4
The Empire of Volakia was a large nation situated on the southern tip of the world map. It was blessed with rich, fertile land and a mild climate. Temperatures varied little throughout the year, with nothing approaching what might be called a hot or a cold season. This ensured that the vast majority of the empire’s people faced no threat of starvation, entrusting themselves to the state’s care.
At the same time, though, such a bountiful environment bred boredom, and boredom paved the way to discontent. To avoid the spread of such lethargy, the Empire of Volakia had long admonished its people to be strong in spirit, a teaching deeply reflected in the nation’s governance and policies.
In the empire, the strong stood over—often atop—the weak and were respected for it. The emperor himself was no exception. Indeed, the so-called Rite of Imperial Selection, by which the ruler of Volakia was chosen, was the very pinnacle of this philosophy. The Volakian emperors took many wives from throughout the land, and they bore the rulers many children. These imperial offspring were then set against one another in a bloody contest for the throne, with the last survivor ascending to become the next emperor.
Destroy your brothers, lay low your sisters, and become ruler. It seemed akin to the ways of beasts, but this was how the imperial family led by example, and it was this unyielding doctrine that granted the emperors ironfisted control over the people.
Such was the way of this land, and such was the spirit necessary to build a strong empire…
“Raise your head. I grant permission.” The voice had enough gravitas to send a shiver through the soul of any listener.
It was not a shudder of any emotion so easily classified as joy or pleasure, nor terror or repulsion. If Julius had to express it, he felt it was closest to what he had experienced when he was confronted by the two members of the Council of Elders in that dragon carriage. This, however, was on a completely different level.
“ ” Saying nothing, Julius slowly rose from the bow he had made as befit propriety. In front of him were the two elders, and beside him were his two fellow soldiers, also raising their heads. Julius took them in at a glance, then looked once more at the dais in front of him. In the throne located on the far end of a red carpet sat a man who exuded incomparable majesty. Julius could hardly breathe.
The man on the throne was handsome and young, with black hair and almond-shaped eyes. Likely in his midtwenties, he had pale skin, and his slim frame was clad in an outfit that was mostly red and black. He seemed to eschew ostentation given the distinct lack of jewelry and accessories. Although his elegant form was quite striking, there was little else to physically distinguish him at a glance.
Except, perhaps, for the overwhelming force that emanated from his gaze and his posture.
In this world, there was no shortage of people who commanded the loyalty of those around them through sheer presence. Many of them achieved great success, obtaining positions befitting their tremendous resources or keen wits—but the young man before Julius’s eyes was a rare jewel even among gemstones, a creature polished to perfection…
That was the nature of the seventy-seventh emperor of Volakia, Vincent Volakia. Julius and the other delegates from the kingdom had been ushered into the audience chamber of the Crystal Palace of Lupghana, where they knelt before the emperor and offered obeisance, as was proper etiquette for an imperial audience.
The throne was, like the palace itself, fashioned from gorgeous magic stone. Behind it stood a banner with Volakia’s national crest: a wolf pierced by a sword. Armored soldiers lined the room on either side, maintaining absolute silence. Every last one exuded an almost palpable martial valor. They made Julius both nervous and vigilant, and he naturally took extra care not to do anything that might be considered inappropriate in this place.
Emperor Vincent, though, paid Julius no mind. Instead, he winked and said, “Miklotov, you’ve aged so much since I saw you last.” His expression never shifted as he offered a jabbing remark in place of a proper greeting.
“Hmm,” Miklotov said with a familiar sigh. “But you, Your Majesty, look ever more radiant. It makes it all too clear to me how much these old bones have wasted away… You see, even the color is gone from my hair.”
“An old tree never had so shrewd a tongue. It’s been seven years now since I assumed the throne, but I’ve never seen a single hint of color in your hair since the day we first met.”
“Oh, you haven’t? Hmm. A slip of my memory, then. You know what age does to a man. Perhaps I ought to start making preparations to really retire.” Miklotov patted his white beard as he gently deflected the emperor’s comment.
“Hah.” Vincent chuckled, knowing Miklotov intended to do no such thing. “If you were to withdraw from public service, it would surely be a bitter blow to Lugunica. Though, we in the empire might welcome such a development. Ah, but enough of feeling each other out. Lay your heart before me, Miklotov.”
“A rather intimidating command from Your Majesty.”
“Poorly advised wordplay will do you little good here. Be careful that a slip of the tongue does not sully your reputation in your twilight years.”
