Veiled Empire

by Nathan Garrison

  Something new emerged on the scene, drawing Voren’s attention. It was a pinprick of yellow light dancing on the cliff’s edge. Curious, he narrowed his gaze on the object.

  A brightwisp? Here? By Elos, where did you come from?

  He had not seen one since—gods, it must have been half again a millennium, not long after the mierothi had eradicated the last sorcerer carrying vestiges of his people’s valynkar blood.

  How had this brightwisp survived all this time? It must have drifted alone, scared, avoiding all contact, a journey worthy of its own grand telling, he was sure. The creature grew brighter as it approached. Voren’s breath caught in his throat.

  Have you something to tell me? Some last secret to share? Have you been carrying it all this time?

  But then he saw the darkwisps. In their cavorting, a mass of them had drifted into the brightwisp’s path.

  They were intertwined now, swaying in a most macabre dance. The two disparate entities repulsed from each other, the brightwisp bouncing back and forth as darkwisps, each in turn, drew closer. But the lone point of light was surrounded, with nowhere left to retreat, and the hovering clouds of darkness, despite flinching as they neared, spun inexorably into a tighter and tighter circle.

  It was only a matter of—

  The darkwisps surged forward, spitting arcs of black-purple energy between them. And yet, the brightwisp . . . expanded. Not content, it seemed, simply to fall prey, it exploded in a shower of sparks, sending tendrils of a familiar power through its assailants.

  Voren blinked against the sudden flash. When his vision cleared, two darkwisps fled the scene of destruction. All others, as the brightwisp, were no more.

  A stone took hold of Voren’s gut, and tears carved rivers down his cheeks. He shook, wondering why he felt so deeply for such a creature. It is scarcely alive, much less sentient. Why, then? Was it the loneliness of its journey? The despair of its death? The symbol of a past best left forgotten?

  How much it reminded Voren of himself?

  Metal on wood rattled against his ears from behind. Voren swung his waist-length hair, midnight blue and silky, around and quickly dried his face. He breathed deeply, composing himself, as the main door to his chambers—his cell—opened.

  A single figure entered, wrapped in a dun-colored cloak.

  “Voren,” the figure said. “It is good to see you.”

  “Draevenus?” Voren said. “I did not think you would be here so soon this evening.” He descended the stairs holding up his perch and strode towards his guest. Of all the mierothi, this was the only one Voren did not mind paying him a visit.

  Thumb-sized scales of deepest purple framed a pale, boyish face. These scales, Voren knew, encompassed the whole of every mierothi body, granting them an appearance more akin to fish than men. Deep crimson irises and whites that were anything but—green or blue or silver, depending on which way the light hit them—gazed up at Voren amiably. Fingerless gloves ended in thick, sharp claws.

  “I can go if you are busy,” Draevenus said.

  “Nonsense. You are always welcome to what pitiful hospitality I can offer.”

  Draevenus smiled, revealing pointed teeth. He snatched a bottle off the wine rack near the entrance. “Yes, you have only the third best wine in all the empire. Pitiful indeed.”

  Voren couldn’t help but laugh, amazed at how quickly his tears were forgotten. He stepped up to his cabinet, extracting a pair of glasses. “A drink before we begin?”

  “Need you even ask?” The mierothi handed over the bottle as if presenting gift. Voren took it and poured.

  They settled into padded chairs across from each other at Voren’s table and raised their cups. “A toast,” Voren said. “To the least offensive mierothi I know.”

  “And to the most tactful valynkar I know.”

  Sharing a grin, they each drank deep.

  “Now,” said Voren, “what questions do you have for me?”

  “Tonight, only one. But I truly don’t know how long your answer will take.”

  “It’s to be that kind of question, is it? In that case, I demand you tell your story first.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “I’ll be forced to take drastic measures.” Voren leaned forward. “I’ll only serve you the empire’s fourth best wine.”

  Draevenus’s eyes widened in mock alarm. “Well then . . . a story it is.”

