Rise of the Blood Royal dobas-3

by Robert Newcomb

  Aeolus turned to look at the box again. “My greatest worry is what will happen when the documents are again exposed to the environment of this room,” he mused.

  “I concur,” Faegan said.

  “I don’t understand,” Tristan interjected. “Why would the room harm them? The white light has done its work and it is gone. Aside from the usual oil lamps, the only light comes from the documents themselves.”

  Faegan gave Tristan a grave look. “That’s not true,” he said. “The white light is still with us.”

  Perplexed, Tristan looked around. “I can’t see it,” he protested.

  Wigg shook his head. “Just because you cannot see it doesn’t mean that it isn’t here,” he replied. “We tried, but even our collective gifts could only dim the light to a point that it cannot be seen by those untrained in the craft.”

  “It’s true, Tristan,” Jessamay added. “I can still see it.”

  “So what does all this mean?” Shailiha asked.

  “My wizard’s box, transparent though it is, might have blocked some of the light from the documents. By conjuring the box, I might have inadvertently hampered the spell. It seems clear to me that the spell was intended to bathe the documents in the light at its brightest. We have no way of knowing what might happen if the Tome and the Scrolls were first partially exposed and then are fully exposed to the light.”

  As Tristan considered the mystics’ concerns, he was again reminded of what a tangled web the craft was. Clearly, the decision whether to continue was a huge one.

  Should the documents already be damaged beyond use, the Conclave’s struggle to ensure the safety of the Vigors and bring peace to the lands west of the Tolenkas would suffer an unimaginable setback. It was true that Faegan had read the first two volumes of the Tome and could probably recite them verbatim to a consul scribe, but that might take years. And because Faegan had not yet fully read the Scrolls, most of the precious forestallment formulas they held would be lost forever. Perhaps worst of all, the Prophecies-the third and final volume of the Tome that only Tristan was destined to read-would also be destroyed.

  He looked back at Wigg. “Although I am the nation’s sovereign and the leader of the Conclave, I must leave this matter to those who command the craft,” he said. “Only you four have the knowledge needed to decide.”

  Wigg nodded. “I agree,” he answered. He looked at the others. “What say you all?” he asked.

  Faegan took a deep breath. “We can’t leave the Tome and the Scrolls up there indefinitely,” he said. “We need them too badly. We could wait for the spell to subside, but that might never happen. I say we liberate the documents and take our chances. I understand that the risk is huge, but what other choice is there?”

  “I agree,” Jessamay said.

  “As do I,” Aeolus replied.

  “Very well,” Wigg said. “Faegan will dismantle the box. And may the Afterlife grant us luck.”

  Faegan swiveled his chair to face his invention, then closed his eyes and raised his arms and began his spell of reversal.

  For several long moments the box glowed brighter. To Tristan’s relief, the three sacred documents inside did not. Slowly, the sides of the box came apart and vanished. Tristan held his breath as Faegan reversed the last fragments of the spell, freeing the three relics from their places high against the wall.

  As Faegan opened his eyes and lowered his arms, the Tome and Scrolls suddenly flew toward the center of the room. Tristan looked worriedly at the wizard.

  “Was that your doing?” he whispered.

  “No,” Faegan replied. “What happens now must be the purview of the Ones.”

  To everyone’s amazement, the documents began to spin. Faster and faster they went, until their forms became little more than glowing blurs. Then there was a great explosion, and an intense wind sprang from nowhere.

  All the fallen Archives documents went flying into the air. As the precious books and the papers whirled about, three explosions followed in quick succession. Their immense force took the visitors off their feet. Tristan landed hard beside Faegan’s overturned chair. He turned his head to see the wizard lying beside him.

  Tristan groggily did his best to look through the whirling paper blizzard. He could barely see that the Tome and the Scrolls had stopped spinning. But something else was happening. The three relics were emitting some type of azure dust. The quickly growing cloud grew and grew until it engulfed the room.

  As the azure cloud drifted over him, Tristan sensed his consciousness slipping away. He tried to look around; it seemed that everyone except him and Faegan had been overcome.