The conversation was jocular, familiar, yet it held the tension of a sword duel, with Miklotov probing with a mild joke and Vincent replying with a sharp riposte. The atmosphere in the room seemed to freeze with this back-and-forth between two men who were pillars of their respective nations. But at this moment of apparent stalemate, the other elder among the envoys took it upon himself to enter the fray—and with a unique method.
“This princeling is even more uncouth than I’d heard. I guess I’d expect no less than perfect arrogance from the emperor of Volakia.”
Namely, he chose to criticize the emperor, quietly, but to his face.
The speaker was Bordeaux, kneeling next to the venerable Miklotov, his huge bulk somewhat hidden by his bent posture. His remark—indeed, his provocation—sent a shock wave through the audience chamber. The imperial soldiers could hardly be expected to show mercy when responding to slander of their liege. They lurched from their resting positions, straight swords pressed against Bordeaux’s thick neck.
It was an explosive gambit on his part, but if he erred his next move, the audience chamber would run with blood…
“What’s this? I figured you’d slice me up without a second thought—never thought you Imperials to be so compassionate.” Bordeaux simply looked around at the panoply of bare steel, huffed, and stood. The men around him had the honed builds of trained soldiers. Even so, Bordeaux towered over them. The imperial soldier closest to the old man suddenly realized his quarry was gazing down at him and trembled slightly at the power Bordeaux radiated; the tip of his sword shook. An instant later, the terrified soldier forced his arm to stay still, forced the sword not to shake.
“That’s enough. Remember whom you all stand before.”
Mere breaths away from all hell unleashing, the emperor interceded. The soldiers’ battle lust instantly vanished, and after a moment of hesitation, they sheathed their swords. If the emperor had waited another few seconds, Bordeaux might have been cut down.
That fact, however, didn’t seem to concern him in the least. “Very kind of you, Your Majesty. Did your Stargazers tell you to be especially nice to the envoys?”
“Our Stargazers are indeed farsighted, but we do not wish to become a puppet dancing on their strings. And we would not bother consulting them about your fate.”
“Oh-ho?”
“Who would be so foolish as to lose their temper because of the yapping of one ill-trained dog. Or perhaps it has less to do with a lack of training than a lack of intelligence? If so, all the more reason to pity him.”
“How dare you…” Bordeaux was infuriated when his taunt was seen and raised by an even greater one. He was obviously spoiling for a fight, and the imperial soldiers in the room began to perk up once again.
But it would not do to let the situation devolve into physical violence.
“That exchange just now was from The Guillotine of Magrizza. A conversation between an elder of great intellect and a father-king…”
“What?” Bordeaux asked, befuddled by the unexpected murmur that forestalled his rage.
Vincent, however, responded with a “hmm,” his interest piqued by someone who had previously been all but invisible to his upswept eyes. It was Julius who now bore the weight of the emperor’s gaze. “It seems there are a few somewhat knowledgeable men mixed in with this pack of uneducated mongrels.”
“Please accept my profound apologies for my disrespect, Your Majesty. It is the height of presumption for me to encroach upon the conversation of an emperor.”
“Forgiven. You see, we are merciful to all but the most despicable. Even to the dogs…and doglike…among you.” Vincent managed to indulge Julius’s interruption and toss another barb at Bordeaux in the same breath. It seemed then that even Bordeaux realized that the earlier back-and-forth was a literary reference to an old text rather than a simple verbal sparring match.
Directing a sour expression not just at Vincent, but also at Miklotov, Bordeaux said, “Master Miklotov, I can see I’ve embarrassed myself without cause.”
“Mmm. And it’s agonizing for you, I’ve no doubt… But don’t strain yourself too much. Both you and I cannot afford to behave like we did oh so long ago.”
“I could still crush that twig with one hand.”
Bordeaux’s blood was boiling, and Miklotov could only smile wistfully. Then Bordeaux pointedly stopped smiling, put his palm and fist together in front of his chest, and bowed to Vincent. “I have offended Your Majesty. I apologize for my disrespect and my lack of study.”
“In that case, I suppose I must withdraw our comments about your resemblance to a canine, Councilor ‘Mad Dog’ Zergev.” The so-called Mad Dog looked less than amused to hear that name, but he dutifully went back to his place. His evident displeasure was no doubt a combination of suddenly being addressed by that old nickname and the fact that his real nature had been so thoroughly revealed. And perhaps also some frustration with himself that he hadn’t realized sooner that the emperor calling him a dog was, in part, surely a play on that old title.
Nonetheless…
“Well, now that these various misunderstandings have been cleared up and all glib words mended, perhaps I may be so bold as to raise the matter that has brought us here on this occasion.”
