Page 11

CHAPTER

Eleven

T HE EMPEROR WAS ON HIS FEET . He had recited the Five Rules—now it was time for his speech. He held up a sheet of gold-edged paper and everyone laughed. He’d made a pledge at his coronation that his speeches would never last longer than one side of paper, and he had honoured that promise ever since.

“This night reminds us of the gift Yasthala gave us,” he said, without preamble. “In her day, only Venerants could join a monastery, or attend court. Even Middling folk,” he patted his chest, “were barred. As for the throne, the High Families chose rulers from their own bloodlines, breeding themselves like lap dogs.”

He paused to let the insult hit. Neema slid her gaze to Havoc—son of not one High Venerant family but two. If he was offended by the emperor’s words, he didn’t show it. Too well trained, Neema thought.

“The empire was sliding once more towards tyranny,” Bersun said, slashing down with his damaged hand. “Each ruler worse than the last. Then came Yasthala. Yasthala the Cruel, they called her. For three years Orrun suffered under her rule. Thousands dead from famine and disease. Thousands more worked to death in prison mines and labour camps. Yasthala didn’t care. While her people suffered, she laughed. While they starved, she feasted.

“Until one night the Raven left the Hidden Realm and paid the empress a visit. The Second Guardian showed Yasthala what would come to pass if she didn’t change her ways. The Raven’s Dream, the Scriptures call it. A vision of blood, and fire, and vengeance. The destruction of Orrun. The end of days. The Last Return of the Eight.”

The room held its collective breath, gripped with dread. On Neema’s table, the man who’d given the blessing made a discreet sign over his heart, to ward off ill fortune. He was not the only one.

The emperor lifted his hand in a placating gesture, acknowledging their discomfort. “Yasthala took the Raven’s warning to heart. She set out across her empire in disguise, to see for herself the sorrows she had inflicted. To feel what her people felt, to suffer as they suffered, to dream as they dreamed. On the fringes of Dolrun Forest she made a promise to end tyranny for ever. And then she fought a war for five long and bloody years, to protect Orrun from the fate the Raven had shown her. She saved her people, and all the generations that followed. May the Eight bless her.”

“And remain Hidden,” people responded, with more vehemence than usual. Please yes, dear beloved Guardians. Do not come for us.

“She saved us,” Bersun said. “But her work is not complete. The truce forced her to compromise. Yasthala planned to open the monasteries up to anyone worthy of a place, no matter their background. But the anats were left to interpret her words as they wished. Anat-garra opened its doors to anyone with the courage and strength to survive novitiate training.” Bersun stood taller, proud of his monastery. “And anyone may enter Anat-russir, if they can find the way in.” Cheers and whistles from the Foxes in the room.

“The Ravens and Oxes, Monkeys and Hounds set up academies across the empire—beacons of learning that now have noble histories of their own. But when I took the throne, the doors to their monasteries were mostly shut to Commoners. And the Tigers? They had done nothing.”

He let his disapproval fill the room, thick and heavy as the incense that signalled his coming.

“This is not right. This is not fair. Empress Yasthala knew it. We all know it in our hearts. That is why I am so proud of our reforms, and why I believe they will stand as the most significant achievement of my reign. The doors to the anats are open. May they never be closed again.”

Ah! So that was the point. His beloved monastery reforms. The room burst into dutiful applause.

Bersun had not finished. With genuine comic timing, he held up the paper—and flipped it. “Nearly!” he said, to waves of laughter.

Neema didn’t join in. There was no writing on the other side. Whatever the emperor was about to say was unrehearsed—and that made her nervous. She shifted in her seat, to get a better view.

“I have spoken to each of the contenders, in private,” the emperor said. “I explained to them, as I have explained to you, that these reforms are not mine, but Yasthala’s. We honour her by completing the work she began. By fulfilling the oath she made to her people. All but one agreed with their emperor.”

All but one. No guesses required. Ruko and Abbess Rivenna sat rigid with defiance, as everyone turned to look at them.

