The Empress of Xytae Page 10

  “You think you deserve your worship legalized just for keeping a handful of people alive?” Ioanna asked incredulously.

  “You don’t? It’s more than your nobles are doing. You’re far less sanctimonious than I would have expected, so I’m sure you can see my side of things.”

  “You are caring for them simply to increase your own power, not out of kindness.”

  “That is why all gods care for mortals, I am terribly sorry to inform you,” said Acydon. “That includes the Ten.”

  “You may believe that, but I don’t,” said Ioanna.

  Acydon shrugged. Clearly, he didn’t care what Ioanna believed. “You should be moving on. It’s not just priestesses she has after you.” He raised his flute to his mouth once more and began to play a lazy, meandering tune. Ioanna stared at him, her fists clenching, and Vitaliya nearly expected to see golden light gathering at her hands. The way it ought to be.

  For chaos gods could not be allowed to run around free! Everyone knew that! In Vesolda, they had paladins from the Order of the Sun to keep them under control, and even ordinary priests of Iolar knew how to bind and banish them.

  And how could they be sure Acydon was who he claimed to be? Ioanna was intelligent, so why was she taking his word so easily? He might be anyone. There was no compulsion for him to divulge his true name or domain. And they had no proof he was responsible for this town’s survival. For all they knew, he could be planning to destroy it the moment they left!

  But Ioanna turned around and began to walk back the way they’d come. She really was just going to leave! Unless this was a trick to lull Acydon into a false sense of safety before she struck? But Ioanna was straightforward like a paladin. If she was going to attack, she wouldn’t waste time trying to be secretive or clever. She’d just do it.

  Vitaliya paused to look at Acydon again. There really was nothing to prove he wasn’t an ordinary man, and if not for the fact he’d identified Ioanna so easily, she still would not believe it. Their interaction had been strange and surreal, but not nearly as terrifying as stories had led her to expect.

  “Was that a good idea?” Vitaliya asked Ioanna as soon as they were out of earshot. “Letting him go, I mean.”

  “What choice did I have?”

  “Well—” Vitaliya floundered, not wanting to outright accuse Ioanna of being foolish, but also not wanting to leave the town in the hands of an evil god. “—maybe we should verify his story? Before we go?”

  “He was telling the truth,” said Ioanna flatly.

  “But we don’t have proof.”

  Ioanna did not reply as she continued to push her way through the trees.

  “Should we tell Otho about this?” Vitaliya worried.

  “No,” said Ioanna. “He doesn’t need to know.”

  “What about me? Do I need to know?”

  “What?” Ioanna finally stopped walking and turned to look Vitaliya in the face. “What do you—”

  “He kept saying I didn’t know something. That I didn’t know why we’re out here.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “How am I meant to not worry about that!? If we’re not going to Oredia, if there’s something else—some other plan you don’t trust me with—” Vitaliya’s voice broke.

  “No!” cried Ioanna in alarm. “No, nothing like that. I promise! We’re going to Oredia, we’re going to see my grandmother, and you can do whatever you like once we arrive. Everything else is just…my own problems. You shouldn’t have to worry about them. That’s all.”

  “Of course, I’m worried! Especially after all—all that!” She gestured broadly at the woods behind them.

  “It’s difficult to explain. If nothing else, it will take a long time. And we should leave immediately. The sooner we get to Oredia, the better.”

  Perhaps Vitaliya shouldn’t have been surprised, but she was. Did Ioanna really think Vitaliya might betray her? Even after they’d fled Xyuluthe together? After Netheia had threatened to kill Vitaliya and invade Vesolda? The realization hurt. If she hadn’t proved herself by now, what more could Vitaliya do?

  Maybe it had been her imagination all along, but she’d really thought maybe Ioanna was beginning to trust her.

  Obviously she’d been mistaken.

  Chapter Seven

  IOANNA

  Oredia was a peaceful community, a medium-sized town surrounded by farmlands located in the shadow of Irianthe’s estate. Though certainly not the glamorous setting most members of the court would expect a former empress to gravitate to, Ioanna understood why her grandmother had selected it to be her primary home.

  Some people thought Grandmother Irianthe foolish for giving up her crown so quickly. But Ioanna knew her grandmother was exactly where she wanted to be and doing exactly what she wanted to be doing. How many people could say the same?

  Oredia was home to a Temple of Inthi, and Grandmother Irianthe was known to support the artisans and inventors there. A Temple of Ethi, neutroi God of Knowledge, had also been built within walking distance of her home specifically at her request, so Ioanna never went without reading materials when she visited.

  Grandmother Irianthe almost never came to Xyuluthe anymore, though she expected visits from her granddaughters at least twice a year. She hated court life and spoke candidly about the myriad ways her life had improved since passing the crown on to her son.

  Grandmother Irianthe had no spouse, no consort, and no lovers. Ioanna understood it was certainly possible for someone to have no desire for such things though not very common. But she’d still managed to have a child. Ioanna’s father had no father of his own legally, and so Ioanna had no paternal grandfather. Nobody had ever come forward claiming to be Ionnes’s father, and on the family tree a single line was drawn from Irianthe to Ionnes as though she had been his sole progenitor. Perhaps this was odd, but Ioanna felt no compulsion to pry further into the matter.

  “I hope she’s home,” commented Vitaliya as they made their way up the road to Grandmother Irianthe’s estate. They’d arrived just as the sun was setting, and Ioanna had been afraid they might not arrive before dark. “I mean, I hope she hasn’t gone to Xyuluthe. And maybe we passed her without realizing.”

