1938, Imperial Calendar
The Symposium chamber of the
city of Lore, heart of government for one of the most powerful
empires in the world, was near empty on the evening that Empress
Hypatia Tydask died. As with many sudden deaths of the great and
powerful, it came just at the moment that her position seemed
assured. The Empress, wearing the traditional green robes of the Lily
College, trimmed in purple to show her membership of the Imperial
House and worked in the gold thread reserved for the Arch-Chancellor,
sat at the head of the great khile Seminary Desk and regarded the
High Seminar with a mixture of disdain and anticipation. Legend had
it that the desk had been carved from a single massive khile tree
that had once grown within the tower of Thelen himself, but Hypatia,
like most modern Magisters, gave little credence to such fancies.
Nonetheless, the desk measured some twenty feet across and from the
rings in the wood, was a single cross-section of a tree that had
stood for some three thousand years before it was cut- and that had
been over a thousand years ago.
Hypatia Dane, as she had
been born, was not the most powerful Magister to have held the
position, and had instead taken up the role after the death of her
husband, the Scholar Emperor, Adramion Tydask. Losing her position by
the Rite of Challenge to a more skilled Magister was a very real
threat, but the same astuteness that had seen her married to the
Emperor had also ensured that challenging her would be at the least
politically unfortunate, and possibly even fatally dangerous. Any who
considered such measures to be in some way unfair had utterly failed
to understand the entire point of the political system of the Lily
College. It was not enough for an incumbent Arch-Chancellor to be
able to defeat their enemies in the duelling arena or on the field of
battle- they had to possess the skills to reduce the number of
threats to their position to the barest minimum. Since this by
definition included external threats to the Empire of the Thelenic
Curriculum itself, the College was virtually guaranteed a leader who
would be savagely effective in matters of both domestic and
international politics. The alternative was death, or at least an
embarrassing dispossession.
There was, however, one
arena in which Hypatia, now a Tydask having been inducted to the
Imperial House with her marriage, had failed almost completely. For
some reason, despite all the extensive checks of the compatibility of
her Pattern with that of Adramion, the three children who had
resulted from their union had been utterly unsuited for positions of
power in the College. Only one, Pieter Tydask, had even achieved
Magister status, and he had reached his late twenties in possession
of only a mediocre two Leaves of rank, not enough even to challenge
for the Chancellorship of a backwater city like the port of Mernas.
The other two had taken up honourable commissions in the military or
Infirmary which had saved some face, but an Imperial dynasty was not
maintained by such means. Eventually, with Hypatia's grudging
consent, Adramion had taken on a hand-picked concubine, Lady Ritala
Daran. Ritala was, even by the eccentric standards of Magisters who
could bend reality to their will and therefore occasionally had a
somewhat twisted view of it, a wild-card. She had no Leaves to her
name, lacking the temperament for the required academic study to
become a true Magister, and yet her power was unquestioned, as was
her beauty. That some called her a Warlock, an untrained and
dangerous magic-user, was of little consequence in the important
business of creating Imperial heirs. For all this, Hypatia and
Adramion had remained on good terms, and had even conceived one final
child together shortly after the birth of
Ritala's second. The Patrons
had not smiled upon them, however, and the infant was born so
hideously deformed that the mewling form had been hurriedly taken
away and destroyed at Adramion's order before Hypatia had even held
it.
Now, at the same table as
Hypatia, the progeny of her hated rival and grudging saviour were
seated. The eldest, Ullarth, was tall and strong, with blonde hair
and piercing blue eyes, both Folded into his Pattern at birth to
resemble his public mother, as opposed to the red-headed, green-eyed
Ritala. Now in his fifteenth year, he was officially still completing
his studies for his first Leaf, but none who met him were in any
doubt that here was a true successor to the role of Scholar Emperor.
At his hip rested his father's ancestral sword, Queen's Bitch,
an ancient bastard sword of terrible potency with which the young
Imperial scion had already reached a level of proficiency to rival
some Sword-masters, who were themselves warriors of Magister-level
power who had voluntarily been Sealed to devote all of that potential
to their physical and martial skills. Myrka, Ullarth's younger
sister, was if anything even more devoted to combat than her brother,
and had had to be dissuaded from taking up the Seal of the Sword
herself. As it was, even at the age of thirteen she stood just short
of six feet tall and wore College battle-plate at almost all times.
