Embers of Empire

by Michaela Strauther

  “Because he is an Ajasek,” Julian said. “A rebel. My grandfather taught my father what his whole family line had taught him—the kings are dictators. That while the rich regions—Kingsland, Pomek—were wealthy and secure, other regions—Riverville, Casacada—were given much less money, much less opportunity, much less freedom. Worse still, there were regions living in such ridiculous squalor—Deadland, Richarta—that the wealthiest person there hardly had enough money to buy an apple. My mother didn’t believe it at first, so my father showed her the reality. Took her to Richarta. Showed her the bone-thin children dying in the alleys, the plague-swept cites. And then she knew.”

  Julian was standing now, wandering around the room as if in a daze. “According to my father, she spoke to a king named Rowyn and asked him about the poor regions. And do you know what he said?”

  He waited.

  “Um . . . no.”

  “He said that those regions deserved it. They disagreed with the kings, so they suffered the consequence. From then on, my mother used her position for good. She wouldn’t change the kings’ minds—they had been alive and ruling long before she had been alive and serving—but she worked to break down their regime. She gathered strengths, weaknesses, where they kept their riches, what they said and did . . . anything she could by working from the inside, retaining her image as the sweet little maid who would never do a thing to hurt her dear kings.

  “But then, things got . . . challenging. They always do. Rebel groups kept invading and attacking the castle, groups including my father’s. He led an army known for sneaking in at night when least expected—winter nights—and hiding in the castle until they were ready to attack. Well . . . my father thought it was a good idea to start stealing from them. He used my mother’s information in her books without her permission and learned where the kings kept their money. The money he stole went to the poorer regions, which seemed like a good idea at the time, but of course, the kings found out. They never suspected the rebel armies as the culprits—there was no way the rebel armies could have known where they kept their secret riches—so they searched the homes of the servants working for them.

  “The night the kings’ watchmen raided our house, I was young, around ten years ago. But I still remember as clear as if it were yesterday. Eleven men barged in the doorway, searched our home, and found my mother’s papers, found my father’s stolen riches. They assumed my mother stole the money—my mother who worked for them, who had these intricate papers and books about the kings. And so that night, they took her away.

  “A few days later, my father got a letter reading that my mother’s trial ruled her guilty of treason. The punishment was death by public burning. She was up on the stake a week later. When the kings burn you, they strip you of your clothing and shave your hair, littering your hair and clothes and personal belongings at your feet. It’s meant to take away all individuality you may hope for in your last minutes of life.”

  He did not speak again, only gripped that necklace.

  And she could not speak again, because all her thoughts roamed to her father. Her father, who, according to her mother, was awaiting a trial that they would never attend. Her father, who was in a rebel army, like Julian’s mother, and had committed treason, like Julian’s mother. Which meant her father might burn on a stake.

  Tears pricked Sathryn’s eyes. Julian had his back to her—he was looking at a painting depicting a group of young men bowing to a woman holding a baby—so when the tears fell and she sobbed, she didn’t expect him to hear her.

  “Why are you crying?” Despite Julian’s story, no tears fell from his eyes. He approached her and sat on his bed, near her chair. “Are you crying . . . over my mother?”

  “No.” That was partly false. “I was thinking of my father.”

  “What about him?”

  At first, she was reluctant. It didn’t make much sense for her to be reluctant—Julian had just told her about his mother. His dead mother. He had responded to her questions with grace. He hadn’t thought she was rude. At least, that’s what she hoped. “He’s awaiting trial for treason.” Like your mother, she wanted to say.

  Julian frowned. He had moved closer and was now resting his head against the bedpost. “You know for sure it’s for treason?”

  “Mother said he was in an army against the kings. I want to do something about it,” she added, “but I can’t.”

  Julian shrugged. “If he’s awaiting trial, then he isn’t dead. That’s good news.”

  “Where do they keep people awaiting trial? And how does a trial work?” She felt so clueless.

