Chapter 39
39
P RINCE J UBAYR BOWE D before the fury of his father. The eldest son of Emperor Makar ka Haeshan stood in the center of the judgement chamber atop the Bless’d Tower of Hyka, the ten-eyed god of justice. He kept his gaze lowered, his sandals square in the middle of the executioner’s circle of black onyx. Blood dripped from the scimitar in his hands.
On the far side of the chamber, his father glowered from his tall seat, its back rising in sweeps of golden wings. It was a quarter-sized replica of the imperial Klashean throne, which rose three stories in the main hall’s vault. Behind the chair, situated across three tiers, stood the emperor’s thirty-three Chaaen. Their silver runs of chains cascaded like a bright torrent from those rows to gather around the foot of the small throne.
Behind Jubayr, more tiers held silent witnesses, both members of the imperial court and those who had an interest in the outcome of certain cases.
The entire room waited for the headless bodies of two guards to be dragged away. The pair had manned the entrance to the Abyssal Codex and failed to protect it.
Zeng ri Perrin stood to the left of the throne. His arms were folded into the sleeves of his white robe, its golden embroidery glowing in the torchlight. Jubayr was surprised the Dresh’ri hadn’t also lost his head to atone for the destruction of the imperial librarie. His survival was a testament to the man’s worth to the emperor, both as a counselor and as an intermediary to the mystic worlds.
But not all would be so spared.
The door opened behind Jubayr. The next penitent would not beg for his life like the two guardsmen had. For that Jubayr was grateful. Weighted down by heavy shackles, the Fist of the Paladins entered the chamber. Tykl pa Ree oversaw the palace battalion who protected the royal residence. He had failed and knew the exacting punishment for it.
Jubayr swallowed as the tall man, dressed in light armor, marched into the room. Even shackled, he carried his helm under one arm. His gray hair and beard had been freshly oiled, likely by his wife and two daughters. Without needing to be dragged, Tykl stepped atop the penitent circle of white marble, though presently it was awash in fresh blood.
Tykl knelt, setting his helm aside. “I accept the judgement of Hyka and the emperor who embodies His justice.”
Makar nodded, sighing away some of his anger. Tykl had served the imperial household for longer than his father had been emperor. None had come to harm under his watchful attention.
Until two days ago.
The emperor stood. “You’ve served us well, Tykl pa Ree, for that your family will be spared the sword.”
Tykl bowed his head in thanks.
“But punishment must be enacted according to Hykan Code.”
“I would expect nothing less, Your Illustriousness.” Tykl lifted his head, baring his throat. “It has been my honor to serve you as Fist of the Empire.”
Makar motioned to his son, clearly wanting to make this quick for all of them. Regret shone in his father’s eyes. But even an emperor must adhere to the strict code of justice written four millennia ago. In this regard, his father was as chain-bound as any of them.
Knowing he must show no hesitation, Jubayr turned. He kept his feet within the black circle, where he was protected by Hyka for the life he was about to take. He lifted his sword two-handed. He met Tykl’s eyes, something he hadn’t done with any of the fourteen men and two women he had slain this long day. Jubayr gritted his teeth. He had known Tykl all his life, often running through the halls when he was a boy, wearing the Fist’s oversize helm.
Even now the man sought to help Jubayr.
Tykl gave him a small nod of his chin, acknowledging that he understood and forgave this act.
Jubayr raised his scimitar high, took a deep breath, and swept the blade with all the force of his shoulder and back. He cleaved through throat and spine, angling his wrist at the last moment to send the Fist’s head rolling to the foot of the throne. It was not his first execution. He had become adept, serving this role for a decade, since he was nineteen.
Still, this was the most painful cut.
He sagged afterward, almost fell from the black circle. He leaned on the tip of his sword, trying to keep his shoulders from shaking. He cursed those who had taken Rami and Aalia—not just for the abduction of his siblings, but also for the needless death of an honorable man.
