samira briefly wondered if he would bow to an enemy before engaging in mortal combat. She thought it likely.
"You should eat," he said. "Today will bring many challenges."
"Why?"
"Because every day will, from here to the end of your days," he answered.
She believed him. She began to eat. "Will my death always be the result if I fail?" she asked.
Armor didn't hesitate. "Often. But not like this. Not without knowing that death is on the line first. The tests are simply of a sort that those who fail do not live to regret their failure. They are… dangerous."
She kept eating in silence. Finished. Armor showed her where a pot was under the bed to make her soils, then gave her privacy. She knocked on the door when he was finished and he bowed – of course! – and gestured for her to cross the doorway's threshold and leave the room.
He took her on a long walk. Down corridors that were white – white floors, white walls, white ceilings. They had doors of dark wood, stained so deeply they were nearly black. It felt like she was passing through a strange part of the sky, with thunderheads on all sides. Beauty ringed with danger.
Eventually Armor came to a place that opened to a larger room or entrance hall. The floor was carpeted in red, the walls here deepened to the color of gold. There was a door at the end of the room, and two people stood at attention next to the door. Each was dressed head to foot in black armor, and black helms crafted to look like dark skulls covered their faces. They each held a sword at the ready in one hand, a spear in the other. A pair of handguns at their sides, holstered but ready to be drawn and fired in an instant.
They were crouched in an attack position when Armor and Samira came into their view. Whether this was because they had heard them coming or because the two men – or women, it was impossible to tell – always stood this way, Samira could not say. She sensed menace rolling off them in nearly visible waves. Sensed that they were not merely dangerous, but deadly.
Armor nodded to them. They did not nod back. They remained crouched, their only movement to subtly shift so that they could have their spears oriented on Samira. It made her skin crawl.
"She is my guest," whispered Armor. The guards immediately stood erect, at attention. They moved as one, shifting so exactly in time it was as though they were connected.
They did not sheathe their swords, and their spears remained in position to be used quickly and with effect.
And how do I know that? How do I know that they're ready to be used, when I've never even seen a spear in the flesh before?
Mysteries. Too many to count.
She could only hope answers were in the offing.
Armor knocked on the door the two guards stood beside. It was more ornate than the others they had passed. Not black, but a deep brown, with a sense of agelessness that made it seem almost as though this room – this entire building – had been built around it.
"Come," came a voice.
Armor opened the door. "Please be respectful," he whispered under his breath. Samira nodded. She hardly understood what that meant – she had no plans to attack, and no Pack here to back her up should she decide to do so. What more could be expected of her?
They entered.
The room they entered was a marvel. A room so full of books it seemed like they held up the ceiling. Like there were no walls, just endless papers, bound in leather and waiting for the reading. Samira had thought she had a treasure in the books Armor had given her yesterday. But if that had been treasure, then this… this defied understanding.
She turned in place, not even thinking about what she was doing. Her mouth opened so wide she half expected her lower jaw to drag on the floor at her feet.
"So we have a Dog who reads. Will wonders ever cease?"
Samira turned toward the source of the voice.
At the back of the room, a large window allowed outside light to stream in. The window was many-colored, different panes that had been cunningly crafted to create a scene of a man standing in clouds, holding out hands as if to embrace the world. Below the clouds was a mountain, and below that mountain more clouds.
This, she knew, must be one of the mountains of Ansborn. One of the five mountains on which the kingdom sat.
But of more interest was the man – nearly a boy – who sat in front of the window. He looked to be about her age, perhaps slightly younger. He had hair that, lit by the sunlight, seemed to be spun glass. A halo of silver and gold that gave him an ethereal quality. His eyes were blue, half-closed as though he were thinking hard – or perhaps just trying not to fall asleep. His body looked soft. Not the soft of a person lazy, but the soft of one who has never suffered, never known the boot or the water.
For some reason, that made Samira sad for him. Made her feel as though he had missed out on something important.
The boy wore a black tunic over a loose white shirt, a simple gold chain on his neck. He sat on a large chair, of gilded wood and orange velvet. She suspected it represented more wealth than all the bazaar.
