PROLOGUE

.

“You say, Ged?”

“Ged has gone scouting.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Well.”

“Well, what?”

“Something, I am sure. Must be.”

The other man sighed. “The rodents, brother.”

“Oh yes, of course. The rodents.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

The other man’s punch came without warning. “We were discussing the rodents, brother.” He growled.

The first man worked his jaw for a moment before replying. “That came hard, seriously. Maybe cracked some bones.”

The other man glowered.

“He-he. A bad joke, I agree. Anyways.” He scowled. “So, where were we? Yes, cracked bones! No, rodents.” He scratched the bridge of his nose where an old slash had cleaved much of it off. “They are migrating, is my guess. No, fleeing would be a better word.”

The other man grunted. “We know that already, brother.”

“Yes. I am confirming it, then.”

“How noble. But, alas, I want more on that.”

The first man’s eyes moved down and narrowed suspiciously. He flinched, aghast. “Are you planning to hit me again with those fists, brother?”

“Not if you behave, brother.”

“Er… very well.”

The other man still glared.

“Oh, yes. The fleeing rodents.” He looked thoughtful. “I have my theories.” He allowed himself a secret smile. But the smile’s glory was lost in the awkwardness of blood-stained and broken-toothed leer that presented itself instead.

The other man waited patiently.

“Er, one of them is about a threat. Consider this. You are small, and tailed, and scaly, and an anathema to most predators besides. Your fellows are happily breeding all over the land like maggots over a corpse. The males and females in the family alike bring in trophies every day and the bounty never ends. The population is flourishing, in fact, and your wife –”

The first man was frowning harder than ever. “What are you going on about, brother?”

“Why, I am but telling you to imagine yourself a Dadda rodent, brother. Now let me concentrate on the theory.” He took to a moment of recollection and then continued. “So, you are prospering and prospering well, and all that. Now, all of a sudden, your sharp nose senses danger. There are whispers, and then more whispers. The next moment, all your neighbors and the village mayor besides, are running hot for safety with their tails tucked between their hind legs.”

“Rodents can’t tuck their tails between their hind legs,” the other man growled.

“I asked you to imagine it in the first place, brother.” He waved a dismissive hand. “So. The important question: What do you do?”

“Of course I run.” The other man bunched his fists again and the first one cringed slightly. “But we already know they’re running brother. The threat now, if you please.”

“Oh, yes. He-he. The threat, yes.” He tapped his chin ponderously. “As to that, I do not know, brother.” His eyes looked different then. He looked out towards the distant hills on the west and the tone grew harder. “I do not know, but I have my ideas. It’s not anything natural, I know that. No competition from predator species. Something is happening, brother. I feel the tremors in the fabric. And I wonder if Reth still sleeps.”

Ged appeared over the crest of the hill. Watching the strange, thoughtful expressions on the other two men’s faces, he snorted as he padded over.

“Is it just the dust in my eyes, or do you two actually have those weird rodent-eyes again?”

He looked from one man to the other when they did not seem to have listened. He grimaced and asked, “Or did I miss something important?”

**********

The fisherman frowned down at the carcass.

“Saw that?”

He looked across at his son. “What?”

“The fish: the way it flopped.”

“Yes. They like to do that before dying.”

“But we do not get them too often with both fins already broke and skin peeled off. Or do we?”

The fisherman regarded his youngest son – only twelve – with something calculating in his old eyes. He had lost two strong sons already, one to the Sea and another to war, and the only girl had died of fever just after her birth. The damned girl had taken her Mum with her. This son was the last left him. Barely thirteen and the boy towered even over his Da. He had that broad chest and those long, sinewy arms the fisherman used to have in his own day. The lad worked with him on the boat, the only helping hand.

The fisherman felt a tinge of pride as he let his eyes rest over his strong, well-built son. And sharp, yes.

He liked the lad, in fact. Would come of age in a couple of years. Well, that meant marriage, and marriage meant silver. Then his nose caught the stench and he looked again at the dead, already rotting fish. “What catch, lad?”

“The first of the morning, Da. You slept after the night’s drinking so I didn’t bother.” His gaze wandered down to the large rowna on the deck. He studied the fish for a moment before continuing. “The farthest net we threw across the Reef.”

The fisherman spat. Moving to the aft, he rested his big hands over the rail. The fringe of rock that surrounded the Hot Lagoon was just a speck on the eastern horizon. On the sea-shelf outlying that vast stretch of rock was the Great Western Reef, the most productive coral-based fishery on this north-western part of the Sea – the very one they had been fishing around. The same one the sickened rowna came from.

“What of the rest of the catch boy?”

“What of it?” The fisherman’s head turned sharply at that. The boy shrugged before adding, “It was much the same, Da. Threw off the rest of it, for fear of infection.” Then he crouched down over the dead rowna, squinting closely. The fisherman came to squat beside his son.

