Heart of the Empire (The Broken Lands Book 1) Page 2

  Or rather, outwardly, it would be the shape of the scar which marked the new Emperor or Empress. In truth, the scars simply reflected our inner worthiness. Or so said the aurum mages, those metalogists who worked with Maelstrom-gold and altered bodies with their enchantments.

  The girl kept her head bowed while she worked, dipping a wad of cotton into a pot of salve. She spread the ointment over the sole of my foot. Next, she used a patch of sheepskin to dust the talcum powder onto my skin.

  “I appreciate your gentleness,” I said, keeping my voice low and expressionless so as not to endanger her by showing too much emotion. At the age of thirteen, I’d moved to a private chamber from the Scions’ dormitory. Shortly after, I’d made the mistake of asking a kitchen servant for her name. She’d been beaten for daring to answer. I no longer attempted to make conversation with those who served me.

  As the girl wrapped fresh dressings around my foot, low voices penetrated the heavy wood of the door. Footsteps clicked over the stone floor in the hallway. Moments later a sharp rapping came at the door.

  The girl emitted a terrified squeak. If someone were to open the door and see my uncovered foot, she’d be flogged—or worse. Her hands shook as she hurried with the dressing, and she fumbled the roll of linen. It unspooled across the floor. Frantic, she clawed the stone tiles in search of the lost bandage.

  “Shh,” I said. "I’ll get it.”

  “No,” she whispered. “It’s my failure.”

  The knock came again, the heavy thud of a fist that set the door shivering.

  “A moment,” I yelled, putting stern tones of command into my voice.

  The girl whimpered as she gathered the bandage in a wad and attempted to continue the binding. As the door swung open, her shoulders rose as she ducked her head, tensing for a blow.

  A man backed into the room, and my eyes widened at the sight of his burgundy robes trimmed in scarlet. The garb belonged to a ferro mage of the master rank. Skilled in working Maelstrom-blessed black iron, ferros possessed strange powers that few people outside the order understood. And a master, at that. I couldn't remember my branding, but as far as I knew, that was the last time I’d been near such a high-ranking mage. The instructor who trained me to use the silver ring which had been attuned to my spirit was just a first-year argent mage and wore an azure tunic to mark his lowly station.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.” The girl has been more than efficient. She simply wasn’t given enough time to finish.”

  If she was grateful for my attempt at her defense, the servant didn’t risk showing it. Instead, she patted the ground near her knees in search of the gold cuff. Checking that no guardians were watching, I slid the metal shackle into her hand. Quickly, she replaced it around my ankle. The key clicked as she struggled to slip it into the lock.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “Kostan, Scion of the Atal Empire, you are summoned to an audience with the Emperor,” the ferromaster said. “Prepare yourself with the greatest haste.”

  Finally, the servant managed to secure the cuff. She slipped the key back into her wraps and backed away, crawling with her forehead nearly touching the floor.

  I stared at the mage’s back. The Emperor? Despite being an official candidate to replace the man, I’d never seen him at a distance closer than a couple hundred paces. Only his ministers, high-ranking mages, and the Prime Protector were granted audiences. And, I supposed, his wife-consort.

  No wonder, really. Given his cruelty and the brutal rule of his protectors, I suspected that half the Empire’s citizens wanted him dead. I wanted him dead.

  “What’s the purpose of the audience?” I asked, keeping my voice level.

  “That is not for me to discuss,” he responded.

  The tension in the mage’s frame set my nerves on edge. I didn’t wish to anger the man. Of the three orders of metalogists, the ferro mages were the most secretive—and some whispered, dangerous.

  I stood from my chair, carefully settling my branded foot into the deep carpet. Fortunately for the servant’s sake, the bandage remained in place.

  Upon seeing the retreating girl at the edge of his vision, a confirmation that my brand was once again covered, the mage turned to face me. My pulse sped when I recognized him by the deep lines bracketing his mouth. He wasn’t just a master. He was the head of the order. Ferromaster Ilishian’s portrait hung in the entrance foyer of the Hall of Mages. I forced my expression to remain flat as I ducked a bow in a show of respect.

  “If you’re ready?” he asked, hands folded in front of his body.

  I lifted my bound foot and rotated it at the ankle, then slipped it into a leather boot matching, but of a larger size, that on my other foot. The bandage was lumpy and wrinkled due to the girl’s panicked work. It would be a long three days walking with ridges pressing into the sole of my foot, but I wouldn’t let my discomfort show and doom her to punishment. Besides, a little pain might be just the distraction I needed to keep my feelings for the Emperor from showing.

  Gritting my teeth, I nodded and followed the Ilishian into the hallway. It was time to face the man I’d hated for as long as I could remember. The man I was being groomed to become.

  Chapter Three

  Savra

  Numintown, Cosmal Province

  MY SANDALED FEET, still sopping wet, crunched on the crushed seashells covering Numintown’s narrow streets. The stiff cuffs of my pants chafed at my calves. When I stopped to roll them back down, the boy who'd fetched me rolled his eyes and paced.

  “I don’t want to disrespect the registrar by dripping all over the floor while she signs my writ,” I said.

