Brian Staveley - The Providence of Fire

“There’s more than one problem. First, even if I get the throne, especially if I get the throne, I’m an easy target. Second, Adare and il Tornja are too far ahead. They’ve been consolidating power for years. As kenarang, il Tornja commands the armies. Adare has seized the political reins, and people are calling her a prophet. They control the two pillars on which all Malkeenian rule is grounded.”

For a long time the four of them fell silent. Triste picked angrily at a scab on her wrist while her mother gazed into her goblet of wine, as though the answers were scrawled on the mint leaf circling the rim. Kiel’s gaze went hard and absent again. Finally the Csestriim turned to Kaden.

“You still have the kenta, ” he pointed out. “You could get to Aragat. The Malkeenian line originated there. Away from the Dawn Palace, you’ll be harder to attack. The old aristocracy, from when the atrepy was a kingdom, may rally behind you, shield you.…”

“The old aristocracy is here,” Morjeta said. “From Aragat and everywhere else. They arrived months ago for the funeral of Sanlitun, and most have remained for the coronation of the new Emperor.”

“Why?” Kaden asked, shaking his head. There were dozens of preimperial lineages scattered through Annur, their power blunted by the rise of his own family. Most kept to their estates, living off inherited wealth, reading chronicles of the days before Annur, when their lands were their own and they owed fealty to no one. It seemed unlikely that they would travel all the way to Annur to pay homage to a murdered emperor or his missing heir. “What do they want?”

Morjeta spread her hands, even that small motion studied, elegant. “To see the new Emperor with their own eyes, to take the measure of the man,” she paused, “or woman. To see if they can gain an audience that will lead to some petty advantage. Lower taxation. A favorable trading arrangement. Some of them just enjoy being close to the center of power, like beggars who linger at the gates when a rich man holds a feast, hoping for a few scraps.”

“So I have scores of disgruntled nobles to deal with, even if I seize the throne,” Kaden said, shaking his head.

“Some of those nobles might back you,” Kiel pointed out. “Of course, that will alienate others.”

Kaden tried to imagine it, walking the streets of Annur with his hood pulled up, pounding on door after door, showing his eyes to the guards, demanding to be admitted. What would he say? How would he convince anyone to join the cause of a dispossessed Emperor with no coin or army, no experience running a state? Hello, my name is Kaden hui’Malkeenian. Will you help me reclaim my throne from the greatest general in Annurian history? I’d be grateful, but have nothing to offer in return.

“It’s not enough,” he said finally, shaking his head. “It’s like Adare and il Tornja have been playing their stones for years and I’ve just now sat down at the board.”

“They don’t control everything,” Kiel said. “They can’t.”

“They control what matters. The army. The capital. The Ministry of Finance. I could maybe raise a small rebellion with two or three nobles desperate enough to ride my miserable coattails, but it won’t work. My enemies already have me encircled.”

“Well, you have to do something, ” Triste exploded.

Kaden almost laughed. Do something . The mildest Shin umial would have whipped him for the notion. Eight years they’d tried to grind it out of him, this thought that he could be something, do something, have something. Their mantras still whispered in his ears like the sound of his own breath: Emptiness is freedom. Absence is truth . Eight years of cutting away, of carving out, of clearing, of emptying, and, right at the end, just as he was starting to master the letting go, to see the true power in the nothingness, here he was, needing to claw it all back.

Himself, first. Then his allies. His throne. His empire.

He felt as though he’d been climbing all his life, working his way up a punishing and vertiginous trail, only to find, as he neared the summit, that he had chosen the wrong mountain. Worse, if he started back down now, even if he abandoned the truth of the Shin, there was nothing to take its place, no knowledge of politics or military tactics, no network of personal ties, no wealth, no worldly wisdom, nothing. The board was filled with Adare’s white stones and he had nothing to play in response.

“I won’t take part in their game,” he said quietly. “I can’t.”

“So … what?” Triste demanded, eyes wide with anger and fright. “You just walk away? You just give up?”

Kaden shook his head, turning to Morjeta. “How many of these nobles come here, to your temple?”

She spread her hands. “The ones who can. The ones worth knowing.”

Kaden took a deep breath. “I’m losing the game, which means I have three choices: cede, fight back…” He hesitated, wondering if he was seeing the options clearly.

“Or?” Triste pressed.

Then, for the first time since arriving in Annur, Kaden smiled. “Or break the board.”

The sun-splashed clearing was, Gwenna supposed, as good a spot as any to die. The farm on which she’d been raised had backed up to woods like this, a mix of hemlock, pine, and fir, dark green needles shoved aside by the odd birch shouldering its way up through the gloom. Wood-peas chirruped in the high branches, while blackbirds hunted over the mossy ground, heads stabbing down for the bugs and seeds. It was a peaceful spot, but the Flea wasn’t paying much attention to the birds or the trees. After Sigrid and Newt had dragged Pyrre and Annick down to the other end of the small meadow, he turned his dark eyes on Gwenna.

“Here’s how it’s going to work.” His voice was quiet, almost weary. “I’m going to ask questions. You answer them. If you lie, I’ll kill you. Start fucking around, I’ll kill you. Leave out anything important, I’ll kill you. When we’re done, I’ll talk with my Wing, see what your friends said to them, and if your stories don’t match, I’ll kill you.” He didn’t sound like he wanted to do it, but he didn’t sound like he was bluffing, either.

“And if they do match?” Gwenna asked.

“Then maybe we can talk about something other than killing.”

Gwenna wanted to make some sort of quick, cutting remark, the kind of crack the Kettral were famous for, but she felt anything but quick and cutting. Blood stained her hands, her arms, her face. It had soaked into her blacks, then dried, stiffening the cloth. Her hair was matted with it. Most belonged to the Urghul, but she had a dozen small wounds of her own, and her muscles were watery after fighting halfway through the camp, then clinging to the talon straps for the rest of the night. And then there was the noose around her neck. That didn’t help either.

The Flea might have rescued them, but it became clear as soon as they were in the air that he didn’t trust them. While his own Wing all wore belt harnesses that allowed them to fly hands-free, Gwenna, Annick, and Pyrre were left clinging to the high loops, smacked about by the wind and the bird’s steep, banking turns, one slip away from a long fall followed by a sick crunch. Smart thinking on the Flea’s part-if the rescuees proved less than grateful, well, there wasn’t much they could do, clutching to the straps and trying not to fall. The other Wing still had weapons drawn-not that they really needed them-and as the bird flew west, the Flea’s soldiers stripped Pyrre of her knives, dropped Annick’s bow and Gwenna’s swords into the hungry night, then fitted each of the three women with the one-way noose the Kettral referred to as a kill-collar.