Once a month, the towers built by the Sartan sent forth life-giving water. But now the Tribus controlled it. Other elven clans were forced to pay a tax, supposedly for upkeep and maintenance costs. The humans were denied water altogether. Tribus coffers were getting rich. Other elven clans, angered at the tax, sought their own supplies of water and found them, down below, in Drevlin.
The other clans, particularly the Tretar, who invented the famous dragonships, began to prosper. Tribus might have withered on its own vine, but, fortunately for them, desperate humans began to attack the dragonships, steal the water. Faced with this threat, the various elven clans forgot old differences, banded together, and formed the Tribus empire, whose heart is the Imperanon. The war against the humans was going well for the elves. They were near victory. Then their charismatic and most skilled military general, Prince Rees’ahn, fell under the influence (some say the magic) of a song sung by a black-skinned human known as Ravenlark. This song made the elves remember the ideals of Paxar Kethin and Krenka-Anris. Elves who hear this song see truth, see the corrupt, dark heart of the dictatorial Tribus empire, and know that it means the destruction of their world.
Now, the towers of the Sartan continue to send forth water, but armed elves stand guard along its route. Rumor has it that large parties of human slaves and captured elven rebels are building secret aqueducts that lead from the rivers directly into the Imperanon. Every month, the water flowing from the towers is less than the amount that flowed last month. The elven wizards, who have studied the towers at length, report that for some unknown reason, their magic is starting to fail.
And none knows how to save it.
20
“They cannot do this,” Agah’ran stated with a shrug. He was feeding a slice of orange to a pet hargast[42] bird and did not look up as he spoke. “They simply cannot do this.”
“Ah, but they can, O Exalted One,” replied Count Tretar, head of the Tretar clan,[43] and currently His Imperial Majesty’s most trusted and valued adviser.
“What is more to the point, they have.”
“Closed the Cathedral of the Albedo? Accepting no more souls? I refuse to permit it. Send them word, Tretar, that they have incurred our extreme displeasure and that the cathedral is to be reopened at once.”
“That is precisely what Your Imperial Majesty must not do.”
“Not do? Explain yourself, Tretar.” Agah’ran lifted painted eyelids slowly, languidly, as if the effort were almost beyond his strength. At the same time, he waggled his hands in helpless fashion. His fingers had juice on them, and the stickiness displeased him.
Tretar motioned for the valet de chambre, who summoned a slave, who ran with alacrity to bring the emperor a warm, moist towel. Agah’ran laid his fingers limply on the cloth. The slave reverently cleansed them.
“The Kenkari have never proclaimed allegiance to the empire. Historically, My Liege, they have always been independent, serving all clans, owing loyalty to none.”
“They approved of the forming of the empire.” It was nearing his nap time and Agah’ran was inclined to be petulant.
“Because they were pleased to see the union of the six clans. And therefore they have served Your Imperial Majesty and have supported Your Majesty’s war against your rebel son, Rees’ahn. They even cast him out, as Your Imperial Majesty commanded, ordered his weesham to leave him, essentially damning his soul to live outside the Blessed Realm.”
“Yes, yes, we know all this, Tretar. Come to the point. I grow fatigued. And Solaris is very hot. If I am not careful, I shall begin to sweat.”
“If Your Radiance will bear with me a moment longer.” Agah’ran’s hand twitched, an action that, in another man, might have been the clenching of a fist. “We need those souls, Tretar. You were present. You heard the report. Our ungrateful son Rees’ahn—may the ancestors devour him—has been conducting secret negotiations with that barbaric fiend, Stephen of Volkaran. If they ally... Ah, see what this upset has done to us. We are trembling. We feel weak. We must retire.”
Tretar snapped his fingers. The valet clapped his hands. Slaves brought forth a sedan chair that had been standing nearby. Other slaves lifted His Imperial Majesty gently in their arms, carried him bodily from the cushions on which he’d been seated to the sedan chair, where His Majesty was settled, with much fuss and bother, among the cushions. The slaves hoisted the chair onto their shoulders.
“Gently, gently,” ordered the valet. “Don’t lift too fast. The motion makes His Majesty giddy.”
Slowly, solemnly, the sedan chair started off. The Royal Weesham rose and followed after. Count Tretar came after the weesham. The valet de chambre, watching anxiously, hovered about the sedan chair in case His Majesty felt faint. The procession, led by the sedan chair, moved from the garden to the emperor’s sitting room—a fatiguing journey of about ten paces. Agah’ran—an extraordinarily handsome elf (beneath the paint) in his early two hundreds—was not, as some first supposed on meeting him, crippled. Nothing in the slightest was wrong with His Imperial Majesty’s limbs. Agah’ran (in mid-life, by elven standards) was quite capable of walking and did so, when required. The unusual effort fatigued him for cycles afterward, however. Once inside the sumptuously furnished sitting room, Agah’ran made a languid motion with his fingers. “His Majesty wishes to stop,” Tretar instructed. The valet echoed the count’s orders. The slaves complied. The chair was lowered, slowly, so as not to make His Imperial Majesty nauseous, to the floor. The emperor was lifted out of it and placed in a chair, facing out on the garden.
“Turn us a bit to the left. We find the view far less fatiguing from this angle. Pour us some chocolate. Will you partake, Tretar?”
“I am honored that Your Imperial Majesty thinks of me.” Count Tretar bowed. He detested chocolate, but would never dream of offending the emperor by refusing.
One of the slaves reached for the samovar. The weesham, looking uneasy (as well he might, considering the discussion was dealing with his true masters, the Kenkari), saw a way to escape and intervened. “I fear the chocolate has grown tepid, O Exalted One. It would give me great pleasure to bring Your imperial Majesty more. I know precisely the temperature Your Imperial Majesty likes it.”
Agah’ran glanced at Tretar. The count nodded. “Very well, Weesham,” the emperor said languidly. “You are dismissed from our royal presence. Six degrees above room temperature and not a degree higher.”
“Yes, My Liege.” The geir, hands plucking nervously at his black robes, bowed himself out. Tretar waved his hand. The valet de chambre hustled the slaves out of the room. The valet himself faded into the background.
“A spy, do you think?” Agah’ran asked, referring to the departed weesham. “The Kenkari found out through him?”
“No, My Liege. The Kenkari would never dream of anything so crude. They may be very powerful in magic, but they are a simple people, politically naive. The geir is sworn to one duty and that is the safekeeping of Your Imperial Majesty’s soul. That is a holy duty, and one with which the Kenkari would not interfere.”
Tretar leaned forward, lowered his voice to a whisper. “From what I have been able to learn, My Liege, it was the ineptness of the Unseen that precipitated this crisis.”
A corner of the painted eyelid twitched. “The Unseen do not make mistakes, Tretar,” said Agah’ran.
“They are men, O Radiant One. They are fallible, as all men are fallible, with the exception of Your Imperial Majesty. And I have heard it said”—Tretar moved still closer—“that the Unseen have taken steps to discipline the elves involved. They are no more. And neither is the geir who carried news of the princess’s murder to the Kenkari.”
42
A rare species claimed, by legend, to nest in the brittle branches of the hargast tree. Since no one has ever found a hargast-bird nest, this cannot be verified. The birds are difficult to net and are therefore extremely expensive. Their song is quite exquisite.
43
The seven elven clans are: Paxar, Quintar, Tretar, Savag, Melista, Tribus, and Kenkari. The emperor is a member of the Tribus clan, as is his son, the rebel prince, Rees’ahn. Intermarriage has blurred most clan lines, with the exception of the Kenkari, who are forbidden to marry or bear children outside the clan. None has ever been known to disobey.