“Mercy is a weakness,” he said.
“True,” the master replied, “but that answer is not definite enough-especially coming from someone so gifted as you.”
Stepping closer, he placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. This time the young man stood his ground and did not shrink from the mystic’s touch.
“Purify that thought, then take it one step further,” the master ordered. “The words are in your heart-you have but to say them.”
The boy thought for a moment. As his new response formed, he found that he longer mourned the slave who tried to take his life.
“Mercy has no purpose whatsoever,” he said softly.
“Not quite,” the master answered. “Sometimes a display of mercy can enhance one’s image, among other things. Even so, it always comes at a price-one that might be too steep to merit payment. Should you choose to be merciful, always do so to further your own goals rather than for mercy’s sake alone. Mercy without a secret purpose is worse than weakness-it will soon rot away your power over others. You will then become the one needing mercy rather than the one who grants it.”
The master snapped his fingers and the azure cloud reappeared. Placing one arm around the boy’s shoulders, he escorted him toward its foggy embrace.
“You still have much to learn, my young charge,” the master said. “But you have taken a great step forward. You have not only grasped today’s lesson, you have also lost your fear of me. We will be together for a long time, you and I, and these small victories of yours will serve us well in the days to come.”
As they stepped into the azure cloud it gathered closely around them and they were gone.
As the royal litter jostled its way through the streets of Ellistium, Persephone looked down at her husband’s face. Holding him close, she removed the crown of golden laurel leaves from his head and lovingly smoothed his curly blond hair.
Vespasian’s face looked pale and drawn, and he sweated so profusely that his dress uniform was starting to soak through. Suddenly he let go a quiet moan, causing the empress’s concern to rise even further.
Not knowing what else to do, she decided to allow the litter to continue on its way home. Somehow she must find a believable excuse to explain why she and the emperor did not return to the games. Worried beyond reason, she rocked Vespasian to and fro in her lap much as she might have cradled the child that she never had.
What can be causing these terrors? she wondered frantically. And how can we possibly hide another one?
Then she struck on an idea. After making sure that the litter’s curtains were fully drawn, she called the craft and pointed a finger at Vespasian’s wrist.
A small incision opened in his skin, allowing one drop of his blood to rise into the air. Persephone used the craft to close the wound, then looked at the evolving blood signature. Soon the familiar design formed fully. As always, angular lines made up one half, while flowing lines comprised the other half. Also as usual, hundreds of forestallment branches led away from the signature. Like the blood signature of every endowed person, Vespasian’s was an amalgam of those inherited from his father and his mother.
Vespasian had never known his parents, and for that Persephone had always been sorry. ThePon Q’tar said that they had died in a tragic accident while Vespasian was still an infant. They went on to explain that when they first became alerted to the nature of his magnificently endowed blood, for the sake of the nation they had raised him, trained him in the ways of the craft, and decided that he should one day become emperor. After Gracchus convinced the reigning Suffragat that Vespasian might well be the one to lead Rustannica to her final victory over Shashida, the governing body had eagerly voted to one day crown him emperor.
We have much to thank Gracchus for, Persephone realized, even though Vespasian is coming to distrust him.
As Vespasian lay in her arms, Persephone continued to examine his hovering blood signature and its many branches. When she saw that it looked normal in every respect, she didn’t know whether to feel anxious or relieved. His blood holds no answers for us, she thought sadly. With a wave of her hand she caused the blood signature to vanish.
Just then Vespasian groaned again, and his shallow breathing deepened. Soon he regained consciousness. Unlike when he awakened from his previous terror, this time he seemed calmer. As he looked up into Persephone’s eyes she gave him a reassuring smile.
“We are in my litter…” he ventured weakly.
Persephone kissed him on the forehead. “Yes, my love,” she answered. “We travel home now.”
“And the games?” he asked. “Did we manage to leave without my attack being detected by the others?”
“Yes,” she answered softly. “But we must make some excuse to explain why we did not return.”
Vespasian shook his head. “No,” he said. “I am the emperor and my new campaign has already been heralded among the populace. ThePon Q’tar, the Tribunes, and the Priory all need me more than ever. They will simply have to accept our absence.”
Vespasian reached up to gently touch her cheek. “Do you want to hear about my dream?” he asked.
“Of course, my love,” she answered. “Together we will discover what these dreams mean and how to put an end to them.”
“Do you remember the Shashidan general I tried to free that day not long ago in the coliseum?” he asked. “To spite Gracchus, I decided to grant the general mercy.”
“Of course I remember,” she answered.
“My dream has much to do with that day, I fear,” he said. “But I’m not sure why.”
As the emperor told her of his recent terror, tears gathered in Persephone’s eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
CHAPTER XXII
TRISTAN SAT ON THE BALCONY OF HIS PRIVATE QUARTERS and took another sip of wine. The day had been tiring and the drink was producing its welcome effect. He would purposely imbibe a bit too much this night, he decided, and with good reason. Tomorrow might prove the most momentous day of his life, and he was determined to enjoy this evening.
At the least, the morrow would see his departure from Tammerland-perhaps forever. At the most, his expedition might reach Shashida. What will happen if we do? he wondered, thoughtfully rolling the wineglass between his palms. His emotions about the impending journey remained in conflict, for the prospect of reaching Shashida both thrilled and unnerved him.
He turned to look at the table by his side that was laden with his favorite foods. Roasted quail, loin of beef with ground horseradish, fresh vegetables, black bread, and Shawna’s famous redberry cake all sat waiting to be consumed, their wonderfully pungent aromas drifting into the air. He smiled as he remembered how it had all come to be here.
The ever-industrious Shawna had cooked up a great feast, then insisted in her own inimitable way that the Conclave members hold a farewell dinner before parting ways in the morning. But to her dismay, Tristan put his foot down and ruled against it. He knew that Wigg and Abbey would want to spend this last night quietly, just as he wanted to dine alone with his sister. He might never see Shai again, and he needed to bid her farewell in private.
Putting down the wineglass, he rose from his chair and wandered into his private bedchamber. The room was large and magnificently appointed, and as usual his weapons had been casually tossed atop the great four-poster bed. A marble fireplace stood in one wall, its logs burning brightly.
He sighed as he looked at the lonely urn that held his late wife’s ashes. It rested atop the mantel beside her farewell letter. For a time he had considered taking them with him, then he realized that their rightful place was here, where he and Celeste had spent so many loving hours. As he sadly realized that he might be leaving them behind forever, he closed his eyes. What would she think of this mad scheme? he wondered.
For the thousandth time he recalled his late wife’s beauty, her intelligence, her sensitivity. Celeste had been
