A man stepped out of the shadows. He wore a black robe embroidered with sharks. His face was pale and bald. His eyes, an ice blue, had a predatory look about them, yet Marcus could not put a finger on why. “Greetings.” His voice was shrill. “Perga… you have brought me spoils of war, I presume. You are such a pious man…”
Marcus did not see Perga’s smile, but he imagined a wide grin. “If Orkus blesses me with riches and easy escapes,” the pirate captain said, “then I may as well do what I can to please him.”
The priest smiled.
“Orkus?” Marcus said, not knowing why he had said the word aloud.
Silence ensued, broken momentarily from Tivera’s mumbling: “Save me from the bad man…”
The priest’s blue eyes widened. “You do not know of Orkus. I am not surprised. The priests of Imperial City scorn his name, hiding his worship from the populace… did you know that Lorenus, patron god of the Empire, has a brother? That while Lorenus rides the sea-foam on his chariot, his brother Orkus—unknown to common Imperials—lives in the black depths where wrecked ships find their ultimate rest? He is Orkus the Great, lord of sharks and poison jellies, stronger than his brother Lorenus and yet utterly unknown to the Imperials.” With each word, the priest’s eyes seemed to grow wider, as if heathen zeal were filling him. “Orkus sits in the darkness of the sea’s deepest chasm. He greets the sailors who sink to the deeps. He sides with the pirates, because the so-called ‘good’ men of the Empire… they worship his brother, Lorenus, whom he hates.”
Marcus gulped. “And now you will sacrifice me to him?”
The priest smiled; it was a wide, sharkish grin. “Your body will rest in the deepest chasm… you will rest in the pitch darkness as an offering to the Lord of the Deeps. May his name be ever praised!”
Revulsion filled Marcus. To kill him with a dagger was one thing—a quick blow to the heart, a flow of blood, and it was all over. But to be shackled—presumably—with iron chains and cast to the sea bottom… he could not imagine a worse fate.
They should have stayed in Imperial City.
“Moreover,” the priest continued, “though you will spend an eternity in darkest darkness, Orkus demands that his captives be kept in darkness even while they wait your fate. A special prison has been designed for you—black-walled and black-windowed—where the light of the sun will never touch your eyes.”
The priest of Orkus dragged them through several corridors. At last they reached a door, painted black. The priest threw it open, and—together with the pirates—forced them in.
And there they were, entering a room small and pitch-black. In the claustrophobic darkness, they could not see each other. Yet they could feel each other; they were pressed tight together. Marcus realized to his shame that he was attracted to Tivera; though he would not let it happen.
She was not sane. She could not make rational decisions, and acting on his feelings would mean taking advantage of her. No; theirs was a relationship of protector and protected. He could never let this pure, innocent girl come to harm.
“I love you…” Yet Marcus knew it was more of her mad mumblings. “Mira the Trifold Mother… she has told me you are a good man… she has told me that you will save me from mother. She says you are safe.”
“You will always be safe with me,” Marcus said.
“Mira lights my path… Her husband is Luos. Are you Luos?”
“N—” Marcus started, but she cut him off.
“Mira is my mother. That’s what she tells me… she says my flesh-and-blood mother isn’t my real mother, because a real mother is a mother of the heart… Mira lights my path! She is the goddess of never giving up and loving your enemies and never striving and never envying. She is my goddess… do you believe in her? What is your name? I forgot!”
“My name is Marcus, and I do believe in Mira. Just calm down… I need to think of a way to get out of here. It won’t be easy.”
Tivera’s breathing sped up, and soon she blurted out more words. “It’s so dark in here… Mira tells me there is evil all around us… bad people, and ill will… she wants me to shine my light.”
“Don’t shine your light...” The words were slow to come out of Marcus’s mouth. Seeing light would warm his soul; yet it was unwise. Tivera had a gift, and who knows what these men would do if they found out about it? Marcus did not understand these pirates or their crazed priest.
