Beside him, Enkhaelen snorted. “Ah. Your newest ex-lover.”
It was all Kelturin could do to not strangle the mage. Instead he fixed his gaze on his father, knowing that bastard had arranged this.
Aradys IV, Most Holy Risen Phoenix Emperor and Prime Scion of the Light, lounged like a venerable lion on the cushions of the lambent throne, trim-bearded chin propped in one palm. He was the elder image of his son, broad-shouldered and handsome in a distant way, but garbed in sandals and a simple robe and breeches of bleached linen—more like a petitioner than their lord. The Imperial crown rested on his faded golden hair, a thin circlet with a single winged diamond at the brow.
His eyes, pale as morning sunlight, found his son’s, and he smiled warmly. Kelturin’s hackles immediately went up.
All of the others knelt or curtseyed before the Emperor, even Enkhaelen, but Kelturin refused. He stepped through them to take his place at the center of the dais’ first step. “Your Imperial Majesty,” he said tensely as his father inclined a brow at him.
“Arise, my servants,” said the Emperor, his voice smooth and deep and soothing. Kelturin heard the rustle of cloth and jingle of mail as those behind him did so. A moment later, Enkhaelen brushed past him to take his own place opposite Rackmar, completing the staggered circle of attendees.
“As the Crimson General seems impatient,” the Emperor continued, “I believe we can dispense with the usual pleasantries and turn directly to the issue at hand. Erevard, if you will.”
Kelturin glanced back to the pock-faced man as, without raising his head, he said, “Your Imperial Majesty. Two days ago, while training in Akarridi, I responded to a perimeter disturbance on the south shore of Akarridi Lake and encountered three groups of trespassers engaged in a wild conflict. One group was distinctly Gold Army; one was composed of unknown energy-manipulators; and the third included an individual who was familiar to me.
“I knew him as Cobrin son of Dernyel, slave-worker and my former camp-mate in the Crimson Claw. Slightly more than a month ago, he fled the Claw after killing a fellow slave. When I encountered him by Akarridi, he was manifesting some sort of spirit-power.”
Kelturin clasped his hands behind his back, trying to let only annoyance show on his face. He knew that name all too well; it had plagued him since the spring, when the boy's astounding survival had drawn Kelturin into one of Enkhaelen’s projects. He regretted not having Cobrin’s throat slit as soon as Enkhaelen asked about him. It would have prevented so many problems.
“Interesting, yes?” said the Emperor, warm gaze focusing on Kelturin again. “Would you care to speculate as to how a Crimson slave came to agitate us with spirit-power so far from his point of origin?”
“No, Majesty,” Kelturin said stiffly.
“Perhaps Magus Lilinya might shed some light upon that. Magus?”
“Your Imperial Majesty,” the woman said, and Kelturin heard the rustle of cloth that indicated a curtsey. Then he heard the shift of parchments in their case. “At your request, Majesty, I retrieved the Crimson Claw’s file on the subject KRD1184, Cobrin son of Dernyel. It was one of the few files on any slave, and had recently been referenced.”
Right before we went to bed, Kelturin thought, seething silently.
“The file states, in essence, that the subject has been under direct supervision since Brin the 11th of this year, at which time he was the only survivor of a mist-wraith attack despite being shot in the torso with an arcane arrow. Prior to that, he had been under the observation by the aenkelagi Vedaceirra Cerithe te’Navrin under the identity ‘Darilan Trevere’ for approximately five years—since 166 IR. The reason for observation is listed as ‘potential for possession by Guardian spirit’. In addition, the file indicates that he escaped the Crimson camp on the evening of Sebryn the 12th and was pursued—after a nine-day lag—by Agent Trevere, who had been designated Crimson Hunter, and by a Crimson team that proved insufficient to recover him. The pursuit was closed on Sebryn the 23rd, two days after it began.”
Kelturin ground his teeth. He wanted to object, to point out that he had sent a first pursuit immediately upon Cob’s escape only to have it destroyed by the slave’s flight up Varaku, and that Sarovy’s pursuit had only been called off because the Gold Army had whisked Cobrin out of the Crimson’s reach.
