At first, I mistook the sound for the pounding of my head. My tongue was dry and shriveled. The dim light of the room hurt my eyes. I had exactly the hangover that I deserved.
When the pounding came again, out of rhythm with the pain the sound evoked, I realized that it was someone at the door. Sara groaned beside me and rolled over, pulling my pillow over her head. I sighed, poured water from the bedside ewer directly into my mouth, not quite deliberately splashing it over my face and chest, and stood. If I didn’t answer the door soon, they might knock again.
I pulled my pants on, scrubbed my face with yesterday’s shirt, and pulled it over my head as I stumbled toward the door, only barely half-dressed. I didn’t dare look at the mirror as I passed. I knew what my hair must look like. Who could possibly want anything from me so early on a Sun-day morning, especially after a pre-wedding revel like last night’s Moon-day festivities had been? Whoever it was, it had better be an emergency, because otherwise I was going to introduce them face-first to my anvil.
I unbarred the door and jerked it open just as the next round of too-insistent knocking began. Whatever questions or threats I might have been about to issue died on my lips as I stared at the three figures who graced my doorstep, no more than an hour after dawn: a young woman flanked by a pair of men at arms, all wearing traveler’s clothes. They might have come from anywhere in the Compact if I didn’t already know who they were. It had been most of a decade since I had seen any of them, but my brain was not so addled by last night’s indulgences that I did not recognize them immediately.
Elana Traiana had been a child, then, but I had no trouble recognizing that child in the serious-faced Vencari woman that stood before me. Her dark brown hair was cut short on three sides, her long bangs half-hiding her eyes. In her sapphire leggings, burgundy skirt and bodice, and cream-colored tunic, she looked more like a travelling minstrel than the deposed heir of the Imperial Throne of Vencar. The rapier that hung at her hip even bore the stamp of the Namoran King’s Writ on its scabbard, implying that her sword-hand might be available for hire.
Sir Rennin Ösh stood at her right hand, maybe a fingersbredth taller but no more. He, too, had the warm bronze skin and triangular face common among old Vencari families. He kept his head shaved meticulously bald, and he hid his sword and armor under a loose chlamys traveler’s cloak – though breadth of his shoulders and the sharp hang of the cloak mostly gave the game away.
Lord Sir Orland Borgon looked more like a man of Handar than of Vencar. Standing head and shoulders over his companions, tall enough to look me in the eye, his sun-darkened skin was ruddy instead of brazen, and his thick hair and beard were red-gold. He, too, wore a loose and road-worn chlamys, and his bulk was enough that I was less sure he was wearing armor under it.
Whatever they had expected to see, my current disheveled state was not it. Their moment of stunned silence gave me the time I needed to compose my face and tongue. I wished, belatedly, that I had at least tried to do something about my hair.
“Well,” I said. “I suppose you should come in. Whatever business has brought you here, I doubt you want to get into it on my doorstep.”
I stepped back, gesturing them toward the table in the corner. In Vencari custom, each nodded and bowed slightly as they crossed my threshold. In the manner of soldiers, they sat themselves at the table so that they could see the room.
My house was not luxurious, even by peasant’s standards. It consisted of three rooms: my smithy, my living quarters, and the small bathhouse that joined them. My living quarters were only just large enough to accommodate all five of us comfortably. The table at which they sat had only four chairs, and there was only just enough room for me to maneuver past them to the stove, where I lit a fire and began the process of making tea. The other side of the room was just big enough for the bed where Sara still slept, the large ornately carved cabinet that held my clothes, and the wooden chest and two shelves that held all my worldly possessions which did not live in the smithy.
One by one, their eyes all fell on the rumpled shape of Sara in my bed. Borgon chuckled. Traiana and Ösh turned and raised their eyebrows at me. I shrugged and waved my hand dismissively. If their incessant knocking hadn’t woken her, a bit of quiet conversation should not disturb her, either.
“Tea?” I offered them.
One by one they nodded.