A red liquid, with streaks of hazy black, was pooling around the large gray fish. Moments later, the half-rotten, mottled scales began to crack and peel. The same strange liquid oozed out from between the cracks and from the places where even the underlying skin was splitting and popping.

The unbearable stench was not late in coming. And when it arrived, the fisherman and the boy both recoiled. Even after a lifetime among the smelly, slimy creatures, the fisherman could not fight off the sudden nausea that gripped him. Scurrying to the rail, they both retched.

This was no good. An entire catch, Holy Father! No, this was no good. Not at all.

The fisherman’s grip tightened where he gripped the rail. Another wave of nausea rolled over him, and he heaved. His head was pounding by the time it left.

No. This is serious.

“Think we should report it to the Embassy, Da?”

“We’ll see.” The fisherman wiped his mouth on his threadbare shirt’s sleeve. The cloth was rugged and mottled with stains like a table-mop, he noticed with a wince. “We’ll see later, lad. Later.”

There was a deep rumbling sound like storm-clouds clashing and grating off in the direction of the Island, but not all that far at the same time.

The fisherman looked over for a moment or two – squinting, thinking. Then, dismissively, he sighed and made for his cabin to start looking for something to hold the damned dead thing that lay stinking on the boat’s deck for the rest of the way.

**********

The stranger looked down upon a landscape smeared with blood. None of it was his own, he knew.

With that final look, he turned around and continued southward.

Hair black as Dark itself, strangely dead iron-veined eyes of the same pure black, a hood thrown low over his head, the stranger walked with a singular purpose; and in his stride was the hint of an indomitable will.

A strange foreign weapon was strapped to his back, under the heavy cape.

His eyes were, however, fixed unflinchingly in the direction he was headed.

Over the barren waste he walked; over and across. It had been weeks of it now, and he had not stopped. Could not be stopped, either.

There was blood on the plain now behind him. None of it was his.

There was dry, crusted blood on the edge of his sheathed weapon. None of it his own.

There was the same blood on his hands too; most of it dried, rest drying. But not even a drop of it his own.

He walked alone; his spirit ruled by a singular purpose.

**********

“Three silvers he’ll topple over the railing.”

“Three of mine he’ll linger two heartbeats and then fall back into the chair behind.” A skein of scars was visible just under the man’s chin, covering almost the entire neck and running down the neckline and under the shirt likely.

“Provided you get to hit at all, which is as unlikely as the Emperor licking the sweat off my balls.”

“It’s not all that unlikely, you know, given what I’ve recently heard about men doing to men.” Then the scarred man stopped himself from laughing as he caught the expression on his partner’s face. “But that is an irrelevant detail as best, for you are going to miss your shot anyway. And I am hardly known for missing.” He complimented the assertion with a ghastly smile.

“Precisely my point here, for I am such a great admirer of your killing-virtues.” His partner’s wicked grin did not please the scarred man at all. The bastard had some trick up his arse. “Let us both hit then, and see who wins the wager. As a bonus I’ll add two gold councils and you do the same.”

The scarred one smiled back. “Done.” They loaded their crossbows in ease and aimed across the stretch of open air. “I think I am getting used to the winning.”

“It’s been nine fateful turns of it, I know.”

Thwank-Thwank. Swishh-swishh.

“Shit.”

“Oh.” He scowled for a long moment; then lazily scratched the scarred skin. “Well, we got ourselves an issue.”

“Yes.” His partner growled. “Put the mask on.”

They both did it.

Another moment of mutual silence and calculation of incurred losses followed.

The scarred man’s partner looked negatively thoughtful. He snarled, “Damn these Rethan nobles. Buggers never die the way you want them to.”

“Yeah; I mean, who could’ve imagined the cursed barbarian would take a bolt in one eye, another in the gut and still go stumbling and screaming back into his estate-chambers instead of simply falling back into the chair or even doubling over?! The audacity of the dying fool! Cost me three bloody silvers and two gold councils!”

“Alas, I lose as much I guess. Woe to the crossbow gods!”

“Amen.” The scarred man held up a hand then, and listened. A heartbeat’s wait and he nodded to his partner. Picking up the array of bolts lying in front of them and unloading and disassembling the crossbows, they stuffed the things into bags.

Just before making a move, the scarred man looked across the wide street and beyond the estate wall into the balcony of the mansion where their victim had been standing only a moment before. The lights had begun to appear and the alarm was raised.

The terrible smiled played across his face again. “Ah. Some success, after all.”

His partner looked puzzled. “Don’t tell me you thought the disemboweled blind thing would live an hour after those shots got him!”

“Why, brother, but I was only thinking that the money now goes to the Rat-Foot Bank, doesn’t it?”

His smile was answered by an equally unpleasant crack-toothed smile from his partner.

Ah! My heart is so totally rejuvenated when you do that.

**********

“Fate is a fickle bitch!”

“Yeah.”

“I mean – for such a thing to be done.”

“Yeah!”