  “As if the registrar cares about your respect,” he returned, curling his lip. He stomped on a scallop shell, smashing it to bits. “But here’s some advice. Don’t give them the same sort of trouble you’re giving me.”

  Trouble? Other than unrolling my pants cuffs, all I’d done was stop at the edge of the beach to strap on sandals. “I don’t mean to cause problems for anyone,” I said.

  “Somehow I’m not convinced. You Provs are all the same. Complaining about your Functions even though the Empire is just trying to take care of you.”

  A trickle of anger entered my blood, but I took a deep breath. He was just a child. Of course he wouldn’t understand how it felt to have a stranger in a faraway capital decide your life’s purpose—elite-class Atal rarely worked, and when they did, it was in an occupation they’d chosen.

  “I’m not complaining. I just want to receive my writ.”

  He shrugged. “If you say so. Anyway, I’m just trying to help you out. The registrar is already threatening to impose rationing on your town to spite the geognost for interfering today. You really don’t want to make her angrier.”

  Geognost? A twinge of excitement warmed my chest. I hadn’t heard anything about an earth mage in town. They were the rarest of the mages, with less than a hundred spread across the entire Empire. If true, the story of the geognost’s visit would be retold for years.

  As I kicked the wrinkles from my unrolled trouser legs, I remembered someone on the beach muttering about the arrival of a second party of strangers. Maybe the earth mage had been among them.

  The boy stomped another shell. “Ready?”

  I nodded, wringing a few drops from my auburn braid before flicking it over my shoulder. Starting toward Numintown’s center where the streets met like spokes on a wheel, I glanced over my shoulder. Avill had hurried off to fetch Mother—she’d want to see me receive my writ. I hoped she’d arrive in time.

  The town hall stood two floors high, overshadowing the neighboring stable and sheds. It had been a few years since the building had been leveled, and the upper story leaned sharply over the street. I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed the quake had shifted the building, tilting it farther than yesterday. Despite myself, I felt embarrassed that people as important as the registrar and a geognost were seeing our community�
��s central building in such a state.

  With my damp clothes, I shivered as I stepped into the shade of the porch. The boy kicked one of the awning posts as he climbed the stairs, setting the decking shivering.

  He snorted. “I don’t see how you Provs even survived without the Empire’s guidance.”

  We survived just fine, according to what the town grandparents said, stories handed down from their grandparents who’d lived before the Decree of Functions. That had happened a century ago. A century before that, Cosmal Province had been an independent nation. Then the Atal Empire had come.

  I took a deep breath before stepping into the stuffy confines of the building. A bench stood against one wall of the entrance hall. Upon it, a boy and girl my age waited their turn with the registrar. Wilona, one of our nearest neighbors, bounced her knee and chewed a hangnail, her dark hair a curtain before her face. The boy, Enno, sat with his knees splayed and eyes flitting. His father, a burly man with deep creases on his face, had come as well. The man crouched on the floor beside the bench, elbows propped on his knees.

  I shuffled to a corner as the Atal boy opened a door and poked his head in. “Found her,” he said before shutting the door.

  “Is Ikirni inside?” I asked the others. Four of us had turned seventeen in the last few months, a large group for Numintown.

  Wilona shrugged. “The waiting area was empty when I arrived,” she said, speaking around the fingertip she was gnawing. For once, she didn’t sneer at me. Wilona often accused me of sucking up to the Empire by working so hard at the sluices. But really, I just wanted to help Mother. Our quota had been smaller since my father disappeared, but not that much smaller. Not without some proof of his death. For all the Empire knew, he’d simply deserted his duty.

  For all we knew, they were right.

  Anyway, Wilona was just trying to find fault because everyone in town knew her mother was an imperial snitch. In the Provinces, the Empire couldn’t keep watch on everyone—there were hundreds of Provs for every Atal. When an argent mage came to ask questions about illegal activities and pluck the answers directly out of a suspect’s mind, it was almost always because a snitch sent a message.

  Enno yawned and tapped his toe on the wooden planks of the floor. A pebble had been trapped against one of the bench’s legs. Freed by the vibration, it rolled and skittered across the floor before bouncing off the far wall.

  If the town hall wasn’t leveled soon, the building would topple.

  Moments later, the door squealed open. Ikirni shuffled out, white-faced and with her writ pinched between thumb and forefinger. My breath caught. Why did she look so rattled?

  “Well?” Enno asked.

  “Sluices,” she muttered.

  Before we could ask more questions, she ducked her head and bolted for the door. When it slammed shut over her retreat, I flinched. Wilona’s arms pressed closer to her body, and her hair fell farther over her face. Enno didn’t move, but his knuckles blanched white where he gripped the flesh of his upper arm. No one spoke.

  A footfall clicked against the wood planks of the floor. The registrar stood in the doorway, her deep blue uniform decorated with polished wood beads. Upon her shoulder, the Registry crest was embroidered in gray thread.

  “Savra,” the woman said. A command, not an invitation.

  I swallowed, glancing at the door that led outside. Already? Mother would be so disappointed.

  “Must we suffer a delay while you find your wits?” the registrar asked.

  “Sorry,” I said, ducking my head as I hurried to the door leading into the chamber.