Behind the chair stood a large man. He was so large he dwarfed both chair and boy, and even towered over the tall figure of Armor. Unlike the boy, there was nothing soft about him, though his fingers and ears were so bejeweled that there could be no question as to his wealth. His hair was long, and he had a great beard that had been plaited into two long braids at his chin. Looking at him, Samira felt as though she were looking at a gem-covered bear. Something beautiful, not quite tame, dangerous if provoked.
The large man smiled at her. "Nothing to say to the Emperor?" he said.
Samira gawked at him. Then at the boy – he was so obviously unburdened by life's harshness, by its realities, that she had trouble thinking of him even as a young man – of whom she had read.
This is Emperor Malal. The one whose family was slain.
But he looked nothing like she would have thought. Bore none of the lines on his face she would have thought a child of such violence would have.
Of course not. Not every orphan grows as a Dog.
Malal smiled a thin smile at Armor. "So this is our newest candidate?"
Armor bowed. "Yes, Lord."
Malal sighed. "How often will I have to tell you not to call me that, Armor?"
"Always at least one more time, every time you ask," said Armor. His voice was serious, but his eyes twinkled, as did Malal's. Samira got the feeling that this was a ritual between them, a private joke among long-standing friends. Strangely, she did not feel left out. Instead she felt closer to Armor, as though he was letting her see something that he valued, and by doing so was letting her know he valued her, too.
She shifted her attention back to Malal. He was looking at her. Gaze intent, and though he still looked soft she also saw in his gaze a fire. Not the strength of the kennels, but… something. Intelligence. A will, perhaps not fully formed, but there to be nurtured and to someday become a thing of power.
"Why would you be Blessed?" he asked.
She didn't know what to say. Wondered if this was part of whatever tests might come next. That made her nervous. Armor had said that she wouldn't be killed, but she didn't know if she believed him.
And why did it matter? What would it matter if she wasn't a Blessed One. She was out of the kennels. Wouldn't that be enough? Could she just leave here and get away and disappear and become… herself?
I don't even know who that is.
"Well?" Malal looked a bit impatient.
Samira didn't know how to answer. No matter what she said, she could be answering wrong, could be ordering her own death. So she decided to tell the truth.
"Forgive me, sir." The words were difficult. There was little use for speech in the kennels, let alone for fine talking. She tried to imagine what Armor would say; tried to sound like she thought he would so
und. "I don't know about being a Blessed One. I didn't even know much of anything about the Empire until yesterday, and still know almost nothing about it. I certainly didn't know about you, and don't know if I want to be ordered around by you until the end of my days. I just know that I was a Dog, and now it looks like I'm not anymore." She paused. Gulped. "And I'm not going to be a Dog again. Whether that means I'm one of these Blessed Ones, or if you just kill me. I won't go back to the kennels."
The Emperor looked at her for a long moment. She felt suddenly like she was naked, standing on the auction block for inspection.
The bear man behind him leaned in. Whispered in Malal's ear. The boy nodded. Nodded again.
"My Chancellor has noted that you are honest. Which is not necessarily a good thing in politics, but which I have often said I crave." He sighed. "You say you know nothing of the Empire, and that is true. Would you let me show you? And then perhaps you would love it, if only a little. And in loving it, perhaps you would also be able to love me."
Samira shrugged and nodded. She didn't understand what was being offered, but that was nothing new. She didn't feel like the Emperor was threatening her, and anything that was not a threat was welcome. Her entire life had been a threat until yesterday. Just standing here was a gift.
Malal rang a crystal bell at his side. The door she had come through opened, and one of the guards stepped in. He – Samira couldn't help but think of the guards as hes, though they could have been anyone behind their helms – stood at attention. But his spear still pointed subtly at her. This was a creature in utter control, and always at the ready.
"Please send me an Eye," said Malal.
"Very good choice, Lord," said the big man – the Chancellor. It was a whisper, but it carried easily to Samira's ears. Malal looked pleased at the compliment, and a blush spread to his cheeks. He looked at the Chancellor with a grin. The Chancellor chuckled and tousled the boy-king's hair.
The Sword Chronicles: Child of the Empire Page 4