The stove came to temperature quickly, and the kettle soon after. I mixed a pot of proper tea for all of us, and a separate cup of willow bark for myself, to calm my aching head. While the tea steeped, I set out the plate of scones that Sara and I had made yesterday, setting aside a few for her to enjoy in spite of my unplanned visitors. When the tea was ready, I poured for all of us and took my own place around the table.
“Need I ask what business brings you here?” I asked at last.
The three of them exchanged a complex look. It was clear that the rustic courtesies I had chosen to offer had put them off their game. Good. It was the least they deserved for their poor timing.
“Master Rowan,” Elana Traiana began.
“Please,” I interrupted her. “Just call me Derrek.”
“Master Derrek,” she began again, with the simultaneously hilarious and infuriating formality of Vencari nobility. “I have come to ask you to join us in our efforts to restore me to the throne of Vencar.”
I appreciated the directness of it. That she felt no need to introduce herself or her men, when I so clearly recognized them. That she did not presume to tell me of the rebellion or the court-in-exile as if rumor had not reached me years ago. That she did not even presume to explain to me why she needed me, specifically, not just any and every wizard who could be recruited to her cause.
I took a moment to consider my answer, sipping my tea politely. Ultimately, I decided to be as direct as she had.
“Why,” I asked, “should I help restore you to the throne that I helped usurp?”
The silence that followed was stunned. Traiana and Ösh retained most of their composure. To my surprise, it was Borgon who flinched: wide-eyed, he nearly did a spit-take. Perhaps that was why he had gone into the military, rather than maintaining the family tradition of diplomacy. More to the point, though, had they expected me to dance around that fact?
“I am the rightful heir,” she began.
I cut her off.
“House Inimbri might argue that, Elana Traiana,” I said, invoking her name for the first time, and with it the name of the House that hers had overthrown, more than a century ago. “Or House Romnar. At the end of the day, there are none of the Great Houses without a halfway reasonable claim to the throne.”
I grimaced. That was impolitic of me. Worse, it did not serve my ends. Damn them, and their bad timing. I exchanged my tea for the willow bark infusion, and refreshed their cups. The courtesies of tea service kept them from interjecting as I poured.
“The Solirius uprising and the civil war it spawned made a shambles of trade from the Wolfwood to the Sea of Dalaan, from the Sacred Desert to the Sea of Stars. How does another war of succession benefit the world? Why should I give up this quiet life to be a part of such a thing?”
Another complex exchange of glances passed between the three of them.
“It is true that the mantle of Emperor has passed between many Houses since the beginning of the Empire,” Traiana conceded. A dark and troubled look crossed her face. “And it is true that war, no matter how just, always comes with a cost.”
I was glad that she had considered the cost of war, if not the legitimacy of her claim. That spoke of some moral character.
“I would argue,” she went on, “that Inimbri was a disastrous dynasty, and that my great-grandfather was right to overthrow them. More importantly, his ascension was ruled just and lawful by the Court of the Sun. Aemillian Solirius has not been so blessed. Denied their approval, he has thrown all the priests from the palace, and performs only the bare minimum of civic piety. He has replaced the Council of Theurges with representatives from the great wizard orders, and wizards are practically above the law. He has even begun styling himself as a divine king of kings, in the tradition of a`Rasyr, and it is said that he has begun a new order of wizard-priests devoted to his divinity.”
“And you believe that?” I asked her. “That wizards could be persuaded to sacrifice to a false god?”
I had heard the rumors, of course. Every Vencari rumor that passed through Georg came through here, first. And there was no rumor the Georgi loved more than one that confirmed their belief that Vencari were mad, lascivious, and untrustworthy. They had been lapping up tales of the God-King Aemillian for a year, now. Absolute idiocy.
“Not every dynasty has been approved by the Court of the Sun,” I went on. “And the Traianum Dynasty repaid the Court for their approval by showing the Triumvirate and other Sun-cultists the same favor that you accuse Aemillian of showing to wizards. When did a Sun-cult ever face justice for their assaults on other, smaller cults under your father’s rule, or your grandfather’s?”
Another dark look crossed Elana Traiana’s face, different from the last one. I had hit a nerve.
