The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (93 page)

By the look on Lynned's face, he was right.

“Don't think this is over,” the Gold General hissed.  “You're in his good graces now, but we all know how treacherous you are.  Your games will end one day, and then—“

Enkhaelen reached a bare hand toward him and laughed as he recoiled.  The White Flames around him did the same, their blank helms swiveling to follow the necromancer's fingers.  “You'll come for me?” said Enkhaelen.  “Are you sure?”

Scowling, General Lynned took another step back.  He was a senvraka beneath his illusion—not Enkhaelen's personal work but still vulnerable to his power.  And well aware of it.

“We will!” barked one of the Gold mages.  Enkhaelen took their measure in a glance: three men and three women, one wearing the mantle of a Gold Army Archmagus.  Not Mithian, who had commanded the Gold Weave.  He supposed she was dead in the rubble.

The mantled one was the speaker: a reedy Wynd with soot in his beard and a nervy ferocity to his voice.  “You're the new head of the Golds?” said Enkhaelen.

The man puffed up.  “I am Archmagus—“

“Don't care.”

“Y—“

“My advice?  Quit the army.  All of you.  Go back to your families while you still can.”

“Are you threatening—“

“Are you stupid?”

“Archmagus Enkhaelen, while you may have succeeded in assaulting the Hawk's Pride, you have not broken the spine of the Gold Army mage corps.  We know you, and your agents, and your signature, your Inquisitors—“

“So now you're declaring war on the Inquisition?”

“Any of them who move against us—“

“And will you interfere with their Imperial duties, like the mindwashing and conditioning of your mages and soldiers?”

The Archmagus opened his mouth, then stopped and looked to General Lynned, who shook his head slowly.  “I, uh, the lawful duties,” the mage stumbled, then rallied.  “I demand that you resign from the post of Inquisitor Archmagus immediately!  You have committed a crime against the Gold Army and can not remain in a position of such authority!”

Enkhaelen spread his hands and smiled.  “Done.”

“Done?”

“Yes, of course.  I agree with you completely.”

“Then—  Then—“  The Wynd blinked rapidly.  “Then I demand that you hand over the badges and tools of your office to me, to be held in trust while we select a replacement.”

“Can't do that.”

“
You will surrender the
—“

“Don't have them.”

“What?”

Enkhaelen examined his nails, pretending not to notice the strain on the Gold mages' faces.  “I selected my successor yesterday, and as I was in good standing at the time, the succession is legal and binding.”

“Who—“

“You'll have to ask the Inquisition.  I'm no longer affiliated with them.”

“You can't just—“

“Don't care.  Next issue?”

Fuming silence fell, only to be broken by Field Marshal Rackmar's chuckle.

“Your clever little tongue,” he said as he descended the dais, his pectoral of rank clacking against his armor with each step.  He was in full regalia for once, the white-enameled breastplate of his position crossed by the broad red sash of his Crimson command and adorned by the mantles, badges, fledges and medals of his campaigns.  Among them, the white cord of the High Templar hung plain and pure, its ends nearly brushing the floor.

Enkhaelen wanted to reach out and strangle him with it, but as the Field Marshal reached his level and advanced upon him, he found himself drawing back.

I'm not intimidated
, he told himself. 
I'm being cautious.
  But the way the Field Marshal's grin broadened within the black forest of his beard told Enkhaelen that he was fooling no one.  In defiance, he planted his feet and squared his shoulders beneath his somewhat-tattered coat, forcing his hands down to his sides as fists.

“Your precious razor words,” the Field Marshal continued, basso voice nearly purring, heavy lids half-hiding the black circles of his irises.  He overtopped Enkhaelen by nearly three hands and was broad enough, from skull and neck to belly and thighs, that Enkhaelen had often wondered if he could hollow the bastard out and fit inside him.

Yet it was not Rackmar's size that bothered him.  Relative height, relative breadth, had never stopped him from biting out someone's tongue.

