Empress of Dorsa (The Chronicles of Dorsa)

Interlude I:

The Emperor Accepts His Crown

~ FOUR AND A HALF YEARS AGO: MACE ~

Mace stared at the messenger, trying to comprehend what the man had just told him. He could feel Wise Man Fraden’s gaze upon him, uneasy and waiting. The messenger himself continued to pant for breath, the sweat rolling down his temples drawing clean lines through the ash and dirt covering his face.

Less than two weeks earlier, Mace had received another messenger in his office, the girl Linna of Terinto, whom Commander Joslyn had seen as a future palace guard. She had told Mace that the Empress still held the city of Pellon, but only barely. They had been betrayed by the Brotherhood, and with the Brotherhood’s help, the mountain men had surrounded them. The Imperial Army had already taken heavy losses, and without immediate reinforcements, it was likely that Pellon, along with everything east of it that had not been retaken, would fall.

Yet Mace had dallied, waiting a full week before he brought the request for reinforcements to the council. The council was glad the Empress had finally taken a husband – a prominent son of the West, nonetheless – but the lords and ambassadors still saw Mace less as the Emperor than as his father’s ploy for more power in Port Lorsin. Despite what Tasia said about the lords preferring an Emperor’s rule to an Empress’s, Emperor Mace was no Emperor Andreth, and everyone knew it. To make matters worse, the Western lords deferred to his father rather than to him; lords of the other three realms had mixed feelings about a Westerner wearing a crown and often opposed Mace on principle.

When he finally brought the request for reinforcements, relaying to the council what the girl had told him, the lords argued that they had already given all the soldiers they had to give, and there was simply no one else to send. Mace’s father had caught his eye, and one long, loaded look from him was enough to convince Mace that this was an argument he was bound to lose.

So Mace had relented. He told himself that Tasia was clever, and if anyone could find a way out of her difficult situation in Pellon, it was her. He contented himself with returning to the business of the day-to-day management of the Empire, which he had been pleased to learn he was fairly competent at, and hoped that the next messenger arriving from the East would deliver better news. News, hopefully, that in a last-minute miracle, Tasia and her army had pushed back the threat, and all was secure once more.

But now, with this soot-stained messenger before him, Mace cursed himself for a coward. A fool and a coward. If he’d made the request for more troops two weeks ago when the girl had first arrived, and if he’d ignored his father and exercised his right as emperor over the council’s lords, Pellon – and Tasia – would have still probably been lost, but at least there would be soldiers already heading East to protect the territories she’d recaptured. Delaying for two weeks because of his distaste for political feuds and his reluctance to face down the ever-squabbling council might very well cost the Empire not just Pellon but the entire East.

The messenger and Braden still stared at him, waiting for a reply.

Mace wiped a hand down his face and forced himself to straighten in the high-backed chair. He placed his palms on the desk, and for a moment, he gazed down at it, this massive oak desk that had belonged to so many Emperors before him. Emperor Andreth had sat behind this very desk when he took the throne from his father as a young man; he’d ended the Western Rebellion from this desk. Andreth’s father, Emperor Balus X, had sat behind this desk the generation before that, organizing the war that ultimately resulted in Terinto being added to the Empire.

Now Mace sat behind the desk. Now Mace was the Emperor – truly the Emperor, because Tasia was not coming back.

Tasia was dead.

Schooling his face to neutrality the way his Wise Men had taught him, he repeated the messenger’s words slowly and clearly, without making them sound like a question.

“House Pellon, its lands, city, and castle, are lost,” Mace stated. “The Imperial Army has been routed; the Empress has fallen. You are absolutely sure of this? Sure that each fact is correct?”

“Yes, Majesty,” said the breathless messenger.

“Did you personally witness the Empress fall?” Mace asked. “With your own eyes?”

The messenger shifted uneasily. “No, Majesty. But Colonel Ollea did. An’ the Colonel sent me her own self to deliver this message to yer Majesty.”

“And where is Colonel Ollea now?”

“Leadin’ them that survived back west, along the Emperor’s Road, Majesty,” the soldier said. He hesitated. “Well, most o’ them that survived. Lots ran for the mountains, too.”

“How many does the colonel have with her?” Mace asked calmly, even though he feared the answer. Tasia had the lion’s share of the Empire’s army with her. A catastrophic loss didn’t just mean the loss of the East but posed a threat to the entire continent.

“A couple thousand, if I were to guess, yer Majesty. Maybe a brigade.”

