Chapter 98
98
O N THE MORNING of the winter’s solstice, Kanthe followed alongside Aalia down the center of the vaulted throne room. Crowds cheered and clapped from the packed galleries and arcades to either side. Ahead, the hall’s two gold thrones, along with the sweep of gilded wings above them, had been polished and gleamed in the sunlight cast by the rosette window above.
Kanthe stared into that sunny glare. Though only a month had passed since the attack, the window had been mostly replaced, its rosette reset with new stained glass, slowly returning the Illuminated Rose of the Imperium to its full glory.
The same repairs were happening across much of the beleaguered city.
The palace and its throne room had been scrubbed of blood and its blast scars filled. The lower city and docks echoed with the pound of hammers and the endless sawing of wood. The noise continued day and night. And while it should have been grating to the ear, it sounded like hope.
Farther out in the bay, Stone Gods were being returned to pedestals as massive stones were barged into place, ready to be chiseled back to life. Overlooking this work, the town of X’or had been cleared of its wreckage and its baths restored. Kanthe had spent the first quarter of his return in those bloody baths, kept company by Jester and Mead while he healed.
Kanthe glanced to the empty half of his sleeve, pinned back to his elbow. He still felt flashes of pain from his missing arm, but that, too, was fading—if not the nightmares that still struck him at times. But he knew countless others who mourned more than the loss of an arm.
The city had grieved the month long, in ceremonies small and large. Emperor Makar and Prince Jubayr were interred with great pageantry, as befitting their status.
The notable absence to both was Prince Mareesh. He had vanished after the attack, but no one was na?ve enough to think this marked the end of his challenge. During long talks on Rami’s balcony, his friend had admitted that he could have killed his brother during the battle in the throne room, but he had stayed his hand, choosing to chase Mareesh off instead. Rami still believed his brother could be redeemed. Sadly, Kanthe could not scold that decision. He understood Rami’s sentiment all too well, knowing the inner conflict he had with his own brother. Still, he hoped Rami’s compassion didn’t ruin them in the end.
While Emperor Makar and Prince Jubayr were celebrated and mourned publicly, Aalia grieved them privately, too, descending often into the mausoleum deep beneath the palace. Not even Tazar disturbed those intimate moments. She would tolerate only Rami, who also spent time alone with the dead.
Kanthe appreciated their need for privacy. They were both struggling between grief and guilt—something he recognized all too well.
Kanthe had heard of his father’s brutal slaying, and despite what was claimed across Hálendii, he knew it had been no plot by the imperium. Kanthe suspected the true hand that wielded the fatal blade belonged to his brother. Yet, Kanthe also could not dismiss the fear that what had ultimately forced Mikaen’s hand was the weight of a gold signet ring. Back on the Hyperium, Mikaen had believed Kanthe intended to challenge his birthright and, in turn, the lineage of his children. While any such claims made by the Southern Klashe could be dismissed as a lie, only one person in Hálendii knew the truth—and to remove any future threat, that person had to be silenced forever.
Kanthe suspected such a fate would have eventually come to pass, knowing the friction that had been growing of late between king and prince. Still, Kanthe hated to have played a role in it. Like Aalia and Rami, Kanthe grieved for his father, while guilt further weighed his heart.
Still, after a month, even mourning had to end. Life had to continue, a city had to be restored, a morale had to be bolstered. To that end, this day would host two great pageantries. While Aalia had been widely revered as the new empress, she still had not formally donned the circlet.
She would do so now.
As the two reached the thrones, Kanthe stepped aside and joined Rami. Aalia crossed to the larger of the two seats as the ceremony began, which involved prayers to thirty-three gods, repeated blaring of horns, and a series of lengthy proclamations.
At one point, Rami leaned into him, drowsing off for a moment.
Kanthe straightened him. “Wake up. We’ve a long day ahead of us still.”
“And night,” Rami groaned.
The second ceremony would start with the moon’s rise, marking the auspicious peak of the solstice. Kanthe stared over to the second, smaller throne, a seat that would be his after he married Aalia this very night.
He matched Rami’s groan with one of his own.
Off to the side, near the front of the gathering, he spotted Cassta with her black-draped sisters, looking his way. The young woman’s face was stoic, but he swore there was the slimmest smile of amusement, as if she were enjoying his discomfort.
He sighed and turned away.
