The Eye of the Storm

Vixin shivered as they passed through the gates of Yijiiru and the stench of a thousand corpses assailed his nose. He desperately tried to block it out with his sleeve, but it was to no avail. The smell seemed to permeate through every structure, every object in these disgusting streets. Brown waste clogged the gutters, mixing with rotten food and things that Vixin didn’t want to see, much less think about. Perhaps the worst thing was that there were people sleeping in these gutters, covering themselves in the evil slop. Vixin’s stomach turned, and he looked away.

The rest of the street was not much better. Downcast, gloomy people ambled about the streets and stalls, buying and selling with no real enthusiasm. Their clothes, gray and ragged, seemed to match the overall mood of the city. The only people that showed any color were brightly dressed Bedsellers, though they could hardly be described as being dressed. If Vixin hadn’t lived among them for the first few years of his life, running and scrounging for food, he might have blushed and had to look away in shame. As it was, he merely stared at them with pity. He knew what it was like to be them, and he felt guilty for living as a Lord now instead of with them, in the garbage.

As they rode at a stiff trot through the main street, the colors of the city and the overall cleanliness began to appear more vibrant, more pure. Grays and blacks morphed into a myriad of hues, none clashing and all beautiful. Vixin mentioned it off-handedly to Gestarin, wondering why it was so.

“Yijiiru is based off of a system of layers.” Gestarin explained, pointing to the areas behind them. “The slums and ghettos are the outer layers, with the imperial palace at the center. The rest of the layers are devoted to the merchant class, the noblemen, and everything in between.”

“Why are there no walls?” Vixin asked, looking about furtively for such structures. “Wouldn’t people just sneak into the upper layers?”

“Of course.” Gestarin shrugged. “But the noblemen don’t need walls to keep the poor out. The poor people’s shame and guilt do that to themselves.”

“What do you mean?” Vixin said, confused.

“The Junarian national religion is Diradis, true, but the culture is far from it.” Gestarin sighed. “Junarians hold the virtues of honor and worth in high regard, and they cannot willingly allow themselves to do something that would detract from either.”

“And they think that sneaking into other areas where they do not belong would detract from their honor?” Vixin scoffed. “That has to be one of the stupidest things I have ever heard.” He chuckled. “And believe you me, I have heard some strange things in my life.”

“I agree.” Gestarin said. “But you have to understand that they have been indoctrinated for centuries, even millennia, to believe that their birth and circumstance dictate how their lives will have to be lived. The Junarian Harvester’s have even gone so far as to say that Aia will not accept dishonorable souls.”

“That’s preposterous. Aia will accept anyone as long as they have been righteous and tried to protect and provide for others. Honor and class have nothing to do with that.”

“You know that, Vixin, because that is what you have been taught.” Gestarin insisted, trying to prove a point. “But this is what they have been taught, almost since the beginning of their civilization. This is who they are.”

“And what do you believe, your majesty?” Vixin asked, looking intently at the king. Gestarin looked away, a look of pain and frustration flashing across his face.

“I don’t know anymore.” He whispered, almost too quiet for Vixin to hear.

Vixin shrugged and turned back to look at the surroundings, gasping as his eyes fell on a supremely beautiful setting. The slums and cobblestone roads had disappeared completely and the air no longer felt suffocating or cramped. Somewhere along the journey the party had entered a serene meadow, filled with bright green grass and beautiful flowers of every shape and color. Pure white swans swam in crystal clear ponds beside perfectly cut hedges. Interspersed through the meadow were pure white marble pathways, on which graceful men and women walked.

The people themselves were far different than the peasants and slummers, who had looked dirty and beaten down. These men and women held their chins high in the air and puffed their chests far out. They wore white robes that flowed around their graceful bodies without a speck of dust or dirt anywhere on them. Their hair was neatly combed and washed, shining lustrously in the evening light.

Noblemen.

“We have reached the Inner Shell.” Zijiiku said gaily, eying their surroundings with a sparkling eye. “What you see before you is the pinnacle of beauty and peace in all of the Junarian Empire.”

