by Scott Rhine
“I’ll be safe with the religious arm of the college until my test is over,” the emperor insisted. “It should take a few hours, I think.”
The guard bowed and led them both out of the bedroom, to the right, past the emperor’s suite, and down the stairs to the luxurious council chamber. A general met them at the door. Niftkin introduced them. “General Lord Ashford, here’s the candidate you requested. I found him . . . relaxing with his herald.”
The general nodded and extended his hand. The emperor stared at it as if he’d been offered a fish. “I don’t touch other people unless I have to,” Pagaose explained. “Ashford isn’t an aromatic tree name.”
“The new fashion for Center is for our names to reflect the sufferings we’ve overcome since the Scattering. What does yours mean?”
“It means I’ve met the Traveler in his home and survived.” Pagaose walked past the general, and a few other dignitaries, toward the center of the conference table and an old man in a simple, brown robe. The man’s Imperial-blue eyes had been glazed white, rendering him blind. “Abbot Small Voice, it is an honor to finally meet you.” He inclined his head a quarter tilt to the sage out of respect.
“A bold claim,” said the sage.
“One I look forward to proving,” offered the new emperor. Rather than using the provided chair, the emperor pulled over a plump pillow to face the eight deans.
Ashford’s assistant waved Niftkin and the woman away as he closed and barred the heavy door. As he did so, Pagaose noted that the tail of the man’s shirt was untucked. Why had a general’s assistant been conspiring with a wizard? After the assistant took his seat, Small Voice recited, “A voice cried out from the throne room: flee Center and take your families with you, for the second Doom is upon you.”
After a dramatic pause, the sage asked, “Are you the one sent to guide us away from these dark days to the glory that was?”
“Not as it was. I hope to make things better for all.”
“Hubris?”
“No. That’s the pride of mortals against gods. The gods aren’t trying to repair anything here, are they?”
“No,” admitted the sage. He then proceeded to ask a series of obscure questions from every known holy book of the Traveler. Pagaose answered them all without hesitation. After an hour of trying to stump him, the sage paused.
The emperor interjected, “Do we move on to the Book of Dominion now?”
Cocking his head, the sage replied, “That is for the military testing tomorrow. Why would you classify it with today’s material?”
“Because the Traveler wrote that book as well.”
The sage nodded. “Yes, he was the only one permitted such things. That never occurred to me before now.” His manner shifted. For the next hour, he asked questions about the mysteries. “I’ve always wondered . . .”
Most of these Pagaose answered as succinctly as possible. From time to time, he would defer with vague responses like, “That’s dangerous information to share in public.”
The sage would not press in these cases. For the third hour, he asked questions that a student would ask his master. “What is the most profound thing you’ve ever heard?”
“The prayer of an innocent boy for an injured animal. It was answered.”
“What is the most amazing thing you ever saw?”
“Time stopping for my enemy while it flowed for me.”
“How did you know it moved normally for you?”
“It was snowing inside the north temple before I entered the final Door to Eternity,” explained the emperor.
The sage asked, “What would you do as head of the church of Osos?”
“I am a historian. My goal is to reveal past lessons to others in hopes that we will not repeat them. I shall do my best to guide our people through the turbulent days ahead. We have three generations free from the Council of Gods, and we need to make the most of them. Scholars will look back on this time as the Golden Age of Man.”
“How do you know this?” asked the sage in awe.
“The same way I know that the voice in the throne room you quoted belonged to the last Abbot of the Temple of the Unseen.”
“Which is how?”
“Because his last act was to rescue the One True Sword and deliver it, eventually, to me.”
“The sword that cuts stone?”
“Through the fabric of reality itself if need be. It represents the council vote of Osos.”
“How can a sword that cuts through all things be sheathed?”
“It must be propelled so by the will of the One True Bearer. The blade is only as penetrating as the determination of the wielder.”
“Could you be so kind as to demonstrate?”
Pagaose stood. “In the course of proving I am who I say I am, each of you will ask me for miracles of some kind. I will perform mutually agreed upon tasks as evidence—once. I will not repeat miracles, even if you beg. This is my decree. Do you all understand that you should choose your signs wisely?”
The sage nodded.
There was a statue of Myron the Seventh on the wall facing the council, with his right hand upheld in an obscene gesture. “This hand offends me.”
“It was a decree from Emperor Myron; we cannot remove or alter it,” explained Lord Ashford.
“I can,” announced Pagaose. Drawing the gleaming, sesterina-plated sword, he held the weapon above his head and concentrated, drawing upon the trance strength of a style known as Wrestling with Giants. With all his augmented might, he struck down at the hand. The blade flared red with heat as he pushed it through the stone like butter. Smoke rose from the stump as it singed the wood of the floor.
“You cannot counter the decree of another emperor,” protested the head of the high court.
Pagaose smiled. “We will debate this further on your day, sir.”
“Enough,” interrupted the sage. “I have heard enough of this man’s outlandish claims. I will cast my vote.” All eyes turned to the blind man. “As outrageous as he sounds, I’ll do nothing to stand in this man’s way. I do not claim to understand half what he says, but he’s more fit to lead the church of Osos than I.”