  They both burst into laughter.

  When they had composed themselves, a feat aided by several long sips each, Draevenus waved an arm towards Voren. “What kind of tale would you like to hear?”

  Voren smiled. “Tell me about innocence.”

  The mierothi paused, taking a few deep breaths. “I was in the Agoritha plains a few years ago. A bit of a bland-looking country, but peaceful all the same. I was walking through some nameless town looking for supplies. Out of nowhere, I felt something collide hard with my leg.

  “I glanced down to see this little girl flat on her bottom in the middle of the lane, rubbing her forehead. Poor thing was dazed enough, but when she looked up to see who she had run into, her face took on a look—and I’ll never forget this—that was both confused and angry at the same time, like I was something from a dream and had no right to be in the actual real world.

  “Her mother snatched her up in an instant, of course, apologizing as much with horror as she did with reverence. I almost told her not to worry, no harm done. I’m not sure if it would have made any difference.”

  “What happened next?” Voren asked.

  Draevenus waited several long beats before replying. “You asked for a story of innocence, Voren. If I continue, the tale will no longer fit that criterion.”

  The pleasant tingle he felt from the wine evaporated in an instant. Voren knew that death was the least of the punishments given for striking a mierothi and that most town guards would, in order to prove their zeal, enact such sentences before the offended party could even blink.

  Voren set down his wineglass. Draevenus’s orations were the only window he had to the outside world. He’d had enough of stories for one night. “Tell me your question.”

  Draevenus stared, clicking his claws against the table. Moving with all the speed of a man on his deathbed, he grasped his wineglass, brought it to his lips, and drained the remaining liquid. Voren felt dread welling up, stronger with each passing moment that remained in silence.

  At last, the mierothi licked his lips. “You’ve told me just about everything that you know about the valynkar over these last few months. All that is left to know is this: If your people gained the ability to return to this empire, what would they do?”

  Voren closed his eyes, struggling not to succumb to the depths of his youth, of the time before he had become a prisoner of the mierothi. It was not difficult. Such memories were few.

  “I do not know,” Voren said. “It seemed I understood my people little, even back when I was among them. With nearly two millennia to set us apart, I cannot even begin to fathom what they might do.”

  Draevenus tightened his jaw into a humorless grin, exhaling loudly through his nose. “I see.”

  “I am sorry. I know that was probably not very helpful.”

  “No, no, it was a truthful answer, which is more useful than baseless speculation. To be honest, I did not know what I was expecting.” He stood.

  “Leaving so soon?” Voren asked.

  “Yes. And I am afraid this will be my last visit for quite some time.”

  “Why?”

  Draevenus sighed. “It is difficult to explain. Something has begun, and I must now be about . . . other tasks.”

  “I trust all is well?”

  Draevenus ground his teeth. “We shall see.”

  “I am sorry to see you depart,” said Voren, surprised by the truth in those words. “I have grow
n fond of these visits of yours. You, out of all your people, at least have the wit to carry on a decent conversation. And you have made a most . . . peculiar student.”

  “True enough. Sadly, my education regarding your people is at an end. Though it was enjoyable while it lasted.”

  “Well, I hope you learned enough to satisfy your curiosity. If I may, what was it, exactly, that you were hoping to discover?”

  The question was tame enough, by Voren’s estimation, but seemed to impact Draevenus more thoroughly than intended. The mierothi’s eyes glazed over, looking through Voren into a world of introspection that could only be guessed at.

  After a half dozen beats, Draevenus shook his head. “I tend to take the long view of things, Voren.”

  Voren waited patiently for more. When it became apparent that no further explanation was forthcoming, he ventured softly with, “Our kind often do.”

  The austere visage now facing him reminded Voren that, despite his youthful appearance, Draevenus was nearly as old as he. And the weighted throwing dagger, which Draevenus danced absently across the back of his knuckles, reminded Voren that he used to be the most feared assassin on the planet.

  Voren gestured at the blade. “Planning on putting your old skills to use?”