“Mira tells me you are a good man,” Tivera said. “She tells me the way I feel about you is okay. She tells me to cling to you like a rock, because you can be trusted. You can be trusted, even though Mira says most people can’t be!”
“Calm yourself.” Her words touched him. “It will all be okay. Just relax… shut your eyes, and calm down.”
“Mira tells me to shine… shine… shine…”
The familiar spark lit up the room, at first a small white flicker. Then it grew until it was a brilliant orb of radiant light, illuminating the room like daylight. To his own surprise, Marcus did not tell her to extinguish it. He reveled in the brightness, let the warmth of it fill him, and thought that perhaps it was not light at all, that it was something much greater. Somehow it seemed to reflect innocence and mercy, driving away the shadows of Marcus’s soul. He stood there, grasping Tivera, realizing how very close they were, and reveled in the divine radiance.
In time her brilliant light died down, and once again they stood in darkness. They stood in darkness until—woken out of their sleep—they saw the priest of Orkus with shackles in his hands, and a sharkish grin crossing his lips. Their doom had come.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:
The War Hawk
Bruesio Lornodoris, August
Bruesio did not approve of the murder of Julia Seánus, although the justification was clear. Unless that slave-girl lied, Julia drank her own poison. Now, as flocks of seagulls flew overhead, Bruesio stood in the docks of the city.
A stern procession was underway. A group of Imperial soldiers in full dress—horsehair-crested helmets and steel breastplates—carried a coffin toward a southbound ship. They would bury her with her husband, Urunam, in the town of Algabal and have the true funeral there. Professional mourners—a strange southron custom—wept and tore the hair of their black wigs as the soldiers loaded it onto the ship.
Julia was likable and intelligent enough in the few interactions Bruesio had with her. Her son’s rule, however, had been a catastrophic failure. Along with the other emperors—in traditional Imperial custom—Giton’s body had been cremated, the ashes put in a limestone jar and sealed in the Temple of Imperium. There he would rest with the other emperors, although he was but a shadow of them.
With the coffin loaded on the ship, the oarsmen prepared to leave the harbor. The Seáni were no more; and perhaps that was for the best.
After the morning funeral, the day began in earnest. The Imperial Council convened for further decisions. There was news: a message from the young Grand Legate, Claudio. Bruesio stood before the council as Speaker and, after a nervous hesitation, read from the scroll.
“Dear Councilors,” he said, “I have good news.” Bruesio’s muscles relaxed. “We have routed the foreign army, and they no longer form a threat to our nation, or to Eloesus. The good Prince Basil of Harkeon sent troops as aid and helped win the battle. Archamenes, however, has fled from battle. I have lost half my men and require an additional six thousand troops; the northern borderlands have not seen much battle, and a Bregantine legion will do well if you can land them in Haroon before the winter storms. –Your Servant, Claudio-Valens Adamantus.”
There was silence for a few moments.
Then Councilor Fabiano began shouting. “That boy’s ego has grown far too big for his own age! Probably incapable of growing a beard, and he wants to invade Khazidea. He blockaded Haroon—a sign of great pride, certainly—but winning new land for the Empire would turn this egomaniacal boy into a danger to everyone! His ego would be the size of the Empire
itself!”
“We have worked tirelessly to build good relations with Fharas,” sneered Councilor Kerius. “We sent them food during famine, repeatedly sent ambassadors to Seshán…”
“And look what just happened,” Bruesio said, more to offer up a contradicting argument than to express his views.
But Kerius reddened and his voice turned to a shout. “And how would invading his territory in return, capturing Haroon and subjugating the people, make it any better? ‘An eye for an eye’ is the law of the desert, but it is not—as far as I remember—enshrined in our code. We have embarrassed Archamenes and driven him away. That is all that is necessary. We can forgive him—”
“Forgiveness has no place in the command of nations!” Councilor Geta shouted in return. The thin but fit councilor came from a small village in southern Gad and won his seat from the more militarist electorate in Imperial City, Bruesio noted. “Forgiveness may be a virtue in one’s personal affairs,” Geta continued, “but doing so on the national stage—especially against a brazen, arrogant warlord like Archamenes—is a sign of cowardice and weakness. Look at what you’re saying, Councilor Kerius! What nation in history would harbor a man like you, especially in the government? Only we are fools enough to suffer your presence! I am in full support of dealing Fharas a crippling blow, and I think it is every man’s duty here to agree with me!”