“Perhaps this has changed his mind,” Bersun said, handing his speech to the nearest bodyguard. Another emperor might have sat down at this point, on his golden chair. Bersun prowled the dais, hand upon his sword. “Perhaps we have moved him with our words. Let us see. Contenders—I call on you to swear an oath here tonight. Will you promise to uphold these reforms? Will you swear it on the Eight?”

Cain was already on his feet, Katsan a close second. Not a difficult decision for a Bear or a Fox. On Neema’s table, Tala and Havoc rose together, nodding to each other. Shal Worthy stood next, for the Hounds.

And finally Gaida, slowed only because she was clipping her hair back into something resembling a bun. Crossing her arms across her chest, she saluted the room. “I swear upon the Eight to protect these vital and long overdue reforms. And I take this opportunity to acknowledge my many Commoner friends,” a nod to Cain, “who inspire me every day with their courage, their spirit, and their dignity.”

Neema poured another glass of wine.

Only one contender left. On the dais, the emperor gripped the hilt of his sword. He could not order Ruko to swear an oath. He’d had his term of twenty-four years. He could not dictate what happened next—that was strictly forbidden. Even the promise he’d wrestled from the other contenders was not binding. If Neema had known he planned to do this, she would have counselled him against it, even as a Commoner. All the Old Bear had done was remind everyone that his power was fading. She felt an ache of sympathy. He was a good man, the emperor. He had brought peace and stability, he had worked tirelessly, she had watched him wear himself out. Give him this, Ruko, she thought. Even if you go back on your word later, do not humiliate him tonight.

“Contender Valit,” the emperor prompted. He was not used to being kept waiting. “Will you rise?”

But Ruko remained seated. “A Tiger does not cage itself,” he said, in a voice that rang up to the very rafters of the banqueting hall.

Everyone waited for Bersun to explode. His infamous temper.

Instead, he laughed. A chilling laugh of release. Like a hunter who has taken down his prey, after long days of pursuit. It went on for too long, poisoning the air, then faded to silence. Neema had never heard the emperor laugh like that—and hoped she never would again.

“Vabras,” he called down from the dais, sounding just like himself again. “The colours.”

And with that, the ceremony lurched back into life as if nothing had happened. The drums sounded, the trumpets blared, and Ruko—finally—found his feet, joining his rivals at the base of the dais. Vabras brought up the colours and, as he did so, he bent low and whispered something in Bersun’s ear. The emperor frowned. They were still conferring when the music ended.

The contenders had formed a line in the traditional order of the Guardians, stage right to left: Cain for the Fox, Gaida for the Raven, Ruko for the Tiger, Tala for the Ox, Katsan for the Bear, Havoc for the Monkey, Shal for the Hound. The seven great champions of Orrun. Facing the room, shoulder to shoulder in their matching uniforms, sigils glowing on their chests, they looked like the mythic gods of the olden days.

“Welcome, brave contenders!” the herald shouted. “May the Eight protect you.”

“And remain Hidden,” the contenders replied, in unison.

The room burst into applause.

The emperor, still deep in discussion with Vabras, gave a final, decisive nod, then called down the steps. “Cain Ballari.”

Cain mounted the dais. Bersun, struggling slightly with his maimed hand, tied the embroidered band around Cain’s right bicep—bright orange for the Fox.

Neema smiled, despite herself. She might not like the man Cain had become, but she still loved the boy he had once been.

Cain headed back down the steps on another wave of applause.

“Gaida Rack.” Bersun pinched his lips at her Raven name, the memory of his treasonous old High Justice.

Gaida mounted the dais with aching solemnity. A purple band for her, embroidered with the black wings of the Raven.

Next, the Tiger contender. Muted applause this time—a certain wariness. The emperor wrapped a green band around Ruko’s bulging bicep, and sent him back down the steps without a word.