This admission from the old curmudgeon stunned the room into silence. The judge snapped the tip of the quill on his parchment, and it echoed louder than an arrow sunk into a target bale.
After taking a sip of his wine, the sage added, “I transfer rule of my church to him effective immediately. At sunset, in a ceremony with all clergy present on Center, we’ll ask him to choose his ceremonial rod of office.”
Chapter 3 – Politics
The emperor and the sage continued to chat in the palatial bedroom. “Leave the door open; I want to know when Anna gets back safely.”
“A lovely girl,” the sage commented.
“True, but I’m curious as to your criteria.”
“She’s devoted to the old ways, pure enough to handle the three ruby artifacts without being harmed, and compassionate enough to care for Kirak Togg until he died. Plus, she brews a fantastic ale. I’d recommend her as your first wife.”
“I won’t lie. Similar thoughts have occurred to me.”
“Yes, her smell on your robes was a clue.”
“She found the clothes for me. I had none,” explained the emperor candidate. When the sage snickered, he added, “It is her kindness and trustworthiness I pursue, not her virtue.”
“And if she offered that same virtue?” asked the sage.
“My last body was a eunuch; I have no experience in these matters. Still, she’s awaiting the return of Baran Togg. In the interim, my goal is to be as much an example of self-restraint as Myron was of excess.”
“You’ll have until the Spring Festival to choose.”
“Pardon?”
“The Dance of the Virgins, the fertility rite declaring the end of winter and the first buds of spring. It’s traditional for the emperor to dance first.”
“Bugger,” cursed Pagaose.
&nbs
p; “That’s the general idea. Once you’re confirmed, the aristocrats will throw the young women at you in droves, but you can claim tradition and stall them until the festival. The Dance was the traditional symbol of unity for the empire, where each kingdom and tier of aristocracy presents its noble daughters in tribute—and as a way to share your power. It’s the only way for you to take a non-Imperial to wife. Beware: once you declare participation in the Dance, any woman you bed until then can never be more than a concubine. Any later wife would be within her rights to make you expel her. The empire needs you to provide a proper heir.”
“Are these rules for all nobles or just me?”
“In this case, I stress the consequences to underline that the emperor must always keep his word. This is the foundation of your reign. In general, most island nobles force their children of both genders to declare participation in the Dance upon reaching the eligible age. If they choose no one, then they have freedom to do as they please afterward. In practice, a teenager abstaining that long will find someone at the event they fancy. If a man is married before he receives his title, the wife can be grandfathered in if they were married in the church of Osos. In any case, whenever land inheritance is involved, the woman must be a virgin.”
“Humi Kragen wasn’t.”
Small Voice waggled his hand. “One could make an argument that Sandarac’s not officially titled yet. There’s also an accepted tradition in the provinces: you can marry the widow of the landowner next door to consolidate territory. Island law doesn’t allow for that because . . . well . . . islands can’t exactly be moved side-by-side. Even if the child’s not his, the law allows for him to declare it so as long as he marries the mother before the child’s birth. We can’t very well get rid of that rule or half the empire would be bastards.”
Pagaose rubbed his forehead. “Anything else I should know?”
“I told my scribe to send your letter of invitation out today. Word should get to the four shore embassies and the Pretender in about three days and to most of the heads of state within the week. Your friends in Kiateros will take longer.”
“Thank you. My position here is . . . tenuous. I need their support and wisdom.”
“Assuming they’re still alive.”
“I know the witch is. The rest, we can only hope.
“Are you certain you want to involve Sandarac, the self-proclaimed emperor of the north? He wants this job for his own.”
“A real peace must include all parties. Unless we satisfy his bride, Humi Kragen, we’ll never be able to sleep at night.”
“What are you offering?” asked the sage.
“Since the first tier of the aristocracy has been decimated, there are a lot of vacancies. I can afford to be generous with titles. Why only four embassies?”
“The kingdom of Mandibos keeps an ambassador on Center; he already knows you’re here. His kingdom was very generous in feeding us in the lean years,” the sage stressed. “They’ll want consideration for this when you ascend the throne.”
“Noted,” said the emperor. He wanted to say that his father had been from Mandibos, and the generous kingdom had placed him, the half-breed baby, in the infamous prison of Tor Mardun. He had no love for the land of his birth, so he changed the subject. “You said when I ascend. I appreciate your confidence.”
“That and a half of silver will buy you a mug of mulled wine at the concession stands.”
“Why do you say that? Your word is golden.”
“The church is broke. We don’t even have a temple here anymore, just the memorial symbol on the water and the amphitheater my friend Frond lets us borrow on holy days.”
“How many people come?”
“I’m told about thirty-five regulars, but you can come see for yourself tomorrow. You’ll have guards, and the council will watch you like a hawk, but as head of the church, they have to allow you to attend services.”
“What services?”
“Orphan’s day,” reminded the sage. They didn’t have one every year. The day was added periodically to make up the difference between the calendar year and the celestial. As an extra day, no one had to pay rent or work. It marked the beginning of winter and the storm season, where people bundled indoors with family to outlast the siege of the elements. “The holiday is the default birthday celebrated by every child in the Imperial orphanage. Since the church runs the orphanage, I’m speaking there tomorrow.”
