Blood of the Emperor (18 page)

Ethis stared up at the Queen’s face. “He is not tamed, my Queen.”

“Ah!” Chythal nodded. She released her hold on him, rising to stand next to the bed facing him. “And now for the last few days we have heard the most alarming tales of a cunning chimerian on the back of this untamed beast which my advisers tell me is only a myth and cannot possibly exist. Worse, every time we have sent our other sons out to where these strange stories have originated, this mysterious chimerian and his nonexistent monstrous mount have vanished…rushed into the night only to suddenly appear at a completely different place in my lands. I have dispatched members of my D’reth to be scattered everywhere across loyalist lands and in places no longer friendly to me in the hopes of catching up to this elusive phantom of a son and his dragon. If he had only stayed in one place long enough, he might even have been discovered.”

Ethis closed his eyes and sighed.

“So, my Ethis,” the Queen asked. “What drives a son of the D’reth so madly to every corner of my land?”

Ethis opened his eyes and sat up on the edge of the bed. “A desperate hope, Your Majesty. Tell me, how fares the war against the southern families?”

Queen Chythal frowned, folding the upper set of her arms across her chest. “You find me holding court in Emaro Nol; does that alone
not tell you how badly our armies are failing and our lands being lost? I have not ruled from the courts of my ancestors in more than a year, Ethis. Salashei, Pashorei, Whylin, and Surthal…they were only the beginning of the disease that has infected our people. One by one the families of the south have been intoxicated by the heady drug of elven magic. Those loyal to us are either forced to withdraw before their magical onslaughts or fall prey to the temptations the elves’ Aether offers in granting them their darker desires. They have bound themselves willingly in the golden chains of elven magic and count themselves rich in their captivity.”

“But, my Queen, what if our nation could be rid of this elven magic?” Ethis asked, looking up earnestly. “What if the temptation of this power could be removed? What if the warriors of the southern families were no longer supported by the Aether flowing from Rhonas?”

Chythal stood perfectly still, considering the impact of Ethis’ words before she spoke. “The southern families would collapse without the support of the Rhonas magic. The nation would be one. The family would be one. Is such a miracle possible?”

“I know of a man—a human—who could make such a thing possible,” Ethis replied. “He has gathered an army in the north. They are a nation apart. Their warriors are twenty thousand strong and growing—manticores, gnomes, goblins, many humans, and even many from the family of Ephindria. I have seen their warriors destroy Aether Wells and render them useless even to the elves.”

“And why would this human fight for the Queen of Ephindria?”

“He won’t,” Ethis said.

“Then why…”

“My Queen,” Ethis interrupted, knowing that he was only one of a handful of Ephindrians who could do so and remain alive. “This human will fight for his people just as his people will only fight for him. They all will fight for one thing: land that they can call their own.”

“They are a nation without land?” Chythal scoffed.

“They are a nation in search of a land,” Ethis offered. “I believe I can convince this human to rid Ephindria of the Rhonas magic in exchange for a land of their own. I believe it is within the power of the Queen of Ephindria to grant this.”

“This nation seeks land but I have none of my own to spare them,” Chythal said, shaking her head.

“But if the southern families fall,” Ethis responded. “Then the nation will be one.”

“You say this human has an army at his disposal and that his people have the power to rob my enemies of the Rhonas magic?” Chythal asked to confirm what Ethis had told her. “Well, if this human and his landless nation are willing to fight our battles for our mutual benefit and give me back my land then perhaps I can spare a little of it in return.”

“That hope has driven me to find you,” Ethis nodded.

“Will this work, Ethis?”

He could hear both the uncertainty and the longing in her voice as she asked the question. “Can he bring down the Rhonas magic that is poisoning our people?”

“I believe he can, Your Majesty,” Ethis said. “But for it to work, I must return to this human and convince him at once of this plan—for there are those who would take him down paths that will ensure the doom of our nation. And, above all, I will need to grant him a favor from the Queen of Ephindria.”