  Draevenus’s eyes flashed. The dagger vanished up a sleeve. “No.” Then, on the very threshold of hearing, he added, “Not if I can help it.”

  “I see. Of course, I have found that, in many situations, such choices are often beyond our control.”

  “Control. That word . . .” Draevenus shivered. “It can break the world . . . Bring the heavens crashing down . . . Burn the very heart out of you . . .”

  Gods above and below! What could you possibly be heading into? Whatever it entailed, Voren did not envy Draevenus his journey. His own status as a prisoner of modest privilege seemed, at the moment, a paltry burden.

  Voren reached for the glasses and wine bottle. “Here Draevenus, one more drink before you go?” It was, on short notice, the only distraction he could think of.

  “No time now. I am sorry.” Draevenus turned to leave.

  Voren, unthinking, held out a hand, as if to grab ahold of his companion. Companion? The idea that a mierothi—any mierothi—could claim this title in his mind drove the very breath from his lungs. In that moment, Voren realized that in nineteen hundred years of imprisonment he had not encountered a single other soul whom he would consider a friend. The thought of Draevenus’s leaving began tearing a hole in Voren’s long-held defenses.

  “Draevenus?” he called tentatively.

  The mierothi swung back halfway, raising an inquisitive brow.

  Voren swallowed before continuing. “Be well on your travels, my . . . friend.”

  Draevenus nodded. “Keep your head down, Voren. If I don’t make it back, before this is all over . . .” He trailed off, as if he had caught himself about to reveal some dire secret. But no—he was staring at something ahead of him. Voren stepped to the side in order to see what held his attention.

  Emperor Rekaj stood in the doorway.

  “Draevenus,” the emperor said, his voice like stones raked across a woven basket. “I thought I made it clear that you were no longer welcome here.”

  “I’m leaving right now, Rekaj,” Draevenus replied.

  Voren, in silence, examined the two mierothi males as they regarded each other. Rekaj stood a hand taller than the younger Draevenus, though still twice that short of Voren’s height, and possessed a face with none of the younger mierothi’s smoothness. Draevenus quivered, ever so slightly, like a pressed coil waiting to release. A hunter crouched for the killing leap. Rekaj, too, seemed to notice this stance. With one hand stroking the long dagger at his belt, the emperor laughed.

  “Best get to it then, boy.” Rekaj stepped aside, waving towards the open door behind him.

  Draevenus sighed. “Until next time, Voren.” With that, he strode from the room, slamming it shut behind him.

  Leaving Voren alone with the emperor.

  “Most honored one.” Voren bowed at the waist until his torso was parallel with the ground, hoping the brush of mockery in his tone went unnoticed.

  “Why was Draevenus here?” asked Rekaj. “What business did he have with you?”

  Voren frowned. “He . . . merely wished to say good-bye.”

  “Good-bye?”

  “Yes.”

  The emperor furrowed his brow at this but waved a dismissive hand. “No matter.”

  A knuckle rapped on the door, and one of Voren’s daeloth minders poked his head in. “Emperor,” he said, “I have word from—”

  “Stuff your message!” Rekaj said. “And you tell the council that they await my pleasure, not the other way around!”

  Eyes wide, the daeloth jerked a nod and departed.

  Gods, please, do not lose your temper. Voren shuddered, remembering the last time he had witnessed the emperor’s wrath unleashed. Thankfully, it had not been aimed at him. This time, however . . .

  Best be exemplary in manner. Just in case.

  “Emperor, I am, as ever, your humble servant,” Voren said, careful to refrain from even a whisper of insubordination, glad his subtle insolence from before had been missed. “What was it you wished to see me about?”

  Rekaj breathed deeply, seeming to calm somewhat, Voren hoped. “Yes. There is one small matter I wish to discuss with you.” He brushed smooth his black-and-red-silk attire—the vestments of his station. “There was . . . that is to say, did you feel anything unusual today?”