It was that the Emperor found them equally amusing, and so had bestowed upon Rackmar a few gifts to counterbalance Enkhaelen's advantages.  Even at this distance, he could see the pale fibers lifting from the surface of Rackmar's armor, extending toward the taste of his aura.  Prepared to neutralize him.

As long as the Field Marshal retained the Emperor's blessing, he was inviolate.

So Enkhaelen just snarled when Rackmar patted his cheek with one broad gauntlet.  Anyone else would lose the hand.  The weight of the Emperor's gaze upon them kept him from stepping back even when the pat became a grip—thick fingers digging into the space behind his jaw, thumb immobilizing his chin.

Rackmar did not bother to lean in, to keep this private.  Looking down his nose, he finished loudly enough for the crowd, “Your bloody, traitorous hands.  We watched you, Enkhaelen.  We had agents in the Citadel at Valent.  You may deny direct involvement with the Hawk's Pride, or the Cantorin Watchtower, or the Riftwatch outpost, but we saw you incite the Citadel's demise.  We saw you murder your fellow Councilors—“

“Self-defense,” Enkhaelen hissed, then quieted as Rackmar tightened his grip.

“—as well as innumerable subordinates and students.  I hate mages; you all know that.  But this impacts my armies, Enkhaelen.  It impacts my great work.  Where am I to find replacements for my burnouts now?  You have scattered the Circle to the winds.  Perhaps you would like me to employ haelhene.”

Enkhaelen attempted a smirk.  “Good luck with that.”

The gauntlet clenched tighter, making that side of his jaw creak in its socket.  “I have never trusted you—and wisely,” continued Rackmar.  “I have organized my own arcane coterie, and so I do not need to waste energy on being angry with you.  And I know where your projects are.  You've put quite some effort into Blaze Company, yes?”

Enkhaelen made sure to wince, just slightly, around the eyes.  This corpse was under his full control—all its little tics and tells, all the illusions of life.  He had played this game so long that most took his theatrics, his rants, his tantrums as if they were real.

Rackmar's teeth flashed white between leathery lips, his voice thrumming with intensity.  “Yes.  Your hidden crown-card, your agents within my army.  Your influence is all over their transfer orders—did you think I would not see?  Perhaps you could fool the Crown Prince, but whatever this nascent insurrection is, I will crush it.  I have already slated the army for conversion.  The entire region—slaves, civilians, soldiers, it makes no difference to me.  But Blaze Company, I will annihilate.”

From behind Rackmar came a sharp inhale: Kelturin's.  Ignoring it, Enkhaelen snarled, “Idiot, the Blaze Company is just soldiers.  If you want to get in on the game—“

“I'll hunt for your Guardian vessel?  Chase his tail through the countryside like a hound after some phantasmal hare?  He is a distraction—a bit of bait you've dangled before me.  And I've taken a few bites, my clever friend.  But you can't hide your true purpose.”

“Which is?”

“The Armies.  My command.  You want it for yourself.”

Enkhaelen could have laughed.  Instead he sneered and yanked from Rackmar's grip.  “How dare you!  Accusing me of treason without a shred of evidence—“

“You have all but admitted to attacking the Hawk's Pride and the Citadel.”

“That's not treason.”

“
How is that not treason?
” screamed Gold General Lynned, once more surging forward only to be restrained by the White Flames.  By the look on Rackmar's face, he was considering rescinding the restraining order.

Enkhaelen smirked, knowing it would boil Lynned's blood further.  “By law, the Silent Circle is an independent, self-governing body neither affiliated with nor controlled by the Empire.  Its members take contracts with us, but this does not make them citizens; in fact, membership within the Circle supersedes citizenship.  This is why Silent Circle magi must identify themselves visibly at all times.  As a subsidiary of the Circle, the mages of the Hawk's Pride were the same.”

For a moment, the Generals just stared at him.  Then Rackmar said, “So your argument is that you attacked non-Imperials.”