But he knew that look in his father’s eyes. Interrupting would be foolish.
“I believe Mistress Anniavela te’Couran can continue our troubling tale,” said the Emperor, drumming his fingers on the arm of the throne.
“Majesty,” said Annia. “Indeed I can, for the subject was brought to me in Thynbell. And Crimson Hunter Trevere followed him.”
Her voice was cool and pointed, and as she continued, Kelturin found it hard to restrain the urge to turn around and silence her. He had known her all his life—from the very cradle—and as intimate as they had been, this betrayal hurt far worse than Lilinya’s.
“I was unaware of the subject’s history,” said Annia. “Hunter Trevere gave me a few indications of his powers but did not tell me what he was, and I heard nothing from the Crimson Army. As the subject blocked all of my attempts to have him teleported to the Palace, I opted to send him along conventionally, at which point my caravan was ambushed by Corvish spiritists. Hunter Trevere acted in concert with them and attempted to assassinate me before escaping into the Mist Forest with the subject, where we found his corpse.”
A tic began under Kelturin’s left eye. Just above him, General Lynned’s shoulders twitched with the obvious effort to contain laughter, and Kelturin had to stifle his urge to yank the Gold General down the stairs and pound his face flat.
“Madam Archmagus Mithian,” the Emperor prompted.
“Majesty,” said the woman in the Gold robe and mantle. Unlike Lilinya, she appeared composed; either she was a mentalist or mentally-shielded against the Palace. “After the fiasco on the Imperial Road, we compiled our report and put it in the Psycher Weave to benefit others. Some time later—on the 6th of Cylanmont—we received a tip from a civilian in Cantorin about a spirit-vessel at large. Initial attempts to apprehend him were disrupted by mist-wraith magic, and subsequently we learned that he had a history with the Crimson that had not been submitted to the Weave. When questioned about this issue in conference, the Crimson General stated that he had not finalized his report.”
Smiling humorlessly, the Lord Chancellor cut in with, “Majesty. I was included in this conference, and recall that when I indicated that I would inform you, the Crimson General stated: ‘Pike my father.’”
Kelturin winced.
The Emperor’s look of mild amusement never changed. He inclined his head to the Lord Chancellor, then looked past Kelturin again. “Continue, Madam Archmagus.”
“Yes, Majesty. My subordinates kept an eye on the Mist Forest border and on the next day, the 7th, the subject was spotted again a significant distance to the south. This time we assaulted him with a much larger force, but our portals and communications were abruptly cut off. My force disappeared and the Watchtower Cantorin, which had initiated the tip, was destroyed, apparently as retaliation.”
“It was annoying,” added General Lynned, slightly more serious.
“I believe our haelhene visitors can detail the events that followed,” said the Emperor.
Kelturin shot a look at the two haelhene, indistinguishable in their masks and white robes. They bowed deeply, then one said, “Honored Manifestation of Light, I was a witness to the battle by the airahene forest. Myself and a comrade, now fallen, descended upon the subject when it became apparent that it would escape, for your Gold forces had become entrapped by enemy magics. We removed the subject from the field, but not before I witnessed the disruption of your Gold portals and the opening of different ones. I did not have the opportunity to trace them.
“My comrade and I brought the subject to a place of safe-keeping from which we knew we could properly transport it to your care. However, we were pursued by its compa
nions, most notably a fellow haelhene and an aenkelagi wielding an akarriden blade. They were…lucky, and managed to wrest the subject from us and escape.”
“Specialist Calett,” the Emperor said, “if you would complete our evidence.”
“Majesty,” said the Gold soldier, his voice strained with rapture. It was hardest for the converted to resist the Palace’s influence. “I was among the Gold strike-force witnessed by Erevard. We were sent to stake out the Amandic town of Turo, where we suspected the subject had fled, but upon arrival, I was confronted by an aenkelagi who identified herself as Crimson Hunter Cerithe, complete with the Hunter writ. She explained that she had pursued the subject across the Heartlands and that he was ahead of us, moving east in to the Trivestean Tablelands. I had no reason to doubt her claim, and so we pursued the subject in that direction, in fact finding him on approach toward Akarridi. We attempted to apprehend him, but the Crimson Hunter turned on us and alerted the Akarriden, who did not immediately recognize us as allies. Additionally, we were assaulted by...dark-energy wielders. I don't know what else to call them. The subject escaped us, and we could not pick up his trail. On return to Turo, we learned that he and his comrades had been sheltered by Trifolders—the so-called Crimson Hunter included."
