Blood of the Emperor (7 page)

“Who am I, Urulani?” Drakis asked, gazing into the reflection as he spoke with unmeasured sadness in his voice.

Her footfalls in the gravel stopped nearby.

The face in his reflection did not change nor did it grow any more familiar to him.

“Who am I?” Drakis demanded, his voice rough and loud.

“You are Drakis,” Urulani responded quietly. “You are the Man of the Prophecy.”

“No.
That
man, perhaps,” Drakis said angrily as he pointed at the reflection in the still water. “That illusion that they have created out of me…
that
is the Man of the Prophecy. They built him out of their dreams, wove him out of their suffering, and breathed life into him from their own dead legends. He’s a phantom that they dressed up in this ridiculous cloak so that wherever he walks among the encampment the men, women, and children will all see his costume and know that the Man of the Prophecy has returned. They will know that he is real and hope will rise in their hearts that he will lead them to some paradise where every evil ever done to them will be avenged and their suffering will have meaning.”

Mala’s face pleaded with him from the depths of the pool. “There is a temple…on top of that rise…and a tower there—or there used to be a tower. I knew about the drakoneti attacking in Pythar before it happened. I knew about the river that brought us to the Ambeth before anyone.

I know how the key was hidden and I know…I know where it is, Drakis. Please, please believe me this one time.”

Drakis felt his legs grow suddenly weak beneath him. He fell to his knees at the edge of the pool.

Mala’s face held a soft smile. Her red hair fell about her face but there was peace in her countenance that he had not seen since the Devotions had been broken. “One way or another…we are all going home.”

Drakis gripped the edge of the reflecting pool, his knuckles white. He threw back his head, his mouth open wide, his lungs dragging in the air to fill his chest.

The cry that erupted from his throat was from the depths of his soul. Drakis felt suddenly detached from it, observing it as the wretched sound vomited up the pain, despair, loss, anger, and outrage that overwhelmed him. Again and again he drew the air into his lungs and screamed his fury at the heavens, tears streaming freely down his face. He felt his sanity unraveling, as though he wanted to surrender himself to the madness of his raw emotions in his grief and find release from rational thought, contemplation, and regret.

Mala is dead because of that man in the reflection…that pretender…that hideous delusion…that monster that I cannot stop…

Two long, dark hands touched him and called him back.

Two willowy, dark arms wrapped around his shoulders and calmed his grief.

“Peace, Drakis,” Urulani said in soothing tones. “Peace.”

“Peace? What peace?” Drakis shuddered under her hands. “She’s gone!”

“Yes, she is gone,” Urulani said softly. “I saw her go. I was there.”

“I wasn’t there. I
should
have been there! If I had been there…” Drakis’ voice trailed off then he continued. “She’s gone, Urulani. Where did she go?”

“Home, Drakis,” Urulani said. “In the end she said she was going home. Please believe me when I tell you that is true.”

“What home?” Drakis scoffed.

“A better home,” she said. “A home far away.”

“The gods again,” Drakis hung his head, the bitter laugh catching
in his throat. “If they do exist, then I must be their greatest amusement…their most tortured plaything.”

“Or their greatest weapon,” Urulani said. “The best blades are forged in the hottest of fires, Drakis. You know this…and the gods know you. I did not believe it before we walked among the fallen Citadels but I know it now.”

“Don’t you see? Don’t you understand?” Drakis shuddered again, gritting his teeth as he fought for control. “This isn’t
me
. I’m not the man everyone wants me to be—some champion of the gods who will fix everything that has gone wrong in their lives. I can’t even fix what’s wrong in my
own
life! And the gods are only laughing, Urulani…at their joke of a hero.”

Urulani pulled him up by his shoulders, setting him to kneel upright. Then, leaving her steadying hand on one shoulder, she moved around him. She crouched down in front of him, taking his face in both her elegant, long hands and lifting his chin so that he looked into her dark eyes.

“Listen to me, Drakis,” Urulani said, her gaze locked with his. “Whoever you believe yourself to be—this legendary Drakis is real. Maybe he isn’t you. Maybe he is just a dream or an idea. Maybe he’s out there right now walking the Vestasian Savanna or the Northern Steppes of Chaenandria. I don’t know. All I know is that whatever and whoever the Man of the Prophecy is…the Drakis that all these people look to that they might be free again…
you
have to be him right here and right now.”

Drakis shook his head, defiance in the set of his jaw.

“I believe in Drakis,” Urulani said, her lips quivering slightly as she spoke. “And I believe in you, whoever you are. I believe the gods did send you…and in the end, Mala believed it, too.”

“One way or another…we are all going home.”

Drakis blinked, his eyes suddenly bright and focused. It suddenly had become so clear to him as though he had known it all along but had refused to see it.

Slowly, he got to his feet.

“So, the gods want a show, do they?” Drakis said, drawing in a ragged breath. His lips split into a strange grin. “Then by all means let us give them a performance to end all performances.”

Urulani gazed up at him, her large eyes narrowing. “Drakis, what do you mean?”

“I mean to give everyone the Drakis they deserve,” he replied, still grinning. “Perhaps even a good deal more. When does the War Council meet again?”

“At dusk tonight,” Urulani answered, trying to look into Drakis’ eyes as she stood. She could not fathom the sudden change in him.

“Is Soen still asking to see me?” Drakis continued.

“Yes,” Urulani nodded, folding her arms across her chest. “In fact, Ethis has been asking me all day to arrange a meeting between you and the elf.”

“Of course,” Drakis nodded. “Tell Ethis that I will meet with the Iblisi no later than noon today…in Xakzaz’s Warehouse.”

Urulani shook her head. “I’m not sure which…”

“It’s the third warehouse on the right outside Trader’s Gate,” Drakis said. “Promise me you’ll do it.”