  Tristan managed a last look at Faegan. The old wizard’s face showed great delight.

  “The legend is true…” Tristan heard Faegan faintly whisper, as if the wizard’s voice was drifting to him from some faraway place. “Subtle matter exists…subtle matter exists…”

  Unable to stay conscious, the prince finally surrendered.

  CHAPTER V

  “THAT’S MERE SNIVELRY, GRACCHUS!” VESPASIAN SHOUTED. Raising one hand, he pointed an accusatory finger at the lead cleric. “It was hardly a worthy comment from someone of your station!”

  The emperor was clearly angry, as were many others present. Soon the meeting chamber again burst into loud, disorganized rancor.

  Lifting his scepter, Vespasian repeatedly banged it on the floor, and the room gradually quieted. From his seat among the other tribunes, Lucius Marius gave his emperor a quick nod of support. Vespasian returned the scepter to the golden holder beside his chair.

  The meeting had been going on for nearly an hour. Vespasian had spent some of that time castigating Gracchus not only for what he saw as Gracchus’ furtive try to murder an inordinate number of skeens in the arena for his own aggrandizement, but also for what Vespasian saw as a clear affront to his authority. Gracchus had apologized, but Vespasian sensed that Gracchus’ contrition was superficial rather than heartfelt, forcing him to doubt whether he had seen the last of his lead cleric’s impudence.

  It was early morning of the day following the opening of the games. Vespasian knew that this meeting must be brief, for the games were scheduled to resume at midday. As the visitors quieted, Vespasian took a moment to look around the room.

  The rulers’ meeting chamber was called the Rectoris Aedifficium, or simply “the Aedifficium.” Like the Rotunda of the Priory, it occupied the top of one of Ellistium’s seven hills. Aside from a few skeens selected to serve them, admittance to the Aedifficium was strictly limited to the emperor and empress, the members of the Priory, the clerics of thePon Q’tar, and the eighty legionary tribunes. Also like the Rotunda, it was guarded by specially chosen centurions. It was here that all laws and important decisions were crafted and voted on.

  Compared with many other structures in Ellistium, the Aedifficium was small, taking the form of an amphitheater measuring thirty meters across. Vespasian’s chair sat alone in the center of the room facing the curved rows of seats.

  The walls, floor, and flat ceiling were made of pure turquoise. Gleaming onyx pilasters stood against the curved walls every six feet, each crowned with a golden eagle, the empire’s symbol of authority. Leaded glass skylights let in the morning sun. During nighttime sessions, wall torches enchanted to burn without smoke were set ablaze, granting the Aedifficium an august presence.

  The section to Vespasian’s left held the seats of the twelvePon Q’tar members. The center section was the province of the twenty Priory women, and the seats on the right were for the eighty legionary tribunes. Custom dictated that the empress always sat in a place of honor beside the First Tribune.

  The Aedifficium was seldom in full session because some tribunes were always afield, prosecuting the war. Because the tribunes outnumbered all the other members combined, only the thirty-two highest ranking tribunes could vote, lest the empire’s military wing conspire to control every voting session. Taken as whole, the voting body was called the Suffragat.


  One legionary tribune was designated the Suffragat scribe, responsible for recording every word. After each meeting, Vespasian and thePon Q’tar heavily censored the scribe’s report. Only then was a copy sent to every herald in the city. The heralds would then shout the report’s contents from towers standing at each of the forum’s four corners, so that interested citizens could hear the Suffragat’s latest pronouncements.

  A dozen male skeens stood by, waiting to pass important documents among the Suffragat members and to perform other services as needed. As a precaution against the leaking of state secrets, not one Aedifficium skeen could read or write. Additionally, each skeen’s tongue had been cut out and his eardrums pierced. Members of the governing body communicated their needs to the skeens by way of hand signals. From the day he entered the service of the Suffragat, every Aedifficium skeen was forced to live out his life in modest quarters on the Aedifficium compound.