Bordeaux had come off the worst in the skirmish that just ended, but the whole episode had actually helped ease the tension in the audience chamber. Miklotov stepped neatly into the opening, seizing the initiative in the conversation. Vincent winked at the old man’s suggestion, generously lowering his head slightly. The man’s exact mood proved difficult to discern. “Very well. Time is finite; it is more valuable than gold. And ours is worth more than most.”
“We are grateful, Your Majesty. The reason for our visit may be simply stated: We come in hopes of concluding a nonaggression pact between our kingdom and your empire.”
“ ”
There was a sort of voiceless gasp. As he revealed his true intent, the impression Miklotov gave changed entirely. His grandfatherly warmth vanished, and what burned brightest now in the old sage’s eyes was a cold intelligence. Even Julius and the others, who had known what was coming, instinctively held their breaths at the sudden change in attitude. The words Miklotov spoke and the brutally direct nature of his request were no less shocking. Likewise, the attendant troops were obviously disconcerted.
Only a few people in the room showed no special reaction to the suggestion: Miklotov himself, Bordeaux, who was standing next to him—and sitting across from them, the very target of this blow, Vincent.
“ ” The emperor was silent, peering down at the sage who looked up at him. The ruler’s dark eyes had such power that it seemed they could set anything on fire with a mere glance. But the elder endured this gaze resolutely, utterly still even as it scorched him. Just when it seemed the silence between them could grow no deeper—
“Beginning with Randohal Lugunica, every member of the royal family has been felled by illness,” the emperor announced. “The Dragonfriend Kingdom has been shaken to its very core, perhaps fatally so.”
“Who can say for sure?”
“Don’t try to hide it; there’s no point. When a rumor begins to spread in the city, you may as well whisper it directly into our ear. Do not expect us to sit here and entertain your game of riddles.”
The death of the king, and the end of the royal bloodline, had never been publicly disclosed. However, mouths could never be barred like doors. Rumors of the king’s failing health had long since pervaded the capital of Lugunica, and it had only been a matter of time until it became public knowledge that the ruler had succumbed to disease. It was impossible that the Volakian Empire, which watched every move of the Lugunica Royal Family, would be unaware of this development.
“This is unlike you, the one everyone calls a sage. Caught flat-footed and a step behind. Once it becomes common knowledge that your royal family is in dire straits, the value of your nation’s diplomatic missions drops precipitously. Indeed, they are very nearly worthless.”
“ ” “Tell me, with the royal bloodline extinguished, what becomes of your contract with the Holy Dragon? We should think that would be of utmost concern to you above all. Without its backing, none of your nation’s royals are anything more than doting fools.”
There was no malice in the emperor’s words. He simply laid out the reality of the Lugunican ruling family. At least some of what he said was fact—and a widely recognized political opinion. The royalty of Lugunica had been too good-hearted to stand over other people. Their virtue was unsuited to their station, and behind their backs, many even said they lacked political acumen entirely. Still, it was this same, basic decency that earned them the respect of the common people.
Julius himself was perfectly well aware of these facts. He’d had the privilege, however brief, of being close to one member of the royal family before the young man died. It inspired in Julius a sort of mild panic. For another, who had been much closer to that prince, was right beside him…
“You there, the beast-boy. If you have something to say, say it with your mouth, not with your eyes.”
“ ” Julius couldn’t speak; his fears came true as the emperor’s gaze fell upon the kneeling Ferris. The boy was usually so easygoing, but the look he now leveled at Vincent roiled with emotion. Vincent’s words had clearly angered him. Spitting upon the memory of the departed royals was one of the very few things that could incense Ferris.
Still kneeling, Ferris took the ruler at his word and spoke up. “Then with all due respect, I shall say my piece, Your Majesty. Be they dead or alive, I cannot remain silent when the royal family is slandered, even if it is the word of an emperor. We are a special envoy from the Kingdom of Lugunica, and I am a member of the royal guard.” His careful choice of words kept him within the bounds of propriety, but his simmering anger was laid bare. Vincent acknowledged Ferris’s hostility without so much as a change of expression.
Public officials are different. Such seemed to be the message, and Ferris furrowed his brows deeper. “Think what you will, Your Majesty. But each and every member of the royal family was an upstanding person, worthy of loyalty. I myself served the prince with a glad heart…”
Vincent quietly cut Ferris off, drumming his fingers on the arm of his throne. “Bravery, loyalty, fidelity… No one cherishes these intangible merits so much as those with no other evident talents. They say loyalty can even inspire one to lay down their own life. However…” He turned his dark eyes on the row of imperial soldiers. And then…
“You, the footman there. Yes, you.”