Adramion, seeing the girl's disposition, had tried to teach her
Impose, the rune-based strategy game used as the basis for Imperial
military training, but her hot temper often overcame her natural
brilliance and she regularly lost to Ullarth, and her younger
brother, Thelir. Nonetheless, it was hoped that her quick mind and
physical prowess would one day make her a formidable battlefield
Magister. Little Thelir, in contrast, a slender youth of twelve, was
already feared in the barracks and taverns of Lore as a deadly player
of the game of Chasten. Unlike Impose, which was designed in part to
give the Sealed masses an appreciation of the power of the Magisters,
using magic to influence the cards in a game of Chasten was
prohibited, but Thelir won so often that many muttered that he must
be doing it. Even the wily Magister Ollan Dane, one of Thelir's many
tutors, had failed to catch the child at it, however, and the
youngster had won a horse and a small estate from various members of
the Court before Hypatia found out and forbade him to play for bets.
These three, then, were the
future of the Lily College. To Hypatia's relief, the two younger
children seemed content to follow the lead of their elder brother,
who in any case was the most powerful of the three, so the
succession, when it came, would most likely be smooth. None of the
three were even aware that Hypatia was not their true mother, for
Ritala was kept well out of the public eye and the physiological
symptoms of pregnancy were simple enough to fake, though amongst the
Senior Faculty the true facts were something of an open secret. Any
Magister who aspired to the rank of Chair would never fall for so
simple a deception. The truth would of course be revealed to the next
generation in due time, but it would change little. By then, Hypatia
would be the respected Matriarch of House Tydask, Ritala would be
long gone and Ullarth, as the new Emperor, would have no reason to
cast public doubt on his own lineage.
The other eleven seats at
the Seminary Desk were taken up by the Chairs, Magisters who held
important roles in the research or academic Faculty. These were
further divided into the Patron Chairs, named for the seven children
of Thelen who were also referred to as the First Magisters, and the
Imperial Chairs, later additions to the Council that reflected the
needs of the growing Empire. There were the other Tydask-held Chairs,
Marinas, Indiria, and Dekan, who with Hypatia herself and the
unflinching support of her Vice-Chancellor, Gheris Falon, secured a
near-stranglehold on the Council if it should be decided to call a
vote. Such a thing was rare, however, since the role of the High
Seminar was considered to be far more to advise the Empress than it
was to decide policy itself. Among the other Chairs, old Edereth
Dane, the Chair of Earth, was more interested in crop yields than he
was in internal politics, and despite her role as Voice of the
Voiceless, the holder of the Chair of Amaran, Marike Falon, was
generally content to follow Gheris' lead. The Vice-Chancellor had
quietly warned Hypatia, however, that if the small, dark woman should
decide to speak, it would be wise to listen. Amaran was the lowest
Chair in terms of status, and Marike was appropriately seated at the
opposite end to Hypatia, but this meant she could stare directly into
the Empress' eyes. The eighty-sixth stanza of the Fifth Book of
Thelen states “In any power structure, that which seems weakest
may yet hold the most strength.” and no Magister with any sense
ignored such wisdom, especially when some scholars believed it
referred to the Patron Amaran herself.
Fortunately, Marike and
Marinas Tydask, Hypatia's sister-in-law, were involved in a
long-running feud, for some thirty years ago Rendel Thane, the
Patriarch of a lesser House and a well respected Archivist, had
spurned the advances of Marinas to marry Marike. The union had been
the source of some gossip, since neither Magister had joined the
other's House in name, though in practice the two Houses had formed a
close alliance. Their six (six!, thought Hypatia, bitterly)
children, of whom the eldest, Derelar, was considered a rising star
in the College, had kept the name of their father, but currently
stood to exert significant influence in House Falon if Gheris
continued to be childless. Overall, it had provided a useful
distraction that Hypatia had exploited mercilessly. Truly was it said
that no-one held a grudge like a Magister. Poor Dekan, holder of the
Chair of Handastalath
and therefore, due to that Chair's responsibility for the
administration of the College, Rendel's ultimate superior, had been
so preoccupied fending off Marinas' vindictive demands that there was
no chance of him making trouble for Hypatia within the House. Only
the elderly Indiria could possibly have challenged her position on
the death of Adramion, but the old woman took her role as Chair of
Leaves very seriously, and considered day-to-day politics to be
insignificant against that Chair's oversight of the training and
assessment of the next generation of Magisters.
In theory, the Chancellors
of any of the other cities of the Empire were also eligible to attend
the High Seminar, but this privilege was rarely exercised, since most
had their own Seminars to oversee. This evening, only the seat of the
Chancellor of Gyre was filled, and Chancellor Rakan cut a lonely
figure in the front of the Symposium Gallery. His esteemed colleagues
were not missing much by their absence, Hypatia reflected sourly.