  As the room finally quieted, from his place on the Aedifficium floor Vespasian again looked his lead cleric in the eyes. Then he glanced toward the tribune scribe, and he smirked. Today’s session report would be even more heavily censored than usual, he realized. Because Lucius had already given the war report, Vespasian decided to move on to the next topic. He looked at Julia Idaeus.

  “Will the Femiculi please stand?” he asked.

  Julia stood from her chair and gracefully smoothed her gown. She was an attractive woman, with a lovely face and long dark ringlets. Julia and her sisters were not allowed to wear their veils in the Aedifficium, largely because the other Suffragat members wanted to be able to gauge the women’s expressions as various topics were debated. The Priory was important to the people of Rustannica, and Vespasian knew full well that he needed its support if he was to rule effectively. With her hands respectfully clasped before her, Julia regarded her emperor.

  “The full moons are here,” Vespasian said. “I trust that the Vagaries flame has been replenished and that should I visit the Rotunda, I would find it in vibrant stead?”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Julia answered. “The flame burns strongly again. All is well with the craft.”

  “Thank you, Femiculi,” Vespasian said. “Do you wish to inform the Suffragat of any worthy supplications proposed by the citizens?”

  “Not at this time, Highness,” she answered.

  “Very well,” Vespasian said. “You may be seated.”

  Unlike the commanding way he behaved toward thePon Q’tar and the military, Vespasian always treated the Priory members with utmost courtesy. There were two reasons for this.

  First, his respect for the Priory was genuine. The vows of chastity required to join the Priory were taken willingly, and becoming a Priory member was considered a great honor. The vows were an act of faith and central to the women’s beings. Should a Sister be caught breaking her vows, the penalty was death. By law, the method of execution was ritual sacrifice, performed on the black altar standing before the Vagaries flame.

  In the entire history of the empire, this punishment had never been needed. Even so, the vows of chastity were more than a sacred discipline that the Sisters were obliged to follow. They also symbolized a guiding principle for the populace at large and gave them faith. The citizenry believed that so long as the Priory Sisters remained pure, so would the Vagaries flame that they tended and protected. As went the life of the flame, so did the life of the nation.

  The second reason for Vespasian’s cultivation of the Priory was more pragmatic. Of the three Suffragat factions, the Priory was the one most attuned to the will of the people. Only Julia Idaeus heard the supplications of the citizens, rather than Vespasian, thePon Q’tar, or the military. The needs expressed by the citizens that Julia deemed worthy of debate were relayed to the Suffragat. If the Suffragat agreed, the request was discussed and a vote was taken. Having the Femiculi’s ear was a potent advantage in advancing one’s fortunes. People had been known to come from thousands of miles away for a mere chance of being granted an audience with Julia Idaeus. Sometimes the eager pilgrims succeeded, sometimes they did not.

  Eager to move on, Vespasian looked at Gracchus. “I will now read the latest treasury report,” he ordered.

  Gracchus signaled to a skeen who rushed down the aisle and toward his side. After the cleric gave the skeen a large diptych, the servant hurried down to the Aedifficium floor. Reaching Vespasian’s chair, he went down on one knee, bowed his head, and reverently handed the gold and beeswax book up to his emperor. After taking it, Vespasian waved the skeen away.

  While the council waited, Vespasian read the report. The gold tally had deteriorated to a level that was worse than he had expected. Gracchus was right, he realized. The treasury situation was indeed dire. Would there be enough to finance his new plan? he wondered.

  Rustannica’s pecuniary troubles had started more than one century ago, during the reign of one of Vespasian’s predecessors. It had been his desire to greatly widen the war, hoping to finally bring it to an end. By a narrow vote, the Suffragat had agreed. But in their rush toward final victory, they had grossly underestimated the financial costs to the empire. In a way, Rustannica was a victim of her own military successes against Shashida. The Suffragat was painfully aware that the war was only one part of the problem. The far greater threat was the nation’s dwindling gold supply.