“Oh, Jade must be so shattered!”

“Yea – Wait!” The High Priestess’ brow wrinkled ominously. “Jade? What of Jade?”

“Eh?” The Priestess looked at her senior, the expression on her suddenly contorting face saying Oh, what the fuck are you saying?! “I was saying Jade must be feeling so shattered.”

The High Priestess had that same look adorning her sharp features then. “I thought we were talking of Fate.”

“No.” The subordinate Priestess was determined. Puffing her full, round cheeks she asserted, “I was talking of Jade. Her familiar is dead.”

“Yes. The black-furred cat, I know. I am glad the wretched thing died.” Already bored, the High Priestess waved one long-fingered hand dismissively. “Anyways, Jade’s dead cat is a carcass now; and it was never the point here, besides. I was talking about Fate.”

“No. I was the one talking. About Jade. And you ruined the mood.”

“Be warned, Priestess. I am not popular for taking hard-edged words lightly.”

“Yeah, yeah; bleh, bleh. And I am so scared I can wet my smallclothes.”

The High-Priestess’ eyes widened in a glare, but it passed. “However, I shall forgive you this once. I am benign.” The words invited an easily audible snort from the other woman. Ignoring it as if nothing happened, the High Priestess continued in an imperious manner. “Fate is not keeping low.” Then an intense, grave tenor entered her words; and even the second woman was paying close attention. “She is poking her nose in things she was not told to.”

“Hmmm.” The Priestess was now munching nuts thoughtfully and making disgusting noise.

“What woman, don’t you have manners?”

“Do go on,” she said between thoughtful munching and lard.

“That is it!” The senior Priestess stamped her foot, irked finally. “I think I will talk to the First Arch Priestess.” She stormed off then, her Violets flaring behind her as she whirled.

“Mmm.” But as she munched, the short, plump woman had a secret smile pasted across her face which the High Priestess did not notice.

**********

The handsome man turned on his side in the bed to face the woman. “So, what do you think?”

“Well. Wearing, for one thing.”

Brushing an errant curl off her cheek, the man pulled her closer. Close enough to taste the sweet smell of wine on her breath, but not to kiss. His eyes lit up with new mischief as he asked, “And?”

“Sometimes I think, you know, what if I had never come to be with you. What if all this had never happened?”

“Un-uh?”

“Yes. I would have been so miserable.”

He laughed throatily at that and then held her gaze.

“Why do you do this, I wonder?” She had something in her eyes when she put the question.

“Oh, you sound serious, Lady.” He smiled one of those winning smiles of his, and the next moment the pretty woman had her arms tight around him.

Running a casual finger over the long scar across his back, her limbs wrapped around him, she whispered into his ear, “You love me, don’t you?”

“You suppose I would be rolling around here with you, if I didn’t?” He brought her around to face him. “Of course I love you, woman. And without reservations.” At that, she kissed him; hard and deep.

A long moment later, they separated and lay holding hands.

Then, suddenly, the good-looking woman sat up. A scar identical to the man’s, yet a little too perfect ran across her breast. And dark midnight curls and eyes of purest silver.

“I want to marry you, my love.”

The man looked taken-aback, puzzled. He lay in silence for a moment or two, and then jadedly sat up. “Oh, we’ve been over this earlier. And you know fully well we cannot do this anytime soon.” Noticing the woman’s tearful expression, he took her hand in his. “You should understand, Lady. You will be taken in for treason of the highest order against the Empire. And me?” He laughed sarcastically at that. “Well. That does not need mentioning.”

“But I don’t want this. I can very well bear all that can come. All I want for us is some time together. A little bit of freedom. Is that too much to ask? I didn’t desire for all that I am in the first place. Gods, can’t a woman make her own choices?!” Then she broke into sobs.

Lifting her tear-streaked face with both hands he smiled down at her with a fondness she knew well. “I am no less bound, my love. All I am asking of you is you wait. And not much, I assure you. You know my plans. Things have been in motion ever since I first stepped into this. But they need time to bear fruits. Only this turn. The world will change after that, my love.” His gaze grew distant then, and he was looking at something the woman could not see. “Oh yes, it will.”

Uncomprehending, the woman was not so sure. She caught his hand with suddenly renewed passion then, and brought him close about her. Thinking not too far ahead of the time granted her, she made fierce testimony of her love for him in those moments.

TO BE CONTINUED...

CHAPTER ONE:

ARIS

“I call this meeting of the Greater Council to order!” The Herald banged his staff loudly against the tiled floor. “I give to you the Emperor: His Royal Highness, Gore ’Mnian Eshniral of the Ruling House of Eshniral, Beloved Son of Holy Rethenan, Tribe Chief of the mighty Ter’Rethan, and the High Emperor of the Holy Empire of Great Reth.”

What a miserable show. Har! I would laugh, had I not been the Empress Supreme. A shame.