“Let us be careful with our accusations,” Bruesio said. “None of us here are traitors.” Geta’s words reminded him of the historical Emperor Eratis, who executed several councilors for insulting the Empire. “We all wish to do what is best for the people, and for ourselves.”
“Eliminate ‘the people’ from that sentence,” Geta said, “and you will be closer to the truth. It is ineffable to me that anyone would refuse the Adamantus boy’s request. And though I would not label you a traitor, Kerius, because you have not murdered anyone, you are something close.”
Kerius’ face did the impossible: grow redder than it was before. “Do not make such accusations! You come from a backwater village in Gad of all places! What place do you have in Imperial City? A city that harbors all manner of people and many Fharese too, I might add! Its greatness is in its variety, and you wish to squelch that. You wish for war! To invade a sovereign nation!”
“That invaded us!” Geta hissed.
Worried they may come to blows, Bruesio shouted, “Enough! We must debate like gentlemen, though I know it is difficult with such opposing views. You have both argued, and argued well. But let me be clear—there are other reasons not to send a Bregantine legion to Haroon. A rebellion in the north of Anthania…”
“Are we truly worried about a bunch of poorly-armed rebels?” Geta laughed.
“Rumor has it that they possess dark powers,” Bruesio said. “Yet our choice is grim. The winter storms will soon be here, and it will grow far more difficult to transport them if we do not decide soon. We must take a vote.”
In the seats, both Geta’s and Kerius’ eyes burned with wrath.
“All against?”
Bruesio counted the raised hands: seventeen.
“All for?” Bruesio said, and raised his own hand, though even with the twelve other votes his will could not be done. “Very well. The Bregantine legions—and others—will remain where they’re currently stationed. I will present our decision to Antonio.”
As they went on to the next topic, Bruesio couldn’t help but notice Geta’s seething expression and Kerius’ smug glow.
CHAPTER NINETEEN:
Recall
Regent Antonio Laureana
“Regent, I present to you a letter from the bel of Algabal,” the dark-haired Khazidee said, his accent thick.
Antonio, sitting on the White Throne and feeling particularly commanding, shouted, “Read it, then, slave!”
The messenger broke the seal and read from the yellow paper: “Utnam Bel says this to Regent Antonio: You have killed my brother’s wife. You have disgraced my family with your murderous hand. You will pay. By our law, I demand moneys of one-thousand marks, paid in gold and silver coin. If I do not receive it, I will take a white bull and sacrifice it to our god Sagar; and a curse of war will be upon you.”
Antonio laughed. “Not worthy of a response, really. Crumple the letter. Tell him I fear his white bull and his strange god less than I fear my own shadow.”
The messenger knew better than to sneer or glare. With impressive restraint, he silently walked away. As he left through the double-doors, Antonio called out to the Imperial Guard at the door, “You sure let the riffraff into the White Chamber, don’t you?”
Bruesio entered through a side-door. “Not only riffraff,” the elderly Imperial joked.
“What is it, Signor Bruesio?” Antonio asked.
“I come for your approval of our recent resolution… denying the Grand Legate’s request for more men. Claudio wishes to invade Khazidea and perhaps Fharas.”
What ambition, Antonio thought to himself, and a victory like that would make him very popular. Yet Khazidea was rich: glutted with ancient gold, and made wealthy by the productive farmland the Empire depended on. “So you mean to say,” Antonio began, “that he has defeated Archamenes.”
“Yes,” Bruesio said.
“Soundly?”
“It appears so.”
“Good.” Antonio’s voice couldn’t hide his disappointment. He clenched his teeth. He could not let this Claudio invade Khazidea. Such a conquest would give Claudio incredible wealth, undue popularity, and increase the boy’s ambitions. Such a conquest would turn the Middle Sea into the Imperial Sea and it would all be due to Claudio.