Firstly, Tomas Daran, the Chair of Light, had once again raised the
issue of dangerous research being pursued in the eastern frontier
city of Manadar without his approval, and Orton Belus, the Chair of
Walanstahl, had once again promised to have his agents investigate
it. Then the perennial issue of the price of silver from the mines of
Gyre was the main item on the agenda, and it was this that had
attracted Rakan's interest. The price always seemed to creep up
during peacetime, and it had been some time since the last war
against the southern Kingdom of Abelia, the main rival to Imperial
power on the continent. That conflict had ended in an unsatisfying
stalemate, with no significant territorial gains or losses for either
side, but Adramion had made a point of deepening trade ties with the
Kingdom and the Royal Knights who formed its ruling class and a
formal alliance had been signed shortly before his death. Other than
an incursion by the Expelled Tribes of the eastern desert, the Empire
had known peace since then, and it was a peace the Scholar Emperor
had sought to maintain. Hypatia saw little reason to disagree.
Perhaps the flint-eyed Deleth Adaran, holder of the Chair of Yar and
as such responsible for the College military, might think
differently, but if so he wisely kept his own counsel. Certainly as
long as Marinas held the Chair of Mendarant and thus advised on
foreign policy, he would find little support for any martial
adventures.
Her eyes were a little heavy
as she listened to Rakan's long, droning speech, but she forced
herself to concentrate. Ullarth shot her a warm glance, and a small
surge of Aether accompanied it. All three children did this from time
to time, and it always picked up Hypatia's spirits. She made herself
nod attentively to Rakan, and queried a minor point of detail about
the currency conversion rate between the Imperial Silver Quoit and
the Abelian Rubal that had Rakan scrambling for his notes and brought
a smirk to Thelir's face. Ullarth smiled too, and seemed about to say
something when he suddenly frowned and looked away, towards the
southern doorway. Before Hypatia could ask him what was wrong, there
was a loud crash and the silver-bound oak doors exploded into the
room. Through the smoke and settling dust strode a figure dressed in
tattered black robes and carrying a staff topped with three
interlocking circles, the crystal set amongst them blazing from the
power it had just expended.
Ullarth leapt to his feet,
cat-quick, Queen's Bitch hissing
from its scabbard as Myrka lurched erect, armour clattering. The two
Scholastic Guards stationed by the door, unscathed by the explosion
of magic due to their heavily-warded shields, swiftly moved to
intercept the intruder. Hypatia fought down a sudden burst of fear
and forced herself to stay seated and calm.
“Lady
Ritala!” she exclaimed, as brightly as she could manage. “To what
do we owe this visit? It is usual to make an appointment to speak
before the High Seminar.”
“For
that matter, it is usual to knock.” said Ullarth.
“She
did.” chuckled Thelir. “Just a little too enthusiastically, by
the look of it.”
“Take
one more step towards our mother and I will kill you.” said Myrka,
flatly.
Hypatia's
heart swelled with pride even as she reflected on the irony of the
situation. Yes, Ritala had borne these children, but it was she,
Hypatia Tydask, who had raised them, trained them, and yes, loved
them, and now they stood between her and danger without hesitation or
fear. Of course, there was little reason to be afraid- even though
Ritala had somehow escaped from the remote manse in Manadar that had
been her prison, no Magister could get past two Scholastic Guards and
still retain enough power to threaten her, especially with the
backing of the entire Senior Faculty. As it was, Ritala, her red hair
lank and plastered to her skull, her robes tattered, ripped and
stained with blood, stood leaning on her staff as if it were all that
was keeping her standing. And yet, she still took that single, fatal
step forwards.
With a
terrible scream, Myrka hurled herself towards Ritala, even as the
Scholastics closed in on the renegade. Seemingly blind with rage, she
swung the huge, solid steel mace she had crafted for herself, but at
full charge the ungainly weapon was almost impossible to control and
crashed with terrible force into the nearest guard. The enchanted
armour was sturdy, and proof against magical threats, but neither was
any real protection against a solid lump of mundane metal, swung with
Aether-enhanced strength, and the guard was sent sprawling into his
fellow. Uncaring of this disaster, Myrka tried to recover her footing
for another swing but Ritala simply gestured and flung her away with
a surge of power, to land in a clattering heap on the Seminary desk,
which true to its solid construction gave not one inch. The
Magisters, many of them still seated, were thrown into momentary
confusion, though each had reflexively brought up their own defences
and none were harmed.