“It is beautiful.” Gestarin agreed, and Vixin could not deny that the king’s eyes held a gaze of approval as they flitted about. “Where did you manage to find all the swans? I thought that they were native to the oases in the Waste.”

“They were, your majesty.” Zijiiku nodded. “But ten years ago, our glorious emperor led a hundred men to the Waste, and they captured several hundred of the birds. Careful breeding has given us enough to place them all around the Inner Shell.”

“Where do people live?” Vixin asked, looking for houses but finding none.

“Underground.” Zijiiku explained. “Many thought that buildings would detract from the beauty of the Shell, so all services and homes are underneath the surface. You can find the entrances to these places in staircases that lead down into the depths of the earth.”

Vixin nodded, noting the very things that Zijiiku was speaking of. He wondered briefly whether the people preferred that sort of thing. Living underground would seem very disconcerting to someone who was used to the open air of the Quasexan desert.

The sound of the cacophony of trumpets broke his concentration, and he looked around to see what all the commotion was about. Unsurprisingly, he found nothing. The vast green landscape stretched all the way to the gray walls in the distance.

“What’s going on?” Vixin whispered to Gestarin, leaning slightly over in his saddle. “What are they going on about?”

“We appear to have reached the palace.” Gestarin whispered back. “I think it’s that large staircase just ahead.”

Vixin looked forward, and he did indeed see a slate staircase that spiraled down into the darkness. It seemed to go on forever, which made Vixin wonder how large the palace was.

“You will leave your horses here.” Zijiiku ordered, hopping down from his own brown roan. “They will be taken to the royal stables and cared for by our best squires.” Gestarin made a face, and Zijiiku could obviously sense his discomfort. “Do not worry, your majesty. Your animals will not be harmed.”

Anxious, Vixin dismounted from Swiftflyer, who almost seemed glad to let him go. Vixin would have to have a talk with the Queen about Swiftflyer’s feelings. He was wary when he had to ride an animal that he did not like. He allowed a squire to take the reins away from his hands, sighing as he felt solid ground under his feet once more. Horseback was all well and good, but a man could really only trust his own feet.

“Follow me.” Zijiiku commanded, and he began to descend the stairs at a feverish pace. Gestarin and Vixin almost had to run to catch up with him.

“What is the meaning of your haste, General?” Gestarin asked between heavy breaths. “Surely we could be moving with a little more ease.”

“Would you want to keep the emperor waiting, your majesty?” Zijiiku said calmly. “Because I wouldn’t.”

“Is the emperor so petty that he would punish a visiting monarch?” Vixin scoffed. “A man who would throw such a childish tantrum has no business sitting on a throne.”

Zijiiku stopped quite suddenly, spinning to face Vixin. Vixin began to wither underneath his intense gaze, his words drying in his throat and refusing to leave his mouth. With a incredibly quick movement, Zijiiku removed a small silver knife from his sleeve and held it against Vixin’s throat. Gestarin spluttered in indignation, but Zijiiku did not acknowledge him.

“You will not let such words spring from your vile mouth while in Yijiiru anymore, my lord.” He said with a cold anger that radiated from his person. “I fear that not many men will tolerate them as I am now.”

“You call this tolerance?” Vixin growled, anger rising faster than logic. “You are holding a knife to my throat for a flippant comment. Where is the tolerance in that?”

Zijiiku held his knife and his gaze for a moment more before returning the knife to his sleeve with a fluid motion. He began walking once more, but his words still trickled from his mouth with the same intensity.

“I know where you come from, my lord Viceroy.” He said with biting words. “I know how the Quasexans value the freedoms of speech and expression and other nonsense. I will ask you now, do the slaves of Xexera share the same freedoms as even the Glausianian peasants?” Vixin said nothing, but chagrin began to creep into his face as anger gave way to shame. “Do not judge others, Lord Vixin, for they will inevitably judge you with far more clarity than your angry vision can see.”