“What boon do you ask, Ethis?”

“I need you to permit the impermissible,” Ethis said. “I need your consent to their nation passing through Ephindria.”

Chythal’s eyes widened. The storm sounds had come back to her voice. “Our borders are closed. No outsiders have been permitted since the elves infected our people with their magic!”

“Nevertheless,” Ethis insisted. “If any of us are to survive, you must open the Mournful Road.”

Imperial Utterance

T
HE EMPEROR OF RHONAS SAT in serene stillness on his throne, his eyes fixed in a tranquil gaze across the private audience chamber of his Cloud Palace, seemingly oblivious to the war of words being conducted at his feet.

The chamber, known as the Whispering Hall, was an oval room at the boundaries of the Emperor’s regal private suite of fifty-seven rooms. It was nearly thirty feet from the entrance doors to where the Emperor’s throne rested atop a raised dais in front of seven frosted glass panels etched with the figures representing the first seven Emperors. The walls were a smooth rise of twelve feet to a sculpted crown supporting a domed ceiling of cerulean blue ornamented with golden stars. The chamber was not nearly so grand in comparison to the enormity of the Emperor’s Court, where official state business was conducted and the general proceedings took place but those grand affairs were largely meant to make public the decisions that had previously been concluded in the Whispering Hall. It was in this room that most of the actual business of the Empire had been conducted down through the years out of the troublesome earshot of the rest of the Imperial Court. This was because the room had one unique characteristic from which it derived its name: the acoustics of the room were such that anyone sitting on the fixed throne could hear even the quietest conversation within its boundaries with perfect clarity.

The Emperor remained immobile and impassive. He was a tall elf and strong beyond his years. The fringe of his white hair cascaded far down his back and, as always, had been brushed to a brilliant luster. His face had prominent cheekbones that gave him a skull-like appearance despite his long, prominent nose. His eyes were featureless black as were those of all elves but there was a quality to them that suggested they were watching everywhere at once. His sharp teeth remained hidden behind a determinedly serene and inscrutable half-smile. It had been said of him that he could accomplish more through his silences than most citizens of the Third Estate could accomplish in a year of talking.

Of those present, he alone was seated. There were chairs set against the walls on the right and left of the room facing each other, intended for those currently in audience with the Emperor though none of them were in use. Almost all of the courtiers in the room were on their feet in heated exchange.

The single exception stood next to the Emperor, statuesque in her long red gown, her narrow, pale hand resting on the back of the Emperor’s throne.

Shebin, too, was serenely watching the fray.

“We must continue to maintain our Legions in Lyrania!” Ch’kar Meinok, the Ghenetar Praetus of the Nekara proclaimed. Praetus Meinok was an unusually broad-shouldered elf whose nose looked as though it had been pressed against his flat face. He, like the two other Ghenetar Praetus in the room, had worn his ceremonial armor to the audience with the Emperor with three purposes in mind; to honor the Emperor, to establish his authority with everyone else in the room, and to protect himself should the other two Ghenetar Praetus summoned to the council decide to escalate their disagreements to more direct persuasion. “The threat of the Lyranian rebels in that region has not diminished and withdrawing those forces could invite the Lyranian elves to bolder action. Beside, these warriors are simply not needed. You people talk about these rebels in the north as though they were actually of some concern!”

“They completely slaughtered the Legion of the Northern Fist,” countered Ormai Betjarian. He was the Ghenetar Praetus of the Vash and, like the other Ghenetar Praetus in the room, the liaison to the
Emperor’s court for his own order, the Vash. He had a wide mouth that displayed his sharp teeth prominently when he spoke. He was gifted with words but those he spoke today were largely at the direction of his immediate superior, Ghenetar Omris Sjei-Shurian. “This was not some matched contest in the arena, Ch’kar! This was a full strength and supported Imperial Legion with superior numbers and field position that took on an inferior mixed force of manticores, chimerians, and the gods alone know what other rabble and were not just defeated but slaughtered down to a single warrior.”