As one, the members of the house rose to greet the High Emperor. The gentry and the merchants from their well-padded chairs on the High Tables surrounding the audience platform, and the odd number of common folk seated on the floor.

Her Highness Aris Eshniral, the Empress, did not so much as stir in her high-backed chair or even blink an eyelid at the elaborate courtesy. She’d just had her fill of the boring procession.

The doors behind the Twin Thrones were swung open. Low music wafted into the Hall from the corridors beyond as the muffled drums began to beat their grave music.

On her throne, beside the empty one, Aris Eshniral was getting utterly bored by the passing moment. She fought hard to hold her straight-backed, imperious stance, and clutched tightly the glass of exotic wine.

Almost painfully slow, the procession started. A modest body of solemn Reth Warriors led by the First Sworn Day Toral preceded the Emperor and his long train of service-boys, lackeys, scribes and attendants.

The useless lackeys scattered to their respective places and Day Toral ordered his men into stiff attention. Then he ceremoniously bowed and gestured with his sword for the Emperor to take his throne upon the head of the General Council.

The sworn Toral seemed to love this formal business more than Aris thought possible, as if every time was his first. Even today.

Aris could not mask her distaste for the man despite her most sincere efforts. She did not like Torals; and this particular one least of all.

The Emperor ascended the raised platform. Seating his holy self on the Throne, he cleared his throat. “I welcome you all”, he squeaked at first. Aris was not as much disappointed as disgusted, and more than one noble in the hall flinched at the shrill voice. Almost apologetically shifting in his seat and clearing his throat again, the High Emperor resumed in a small yet clear voice, “You may seat yourselves, my lords.”

Aris could taste the wine in his sour breath. A most flattering gift of company. Oh, I begin to faint in his fabulous scents.

A few moments of murmuring and uneasy shifting, rustling of expensive silks and scraping of ragged cloth followed. Then the gentry and the common folk alike were seated; the former on the High Tables and the latter on the cold tiles beyond.

“Our Emperor looks no better today, eh? Poor thing he has to rule an Empire while his bowels wouldn’t ask for his word to come loose in his bed.”

Aris half smirked to herself, but turned instead to Shale. Offering him her most charming of smiles, she leaned towards him and whispered back, “Why, my Lord, His Royal Highness looks so bright and majestic today that I can hardly contain the desire to kiss his hand.” Turning away from him, she sipped leisurely from her glass.

She heard Shale mutter angrily and sensed his hot stare on her. Apparently, the fool had missed the sarcasm. Again. One gets tired of getting irritated. On her left, she could sense her husband, the Emperor Gore Eshniral, sit uncomfortably under the stare of half the most important men in all the Empire. Quite a pair of sentimental baboons, these brothers: one would merrily observe.

Lord Chamberlain Juan’ah Fend rose from his chair to begin with the affairs of the day. Aris liked the old and ageing man for his cunning eyes and his straight-to-business attitude.

Without ceremony, he boomed, “The opening issue before the Council today,” and he swept a calm gaze over the gathering, “is the announcement of the grievous and untimely death of His Lordship Lob Daelin Toral of the Great House of Toral, late Finance Minister of the Empire.”

The scribes’ pens had already begun to scratch noisily.

Down on the Tables, most of the nobility and even some merchants were dressed in weeping red. Despite the color, Aris could see no hint of grief on many faces. She could spot Lady Lyn Rothar on the Second Table, draped in rich, flowing crimson worked in gold, so bright and flashy that it almost hurt the eye, her chin held high over her sparkling rubies, eyes glinting and suspicious between curls of silvery white. Vanity. She saw Day Toral from the corner of her eye: tall and vaulting in his Violet armor that was the stamp of the War-Order of Reth, the blazing red flame of the Royal House of Eshniral worked plainly over the breastplate. There was the slightest hint of sag in his stance, barely noticeable. Discipline. Sad discipline, today. She could see the extraordinarily handsome Lord Kome Toral in his own crimson, fidgeting in his chair at the First Table, almost directly in font of the Thrones. His eyes looked like hollow pits. He’d been crying of late, one could see. He seemed to murmur endlessly and drool came out of his mouth in a thin line while his body slave tried hopelessly to soothe him. Aris noticed, with odd interest and amusement, that the young slave’s skin was covered in scars and barely-healed bruises. She looked at the brainsickly man again. Innocence. Handsome, wretched, helpless and most disgustingly unsightly innocence. The young lad was probably the most charming face Aris had ever seen, but the fact that he had this brain-sickness was none too pleasing. Not to her. She did not like Torals; and this particular one least of all.

She swept the Council with a cool gaze. Not many noble mourners for the old buffoon.

Well. Alas. No grief here. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, and then held it over her mouth to moan low and almost inaudibly – but most visibly – in sore grief. There were series of similar gestures from the gathered audience, and a few brave and mostly genuine wails from the Common Yard. Congratulations to Her Royal Highness. Applause. Wiping another tear from her cheek, Aris straightened herself.