“I will,” Urulani said, “but you have to promise me something in return.”

“Do I?”

“Promise you will attend the War Council tonight.”

“Why?”

“The council is tearing itself apart,” Urulani said, her eyes fixed on his face. “Everything they have fought for—everything Mala fought for—will become meaningless unless you step forward and lead these people.”

“To whatever end?” Drakis asked.

“To whatever end,” Urulani replied.

Deliberations

S
JEI-SHURIAN, GHENETAR OMRIS OVER the Order of Vash, winced as the muffled roar of the crowd sounded overhead.

Will these games never end?
he thought.

Fine sand drifted down into the vast space beneath the northwest end of the Great Circus. It had originally been constructed as a cistern to hold water for mock naval battles. Emperor Rhonas Suchas had ordered the Circus constructed for the purpose two hundred and thirty-seven years before in order to commemorate the destruction of the Manticorian Fleets in the Battle of the Meducean Straits. They had been used once and then the Circus was converted back to the more traditional display of gladiatorial battles and warrior races. But the old cistern remained, the fitted stones of the floor long dry and the columns rising to arches thirty feet overhead to support the westernmost end of the Circus.

Again, the muffled cheers of the crowd above reverberated between the columns and into the darkness that veiled the distant walls. Fine sand sifted down from the arched ceiling above. It drifted down between the six globes of light that floated about the small cluster of elves as they waited listlessly in the forgotten darkness.

Let them cheer, the fools.
They have no idea what is coming.
Sjei, the elder elf warrior, commander of Legions, scowled at the four other elves standing with him. Kyori-Xiuchi, the Tertiaran Master of the
Occuran looked decidedly uncomfortable, constantly mopping his elongated head. The precipitous fall from Imperial favor of the Myrdin-dai—rivals of the Occuran for control of the essence of magic—had restored Kyori’s status at court but it was a question as to how long that favor might last. Liau Nyenjei and Ch’dak Vaijan, the Ministers of Thought and Law respectively, both had their arms crossed tightly; the tips of their long ears were quivering noticeably. Each looked as though he would have preferred to be anywhere but with this company. Worst of them all was Arikasi Tjen-soi, the elven Minister of Occupation who fidgeted with his robes constantly and could not seem to keep still.

The cheering resounded above once again, shaking the stones and the air in this hidden cistern.

Keep cheering,
Sjei admonished grimly in his mind.
There may come a time when your cheers will be needed and all your fervor put to the test. There may come a time when the games you play are no longer confined to the arena and the Circus and the blood being spilled is no longer that of someone else. Then we shall ask you why you no longer cheer or are amused.

“Where is she?” Arikasi barked through his carefully sharpened teeth. “Bad enough that we must hold our sessions outside of ‘Majority House’ in this gods-forsaken place but that we should have to wait for the woman at all is intolerable!”

“She’ll come when she can,” Kyori snapped back. “She is now the chosen daughter of the Imperial Glory. She has her duties to perform…”

“As do we all,” Liau Nyenjei grumbled. “The Devotional alterations alone to keep this quiet have been…”

The muffled roar above rose in a sudden crescendo drowning out Liau’s words and forcing him to stop speaking. Sjei lifted up his head, listening carefully. The noise did not die down immediately but gradually subsided. “There! She will join us shortly. Then we can more properly begin.”

“I do not see why she needs to be included in this deliberation, let alone this decision,” said Ch’dak Vaijan. “She was our excuse for our actions…not the crafter of our policy.”

“She is to be included for the same reason that she was initiated
into our Order,” Sjei said as though it were a fact. “She is the ward of the Emperor, his chosen daughter and, as such, has become our best eyes and ears regarding the Imperial Will—and how we may not so much shape as reinterpret that will to our advantage. That has been the purpose of the Modalis down through its centuries of existence; to quietly influence the interpretation of the Emperor’s utterances to our mutual profit and that of the Empire on the whole. Each of you comes from a different position in government—each of you brings your own unique talents and powers of influence to our collective. How better to accomplish our designs than to bring into our confidence the woman who now has the Emperor’s eye and heart? It was most fortunate that there was an open seat on our council…”

The cheers overhead had not stopped and suddenly they surged once again. Each member of the Modalis looked up as the sifting dust settled around them.

“She is popular with the Fourth Estate,” Liau acknowledged.

“She is dangerous,” Ch’dak said quietly. “She could be difficult to control and if she decided to turn against us…”

The noise of the cheering escalated as a square column of light suddenly cascaded down the long stair at the far end of the cistern. A single figure in a white robe descended the stairs, the light from above casting her features in shadow. Just as quickly the light was choked off, the stairs and its figure vanishing with it. They could hear the footsteps approaching. Sjei watched as each of the members of the Modalis around him waited in silence.

The young elf woman drew into the light of their floating globes overhead. Her robe was of the finest weave with a carefully crafted jagged hem in the “torn” fashion that she had personally made so popular among all the estates of the Empire. She let fall the hood from the back of her elongated head, revealing the carefully coifed rim of white hair around her tapered bald crown. Her face had a pinched, angular look that most elves found comely.

“Tsi-Shebin Timuran,” Sjei bowed slightly, followed after a moment’s hesitation by the rest of the group.

Shebin had taken the place in the Modalis Council previously held by Wejon Rei, the Fifth High Priest of the Myrdin-dai—but Wejon was no more, acknowledged by no one and his name was never spoken
aloud. He had been one of the most powerful of the Modalis in his time and had even challenged the authority of the council itself until it was no longer convenient or profitable for anyone to remember him. Now Wejon Rei was dead—whether in fact or in memory it really did not matter—and Shebin, the cunning engineer of his fall, now assumed all of her rival’s authority and power.