The Cradle of Ice, page 55
part #2 of Moonfall Series
Tykhan whispered solemnly to the nonne, “Sister Lassan, if you could give Rami some privacy. I will let you know if we need your assistance.”
She rose with her thurible, bowed to the prince, and quietly left the temple, closing the heavy doors behind her.
Once alone, Rami scowled at Tykhan. “How much longer must we maintain this ruse? You said yourself that it took five decades to achieve this bridling. You can’t possibly know with any certainty what damage it is causing or what possible ramifications might follow from such abuse.”
Frell scowled—but not at Rami’s accusation. “The walls are thick marble, and this pool drains deep before joining the stream outside, but we should keep our voices low.”
Tykhan, his eyes wounded, addressed Rami. “Your father is not the first that I’ve bridled. I promise, despite how it appears, I’ve been as gentle as possible. Still, I cannot fully discount your words. Bridling always carries some risk. I’m sorry.”
Rami closed his eyes, clearly struggling to accept the necessity of this act.
Tykhan moved on from this tender subject. “We have a hard path ahead of us. It is not only the emperor who risks suffering. For any hope to mitigate the war to come—to keep the Crown from tearing itself apart—we must return to the path that my calculations originally pointed to that offered the best possible outcome.”
“Which is what?” Kanthe asked. “We’re trying to get Aalia seated on the imperial throne. What more can we do?”
“That wasn’t my full plan,” Tykhan snapped, clearly still irked that his carefully orchestrated manipulations had gone awry due to a certain Prince in the Cupboard.
“Then what was?” Frell pressed him.
Tykhan looked at Kanthe. “As I tried to arrange before, Empress Aalia and Prince Kanthe must be married.”
Kanthe shook his head. “But why? Why is that so important?”
“The kingdom and empire must be united, or all may come to ruin. All forecasts dictate this is the only path forward.”
“Then imbibe more of those Malgardian fumes,” Kanthe said. “I can’t see how that’s important or why my marriage to Aalia would make any difference.”
“It will.” Tykhan’s eyes glowed through the lenses that had turned his eyes to a rich indigo. “You are critical to all of it.”
The third bell of the morning rang out, heard only as distant muffled chiming through the thick marble.
Frell frowned. “Talk of such unions can wait. We must get Emperor Makar ready for the visit by the imperial council. We fail with them, and none of this matters.”
Tykhan nodded. “Fear not, with time, all will become clear.”
Kanthe frowned at those words, spoken with the vague execrable mystery of all oracles. Still, one thing remained clear.
It’s too late to turn back now.
83
AALIA WAITED FOR the morning’s third bell to finish ringing across X’or. The small gold bell in the steeple topping the emperor’s palacio made her teeth ache. When it finally ended, she sighed with relief.
“We’re running out of time,” she said, rolling to her side under a tangle of sheets. “I must be ready to receive the council in another bell.”
Tazar pushed up to an elbow, his hair rumpled, his lips slightly bruised. He reached to her breast and gently rolled a thumb around her nipple, urging it harder. “I can accomplish a lot in less than a bell.”
She pushed him away, stronger than she intended to, but anxiety kept her tense. He had snuck into her bedchamber last night, cloaked under a byor-ga robe. Not that any subterfuge was truly necessary. Aalia’s servants knew of his presence, as did most of the guards by now. No one could fault the Illuminated Rose for needing companionship, especially now. Often enough in the past, she had shared her bed with both men and women. While she had to preserve her maidenhood, which was examined regularly, she was left with abundant latitude for other explorations and enjoyments.
“I need to bathe and prepare,” Aalia said. “The council will fault even a hair out of place in an effort to deny my claim.”
Tazar slid a palm down her leg, settling his fingers in a manner meant to encourage her to relent. “There are some areas they won’t inspect.”
With a great deal of regret, she pushed his hand away. “I wouldn’t be so certain of that.”
He smiled in defeat and rolled away. He crossed to his pile of clothes, turning enough to show the firmness of his disappointment—which was prominent in its statement. He donned his robes, hiding the run of hard muscles and downy glisten of his skin.
