Dawn of the Dreamsmith (The Raven's Tale Book 1) (37 page)

It was surprising how many refused.

Above each one fluttered the imperial standard; a great red bull’s head on a field of white, its expression stern... or, as Jarrod was wont to proclaim, constipated. Scores of bulls’ heads thus gazed down from the walls of the throne room upon the standards of the other houses, the lords and ladies of the court and commoners and supplicants alike. The message was unsubtle, but no less effective for that: you belong to us.

Eyes turned to follow him as he made his way through the assortment of people that had gathered in the Hall that day. People who, it seemed to him, existed solely to loiter purposelessly in such places, making idle chatter and gossiping about the dozens of others doing the same. Adelmar ignored them. Ellara would no doubt have stopped to make small talk with those she recognised, and been mortified had she been the subject of their half-covered sneers and titters, but to Adelmar they were beneath contempt.
Parasites, the lot of them
.

At the far end of far end of the hall, atop the dais, stood the Golden Throne. Such was the distance from the great double doors that it was barely visible as you entered. You could see where it
was
, however. The day had dawned bright and clear, and all upon the dais was bathed in light so bright it hurt to gaze upon it for too long. The curved wall behind the throne and the roof above it were entirely glazed. The fittings that held the panes in place were intricately ornate, and beyond them was naught but the open sky and the blue rolling waves of Tranquil Bay.

Like the standards, the Hall of Light was unsubtle in the message it sent. Its architects had clearly laboured long and hard to build a place to make even the grandest of men feel small and cowed; all but the one who sat on the throne.

That was now, as it had been for the last twenty-seven years, Emperor Maximilien, fifth of his name and the first to earn the additional appellation ‘The Great’. His right to rule was beyond question; his line could be traced directly back through centuries of imperial rule. His ancestor it was who helped lay the first foundations of the coastal village that would become Ehrenburg, and who first assumed the duties of leading that fledgling settlement.

As the centuries passed, Ehrenburg had grown and prospered, aided by bountiful seas, a temperate climate and a location that provided a convenient stopping off point for the trading vessels of the east, bringing their exotic wares on long voyages south to sultry and mysterious Tenebrian ports. In the north, Whitecliff had also grown wealthy, but it nevertheless remained a pale imitation of its southern cousin. A thousand miles south, the fish of Tranquil Bay were more plentiful, the winters and storms far less severe and its port better-situated to attract passing traders.

As Ehrenburg grew, so its influence spread. The Legion was born from a need to protect itself from envious neighbours; initially a town militia but over time becoming a permanent fighting force of professional soldiers. Soon, neighbouring cities began to clamour for the protection of the Legion, in return for a portion of their own wealth and produce, boosting Ehrenburg’s coffers even further. The city’s port boomed like never before, with seafaring traders falling over themselves to purchase fine wines, spirits, furs, linens and other goods from across southern Callador. From such humble beginnings, the Empire was born.

In its history, the imperial city had experienced both booms and lean times, often dictated by the capabilities of the reigning monarch... and the level of resentment that festered in the far-flung corners of the Empire. Rebellions took place from time to time, and the Crown was not always victorious. But any defeat was short-lived, as any part of its dominion that had been lost was never far from its thoughts.

The northern uprising was one such. Emperor Frederik, Adelmar’s grandfather, known affectionately by his subjects as Fat Fredi, had shown little interest in holding on to his possessions. Preferring, in fact, merely to enjoy the trappings of power themselves and partaking of the various hedonistic pursuits available to one of his position, with an enthusiasm exceeded in size only by his legendary girth. Sensing weakness and already chafing against the disinterested imperial yoke, the north had rebelled. United under a Lowlands nobleman, Caderyn of House Carlyle, Lord of Creag an Tuirc, the northerners cast the Legion from their lands.

