Kingsbane (Empirium 2)

Ikari inclined her head. “Very well, my lady. I will take you to the scrap room after we’re finished here, and you may peruse our stores. I suggest holding each piece in your hand and, as you examine it, listening to what your heart tells you.”

A response to that came to Eliana’s mind at once. Her heart was telling her she should have stayed in Orline. That this was futile, that Navi would die before she was able to help her.

That she was frightened of what would become of the self she knew, once she held a casting in her hands.

But she bit the inside of her lip and followed Ikari’s slow progress around the hearth. Simon, a silent shadow, followed closely behind her.

“Have you given any thought as to what kind of casting you would like to fashion?” Ikari asked.

In fact, Eliana had known what the shape of her casting would be from the moment the idea first occurred to her.

“I have,” she replied. “I would like two identical pendants—small, thin, smooth-edged.” With her right finger, she drew a circle on her left palm, to illustrate the size. “I would like to wear one in each of my palms, to be held in place by slender chains.”

Ikari nodded, then gestured at a young acolyte, who was hovering nearby. The boy hurried over with a pen and a curling leaf of paper.

“We can easily design such molds for you, my lady, and have them ready by tomorrow evening.” Ikari moved to a stone shelf and quickly sketched out a design. “Like so?”

Eliana considered the sketched hand. A round disc sat in the palm, with thin chains connected to it in a cross shape. One chain hooked around the middle finger. Another wrapped around the back of the hand. A third chain connected the bottom of the pendant to the final, fourth chain that would form a bracelet around her wrist.

“Yes,” she said, pleased at the elegant design. “Yes, that’s exactly what I imagined.”

Simon peered over her shoulder. “They won’t be easy to remove.”

“Good. I don’t want them to be. I’ll sleep more easily knowing my hands are bound. That I won’t wake from a nightmare to find I’ve torn down the castle while I slept.”

“We do not fear you, my lady,” Ikari said softly. “You saved us from invasion. Astavar still stands free because of you.”

“Some of you fear me, and you should. I do.”

Ikari’s gaze was gentler than Eliana felt she deserved. “You mentioned you have a personal artifact to add to the mixture?”

Eliana removed her necklace and gave it to Ikari without hesitation.

Ikari turned the necklace over, examining it. Her eyes widened. “Oh, my lady. This is—”

“I know. The Lightbringer. My father, apparently.” The words felt brittle on Eliana’s tongue. They were a betrayal to Ioseph Ferracora; she wished them unsaid. “Well, and he’s long dead, isn’t he? I don’t think he’ll care if I melt down his necklace.”

“No, my lady. This is not the Lightbringer.” Ikari pointed to a series of markings on the back of the necklace, near the bottom rim—which Eliana had of course noticed before but had never deciphered. “This is the mark of the metalmaster artisan who crafted this necklace. The three slanting lines, and the arching half-moon underneath, mark it as the work of an artisan of the royal house of Lysleva. And the markings below that—Borsvallic script. Numbers.” She squinted. “From the year 999 of the Second Age. The year before the Fall.”

A few scholars and acolytes had gathered, quietly crowding close for a look.

Ikari, eyes bright, pointed at the figure riding the winged horse. “And this, my lady, is the Blood Queen.”

Eliana frowned. “But the Lightbringer rode a chavaile into battle. That’s what Remy told me. And there was a statue at the eastern edge of Orline that depicted the Lightbringer on that very godsbeast.”

“Yes, by all surviving accounts, the Lightbringer rode a chavaile into battle against the angels,” Ikari agreed. “But before that, the chavaile did not belong to him. It belonged to the Blood Queen, as much as a godsbeast can belong to anyone. In the two years before her death, this image appeared on jewelry, armor, and castings across the kingdom of Celdaria. Across the entire world. We have one such surviving artifact in our archives, in fact.” Ikari glanced up at Eliana, her expression one of pure delight. “I can show you, my lady, so you can see what a clearer engraving of this symbol looks like.”

Eliana, her mouth gone sour, pointed at the battered line of script arcing across the bottom of her pendant. “And this? What does this say?”