Tala’s colours were dark copper, embroidered with wide golden horns. Before she left the dais she gave the room a collective Ox bow, arms forming a circle, fingers clasped. A gesture of peace and inclusion. We pull the plough together.

Katsan followed next. Bersun opened his arms in welcome. He might be her emperor, but as a Bear warrior he was also her Brother—and would soon be her abbot. Katsan accepted the hug, stiffly, and shifted away as soon as it was done. Neema found that curious, but it was not out of character. As if the bitter norwestern winters had chilled her soul while she was out patrolling the mountain paths, and never thawed. The applause was equally cool as she returned to the line, her red band with black slashes prominent against her bare, tautly muscled arm.

Havoc, by contrast, was granted a rousing reception. Like Katsan, he had risked his life defending the empire. Like Shal, he was a proven leader. He also had a lot of friends in the room. He accepted his yellow band as if it were a military honour, and returned to his place, neatly avoiding the foot Cain had stuck out to trip him.

Shal Worthy came up last, for the Hounds. Bersun tied the colours around his arm—a blue band with a silver square. And in that alchemical way, without even trying—the band added to his dashing appearance—the subtle glint of silver matching his earrings and his tunic sigil. Shal gave a Hound salute, fist pressed to his chest, and the colours ceremony was complete.

Again, an awed hush fell upon the room. In a few days’ time, one of these contenders would be crowned ruler of Orrun. Looking down the line, there was no denying Ruko’s superior physique, or the burning hunger in his eyes. He was the one to beat, without question. Another reason for Havoc’s reception, Neema thought. The High Venerants liked the Monkey contender because he was one of them. Everyone else liked him because he wasn’t Ruko. Havoc was a contender in the classic style—the right bearing, the right temperament. It was obvious what kind of ruler he would be. (Solid, well-prepared, fond of ceremony.) But Ruko? Who could guess what Ruko Valit would do with all that power?

Into the silence, a deep boom of drums.

Everyone turned towards the door in anticipation.

The drumming grew louder, Neema could feel the reverberation deep in her chest. It rose to a crescendo, then stopped. The banqueting doors opened wide to admit a group of cloaked and hooded figures.

The Dragon contingent.

They moved like a wave down the hall towards the dais, their cloaks spread out behind them, each one a different shade of sea green laced with silver thread that glinted in the candlelight. At the foot of the dais they stopped as one. Seven drew back, forming a protective semicircle around their leader—a short, slender woman clasping a plain wooden staff.

Jadu, Servant of the Dragon and ruler of Helia for over sixty years. This would be her fifth Festival, and there was no reason to assume it would be her last. Servants were twice Chosen by the Dragon, Guardian of Mystery, Guardian of Death. Their lives were long.

With her back to the room, Jadu lowered her hood. Her long waves of red hair had softened with age to a burnished rose-gold. For a crown she wore a silver diadem, the links made of eternal eights.

Neema could not see Jadu’s face, but she saw the contenders’ reactions—surprise, wonder.

“Welcome, honoured guests,” Bersun said, perched in his familiar way at the edge of his chair. He held out a band of pale sea-green silk, embroidered with the sigil of the Dragon, the Eighth Guardian twining and coiling into another ∞ . “Will you take your colours, and join the Festival of the Eight?”

“We are Dragons,” Jadu replied. “We desire not the throne.” Her voice was eerie, a whisper that carried to the back of the hall, drifting through the mind like smoke.

“You renounce your right to contend?”

“We do.” A touch of scorn, as if ruling the world was for children.

“What do you ask, in return?”

“To govern ourselves in peace, and to bring the Chosen home.”

“This we promise on the Eight,” the emperor said. “Contenders. Do you bind yourselves to this oath?”

“We do,” they replied, in unison. This was a promise even Ruko was happy to make. No one knew why the spell-casters of Helia did not use their magic to take over the empire, and no one asked. Why give them ideas?