Adelmar had been but a boy at the time, barely six. Yet he remembered clearly his father’s seething resentment of his own father’s martial inadequacies. The nights he would spend raging at the loss of nearly a third of the Empire. Almost a decade passed, and if the northerners thought themselves safe after the passage of so much time, they were sorely mistaken. No sooner had Fat Fredi’s enormous coffin been lowered into the ground than the newly crowned Emperor Maximilien was mobilising the Legion for war. The once-proud fighting force had grown fat and complacent, a sad reflection of their recently deceased master. But soon, under the boy-prince Adelmar’s command, they were ready to reclaim what had once been theirs.

Adelmar himself, not yet fifteen and desperate to make a name for himself, had led the campaign against the north, winning easy victories against the Lowlands before they had run before him like cattle, firing their own crops in a desperate bid to outrun the merciless might of his Legionnaires. But it was in the final battle of the war where Adelmar finally found the fame he craved. His forces crushed the northern rabble at the gates of the Granite Pass, Adelmar himself defeating the upstart Caderyn in single combat after fighting through the general’s back lines with his vanguard. Seeing that the battle was lost, the beaten general had thrown down his sword at the young prince’s feet. He’d pleaded for his life and for the lives of his family and his soldiers.

Adelmar had listened impassively. Then he told the northern lord that his family would be spared, to live out the rest of their lives within the walls of Ehrenburg. But forbidden to leave or to marry, they would be the last of his line. Meanwhile, whatever remained of his army would be spared, if they agreed to lay down their arms, with two-thirds their number to take the Legion’s oath. “But you, my lord, are a traitor,” he had said. “Let your fate be a warning to all others who would betray the Crown.”

Caderyn had been kept prisoner for over a year, while the great fortress of War’s End was built above the Pass, in the midst of what came to be known as The Scorch, to stand vigilant over the north for all time. When the last brick was laid, Adelmar himself had nailed Caderyn to its walls, alive and shrieking. This act, and the war that had preceded it, earned him the nickname the Bloody Prince. He had heard it many times in the years since, though few dared to use it to his face. However, he in truth gave it little thought; if the name struck an ounce of fear into his enemies, then as far as he was concerned it had served its purpose.

These thoughts went through his mind as he marched the length of the throne room towards his father. The emperor sat straight-backed in the seat he had graced for a half-century. The Golden Throne of Ehrenburg towered above its occupant, seeming to glow in the sunlight. To look upon it was to gaze upon the power and wealth of the Empire. At least, that was the idea. Some years earlier, when they were children together, Jarrod had persuaded him into the throne room at night, when it was deserted. With a knife, he peeled back a layer of gold, revealing the plain wood beneath. Gold leaf, nothing more. Perhaps the throne had, in the past, been solid gold. It was possible it had been sold off to fund the vices of one of Fat Fredi’s decadent forebears. Or perhaps it had always been a lie. Adelmar knew not.

When he arrived at the foot of the dais, the emperor was engaged in his legal duties. In Ehrenburg, justice was most often dispensed by appointed magistrates, though of late the draughty, cramped court building was unusually quiet. Elsewhere, ruling families were free to enforce the laws of their lands, as well as imperial law, however they saw fit. But by long-standing tradition, highborn nobles from anywhere within the Empire could petition the imperial court to have the emperor himself sit in judgement of their cases. The emperor’s will, however, being harder to predict than that of the various magistrates or shire reeves, meant that such hearings did not take place often.

Two people stood before him now. One was a strutting peacock of a man in his middle years. He wore a dark mulberry doublet stitched with gold, with the fashionable high neck and lace collar. Over one shoulder he wore a short gold cape, fastened around his neck with a clasp in the shape of a many-branched yew tree, the sigil of Woodhaven. His greying hair was carefully styled, every strand in its place, likewise a thin, waxed moustache and trimmed, pointed beard. Prominently displayed on his chest was a green crystal pendant, hung from his neck by a thick gold chain. Adelmar wondered idly whether, like Jarrod’s, the stone was fake.