“It is an ancient Borsvallic dialect.” Ikari’s voice was reverent. “I am not fluent, but I know this phrase, at least. It says, May the Queen’s light guide you.”

The Sun Queen’s prayer. As Eliana stared at the necklace, her thoughts filled with a memory that was not her own: the beautiful woman from the vision Zahra had given her. A woman in black-and-crimson armor, standing on a blood-soaked battlefield, kissing the Emperor.

She did not look at the necklace again.

• • •

The next night, Eliana and Simon returned to the Forge, where the fire of the hearth still burned.

The three pieces of scrap metal Eliana had selected from the Forge supply waited for her at the hearth—a piece of brass piping, a thick copper chain, a chipped bronze bell.

Beside them was her necklace, sitting innocuously by the other scraps as though it hadn’t been engraved with the visage of an evil, traitorous bitch.

Ikari approached, her hair gathered into a tight bun, her face scrubbed clean. She wore plain, utilitarian clothing, a heavy apron, thick gloves.

Eliana herself would wear no such attire; the traditional forging process did not allow for it. The risk required of the elemental was thought to enhance the connection with their casting, and Eliana had decided to keep to that tradition—much to Simon’s irritation.

He stood behind her, his tense presence pulling at her like an angry tide. She relished his anger. It sharpened her grief at Remy’s continued silence, left her feeling hard and bright, like one of her grinning blades.

“Are you ready, my lady?” Ikari asked.

“Nearly,” Eliana replied airily. She was already beginning to sweat in the hot, still air. Light as it was, the gown she wore clung to her skin. So she peeled it off, shimmying free of the cloying fabric until she stood in only her boots and thin shift.

Ikari seemed unperturbed, though the nearby young acolytes gaped as if Eliana had decided to forge her casting while standing on her head.

She looked back at Simon, silently daring him to reproach her, but instead he took off his own coat, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, then folded both her gown and his coat into a neat pile and moved them aside. The light from the hearth fire made the lattice of scars on his sweat-slicked forearms gleam. inclined her head. “Very well, my lady. I will take you to the scrap room after we’re finished here, and you may peruse our stores. I suggest holding each piece in your hand and, as you examine it, listening to what your heart tells you.”

A response to that came to Eliana’s mind at once. Her heart was telling her she should have stayed in Orline. That this was futile, that Navi would die before she was able to help her.

That she was frightened of what would become of the self she knew, once she held a casting in her hands.

But she bit the inside of her lip and followed Ikari’s slow progress around the hearth. Simon, a silent shadow, followed closely behind her.

“Have you given any thought as to what kind of casting you would like to fashion?” Ikari asked.

In fact, Eliana had known what the shape of her casting would be from the moment the idea first occurred to her.

“I have,” she replied. “I would like two identical pendants—small, thin, smooth-edged.” With her right finger, she drew a circle on her left palm, to illustrate the size. “I would like to wear one in each of my palms, to be held in place by slender chains.”

Ikari nodded, then gestured at a young acolyte, who was hovering nearby. The boy hurried over with a pen and a curling leaf of paper.

“We can easily design such molds for you, my lady, and have them ready by tomorrow evening.” Ikari moved to a stone shelf and quickly sketched out a design. “Like so?”

Eliana considered the sketched hand. A round disc sat in the palm, with thin chains connected to it in a cross shape. One chain hooked around the middle finger. Another wrapped around the back of the hand. A third chain connected the bottom of the pendant to the final, fourth chain that would form a bracelet around her wrist.

“Yes,” she said, pleased at the elegant design. “Yes, that’s exactly what I imagined.”

Simon peered over her shoulder. “They won’t be easy to remove.”

“Good. I don’t want them to be. I’ll sleep more easily knowing my hands are bound. That I won’t wake from a nightmare to find I’ve torn down the castle while I slept.”

“We do not fear you, my lady,” Ikari said softly. “You saved us from invasion. Astavar still stands free because of you.”

“Some of you fear me, and you should. I do.”