Adjacent to Mace, Wise Man Fraden’s eyes widened with shock. “A single brigade? Are you absolutely sure, man? The Empress left Port Lorsin with tens of thousands troops. I know some died in the storm off the coast of Birsid, but nevertheless, the last we heard, nearly thirty thousand held Pellon. That’s the equivalent of…” Fraden thought a moment; military operations were not his specialty. “Nearly a dozen brigades. Now you mean to tell me we have one?”

The soldier turned towards Fraden. “Maybe one, Lord Wise Man.”

A thousand conflicting emotions flooded Mace at once. But he kept his expression carefully neutral. He laced his hands together and pressed his lips to his knuckles. The room fell deathly still.

Through the half-open window, he could hear the chittering of songbirds and the buzz of servants going about their daily duties. No one else in the palace but him, Wise Man Fraden, and the messenger in front of them knew that the Empress was dead yet. No one else in the Empire realized that. Save perhaps one brigade and a few hundred surviving soldiers who’d fled for the potential safety of the Sunrise Mountains.

Mace could feel their eyes upon him, the dirty soldier and the prim Wise Man, anxious for him to tell them something – comfort them, order them, take charge of the situation. That was what Mace needed to do now: take charge. He would. But he needed a moment. He wasn’t like Tasia, a quick thinker always ready to take bold action regardless of what situation presented itself. Mace preferred to think things through, to contemplate his options before choosing one.

Mace had liked Tasia. He hadn’t loved her, but he liked her and considered her a friend. He admired the way she’d changed after her father had named her his heir, admired the way she’d fought back against the false Regent even when nearly the entire Empire condemned her. He thought she was going to grow into a good ruler, someone who possessed the rare combination of quick wits and compassion. While Mace had never particularly wanted the crown, and while he had wanted to marry Tasia even less than that, he had nevertheless felt proud to be her husband.

But that was all over now. If Tasia was truly gone, then he must rise to the occasion, just as she once had.

The thin golden circle inlaid with emeralds resting upon his head seemed to suddenly burn white-hot. He’d never wanted the crown, but now that he had it, he owed it to Tasia to do his best to wear it.

At last Mace dropped both hands back into his lap and looked up. “What did you say your name was, soldier?”

“Brune. Of Easthook, Majesty.”

Mace turned to his senior Wise Man. “Wise Man Fraden, see to it that Brune of Easthook gets a hot bath, a hot meal, and a soft bed.”

“Of course, your Majesty,” Fraden said, rising to his feet. He guided the soldier out the door, then paused to look back at Mace. “Shall I find you once I settle the soldier into his quarters?”

“No. Once you settle Brune, I need you to gather whatever lords and ambassadors linger about the city for an emergency council meeting,” Mace said. “Send messengers out tonight to all those not present – that’s most of them, I know. The message should explain the situation in the East clearly and honestly, but keep it as brief and simple as possible. I trust you to find the right words, then bring it to me for review.”

“Yes, Highness,” the Wise Man said with a bow, and exited, closing the door behind him.

Mace drummed his fingers on the desk once Fraden and the soldiers left. The Wise Man had been the head of the palace’s household staff before the Cult of Culo’s Coup. After the coup, nearly all the Brothers in the palace, including Tasia’s cadre of senior counselors, met their ends on Death’s Hill. Mace’s father had wanted to hang all of them, including Brother Evrart, but Mace managed to save Evrart, along with a few others he believed innocent. They were imprisoned now.

With Evrart and other Brother-Wise Men locked in the palace dungeons, Fraden suddenly found himself the palace’s senior Wise Man, and therefore the senior counselor to the Emperor. It wasn’t that Mace disliked Fraden, but while the Wise Man had been perfectly competent as the head of the household staff, he hadn’t been any more prepared to be the crown’s senior counselor than Mace had been prepared to be Emperor.

It was good Evrart lived. He was the one whose advice Mace wanted now.

Mace waited a few minutes after Fraden left, warring once more with his emotions. He didn’t leave the office until he could press all his doubts and fears and sorrow into the far recesses of his mind.

“Enough,” he told the empty office and himself, standing abruptly. “Do your duty.”

He strode to the office door and threw it open. Grizzle, the old veteran whom Joslyn of Terinto had promoted to be Mace’s personal guard, waited in the hallway.

Grizzle glanced up at the Emperor. His eyes held a question, but he did not ask it aloud.

Grizzle had known Tasia since she was a toddler and he was a young palace guardsman with far less grey in his beard. If anyone deserved to know Tasia’s fate, Grizzle did.

“She’s dead,” Mace said. He looked straight ahead, not risking what might happen to the emotions he’d wrestled into place if he met Grizzle’s eye. “Tasia is dead. Come; we’re going to the dungeons.”