He made a solemn oath with Tykl’s blood splashed across his face.
I will make you pay.
His father stood with a jangle of thirty-three chains. He lifted a palm and spoke solemnly, ending the long proceedings. “It is done. Hyka is slaked and served.”
Freed by those words, Jubayr stumbled out of the circle. People filed out of the galleries without a whisper. He passed the ceremonial sword to an armory guard, glad to be rid of the bloody blade. Jubayr intended to head directly to the baths, to seek the hottest water, the coarsest salt, and scrub this day from his body.
But it was not over.
His father held a palm toward him, silently asking him to stay. With no choice, Jubayr stood as each of his father’s Chaaen came forward and undid their silver chains from his throne and departed. Three remained afterward, stepping alongside the emperor. They were Makar’s most revered councillors.
Jubayr sensed there was something else of import, something that had been kept from him until now.
His father came alongside him. “You did well, my son. I know that was difficult, especially the last.”
Jubayr didn’t deny it.
“Accompany us to the strategy room. There is a matter you must be informed about.”
Makar headed out of the chamber and aimed for the bridge that spanned over to the Blood’d Tower of Kragyn, the god of war. It was the second-highest spire of the citadel, second only to the royal residence. The Blood’d Tower housed the empire’s map rooms, war libraries, and all manner of chambers dedicated to tactics, strategies, and weaponry. It also held a battery of nests at the top, where bridle-singers trained and dispatched hundreds of skrycrows each day.
Jubayr followed his father. Makar was resplendent in a traditional imri cap and splay-sleeved robe that reached his knees. From the emperor’s shoulders, a heavy cape hung. Its gold-and-silver embroidery formed the Haeshan family crest of a mountain hawk in flight, where its eyes were thumb-sized diamonds and its claws were solid gold. He also wore a circlet of dark iron, sculpted from a star fallen from the heavens, adorned with a ring of bright blue sapphires.
Jubayr’s habiliment was also finely wrought, only now splashed and soaked in crimson. The blood weighed down his clothes as he walked. He carried each death with him.
Like his emperor, Jubayr had oiled his shoulder-length black hair, which was ironed flat and fixed behind his head by gold pins in the shape of the Haeshan Hawk. He shared his father’s complexion and strong lines of jaw and cheek. The only distinguishing feature between the two were Jubayr’s violet eyes, courtesy of his mother, dead these past twelve years.
Despite those eyes, many considered Jubayr to be the exact image of the younger Makar, but Jubayr wondered how much was due to shared blood and how much was because he had been groomed for the throne, forged into his father’s likeness by duty and responsibility.
Still, he doubted if he could ever accept that mantle. He stared down at the caked blood on his hands, knowing he was better suited to be an executioner than a future emperor.
A HALF- BELL LATER, their party reached the Blood’d Tower and climbed to the topmost chamber, just under the skrycrow nest. Jubayr listened to the cries and squawks of thousands of birds. He caught the whiff of their pungent spoor through the open window slits.
He hid a cringe. The reek always set his teeth on edge, a reminder of the chaos that roiled beyond the rhythm and routine of the Eternal City. He preferred order and the established roles found here, adhering to an adage as old as Kysalimri.
Each to his own place, each to his own honor.
But of late, chaos had descended upon the city and palace.
There was no escaping it.
Knowing that, Jubayr followed his father into the strategy room. He discovered the Wing of the imperial fleet and the Shield of the empire’s ground forces waiting for them. Each man dropped to a knee and saluted Makar with fists to foreheads.
The emperor waved them up and motioned their group to a massive ironwood table inscribed with a map of the Southern Klashe. The chamber itself was circular. Hundreds of other maps hung from the walls, forming the entire circlet of the Crown.
The party settled around the table, including Makar’s three Chaaen. When it came to strategy, no man was above another. All counsel was valued and welcome. Though, the final decision was ultimately made by the emperor. His father hung his heavy cloak across the back of the tallest chair, lightening his load to accept the burden to come, and sat down.
