by Alec Hutson
“And who would typically accompany her?” I ask as he reaches into his pocket and draws forth a small white flower.
“These last few months? Jalent.”
This does not surprise me. I’ve felt the venom radiating from the blond-haired Sword every time we’ve seen each other in the manse. He actually sent a servant to request a duel on the practice grounds, but I haven’t bothered to respond. I have more important things on my mind than engaging in such a ridiculous rivalry.
Irix approaches me again and pins the flower to my left breast. “There. That completes it.” He sounds satisfied with himself.
“What do you know about the Prophet?” I ask the blue servant as he mulls over which belt I should wear from the many options laid out on my bed. He glances at me in surprise just as he picks up a braided cord of fine white fabric.
“The Prophet? I know very little. For many in Zim he is the last link to their vanished gods. He claims to speak for them, and also that he is the herald of the end times. Not everyone follows his teachings – including many of the nobility, like our mistress – but he does have great support among the common people. For that reason, the powerful in Zim tread lightly around him.” Irix leans in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Even the emperor, it is said.”
“Have you seen the Prophet before?”
“Me?” Irix looks amused. “Of course not. He very rarely makes appearances outside of the great temple he dwells inside. I’ve lived in Zim for nearly a decade, and I can’t remember when I’ve ever heard of him emerging to mingle with the people.”
“The handmaiden who delivered Auxilia’s message –” I pause as Irix clears his throat. “Fine, our mistress’s message, said the Prophet would be in attendance in court today. That the heads of the great families are being called to witness the resolution of some dispute he is involved in.”
Irix shrugs. “I know nothing of this. Though there have been rumblings of conflict among the great powers of the empire, I have paid it little attention. My responsibility is merely the efficient running of the Orthonos household.”
“And you do that remarkably well,” I say, checking myself in the mirror. I do look rather striking, I must admit.
“Your words honor me,” Irix says, puffing out his chest slightly. “Now, let’s go find you some suitable footwear.”
‘Suitable footwear’ ended up being embroidered silken slippers festooned with little green gemstones. The kind of shoes that would be comfortable while lounging around one of the manse’s many salons or drawing rooms . . . but not slogging through the streets of Zim.
I sigh, carefully stepping over a large pile of fly-encrusted dung that looks to have been dropped by an animal far larger than a horse. There are all sorts of dangers pockmarking the cobblestones, even on this major thoroughfare cutting through the capital: the remnants of smashed fruit, night soil tossed from windows and doorways, and even the occasional dead rat, bloated by the rich feast presented by the city.
Luckily, we don’t have to worry about navigating through the crowds that usually fill these streets, as a regiment of Orthonos warriors have formed a wide circle around Auxilia’s palanquin and the Swords that pace alongside it. All seven of us are accompanying our mistress on this journey to the palace, but I’ve been told that only I will enter with her, as each family head is allowed but a single guard. Jalent is clearly infuriated by this; he’s scowling at me from the other side of the heavily muscled bearers who are carrying the palanquin on their broad shoulders. The rest of the Swords seem unmoved by my apparent designation as their mistress’s current favorite: Romen the northman is his normal cheerful self, whistling happily as if he’s enjoying a pleasurable stroll. Gawkers are peering through the circle of steel, trying to catch a glimpse of the noblewoman and her Swords.
They won’t see anything of her, though, as she’s recessed within her golden palanquin behind heavy drapes sewn with iridescent feathers, the symbol of the Orthonos family. Several handmaidens are inside with her, and every once in a while a high-pitched laugh tumbles forth.
“Listen to them,” the huge gel-akon remarks, coming up beside me. “Like a bunch of gossiping maids, eh? I wonder what they are tittering about.”
“I have no idea,” I reply, and Romen nudges me hard in the side, sending me stumbling a few steps.
“I hear you do, friend Talin,” he says, chuckling. “Whispers tell me that the mistress has taken quite a liking to you. That you’ve been called to her chambers already.” He grins at me, and I’m annoyed to feel a slight blush creeping into my face.