“As for the latter,” she said, “I can only promise to be more just than my forebearers. But for the rest … the Court of the Sun and the Council of Theurges are the great checks on the power of the Emperor, and the civic piety he disdains could well be the difference between life and death for everyone in the Empire should another ogre horde come out of the north, or the Leviathan reach out and curse the world with another plague of revenants, or even in the face of some lesser catastrophe – earthquake, drought, an epidemic.”
Those last arguments, at least, had some merit.
“Go on,” I said.
Traiana stole a moment for herself by sipping her tea. Her gaze roved around the room, lingering on the wooden cabinet with its intricate carvings of men and women and giants, and on the plain and polished iron mask that graced one of my two shelves of curios.
This moment, or some version of it, had been inevitable. When would she come? Who would she bring? What arguments would she present? Those had been questions. But there had never been any doubt that she would come here, that she would seek me out, and try to recruit me to her cause. I had hoped, when the time came, that she would present better arguments.
Had she really come before me so ill-prepared? Or had her desperate need overwhelmed her eloquence at this critical moment? I both hoped and suspected that it was the latter. The Traianum line had their foibles, but Elana’s forefathers had not been fools and nothing I had heard of her painted Elana as one, herself.
A rustling sound came from the other side of the room, drawing everyone’s attention.
“Derrek,” Sarah’s voice wavered through the air, weak and thready with the same hangover I was still fighting. “Who is that?”
The question was more loaded than it sounded. A respectable widow in Georg might take a lover without more than a delightfully scandalized whisper, but to be caught in his bed on a Sun-day morning was a little more salacious. My status as the best blacksmith in the gate-town would protect us a little, but she was from Renner proper and I was a Vencari expatriot, so the scandal, before it blew over, would be more prurient and theatrical than either of us cared to deal with.
“Just some old friends,” I said, reassuringly. “From Vencar. I was just suggesting that they meet us at Eril’s inn at a more decent hour, perhaps lunch before the wedding this afternoon.”
Another complex look passed between the deposed prince and her men-at-arms. They knew a dismissal when they heard one. Traiana’s expression was stoic. Ösh’s was resigned. Borgon’s said, “I told you so.”
“We have travelled far,” Ösh dissembled for them. “And have far to travel before we’re home.”
It was a line from an old poem, and a polite excuse not to stay.
“All the more reason to stay,” I said, overriding him a little rudely. “I insist you accept my hospitality at the Stallion.”
Yet another exchange of glances. She nodded. They nodded.
“We look forward to it,” she lied, and they ushered themselves out the door in a flurry of abbreviated Imperial courtesies.
Sara watched them go, her hair as disheveled as my own and our blankets clutched modestly to her chest. I took a moment to admire her as she stood, then heated more water for tea.
“I’m afraid I had to give away some of our scones,” I said, pouring her a pair of cups to match my own: one proper, one willowbark. “A certain amount of hospitality was required.”
“Derrek,” she said again, now wearing one of my tunics. “Who were those people?”
I sighed as I sat.
This day had been inevitable. That didn’t mean I’d been looking forward to it. And their timing was just comedically awful. Why not yesterday? Why not tomorrow?
“They’re no-one, now,” I told her, making a point of enjoying one of our scones. “But when I knew them, they were the crown prince of Vencar, the captain of the Emperor Traianus’ Iron Guard, and the third general of his armies.”
Sara, unwittingly echoing Borgon, did a spit-take.
“Derrek,” she said. “Don’t tease.”
I sighed. Sat up. And looked her in the eye.
“I’m not teasing,” I said. “You have always suspected that I am more than a simple blacksmith, however talented.”
Sara stiffened. She met my gaze for a moment, then looked away.
“Will you tell me the whole of it, now?” She said in a tired, hurt voice. “You owe me that much, at least.”
We had known each-other for almost three years, almost as long as I had lived in Georg. We had been lovers for most of that. It was, in fact, a great deal less than I owed her. I hoped, at least, that she would understand why some of it could not be said before now.
