Raesene’s expression might have been a smile, but it looked more like a snarl. “Indeed. I have a task I wish you to perform. If you perform it well, there will be benefits for you in the near future. But if you fail, I shall take your soul.”
Laera gulped. He meant bloodtheft. The thought of her death filled her with dread, but at the same time, there was an underlying sense of relief that he had apparently not brought her here for some more intimate purpose. She would rather have died.
“What is it you wish me to do?” she asked.
The Gorgon produced a tiny vial, no larger than a thimble, on a golden chain. He dangled it off one claw. “Your brother the emperor comes to your castle for the holding of his Summer Court. He brings his new empress with him. On the night of the summer solstice, you shall see that the empress ingests the contents of this vial. You may slip it into any liquid and give it to her. But it must be precisely on that night. You must not fail, else your life is forfeit to me.”
“What will it do?” asked Laera tensely.
“It shall cause a child to quicken,” said the Gorgon. “My child.”
Laera gasped.
“If the empress is already with child when she arrives at Seaharrow,”
said the Gorgon, “Callador shall give you a special potion she must take. It will abort the child, and thenceforth, she must be given a preparation to prevent conception until one week before the summer solstice. At that time, you shall feed her the contents of this vial.
The firstborn of Emperor Michael of Anuire shall be my son. And through him, I shall found a new dynasty and rule the empire that rightfully belongs to me.”
The Gorgon stretched out his huge clawed hand, and the vial floated through the air toward Laera.
She reached out and took it, then slipped the chain around her neck.
The feel of it against her bosom made her skin crawl.
“Go now,” said the Gorgon. “You know what you must do.”
He got up and lumbered from the great hall, back into the stygian darkness of the shadows beyond the archway.
Laera stood motionless for several moments, stunned. Then she turned and slowly followed Callador out of the great hall. Once they had passed through the large ebony doors, which swung closed behind them, she turned to Callador and whispered, “This is madness!”
“No,” said Callador calmly, “it is merely politics.”
“Politics!”
“Yes, politics,” repeated Callador. “Raesene has lusted for control of the empire for generations. He had failed once in supporting Azrai, and the specter of another failure still haunts him after all these years.
For centuries, he has been building up his blood powers and strengthening his domain, increasing the size of his army-not an easy thing to do, since they keep killing each other in street brawls.
If they ever had a common enemy, they would probably be a force to be reckoned with. The trouble with Raesene is that his lust for power has become virulently addictive. He needs more and more. He has become obsessed with it to the exclusion of all else.”
“And he thinks by impregnating the empress with his child, he will accomplish his goal? That is insane!
What sort of monster will the empress give birth to?”
Callador shrugged. “An awnsheghlien child. It will be killed, of course, but the spirit of the child will live on in the consequences of the birth. The firstborn of the emperor will be an abomination.
Clearly, a sign from the gods.” He smiled. “Or perhaps you can call it Fate.”
“And what does that mean?”
“There are those within the empire who will interpret such a birth as an omen,” Callador replied. “The inevitability of the ascension of the awnsheghlien.
And Raesene is foremost among all the awnsheghlien. There are also those who do not believe in gods.
At least, not in the new ones. They are a group who call themselves the Fatalists. They started as a small conclave of disenchanted bards, tavern philosophers-wide-eyed impressionable wenches and the occasional young aristocrat with artistic pretensions, but they have since grown into something of a movement. Blame the bards who travel frequently and bring such fads with them where they go.
“In a number of cities of the empire, these dilettantes have captured the imagination of the common
people. The group has no real leader, and its dynamics fluctuate.
That sort of thing can make them rather useful. They are ripe, to paraphrase the old maxim, for the picking.
“When the empress gives birth to an abomination, they can spread the word and place upon it an interesting interpretation. Fate, having taken a hand, has poisoned the seed of the Roeles. The god essence they inherited at Deismaar has corrupted them over the years, as it has the awnsheghlien. All the Roeles have ever done was plunge the empire into one war after another in the name of glorious expansion, increasing their holdings at the cost of rivers of blood. The War of Rebellion is still a recent, painful memory to many. Such memories can be exploited.
Perhaps it is time for the Roeles to be overthrown and the people to rule themselves.”
“You mean to start another civil war,” said Laera.
“The empire is weak from the last one,” Callador replied. “Another one would cripple it. And Raesene’s forces could move in. With Michael unable to raise an army strong enough to stop them, defeat would be a foregone conclusion. Raesene would seize his blood abilities and increase his power. And the Gorgon would sit upon the Iron Throne.”
They were