She slid out of bed as he finished. She crossed to join him as he pulled the byor-ga headwear in place. She lifted to her toes and kissed him deeply, bruising those lips more, leaving her mark on him.
She settled back to her soles with a sigh. “If all goes well, I’ll see you in Kysalimri by the end of the day.”
“I will do my best to be ready by then.”
She reached down and grabbed him. “You seem ready enough to me.”
He groaned. “You’ll make for a wicked empress.”
She let him go and drew the coif of his headgear over his handsome features. “Do well in rousing the Shayn’ra, and I will show you how wicked I can be. But for now, go. Llyra is surely pacing a hole through the deck of the arrowsprite.”
“Very true.”
Once in Kysalimri, Tazar and Llyra had work of their own to do. The guildmaster would rouse the low army that she recruited from the city’s thieveries, taverns, and dark dens over the past year, while Tazar gathered his Shayn’ra into a larger, harder Fist.
Much depended on the days ahead.
Knowing this, Tazar turned and headed toward a balcony door. He gave a final glance back, then leaped over the rail outside and vanished. The drama of his exit was more artifice than stealth. One had to go through the motions of secrecy to maintain some semblance of decorum when it came to such dalliances.
But for what must be accomplished in the next bell, such feigned pretense would not suffice.
Aalia stared into the mirror leaning on a wall. Naked and unabashed, she straightened her shoulders and stood taller.
I must be the empress.
* * *
JUBAYR SETTLED WITH the others in the small dining hall in the emperor’s palacio. He had visited here often enough to tell the room had been prepared for this tense gathering.
The large table had been shifted to face the balcony that overlooked the villa’s grounds and out to the Bay of the Blessed. The Stone Gods stood tall, casting their august shadows across the water. Five seats had been positioned along one side, facing that view.
Clearly the staff had been alerted to the number of councillors who would be attending. There was also a sixth member. Chaaen Hrash. But the man was not officially a part of the imperial council, so he would remain standing. Still, Jubayr had asked Hrash to come with them. If anyone knew Emperor Makar the best, it was his father’s most adored and esteemed friend and adviser. If they were to evaluate the emperor’s temperament and fitness of mind, Hrash’s insight would be useful.
As they waited for Aalia, Jubayr did his best to judge the mood in the room.
Wing Draer and Mareesh, both of the aerial fleet, stood with arms crossed, wearing matching frowns. They seemed equally set against Aalia, refusing to even unbend those stubborn limbs to accept a dram of wine or a crumpet of brined eel on toast.
On the other side, Shield Angelon had his head bowed with Sail Garryn, in midargument with each other, weighing or dismissing the merits of such a radical course. Angelon leaned away and Garryn toward Aalia. Still, like any sail in a tempest, their positions tipped in all directions.
The only neutral party seemed to be Chaaen Hrash, who looked pensive and worried—not about the decision to be weighed this morning, but about an emperor whom he loved dearly.
Finally, a small horn sounded. The master of the palacio—a spindle of a man in an ankle-length gray shift and crimson belt—requested they all take their seats. As they did, a flurry of servants swept in and cleared the table of plates, platters, and other detritus of the small morning repast that had welcomed them. Every crumb and droplet of spilled wine was wiped away, leaving the table as pristine as it was priceless.
Its timber had been hewn from the rare fall of a dead branch from the Talniss groves of X’or. Its surface was as black as ebony and grained in bright silver. The wood was so dark that it looked like the table had been sculpted out of those shining filaments. Talniss wood was prized above all, valued a hundred times its weight in gold. The table alone would finance an entire warship.
Jubayr ran his palm over its surface as he crossed to his seat. Once there, he kept the imperial cloak clasped about his neck, but he tossed its length over the low back of his chair. The embroidered Haeshan Hawk with its diamond eyes and gold claws glinted brightly, as if trying to compete with the rich table.