The northman is right, though. Ever since our encounter in the baths, Auxilia has requested my presence in her chamber in the evenings. I haven’t slept in my own bed in several days. If this is the primary duty of being a Sword, I could see why Jalent is so territorial. Auxilia is a skilled lover, and a lively conversationalist. I have come to look forward to our pillow talk almost as much as the lovemaking before, though she always skirts the topics which are of the most interest to me. She refuses to discuss the Prophet, or any of her speculations about the possible connections between him and me. Why, I cannot guess, though my suspicions are that she fears that there might be spies in her household – or even that I am compromised – and that she does not wish her words to return to the ears of her enemies. So instead we’ve talked about Zim, and her family, and my recollections of my brief wanderings south of the mountains. She laughed at the antics of Poz and Bell, gasped at our adventures, and was suitably impressed that a lamias had chosen me as a worthy mate. When I described the Contessa and her shadowdancer, I saw a shadow cross her face, but by the time I told her of our escape from the temple of the Cleansing Flame she was smiling again.
The pealing of trumpets draws me from my thoughts. We are approaching a massive archway draped in banners of Zimani purple. Heralds dressed in bright colors perch along the parapets, the sunlight glinting on their curving silver horns. Zimani soldiers in flashing golden armor line our approach, motionless save for the wind playing in the crests of red horsehair falling from their helmets.
“Ah, the Imperial Way,” Romen says, waving at the legions. “The Zimani do so love their pomp and grandeur.”
The emperor’s audience hall is easily the biggest room I’ve ever entered. A forest of vast pillars as thick around as elephants line the length of the chamber, supporting a peaked roof that is so high I can see dark specks that must be birds fluttering among its highest reaches. The floor is gleaming marble thickly veined with blue, though a carpet of glistening purple unfurls the length of the room, eventually ascending the six tiers to where the imperial throne looms. I expect the seat of the empire to be something gilded, but the emperor sits instead upon what looks to be a barely hewn lump of jagged black rock inset with blazing fire opals.
The emperor, however, looks more the part, an older Zimani with a close-trimmed beard of purest white. He’s wrapped in the imperial purple robes of state, and a spotted cat the size of a small pony is curled at his feet, watching the milling crowd of courtiers and sycophants with slitted amber eyes. I can’t help but compare the regal figure of the emperor with the wasted creature I encountered in the undercity. Could the Pale Man have been some distant, twisted ancestor of the current Purple Emperor? Or had that creature killed the emperor long ago and stolen his ring and robes?
“You’ve brought your new dog to court.”
The words of patriarch Belav bring me back from that chamber of horrors beneath the city. He could be a painting of an arrogant noble, his hand casually resting on the fist-sized ruby on his sword’s pommel, his lips twisted into sneering disdain. The patriarch has traded his obsidian-sewn red robes for an elaborately wrought suit of plate armor fashioned from the same flashing black rock, all sharp edges and jagged spikes. Only his head is exposed, comically small atop his bulky outfit.
He looks ridiculous.
“He followed me here – he’s quite loyal,” says Auxilia lightly, pluck
ing a long-stemmed glass filled with a dark liquid from a passing servant’s tray.
“So loyal you’ve kept him shackled,” Belav replies, gesturing at the circlet around my ankle. The green-haired wild woman at his side gives a hissing chuckle, as if her master has scored a point in some inscrutable game.
Auxilia laughs lightly and takes a small sip of her glass. “Well, not all of my pets are housebroken.”
The jaw of Belav’s Shield hardens, her bile-green eyes blazing. The patriarch smiles thinly, shaking his head. “You always know where to thrust the knife, beautiful Auxilia.” He takes his own glass from the hovering servant and raises it in her direction. “May your sharp wit never dull.”