  Voren fought the urge to shudder. He’d never seen the emperor so perturbed and did not know what to expect. “Unusual? How so?”

  “As in . . . sorcerous disturbance.”

  Voren thought to the recent event between the wisps. Could that be what he was referring to? It did not seem likely.

  “No,” replied Voren after a few moments. “I felt nothing today that could qualify as ‘disturbance,’ sorcerous or otherwise. What is this all about?”

  The emperor ignored the question, clasping his hands behind his back, and began strolling aimlessly, eyes glazed over. Voren knew better than to disturb him during one of these fugues, for he was well familiar with what was happening behind Rekaj’s blank expression.

  Reality had to be placed on hiatus, after all, if one wished to access ancient memories.

  Something happened, something new. Yet, it is connected to something so very old? None of the possibilities reassured him. Voren did not need to access his own memories to know there was little from his past he would wish to see returned.

  The emperor swiveled back to Voren, features firmly back in the present. “Tell me one thing, then. Have you entered communion lately?”

  “Communion? No, of course not.” He chuckled, half from nerves, half from disbelief. “I would have no one to talk to, naturally. Unless, of course, one of my kin somehow found a way through the Shroud.” The sheer absurdity of the suggestion drove him into even greater fits of laughter. “Whatever would compel you to ask such a thing?”

  Rekaj narrowed his gaze on Voren. “Nothing. Mind your place. It is not to question me.”

  Voren’s mirth was swept away like feathers before a storm. Feeling a chill start to creep up his spine, he bowed his head in obeisance.

  The emperor stormed out. Voren was left alone, and an abundance of questions swirled in his head, none of which he could even begin to answer. Whatever had happened, it meant change. Voren had almost forgotten what the word meant, so absorbed as he was in playing the harmless, obedient prisoner. But how long can such a mask be worn before the act is no longer a fiction?

  Shame flooded his soul as he realized just how empty it had become.

  VASHODIA STROLLED ALONG the Chasm’s edge at the cusp of night. She soaked in the burgeoning darkness like a lizard did the sun
on a cold day. She was separated from the brink by a mere finger’s width, but she feared neither falling nor the hungry maw of depthless shadow below.

  It was her home, after all.

  She spied her destination and began skipping along. She held apart the folds of her robe, which was so dark as to seem a part of the night itself. It was, in fact, enchanted just for this effect. No, not enchanted—such a word was used by the ignorant, which was everyone but her. Rather, it was augmented. Yes, a much more accurate description.

  The path before her ended abruptly, cleaved by a deep ravine a dozen paces across that bent and twisted its way up into the barren hillsides to the east. Without hesitation, Vashodia marched off into the void.

  Falling, she energized briefly and formed a cushion of air below her feet as thick as stone—no, again she corrected herself. It was stone. There. She crafted ropes and tethered one end of each to the cliff top, and the other to the platform upon which she now stood. Her descent slowed. She lengthened the ropes to allow for brisk yet controlled passage down.

  Though the night was dark, it was not pure. Not even close. It was a passive thing, beset by two moons and a cacophony of stars. Vapid, hollow.

  The darkness into which she now passed was everything night was not. It . . . filled, with intention and rapacity. The dark energy gathered here, thick as foam, made her giggle in delight.

  At last, Vashodia reached the ground. A vast cavern opened up, the ends so distant even her mierothi eyes had trouble discerning its scope. What filled it, though, not even humans could fail to see.

  Darkwisps. A hundred thousand at least.

  “Knock-knock,” she said in a high, singsong voice. “Anybody home?”

  The normally dormant creatures buzzed into a frenzy of activity at her intrusion. They spun through the air, converging on a point several paces in front of her. They stopped, though, afraid to come closer.

  They had learned that lesson the hard way.

  She reached into her robe and brought forth two spherical objects. They were the size of her fist and crafted from a dull metal, closer to the look of burnished stone than the glint of a sword. She tossed them on the ground. The hovering mass of darkwisps flinched back.