Kelturin could not speak. He heard Annia’s murmur of confusion behind him, but all he could think was, Vedaceirra’s alive.
She’s alive and she’s working against me.
He felt warmth like a sunbeam touch his face, and snapped from his thoughts to meet his father’s amused gaze. “Now, Crimson General,” the Emperor said, “I would like to know what you have to say for yourself and your Hunter.”
His mouth worked soundlessly, too caught in shock to form proper words. All this time, she had been out there, alive. She had cut her ties with the Crimson and gone to the enemy—chosen a possessed human boy over him.
He wanted to storm from the chamber, but the eyes of his superiors pinned him in place. Behind him, the subordinate witnesses were dead silent, and he realized that this was no meeting. This was his trial, the only one he would get.
And Enkhaelen had said nothing. Though this had been his project, he seemed more than happy to lay it at Kelturin’s feet.
The tattoos on his back tingled as his temper flared. “Majesty,” he said, struggling to stay professional, “in my defense, the project involving the Guardian vessel was initiated by Inquisitor Archmagus Enkhaelen. He was the one who assigned Vedaceirra to the subject; I was not aware of the project until this spring. Additionally, I lost contact with Vedaceirra when the Crimson team turned back from Wyndon on Sebryn the 23rd. At no point since then have I had any contact with her, directly or indirectly, nor have I had any knowledge of her movements or intentions.”
“And your lack of communication? Your failure to file a timely report to the Weave,” the Emperor prompted.
As the influence of the tattoos began to dampen his ire, the words came more smoothly. “Majesty, as I was uncertain of the final disposition of all my troops involved in the action—namely the agent Vedaceirra—I was incapable of making a full report.”
Which was a lie. He knew he should have submitted a preliminary report. The others knew it too; he saw on General Demathry’s stiff face, in General Lynned’s smirk, in the Field Marshal’s slow shake of the head, that he had botched it.
But setting pen to parchment to detail his inability to contain a single slave, his wavering control of Bahlaer, his acquiescence to Enkhaelen’s bizarre demands and his blind near-nepotism in assigning Vedaceirra to the pursuit had been too much for him. In all the hardships he had encountered since taking on the Crimson Army, all the setbacks and losses, this had been his first truly personal failure.
And if the Guardian was as powerful as the rumors claimed, it was the worst thing that could have happened.
“I see,” said the Emperor. “So you admit to sitting on information that could have saved hundreds of soldiers’ lives, prevented significant damage to our arcane infrastructure, and kept a serious threat to the Empire and the Light under proper lock and key?”
“Majesty, it was not solely my responsibility to—“
“You are the General, yes?”
“Yes, but the Inquisitor—“
“I am not addressing Inquisitor Archmagus Enkhaelen, General. I am addressing you.”
Kelturin saw the glitter in his father’s eyes and knew without a doubt that the Emperor was enjoying this. Aradys did not care about soldiers or infrastructure, and he relished threats to the empire—thus why he kept pushing the expansion of his territory. This was not about the outcome of Kelturin’s mistakes. It was about there having been a mistake at all—and it was even more about boredom, which for the moment had been banished. Despite his placid mien, that morning-light gaze was as avid and gleeful as Kelturin had ever seen.
His gut tightened. He knew what it meant.
“Father,” he said, hating the word but hating even more what might come next if he did not head it off, “I erred in my judgment. I admit this. But it is the first time in nine years that I have caused an inter-army issue. In that time, I have lost thousands of men and dozens of mages because of the other armies’ flat dismissal of my requisitions, refusal to forward full personnel files, refusal to break mind-locks on transferred personnel, blatant disregard for border protocol and my authority within my territory—“
"Your men crossed into my territory in pursuit and then failed to inform us of what they were pursuing," said General Lynned. "That is the issue at hand, not your previous record of not foxing up."