“Because of this Drakis!” inserted Tsukon Keiloi. He wore the draped purple robes of a senior Minister of Conquest though thanks to his repeated hand gestures he seemed to constantly be getting tangled in them. He had an elegantly long face and the tips of his pointed ears nearly touched the sides of his elongated skull. He was considered handsome by elven standards, an accident of birth that had helped his meteoric rise at the Ministry at the young age of fifty-six. “All the Northern Conquests are chattering about this human named Drakis fulfilling a prophecy and threatening the Empire with vengeance he brings from their ancient gods.”

“The human gods are dead,” scoffed Pakhar Kilan-soi, the fat Associate Minister of War. “We killed them centuries ago!”

“There were no human gods on the field of battle at Willow Vale,” Praetus Betjarian said, shaking his long head. “That was no myth that obliterated our Legion!”

“
Your
Legion!” snapped Ghenetar Praetus Wei Ch’Kal. The warriors of the Krish Order of battle had no love for their fellow warriors of the Vash. “It was your Legion that was obliterated. I’ve read the battle reports from the archives—not those official releases, mind you—and interviewed your survivor myself though it took some doing to find him. Next time you try to declare one of your living warriors to have died, you might think of killing him before he can be discovered.”

The corners of Shebin’s mouth rose in an almost smile.

“What is your point, Wei Ch’Kal?” growled the Vash Praetus.

“My point is that none of you understand the real danger in the north,” answered the Praetus of the Krish. “Your Legion set up for its attack with classic deployment and tactics against a ridiculously weak opposing force. It should barely have rated a victory worthy of writing
in the War Journals. But in the middle of routing your enemy and pressing him back against the sea, the Legion advance dissolved and the Legion disintegrated completely!”

“The Aether failed completely!” Praetus Betjarian’s face had grown even paler in his anger. “The Devotions of the Impress Warriors failed…the folds failed…the connection to the Proxis failed…”

“That was a failure of the Myrdin-dai to properly supply the Legion with Aether!” chimed in Tertiaran Master Kyori-Xiuchi of the Occuran. “That would never have happened had my Order been given rightful authority to administer the folds and distribution of Aether to the Northern Provinces…”

“Your hindsight is clearer than your reasoning,” snorted Minister Pakhar.

“The Aether distribution failed simultaneously all across the Northern Provinces at once,” Minister Tsukon Keiloi affirmed. “Nothing in the experience of either the Occuran or the Myrdin-dai could have prevented it. Neither Order even considered it a possibility.”

“Which is why I am urging that we avoid haste in addressing this northern threat,” said Praetus Wei. “We are facing a threat to the Empire the extent of whose power we do not fully understand.”

“You would have us cower under our bunks while an army descends upon us?” Minister Pakhar sneered.

“I would rather we showed more forethought in our deployment,” countered the Krish commander. “The Vash have uprooted their eastern army—four Legions—from their postings along the Thetis shores and have them marshaling at Shellsea. They’ve also asked that we pull three Legions from our Army of the Imperial South and marshal them to Tjarlas—on the northern borders of the Empire!”

“As the mighty Ch’Kal so aptly points out,” Praetus Betjarian interrupted, “We do not know the strength of our enemy in the Northern Provinces! Better that we should use an excess of force and crush this rebellion at once.”

“But you’ve also asked for three additional Legions from the Nekara,” complained Praetus Meinok. “This leaves our western frontier badly exposed against both Chronasis and Mestophia…let alone that Murialis witch.”

“This war against these traitorous slaves will be swiftly accomplished,”
Praetus Betjarian insisted. “The general plan is simple. We rally all our armies north of Tjarlas. The Occuran assure me that the Northmarch Folds are now open and reliable. They have also assured me of their support in conveying our combined armies to the Northmarch Provinces. Then, using scouts and Proxis we will advance the armies abreast up the Shadow Coast. We’ll deploy the Nekara forces on the eastern side to guard the borders of the Shrouded Plain…”