The Lord Chamberlain continued in a voice thick with emotion, “A most grievous fact indeed. Lord Lob Toral was a most humble and gracious noble man, well loved of Holy Reth. We all will miss his wise words and his ready wit. There was not a more gentle spirit. The Empire is sadly wounded by his most unfortunate demise. But what can a man do when it is Age and Fate that stand across his way in life. He died peacefully. There could be no better an end for a man. We will indeed miss him.” Wow. Almost skillfully done. To praise a most useless, dumb and sheepish old man so amply and highly: skillful indeed. Then he turned his wet gaze upon the Emperor and nodded. “Your Majesty.”

All heads followed suit.

Only the pens of the scribes and pages continued to scratch noisily and hurriedly at the parchment as every word and detail was recorded. Rest was heavy silence.

Aris allowed herself a most trying venture of strength and will to bid herself turn towards the fool sitting in the chair beside her. Regret was not late in coming as her eyes lighted on the creature. But she composed her face and looked on with an expression of almost fervent expectation as the Emperor continued to stare at grey stone.

The head of the Holy Empire of Reth was anything but what one would expect of a High Emperor. Lean, short, withered before age, and crumbling with illness, the Eshniral who sat the Throne was not even a ghost of the Empire’s glory. His eyes had lost their shiny black over the past years, sinking into deep pits. His skin stretched papery and thin over his weak bones. His scrawny hands clutched at the arms of the Throne with all the feeble force he could muster. His brow was wrinkled due to some unintelligible worry and he looked fixedly at the tiles as if some intricate puzzle laid there needed his attention. His lips were cracked and dry under the fragrant lip-paint and his breath wheezed in his parched throat as it came in painfully slow turns. From such a close distance, Aris could easily trace the many lines in his eroded face under all the make-up. His heavy chain of office seemed to bow him even further down in his great chair and even the enormous and magnificent robes would not hide his occasional shudders. The simple crown sat uncomfortably on his bald skull. He did not seem to listen.

“Your Majesty.”

He shook suddenly. Surprisingly, when he spoke, the thin voice was cracked, “Well said, my Lord Chamberlain; well said indeed. The Empire is most sadly wounded. And in the honor of His Lordship Lob Toral, we hereby announce a statue to be raised in his honor at the Trade Square.” He sighed audibly and the pens continued to scratch. “Continue, please, Lord Chamberlain.”

“We are also pleased to announce that Lady Baeli Toral, wife to Lord Kome Toral, daughter-in-law of late Lord Lob Toral, and once daughter of the Great House of Lore, will join us in the Closed Council as the representative of the Great House of Toral.” He let the news hang over the silence for a moment as the pens and quills scraped on papers and tablets. “Unfortunately, though, due to the demands of her household, the Lady cannot attend to the Council’s pleasures right now. But hopefully she will join us soon.”

Aris let a casual gaze wander to where Day Toral stood guard beside her husband. He had taken off his helm. The man did not flinch or glare or snarl, but his posture seemed to have only relaxed a bit. There was something of a sad smile fixed upon his face, if you could call it that. The soldiering fool. Hardly surprising that he would be happy at the news of the bitch ascending to the Toral Seat at the Council. Maen Eshniral only nodded her head in approbation from her seat right beside the Emperor. Kome Toral clapped vigorously, more likely entertained by the mention of his name than that of his wife. Aris wondered if he so much as knew the woman’s name, or remembered it. A shame, alas. My sincere sympathies. The news hardly seemed to be new at all. Well, that was that.

Shale again leaned towards her to whisper. “A woman?” He sneered at the word, apparently forgetting Aris’ own hand in the crime of being a woman. “A woman, on the Closed Council?! The Council have lost their minds. And to place an ugly wretched burnt whore on the Council! No wonder everyone thinks so highly of us –”

Ironically, as if to lend honor to his sneers, somebody picked up the clap started by Lord Kome, and soon the commoners burst into wild applause. Lady Lyn did not stir an inch in her careful stance. Nor did Lord Joenar of the House of Joenar on the Fourth Table. He instead seemed to adjust the cuff of his gold-worked sleeve at the moment. Lord Kome continued merrily, drool dripping off his perfect chin as he mumbled something incomprehensible very loudly. Aris gracefully joined in and so did the Emperor.

A moment later, the Lord Chancellor resumed over the applause. “Coming to the –” The quills scratched mercilessly amidst it all.

The Herald’s staff boomed against the tiles. Silence descended over the crowd in the next moment while the pens continued their labor, jotting down every speck of movement that passed in the meeting.

“Coming to the matters of the state, Your Majesty, the Second Lord Commander of the Imperial Army has returned from our disputed border with the Harnesh and requests audience with Your Highness.” Then the cunning old eyes turned to look at the Emperor.

Oh. Aris’ breath caught. She had not known that.

