Veiled Empire by Nathan Garrison Page A

yourself whatever you want to,” she said, pointing with her dagger. “So long as you remember our deal.”
    “We will,” said Gilshamed, standing alongside him. “But let us not count victory before battle has even begun. I suggest we all get some rest tonight.” As if on cue, the sun flashed, then disappeared behind the Godsreach Mountains. Gilshamed continued. “I will notify you all at once as soon as Jasside makes contact. Until then . . .” He bowed, as if at some royal court, and departed for his tent.
    Slick Ren and Derthon both rose as well, slipping blades into their respective sheaths. The brother stepped away, but Ren lingered.
    “You know,” she said. “I never like to step into battle feeling . . . unfulfilled.” She raised an eyebrow. “How ’bout you?”
    Despite himself, he smiled. “Tempting.” Scorch me, isn’t that the truth! “But . . . maybe some other time.”
    She chuckled and sauntered away, lips turned down mockingly. “What a shame. I’ve always had a thing for beards . . .”
    Her allure trailed away along with her words, and Yandumar sat once more by the fire. He closed his eyes, running fingers through his beard.
    God, please, give me this one. Give me tomorrow. Let it all go . . . according to plan.
    The fire blazed up. Yandumar shivered.
    V OR EN WATCHED TWO students spar through an open window. True blades—not blunted practice swords—blurred as young hands swung with all the force they could muster. His eyes could barely follow the thrusts, parries, slashes, and a dozen other moves, the names of which he did not even know. Dust puffed into a cloud as their feet kicked and danced across the courtyard. The fighters were the youngest of the bunch, little more than toddlers.
    The clanking of steel continued for a score more beats, until one finally got the upper hand on the other, cutting across his opponent’s forearm. The injured child dropped her weapon. The boy, thinking the contest over, smiled and drove his blade for a finishing thrust. The girl’s hand shot out to intercept the small sword. Blood spurted out from between her fingers. She yanked hard, pulling the boy towards her, and punched him in the jaw. He stumbled. She wrestled him to the ground and executed a move that caused bones to snap. She wrapped her arms around the boy in a choke hold. In moments, his struggles ceased. Only when she failed to let go of his limp body did the master, watching nearby, step in and pull her off.
    She scampered off and found a towel, wiping the blood off her arm. No more flowed. The injury had already healed.
    The boy was slower in recovering. It took him almost two full marks before he stood again. He stretched a few moments. They both took up their blades and faced each other once more.
    “Enjoying the show?” Rekaj asked. His voice grated both nerves and eardrums.
    “Just reminding myself of the benefits of what we do,” Voren said.
    The emperor let loose a rasping cackle. “If it helps you sleep at night . . .”
    Voren sighed. I am not able to sleep much at all, these days. He had grown to fear it. Every time he closed his eyes, nightmares plagued him. Darkness and chaos. A vortex, raging, and himself falling into its heart.
    A softly spoken “why?” echoing endlessly in his head.
    The emperor stepped up next to him. Voren braced himself for the inevitable mockery.
    “We do the best we can, you and I,” said Rekaj. “For the good of ourselves and the empire. For the good of all.”
    Voren stared. He wondered, briefly, if the emperor he knew had been replaced by the good twin out of a fairy tale.
    Rekaj continued. “Only time will tell if our efforts mean anything.”
    The mierothi’s face betrayed no hint of amusement. Voren swallowed. “Time. Of course.”
    Why does it feel like my own is running out?
    The door to the sterile, cramped room creaked open behind them. They both turned. A cart was wheeled in, pushed by the mother phyzari, the highest