  Julian laughed. “You just have all the questions, don’t you?” His sharp teeth caught the light of the oil lamp on a small table.

  She frowned. “This is serious. I’m being serious, Julian. My father’s going to trial and I would like to know a bit about it.”

  Having stopped laughing, Julian was now trying to hide his smile. “I’m not smiling at your father’s situation—trust me, I wouldn’t do that—I just—it’s like you don’t have any idea how things are.”

  She rolled her eyes, frustrated. “You said it yourself that your mother was blind to the kings’ cruelty until she was in the poor regions. I’m no different. I was raised thinking they were the most gracious and generous beings there ever were, and I think that you—”

  A banging on the door interrupted her.

  Julian rose from his bed and started for the door. His hand trembled as he flung the set of doors open to reveal Jesel, equally shaky. The look in his eyes suggested danger. “Julian, you have to hide.”

  Julian pulled Jesel into the room and shut the door, locking it. “What’s going on?”

  Jesel, leaning over his knees to catch his breath, wheezed out, “Your father wants you.”

  Julian’s eyes widened. Sathryn’s stomach clenched at his uneasy face. “For what? What—what—what does he want? He usually leaves me alone for these.”

  Jesel shrugged. His hands were flying through his hair, his clothes, along the door. He checked the lock. “He said he wanted to celebrate you—or something.” A light went off in his head. “He said to give you this.” Jesel’s frantic hands flew down to his pocket, where he pulled out a short knife with a thick wooden handle.

  By this time, Sathryn had risen from her chair and was standing beside Julian. The knife didn’t look special. It was old, but that was all she could tell from looking at it.

  “What is it for?” Julian and Sathryn said in unison.

  Jesel shrugged again and slipped the knife back in his pocket. “You should hide, Julian. I could smell the blood on his breath from ten feet away, and you should have seen the things he did on that stage.” Sathryn caught eyes with Jesel, and she silently pleaded with him not to tell her any more details. “Hide her too.”

  There were thumps echoing down the hallway now, and Jesel was shaky and frantic again. He pushed Julian back, glancing at the door. “Go. Now.”

  Julian looked around the room, then ran to the golden rug under his bed, which he pulled back to reveal a small, circular wooden door in the ground. He gripped the handle and yanked it open, cringing as it creaked. The overwhelming black revealed the first two rungs of a ladder before the rest disappeared into the dark.

  Julian slipped into the hole, feet first, and stepped down until only his neck and head were visible. “Come on, Sathryn. I know we don’t quite know each other yet, but if you have seen my father, you know what he can do to you if he finds you.”

  Then, he disappeared.

  Sathryn looked back at Jesel, who was once again checking the lock on the door. He must have noticed her presence because he turned around, wild eyed, and told her to climb down. “Julian is good,” he said. “Go!”

  The thumping had gotten louder.

  Without another thought, Sathryn climbed down into the dark hole, down the rungs of the ladder, then closed the floor door above her. Just as it shut, the passageway went black, and there was a
loud knock on the set of doors to Julian’s room.

  Sutra

  he drug also did something else, but “That was a surprise,” Iryse said.

  “Immortal?” This was the first time Tyru had spoken up.

  “Do you realize what you’ve done?” Sutra asked.

  Iryse’s laugh was wicked. “I have just done the greatest thing a man could do. Mortality is our greatest weakness. Now, our reign can last forever!”

  Sutra shook his head and paced his brother’s room. “This was your plan all along, wasn’t it? You just want to be king forever, is that right? None of us have taken the drug, so you’ll live forever. We won’t!”

  Iryse shrugged and sipped from his wine as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “I didn’t plan to be poisoned, Sutra. And what is the problem with lasting forever? If you get tired of being king, you may do something else if you like—I’m not tying you down. And the reason none of you will live forever is because you haven’t taken the drug yet.”

  “Yet? We aren’t going to,” Nya said.

  “Let them make their own decisions, Mouse. They are far older and wiser than you,” he teased.