Makar waved for Jubayr to take the seat next to him. “My son, I’m sorry you must come here while still stained from your prior duty. But matters are changing swiftly.”
“I’m yours to command, Father.”
Makar patted his hand, then motioned to the wide table. Spread across its surface were thousands of small gold ships and tiny silver squares of horsemen and warriors. They were positioned where each of the imperial force was garrisoned or moored.
The emperor nodded to a tall, stern figure. “Wing Draer, what is the latest message from the north?”
Jubayr squinted as Draer stood and picked up a long wooden stick. The Wing used it to point to a collection of warships and other flotillas that had shifted to the northern border two nights ago, guarding over the ruins of Ekau Watch and patrolling the coastline. Draer shifted two of the largest warships out to sea, stopping halfway to the arc of stylized curls that represented the Breath of the Urth.
“The Hawk’s Talon and the Falcon’s Wing should enter the Breath shortly after dawn and reach the southern coast of Hálendii by the first bell of Eventoll.”
Jubayr stiffened and glanced at his father. “We’re moving against the kingdom? Already? We’ve barely ascertained what truly transpired two nights ago.”
“We’ve determined enough.” Fire returned to his father’s eyes. A fist formed on the table. “That bastard Prince Kanthe fooled us all. We believed his claims of being exiled by false accusations. A deception supported by our Eye of the Hidden, who had verified the prince’s assertions, convincing us of their veracity.”
Jubayr tightened his jaw. He had executed the spymaster earlier in the morning for that exact failure.
Makar continued, “We now know Kanthe must have been working in tandem with his twin brother, Prince Mikaen, who led the attack on Ekau Watch. The bombing was not—as we first surmised—an explosive warning to return the traitor prince to Azantiia, but an elaborate ruse. A distraction for Kanthe to make his move upon us.” Makar glared around the table. “Those two dogs made fools of us. Grabbed my youngest son and my only daughter.”
Jubayr heard the catch in his father’s throat at the mention of Aalia. He found his own hands forming fists.
Makar’s voice grew louder. “We’ve scoured the northern lands and coastlines and failed to spot them. No doubt they’ve secured the swiftest ship and are already on their way to Azantiia. For any hope of securing their release, our response must be rapid and forceful.” He slammed a fist on the table. “Before any lasting harm is committed against Rami and Aalia.”
Jubayr stared down at the two ships. “The Hawk’s Talon and the Falcon’s Wing are captained by Paktan and Mareesh.”
They were Jubayr’s two younger brothers. All three of them were only a year apart in age.
Makar nodded. “It was King Toranth’s two sons who fooled us. It will be my two sons who will exact our punishment.”
Jubayr found this fitting, except for one detail. “I should be there, too, Father.”
After the death of their mother, Jubayr had practically raised Rami. He had also doted upon and cherished his youngest sister as much as his father did. Their loss cut him deeply. He could barely dwell on it without despairing. He had to shy from his own heart, or the grief threatened to immobilize him.
Makar shook his head. “Mareesh and Paktan have trained all their lives to be my sword in the clouds. You’re needed here, my son.”
Jubayr frowned, but he had to acknowledge that his two younger brothers had indeed become valiant wingmen. It was their role in the empire, how they served their father.
Jubayr leaned back, accepting this course.
What else can we do?
Unfortunately, his father did have another recourse. “We’ve been duped and blinded throughout all of this. It is time to further open our eyes. So, to better grasp and understand what’s to come, I will leave with the first dawn bell for Qazen, to consult with the Augury.”
Jubayr choked down a gasp, beginning to understand why he had been summoned while still soaked in blood.
“For too long,” Makar continued, “I’ve neglected the Augury’s counsel and see what that inattention has wrought us.”
Jubayr turned to his father, voicing what needed to be spoken, knowing no other would challenge him. “You’re leaving now?” He waved to the map. “While we assault Hálendii?”
“It must be done without delay.”