Auxilia mirrors the toast, then turns to survey the crowd of jostling Zimani nobles. Belav joins her, standing so close that – to my surprise – I feel a little flash of jealousy. We are standing on the third broad tier with the other heads of the great houses. The two tiers below us and the ground floor of the great audience chamber are filled with what I assume are those of lesser rank, though how they’ve been divided is unknown to me. One difference I do notice is that no one but the patriarchs and matriarchs on our level are allowed a Sword or Shield.
The emperor is the only inhabitant of the sixth and highest tier. The one directly below him is empty, but there are a few figures milling on the fourth tier: an old man in lush vestments inscribed with strange golden runes, a huge bald Zimani in gold armor that appears to be a more elaborate version of what the imperial soldiers are wearing, and a small, thin woman in simple black robes, her hands tucked into her long dagged sleeves.
“Do you know anything about this summons?” Belav asks in a voice barely above a whisper, leaning even closer to Auxilia.
The matriarch shrugs, her dress of iridescent feathers rustling. “As much as you, I’m sure. There are rumors that he’s coming today to settle some matter with her.”
I catch Belav’s quick glance at the silent, robed woman standing on the tier above us. She has an ageless, unlined face and hair cut so short it barely reaches her ears. I want to ask who she is, but I also remember the anger I stirred up last time I dared to speak in the patriarch’s presence.
“That would be interesting,” Belav mutters, returning his gaze to the court.
Something is happening down there. A moment ago it was a raucous tumult of loud conversations and laughter, but now, starting from the back, it seems to be falling quiet.
“He’s here,” Auxilia murmurs, so softly I think she’s speaking to herself.
My eyes scan the crowd, and soon I find what has drawn everyone’s attention. Four beautiful Zimani women are walking in lockstep towards the tiered dais where the emperor waits, two in front and two behind. Each is dressed in a color I’d associate with the dawn: red and yellow and orange and the pale pink that gilds the clouds just when the sun begins to wake. I’ve seen them before – these are the women who stood on the walls of Zim when our caravan first approached the gates. The Daughters of the Prophet.
And standing in their midst must be the Prophet himself. Ever since Auxilia told me that he shared my silver eyes I’ve entertained the thought that perhaps he is the one who visited me that night in the mucker’s barracks. But this is not the case. That man – the one who claimed to be my brother – looked very much like me. The Prophet does not. He’s broad and barrel chested, and beneath his unremarkable brown robes I can see the hint of a belly. He has curly dark hair and a wild bristly beard marked with fingers of gray. He looks, to be honest, like a poor wandering mendicant.
As the four solemn-faced women and the Prophet approach the throne I try and get a look at his eyes. By the time he’s close enough that I can make out any details, he’s nearly to the first great step, and behind him the entire audience hall has fallen silent. It’s so quiet that I can hear only a faint hum, rising and falling. It sounds like it’s coming from the Daughters. It’s distracting, like an insect buzzing just out of sight.
His eyes. They are nearly lost beneath his heavy brows, but yes – they are like mine, though not as bright. A tarnished silver, almost gray, like the sky before a storm.
I realize after a moment that there’s another member of the Prophet’s entourage, trailing a few steps behind him, and I suck in my breath. It’s an alethian, like the lizard man I fought in Chale, towering head and shoulders over everyone else in the audience chamber. The one I killed in the ring had been sheathed in green scales, but this one is as black as pitch, save for its slitted yellow eyes. There are other differences, as well – several of the curving head-spines of this alethian end in jagged stumps, and the long tail trailing behind it on the marble floor is oddly bent, as if it has been badly broken. The same sense of menace radiates from this one as well, though, and from the way the courtiers are drawing back it seems they feel this also.
The four Daughters stop at the edge of the first tier, spreading out in a line. The Prophet walks between them and then starts upon the steps. It’s so quiet now that I can hear the scuff of his shoes upon the carpet. The alethian also halts at the base of the dais, crossing its massive arms across its scaled chest, watching as the Prophet ascends towards where the emperor waits.