  Nya sat in quiet brewing.

  Sutra spoke up for him again. “No one will take that drug. We don’t want to be whatever you are now.”

  “Whatever I—I’m human, Sutra!” Iryse had yelled. “As human as you and little Mouse over there!” He then turned to address the rest of his brothers. “In a world like this, people die too quickly—because of our affluence, we may not die from hunger or thirst, but we are just as vulnerable to disease, and if you’ve learned anything from me, it’s that people are out to kill us all. Wouldn’t you like to defy that? Rise above and live forever? See everything to happen hundreds of years from now? It changes nothing about you—only your lifespan.”

  At first, none of the brothers wished that upon themselves. But as the days passed, Iryse kept springing his immortality into the conversation. He persuaded them by saying that they would always be together if they were immortal, but if only one of them was, he would have to witness his brothers die, as they would sooner or later.

  The next person to take the drug was Rowyn. He was somehow swayed by Iryse. When Sutra confronted him, he asked what the harm in it was. “If it doesn’t change you, why does it matter?”

  The next person was Tyru. He and Rowyn were identical twins and were therefore close to each other. When Rowyn took the drug, Tyru followed suit.

  Then, Sutra and Nya were the only ones left. The brothers hardly paraded together anymore. Sometimes Sutra and Nya would go when the others wouldn’t, but it made the people suspicious.

  “Just take it,” Iryse told them. “If you want to die once you’re immortal, you still can, I guess. It’s just a matter of decapitation.” He laughed.

  Nya confronted Sutra in his room that night. “Maybe we should take it.” He hadn’t slept in a while—Sutra could tell.

  Sutra shook his head and returned to his book. “Nope. I don’t want to make the same mistake they have.”

  Nya sat on the bed and fiddled with the loose strings on Sutra’s blankets. “But they’re leaving us out of things. They’re becoming these great, powerful beings, and it just seems like we’re tagging along for the ride. They make decrees without us—did you know that? They don’t see us as their equals.”

  Sutra shrugged and acted nonchalant. He had noticed all the little differences in the way the brothers acted, but he still couldn’t give in. “I don’t think I trust it is all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean”—he set his book down on the side table—“do you really think a drug with Lucifer’s Phoenix venom won’t change you physically? Mentally? I just don’t trust it.”

  “There haven’t been any changes in the brothers,” Nya countered.

  “Yet.”

  And Sutra was right. Nya was next, and Sutra—regrettably—followed him. After Nya did it, he felt fine and said that Sutra should follow suit. For a few years, about a decade, all five brothers were fine, including Sutra himself. Their brotherhood was repaired, even if Iryse was controlling like before. They had to retake the drug every year to feed the faint addiction, but other than that, everything was okay.

  But after that first decade and some years after, the changes began again, like baby steps. Tyru was the most notable change in the beginning because usually, at least before he had taken the drug, he was quiet. But afterward, he became Iryse’s right-hand man. Anything Iryse thought, Tyru agreed and acted on it, which was convenient for Iryse as he fabricated more elaborate, sadistic ideas.

  Torture, for example, was something that Tyru caught on to. It was like Iryse was recruiting people onto his team. He introduced Tyru to the torture chamber and Tyru was okay with it, like the humanity had washed out of him. He was more vocal about his opinions, which were Iryse’s ideas in disguise, and forced them upon the other brothers.

  Then Rowyn came around to torture because Tyru had.

  Then Nya, because he felt left out.

  And Sutra followed suit.

  The torture had bothered him in the beginning, but soon, he was no longer disturbed by it, even enjoying it sometimes. He was aware of the change in him, the loss of humanity, but for some reason, it thrilled him. And he, like his brothers, trailed behind Iryse like it was his duty.

  Once Iryse had them all under his wing, he showed them what they all could do at the mercy of the drug.

  He morphed into a dragon.

  It was the most terrifying, yet thrilling thing Sutra had ever seen, and when he became human again, he explained to them that they could all do it with a little bit of practice. By this time, the people knew about their torture chambers, and the brothers no longer paraded the regions.