“General, you must forgive him.” Gestarin cut in, putting a hand on each man’s shoulder. Efstany stood behind him, completely silent. “I appointed him because he does not mince words, but I fear that sometimes it gets the better of him.”

“There is nothing to forgive, your majesty.” Zijiiku said with a wave of his hand. “I will not judge a man for how he is. However,” He grinned. “I will not let an opportunity to teach a man a lesson pass me by.” The gray staircase ended abruptly, a golden door illuminated by orange torches towering over the men’s heads. Zijiiku walked up to the door and knocked the great metal knockers three times. The door opened.

“You are about to enter the presence of his imperial majesty, Kiijal Jiyuko the third, lord of all Junar and the Lyjirian sea.” Zijiiku hissed. “I suggest you watch your tongue, lord Vixin, lest it be ripped from your disrespectful mouth.” Vixin growled, but he said nothing. Zijiiku nodded and led the three men into the great hall.

Such an example of gross excess had never been seen in all of Oaiao, and Vixin could hardly keep his mouth from dropping to the floor. The entire floor was made of shimmering gold with a bright red carpet leading the way to a silver throne. Jade pillars stretched far higher than Vixin had ever though possible, the ceiling lost in the darkness of the cavernous room. Torches lined the wall, casting an orange light that bounced in flickers off of the golden floor. About thirty paces away sat the Emperor of Junar.

He held a silver crook in his right hand and a scythe in the other, the royal symbols of leadership and diligence. His piercing brown eyes were fixed on the newcomers. He wore nothing on his head, his waxed head shining in the torchlight. His slanted eyes had been drawn over with black makeup, making his gaze more steely and ominous. He was every bit as regal as an emperor should be, and Vixin felt an overwhelming compulsion to genuflect before this powerful man. They walked forward until they were only a stone’s throw away from the Emperor.

“The King of Glausiania, his servant Efstany, and Viceroy Vixin of the Council of Blood.” A courtier announced, pounding his staff against a slate on the ground. “The Emperor accepts their presence, and wishes them good fortune in their pleadings.”

“The King of Glausiania thanks the Emperor of Junar for his greetings.” Gestarin replied formally. He bowed stiffly and shallowly, keeping the semblance of honor while showing his obvious irritation. “The King of Glausiania implores a few words with the Emperor.”

“The Emperor accepts the King’s request.” The Courtier nodded. “You may speak freely, your majesty, with no fear of retribution.”

“For some reason, my lord, I don’t believe that is true.” Gestarin said darkly. The Emperor’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Gestarin reached into his pocket and pulled out the Prism Vixin had given him. “Does his eminence know what this is?” A servant walked forward and retrieved the Prism from Gestarin’s hand, placing it in the Emperor’s outstretched palm. The Emperor stared at it as he rolled it around in his hands.

“If your majesty wishes to bribe me,” He scoffed, tossing the Prism back to Gestarin. “He should try to do better.”

“I would never risk my treasuries so, your eminence.” Gestarin said with a straight face, though his comment created a few chuckles from the gathered nobles. “I was merely wondering whether I would be able to avoid my lengthy explanation.”

“Proceed.” The Emperor said, laying his scythe and crook across his lap. Gestarin nodded.

“As we all know,” He began, changing the timbre and pitch of his voice to match the  style of a most proficient orator. “The markings and runes on this Prism dictate the inspection and creation dates of the gem, which can be used to ascertain where and when the gem was made. This one, however, has been tampered with.” A few gasps sounded from the nobles, but the Emperor’s expression did not change. Gestarin launched into the explanation of how he and Vixin had come to their conclusion. There were huffs of indignation and sighs of boredom from the courtiers aplenty, but the Emperor only nodded a few times during the course of the speech.

“So, your majesty,” The Emperor mused, stroking his wispy brown beard. “You are insinuating that someone in the Junarian nobility is attempting to kill you.”

“Not just anybody, your eminence.” Gestarin corrected. “One of the Imperial Houses. Someone in this very room.”