“Sir!”
The emperor had indicated one of the soldiers who had earlier drawn his sword on Bordeaux. The man stepped forward and bowed deeply. Before he could rise again, the emperor said, “Take that sword of yours and chop off your own head.”
“Huh…?” A sound of sheer surprise came from Ferris. But Vincent ignored him, rapping on the armrest again.
“I am compassionate; I shall repeat myself. Take your sword and chop off your own head. Can’t you do that?”
“S-sir!” The man’s throat trembled at the emperor’s mad command. Hardly a second later, he had knelt in place and removed his helmet. He appeared to be a strapping lad still in his twenties. Gritting his teeth, he drew the sword at his hip and placed it against his own neck. His muscles tensed—
“I’m afraid I can’t stand by and watch this.”
The instant before the young man’s head went rolling on the ground, someone stopped him. It was Reinhard, who had moved so quickly that he had been all but invisible. Surely, he had been kneeling just a moment before, but the red-haired man had traveled several feet in the space of a breath, intercepting the young man’s sword. Had anyone seen the swift movement?
After witnessing the Sword Saint’s spectacular display, Vincent stopped drumming his fingers. “Hmm. We had heard the rumors, but… Hmph, well, rumors cannot always be trusted. We have sorely misjudged you.”
“You must forgive me for being so forward… And for not meeting Your Majesty’s expectations.”
“Quite the opposite. You wildly exceed them.”
Reinhard bowed at this word of praise from the emperor, then let go of the sword that had been poised for suicide. The soldier slumped to his knees in relief, and Reinhard returned to his place before the throne with a nod at Ferris. The young demi-human, struck dumb by these rapid developments, finally came to his senses. Vincent rested his chin on his hands as he watched this all play out.
“It is as you see, beast-child. Do not parade loyalty before us as if it were of any great worth. Obedience is simply the side effect of a ruler who is firmly in control. He who clings to loyalty is all the more fool for it.”
“ !” Ferris could hardly speak.
“And you, the soldier: You may step back. We have had quite enough sport for now. I confess, I do not see the pleasure in tormenting half-bloods.”
Ferris’s heritage was more than clear from his cat ears and his body. He felt humiliated but was too smart to argue with Vincent any further. He bowed even though he desperately wanted to do anything but and knelt once more. Such was the pride of Ferris, a healer capable of saving life itself. It seemed the emperor had discerned even that in the course of a single exchange.
“What an amusing bunch this is,” Vincent said. “I had been told I was to be visited by a party of envoys from the kingdom, but perhaps they’ve sent us a troupe of entertainers by mistake?”
“If Your Majesty is so inclined, we would not balk at offering some measure of amusement.”
“However generous my heart, I am not one to enjoy the spectacle of an old tree shaking off its leaves. Your request has been heard. Judgment will be rendered at a later time. Withdraw.” With a wave of his hand, Emperor Vincent motioned for Miklotov and the others to leave the audience chamber.
It had all been diversions and detours; they had hardly spoken about the crucial topic. That, at least, was how Julius felt, but Miklotov nodded obediently and bowed deeply once more. “We appreciate you giving us so much of your precious time and shall await your judgment.” He seemed perfectly accustomed to the emperor’s arrogance and prepared to politely retire. The others were disappointed but took their cue from the elder. They were just about to follow the soldier guiding them out of the audience chamber when—
“Oh yes, that’s right.” A word from Vincent, barely a whisper, stopped them. Julius and the others halted with the door of the audience chamber practically in front of them. Then all five turned as the voice continued, “We have said we do not speak three times. Yes?” The emperor looked very nearly bored atop his throne.
An unpleasant sound followed.
“Hrggh…ghh…”
A saber was stained with blood as the steel buried itself halfway into the exposed neck.
The young man with the sword from before groaned, coughing blood, then collapsed where he stood. The act was performed with cruel courtesy. He had first stepped away from his post so he would not dirty the red carpet. The wound was fatal.
“Wh-why?!”
It had seemed the young man had managed to escape with his life, yet now he chose to throw it away. Ferris swallowed after fully realizing what had just happened and tried to rush over to the fallen boy. But the other imperial soldiers drew their swords and barred his way.
“Wha—?”
“This is what it means to have control in Volakia. You had best not forget it.” After being turned away by bare steel, the emperor’s brutal words were directed at the speechless Ferris’s back. The reality weighed on his heart and made his chest tighten, and Julius felt the same.
The philosophies of Volakia and Lugunica would never see eye to eye. The gulf dividing their two nations had become disturbingly clear, reflected in the blood spreading slowly across the floor.
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