6
The Rite of Imperial Selection was how the new emperor of Volakia was chosen; it was an inviolable ritual, and it consisted of precisely one thing: blood relatives brutally slaughtering one another.
The Volakian emperor picked his wives from among the strongest of his subjects, and they gave birth to many, many children, as had been made amply evident. And one among them would become the next sovereign. The Rite of Imperial Selection, beginning with the death of the prior emperor, would continue until only one of those with a claim to the throne remained—meaning whoever became ruler, they would by definition have killed their older brothers, their younger brothers, their older sisters and younger sisters. They would kill them, or the throne would never be theirs.
O citizens of the empire, be strong.
Such was the most basic teaching inculcated among all those who called themselves citizens of Volakia, and it was their fundamental way of life. This also served as the ironclad rule that the Volakian Royal Family, and the emperor themselves, had to embody. And it was at the heart of why the Rite of Imperial Selection could not be conducted without copious bloodshed.
“However, to mindlessly continue a tradition simply because it’s existed for centuries lacks a certain refinement. Perspectives change with the ages, and we must respond appropriately to all things.” Bartroi Fitz swirled the wine in his glass as he spoke.
At twenty-seven, Bartroi was right in the middle of the former emperor’s children; the oldest of his more than sixty siblings was forty, while the youngest was just ten years old. But just because they were related didn’t mean they got along. Every child born to the Volakian Royal Family had the Rite in the back of their minds. True camaraderie among these siblings was rare. Getting too close to any of them ran the risk of developing attachments—and that could hamper their ability to coldly go about the business of murdering them when the time came. Thus, the children tended to keep their distance or otherwise hate one another openly.
“But even that is groupthink. Don’t you agree, Lamia?” Bartroi turned toward his visitor—his younger sister Lamia, with her beautiful red eyes.
“Oh, yes,” she said with a thin smile. “Bartroi, my dear brother, I do so admire how you think. Whenever did you start having these ideas?”
“During the time I’ve had to think—naturally, there’s been enough of it. This accursed ritual has been around for ages. And when you grab a rusted chain with your bare hand, you risk cutting yourself.”
In other words, careful preparation was crucial.
Bartroi clenched his fist demonstratively; Lamia nodded, acting deeply impressed. Bartroi’s hand, however, had not grasped the Bright Sword, as hers had, on the day Dreizen had died. Bartroi had declined to participate in the Rite of Imperial Selection.
Nine others had joined in him in electing not to reach for the sword—everyone else accepted the test, and ten of them had burned to death, leaving only eleven to contest the succession. Including Rommel, who had died before any of them, eleven siblings had lost their lives that day. And quite frankly, Bartroi wished to keep further sacrifices to a minimum.
“That, Lamia, is why I made my agreement with you.”
“That when I ascend the throne, you and the others who chose not to participate in the Rite will be under my protection. I know.”
“Yes, exactly.” Bartroi nodded. “And that’s why I convinced the other nine to come around.”
Ten of the siblings, including Bartroi—the dropouts—had surrendered their right to participate in the Rite of Imperial Selection before it had even begun. Ultimately, those Bartroi hadn’t persuaded had challenged the sword and lost their lives to the flames. That said, his work was not in vain. Ten people who would otherwise have burned had been saved from being annihilated by the sword.
Once again, as a rule, the siblings of the Volakian Royal Family were not close to one another. Bartroi, however, endeavored to be an exception. He engaged proactively with his brothers and sisters, creating relationships that made them feel safe coming to him with their problems or asking for advice.
It was all in anticipation of the Rite of Imperial Selection.
“But if I may ask, why choose me? I’m just a little girl among all our siblings, if I may say so myself.”
“That should be obvious. Because you were the one who inspired these thoughts in me, Lamia.”
“I was?”
“Indeed. I believed you of all people would understand me. You asked when you were little—you wondered if there wasn’t some way that this could end without siblings having to harm one another.”
At the time, Bartroi, still young, had been seeking something that might possibly be done—and these words, spoken by his little sister like a passing dream, had hit him like a revelation. He had contemplated them ever after, followed them to where he stood today.
“The Rite began as you predicted, but you don’t seem to be getting any closer to victory. I and our other nine siblings will work with you. Then maybe…”
“Then maybe we can overcome our brother Vincent? Is that what you’re thinking?”