Finally, a circlet was lifted and carried to the throne by the head cleric of the Bad’i Chaa, the House of Wisdom. Aalia removed a veil woven with diamonds from the fall of her black hair, which had been oiled to a mirrored sheen. Her gown was silver, laced with the faintest image in gold of the Haeshan Hawk. Normally, a cape with that sigil would already be gracing her shoulders—but her father’s cloak lay wrapped around her brother’s body, its gold clasp forever secured to his throat.
The cleric gently rested the circlet of meteoric black iron and its sapphire gems atop her head. Aalia stood as she accepted its weight and responsibility. A beam of sunlight from the broken window struck those jewels and flashed azure shafts across the room.
Thunderous cheering erupted, drowning out the blare of horns.
Aalia stared out across the throngs, her face firm and assured.
Still, Kanthe noted the tremble in her fingers.
As she descended, he crossed and took hold of her hand and clasped those fingers. “You’re not alone in this,” he whispered. “Know that.”
She clutched his arm, leaning on him—but only for a breath. She loosened her hold and stood straighter. He escorted her down the last step, honored to be at her side.
The new empress of the imperium.
After all the dark devastation, Kanthe felt something burn brighter inside him, something he had not felt in a long time.
Hope.
A S THE FIRST of the latterday bells rang, Aalia entered the strategy room atop the Blood’d Tower. She felt lighter after shedding out of her gown and into a simpler gerygoud habiliment, which consisted of a short tunic and white robe with splayed sleeves.
She entered with Tazar on her arm. She gave Kanthe a hard stare. She appreciated his support at the ceremony, but she made it clear the marriage to come would be as ceremonial as the finery they would wear. She dreaded having to prepare for that. Still, Tazar had helped her strip out of her gown and proved that a man on his knees could find a greater use for his tongue than simply swearing an oath.
Due to such diligent attention, they were the last to arrive at the small gathering. She crossed to the table with its map of the Southern Klashe. Tazar stepped away to join Llyra, likely to discuss matters of low armies and high affairs.
Kanthe and Rami whispered together to one side of the table, while Pratik and Frell seemed in midargument on the other. They all fell silent when she reached the table and cleared her throat.
“Why have you summoned us all here?” she asked the figure on the far end.
The Augury of Qazen stood in his black robes, with his bronze hidden under paint. Tykhan had asked them to gather in the strategy room, away from any other members of the imperial council, specifically before the wedding.
“I should let you know it is not only us in this room,” he stated. “But also in attendance, though obviously unseen, are those of our group who reside in the Wastes.”
“Nyx and the others?” Kanthe asked.
Tykhan frowned at him for stating the obvious. “They will be listening in, and Shiya will pass to me any of their questions.”
Over the past month, the two parties had shared and recounted their respective stories, but Tykhan had insisted on keeping any communications brief and sporadic. While he had taught Shiya how to shield her emanations, he remained wary of exposing themselves too broadly.
Tykhan started, “I’ve let both groups collect themselves and prepare for what’s to come, but as the nuptials are pending, I must raise one last warning to both sides. To let you know why I needed the empire readied with a new empress, one married to the rightful heir to the Hálendiian throne. Much depends on this coming to fruition.”
“Finally,” Aalia stated. “You’ve been secretive about this long enough.”
“True. As you all know, while the party in the Wastes was successful in seating the western hemisphere’s turubya, the same still must be done on the eastern side.”
“Off in the sunblasted Barrens,” Rami said. “Won’t they—”
Tykhan cut him off with a raised palm. He cocked his head, speaking askance, something he did when addressing those in the Wastes. “No, do not share your path. Not even with me. The fewer who know, the safer you will be.”
Tykhan straightened and addressed the room again. “But what I’ve not told anyone until now is that securing and seating the second turubya will not be enough to thwart moonfall.”
Aalia winced. “Then what else must be done?”
Tykhan stared across the table. “There is a third component to all of this.” He swept his gaze around the table. “One that will require you all in this room—and the might of the empire.”
“To do what?” Kanthe asked.
Tykhan stared the prince down. “To take over the Kingdom of Hálendii.”
Kanthe took a step back. “What? Why?”
“I’ve told you of the great war among the ta’wyn, when we fractured between those who wished to honor our creators and those that wanted to usurp this planet for themselves. Those usurpers were led by a betrayer, a Kryst who abandoned our side to lead the other.”