The Ritual of Renunciation was complete. The eighth contingent turned as one, and the room reacted as the contenders had done: surprise and wonder. Jadu was nearing a hundred years of age, but she looked forty years younger. Like all those Chosen by the Dragon, her eyes had turned amber when she was initiated—very pale in her case, like the centre of a flame. With her near-white brows and lashes, the effect was striking. In the middle of her forehead, set within the diadem, lay the Eye of the Dragon—the flawless emerald passed down from Servant to Servant.

Jadu gazed out across the room, searching for someone. “Yasila,” she said, when she’d found her quarry. “Child of Helia. How fares your life since you left us?” A twist of a smile. “Do you enjoy the freedom you craved?”

Yasila, seated at her table with her hands folded in her lap, said nothing.

Jadu lifted up her hood and glided back down the hall. As she passed Neema’s table she paused and took a breath, as if she had scented something in the air. The emerald glinted on her forehead, caught in the candlelight.

“Look at that,” Facet breathed. “Beautiful.”

Jadu gave him a withering look, and continued on her way.

Sunur was reminding Tala of Princess Yasila’s doomed childhood. “… no, she wasn’t Chosen, she was kept hostage. The shipwreck, remember? She escaped when she was sixteen…”

It’s over , Neema thought, flooded with relief. The ceremony was done. Everything had gone smoothly. No disasters, no mistakes. Apart from Ruko’s defiance, but that was beyond her control. All the rehearsals and fine tuning had been worth it. The emperor was drinking wine from a golden cup—not happy, exactly, Bersun never looked happy on high occasions. But gruffly satisfied. The contenders began to peel away from the line.

I hope Benna has poured my bath. Sitting back in her chair, Neema allowed herself an indulgent projection. The soft lap of water, the swirl of rose oil on its surface. Flickering candles arranged around the edge. Rich creams for tired feet and aching limbs.

Gaida stepped forward. “Permission to speak, your majesty.”

Neema returned to the present with a thud.

The rest of the contenders were back in their seats. Guests fanned and tutted in disapproval. The afterparties!

The emperor’s lips formed a thin line. “Very well. Be brief.”

Gaida bowed her thanks. “Your majesty, I wish to thank my fellow Raven, High Scholar Neema Kraa, for arranging this remarkable ceremony.”

Everyone turned towards Neema and clapped politely. A clever piece of deflection from Gaida. By the time everyone turned back, three young men with matching ginger hair were threading their way towards the dais.

The Imperial Bodyguards drew their swords.

“Peace, peace!” Gaida said. She patted the air, as if she were a schoolteacher settling an unruly classroom. “My friends. Please welcome the Ankalla brothers, of Three Ports!”

The musicians gave deep Monkey salutes, bowing from the waist with their palms pressed together. First to the emperor, then to the room. The Hounds relaxed. The brothers were favourites at court, and had performed in the procession earlier.

The emperor, however, did not like to be ambushed. He was a soldier, after all. “What is this?”

“Your majesty, forgive me. I know how much you wished for this ceremony to be authentic. I’m afraid the High Scholar has missed something out. A small detail, but,” a modest, faux-embarrassed laugh, “it happens to relate to me.”

Neema’s heart dropped off a cliff. She knew what was coming.

“An accident, I’m sure,” Gaida said, and smiled.

Bersun grunted. “Well? What is it?”

“At the end of Yasthala’s feast, the Raven contender surprised the empress with a performance of her favourite song.”

Bersun throttled the hilt of his sword. “Neema Kraa. Is this so?”

Neema rose to her feet. Her legs were shaking. “Yes, your majesty.”

He glared at her. “And you forgot this detail?”

“No, your majesty.” She knew better than to lie. She stumbled on, in a strained voice. “It was a fleeting reference, in an obscure account. If it did happen, and that’s debatable, it wasn’t considered part of the official opening ceremony. I took the decision—”

“ You took the decision.”

Disapproving frowns from the other guests, the shaking of jewelled heads.

“Do you rule Orrun, Neema Kraa?” Bersun enquired.

“No, your majesty.”

