Rise Of Empire (39 page)

That’s what makes it an art.

There was indeed a gap in her education, but it was because what was missing could not be taught. Esrahaddon had not held back anything. The gap was the reality of magic. Instructors could teach the basic techniques and methods, but a mastery of mechanical knowledge could never make a person an artist. No one could teach creativity or invention. A spark needed to come from within. It must be something unique, something discovered by the individual, a leap of understanding, a burst of insight, the combining of common elements in an unexpected way.

Arista knew it to be true. She had known it since killing the knights. The knowledge both excited and terrified her. The horrible deaths of the seret had only compounded that terrible realization. Now, however, standing alone in the yard under the blanket of stars and in the stillness of the warm summer night, she embraced her understanding and it was thrilling. There was danger, of course, both intoxicating and alluring, and she struggled to contain her emotions. Recalling the death cries of the knights and the ghastly looks on their faces helped ground her. She did not want to get lost in that power. In her mind’s eye, the Art was a great beast, a dragon of limitless potential that yearned to be set free, but a mindless beast let loose upon the world would be a terrible thing. She understood the wisdom of Arcadius and the need to restrain the passion she now touched.

Arista set the candle down before her and cleared her mind to focus.

She reached out and pressed her fingers in the air as if gently touching the surface of an invisible object. Power vibrated like the strings of a harp as her humming became a chant. They were not the words that Esrahaddon had taught her. Nor was it an incantation from Arcadius. The words were her own. The fabric of the universe was at her fingertips, and she fought to control her excitement. She plucked the strings on her invisible harp. She could play individual notes or chords, melodies, rhythms, and a multitude of combinations of each. The possibilities of creation were astonishing, and so numerous were the choices that she was equally overwhelmed. It would clearly take a lifetime, or more, to begin to grasp the potential she now felt. That night, however, her path was simple and clear. A flick of her wrist and a sweep of her fingers, almost as if she were motioning farewell, and at that moment the candle blew out.

A wind gusted. The dry soil of the street whirled into a dust devil. Old leaves and bits of grass were buffeted about. The stars faded as thick, full clouds crept across the sky. She heard the sound ring off the tin roof. It sang on the metal, the chorus of her song, and then she felt the splatter of rain on her upturned and laughing face.

T
he ceiling of the grand imperial throne room was a dome painted robin’s egg blue interspersed with white puffy clouds mimicking the sky on a gentle summer’s day. The painting was heavy and uninspired, but Modina thought it was beautiful. She could not remember the last time she had seen the real sky.

Her life since Dahlgren had been a nightmare of vague unpleasant people and places she could not, and did not care to, remember. She had no idea how much time had passed since the death of her father. It did not matter. Nothing did. Time was a concern of the living, and if she knew anything, it was that she was dead. A ghost drifting dreamlike, pushed along by unseen hands, hearing disembodied voices—but something had changed.

Amilia had come, and with her, the haze and fog that Modina had been lost in for so long had begun to lift. She started to become aware of the world around her.

“Keep your head up, and do not look at them,” Nimbus was telling her. “You are the empress and they are beneath you, contemptible and not worthy of even the slightest glance from your imperial eyes. Back straight. Back straight.”

Modina, dressed in a formal gown of gold and white, stood on the imperial dais before an immense and gaudy throne. She scratched it once and discovered the gold was a thin veneer over dull metal. The dais itself was five feet from the ground, with sheer sides except for where the half-moon stairs provided access. The stairs were removable, allowing her to be set on display, the perfect unapproachable symbol of the New Empire.

Nimbus shook his head miserably. “It is not going to work. She is not listening.”

“She’s just not used to standing straight all the time,” Amilia told him.

“Perhaps a stiff board sewn into her corset and laced tight?” a steward proposed timidly.

“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Amilia replied. She looked at Nimbus. “What do you think?”

“Better make it a
very
stiff board,” Nimbus replied sardonically.

They waved over the royal tailor and seamstress and an informal meeting ensued. They droned on about seams, stays, and ties while Modina looked down from above.

Can they see the pain in my face?

She did not think so. There was no sympathy in their eyes, just awe—awe and admiration. They simultaneously marveled and quaked when in her presence. She had heard them whispering about
the beast
she had slain, and how she was the daughter of a god. To thousands of soldiers, knights, and commoners, she was something to worship.

Until recently, Modina had been oblivious to it all, her mind shut in a dark hole where any attempt to think caused such anguish she recoiled back into the dull safety of the abyss. Time dulled the pain, and slowly the words of nearby conversations seeped in. She began to understand. According to what
she had overheard, she and her father were descendants of some legendary lost king. This was why only they could harm the beast. She had been anointed empress, but she was not certain what that meant. So far, it had meant pain and isolation.

Modina stared at those around her without emotion. She was no longer capable of feeling. There was no fear, anger, or hate, nor was there love or happiness. She was a ghost haunting her own body, watching the world with detached interest. Nothing that transpired around her held any importance—except Amilia.

Previously the people hovering around her were vague gray faces. They had spoken to her of ridiculous notions, the vast majority she could not begin to comprehend even if she wanted to. Amilia was different. She had said things to Modina that she could understand. Amilia had told stories of her own family and reminded Modina of another girl—a girl named Thrace—who had died and was just a ghost now. It was a painful memory, but Amilia managed to remind her about times before the darkness, before the pain, when there had been someone in the world who loved her.

