Skybound

Kavnerrin Descroix climbed down from his carriage, waving away a liveried footman who rushed forward to assist. He glanced around, passed a hand through his hair, then began crossing the field. This was the last place he really wanted to be; ever since his misadventure with his sister and the Dreamer’s machine, fear and worry had been his constant companions. He could have risked nothing more involved than to order her soulless husk to throw itself from the arched footbridge in front of the Noble’s District; there was no way he could have kept up her appearance for long enough to plot anything else without his artifice being discovered.

With Louisa’s death, the competition for the Imperial Throne found itself in an uproar as the balance of power shifted tumultuously. Kavnerrin stayed aloof from most of it; being the youngest grandson, the only person more remote in the line of succession was his uncle Calvin, who had largely eschewed the game of politics in favor of military campaigns.

Internecine rivalries were the least of Kavnerrin’s worries on this first day of spring; the Imperial banner given pride of place over the coats of arms of his cousins filled the space under it with a sense of looming dread. He feared his grandfather’s displeasure more than the scheming of his cousins, and the presence of the Watchers that accompanied the emperor everywhere he travelled cast a watchful eye over the area. At any other place, or on any other day, they might have continued to scheme, but the first day of spring was the day of the Blood Tithe, and none would be so foolish as to try the emperor’s patience today.

A few dozen paces from where he had departed the wagon, Kavnerrin approached his grandfather’s pavilion. The gilded and padded seat was empty; evidently, the emperor had gone out to observe the gathering. Nobles, both of Descroix blood and otherwise, had gathered on the outskirts of Shabo Khal to greet the sunrise, and he knew similar scenes were playing out along the entire border of the desert. Looking east, every hundred paces he could see the countless rows of man-high stone posts set in lines extending northwards into the sands. Several miles away, the shadowy outline of a windmill could be seen barely peeking over the horizon, backlit by the predawn sun not yet risen.

“You’re late,” came a harsh voice. Kavnerrin jerked to the side and turned to face the voice before realizing nobody had approached.  His grandfather had ever been fond of sorcery, and to throw one’s voice was the least of the tricks he knew. He hurried his steps, descending partway down the hill to where the man waited. He displayed little evidence of rank or title, though his cloak and breeches were of far finer make than most would wear. The only outward indication was the black crown set atop his head, its seven crystal tips glittering in the morning light. Not even Kavnerrin knew what or how many enchantments were woven into that particular artifact, how many others like it the emperor carried.

The emperor stood apart from his attendants, looking at a copper bowl inlaid with silver runes which rested atop a low stone plinth. More runes, glowing a cool blue, described patterns down the outside of the stone pedestal, then across the ground. Kavnerrin could feel the magic pulsing with anticipation, a low, steady beat which seemed to hunger for the tithe. As he approached, one of the lesser blood -- a distant cousin, distant enough that Kavnerrin couldn’t recall his name -- drew towards the bowl. He reached out almost reverently, drawing his wrist across the lip. The metal was honed to a sharp enough edge that even that contact was enough to split the skin, whereupon the runic inlay flickered, drawing a ruby globule from his body. It sunk into the runes, which flashed from blue to red, the color travelling in a pulse into the ground, then out along the lines of posts. They glowed briefly, then returned to quiescence.

“Apologies, Your Majesty,” said Kavnerrin, mostly managing to keep his voice level as he genuflected. His grandfather had proven far more shrewd than any of the Imperial Heirs time and time again. “The wagons had some trouble with the last of the winter snows coming down Shabo Pass.”

“You should have had your mages deal with that, but no matter,” rasped the old man. “You will need to tithe double, since you couldn’t wait a month to end your sister’s useless existence.” The latter half of the emperor’s words sounded only in Kavnerrin’s head.

Kavnerrin drew in a breath and took a half-step backward, but he knew he couldn’t flee. The emperor turned his head slightly, and continued speaking to Kavnerrin alone.

“Come now, did you really think you and your Dreamer had gone unnoticed? Sloppy, and wasteful, how you went about it.”

“But…” Kavnerrin’s shoulders tensed, as if he expected to feel blades part his flesh. “If you knew...and I’m still alive...then you see the value.”

“Hm.” The emperor’s chin lifted a little, and Kavnerrin knew he had managed to escape his wrath by not denying his involvement. “Perhaps. Your schemes have managed to keep you out of the eyes of my other heirs; they may come to regret that in time. There’s a chance your project may have some use, but do not mistake my indulgence for endorsement.” 

Wagons had been drawn up near the first rows of posts on the plains below, and Kavnerrin could see the forms of captives being ushered towards the sands. The distance blurred the sounds, but the cracking snaps of whips and faint cries of hopeless confusion lay just on the edge of hearing. A priest drew up the hill towards the platform, dressed in simple robes. His scarred arms gave silent testament to his long years of service. With him, he carried a wooden slate, a quill, and a stack of parchment. He stood, mutely, waiting.

The emperor sighed. “Garthel, approach. You know we don’t need to do this dance every year.” His voice warmed, and lost some of its gruffness. “Tell me, friend: how bad is it?”

Garthel approached to present the sheaf of paperwork. “We shall need to commission another entire row of tithing posts. The sands have encroached almost a third of a league farther than last year, and the raids have not brought half as many for the Tithing.” The old man gave a rattling cough, wiping his mouth on a cloth pulled from one of his pockets. “In some places, it is as bad as two-thirds of a league.”

“It’s the same to the west,” the emperor replied. “The message from Tel Rhamos and the western fields came by semaphore two days ago.”