It was her own fault, completely her own fault. She’d known that if she’d brought the reference to the Festival committee, they would have felt honour-bound to include it. Authenticity. She’d also known that the emperor would hate it—Gaida warbling away, taking centre stage. So she’d taken a gamble not to mention it. No one would notice, especially not Gaida. She was too grand for footnotes.

Wrong.

Gaida caught her eye. She tilted her head and pulled a sad face. Mouthed, Sorry.

A golden fork in the neck , Neema thought. She could do it, before the Hounds caught her. Clamber over the tables. It would be worth it, maybe. She balled her hands into fists, dug her nails into her palms.

The emperor was furious. But there was nothing he could do. Which made him even more furious. Gritting his teeth, he turned back to Gaida. “Our thanks to you, Raven contender, for bringing this oversight to our attention. Sing us the song, if that is your wish .”

Ignoring the hint, Gaida gave another Raven salute, hands crossed over her chest. “Your majesty. Last summer, on my pilgrimage across the empire, I had the honour of visiting your beloved home of Anat-garra.”

Neema dropped back down in her seat. This was going to be even worse than she’d thought.

Gaida softened her voice. “I was privileged to gain audience with your abbot and mentor Brother Lanrik, mere weeks before he died. I also met your brother Gedrun. He wishes you good health, and hopes you may be reconciled when you return west.”

The emperor’s face was frozen. The feud with his brother was longstanding, and painful. When Bersun had taken the Way of the Bear, Gedrun had accused him of being selfish for abandoning his family, his responsibilities as the oldest brother. The two men had sworn never to speak to one another again.

“He told me this song was a favourite of yours,” Gaida said, and nodded to the musicians.

The youngest Ankalla brother pulled out a flute and played an introductory refrain, sweet and mournful. People sighed in recognition. “Come to the Mountain”—an ancient folk song from the north-west borderlands.

The emperor covered his face with his hand.

“Come to the mountain, my lost brother,” Gaida sang, in a warm, expressive voice. The three brothers joined her, in close harmony.

“Come to the mountain, my lost brother

I would see your face again

Come to the mountain, lonely warrior

Through the darkness, through the rain

Death the Dragon cannot part us

Strong and true our bond remains

Come to the mountain, my lost brother

I would see your face again.”

The final, haunting note faded away to silence.

Everyone looked to the emperor. His hand was still shielding his face, head bowed, shoulders shaking. He was weeping. The Old Bear was weeping, in front of the entire court. Neema covered her mouth, wracked with shame. She’d done this to him. This was her fault.

Scrubbing the tears from his cheeks, Bersun jumped down from the dais and strode vigorously down the hall, robes trailing. His bodyguards, taken by surprise, hurried after him, pushing Gaida out of the way. She too, was taken aback. Whatever reaction she had expected, it wasn’t this.

The emperor came to a halt at Neema’s table. With a sharp gesture, not looking her way, he summoned her in front of him.

Neema dropped to one knee. “Your majesty. Forgive your servant for her mistake—”

“Where is your badge of office?”

A vision of herself this morning, back pressed against the service hut, slipping her badge into her pocket. She had forgotten to retrieve it. “You majesty, I—”

“Does the honour mean so little, that you do not bother to wear it?”

She lifted her eyes, miserable.

“Then we shall remove you of the burden. Neema Kraa. We strip you of your position. From this moment, you have no place at court, or in my retinue. You are released.”

“Your majesty—”

A slice of the hand, an executioner’s axe, into his palm. It is done. “Vabras. What time does the boat leave tomorrow?” The last boat to the mainland, before they sealed the island for the Festival.

The emperor’s shadow materialised at his side. “Seven o’clock, your majesty.”

“Be on it,” Bersun said, to Neema.

Neema bowed her head, accepting the order. She knew better than to beg, or defend herself. Her disgrace was public, and thus permanent. “May the Eight protect his majesty,” she said, in a cracked voice.

“And remain Hidden,” Vabras murmured.

The emperor moved on without a word.