A meek voice rose from one of his Chaaen. “Your Majesty, might it not be best to bring the Augury to Kysalimri, rather than traveling to him?”
“No. The Augury must inhale of the fumes of Malgard to properly invoke his visions. Now is not the time for half measures. Not with the drums of war sounding louder with every passing day.”
Jubayr knew there was no dissuading the emperor from this course. Makar leaned heavily on the wisdom and visions of the Augury, even during times of peace. With war on the horizon, his father would crawl on his hands and knees to gain that counsel.
Thankfully, his father would seek a speedier method of passage.
“I’ll leave in an arrowsprite. Such a ship will have me there and back in two days, three at most.” He stood and swept up his cloak from his chair and held it toward Jubayr. “Until then, my son, you will take up my mantle.”
Jubayr sat stunned for a breath, then obeyed his father. He stood, pushing back his chair with a loud scrape. His father came around and secured the cloak about his shoulders, though Makar kept the imperial circlet atop his head.
Makar waved to those gathered around the table. “Lean on them, my son, but trust your own heart. I’ve raised you well. This is a burden you can easily carry until I return.”
With the heavy cloak weighting his shoulders, he was not sure that was true. He found it harder to breathe. Still, he reached up and secured the cloak’s clasp around his neck.
“I will not fail you, Father.”
Final details were discussed around the table. Most fell on Jubayr’s deaf ears as he struggled with his new position. Once matters were settled, his father whisked away, striding purposefully, determined to seek the Augury’s counsel.
Jubayr stared at those who would serve that role for him. A long stretch of silence settled over the room, as if all were suddenly unsure of their status.
Shield Angelon finally stood, bowing his head, asking permission to speak. The leader of the empire’s ground forces, in his fifth decade, was a fourth cousin. His dark features were split by a white scar across his forehead.
Jubayr lifted a hand, having to shake loose a flap of the cloak to do so. “What is it?”
“Draer has already related at length about our readiness to act against the forces beyond the borders. But I think we must now address the threats within our own walls. There were two attacks by the Shayn’ra this past night. The Fist of God burned a pair of supply wagons headed to a southwest garrison, and another group ambushed guardsmen outside a tavern, stripping them of their gear and carving the Shayn’ra symbol of an awakening eye into their chests.”
Jubayr’s jaw tightened. He had to force words out of his mouth. “And what do you recommend?”
“Emperor Makar has been reluctant to bring the full strength of the Shield upon those rebels, even after the attempted abduction of your sister.”
Jubayr nodded, having taken part in those debates. “He fears rousing the baseborn to the Shayn’ra if we are too heavy-handed. Especially as the Fist have proven themselves to be mostly nuisances in the past. My father believes they’ve only grown bolder of late due to the attack on Ekau Watch, taking advantage of our distraction elsewhere.”
“That may be true, but they’ve grown even more emboldened following the abduction of your siblings. Prior to this, the baseborn were already warming to them, swelling their numbers. The Fist achieved this by plying the lower castes with rewards. I wager the grain and meat stolen from those burned supply wagons were distributed at large, buying support by filling bellies.”
“So, you would have us act now?”
“And firmly. Especially before they learn that the emperor has vacated the city. I have a proposition, a way to bait a trap. With the Fist of God already growing and spreading like a pestilence—and likely to expand during this crisis—it may be our last chance to rip them out by the roots and secure their leader, Tazar hy Maar, before the Shayn’ra grow too strong.”
Jubayr searched the faces of the others. Most remained stoic, not willing to commit. But two of his father’s Chaaen gave small nods of agreement.
As Jubayr struggled with this decision, he felt the heavy weight of his father’s cloak. He knew it was a burden he must eventually shoulder. He stared down at his caked palms, the hands of an executioner.
It was a role he knew well, one from which he could draw strength and honor during this time of chaos. He pictured handing the head of Tazar hy Maar to his father upon his return.
He looked over to the Shield.
“Rally whom you must and make it so.”