Ikari’s gaze was gentler than Eliana felt she deserved. “You mentioned you have a personal artifact to add to the mixture?”

Eliana removed her necklace and gave it to Ikari without hesitation.

Ikari turned the necklace over, examining it. Her eyes widened. “Oh, my lady. This is—”

“I know. The Lightbringer. My father, apparently.” The words felt brittle on Eliana’s tongue. They were a betrayal to Ioseph Ferracora; she wished them unsaid. “Well, and he’s long dead, isn’t he? I don’t think he’ll care if I melt down his necklace.”

“No, my lady. This is not the Lightbringer.” Ikari pointed to a series of markings on the back of the necklace, near the bottom rim—which Eliana had of course noticed before but had never deciphered. “This is the mark of the metalmaster artisan who crafted this necklace. The three slanting lines, and the arching half-moon underneath, mark it as the work of an artisan of the royal house of Lysleva. And the markings below that—Borsvallic script. Numbers.” She squinted. “From the year 999 of the Second Age. The year before the Fall.”

A few scholars and acolytes had gathered, quietly crowding close for a look.

Ikari, eyes bright, pointed at the figure riding the winged horse. “And this, my lady, is the Blood Queen.”

Eliana frowned. “But the Lightbringer rode a chavaile into battle. That’s what Remy told me. And there was a statue at the eastern edge of Orline that depicted the Lightbringer on that very godsbeast.”

“Yes, by all surviving accounts, the Lightbringer rode a chavaile into battle against the angels,” Ikari agreed. “But before that, the chavaile did not belong to him. It belonged to the Blood Queen, as much as a godsbeast can belong to anyone. In the two years before her death, this image appeared on jewelry, armor, and castings across the kingdom of Celdaria. Across the entire world. We have one such surviving artifact in our archives, in fact.” Ikari glanced up at Eliana, her expression one of pure delight. “I can show you, my lady, so you can see what a clearer engraving of this symbol looks like.”

Eliana, her mouth gone sour, pointed at the battered line of script arcing across the bottom of her pendant. “And this? What does this say?”

“It is an ancient Borsvallic dialect.” Ikari’s voice was reverent. “I am not fluent, but I know this phrase, at least. It says, May the Queen’s light guide you.”

The Sun Queen’s prayer. As Eliana stared at the necklace, her thoughts filled with a memory that was not her own: the beautiful woman from the vision Zahra had given her. A woman in black-and-crimson armor, standing on a blood-soaked battlefield, kissing the Emperor.

She did not look at the necklace again.

• • •

The next night, Eliana and Simon returned to the Forge, where the fire of the hearth still burned.

The three pieces of scrap metal Eliana had selected from the Forge supply waited for her at the hearth—a piece of brass piping, a thick copper chain, a chipped bronze bell.

Beside them was her necklace, sitting innocuously by the other scraps as though it hadn’t been engraved with the visage of an evil, traitorous bitch.

Ikari approached, her hair gathered into a tight bun, her face scrubbed clean. She wore plain, utilitarian clothing, a heavy apron, thick gloves.

Eliana herself would wear no such attire; the traditional forging process did not allow for it. The risk required of the elemental was thought to enhance the connection with their casting, and Eliana had decided to keep to that tradition—much to Simon’s irritation.

He stood behind her, his tense presence pulling at her like an angry tide. She relished his anger. It sharpened her grief at Remy’s continued silence, left her feeling hard and bright, like one of her grinning blades.

“Are you ready, my lady?” Ikari asked.

“Nearly,” Eliana replied airily. She was already beginning to sweat in the hot, still air. Light as it was, the gown she wore clung to her skin. So she peeled it off, shimmying free of the cloying fabric until she stood in only her boots and thin shift.

Ikari seemed unperturbed, though the nearby young acolytes gaped as if Eliana had decided to forge her casting while standing on her head.

She looked back at Simon, silently daring him to reproach her, but instead he took off his own coat, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, then folded both her gown and his coat into a neat pile and moved them aside. The light from the hearth fire made the lattice of scars on his sweat-slicked forearms gleam.