The others settled to either side. The Wing and Mareesh to his left and the Shield and Sail to his right. Hrash stood behind Jubayr’s shoulder, ready to offer support. Still, seated at the table’s center, Jubayr felt the weight of this responsibility. His father had left him this cloak and the leadership of the imperium while he was gone. Jubayr would honor that blessing by not relinquishing it without cause.
The horn sounded again.
An expectant silence settled over the room.
Footsteps could be heard approaching down the marble hall. All eyes turned. As Aalia stepped into the room, a few gasps greeted her. One of them might have been from Jubayr, but he was too shocked to know for sure.
Aalia stepped into the room naked, her skin oiled to a dark ebony, nearly the same hue as the table. Enhancing this effect was the tracery of silver lines that wrapped her skin. Across her belly, they formed a shining hawk, the Haeshan crest. Her long hair had been unbraided and ironed into a fall of shadows.
In her hands, she carried a silver platter. Atop it rested the imperial circlet of dark iron. Its bright blue sapphires matched the waters of the bay behind her. As she crossed, the Stone Gods towered behind her shoulders.
Two princes flanked her, Rami on her left, Kanthe on her right. They stopped halfway and let Aalia continue forward on her own, bared to all. She kept her gaze forward, humble but unbowed.
She stepped to the table and placed the circlet and platter down before Jubayr.
“No hand has touched this since my father forced it upon me. I now lay it before you all.”
She retreated four steps, while the two princes came forward, flourishing a grand cloak between them. It was a silken gold on the inside and layered on the outside with petals of every hue of red. They placed it across her shoulders and drew it over her nakedness, transforming her in a sweep into the Illuminated Rose of the Imperium.
She took one step forward again, asserting her space. “I have no desire to be empress. I only come to repeat and share my father’s wishes before delirium fully consumed him. I leave it to you all to decide to set it aside or honor it.”
Jubayr realized he had been holding his breath. He let it out slowly, glancing to his right and left. No one had the wind to speak, still stunned. Mareesh barely noted Aalia. His gaze was fixed to the circlet. He looked ready to lunge over and grab it, and he might have, if not for the presence of Shield, Wing, and Sail. To ever hope to wear that crown, one would need the approval of all three.
Jubayr glanced to the circlet, too. Unlike Mareesh, he had hardly looked at it. If anything, he felt a trickle of fear at the sight of it—whether due to the hard man who once wore it or his own reluctance to ever carry its weight.
The first person to speak did not come from the table but from behind Jubayr’s shoulder. “And what of Emperor Makar?” Chaaen Hrash asked. “How does he fare?”
Aalia closed her eyes, her chin dropping. “See for yourself.”
Upon her words, another trio entered. This time, everyone truly did gasp.
Jubayr stood up, choking himself with his cloak. “Father…”
Emperor Makar hobbled in, leaning heavily on the arm of the Augury of Qazen. At his father’s other side came Abbess Shayr, governess of X’or and one of the most esteemed healers of the Klashe. The emperor was dressed as resplendently as always in a stark white gerygoud habiliment, complete with polished snakeskin boots and gold cap. Only the rich attire seemed to mock the man wearing it. His father looked everywhere and nowhere. Spittle flecked his lips. His right cheek twitched with every step.
Chaaen Hrash rushed around the table. “Makar,” he blurted out, shocked into forgetting any proper title or honorific. Only when he reached the emperor’s side did he finally collect himself. “Your Illustriousness, it is I … Chaaen Hrash.”
Makar looked at his closest friend, but clearly there was no recollection. Still, the emperor tried, as if Hrash’s heartbreak more than his words had worn past the haze that overtook the emperor’s senses. A single tear rolled down his father’s face.
Jubayr noted Rami wringing his hands as he watched this greeting, his face furious and frustrated.
I feel the same, dear brother.
“What has caused this affliction?” Hrash asked.
The Augury nodded to the abbess to answer.
“As well as we can discern, from the muscular tics and waves of lucidity, we suspect a poison of Quelch Bonnet. A venom from an asp that resides in the Shrouds of Dalalæða.”
“In other words,” Shield Angelon sneered out, casting Prince Kanthe an accusatory glare, “from the highlands of Hálendii.”