===
I had suspected Aemillian’s ambition long before he asked me to help achieve it. In the beginning, the gap between us had seemed insurmountable: him the heir to a Great House, a wizard of prodigious talents, and the Master of the Libraries of the Obsidian Cabal; me bearing a bastard’s name from Handar, without family, wealth, or title. But we had shared an obsession, the lost shadow-magics of fallen Illustria, and all the long hours in the libraries for which he was then responsible, our heads close together as we pursued that obsession, had left few secrets between us. And when we unlocked the secrets of that obsession and the completion of my journeyman’s quest brought me acknowledged Mastery, peerless power for the both of us, and my delighted place in his bed, there were fewer secrets still.
It was little surprise that once he had achieved his first great ambition, he went on to obsess over another mystery. A mind such as his – even more than mine – required a goal. The thing he had fixated on next had been the Rorgoth Throne, a prize unearthed in the last days of Illustria, after the conquest of a`Rasyr, but made and buried long before the coming of humankind to those lands. He saw before I did that to study the Throne he would have to possess it. When he came to me one night with the first whispered hints of his plan, I knew that there was only one way for things to end.
We spent the next five years plotting to achieve his ambition, gathering resources and allies. I helped him design and construct his aegis, the impenetrable magical shield that let him lead the charge. I helped him plan the political and military strategies, as well, though there were others more involved with that than I. And I will never forget the day that those plans came to fruition.
He stormed the palace at dawn. Single-handedly, with the impossible power that we had discovered together, he tore down all the magical shields and protective enchantments that the wizards of House Traianum and their allies had built over the last three generations. If it were any more difficult for him than shredding the portcullis gates a moment later, he did not show it. Arrows and javelins poured down on him like rain, as steady and ineffectually. They bounced harmlessly off the aegis with no more effect than brightening its blue glow. The soldiers of House Solirium and the war-wizards of the Obsidian Cabal and Order of the Black Mask that he brought with him were protected with similar, if lesser, shields, and they made it into the palace almost without casualties. I slipped in quietly behind them.
The defenders – soldiers and wizards of the Imperial Army, Traianum House guards, and wizards from a dozen orders, personal friends of the Emperor and their families who were housed in the palace – fought as valiantly as they did futilely. Blood splattered the gleaming walls and ran thick across the white and green marble floors. Explosions rocked the building. More explosions sent up plumes of smoke across the city, as Solirium soldiers and the guards of allied houses and wizards of sympathetic orders did battle at key points in the capitol.
By the time my own work was done, some few hours later, Aemillian had already claimed the throne room. The Emperor and his personal retainers were dead, as was half his court, and House Solirium guards had already replaced Traianum’s. He was waiting for me, holding the dead Emperor’s crown in his hands.
It would take a few days to completely claim the capital city. A few weeks to master the armies. Eighteen months to beat enough loyalists into submission to truly claim to have won the war of succession. But by our measure, those were mere technicalities.
Aemillian smiled as he raised the crown to his brow: a simple golden circlet with a small sunburst and a bright ruby that sat in the middle of the brow. The Rorgoth Throne loomed, blood-spattered, behind him: a massive obsidian monolith, cut and polished into the shape of a regal seat, every one of its millions of facets marked with a magical rune, sigil, or glyph. When Aemillian placed the crown upon his head, the throne glowed as bright as the sun and uttered a bell-like tone that could be heard throughout the city. The light and the sound of the throne faded after a minute. The matching glow in Aemillian’s eyes was somewhat longer lasting.
“It is done,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
My gut wrenched at the cost of it all. So much blood. So many lives. Less, probably, than any other war of succession. But still too many.
And worth it. Without a doubt, I knew that the Rorgoth Throne was worth it. A relic of the Heroic Age, or even of the Elder World: a tool for turning mortals into heroes, and nations into empires. With its powers in addition to his own, Aemillian Solirius would rule for a century or more. He could restore the slightly shabby self-styled Empire of Vencar to the heights of its former glory.
He reached out his hand to me and caressed my face. Hot to the touch with fresh-found power, it didn’t even feel like him. My eyes drifted closed and I shuddered, slightly.
“You will be leaving, soon?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“When?” “Now.”
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