“Eligor,” Aalia said, remembering the bronze figure in the ancient pages stolen by Frell.
“The Revn-kree —those ta’wyn who broke from the creators’ path—call him the Rab’almat, which roughly means the Lord of Death. ”
Kanthe exhaled in exasperation. “Sounds equally ominous and pompous.”
“Do not scoff. His title is apt. He does not care if any life survives. Not the Crown, not the beasts of the field, not the green shoots of growth. We ta’wyn have no need for any of that. We can thrive on a dead rock devoid of air. That is why the Revn-kree want moonfall to happen. It serves as a means to eradicate all life.”
Frell spoke up. “But then why didn’t the Root in the Wastes destroy the turubya long ago? That would have thwarted any future efforts to stop moonfall.”
“Because, before his destruction, Eligor forbade it.” He stopped to let that sink in. “I suspect it was the madness of isolation, coupled with despair, that drove the Wastes’ Root to commit such a heinous act, to defy the dictates left behind by the Rab’almat. ”
Frell shook his head, still clearly frustrated. “But why did Eligor forbid anyone from destroying the turubya ?”
“As I said, the ta’wyn could thrive on a barren rock—but not one shattered to pieces. Destroying a turubya risked that happening. Likewise, it remains too early to know how devastating moonfall will be to the Urth. Eligor wanted the turubya preserved in case he needed to intervene should moonfall prove too risky to the planet’s fundamental structure.”
Aalia stared hard at Tykhan, suspecting he was still hiding something. “That’s not the only reason Eligor wanted the turubya preserved, was it?” she challenged him. “It must have something to do with that third task you said we needed to accomplish.”
Tykhan smiled. “I chose my empress well.”
Aalia scowled. “What is it that we’re supposed to do?”
“I mentioned before, at the end of the war, Eligor was defeated, and his broken body whisked away by a handful of Revn-kree survivors. The end of this story bears on both parties in the months ahead. Those survivors were led by Eligor’s second-in-command, an Axis like Shiya. I believe he, and possibly other Revn-kree, guard the second turubya within the Barrens. That Axis will be far more dangerous than a half-crazed Root.”
Everyone fell silent, knowing how close they had come to defeat in the Wastes. If an Axis and a small army were entrenched in the Barrens, what hope was there for the world?
Still, Aalia refused to bow to despair. “This tale of yours… how does it impact us in the Crown?”
“When the Revn-kree fled with Eligor’s body, there was a piece missing, an important piece.” He stared around the table. “The head of Eligor.”
Kanthe guessed at the implication. “And that head must be in Hálendii. That’s why you want us to invade. To find and destroy the last of him.”
“First, it will not require much searching,” Tykhan said. “I know exactly where the head of Eligor is hidden.”
Kanthe frowned. “Where?”
“Deep in the Shrivenkeep. Preserved in a great instrument of the Iflelen.”
Kanthe looked aghast. “How long have they had it?”
“For many centuries.”
“Then why haven’t you already stolen it?” Frell asked. “You could have destroyed it long ago.”
“Because I don’t want it destroyed. And the Iflelen have done a masterful job of protecting and preserving it. I saw no reason to intercede until now.”
Frell scowled. “I don’t understand. Why did you want it preserved? Why don’t you want it destroyed?”
“The head alone is harmless. But within that bronze skull is a buried secret. One that will take the ingenuity of a kingdom and an empire to dig out.”
“What secret?” Pratik asked.
“When Eligor betrayed us, he stole a component that is necessary to engage and direct the turubya. While those two massive spheres will power the turning of the Urth, what he stole controls them both.”
“That’s why he forbade the turubya from being destroyed,” Aalia realized aloud. “He wants mastery over them. A power that could rip the world apart as easily as saving it.”
Tykhan gave her a small bow of his head. “Now you understand. For any hope of stopping moonfall, we must secure the kingdom and that head—then discover where Eligor hid what he stole.”
“What did he actually take?” Pratik asked. “What does it look like?”
Tykhan shrugged. “I do not know. Such knowledge is well beyond the scope of a menial Root. All I know is that it must be found. Or all is doomed.”
Silence settled over the room. Aalia could only imagine how those in the Wastes were handling all of this.
Tykhan lifted a palm. “I will end our communications with the others here. We each know what we must do. To extend this conversation any longer is too great of a risk.”
