by C. M. Hayden
As Nima, Vexis, and Kadia entered, Dr. Halric was already inside, speaking to the assembled lords. He looked impressive with the cityscape behind him, and the lords were leaning in on their chairs as if they couldn’t believe what he was telling him. Prince Lethen was decidedly less impressive, just slightly older than Nima, and he looked small and insignificant.
“My lords, the law is clear and immutable,” Halric said, ushering Nima and the others to sit in three of the open chairs on the long table.
Vexis’ siblings, Cecil and Sura, were already there, and they stared daggers into Vexis as she sat. Vexis didn’t seem particularly disturbed by their presence, and turned her chair around and sat on it backwards, resting her elbows on the table.
While Halric spoke, Nima looked around at the council. Comprised of Lords Paramount of over twenty Helian cities and fiefs, it once served as the supreme council to the Emperor. Of course, the Shahl had long ago seen to it that any lords openly contemptuous of his rule were excised. Those that remained were, at least in public, loyal to the Shahl.
While Nima stared, musing, all eyes turned toward her, and she realized someone had said her name.
“Sorry,” she said. “What was that?”
One of the councilors, Lord Folsom, repeated the question. “Could you describe for us the events in the Dragon Wastelands.” He glanced contemptuously at Halric. “In your own words, my lady.”
Nima fumbled for a moment, quickly gathering her story. “Well, when we found out that Praxis had kidnapped His Lordship, Vexis and I went to rescue him.” She swallowed nervously. “We, eh, we got there too late, though. He was dead when we arrived.”
Lord Folsom muttered something to the lord beside him, then spoke to everyone. “Why would Praxis do such a thing to his own father?”
Folsom was Lord Paramount of Alkesh. He was a portly, beady-eyed man that reminded Vexis of a peacock. His short beard was tied into curls, and he always wore an array of gaudy armor over his fat belly—as if the man had ever seen a fight in his life.
Halric slowly circled the table, all eyes fixed on him. He didn’t hurry through his words, rather he spoke each with slow care and deliberateness. “It’s no secret that Mr. Praxis was eager to assume his father’s mantle. Upon returning to the city and inspecting my stores, I found this.” He held up an empty vial with a white label on the front. “This is essence of Dreroot. In too high a dosage, it can render a man unconscious for hours. I believe Praxis stole this and used it to drug his father, dragging his body out into the desert to dispose of him.”
“Well,” Lord Folsom said. “We must hear the boy’s account of things, of course.”
Halric stopped directly behind him, and placed his hands on the back of Folsom’s chair. “I’m afraid that is impossible, my lord. Inquisitor Praxis is no longer with us.”
A man on the opposite side of the table spoke. He was Lord Ricarn, Archcleric of Nir Daras. “Dead…?”
“I’m afraid so,” Halric said. A thunder of mutters and whispers started, but Halric quieted the lords down before it could get too out of hand. “This isn’t a time for bickering. We must project strength and unity, or else Helia will fall into chaos.”
Another lord, Kaster, spoke next. “We’ve made enemies of the Sun King and the dragonkin. Both might see his death as a chance to attack now.” He was a greasy, hard-faced man with slick hair. Even sitting down, he was taller than Nima was standing. With his pale face and sharp cheekbones, he looked like a walking corpse. “We can’t risk having an untested child as emperor.”
“Are you suggesting we ignore the laws of succession?” Folsom asked.
“Not at all,” Kaster said, “merely that we...postpone them. I’m sure Prince Lethen is a fine young man, but we’re facing the prospect of a war on two fronts. Other kingdoms feared Valros. Now that that fear is gone, we need to project strength above all else.”
“I agree with Lord Kaster,” Ricarn said. “We should appoint a temporary regent to lead the war effort. The matter of Prince Lethen’s claim can be settled after the threat has passed.”