Hypatia
was shocked, but forced herself not to show it. Ritala had to have
used up the last of her strength to deal with Myrka in such a
fashion, though with so many Magisters in the room it was difficult
to tell for sure. And yet, Ritala took another step, and spoke.
“Hypatia
Dane, thief of my children. Hypatia Dane, thief of my liberty.
Hypatia Dane, thief of my love. I am here for you and all that you
call yours.”
Hypatia's
blood boiled, and she spat back almost without thinking.
“My
name, Ritala, is Empress Hypatia Tydask, and I have stolen nothing
from you! All that you had, you gave Adramion willingly, and all he
had is now mine. He turned to you for.. for a service, but
returned to me for love. You are no Magister, you have no right of
Challenge, and if you do not surrender yourself to the custody of the
Guard, I will destroy you, and I will have the entire High Seminar at
my back to do it. You will obey, or you will die!”
Ritala
smiled, and suddenly all trace of weariness seemed to leave her. “Who
said anything about a Challenge, you child-snatching witch?”
The
attack was so sudden that Hypatia barely parried it. Usually,
Magisters fought with blasts of elemental power- fire, lightning or
occasionally, ice. Ritala's attack, however, was a simple, focussed
lance of pure Aether, aimed squarely at Hypatia's very Pattern- a
literal attempt to take her apart piece-by-piece. It was the most
primal of attacks, allowing for no subtlety, and even as Hypatia
threw her own Aether against it she could tell Ritala was the
stronger by far. Still she fought back, desperately, and within
seconds the rest of the Senior Faculty came to her aid, some pouring
their own Aether into the counter-strike, whilst others attacked
Ritala directly with a barrage of every conceivable magical assault.
Yet, somehow, Ritala still stood, even as she gradually gave ground.
Ullarth and Thelir alone were uninvolved in the struggle, and Hypatia
glanced towards them, hoping to ease their confusion. She saw none.
Ullarth, clear-eyed and calm, smiled reassuringly back at her, and
stepped to her side, a supportive gesture that none watching failed
to witness. None save Ritala herself saw Queen's Bitch, now
held low to Ullarth's side, reach out to lightly touch Hypatia's
skin.
The
effect was sudden and deadly. At the touch of that terrible blade,
Hypatia's defences utterly collapsed, and a single, ravenous tendril
of Ritala's power, driven by pure hatred, snaked into her Pattern and
tore her mind apart. Even as she died, as she collapsed, writhing,
into her stolen son's arms, Hypatia heard his hissed whisper.
“We always knew.”
Near
simultaneously with Hypatia's death, Ritala's own defences finally
gave way. Fire and lightning blasted savagely at her body, and a
terrible scream that was equal parts agony, despair and triumph
filled the air. When the smoke cleared, there was nothing left of
Lady Ritala Daran save a few smouldering scraps of black cloth.
Ullarth
spoke into the silence. “As the oldest living issue of Lady Hypatia
Tydask here present, and a member in good standing of the Lily
College, I hereby take on the role of Arch-Chancellor of Lore. Are
there any objections?”
“My
apologies, Lord Ullarth, but as an Acolyte, you are not yet eligible
for the role of Arch-Chancellor.” replied Gheris, stepping forward.
“Do
you doubt my power?” shouted Ullarth, a wild look coming to his
eyes, “Do you doubt my right?”
“I
doubt neither, my Lord,” replied Gheris, “but were we to announce
you now as Arch-Chancellor, the Symposium would never accept it. As
an Acolyte, you are not yet protected by the Right of Challenge, so
as soon as you entered the chamber the entire assembly would be
permitted to slay you on the spot, and none save Thelen himself could
withstand such an assault.”
Fire
flashed in Ullarth's eyes, and he drew breath for an angry retort.
“All
of you, be silent!” hissed Gisela Dar, holder of the Chair of
Sherenith and High Chirurgeon of the city. “We have lost the
Empress, and if you do not help me, we may lose her daughter too!”
“M-Myrka?”
stammered Ullarth, and his brother suddenly lost his smirk, which
seemed to have survived his mother's death intact.
“Yes,
Myrka! Do you have any other sisters, boy? The impact with the desk
when your m- Ritala threw her aside has broken several of her bones,
one of them in her neck. That damn armour of hers did as much harm as
good, but now it might help us save her life. If any of you has any
Aether left, give it to me, now!”
