Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

There were some mumbles and rumbles of disapproval, but Cynead raised his hand. “Oh, do not mistake me. I acknowledge some have come to power by exceptional guile and diplomacy, entreating rather than defeating. But no matter how an Emperor managed to secure the crown from his predecessor, you all must admit: very, very few have died of old age while occupying the throne. That simply is not our way.”

Someone in one of the front rows shouted, “An Emperor holds the throne as long as he is able, no longer!”

I expected guards to rush forward and seize him for the outburst, or at least for Cynead to rebuke him. But the Emperor only smiled. “Exactly so. And still, even the strongest, most competent, and savvy of Emperors only sit the throne for a short time. The Syldoon way is to seize, to overthrow, to manipulate and orchestrate. They do not call this place Capital of Coups for no reason.”

There were a few chuckles, and Cynead continued. “But therein lies our greatest problem as well. Not solely of our age, but of every age that has come before. Our strength is our greatest weakness. We are so busy constantly jockeying, bullying, trading, and making secret exchanges in the name of seizing power, that we are unable to achieve as much as we could. Our own system limits us.”

Another Syldoon two rows down stood and called out, “We are the mightiest empire the world has ever seen! I’ll take that kind of limitation!”

Several around us laughed and murmured agreement. Emperor Cynead handled the rebuttal with aplomb. “That is what we tell ourselves. But we have stagnated, my brothers and sisters.”

One Syldoon a row behind me hissed and Mulldoos said, so loudly I was worried it would carry to the Emperor’s ears, “Shit rhetoric!”

Always a way with words.

But Cynead maintained the smile and easy command as a few others hissed or openly booed. “When was the last time our borders moved outward? And don’t tell me about the plague. No one conquers during a plague. But think back-when was the last time our neighbors trembled, fearing our advance, or paid tribute to keep us from storming into their lands and simply doing what we do best-seizing?”

Someone cried, “The Empire is large, vast. Bigger than any two kingdoms combined. The wealthiest as well. How else would you define might?”

“And that size, that vastness, was all achieved long before our lifetimes. In the last hundred years, we have done nothing save maintain our borders and trade routes, survive our various coups and assassination, and tread water. History does not remember stagnation. It remembers greatness, achievement, growth, power.”

One Tower Commander stood long enough to say, “Growth or not, every kingdom the world over covets the kind of power we have.”

“Do we measure ourselves by what other kingdoms think, or want?” the Emperor asked. “No. We are the Syldoon. And we deserve more than to simply clutch onto the lands our forefathers gave to us. We deserve far more than that. But our very nature prevents us from achieving it. I took the throne myself three years ago. Before that, Thumaar held it for longer than usual, but had the plague to contend with, so was lucky not to lose more than he did. Before him, every rule has lasted less than a handful of years. Not time enough to put serious plans in place, let alone carry them to fruition. Our rulers come and go, the power shifts, and our sons do not inherit it. Everything about the Syldoon is short-lived, finite, and limited. Even our greatness, such as it is. Unless we are brave enough to do what must be done to change. To grow, ourselves. To not only solidify what we have and who we are, but to extend our borders, our influence, our might. And that is why you were summoned here today.”

Several Syldoon stood up, shouting one thing or another, impossible to figure out as they spoke over each other. I was surprised the Emperor didn’t try to silence them, demand their acquiescence, but it seemed clear that the Syldoon handled things much differently than Anjurians. The Syldoon might have plotted against each other in the shadows, but here, there were no apparent repercussions for speaking plainly or giving voice to dissent.

Cynead waited the storm out, let them shout, and finally raised both hands. The hippodrome quieted again, and he said, “I will explain my plan to you. In time, and in detail. I have mapped out a way for us to all move forward, to achieve what we most need. But for today, I wanted to share one thing with you. I have discovered a way to save us from ourselves. To give us the time to build something, something that history will never forget.

“Our ambition is our greatest strength, as I said, but it all too often results in a dead or exiled emperor. And a new regime. And plans and counterplans from various Towers to undermine that one. And so on. It just won’t do. While the kingdoms around us are not our models or inspiration, there is one thing that they have that we do not, that creates stability, allows for far-reaching enterprise. They have monarchs who rule for life.”

There was booing and hissing from several quarters, longer and more pronounced than before.

Again, Cynead nodded as if he expected this, waited it out. And then he raised his voice. “Our culture, our rule, our very way of life rewards ambition and ruthlessness, ability and drive. But at the same time, our lack of stability prevents us from accomplishing all that we are able. Today, a new era begins. You see, today my rule is permanent.”

One Tower Commander stood and yelled, “You presume too much! Three years on the throne! Three! Call a Caucus after you’ve had it a tenyear!”

There was some laughter and another ruddy-faced Commander stood. “Let’s hear him out. What changes do you propose, Your Imperial Majesty?”

“Of course you want to hear him out, you halfwit lackey!” the first shouted.

Others stood and had their turn, those who supported the Emperor, and those who vehemently disagreed, though more often directing it toward the supporters than the Emperor himself. Still, I was amazed by the freedoms these once-slaves were afforded in expressing themselves. If they were in a kingdom assembly hall, some would have been branded traitors and clapped in irons.

I quickly figured out that hissing signified disagreement, whistling, consent.

Cynead raised his arms and held them aloft until the hippodrome fell silent again. “The Syldoon power has always been too equally dispersed. I’m not talking about our soldiers, you see, but the Memoridons. Every Tower, allotted their share. But until now, even I hadn’t been able to bring more of them into the fold. It was impossible. But no more. Today, anything is possible.”

And with that he clapped his hands once. And somewhere a gong sounded, or something like it, but muffled, as if it were behind several walls and far away. But there was no mistaking something ringing, reverberating, heavy, like brass or copper. I suddenly felt something strange, like a wind moving over us, though no breezed stirred. It was a hot gust that didn’t shift a single hair or ripple the canvas shade above. Several other Syldoon had felt it as well, as they sought the source, eyes wide in surprise or narrowed in suspicion. But they felt it.

In every pocket of Tower men around the hippodrome, each Commander suddenly reacted in much the same way as if violently struck in the head by some unseen thing, some falling into their comrades, others off their benches, and a few standing and teetering long enough for one of their captains to catch them.

And then the Memoridons who had been sitting in the back rows were slowly walking down the aisle between the benches, toward the dark earth and hippodrome track below. Some cast glances at their stricken Tower Commanders as they passed them. But most of them were staring at Cynead, many with faces blanched or jaw muscles bulging, some with open fear.