“It seems to be the right course,” Lord Sarinel said. He was the most imposing man in the room, broad-shouldered and clad in functional plate armor that had seen battle. Until now, he’d been quietly observing the proceedings, sipping from his goblet.
While the lords bickered, Nima’s eyes stayed glued to Vexis. Vexis’ eyes glanced from lord to lord, and her expression grew more irritated with each man that spoke. Finally, Vexis stood abruptly, pushing her chair to the side and moving to stand beside Prince Lethen.
When Vexis spoke, there was nothing but raw contempt in her voice. First, she spoke to Lethen directly, but she was so loud that the words were clearly meant for everyone to hear. “Do you hear that, Lethy? Listen closely to these sniveling, back-handed traitors.”
“Excuse me?” Lord Folsom said, glaring at Vexis contemptuously.
“No, I don’t think I will excuse you,” Vexis said. She moved around the table, brushing the flat of her hand against the back of the lords’ chairs. “And those of you who are loyal to Helia shouldn’t either. This isn’t a vote. This isn’t a choice. The law is clear, and every Helian citizen knows it. If you oppose Lethen’s ascension, you’re a traitor, pure and simple.”
“Lady Vexis,” Folsom said, seeming to backtrack slightly. “We’re merely trying to ascertain what’s best for the nation. All of us are loyal citizens of—”
“Bullshit,” Vexis interrupted. “You’re puppets strung up by my father to give people the illusion of a functional government. Now, guess what? My father is dead. And good riddance to him.”
Sura and Cecil stirred in their seats, their eyes looking toward Dr. Halric, who simply waved them into keeping their mouths shut.
“What?” Vexis snapped. “You know I’m right. All of you do. You’re just too set in your ways, still afraid the Shahl’s ghost will come up and hang you for speaking the truth. The Shahl was not a great man. The Shahl was not a wise ruler. The Shahl was a despot, a dictator, a pretender that ruled through lies and deceit. Everything he ever did, he did for himself.”
Despite Halric’s insistence that Sura and Cecil keep quiet, Sura spoke up. “And how does that make him any different from you?” she blurted out.
Vexis didn’t miss a beat. “I never said I was any different. But, then again, I’m not the one who’s going to be Emperor. But the Shahl didn’t protect Helia. Stop pussyfooting around that fact. We’re better off with him six feet under.” She gestured to Lethen. “This is Lethen Rutharan. He has the support of the Inquisitors, of the farseers, of the law, and soon the people. He will be emperor. Let those who deny it speak now, so we know who the traitors are.”
This seemed to get to the lords. Each of them visibly tensed, looking nervously at one another. And out of the corner of Nima’s eye, Dr. Halric smiled devilishly.
Chapter Five
A Call to Arms
In the latest hours of night, when most sensible people had gone home, Taro sat and listened to the turnings of the Magisterium. Hidden away in a random corner of the twenty-first floor, he was well and truly alone, with only the clicking and scraping of the tower’s mechanisms to keep him company.
He’d never been in the Magisterium so late, and had never just sat and listened. Listened to the clink of gears grinding across railing, to the sputtering sounds of rearranging walkways, to the hiss and cry of hot steam rushing through pipes along the walls.
It was only after four hours of listening that he began to hear strange patterns hidden in the noise. What once seemed random now seemed to have some sort of chaotic pattern, too deep and complex for a normal person to decipher. But it was there, like a splinter in the back of Taro’s mind. He focused on the pattern like one focuses on the flames of a campfire. He wrapped himself in the sounds, hoping to d
istract his mind for just one more moment.
Every second he thought about the sounds was another second he didn’t have to think about his dead father.
About his missing sister.
About his broken family.
And in those brief, terrifying moments of silence, he felt it all rush back into him—all the fear, loathing, and hatred that threatened to consume his mind. Just as his thoughts were drifting back into despair, he heard a sound that didn’t belong: footsteps. They were followed by a familiar voice calling his name, softly, like one calls for a wounded animal.
“Taro?” Kyra’s voice echoed through the corridors.