When Saldur had threatened to send Amilia away, Modina had seen the terrible fear in the girl’s eyes. She had recognized that fear. Saldur’s voice was the screech of the beast, and at that moment, she had awoken from her long dream. Her eyes had focused, seeing clearly for the first time since that night. She would not allow the beast to win again.

Somewhere in the chamber, out of sight of the dais, a door slammed. The sound echoed around the marbled hall. Loud footsteps followed with an even louder conversation.

“I don’t understand why I can’t launch an attack against Alric on my own.” The voice came from an agitated well-dressed man.

“Breckton’s army will dispatch the Nationalists in no time.
Then he can return to Melengar, and you can have your prize, Archie,” replied the voice of an older man. “Melengar isn’t going anywhere, and it’s not worth the risk.”

The younger voice she did not recognize, but the older one she had heard many times before. They called him Regent Ethelred. The pair of nobles and their retinue came into view. Ethelred was dressed as she usually had seen him—in red velvet and gold silk. His thick mustache and beard betrayed his age, as both were steadily going gray.

The younger man walking beside him dressed in a stylish scarlet silk tunic with a high-ruffed collar, an elegant cape, and an extravagant plumed hat that matched the rest of his attire perfectly. He was taller than the regent, and his long auburn hair trailed down his back in a ponytail. They walked at the head of a group of six others: personal servants, stewards, and court officials. Four of the six Modina recognized, as she had seen the little parade before.

There was the court scribe, who went everywhere carrying a ledger. He was a plump man with long red cheeks and a balding head, and he always had a feathered quill behind each ear, making him look like a strange bird. His staunchly straight posture and odd strut reminded her of a quail parading through a field, and because she did not know the scribe’s name, in her mind she dubbed him simply
The Quail.

There was also Ethelred’s valet, whom she labeled
The White Mouse,
as he was a thin, pale man with stark white hair, and his fastidious pampering seemed rodent-like. She never heard him speak except to say, “Of course, my lord.” He continuously flicked lint from Ethelred’s clothes and was always on hand to take a cloak or change the regent’s footwear.

Then there was
The Candle,
so named because he was a tall, thin man with wild red curly hair and a drooping mouth that sagged like tallow wax.

The last of the entourage was a soldier of some standing. He wore a uniform that had dozens of brightly colored ribbons pinned to it.

“I would appreciate you using a formal address when we are in public,” Archie pointed out.

Ethelred turned as if surprised to see they were not alone in the hall.

“Oh,” he said, quickly masking a smile. Then, in a tone heavy with sarcasm, he proclaimed, “Forgive me,
Earl of Chadwick.
I didn’t notice them. They’re more like furniture to me. My point was, however, that we only suspect the extent of Melengar’s weakness. Attacking them would introduce more headaches than it is worth. As it is, there is no chance Alric will attack us. He’s a boy, but not so foolhardy as to provoke the destruction of his little kingdom.”

“Is that …” Archibald stared up at Modina and stopped walking so that Ethelred lost track of him for a moment.

“The empress? Yes,” Ethelred replied, his tone revealing a bit of his own irritation that the earl had apparently not heard what he had just said.

“She’s … she’s … beautiful.”

“Hmm? Yes, I suppose she is,” Ethelred responded without looking. Instead, he turned to Amilia, who, along with everyone else, was standing straight, her eyes looking at the floor. “Saldur tells me you’re our little miracle worker. You got her eating, speaking, and generally cooperating. I’m pleased to hear it.”

Amilia curtsied in silence.

“She’ll be ready in time, correct? We can ill afford another fiasco like the one we had at the coronation. She couldn’t even make an appearance. You’ll see to that, won’t you?”

“Yes, my lord.” Amilia curtsied again.

The Earl of Chadwick’s eyes remained focused on Modina,
and she found his expression surprising. She did not see the awe-inspired look of the palace staff, nor the cold, callous countenance of her handlers. His face bore a broad smile.

A soldier entered the hall, walking briskly toward them. The one with the pretty ribbons left the entourage and strode forward to intercept him. They spoke in whispers for a brief moment and then the other soldier handed over some parchments. Ribbon Man opened them and read them silently to himself before returning to Ethelred’s side.

“What is it?”

“Your Lordship, Admiral Gafton’s blockade fleet succeeded in capturing the
Ellis Far,
a small sloop, off the coast of Melengar. On board, they found parchments signed by King Alric granting the courier permission to negotiate with the full power of the Melengar crown. The courier and ship’s captain were unfortunately killed in the action. The coxswain, however, was taken and persuaded to reveal the destination of the vessel as Tur Del Fur.”

Ethelred nodded his understanding. “Trying to link up with the Nationalists, but that was expected. So the sloop sailed from Roe?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure no other ship slipped past?”

“The reports indicate it was the only one.”

While Ethelred and the soldier spoke and the rest of the hall remained still as statues, the Earl of Chadwick stared at the empress. Modina did not return his gaze, and it made her uncomfortable the way he watched her.