“Yes.  The most I am legally responsible for is the destruction of leased Imperial property.  Well, and some collateral damage if the plaza did fall into—“

His view spun, and it took an instant for his body-controlling spells to register that he was falling.  He corrected the issue halfway down, catching himself on one hand and one knee, and recognized a residual feeling of impact on his cheek and jaw.  Then Rackmar kicked his arm out from under him, following it up with a plated toe straight into the space beneath the sternum.

Enkhaelen collapsed back, air fleeing his lungs in a cough.  A heavy boot came to rest on his chest, and as he looked up the length of the leg, he stifled a smile, amused at how he had been putting his foot in someone else's face just a sliver of a mark ago.  Above him, Rackmar looked not at all amused, one hand twitching toward the hilt of his ceremonial sword.

“You scum,” he growled, silvered brows like storm-clouds over the dark pits of his eyes.  “Do you know how disruptive this is to my war?  Once the Serpent Empire hears of your escapades—and it will—they will swarm the camp at Kanrodi.  I have barely begun transitioning the troops.  You threaten our expansion, our mission to bring the Light to the benighted, and you think to call upon legality to save you?”

“Are we not governed by laws?” Enkhaelen rasped.  It was hard to get enough air to speak properly with Rackmar's weight on him.

“The God of Law is dead, and rightfully so!”  Rackmar dug his heel in deeper, and Enkhaelen affected a squirm to keep him happy.  “We are not ancient Altaera, shackled to a god of restriction and compromise.  Our god is the Risen Light who shines above all others—the Clarifier, the Eradicator—and we are bound solely by his will.  Your words and your wiles mean nothing.  The only judgment is that of the Throne!”

Enkhaelen just stared.  He had never known how to respond to zealotry.  But Rackmar was no longer looking at him; his gaze had turned to the Emperor, as if awaiting a command.

With great reluctance, Enkhaelen looked as well.

Most Holy Risen Phoenix Emperor Aradys IV smiled down upon his warring servants with clear fondness, his eyes pale but not luminous.  Were this body still alive, Enkhaelen would have exhaled with relief.  An amused Emperor was a complacent Emperor.

Still, as Kuthra had said, this was a turning point.  Anything could happen.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Rackmar intoned, “this judgment belongs to you.  I accuse this man, your advisor and archmagus, of willful disobedience, interference with military operations, terrorism, destruction of Imperial property, and intended treason.  He defends by claiming some hog-crap exemption due to the rule of law.  I ask you to condemn him for the viperous traitor he has always been—the scheming, backstabbing, manipulative—“

The Emperor raised his hand and Rackmar went instantly silent.  “Shaidaxi.  Have you anything further to say for yourself?”

“First, may I cease being stepped on?”

A flick of pale fingers, and Rackmar reluctantly retracted his boot.  Enkhaelen scrambled up, brushed himself off, straightened his coat, then forced himself to look the Emperor in the eye.  “Aradys,” he said directly, knowing it would piss off Rackmar.  “You and I have been sparring for ages.  I fail to see how this incident is any different from the usual collateral damage.  Therefore, it should garner no more punishment than the usual.”

“A slap on the wrist?” said the Emperor, steepling his fingers.  He had not changed from Enkhaelen's last visit, still in the plain robe and circlet, his hair perhaps a bit tousled.  Playful but restrained, not manic as he sometimes got.  His eyes, though, were piercing.

“If that is what you decide.”

“As I recall, the trail of destruction is usually restricted to the acts of our armies.”

“In which case, I've done less than usual.”

“Oh?”

“My game-piece Cob could have devastated several major cities by now.  Your forces certainly haven't stopped him.  And yet the only assaults have been on non-Imperial targets.”

“Therein is the problem, Shaidaxi.  You attacked these places—not your game-piece.  What am I to think of that?”

“I told you.  I was tired of them.”

The Emperor's eyes hooded.  That was bad.  “Shaidaxi.  Do you recall the deal we made, long ago?”

“I think upon it constantly.”

“Do you remember who it was you wished revenge upon?”

The Trifold, the Silent Circle, the Altaeran Empire, the Muriae, the world...
  “Yes, of course.”

“Is it a group that you have just decidedly blown up?”