Taro’s muscles clenched, his throat went dry, and for a long moment he considered letting her pass. However, before her voice got out of range, he willed himself to call back to her. His voice sounded weak and hoarse, but her footsteps changed direction and neared where he hid.
His hiding place was little more than an alcove set between two steel pipes about an arm’s length around. Tucked inside as he was, he could’ve stayed there until he died and never be found. Kyra ducked under a pipe and joined him inside. She was as lovely as ever, with reddish-blonde hair tied back into a ponytail. She wore her magister’s uniform with slight modifications for her work in the Artificium: her sleeves were pulled to her upper arms, and she’d tied off some of the buckles to keep them from coming loose on the machinery. She smelled like oil, iron, and gasoline. Even after everything that happened between them, he still found her to be flawless. She was a ray of sunshine amidst the chaos of his life.
However, in that moment, she was little more than a distraction from the ghostly pattern he was trying to hear.
Kyra was silent for a long moment, hesitating several times before finding her words. “Taro, I—”
“Shhh,” Taro interrupted, raising two fingers. He realized how he must’ve looked: hair disheveled, hiding in a random corner. She must’ve thought he’d gone stark mad. Nevertheless, he bulled ahead. “Hear that?”
Kyra listened for a moment, then shook her head. “Hear what?”
Taro cleared his throat and leaned forward, the first full-bodied motion he’d done in hours. “Piper Crissom once told me there was a pattern to the tower. It’s not truly random. He said he’d mapped it out.”
“A lot of recruits say that. Some of it’s predictable, but there’s still quite a bit of randomness.”
“No,” Taro said adamantly. “It’s all happening exactly as it was meant to. Every click. Every tick. Every turn. Set down thousands of years ago, completely out of our control.” His eyes locked onto hers. “Do you get what I mean?”
Kyra looked a bit uncomfortable, and didn’t answer. Instead, she placed her hand on his. “Your mother came to the Registrar yesterday. She was looking for you.”
Taro rubbed his fingers together in a nervous tick. “I can’t face her right now.”
Kyra’s face was a mask of concern. “You can’t hide like this forever, Taro.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“What do you call this, then?” She gestured at the alcove.
He peered up with a dangerous look in his eyes. “Planning.”
“Planning what?”
“I’m going after her,” Taro said, a mote of deadly seriousness in his eyes. “I’m going after Vexis.”
Kyra sighed. “This isn’t something you can do on your own, Taro. Listen, my father is meeting with the Curia right now. They’re going to summon the reserves.”
“Reserves?”
Almost in response to this, Taro felt a strong heat coming from the gold aurom around his neck. He slipped it out of his shirt and saw that it was pulsing and hot to the touch.
Kyra answered Taro’s question before he even had a chance to ask it. “It’s a call to return home. Any artificer or magister is an officer for life. Even if they leave, or get dispensation to travel, the Sun King can recall them.”
Taro thought about this for a good long minute. “You said they’re meeting now?”
“Should be just starting, oh six hundred.”
Taro stood and offered Kyra his hand. “Then let’s go.”
“Just like that?” Kyra asked, looking at his hand, but not taking it.
Taro made a grim face, nodding. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
_____
The Curial chambers were as Taro remembered them: a huge, rounded room with an ornate marble floor flourished in gold leaflet. In the back was the Sun King’s throne, towering over the rest of the short stone benches where members of the Curia sat. Along the sides was a mezzanine with standing room that was rarely used, except when the Curia was especially packed. This was such an occasion. Even the normally clear center area above the sun emblem on the floor was packed with people.
Every magister, general, and high-ranking courtier was present: General Gavin, Lord Fenris, Magister Veldheim, and Imperator Briego, alongside a hundred others, all fighting for attention.
Taro and Kyra entered together, Taro limping a few paces behind her. He was still a bit battered from the rough escape out of Helia, though the Arclight had healed most of the surface damage almost instantly.