“He is obviously lying, my liege!” A shout came from the midst of the assembled nobility. The crowd parted to reveal a tall, gangly man in a orange doublet and green trousers. Gestarin marvelled at the man’s fashion sense. Or rather, the lack of it. The man looked like a Reledanian peacock had fallen into a vat of dye. “None of the Imperial Houses would ever attack a king of an allied country. The damage to their honor would be too great.”

“We all know the extent of Junarian honor, Lord Jikosa.” Gestarin snapped, turning to face the man. “I hear that at least the truly honorable ones collapse for Prisms instead of merely gold.” Gestarin grinned inwardly at the man’s spluttering. Junarians were far too easy to anger, which often caused them to reveal their true intentions.

“The king speaks the truth, Lord Jikosa.” The Emperor said, a smile touching his lips. “Do you have any knowledge of this scheme in that puffed up head of yours?”

Jikosa scoffed. “Of course not. I wouldn’t waste my time on western mongrels.”

“Take care, my lord.” Gestarin grinned. “I’d invite you ask General Zijiiku what my servant did to a band of marauders outside your city. I may just unleash him upon you.”

The Emperor looked sharply at the General, who stepped forward in embarrassment. “What is the meaning of this, Zijiiku?”

“Forgive me, my liege.” Zijiiku said, bowing deeply on one knee. “I did not think it wise to speak before our honored guest.

“Your wisdom is noted, General.” The Emperor inclined his head. “But you may speak now. What occurred outside the walls this day?”

“Well, my liege,” Zijiiku explained. “My honor guard and I were called outside the city at the sighting of a group of travelers being accosted by a gang of marauders, led by one Wilir Girinlin of Glausiania, a known Falconeye and scoundrel. We exited the city and rode quickly to rescue the unfortunate travelers, but by the time we got there, Wilir and his men had already been taken care of.”

“Well done, your majesty.” The Emperor praised, bowing slightly on his silver throne. “Wilir has plagued this fair city for many moons. You have done a service to the Empire by ridding the world of him.”

“I thank you, your eminence, for the praise.” Gestarin said, returning the bow. “But I was not the one who fought him.”

“Your Viceroy, then?” The Emperor said. “Only a Bloodwielder could match himself against another of the same ilk.”

“Actually, no, your eminence.” Gestarin said with a cough. “My servant Efstany fought and killed Wilir.” He shook his head and chuckled. “It was rather remarkable, actually.”

Emperor Kiijal raised an eyebrow and looked at Efstany, who stepped forward sheepishly. “Is this true, Goodman Efstany?”

“It is, my lord.” Efstany said, and he made no acknowledgement of the gasps of indignation from the courtiers.

“You’ll have to forgive him, your eminence.” Gestarin said quickly. “That is the only title of address he seems to be able to use. He was injured in the mind at an early age.”

“There is nothing that needs forgiving, your majesty.” The Emperor said with a wave of the hand and a grin on his face. “It is refreshing to not have my boots licked at the beginning of every sentence.”

“It is indeed, my lord.” Gestarin said with a laugh. The Emperor looked back at Efstany.

“Tell me, Goodman.” He said boldly, sitting back in his throne. “How did a simple servant defeat a renowned outlaw and proficient Bloodwielder in single combat?”

“I am also a Bloodwielder, my lord.” Efstany said, drawing his Wolfsbane in the process. “Though a brain malady keeps me from being able to deal with the pressures and duties incumbent on a nobleman. So, I became a simple servant.”

“And the Diradis simply leave you be?” The Emperor said in surprise. “I didn’t think that the Harvester’s would be quite so generous with Bloodblades. In fact,” He glanced furtively over at the courtiers, continuing in a whisper. “I have never though that they had anything close to resembling compassion.”

“The Harvester who oversaw the bestowing of my Blade took pity on me, my lord.” Efstany said. “He said that, as long as I kept my nose down and used it only in the direst circumstances, I was permitted to keep it.” The lie rolled easily off of his lips.

“Intriguing.” The Emperor said, stroking his chin once more. He waved a finger at Zijiiku, who climbed the steps to the throne quickly. The Emperor began whispering to the general, pointing once at Efstany and then once to deeper rooms of the palace.