“I see no other way, Your Majesty,” the priest said regretfully. “We’ll have to cull the lesser blood if we are to have a harvest at all this year.”

It is almost sunrise, boy. His grandfather’s voice was impatient in his mind, and Kavnerrin stepped towards the bowl and pedestal, baring his wrists. Attend well to your duty, or join the lesser blood. 

He barely felt the bowl’s edge bite his skin for the immediate drain on his vitality. The blood welled from his wrists, and dizziness washed over him as the runes drew it from his body. Any other year, a token offering would have sufficed, but he knew better than to blanch under the eyes of the emperor himself. For a time that seemed to stretch for hours, he held his wrists over the basin until his vision began to turn grey at the edges, his breathing growing ragged as the droplets condensed into a crimson globe. Before his vision went completely black, Kavnerrin tore himself away from the bowl, stumbling back into the arms of an attendant who quickly set about wrapping his wrists.

He felt the healing salve go to work immediately as the sphere of blood, half the size of his own head, drifted down to sink into the runes. Where before, they had merely glowed red from the gift of a lesser noble, now they flared bright and savage with an Imperial’s blood. The light poured down the body of the pedestal and surged down the line of posts, darkening the sand in its wake as if it had been touched by rain. The dead grey dust darkened to a healthier brown, and the brittle grasses flared with sudden growth, returning to a shade of green. 

Garthel beamed with satisfaction, unknowing of Kavnerrin’s silent discourse with the Emperor. “A worthy Tithe, my lord.”

“Indeed,” said the Emperor. “How fare the stocks from the winter’s tithings at the temples, Garthel?” As he spoke to the priest, his voice touched Kavnerrin’s mind once again.

I’m almost impressed, grandson. The dizziness finally started to fade as he accepted a cup of wine from a servant, but he knew his Vitality had been permanently diminished. His grandfather’s voice did have a hint of approval to it, albeit slight. It will take you months to recover from that gift of power. If the rest of the Blood would be so generous, the Empire would be well fed. 

The priest answered as Kavnerrin recovered his strength. “If we can reclaim half a league today, we are well stocked to hold it until harvest. Pushing for more would let us plant more wheat and barley, but the sands hunger the most in high summer. If we overreach, our late crops will be endangered.” He shook his head, mentally steeling himself to deliver bad news. “The winter Tithes collected were much less than the previous year, as people hoped Lord Calvin’s campaign would be more successful in bringing back more bodies to Till and Tithe by now.”

“It was a gamble, and it failed,” replied the emperor. “My son survives as captive, according to my Watchers. He should have simply returned as soon as he met any real resistance. His sister’s efforts to take Fort Expedition show far more promise.”

Kavnerrin handed the empty cup back to the servant, and shook his head. “Are we sure he didn’t allow himself to be captured?” He barely managed to keep his scorn for the man out of his voice. “Ever has he held our way of life in-- ghrk!”

The Emperor’s will clamped around his voice and his jaws snapped shut, barely missing his tongue. “His views about our ways notwithstanding,” rasped the old man, now stirred to anger, “Calvin still loves his people. He is simply...misguided about why we practice such a barbaric ritual.”

An unseen hand took hold of him by the collar, dragging him forward to where the Emperor stood looking out over the sands. Lines of shackled slaves threaded their way along the rows of posts, one shackled to each post before the attending priests took their blood to power the enchantments. “He always did rail against what we do here,” the emperor said in a quiet, emotionless voice. Kavnerrin quailed; such a voice usually preceded disproportionate slaughter, done in the name of Imperial justice. “It is no sin for him to disagree. However...this ritual is all that stands between us and the Dead Sands, grandson.”

The emperor’s arms flexed, and pieces of a golden collar fell to the ground as light flared around his shoulders. Kavnerrin gawked as the older man took a deep breath, then stepped forward. “The [Oracle] has finally set our end in motion.” His arm reached out over the bowl, old but still strong, to slide his wrist over the sharpened edge. “We have existed for centuries, but time comes for all things.”

Blood, vital and crimson, surged forth from the wound, gathering into a roiling sphere that represented the life force of the emperor. It pulsed with power, raw and untamed, and Garthel fell to his knees in rapturous worship. Kavnerrin felt it too, muted as it was by their blood’s similarity. The air thickened as the blood fell towards the runes, holding his breath fast until it fell past the event horizon and disappeared.

The runes burned so bright they nearly blinded him, but Kavnerrin found himself held fast as the stone pedestal groaned with power. it threatened to overwhelm the enchantments, but they held even as the hilltop shook, driving all but the Emperor himself to their knees. The light pulsed outwards, and down to the rows of posts below. Each became a beacon, and the bright red light cast eerie shadows from the slaves, servants and priests assembled below.

Where sand had darkened and traces of green sprouted from Kavnerrin’s Tithe, the Emperor’s gift spread out like a flood of rich loamy earth and green growth. As the soil was revitalized, grasses, vines, and small trees sprang up, and workers began passing out sacks of seeds for those following the chained captives. Under the savage glow, Kavnerrin could see the sands transforming back into fertile land, rolling half a league north and spreading east and west as far as his eye could see.

“The gods are silent, grandson,” whispered the Emperor, quietly enough that only Kavnerrin could hear. “So make us one of our own. Find a way to defeat our greatest enemy.” His wave at the sands to the north needed no interpretation. “Do this, and I will set the crown upon your brow myself.”

Kavnerrin Descroix, last in the line of succession to the Imperial Throne, stood transfixed by the effect of his grandfather’s gift and struck dumb by his implication. He drew a sharp breath and turned to face him.

“Thy will be done, Your Majesty.”