“Oh yes, of course; Caeth. Call him in, please.” The Emperor showed the slightest tinge of interest in months and his watery eyes darted to the doors expectantly. The porters hauled them wide open and the drum-roll wafted in again.

Bleeding light from the faintly red flames of the fragrant lamps as well as from the overhung candelabras wavered slightly as the doors were opened.

Aris, however, was unsettled. The Second Lord Commander was one of the very few men who made her somewhat nervous. She sipped uneasily from her glass of wine, staring at the swirling contents instead of looking elsewhere.

Shale, in the meanwhile, growled his distaste and muttered under his breath.

The crowd remained quiet as heavy boots crunched on the tiles and the Warriors began to file in. Aris held her gaze to the glass for sometime, and then looked up casually.

The fanfare ended as the doors closed behind the last of the Honor Guard. The Warriors were covered from head to heel in the Violet of the War-Order of Reth, the crimson flame of the Royal House emblazoned in simple work on their breastplates, with the added Red Circle of Reth encircling the Flame. These were the Elite Rethenan Guard, the Warrior Priests’ personal bodyguard, not of the regular Order. As one, the file of Warriors suddenly backed off into the shadows of the walls and stood there in sharp attention. One man remained in his place.

Slowly, gracefully, the man undid the buckle of his Greatsword and held it out towards the Thrones as he bowed himself respectfully to one knee.

Lord Chamberlain boomed, “I present to you, Second Lord Commander of the Imperial Armies, Caeth ’Mnian Eshniral of the Royal House of Eshniral, the First Warrior Priest of Reth, step-brother to the Holy Emperor and also Commander of the Elite Guard.”

Caeth Eshniral extended his sword further; his helmed head dipping lower. The Emperor, on Aris’ side, only grinned foolishly at the man whereas Maen Eshniral smiled down lovingly at her son. Lord Chamberlain’s eyes darted between the Emperor’s foolish grin and Caeth. Silence. The Emperor did not seem to have noticed. Oh, the foolish old sack of robes. Allow me, my lords.

With masterful grace, offering her most appealing smile to the crowd, Aris rose from her Throne and the heads turned to her. Lord Chamberlain Fend visibly relaxed. Savoring another moment of pleasure at the scene, she nodded towards the bowing man. In a honeyed voice, she sang, “Please, Your Highness, we accept your humble greeting. Rise, First Sworn Caeth Eshniral, honorable son of the Royal House of Eshniral, and take your rightful place at the Council.” She made a flowing gesture toward the vacant chair on the King’s immediate left. “Help yourself.” Then she sat down herself as the Council applauded and the commoners cheered.

She sipped as she saw Caeth rise and hand over his Greatsword to one of his warriors. He then removed his winged helmet and walked over to the empty chair and sat. Aris watched suspiciously for another moment but he did not seem to return her gaze. He instead turned to the High Emperor and smiled his easy smile. What a show! I am thrilled. And now comes the pleasant exchange between loving brothers. Help yourself, My Lady. “Your Majesty,” Caeth addressed her husband merrily. He smiled that pleasant smile that told of his good nature. But Aris was not charmed. She did not like this man. “How have you been?”

“Oh, I could not be better, Caeth.” He returned the easy smile weakly. “It is good to see you here again. Truly.” Worry wrinkled his brow. “What is the news? How is the war? Dereth?”

“I just arrived here a turn ago. And I have rushed straight to the Council to attend.” His smile dissolved into his own frown of tension. Close up, he looked very tired and utterly spent, Aris noticed. Ah, something interesting to please my royal ears, at last. I am intrigued. Caeth leaned closer to her husband and continued in a hushed tone. “There have been problems in the war, Gore. Grave problems. We will discuss that in the Closed Council.” So. That’s that. I do not like this man. A sad fact that the Empress does not sit on the Closed Table. Alas. But there are still ways, my love. She smiled to herself.

Lord Commander Caeth turned to the Tables and resumed his report. “The war reaches its end. The Harnesh tribe has agreed to sign a treaty with the Empire and has agreed to hand over nearly one-third of their lands along the much disputed border of the Empire with the tribe: including the Doz Valley and the villages on our side of the River Corral. Their fishing and sea-trade rights in the Red Circle Sea will be regulated solely by the Empire’s agents thenceforth. And they will house an Ambassador of the Holy Empire in their capital city of Harn along with a garrison of five thousand Reth men-at-arms.” He gave a pause as his voice reverberated between the walls and the pens screeched their high notes on writing-tablets. In a cautioned, serious voice, he added, “In return, however, the Harnesh ask for a Holy Vow of marriage.”