I study the man carefully as he passes the tier upon which the matriarchs and patriarchs stand. I’m hoping for some lightning bolt of recognition that will bring my memories flooding back, but nothing happens. He looks just like a tired old man, save for his intense, storm-gray eyes.
He stops upon the fourth tier. The humming below finally fades away, as if the Daughters are also interested in what transpires next. With the pained stiffness of an old man, the Prophet goes to his knees and bows his head before the throne.
“Rise,” says the Purple Emperor, and the Prophet pushes himself to his feet.
“Ezekal. You come before us today with a matter of some importance. A grievance, we have heard. Something that you believe the court should witness.”
Auxilia shifts beside me, and I can sense her interest. Whatever is happening, it is not a common occurrence.
“Yes, Your Grace,” replies the Prophet, and his deep voice sends a shiver down my spine. Just like the emperor, this is a man who expects to be obeyed. “I come with great and terrible news.”
Mutterings ripple through the court at this. No, not common at all.
“And what is it?” asks the emperor. His voice is calm, but he’s perched on the edge of the throne, his fingers curled tight around the armrests.
“Night comes!” the Prophet suddenly booms, and the watching nobles gasp. “The twilight of the world fades away. Darkness gathers!”
“The gods have spoken to you again?” I can hear the cracks of strain in the emperor’s question.
“They have! They say they have sent a favored daughter into this world, and that she is the only one who can convince them to hold back the end.”
“A daughter,” the emperor repeats uncertainly, peering down at the four women arrayed before his dais. “Does she stand here today?”
“Nay, Your Grace. She was stolen away when she first arrived.”
“By whom?”
“By me.”
Another gasp, as all eyes turn to the small robed woman who shares the same tier as the Prophet. She steps forward, keeping her hands inside her long sleeves.
The Prophet’s lip curls, but she ignores him, watching the emperor above them both.
“Abbess Zaria. Explain to us what you mean.”
“The one the false prophet refers to appeared in our midst some months ago, stepping out of an archway of rock set far beneath the monastery, among the ruins upon which the Umbra is built. She is our ward now, under our protection.”
“She is the emissary of the gods,” spits the Prophet angrily, his hands balled into fists.
The woman’s face is unreadable, and she is quiet for a long moment. “The gods are gone, and care no longer for us,” she finally says, which brings shouts of outrage from below.
&
nbsp; “They test us!” rejoins the Prophet fiercely, talking as much to the crowd as to the woman or the emperor. “And if we fail, we will be consigned to oblivion!”
More mutterings, and I can feel the mood of the court sharpening.
The emperor apparently feels it as well. “Silence,” he commands loudly, startling the great cat curled at his feet.
In the quiet that follows, I edge closer to Auxilia. “Who is that woman?” I whisper, careful to keep my voice low enough that Belav does not hear.
“She is the abbess of the Umbra,” the matriarch replies quietly. “The home of the xerin-tal - the shadowdancers of Zim.”
Shadowdancers. I remember Xela drawing clotted darkness from the shadows and molding it around herself. She’d spoken of the Umbra. And this woman is the leader of that order?
The emperor regains some measure of control. He turns to the Prophet again. “Ezekal. Are you certain?”
The old man nods. “I was told to wait for one such as her – a girl who can knit flesh and bone back together like the clerics of old.”
Valyra! Cold surprise floods me. They are speaking about Valyra!
“A healer?” the emperor asks, interest pushing aside his anger.
“As the blessed of the gods once were,” the Prophet says, sketching a quick circle in the air.
“The girl knows nothing of our gods,” the abbess interjects. “She does have strange powers, this I can attest to, but if she was chosen by the divine they forgot to impart their message. She believes her . . . abilities . . . come from something else.”
“I must counsel her,” the Prophet entreats the emperor. “I must make her understand. I have waited two hundred years for her, and I cannot let her languish in the care of this . . . creature and her foul disciples.”
“She belongs to the Umbra,” the abbess states calmly.