Vixin glanced around to make sure no one was watching before drawing his Blade the small amount needed to gain enhanced hearing. Ignoring the whispers and twitterings of the nobility, he focused on the sounds coming out of the Emperor’s mouth. He only heard one phrase for certain.

Make sure to remove his shirt.

“Well, your majesty,” The Emperor proclaimed, waving the general away. “I regret to inform you that we will need to see the Goodman’s skill with the Blade before we can acknowledge him as Wilir’s killer and grant him the subsequent reward. Perhaps a demonstration is in order?” He looked at Gestarin intently.

“Don’t accept.” Vixin hissed, more to himself than the king. Indeed, Gestarin did not hear him.

“As long as my servant gives his consent.” Gestarin nodded, looking at Efstany, who nodded back.

“I consent.” Efstany said simply. “Who shall I spar against?”

“General Zijiiku should be enough of a challenge for you.” The Emperor said, and the golden armored man stepped forward, about three feet away from Efstany. “Besides, a duel between two Wolfsbane shall be entertaining indeed.” He clapped his hands. “Begin!”

* * *

Efstany was apprehensive of the duel, and he showed it by refusing to move as Zijiiku drew his Blade and a Wolfsbane formed in his hand. Efstany refused to move even when Zijiiku began to advance toward him.

“What is wrong, Goodman?” Zijiiku sneered, falling into the Way of the Fox. “I refuse to believe you are scared, not after your bout today.”

“I am no coward.” Efstany said simply, not allowing himself to be goaded into a mistake.

“Then why do you shy away from my Blade?” Zijiiku asked in mock astonishment. “Surely no Bloodwielder would run from a fight.”

“Running was not my intention, my lord.” Efstany countered. “Waiting for the right moment to strike, for the correct time when you are most vulnerable, is my endeavor.”

“I fear you will find no such moment.” Zijiiku said with a sigh. “You are no match for me.”

Efstany smiled. “Then why are you wasting words?” Zijiiku growled, but he pounced, whipping his Blade toward Efstany’s shoulder. Efstany parried easily, offering no counterattack. He was somewhat glad that Zijiiku had not actually witnessed his fight with Wilir; if he had, he might have gained knowledge about Efstany’s preferred fighting style. As it was, Zijiiku was completely in the dark.

As they traded blows at a quick pulse, Efstany’s heart racing to match the beat their swords created, he began to realize that he actually had felt things lately. Before, whenever he had exited the Void, there had been some sort of detachment, some sort of block between his heart and mind. No feelings had come from any of his deeds, not even when he Harvested. Now, he was able to feel. And that was perhaps the most terrifying part of being alive.

In his contemplation, Efstany was still able to parry any attack that Zijiiku was able to put upon him, but he failed to observe Zijiiku’s actual endgame. Even as the General’s attacks were stopped at every turn, his sword was carving small holes and gashes in the cloth of Efstany’s white shirt. The sleeves were even about to fall off.

What is he trying to do? Efstany thought, confused as to why the General was not implementing more advanced tactics. The man’s careful placement of his blows was evidence of his formidable skill, but the attacks he had tried to so far were childsplay to what he could be performing. Efstany contemplated turning the full brunt of his swordsmanship upon Zijiiku just to put him out of his misery.

At that very moment, as Efstany parried another simple blow from Zijiiku, the General’s sword flashed to his left armpit, biting into the cloth of his sleeve and ripping it clean away. Efstany paled as he realized that his shoulder, and the spike embedded in it, were visible to everyone in the room. Just as quickly, however, Zijiiku stepped between Efstany and his king, adroitly blocking the view of his second Bloodblade from the assembly.

“My apologies, Goodman.” Zijiiku said loudly, pulling of his cloak and wrapping it around Efstany’s shoulders, but not before the Emperor had studied Efstany’s arm and had found the hilt. His eyebrows shot up in surprise for a brief moment, and a smile played upon his lips.