Maen Eshniral, who had been watching her son appreciably a moment before, suddenly recoiled in shock. “A marriage?! How dare –”

Caeth Eshniral somehow cut his mother short as the chorus of angry mutterings and whispers began to build. “The demand, Mother, is only a demand as of now. As it is, we stand on higher ground here. The Closed Council shall decide what must be done.” He swept a cool stare at the crowd and the people respectfully fell silent. Smiling his easy smile, he went on. “The First Warson of the Empire has done us proud. Despite our heavy losses in the Border War, one cannot deny the fact that Lord Commander Dereth Eshniral, the Emperor’s Champion has steered us carefully clear of what could have been an even more bloodier and ruthless war. The siege against the Harnesh stronghold of Burn could not have been our victory without the Lord Commander’s formidable tactics. He himself led the secret assault on their walls, much before our main body arrived at the keep’s gates. With minimal losses, the walls of great Burn – claimed to be the best defenses the Harnesh ever built – were won and the gates were opened to us. After only a skirmish and two minor battles through the city streets, the Harnesh surrendered, while it would have otherwise cost us almost half our men and more than a year at best to take just the walls. The Lord Commander has suffered some injuries, but he is well on his way to recovery and is awaiting the Emperor’s word. And the treaty that has been put forth since then we already know of.” His grin had grown wider and wider as he spoke and now it threatened to divide his face into two.

There were gasps of admiration from the High Tables. Common folk jeered and hooted with: “Warson!”, “Oh, Blessed Reth!”, “The Champion!” and “Hail, Lord Dereth Eshniral!” Lady Lyn almost swooned and fell off her chair. Lord Toral was again clapping cheerfully and crying “Horesum! Horesum!” Emperor Gore muttered blessings under his holy breath. Even the contemptuous Shale Eshniral clapped wildly. Aris suppressed her own feelings with some effort, raised her slender hands, let the almost nauseating sensation pass and joined in.

The day went on with more pleasantries in the name of the Empire’s glory and that of the First Warson’s. Harnesh emissaries were shown in after some staged shows of how the Darkness-worshipping southerners were defeated by the indomitable might of the Reth Legions. And though no treaties were discussed in the Great Council, gifts and offerings to adorn His Highness the Emperor’s chambers and that of his Royal House of Eshniral were presented most deliberately. The Harneshi ambassadors came and went in their weird garb of pale white studded at places with shining metal-plates, adorned with bones, fetishes and strange black paint.

Despite the cool air in the Hall, all Harneshi – noblemen and slaves alike – sweated profusely, the paint running off their cheek and foreheads in long streaks of black tears as they presented their many gifts.

An entire armory of magnificent weapons forged in Raethi steel. Gems, gold, silver and crates of Harnesh coin of a monetary value of far more than what a situation like this demanded. Over-lordship of three of the finest Harneshi contract-guilds. And finally came the most majestic suit of ornamental armor Aris had ever seen: forged from the strongest alloy of Raethi carbon-steel and worked in Raethi gold.

Aris could not believe this. The Harneshi had never been half so helpless. Nor so…so desperate.

The Emperor had accepted all the gifts in simple and good grace, but the sight of that suit of armor had caught his breath same as everyone else’s. War and warfare interested Aris in the least only – and that too, for the simple fact that wars, after all, made an empire. But, surely, that amour was spellbinding. She could only hopelessly wonder what the poor Emperor would look like in that.

As if to disgrace even that thought, the royal fool had accepted the piece of war-art in the name of his “honorable” brother, the First Lord Commander Dereth Eshniral. The crowd had hooted madly all right, but Aris was not pleased. Not at all.

She hated these royal Eshnirals, especially Dereth Eshniral; him most of all.

*****

The miner wore the insignia of High House Eshniral on his chest.

He eyed the vast gathering of members and frowned, clearly uncomfortable. The Emperor finally stirred, and the miner turned.

“What was your name again, miner?”

“Loren, sir.”

“Loren, do go on, please.”

He scowled again. “As you’d well be aware of, sir, the House of Eshniral owns precisely eight new ’n old mines in the Carthean Mountains.”

Emperor Gore Eshniral nodded lazily.

The miner continued, “I was in-charge of the Sixth Mine, the one that is the oldest of the eight, and the only sub-surface mining site for Raethi ore among all of the Empire’s holdings.”

“Yes, the one near the village of Zame, we know.” Lord Chamberlain was attentive.

“Just six weeks ago,” He scratched his chin in apparent nervousness, then. “There were seven casualties. A small section of a freshly burrowed tunnel had collapsed. We took it as a simple mining accident, and changed the overseer.

"But a week later, after the tunnel had again been cleared and dug deeper, nearly three-fourths of it gave way. Took a score and nine slaves, a dozen skilled miners and two of my officers down with itself. The workers revolted after that.” His eyes moved to and fro between the audience and the Emperor, nervous. “Nothing major, to be sure. We still took precaution, and put-off the tunneling work there. But the workers won’t listen.