Even
Ullarth dared not argue with the High Chirurgeon when she took that
tone, not with the life of his sister at stake. Together, they poured
what power they had left into Gisela as she worked, seeking not to
repair the massive damage to Myrka's body, but to stabilise the worst
of it. Then, with the greatest of care, she fused the hinges and
bearings of the young woman's armour, turning the entire suit into an
improvised full-body cast. By the time this was done, other Magisters
and Healers from the Infirmary had reached the scene, and soon the
Crown Princess was being gently floated away on a levitating litter,
followed by another bearing the shrouded form of the Empress. Ullarth
and Gheris watched the Healers leave, Thelir skulking at their heels.
Most of the Chairs went too, amongst them Orton Belus who was
accosted by a battered young Magister of his House called Anneke, who
breathlessly recounted the tale of how Ritala had stormed the
processional corridor and nearly killed her in the process. Orton
made appropriately sympathetic noises, and shepherded her from the
room as she clung to his sleeve and chattered.
“Vice-Chancellor.”
said Ullarth as they disappeared from sight. “I believe you were
about to explain how the succession could be smoothly assured?”
Gheris
opened his mouth to reply, and was momentarily taken aback by the
menacing rasp of Ullarth slowly returning Queen's Bitch to the
scabbard. Ullarth hadn't let go of it since Ritala had entered the
room, and even now his hand rested on the blade's ruby-encrusted
hilt.
“I-
er, yes, Lord Ullarth. As the appointed heir of Emperor Adramion, you
are, beyond any doubt, now the head of House Tydask, regardless of
your status as an Acolyte, but you cannot yet take the position of
Arch-Chancellor.”
“I
understand. What do you suggest? I will not see the Lily Throne
ascended by one not of the Tydask line, and you and I both know that
none of the current Tydask Chairs have the strength to hold it.
Deleth Adaran, for one, is ambitious and powerful, far more than my
aunt Marike or that weakling Dekan.”
That 'weakling' is a
six-Leaf Magister, you upstart, thought
Gheris, but looking into Ullarth's eyes, he saw that the young man
knew full well the power of those he mocked. Knew it, and did not
fear it. This youth will be the greatest Arch-Chancellor in
centuries, if he doesn't kill us all just because he can. He
gathered his scattered thoughts. “I suggest, my Lord, that I head
the Council in your stead, continuing in the role of Vice-Chancellor
whilst you complete your formal studies.”
“A
Regency.” said Ullarth, immediately. “Much like the arrangement
in 1722, when Emperor Ratheram died in battle against the Abelians
whilst his son was still only thirteen.”
“Ah,
yes, my Lord.” replied Gheris. He had had no idea there was a
precedent for such a thing. Indiria, who had stayed seated at the
Seminary desk to recover her strength, chuckled dryly. “A quick
study, our young Emperor, eh, Gheris?” Ullarth gave her a short
bow.
“As I
recall, Magister Indiria, Vice-Chancellor Tomas Thule refused to
relinquish power when Pentus Tydask came of age, and was killed in
the ensuing Challenge in 1726.”
Gheris
blanched. “M-my Lord, I-”
“They
called it the Blood Star Duel, if I remember, owing to the especially
painful fate Tomas suffered.” continued Ullarth, mercilessly.
Indiria chuckled again.
“Have
you ever noticed, Vice-Chancellor, how the Twigs always latch on to
the most bloody parts of our history? Yes, there are many green
shoots on this one, and he will sprout a fine crop of Leaves in
time!”
“You
honour me with your praise, Magister Indiria.” said Ullarth,
gravely. “Vice-Chancellor, I accept your proposal in the spirit it
was offered. Please do not mistake my.. passion for history for
anything other than an honest desire to excel in my studies in front
of the Chair of Leaves. Now, I must find my brother, and make
arrangements to mourn the- my mother. Excuse me.” He turned smartly
on his heel, and marched out of the room. The two Chairs watched him
go.
“Magister
Indiria.” said Gheris, quietly, when he was certain Ullarth was
well out of sight and earshot. “Did that seem to you to be the
manner of a fifteen year old boy who had just seen his own mother
killed in front of him?”
Indiria
laughed again, but this time the sound was flat and mirthless.
“Vice-Chancellor, that was the manner of a young man who only
prevented himself from killing almost everyone else in the room by a
supreme act of will. What is the first stanza of the first Book of
Thelen?”
“Strive not for power,
but for control. Power without control is useless. Control without
power is a beginning.” replied
Gheris, automatically.
“That,”
said Indiria, sadly, “is the only lesson of Thelen that Ullarth
Tydask has not yet mastered.”
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