  That was when the people had begun the first rebellions.

  The first legion of rebel armies came around fifteen years after they built their empire. They invaded the castle with their swords and their spears and their bows and their arrows, thinking that hundreds of them would easily overpower five kings.

  That’s when the people found out that their five average kings could morph into dragons.

  And that’s when they called them the Dragon Kings.

  Sathryn

  he ladder continued down forever. Sathryn couldn’t hear Julian, couldn’t hear anything more than her own breathing and heartbeat. The farther she went, the warmer it got. The warmer it got, the damper the air got, and the rungs became slick. More than twice she lost her grip—what would happen if she fell? How far would she have to fall before she hit the bottom?

  She soon found out, in a way.

  Her hand slipped again, but this time, she couldn’t catch her grip. Her screams echoed off the walls, disorienting her—the darkness, the obscurity, the echoes. She scraped her hands across the walls, but she couldn’t find the rungs of the ladder. She shut her eyes, clenched her jaw, and hoped that Julian could hear her screams toward the bottom and would help her.

  A pair of sturdy arms closed around her, a body stumbling back at the speed of her fall. She opened her eyes again to find herself, still screaming, in a small chamber lit by two lamps. The ladder on the back wall made her voice die down. Her heart was racing, her breathing was heavy, her mind was thrown—

  Julian was holding her, one arm latched to her torso and the other hooked under her knees. He was staring at her, teasing her with his curious eyes and playful smile.

  “Thanks.” Sathryn detached herself from him to stand on her own. “I lost my footing.”

  His eyes never left hers. “Have you found it?”

  “Found wha—ah—yes. Thank you for asking.” She smiled as well. Despite the terrifying height from which she had just dropped, it was hard not to smile when he was smiling.

  “You’re welcome. I was worried it was gone forever.”

  “I thank you for your concern, Your Highness,” she said, and paired it with a bow.

  He rolle
d his eyes and walked around the chamber, feeling along the walls in search of something.

  “Are you sure your father won’t look for us down here?”

  The playfulness faded from his voice. “He doesn’t know about this place. No one does—except you, and now Jesel knows, but I trust him enough. Ah”—he stuck his hand in a little hole and drew out a key—“here it is.” He stuck the key into a hole and then pulled open a giant stone door that had been well disguised in the wall, but behind it, all was murky darkness.

  “You don’t plan to slaughter me, do you?” Sathryn joked.

  He turned to look at her, cocking his head to the side. “Sathryn, if I had wanted to slaughter you, I would’ve done it a long time ago. No sense in waiting. Or, I would’ve at least let you crack your skull on these stones.”

  She smiled again. “So honest.”

  Grabbing an oil lamp from the wall, Julian walked into the black passageway. Sathryn followed suit, grabbing the other oil lamp and following him.

  “Just remember,” Julian said, “that I wondered if you would slaughter me when you showed up at my door. I must trust you just as much as you must trust me.” He stopped, and she stumbled against him. Turning toward her, his face in the dim light made his darker skin look gold or bronze, and his blue eyes looked red. He wasn’t smiling. “You do trust me, don’t you?”

  “I have to, you saved my life. Twice now.”

  “And I can trust you, right?” Even though his face didn’t suggest it, the shaking in his voice said enough—he was nervous.

  “Of course. I’ll save your life in due time, don’t worry.” She gave a small smile.

  He stared at her for a bit longer, but after a while, he yanked open a second door at the end of the hall. He stepped inside, and she followed him.

  She blinked. “Is—is this—some sort of weaponry room?”

  Hanging across the walls and sitting in display cases were hundreds of different types of weapons: swords and knives, axes and maces, daggers and darts, bows and arrows, all different sizes and shapes and styles that she had never seen before. A stocked shelf full of journals and books and tubes of bright liquids and powders stood in the very center of the room, everything arranged and labeled.