47. Cycles Ago.
Cycles Ago...
" T he boy’s my son,” Emperor Calathan VIII repeated. He was tired of saying it. Tired of the doubt he felt each time he spoke the words which, though true, might not matter so much as the other truth, the one that Marcus insisted was more important.
It was Marcus’ damned wife that was the problem. Calathan never should’ve let Marcus marry Cassandra Cythera. Her house was called the House of the Once-Queens, the Unbroken, for a reason. Long ago (or so the ancient stories claimed) they’d ruled as queens over the islands of Kretos, off the southern coast. In the cycles after their islands were conquered by the old kings of Vaharilar, they supplied more than one queen for the empire. That was all long ago, before Calathan the Conqueror came. Since then, they’d produced more than their share of wives and concubines for the Havards, thanks to a proclivity in their blood towards masochism. It was this proclivity that had prompted Calathan to approve the marriage. He’d been trying to do a favor for a friend and it had been a mistake. Cassie was too proud, and too fucking religious. Now, here they were.
Marcus stood across from the infant in the crib. Blood coated the fabric wrapped around the child’s hair. The blood dried, turning brown. The doctor who’d performed the procedure had already been executed.
The emperor counted the number of men who knew the child’s secret. Himself and his wife, the empress. She would keep her mouth shut if she knew what was good for her. Rosa and his wife, the damned Cytheran woman. Calathan wished Marcus hadn’t told her, but it was too late now. And Junaid Fakoury, the emperor’s second friend and mentor. Though Fakoury had a wife, he was smart enough not to spill secrets to her.
Junaid Fakoury was in the room now, but he stood apart from the others, not speaking. He leaned against the wall as if it were his desire to get as far as possible from the sparks of emotion that flew over the crib at the room’s center. He’d offered no opinions thus far, taken no side. Calathan was curious what he thought. Junaid was a practical man with a cautious but effective approach to problems.
“He’s not just your son,” Marcus said. “He has a bigger role to play in the Tapestry.”
It made the emperor angry to hear Marcus speaking of the damned Tapestry Unweaving prophecy as if it were anything more than the nonsensical mutterings of a seer who lived a thousand cycles ago. His face began to get red, his facial expression set. “Marcus, he’s a child. He has no role to play but shitting and getting cleaned up.”
“He won’t always be a child. Have you considered where the call of his blood may draw him when he comes of age? Have you considered where his loyalties might lie?”
“The only loyalty I’m questioning right now is yours, Marcus. You have my answer. He. Is. My. Son. My blood! Do you understand what that means for a Dragonslayer? For an Havard? Do you know our house words?!” Calathan was screaming now. His face was very red.
Of course Marcus knew his sovereign’s house words. Everyone did.
‘Bound in Blood.’
Yet Marcus was persistent. “You know what the priest said. You know what this boy could grow up to be.” The priest, a confidante of the lady Cythera, had been killed shortly after issuing his warning.
“Prophecies,” the emperor sneered. “Seers and priests and prophecies of the end of the world. For these fanciful stories you want me to kill my son.”
“The old gods we killed will rise again, and they will come for you, Calathan Havard. They will come for all who bear your name and your blood and then, they will come for the rest of us. But they're nothing to the Ravager who rises with them. That's what the seer tells us. The one who brings him is the Arbiter of the Reckoning, his Rider, a child who straddles two worlds. Think of the quake that shook the palace at Caelan’s birth. The signs point to him being that child."
“There are other children who might be the Arbiter,” Calathan reminded Marcus. They’d had this conversation before. Days had been spent in discussion of the unknowable future and research of the ancient texts. “Or the Arbiter might not be born at all for centuries. It’s all speculation, Marcus. Nothing more.”
“No.” Marcus spoke as if he’d seen the end of the world with his own eyes.
That damned Cytheran woman had wormed her way into his ear. Men were always most pliable after bedroom play.
Junaid hadn’t said anything yet. He’d hidden himself in the shadows of the corner. But the time had come to speak. The emperor demanded it.
“Marcus, you speak of possibilities as if they are certainties. Are you so superstitious? If the boy grows into what you say, then the emperor may choose to terminate him mercifully, as befits the boy’s position as his son. Until then, we must only issue congratulations to our emperor on the birth of his healthy baby boy.”
Calathan nodded. A little of the huff went out of him.
But Marcus would not agree. He shook his head. His eyes were unyielding. “Ead Tajawl threw an egg into the Mother’s Womb. Even now, the beast inside the mountain ripens. The Rebirth will come in our lifetime, Calathan. The signs that point to your son are strong. Could they be wrong? Of course. But would you risk the whole world to save the life of one boy?”
“Of course,” the emperor said stiffly. “He is my son.”
“Calathan, please, this is a mistake. I beg you—”
“The emperor has made his decision,” Junaid said lightly. But there was threat in it.
Marcus breathed very heavily. He glowered at the child. Calathan wondered if he was calculating whether he could snap the child's neck before Calathan and Junaid stopped him. This would be the last time Marcus was ever in a room with the child without armed guard, Calathan thought.
Reluctantly, Marcus bowed his head in obeisance. He snapped his boots together sharply before he strode from the palace.