"Then there was this new sickness that suddenly sprouted. Workers from almost all the underground veins were addled. A typical fever of the heart. No symptoms for weeks, and suddenly the man would go hot all over; paralyzed sometimes. Then a day or two of struggle would follow before the heart gave way. Fully two score of my men died from it within three weeks of the first incidence. The workers refused to work. I tried to control the situation with the company of soldiers stationed there, but even the beatings wouldn’t work." He paused then. "But... But... We had no clue.” The brawny man scowled even harder, and beads of sweat gathered on his pate. Then his vision grew distant and lost focus. “None at all.”

“Whatever you said, miner?” Caeth Eshniral inquired. “You came all this way to Esh to bother the Council with petty mining matters that you cannot handle on your own?”

The man was snapped to attention. “Er… Sir, this is the very thing I was to report to the High Emperor: The Sixth Mine has collapsed!”

A moment of heavy silence followed. Then the Council burst into mutters and oaths.

Oh Mother. Aris gasped. That mine was probably the biggest and most profitable Imperial venture ever. Not to forget, it was an Eshniral holding.

Shale broke into a series of curses.

Caeth Eshniral slumped back into his chair.

The Emperor looked even more miserable, if that was possible. The color had drained from his face, and it seemed if he had been physically struck.

The cacophony in the Hall rose, and everyone was swearing or shouting. Then the herald banged his staff once, then twice, against the floor.

My, my. This so weakens our position. High House Eshniral is in for financial trouble, I’d wager. Then she scowled as a thought occurred to her.

She looked at the miner. But this is a matter for the Closed Council, isn’t it? I guess even a commoner would understand that. And how come no one was pre-informed of such a reporting to the Council?

Lord Chamberlain Fend understood full well, however. He waved and the miner was escorted out of the hall without much flourish. Then he boomed. “A most unfortunate event, my Lords and Ladies. But alas, matters such as these are the sole right of the Closed Council to discuss. Something went amiss, is my guess. We beg your apologies for the same.” Without inviting further argument, he went on. “Now. The final matter before the Greater Council today.”

He gestured and the doors were again thrown open to let in a richly dressed man with much fanfare. Tall and graceful, he bowed with languid delicacy while Aris wondered if she had ever dressed as richly as this suitor or ever worn half the jewelry. There was a crystal pin adorning his head-dress, worked in the form of a night-dove. A similar insignia was emblazoned upon his black robes, worked in rippled silver. Ah. I wonder what this would end with.

“I present to you Master Kaeroth Han, Ambassador from Palins’ Ruling Trade Guild’s and the Palin emissary to the Holy Empire of Great Reth.” Then Lord Fend nodded to the man and added. “You may have the floor now, Master Han.”

The man lifted long-fingered hands into the air, gems glittering in the red light. “Fire and Earth, Your Highness. Greetings!” He bowed with the same casual grace. “And Empress.” He dipped his head even lower. Aris smiled despite herself. She decided she already liked the man. He continued in the deep, cultured tone. “The situation in Palins, alas, has not been entirely manageable of late. As is well known, we are the only Founding Tribe which has chosen to stay at peace and out of war, and not without a cost. We still hold on to our system. However, the treaties we signed with the Empire are, unfortunately, my reason for troubling the Council on this day.”

He swept the High Chairs on the dais with a sharp gaze. Aris caught his gaze for a moment and she realized the Palin’s eyes were plain silver, with no black in them. His high cheekbones shone as he smiled pleasingly.

“Fire and Earth, as I said. We have kept our side of the bargain for all these years. Now we need the Empire to fulfill its share. Earth we have offered you openly. Fire was to be your part of the bargain.” Oh. No wonder. Aris grimaced. He let a moment or two pass in silence. The Emperor shifted uncomfortably. “On behalf of the Headmaster of the Ruling Trade Guild of Palins (my master), Lord Yaesh Palmaros, I am here to present our case before the High Emperor with the Greater Council in attendance. I ask for permission to continue.”

Aris knew where this was leading, more or less. The Palin were among the five Founding Tribes of the land. The Ter’Rethan (or the Followers of Reth’s Path) were the most powerful, the ones who set up the Empire; Aris’ own Tribe. The Palin (or the Last Colors) were a peaceful people, developed totally around the idea of trade and economy. The Alhan (or the First Born), the most barbaric and arrogant of the Founding Tribes, were a war-based society. The Harnesh (or the Stone-Blessed) worshipped Harn, the Stone God, and were the biggest and longest-sustained rivals the Empire had seen. A pity they finally bowed. As to the fifth tribe, little was known except their formidable prowess. The fifth, the Drus’Maen, were the only inland tribe and no one dared venture into their territory, for the they were a hostile people.

The Emperor gave the briefest of nods.

“There has been an unprecedented influx of Alhan deserters into our lands of late in this past turn. It continues still, with an ever increasing rate.” There were gaps and scowls of astonishment now, but no one offered a question. The Palin emissary had everyone. Aris was more than bewildered, however. This was getting complicated. Very complicated. “Refugees, Your Highness. A plague has broken out among the Alhan.”

Breaths caught. Aris’ own head was aching now. This was unexpected.