The man standing beside the elegant nobleman, cowering beneath the weight of the emperor’s severe gaze, could not have been more different in appearance. He was young, less than twenty Adelmar judged, and dressed in plain brown woollen garments. They seemed to have been well looked after, but were faded and noticeably thin in places. He bore no crest or emblem of any house that Adelmar could see. This wretched figure clutched a small silver-framed harp protectively to his chest, as if to ward off the eye of judgement. Unlike his clothes, the instrument he held appeared to be of very fine quality.

Adelmar listened as a clerk read out the facts of the case, which served to make the young man appear even more miserable. The dispute centred on the eldest daughter of Sir Edmond Hargrove, the nobleman, who the younger, a wandering troubadour, had gotten with child.

“Where is the girl now?” The emperor’s expression was as stern as that of the bulls’ heads that fluttered above.

“At home currently, Excellency, but not for much longer,” replied the Lord of Woodhaven, with a deep bow towards the dais. “I intend to disinherit the slattern, after which she will be free to go where she pleases, as long as it is not within my family’s lands.”

The emperor grunted. “And what of this specimen?” he asked, sweeping a hand towards the trembling singer. “I assume you wish him punished for the adultery?”

“If it please Your Excellency,” Sir Edmond simpered. “But I have other reasons for bringing this matter to your attention.”

“Such as?”

The noble’s lips parted in an oily grin. “Compensation, Excellency. We have had several offers of betrothal for the girl, but nobody will want her now. I seek to recoup the amount we would have received in dowry. I also seek an imperial decree that the whelp shall never be able to lay a claim against our house or family possessions.”

The emperor smiled thinly. “You should choose the subjects of your ire more carefully, my lord. I don’t believe the defendant could lay his hands on two copper coins to rub together should the need arise. Is that right, boy?”

“Y-yes, m-m-my l-lord,” stammered the troubadour, whose name had been revealed to be Tamas.

“You will address His Imperial Excellency in the correct manner,” intoned a deep voice. Standing beside the throne, hands clasped before him, stood a man wearing crisp white robes. Adelmar frowned as he spoke. The air of familiarity with which the speaker carried himself irritated him. It seemed the Archon had assumed a place of high honour in his father’s court during his time away from the capital.

“Y-yes, Your Excellency,” the man said miserably.

“Not me, dolt,” the Archon sighed, before the emperor waved him to silence.

Lord Hargrove drew himself up, pouting. “Well, what about that harp he carries, Excellency? Solid silver, if I’m a judge.”

“Fortunately, I am the only judge in this case.” The emperor’s fingers tapped the arms of the golden throne impatiently. “This case saddens me on a great many levels,” he continued. “It seems to me that you both represent the very worst of what our city has become. Degenerates, both of you. Take them.” Guardsmen took hold of both men by the arms. “A week in the stocks for them both. Let them serve as a warning to all that the Crown takes a dim view of moral turpitude. Geld this one first, for his adultery,” he added, indicating the young troubadour.

Tears welled in Tamas’ eyes, while Sir Edmond’s face turned the same colour as his doublet. But before they could be dragged away, the Archon leaned close to the emperor. “A just sentence, Excellency,” he purred. “There should be no mercy for venality or wantonness. But if I may make a suggestion?” At a nod from the emperor, he continued. “There is no mercy for sinners, but for those who are willing to repent and atone for their crimes, the Order will always find a place. Perhaps we might instead take him to the Spire, to see if we can convince him to change his ways? A young man of talent could be an asset to the faith.”

The emperor considered the proposal. “Very well. I am always happy to support the Order. You shall be spared the stocks,” he told the cowering singer, “but not the shears. I pray that you find redemption.”

The young man wept openly following his revised sentence, but Sir Edmond was not yet finished. “What about my daughter?” he demanded, bridling against the rough grip of the guardsmen.

The emperor scowled. “That is the heart of the matter, my lord. She is your blood and
your
responsibility, not a cow to be auctioned off at market. Do what you wish with the whelp, when it arrives.”

He’s in a foul mood today
, Adelmar thought. He glanced at the gallery on the far side of the hall, where Jarrod was lounging disinterestedly, surrounded by cronies. The younger prince tittered at some jest, and the sound of it carried down to the dais.