“That was incredible!” The Emperor proclaimed with a bellowing laugh. “I have no doubt in you, Goodman Efstany. Your skill was very great, and if you will linger here for a moment, we will bring you a reward for your dispatch of the bandits.” Efstany nodded and bowed, sheathing his Blade. Sweat dripped down his face; not from exertion, but from fear. If Gestarin had seen his extra Bloodblades, he might have very well realized what kind of being Efstany was. And when Gestarin tried to have him killed for being a demon, Efstany would have to return to the Void.

“My servants will show you to your rooms.” Kiijal said, beckoning a few servants forward. They scurried like anxious mice, awaiting their monarch’s every beck and call. “You are free to roam through the palace and the Inner Shells, though I must warn you- there are a few things that would be best for you to avoid.”

“We thank you for your hospitality, your eminence.” Gestarin said slowly. “But what of the matter of the assassination attempt? What shall be done about that?”

“One of the lords will assist you in your investigation.” The Emperor said, looking over at the nobility. All of them cowered before his gaze, a few seeming even to be on the verge of groveling on their knees. “Which lord would you like as your deputy, your majesty? You may have the pick of the litter.”

Gestarin looked over the nobility, eyes passing over every arrogant, pompous dog that glared back at him. One set of eyes, however, burned with a fiery passion that Gestarin rarely saw in a nobleman. And he knew exactly who he wanted as his inquisitor.

“Pardon me, your eminence.” Gestarin said, pointing at the one he desired. “I would like to request Lord Jikosa as my deputy.” The Emperor grinned even as Lord Jikosa shouted in indignation.

“An excellent choice, your majesty.” The Emperor laughed. “But I wonder whether you have you have the stomach or the patience to deal with him.”

“Oh, I believe I do, your eminence.” Gestarin grinned wickedly, looking over at the spluttering lord. “You see, I know that he will work as hard as he can to prove that he himself did not hire the assassins. A man trying to prove his own name will work twice as hard as a man compelled against his will and desires.”

“There is wisdom in that.” The Emperor nodded, and he waved Lord Jikosa to the dais. Jikosa complied reluctantly, a scowl perpetually marring his face. “You shall assist King Gestarin in every order, understand? You have acted like a child and disgraced this court, and, until you have proven otherwise, I shall treat you as such. Do you comprehend?” Jikosa nodded curtly, anger burning in his eyes. “Good. Take the King and Viceroy Vixin to their rooms. Follow their orders and indulge their whims.” Jikosa bowed stiffly and began walking towards a side door without waiting for Gestarin and Vixin. They followed him briskly after bowing to the Emperor. Efstany turned to follow, Zijiiku’s cloak still wrapped around him.

“Just a moment, Goodman.” The Emperor said, beckoning Efstany back. Efstany turned, apprehensive at the reason he was being withheld.

“What is it, my lord?” He asked quietly, a shiver running through his body. Had the temperature actually dropped, or was he just imagining it?

“Is there anything you would like to tell us about yourself, Goodman Efstany?” The Emperor said. “Anything you wish to divulge?”

“I… I don’t believe so, my lord.” Efstany stuttered. Sweat beaded on his brow, a symptom of the extreme anxiety he was feeling for the first time.

“What a shame.” The Emperor sighed. “If you had told us of your own free will, you might have been allowed to be free.” He snapped his fingers. General Zijiiku leapt forward from his stance a few feet away and ripped the cloak off of Efstany’s shoulders and the shirt underneath. Cold air pressed against Efstany’s bare chest, revealing the four spikes on his arm and the large white one in the center of his chest, directly over his heart. Gasps went up from the servants and the guards, but, blessedly, the nobility had left before Efstany’s identity had been revealed.

“I do not believe that we are allowed to harbor a Flen in the imperial palace.” The Emperor clicked his tongue and shook his head. “I suppose you will have to be held in the dungeon until a Harvester can be called to take care of you.” He gestured with hands toward Efstany. “Guards, seize this abomination.”

It was a testament to Efstany’s character that, instead of running and escaping, he allowed himself to be dragged away.