"And that itself is in doubt, yes?" said General Demathry coolly. "With your prolonged stalemate at Kanrodi."
"Three months is not a prolonged stalemate," said Kelturin, glaring at his fellow generals. "The first fall of Savinnor took three, and the High Country Kerrindrixi bastions—"
"Which spelled your predecessor's doom.”
"We are not in the same situation," said Kelturin. Demathry's eyes narrowed, but he nodded marginally.
Taking a deep breath, Kelturin turned to his father. "Emperor, I need you to understand that your plan for the west is not feasible. We have seen it in High Country Kerrindryr, we have seen it in Jernizan and we are seeing it now at Kanrodi. We can not maintain a force at all three fronts—"
"Three?" said General Lynned.
"Jernizan, Padras at Kanrodi, and the internal Illanic front—the threat of the Shadow Cult and the potential for an insurgency in the plains. And there are four if you count Gejara, then five or even six if you consider the threat of the Mist Forest and the creatures on Varaku. They have not acted against us but they watch, and I have agents watching them back. We've spilled over the Rift and spread in all directions, antagonizing everyone, and I can not sustain this behavior without the Empire committing more soldiers, more mages, more support to my territory.
"And even with more men—even if the Gold and Sapphire Armies joined me on the field—I am uncertain we would do anything more than incite a greater conflict. Padras is the Serpent Empire's vassal state, its proxy. The Serpent Empire has ignored the siege so far, but were we to take Kanrodi—"
"That is your mission," said the Emperor mildly.
"Fa— Emperor, that is my point. Our effort is too disjointed to wage a campaign based on conquest. Our enemies are not the scattered tribe-lands of the Imperial Unification Wars; they are strong kingdoms or full-fledged empires, and they will not roll over and show throat. The Serpent Empire does not want a repeat of the Great War of Empires or its devastation, but it will not surrender to us, and if we breach its border it will respond. Then Jernizan will respond on our weak flank, and Gejara may discard its neutrality. We should be wooing them with Imperial diplomats, but instead only the Silent Circle has done any outreach to them, and I think the Gejarans have had more success swaying the Circle than the other way around. We can not conquer and hold any more territory than we already have, father, not without committing
all our forces and all our energy to a war on every border."
"Then you should not have let all those refugees escape you," said Field Marshal Rackmar. “We could have used the converts.”
Meeting his commander's gaze, Kelturin struggled not to snarl. Of all the men here, Field Marshal Rackmar was the one who should have known better. He had masterminded every Imperial campaign for the last twenty years, including Kelturin's, and though Kelturin had adapted the strategies he had been given to fit his evolving situation, the Field Marshal's instructions and backing had been invaluable.
Until the old orders—conquer and hold—became convert and raze. When Kelturin resisted, Rackmar's support dried up.
It had been the same schism then as now. Kelturin had reconquered Savinnor with the intent to keep it as a trade-route cornerstone, prosperous and now beholden to him, only to receive orders to empty the city. To send every man, woman and child to the Palace for conversion, then burn Savinnor to the ground.
A hundred thousand people. The logistics of it were insane even with magic, and he knew that if word of the order reached the Shadow Cult, he would have a war of assassins on his hands. His father and Rackmar, so steeped in the glory of the Light, laughed at the idea that anything of shadow or darkness could threaten them, and Kelturin hated them for that—hated the whole blind, overconfident faith for driving this conquest forward.
So he had upped the number of rebel executions and sent his men to terrorize the populace. Ordered them to kill cats, conscript men, confiscate property, wreck homes and businesses—do everything they could to frighten the people away. Become the Bloody Army.
And the Illanites, nonviolent by nature, had fled in droves. First from Savinnor, then from Bahlaer upon the approach, then from Fellen. Whole city blocks emptying out as families made for Padras and young men escaped into the plains, whole sectors of the merchant and agrarian economy collapsing as they were abandoned. Kelturin knew they hated him, as they trembled in their houses and whispered and stared, as they dispersed across the land, as they slowly began to starve.
The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle) Page 60