In his peripheral vision, Mace saw the shock of his proclamation strike the old guard, draining his face of color and forcing his eyes wide. But Grizzle’s only outward reaction was a single, loud sniff. Then he took up his place at his Emperor’s side, matching the stride of Mace’s long legs down the corridor step for step.

The guards at the dungeon entrance did not look especially surprised to see Mace. He had come down here to speak to Evrart often enough since Linna had arrived and announced the Brotherhood’s betrayal. The guard with the iron key ring didn’t say a word, merely gave Mace a deferential bow and extended the keys in his direction. Mace took it with a nod and moved past the jailer into the dungeon, not stopping until he reached the isolated cell at the end of the second passageway.

Evrart, who perched on a pile of dirty straw in the corner, raised his head. He looked more haggard than he had the last time Mace had visited, and the cell smelled much worse. Mace fleetingly wondered if the guards only bothered to empty the man’s chamber pots when the Emperor himself demanded it of them.

“Hello, Emperor,” Evrart said, voice hoarse from disuse. He squinted at the sudden light from Grizzle’s lamp and attempted a weak smile.

“Apologies, Brother Evrart. I know it’s been a long time since last I visited.”

“You come when you can, Majesty,” Evrart replied.

“I will get you out of this hole. Please understand it will take time, but I will.” Even to Mace’s own ears, his promise sounded hollow. They both knew that Evrart was very likely to die down here.

“I can’t say I blame the council for demanding either execution or imprisonment for all known Brothers. Even those of us with no connection to the coup.” Evrart gave a what-can-you-do shrug. “I would have recommended the same thing. Better safe than sorry.”

“I am the Emperor now, Evrart,” Mace said, “and I know you to be innocent beyond even the slightest taint of doubt. I won’t allow the political maneuvering of the Lords and the House of Wisdom to force my hand.”

Evrart gave a gruff laugh. “Your Majesty, do you really think none of your predecessors were ever forced to acquiesce to the council against their better judgment? Or to the House of Wisdom, for that matter? There have been those Emperors who refused to bow to the council over the centuries, but those…” He looked away, picking at a tattered edge of the plain wool smock worn by all the dungeon’s inmates. “Well, let us agree that it is far better for me to live out my days in this cell than for you to choke on a poisoned supper.”

Behind Mace, Grizzle grunted disapprovingly. The grunt said he would never allow Mace to die the way the previous Emperor had, nor would Grizzle meet the same end as Cole of Easthook.

“I’m afraid I didn’t come to discuss your imprisonment,” Mace said. “I come with news far worse.” He let his gaze drop, studying the damp, rough-hewn flagstones that made up the cell floor while he searched for the best way to tell Evrart of the Empress’s death. But there was no way to say it in a way that would soften the blow. “It’s Tasia. She’s dead.”

Nothing in Evrart’s dirty, haggard face changed, but Mace knew the words would hit Evrart just as hard as they’d hit Grizzle. All three men were silent for a minute, each absorbing the loss in their own way.

“Gods be damned,” Evrart cursed at last. “I always knew that woman’s stubbornness would be the end of her, sooner or later. I warned her not to go East, Alric told her the same thing. Even Joslyn tried to talk her out of it.” He looked up, a hopeful shine in his eyes. “And what of Joslyn? Alric?”

“The General was ambushed during the coup. Brother Rennus delivered his head to the Empress.” Mace had known that for weeks, of course. Since the time Linna had returned and all the Brothers were rounded up. But Evrart hadn’t asked about Alric until now, and Mace hadn’t thought to tell him. “As for the Commander, I can only assume she died at her Empress’s side. If Tasia perished … Joslyn would have fought to the end. We both know that.”

Evrart closed his eyes, running a hand over his matted beard. “What will you do?” he asked at last. “About the East?”

“The army was completely routed by mountain men, assisted by the Brotherhood. Which is why I came to talk to you now.” Mace drew a breath. “Half the council wanted the war to end two years ago. That half only agreed to Tasia’s campaign because of the political capital she held after exposing Norix and Hermant. But even the half that supported Tasia’s campaign to retake the East… It’s been a long war, Evrart. The lords are tired of paying for it, and the common people are tired of sending their sons and brothers to die in a land they are unlikely to ever see. If I try asking for even more troops after this – this disaster…”

Evrart was already shaking his head. “Your instinct is right. You cannot ask the lords for more soldiers, Emperor.”

Mace leaned back against the bars that formed the front of Evrart’s cell. He suddenly felt faint, as though he might have collapsed if the bars hadn’t been there.