After a long stretch, talk slowly resumed around the table. Aalia remained standing, staring over at Tykhan. She came to another realization and crossed over to keep her words with the Augury private.
“You are no longer open to the others?” she asked.
“Correct.”
She nodded. “The party in the Wastes has an Axis. While you, as a Root, don’t have access to the knowledge we need, she might.”
“Possibly.”
“You taught Shiya how to silence her emanations, but she remains damaged. Is there any way to restore her?”
“Possibly,” he repeated. “But I will not try.”
“Why?”
“She is useful enough in her current state to the others. Such efforts could inadvertently damage her further.”
Aalia stared hard at him, divining that he wasn’t being entirely forthright. “There’s another reason you won’t try fixing her. What is it?”
He closed his eyes slightly. “When the Revn-kree fled, they didn’t just hunt down Sleepers to kill them—like the one who attacked me. Sometimes, they replaced them, too. Burying poisonous seeds among the Sleepers.” He sighed. “And I fear, in Shiya’s damaged state—”
Aalia understood. “She could be one of those poisonous seeds and not remember it.”
Tykhan bowed his head again.
Aalia turned to the window with a worrisome concern, thinking about Mareesh, about poisonous seeds.
Who else might betray us?
F RELL HAD MUCH to contemplate as he followed Pratik through the ruins of the Abyssal Codex. Aalia had assigned Pratik to oversee the salvage of the great librarie and to manage the Dresh’ri. Such an elevation wasn’t well received, but after the last of Zeng’s supporters were rooted out and strung up in the gardens, the remaining scholars bowed to her commands.
In small ways like this, Aalia was slowly shifting the Klashean caste structure. She dared not tear it apart too quickly or risk it fraying into chaos. Over in the lower city, during the reconstruction, she had begun to blur the lines among the baseborn castes and the imri, as they labored and organized repairs, leaning on imperial pride and a common purpose to fold in her changes.
Even the Shayn’ra found common ground with the imperial guards. After fighting shoulder to shoulder during the attempted overthrow, the two factions had established a grudging respect for each other. And while fractious outbreaks still occurred, those were subsiding, too.
Still, despite such progress, Frell had grown troubled of late. It was why he had returned to the librarie. Lantern in hand, he continued down into the depths of the Codex. He followed the central spiral stair, leaving Pratik working above. The stench of smoke lay heavy in his nose.
Still, surprisingly, a large swath of the librarie had been spared. One whole level had miraculously avoided the torch, along with a few isolated islands on other levels. Plus, the Dresh’ri had their own stashes and stacks in their private quarters or scholariums. Pratik had been systematically cataloging what had survived. It served as a reminder that even in the darkest times, knowledge found a way to persist.
Frell finally descended the last curve of the stairs and reached the bottommost level of this inverted subterranean pyramid. He held his lantern higher and crossed to the tall doors, wincing as he pushed into the inner sanctum beyond. He swore he could still hear the dreaded singing of the Venin. It had been etched into his skull. He paused at the threshold and made sure none of the mutilated creatures were hiding in the shadows.
Once satisfied, he headed down the short flight of steps into the room.
Pratik had already cleared out the remains of the two pyres and the bones of the man Frell had tossed into the flames, along with the sacred book. A pang of regret stabbed through him—not at the death, but at the memory of those pages turning to ash.
Still, he took the lesson above to heart.
While the book had been burned here, maybe its wisdom persisted elsewhere.
I’ll keep hunting for it.
Both to regain that knowledge and to atone for the destruction of that ancient tome.
Frell crossed the room and stepped to the waist-high slab of stone at the back. He raised his lantern, casting its light over the wall behind it. Glowing emerald veins traced through the rock, all appearing to emanate from a drawing above the altar, sketched in soot and black oil.
Frell stared again at the huge full moon rising on the wall. Silhouetted against it was the black beast with outstretched wings, edged by fire. He focused on its dark rider, as hunched as the beast itself. The rider’s eyes were stabs of that same vile emerald, glowing with menace.
Frell named the rider. “The Shadow Queen.”
He had heard the tale of what had befallen the others in the Wastes. A story of emerald fire and madness, both driven into a winged beast and a small rider.
Is that what’s depicted here?
A prophecy drawn on stone.
As he stared at those baleful eyes, a fear grew stronger inside him—along with a growing doubt.
Am I on the right side of this war?