No, Antonio could not allow this. “I affirm your resolution,” he said. “In your letter, tell him to immediately return to Imperial City with all of his soldiers. Tell him we need him for the rebellion in the north.”
“It will be done,” Bruesio said.
CHAPTER TWENTY:
The Harem
Anthea Abantes
With this new emperor, the Order of the Red Hand struck gold; people close to the Imperial court told Lady Ciutta—and she, Anthea—that the new emperor built a southern-style harem and searched for women to fill the positions. Despite the distinct southernness of it all, the rumor circulated that Antonio, the regent, preferred blondes. And so, that was why Anthea stood in the storage room of Lady Ciutta’s brothel, her hair soaking in a vat full of dye. Instead of the dark-haired Eloesian girl everyone knew, Anthea would transform into a blonde-haired, brown-eyed warrior queen from Gad.
She had no choice; Lady Ciutta told her what to do, and she was helpless before those abyssal black eyes. But she could think of worse jobs than working as the chief harlot of the west side’s best brothel. Complaining did no good.
Next, with her hair now a bright, flowing gold, she applied generous amounts of perfume and headed east toward Imperial Square in broad daylight. The new regent held his auditions in the newly-remodeled wing of the palace. For what seemed like an hour she pushed through the sweaty, roiling heat of the crowd. The noise of the shouting street vendors, the irate cries of imperial officials guiding the flow of traffic all formed an overwhelming cacophony as she struggled under the shadow of towering apartment blocks, through the thick miasma of a thousand different animals and a hundred different foods.
But at last she reached where she wanted to go. A man—an Imperial Guard, judging by his steel, war eagle-emblazoned breastplate, and his red half-cape—stood there. “What do you want?” he said.
“I come to audition,” Anthea said, not wanting to be more specific within earshot of the roaring crowd; but the Imperial Guard’s mouth twisted into a grin.
“Ah, yes. You’ll do nicely,” he said, and pushed her through behind him. She tripped, stumbling through an open door through darkness and into the other side.
Before her was a glittering southron harem. The glare of flaming torches, their light cast through veils of red and
green, illuminated a floor piled with satin-lined pillows. Golden idols of strange gods lay strewn about the room; strange zoomorphic creatures with bulging eyes and long, protruding tongues. At the fore of it all was a golden throne with armrests formed into the shape of dragons, and upon it sat the regent.
Unlike the room, his attire was not especially southern: he did not wear a gem-encrusted, flame orange turban, nor did he wear colorful robes of silk. He did not even wear the Imperial Circlet on his head. He was clad only in a white tunic and long white breeches like a common Imperial.
“Hello,” Anthea said. “I come to join the harem as one of your women.”
“Hush,” the regent said. “Your hair is blonde, but your eyes are brown and your skin is olive like the Eloesians… I like it. The two features complement each other. And you have a great shape. You are, by far, doable…”
Anthea snorted at his choice of words. Gently she pulled at her shirt, but now—with her nerves flaring up—removing it seemed a difficult task. She struggled embarrassingly for several seconds, before she received some welcome help.
The regent himself pulled off the shirt. His muscular arms did the job much better than she ever could. Her face flushed. The regent’s dark eyes had the shallow, animal look of lust. He wanted to claim her.
He grabbed hold of her with his strong arms and she fell onto the pillows. He began his deed. It struck Anthea that the ruler of the whole Empire was her mate; she and the most powerful man in the world would be one, and she grew faint.
Not long after it began, it was over: the regent, a pleased man grinning ear-to-ear; and Anthea, still caught in throes of bliss. This regent, this Antonio Laureana, made her forget all the years at the brothel. As she looked at him, she realized she could not kill him. She wanted to tell him everything, all about the Order of the Red Hand and its goals, and all about those who wished to kill him. She bit her trembling lip to quiet herself. But she knew she could not tell him.