* * *
KANTHE FOUGHT TO keep his face stoic as guilt etched through him. What afflicted the emperor wasn’t a Hálendiian poison, but Kanthe and the others were still to blame.
Aalia spoke up in his defense. “If it wasn’t for a plot uncovered by Prince Kanthe, a most loyal friend, Prince Rami and I would not have been able to save my father. I wish we had only known sooner and whom to trust. We still remain leery and don’t know fully whom we can depend upon.” She turned to the figure on her right. “Except for the Augury, who pulled my father from the brink of death and who offered us great counsel throughout our ensuing ordeal.”
“If I may speak?” Tykhan asked with a bow of his head.
Jubayr sank back to his seat and waved permission.
“While the state of His Illustriousness may look distressing, there is hope. He does have moments of clarity. Like when he urged for his daughter to accept the heavy mantle of the imperium.”
Kanthe noted he directed his words at Prince Jubayr, who fingered the clasp at his neck.
“In truth, I was not surprised by this offer. I have often had visions of the imperial throne with a woman sitting atop it. But she was much older, wiser, and greatly revered by her children and the imperium at large. It was only upon Emperor Makar’s supplication to his daughter that I realized who that revered woman was.” He motioned to Aalia. “There she stands.”
Murmurs spread across the table.
Mareesh spoke up sharply, with a slightly mocking tone. “So you say, Augury. But it remains your word and my sister’s. Perhaps you both have much to gain by such assertions. Like the imperium itself.”
Wing Draer muttered a half-hearted agreement.
Tykhan touched his lips, feigning deep consideration of these words. “As I said before, Emperor Makar does have moments of lucidity. He seems especially roused by the circlet itself. Perhaps due to some property of the meteoric iron or simply how adamant he is about who should wear it. We’ve kept it from his sight, as it does agitate him and afterward sets him back for a spell. But if you wish, you may see how he reacts. Somewhere deep inside, he likely does recognize everyone here. I saw the tear on the emperor’s cheek when Chaaen Hrash approached in such a heartfelt manner.”
Jubayr gave a small nod.
“So with all of his dearest councillors and advisers present, perhaps we can elicit some lucidity and guidance from Emperor Makar. If Prince Jubayr could bring the circlet forward, then—”
Mareesh reached over and snatched it from the tray. “I’ll do it.”
He stood and stalked around the table, carrying the circlet as if it were a child’s toy. He approached his father. Only when he was a few steps away did his confidence falter. Kanthe had no doubt Makar ruled his sons with a hard hand. Mareesh slowed, his shoulders bowing slightly. He held forth the circlet with more reverence now, recognizing the prominence of the one who once wore it.
“Father,” he asked softly, “what would you have us do?”
Tykhan urged the emperor forward, gently brushing the back of the man’s head as he let him go. Makar stumbled, arms out. He took the circlet from his son’s hands and tilted it right and left, the sapphires glinting in the light. He then held it out, as if offering it to Mareesh. His son reached to accept it, but Makar stumbled past him, shouldering the prince aside. He crossed to Aalia, toppled to his knees, and held the circlet up toward her.
One word was forced through his lips. “P … P … Please…”
Kanthe suspected this plea had nothing to do with the circlet, and everything to do with the emperor begging to be released from his bridling. Aalia took it, her face stricken with a sadness that was not feigned. Tears welled. Rami could stand it no more and turned away.
Tykhan and the abbess collected Makar, who swooned and nearly fell. He could barely keep his legs now.
Tykhan looked apologetically toward the table. “As I warned, these moments of clarity are rare but also debilitating.” He turned to the abbess. “Would you take him back to his room to rest? I’ll check on him when we’re done.”
She nodded.
“And could you ask Novitiate Liss to bring in Sister Amis?” Tykhan added.
“Of course.”
As the abbess guided Makar out, Kanthe looked at Aalia and Rami, who appeared to be just as mystified as Kanthe about this next visitor.
Chaaen Hrash watched Makar depart the room. “How long will the emperor be afflicted?”