“I was an orphan,” Pagaose admitted.
“Would you like to give the homily to the children?”
Anna’s voice came from the hallway, “He loves to teach. I think the orphans would benefit from his wisdom, even if it’s just once a year.”
Pagaose rose to greet her. “I’m glad you made it back safely.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” She was dressed in a tan, cotton robe with a brown apron from the brewery.
“Assassins,” confided the sage.
“But I’m nobody,” Anna insisted, paling.
“You’re the herald of a new emperor, and the only person he confides in,” said Small Voice.
“I trust you,” insisted the emperor.
The sage shook his head. “I’m departing as soon as possible to reach the abbey ahead of the storms.”
“How did the test go?” she asked.
“I’m leaving him with my full authority and vote,” the sage replied. “You picked the right man.”
“I know,” she said, tending to the fire and adding fuel to the blaze.
“Bless you, dear,” said the sage.
“Why would the children hear me only once a year?” asked the emperor.
“They’re half-breeds. Lord Pangborn runs the purity committee. He doesn’t want to see them in public. We managed an exception for their birthday celebration.”
“How many?” asked Pagaose.
“About a hundred souls below the age of fourteen. After that, they have to leave to find jobs. Kestrel would know the exact number; he runs the place.”
The emperor asked, “Could we convince Lord Pangborn to let them attend every week? That would quadruple the attendance and help give them the moral grounding they need. Otherwise, many of them might end up as criminals.”
Anna smiled. “You’d be better off making the lectures a punishment that the orphans deserve regularly or some odious task he can inflict on the emperor.”
“I can complain in the right ways for Pangborn to think it’s his idea,” confided the sage. “She can think like a politician.”
The emperor winced. “I wish you wouldn’t use words like that around a lady.” They all chuckled. “Could she attend the ceremony at sunset?”
The sage nodded. “There will only be about seven of us. It couldn’t hurt.”
“Who do I ask to get her a larger wardrobe?” Pagaose inquired.
“Head chamberlain,” Niftkin replied when no one else knew the answer.
She raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
The emperor sighed. “Permission to speak.”
“I have clothes. You need them worse than I do.”
“Touché. I will get as many courtly outfits as you do: one for each of the eight confirmation ceremonies. As a balance, I will order as many sets of common clothes as you, as well. I need them for weapons practice and morning exercise.”
Niftkin asked, “How many sets would that be?”
“Two,” she whispered.
“No shame,” the guard encouraged. “That’s how many uniforms I own. I’ll inform the chamberlain now.”
“I’ll walk with you,” announced the sage as he rose to his feet.
Soon after, a tailor and his assistants were buzzing about the emperor’s suite. No one was permitted to touch him with bare hands. There was a lot to do if they were going to get his highness ready by sundown. A seamstress arrived fifteen bits later, and she retired with Anna to the women’s quarters.
****
Candles and a skylight lit the throne room. In addition to g
uards, priests, and Anna, several nobles crowded in to watch. The sage had spent hours arranging the symbols on the long banquet table. When the appointed time came, a priest of Osos with a tall, conical cap rang the gong.
Pagaose entered at a measured pace, hands folded. He halted in front of the left end of the table and bowed. Many of the items he knew by sight. “Those are for acolytes and those for soldiers.” Gently touching a gold-rimmed scepter, he gasped, “Myron’s.” The former emperor had twisted appetites and an overwhelming self-centeredness he recognized from earlier echoes in the bedroom paneling. The sensations roiled inside him, like eating seafood left too long in the sun; he snatched his hand back, but his stomach still struggled to hold his dinner.
“Is that the one you choose?” asked the sage.
“No,” he replied a little too strongly. Continuing down the line, he skipped the fragile ones as impractical. At last he found a simple, steel rod: one cubit long, with no ornamentation except a mesh of grooves to improve grip. The aura around this device was confident and caring, with concern for details and tact. “This one: the knurled, steel rod,” he announced. “I like the owner.”
“From Anamaxes the Judge,” the sage interpreted. “He was an interim ruler for fourteen years, head of the College.”
“I never heard of him.”
“Four hundred years ago. His most famous saying was, ‘When I do my job right, no one knows I exist.’”
Pagaose nodded. “A wise man.”
“I confirm his symbol of office as one of practicality, peace, fairness, and compassion,” proclaimed the sage. “Let it be so.”
All the priests bowed their head and answered, “Amen.”
The emperor candidate bowed to receive the blessing from the blind man. Then, the sage fumbled his hands to the proper position in Pagaose’s hair and recited ancient words as he dribbled oil onto the top of his head. He closed with, “You carry in your hands not just a rod, but the symbol of our hope. We now call you Master of the Temple of Osos.”
The priests, assorted nobles present, and even the guards knelt before Pagaose—all but one. A man wearing scribe’s robes charged the emperor with a greenish, glass-bladed dagger. The assassin slashed upward with the weapon as soon as he revealed it.