  As was the case in Shashida, gold was the Rustannican currency. By law, the treasury was supposed to hold a reserve of gold that was at least equal to the value of the gold coins circulating the nation. Unknown by the populace, the law was being wantonly violated by the same Suffragat members who had sworn to uphold it, providing yet another reason to heavily censor the session reports. When an inordinate amount of the treasury reserves were used to intensify the war, the Suffragat’s gamble had won out-but not in the way that they had hoped. As the pace and scope of Rustannica’s war against Shashida was stepped up, great tracts of Shashidan territory were won. But soon the campaign became a hollow victory, for the spoils taken from those lands were disappointing.

  In truth, the Suffragat did not know whether the reputed Shashidan gold hoards had been only rumor, or whether they had existed and had been hurriedly moved to safety ahead of the advancing Rustannican legions. The Suffragat suspected the latter. Worse, they also guessed that the Shashidan military had been forewarned of the new offensive by a spy in their midst, giving the Shashidans time to move their gold. The traitor had never been found.

  Because of her greatly accelerated campaign, Rustannica had overextended herself. Soon the cost of maintaining the war was proving too great even for the mighty empire to sustain. But the Suffragat dared not abandon the new lands that she had conquered, for Shashidan cohorts would quickly overrun the area and reclaim the empire’s newest source of slaves and added taxation.

  Ninety years ago, a change from gold coins to parchment script had been ordered in a try to prop up the treasury, but the experiment was short-lived. The paper script was quickly rejected by the populace and angry mobs literally burned the new money in the streets. Rustannicans liked the sound of coins jingling in their pockets, and only gold’s heavy weight and unique texture sustained the people’s confidence in the economy’s well-being.

  For a time, thePon Q’tar, had tried to augment the gold supply by way of the craft. But that project also failed, because even the revered mystics could not conjure gold in sufficient quantities to make an appreciable difference. The empire had tried reducing the amount of gold in the coins, but the public soon caught on and another outcry arose. Worse yet, the Rustannican gold mines were nearing exhaustion and no new deposits had been unearthed for decades. For the first time in the history of Rustannica, her gold supply was nearing a finite amount.

  The Suffragat briefly considered stripping all the gold from the public buildings to augment the treasury, but they quickly realized that such a brazen move would only confirm the public’s growing suspicions. Moreover, as the population grew, so did the needs
of the goldsmiths. Melted and crafted into jewelry, yet more irreplaceable gold was being worn as adornments and buried with the dead that would never find its way back into circulation. For a time the Suffragat actually flirted with the prospect of grave robbing, but the idea was eventually dismissed as too risky and unworkable. While the public worried and wondered, the smell of revolt drifted into the air. Something had to be done to placate the masses while an answer could still be found.

  And so, seventy years ago, for better or worse, the great coliseum had been built to distract the mob from Rustannica’s constantly rising inflation, ongoing war, and ever-increasing tax rates. But soon the massive costs associated with the grisly theater of death had brought the reverse effect and made matters worse.

  Like Rustannica’s offensive campaign, the coliseum had been wildly successful on the surface, but it soon created more problems than it solved. The games had become an institution and millions of people now relied on them to make a living. The spectacle employed countless centurions, horse breeders, chariot and wagon builders, animal trainers, slave traders, architects, surgeons, armorers, and untold other types of laborers. Shippers, contractors, and other businessmen also relied heavily on the games.

  Not to be outdone, a high percentage of Ellistium’s prostitutes counted on the debauchery of the games to supply them with drunken customers who might not otherwise use their services. The men’s and women’s incomes were heavily taxed by special bands of roving centurions. This unique taxation source had grown more important by the year and would be sorely missed if it stopped flowing.

  Indeed, abolishing the games would now mean throwing so many people out of work that the Suffragat feared that it would result in the final collapse of the economy. In short, the games had become more than a diversion. They were the needed drug that numbed the populace to the nation’s many problems, allowing the Suffragat to operate as it wished and its dwindling treasury to go largely unnoticed. In an attempt to alleviate the crushing costs of the games, the Suffragat raised the price of attendance, but that did little to help the massive problem.