“That’s right.” Bartroi nodded, although his throat went dry at the mention of Vincent’s name.
Vincent Abelks was one of Bartroi’s half brothers. But his greatness, his strength of personality was tremendous, and for better or worse, it didn’t feel much like they were related. The young man stood at the top in every realm of knowledge and strategy. Fearsomely clear-eyed, Vincent had restored the fortunes of House Abelks, once fallen to among the least of the noble families of Volakia, raising himself to the rank of high count entirely through his own talent and skill.
By all rights, Vincent appeared closest to the imperial throne. Thus, it would have made sense for Bartroi to approach him with his offer of cooperation.
“Except that I highly doubt I can expect any familial sympathy from Vincent.”
“And it’s so much harder, isn’t it? Negotiating with someone who can get what he wants without your help.”
“You truly are insightful, Lamia.”
“Hee-hee. Don’t worry, I’m not angry. After all, this just means that when you couldn’t go to Vincent, the next person you thought of was me. That’s not such a bad feeling.”
Bartroi smiled slightly at the way Lamia’s pride and self-regard slipped through in her remark. And she was absolutely right, of course. After Vincent, Lamia seemed most likely to emerge victorious. That wasn’t to say that the other ten candidates weren’t all perfectly qualified, but in Bartroi’s opinion, it was Lamia who had the best chance of besting Vincent.
Her, and another of my little sisters—but she’s no more sympathetic than Vincent is.
“She may be young, but she has everything she needs to be ruler of Volakia…”
If the Rite had begun perhaps five years later, that young woman might very well have been a prime contender in the imperial succession. But it was simply not to be. And so Bartroi had approached Lamia with his proposition.
“All right, my dear brother, let’s talk about what comes next.”
“Mm, yes, pardon me. I was lost in thought. What comes next. Yes, that’s important.” Bartroi would have to communicate to the other nine refusers what they were going to do after this. At the moment, none of them had any idea whom he was working with. The plan he and Lamia were hatching could shatter the Rite of Imperial Selection, the most important ritual in all Volakia—there was no telling where information might leak from. He couldn’t be too careful.
The day was near at hand, though, when all his travails would be rewarded. She will keep her promise, he told himself.
“I know it was to save our siblings, but I do regret obliging you to challenge yourself with the Bright Sword. That day, if—”
“If I’d burned, too, it would have been quite the problem, wouldn’t it?”
“There are no truer words! Ahem, not that this is any laughing matter.” Bartroi shook his head, chastising himself for the sardonic smile that had crossed his face. Trying to relieve the persistent dryness in his throat, he refilled his empty cup with more wine. Maybe it was the sense of accomplishment at having fulfilled his great mission that made the drink seem to go to his head so quickly. Or maybe he just wanted to try to blind himself to the fact that even as they spoke, people to whom they were connected by blood were openly killing one another.
He drank some more, swallowing noisily.
“By the way, Bartroi. There’s something I’ve been thinking about, just in passing.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“You know how they say that humans can perform tremendous displays of strength when gripped by rage or desperation?”
“Rage…or desperation?” Bartroi looked at Lamia from his place on the sofa, not sure what had brought on this subject. His sister sat stone-still, except that she held up two fingers and nodded.
“Yes, exactly. These nine siblings that you’ve brought me, Bartroi… Well, they know the situation they’re in. I’m sure they’ll all cooperate with me out of desperation. But do you think some of them might be frightened as well?”
“Well, it’s true that they’re hardly a group of born fighters.”
“And yet we must band together if we’re going to achieve our objective. They need anger. Fury powerful enough to overcome their terror. Such as…”
“Such…such as what…?” Lamia’s honeyed voice sounded oddly distant to Bartroi. His head felt so heavy, and the world around him seemed…insubstantial. His head bobbed forward. His throat was so dry. He needed another drink. That had to be it. He poured more wine, more and more, until the glass overflowed. Finally, it fell over, and the drink began to dye the carpet scarlet…
“Well, for example, what if the dear, sweet elder brother all of them were counting on lost his life to a cruel trap?”
He couldn’t even hear Lamia’s voice anymore.
So dry. His throat was so dry. He wanted more wine. Yes… The wine Lamia had given him as a gift.
“ ”
The wine…
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