The Sun King was faring well, though even after being exposed to the Arclight for several days he looked a bit too pale for an Endran. He had a bronze walking stick leaning beside his armrest and was pointedly listening to his advisors bicker.
“If this isn’t worth a war, what is?” General Gavin asked. He looked to the Sun King, taking a single step onto the dais. “Your Majesty, calling the magisters back is a necessary step, but the banners in the south need to be ready. Solis Enor must be ready to fight beside the north.”
Fenris, the pinch-faced master solicitor, was leafing through a leather-bound ledger. “The kingdom can scarcely afford a prolonged conflict. We’re still deeply indebted to Celosa by—”
“Debt will be the least of our worries if Helia is mounting a full-scale assault,” Gavin interrupted. His voice was strong and stern, but he seemed weary from arguing, and more than slightly annoyed at Fenris’ obstinacy. “We’ll send out a levy, take out what loans we need from the Trust and Celosa Edûn. Survival has to be our priority.”
“There’s no proof an attack is coming,” Lord Fenris said dismissively. “Helia is licking its wounds, and it would take months to march an army from Helia to here, not to mention our defenses on the border. Besides, Endra and Helia have been at peace for many decades, why attack now? I tell you, the Shahl was many things, but not suicidal.”
“They kidnapped our king. What benefit was there in that?” Gavin asked.
Magister Briego stood, and the conversation calmed a bit as he fumbled to find his words. “We need more information. Reports out of Helia are worse than they’ve ever been. Some say the Shahl is dead. If that’s true, the power vacuum alone could plunge their nation into chaos. We simply don’t know enough to proceed. Attacking could unify the Lords Paramount, turn them into an even great threat.”
The Sun King nodded. He’d been listening intently, leaning forward slightly on his throne with his fingertips tapping together. “I agree, we need more information.”
General Gavin looked like he wanted to interrupt, but remained silent.
“However, we won’t be caught off guard again,” the Sun King continued. “The magisterial summon stands. All magisters and artificers are to return to Endra Edûn and make ready for battle, regardless of age, sex, or condition.” He motioned toward Gavin. “General, send couriers to the southern houses.” He glanced at the tiny man in the corner who was taking notes of everything said during the meeting. “Take note.” The scribe dipped his quill in an inkwell and looked up expectantly.
The Sun King stood. “I, Godrin Termane, King of Endra and High Lord of Solis Enor, order all southern lords to
battle. All banners are called. All able-bodied men and strong lads are to be made battle-ready.”
General Gavin breathed a sigh of profound relief. “I received word from Lord Commander Landen and Lord Cassin. They’ll arrive in Endra Edûn this very night.”
“I’d expect nothing less,” the Sun King said. “How many men can we muster along the Helian border?”
“Eight hundred within a fortnight, three thousand within the month,” Gavin said without hesitation, as if he’d already thought out the battle plans well in advance.
There was a strange unease in the Curia; Fenris seemed especially unsettled, and his gaze shifted around the room until finally ending on the Sun King himself. “There is a matter of feeding and paying such an army, Your Majesty,” he said carefully.
“Order the levy,” the Sun King said. “And instruct the farmlands to start growing surplus as soon as possible. Beans, chickpeas, hearty foods. Work with General Gavin, and trust to your judgement otherwise.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Fenris said, though it was clear he did not agree.
Magister Briego was conspicuously silent during the proceedings. Considering he was Imperator, this was strange, but anyone who knew the man knew he was no tactician. What was readily apparent to Taro was just how unprepared Endra was for war. It made sense, as this was the first conflict the kingdom truly had to prepare for in decades—Sun King Godrin had never had to fight a war.
With magic on their side, Endra was usually safe by virtue of their reputation alone. No foreign nation wanted to pit their soldiers against magisters.
There was a great deal more discussion after this: topics like supply lines, the size and scope of the upcoming levies, which commanders would control which battalion and how many magisters would accompany them.
