Брайан Макклеллан - Blood of Empire

For her part, Ichtracia seemed to absorb the news as if she expected it. Michel felt his mouth fall open. “You’re joking?”

“Of course not,” Ka-poel said, looking vaguely annoyed. “Why would I joke about that?”

“I…” Michel sucked on his teeth and took a deep breath. He finally got a grasp on his nerves, pulling them all tight until he could talk without a tremble in his voice. He made eye contact with Ichtracia. Only a moment ago she had exclaimed that one does not turn down honors from the ruler of Dynize. “Does this change that thing we’d discussed?”

“Not for me it doesn’t. Does it for you?”

“No.”

It seemed to be Taniel and Ka-poel’s turn to be confused. They both watched Michel with a sudden trepidation. Michel kept his eyes on Ichtracia for a few more moments before turning to her sister. God, empress, or simply his former employer – he could do this. “Ichtracia and I are getting married. We want to spend a few months here, but then we’ve been invited to visit the Palo Nation in northern Fatrasta and we figure that would be a good place for both of us, where no one knows nor cares who we are.”

“Oh.” The response came from Taniel and Ka-poel at the same time. Michel bit his tongue. He was going to marry the sister of the new Dynize empress. He should be asking for permission, not telling them. But Ichtracia had made it clear that she was no one’s property anymore. If he hadn’t told them, she would have. He braced himself, waiting for the rebuke to come.

The silence was just beginning to get awkward when Ka-poel suddenly grinned. “Congratulations! That’s… not what I expected.”

Still as stone-faced as ever, Ichtracia slipped away from her sister and took Michel’s hand. “We’ve spent a lot of time together this last year. We’d like to spend more, and without responsibilities.”

“I think we can understand that,” Taniel said. “It doesn’t mean we won’t try to talk you into something. An ambassadorship, maybe?” He pressed on, before either of them felt the need to answer. “It doesn’t matter. We have plenty of time to discuss it. I made sure the palace chancellor cleared out Pole’s schedule for the day. Shall we go find lunch?”

Michel felt all the nerves that had turned his body into a twisted bundle these last couple of weeks finally relax. His legs felt spongy, but his chest felt light. “That sounds great. You can help me convince Ichtracia to agree to meet my mother when we go back through Fatrasta.”

Vlora stood on the ramparts of Fort Nied, staring at the Landfall Plateau, which rose sharply above her, wondering if she would ever see the city again. It was a strange thought, at once somber and relieving. What had begun with her landing not far from this spot for some light mercenary work to get her out of Adro for a few years had ended with her fighting two major battles at the city, clashing with a dictator and a wannabe god, and getting thousands of her soldiers killed.

She’d made her mark on Fatrasta, and Fatrasta, for good or ill, had damned well made its mark on her.

“Lady Flint!” a voice called up at her from within the fort. “We’ll need a decision in thirty minutes, ma’am!”

Vlora acknowledged the warning with a raised hand, her gaze still lifted to the Landfall. Six months after the end of what people had taken to calling the Godstone War, the city was a shadow of its former self. Piles of rubble still remained of buildings destroyed in the initial Dynize shelling, alongside the burned-out husks of those torched during the Palo uprising that accompanied the climax of the war. Despite all the destruction still evident, there was new growth to be seen if one knew where to look: the skeletons of new construction, fresh-faced buildings only just finished, and the thick traffic of a population finally trickling back to their homes.

Vlora pulled her thoughts away from Landfall and turned her eyes toward the harbor, where two ships lay at anchor. One of them was a big, powerful, clumsy ship with black sails – closer to a floating palace than to a true ship of the line. It had brought with it a number of Dynize diplomats and fresh correspondents from the new Dynize empress less than a week ago. The other ship was small and fast, a Rosvelean-built vessel flying Adran colors.

Both ships had orders to sail to their countries of origin with the next outgoing tide.

“Vlora?”

Vlora lifted her head from her contemplations and turned toward the stairs, where Olem had appeared. He paused briefly, cigarette smoke streaming from his nostrils, then ashed his cigarette and joined her.

“Still haven’t decided?” he asked.

Vlora shook her head. “Are the last of the coffins on board the Adran ship?”

“They are,” he answered.

“Davd and Sabastenien?”

“It’ll be a good trip for them. The captain assures me that none of the coffins will slide around.”

“Good. I… I still wonder if I did the right thing.”

“We all wonder that,” Olem responded.

“That I did the right thing?”

“Each of us wonder about ourselves,” he amended.

“I was joking.”

Olem snorted and leaned over to give her a peck on the cheek before lighting a new cigarette. “You’re going to have to decide. You have twenty-five minutes before our luggage has to be loaded into one of those ships.”

Vlora pulled a pair of letters from her jacket, opened them both, then spread them on the ramparts, using one hand to smooth the folds. On the left was a letter from Taniel, inviting her and Olem to visit the court of the new Dynize empress. On the right was a letter from the government of Adro, demanding that Vlora return to Adro to answer for getting Adran soldiers involved in a foreign war.

She considered that second letter. Most of her soldiers had gone home months ago, accompanying Bo, Nila, and the fleet. This was, after all, no longer an Adran matter. Their army was dissolved, the matter put to rest. They had won. Vlora had stopped a would-be god.

She hadn’t told anyone but Olem about that moment in the Else, when Ka-poel seized that blackest of black. None of the new “empress’s” correspondents had referred to her godhood. She wondered how long until the news got out – how long until her compatriots back home found out that she had, in fact, failed in her mission.

She wondered if Ka-poel was equipped for godhood, or if a new nightmare had been born.

“If we go home,” she told Olem, “there is a distinct possibility that we will both be arrested and court-martialed. Delia has been there for four months, putting her own spin on what happened here, no doubt telling everyone that you murdered Provost Marshal Valeer in cold blood.”

If the prospect of facing a trial bothered Olem, it didn’t show on his face. “Bo and Nila have both been back for a couple of months, as well as most of the general staff. After Delia’s betrayal, they won’t let her lies stand.”

“And yet our arrest is still a possibility.”

Olem tapped his finger on the letter from Adro. “It is,” he conceded. “We could go to Dynize. Taniel has as much promised you a letter of recommendation, an ambassadorship, and the full protection of the Dynize throne.”

“And it would give us a chance to see what Ka-poel has really become,” Vlora mused.

“Last I heard, Major Gustar is still hanging around there to make sure Adro has some representation in the Dynize court until a proper ambassador arrives. It would be good to see him.”