  A single table dominated the center of the room, chest high with no chair. On it, an ink pot rested beside a stack of parchments. The writs, I assumed. The shades were drawn, and a handful of candles burned in holders along the walls. The registrar shut the door over Wilona’s and Enno’s whispers. She crossed the room with long strides and rounded the table to face me as I approached. A pair of armored protectors—the Empire’s soldiers and guardsmen—and a notary wearing the sash of office stood against the back wall. Swallowing, I nodded at them.

  Motion from the side wall caught my attention. There, a robed figure shifted. A man. Wearing such strange robes, he had to be the geognost. Henchmen stood on either side of the mage. The fighters wore soft leather and penetrating stares, a stark contrast to the expressionless imperial protectors.

  “If you’re done gawking…” the registrar said. “We have a few formalities to cover before issuing your writ.”

  I swallowed and faced her.

  She produced a small vial from the pocket of her uniform. The glass clicked against the wood of the table as she set it before me. “Drink this.”

  I stared at the little bottle. “What is it?”

  “Assurance that you will answer our questions faithfully,” she said.

  “But I—”

  “Drink it.”

  No one had told me to expect this. To be fair, I’d never asked. But I’d assumed my official assignment would be a simple signing of the Function writ. Biting off protests, I lifted the little bottle and sniffed the rim. The contents had no smell, but through the yellow-green glass, I spotted flecks of something suspended in the liquid. Grimacing, I set the rim against my lip and tilted it back. The serum burned as it flowed down my throat.

  ***

  “What’s more desirable, pewter or black iron?” a woman asked.

  I jerked, shocked. Where was I? What had happened?

  “Savra.” She snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Pewter or black iron? Which would the Empire rather have?”

  I was standing in a dim room. My knees were locked, thighs and calves clenched. Finally, I realized where I was. The town hall. This was my Function assignment.

  I coughed. “Excuse me. I was…”

  “Disoriented, I know. It’s normal when the elixir first hits.”

  “How long since I drank it?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Black—black iron, of course. Any Maelstrom-metal has a use, but the quotas only specify gold, silver, and black iron.”

  The registrar nodded. “What is the ancient Atal word for vengeance?”

  “What? How should I know?”

  The woman rolled her eyes. “Seems the elixir diminished your manners. ‘I don’t know’ is a sufficient answer.”

  “Sorry,” I said, swallowing. “I don’t know.”

  “What provides the most value for the Empire? Picking the tide line or placer mining the sluices?”

  I shrugged. “The best relics wash up at the tide line, but it could be months between finds. So, sluices, I guess.”

  “Describe the nature of the living soul.”

  I stared at her. How did this relate to my Function? I felt a strange tension in the room while I considered my answer. Even the mage’s henchmen, who had been shifting as if to keep limber, froze.

  “It’s—I suppose it depends on the person.”

  The registrar cocked her head. “All right. What do you see in my soul?”

  “I…” If my aura-sight had come over me, I could give her an answer. But how would she know about my fits? “I can’t see your soul,” I said, then added, “right now.”

  I sucked my lower lip between my teeth. Where had those last words come from?

  The mage detached from the wall and approached the table. He had a wan face, pale and somehow sad. A peaked hat covered his hair. I thought he might be around sixty years old.

  The registrar’s gaze flicked to the man, and her eyes narrowed. Her expression brought to mind the boy’s comment about the geognost interfering with Registry work.

  The mage brushed his hand through the air as if shooing away her glare. “By all means, continue,” he said.

  A small muscle beneath the registrar’s eye twitched as she returned her attention to me. “Is it better to till the land after the harvest, or should you wait until
just before planting?”

  I sighed. The order and purpose of these questions made little sense. Was the Registry trying to determine whether Numintowners were shirking their Function duties to spend time farming? Didn’t they have Wilona’s mother and the other snitches to keep watch on that?

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s the best way to temper steel intended for a broadsword?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does the night know how to whisper?”

  My words caught in my throat as images of my nightmares roared to life. “Unfortunately, yes,” I said, the words bursting from my mouth before I could even think to stop them. I didn’t understand. Usually, I was so careful with what I said—years of caution with Avill’s delicate feelings had taught me that.

  I expected a follow-up question, but the registrar simply tapped her index finger on the table and continued.

  “What sort of ink is best for committing words to vellum?”

  “I don’t know. My mother taught me to write with squid’s ink. It’s all we have.”

  “Can you read?”

  “Only the common tongue. Peninsular dialect.”

  “What happens when we die?”

  “In Numintown, the grandparents say we’ll be reborn.”

  “I didn’t ask what Numintowners claim. If you don’t know say, ‘I don’t know.'”

  Before I could stop myself, my mouth opened. “We remain,” I said, though I couldn’t understand where I’d gotten the answer.

  The geognost stepped closer. Rotating a silver ring on his finger, he ran his tongue over thin lips. “Stand still,” he commanded.

  I couldn’t have moved if a rogue wave had risen before me. Just the thought of defying him made me feel as if I would retch. Inwardly, I shuddered when he laid a hand on my shoulder, his gray eyes searching my face. A tiny wrinkle formed between his brows.