  Ioanna wondered if the news of her father’s death had reached her grandmother yet. Had her mother sent a courier? In that case, did her grandmother also know Ioanna had been forced to flee the capital?

  She supposed she’d find out soon enough.

  They reached the gate surrounding Grandmother Irianthe’s estate. As always, it was guarded, and Ioanna knew she did not come to Oredia often enough to expect the men stationed there to recognize her, especially dressed as she was and accompanied by a common priest.

  “I’m here to see my grandmother,” she announced in the most level voice she could manage. Before either of the guards could retort with something incredulous, she added, “She isn’t expecting me. Please tell her Ioanna of Xytae is here, and Emperor Ionnes is dead.”

  That cut off any arguments the guards might have offered. One of them left in the direction of the manor house immediately while the other remained behind.

  Ioanna thought the guard might return with the groundskeeper, or another servant who would be familiar enough with Ioanna to identify an outright fraud. But when he returned, he was still alone.

  “The empress mother wishes to see you immediately,” he said. “She insists you come now without delay.”

  Otho volunteered to go and find lodging in town, but Ioanna insisted he remain for his own safety. It was unlikely he was in any real danger, but he had gone to a great deal of trouble to see them to Oredia, and she would never forgive herself if something happened to him. If nothing else, he deserved a hot meal and a reward for his efforts.

  Otho’s humble wagon and donkey were absurdly out of place as they ascended the gradual incline of the road toward Grandmother Irianthe’s home. Unlike the Imperial Palace, her grandmother’s estate was pristine, and even the stones lining the
path appeared to have been scrubbed. They passed tall healthy green hedges so neatly trimmed they might have been freshly cut that very morning as well as carefully arranged gardens that had not yet started to bloom.

  Hostlers approached as they came to the front of the estate, taking the wagon from Otho and guiding it out of sight. Ioanna looked up at the front of her grandmother’s villa. It was an enormous home, as those in the countryside tended to be, with a large walled courtyard in the front that one had to pass through in order to reach the residential area.

  They were less than midway through the courtyard when Ioanna caught sight of a figure moving toward them purposefully.

  Grandmother Irianthe wore a simple white dress decorated with a wide gold collar and matching belt. Her face was exceptionally youthful, given her age, with only a few lines creasing through her skin, though her hair was finally beginning to turn silver. She had no attendants with her, and she did not smile or offer any kind of greeting as she approached.

  “Ioanna,” said Grandmother Irianthe, sounding more tired than surprised. “So, it is true.”

  “Father is dead,” Ioanna began. “We—”

  But before she could say anything more, Grandmother Irianthe reached forward and took Ioanna by the arm. “Come with me. There are things I must tell you.”

  “But—” Ioanna began, turning back toward Vitaliya and Otho.

  “They can manage without you for an hour or two, can’t they?” asked Grandmother Irianthe. Then without waiting for a reply, she said, “We must talk. Now.”

  “But—”

  “Not here.”

  Ioanna gave apologetic looks to Vitaliya and Otho, and they both shrugged helplessly in reply. Her grandmother pulled her away, and Ioanna allowed herself to be dragged further into the garden and toward the house. Once inside, Grandmother Irianthe steered her unceremoniously through the beautiful entrance hall and off to a side room, one Ioanna and her sisters had not been allowed to set foot in when they were children. Grandmother Irianthe pulled the door shut behind them.

  “Sit down,” she commanded, and Ioanna did, sinking cautiously into an upholstered bench. “Tell me what happened. From the beginning.”

  Ioanna had thought Grandmother Irianthe had wanted to tell her something, but she would not argue. “We received the news from a courier a few days ago. The letter said Father was killed in a duel with one of the Masimi commanders, and I couldn’t sense any lies on it. I think it is probably true.”

  “Almost certainly,” agreed Grandmother Irianthe, nodding somberly. Ioanna wondered if she’d received a courier days ago. “What happened after that?”

  “Netheia told me Father always intended for her to be his heir. She was not lying about that, but I don’t know if it’s true or merely her perception of things. In any case, he never announced it while he was alive. But she still managed to gather enough supporters that I had to flee the capital.”

  “And what about your mother? Who is she supporting?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t seem impressed when Netheia announced she was the rightful heir. But just before I left, Netheia said something that suggested she knew about the coup and did nothing to stop it.” Ioanna sighed. “I suppose it hardly matters what Mother thinks. Even if she did support me, nearly everyone else is on Netheia’s side.”

  Grandmother Irianthe did not react to this. Instead she sat down on a similar bench across from Ioanna. “Who have you been traveling with?”

  “The girl is Princess Vitaliya of Vesolda. She was in the palace, visiting for an excursion, when we received word of Father’s death. She tried to warn me of Netheia’s plan and was forced to flee with me. The man is a priest of Cyne who has disguised us as his acolytes, to keep the priestesses of Reygmadra from bringing us back to Xyuluthe. They’ve been searching for us ever since we fled.”

  “Yes, I am aware,” said Grandmother Irianthe. “I have twice ordered them escorted off my land. I suspect there may be some in Oredia still in disguise. But never mind them. They cannot overrule my orders.”

  “She’ll send soldiers next,” murmured Ioanna, staring down at the intricate mosaic tiles on the floor. “The moment Mother allows it, I just know she will.”

  “You mustn’t hate your sister, Ioanna,” Grandmother Irianthe said. “She’s only a little piece in a much larger game, being pushed about by a hand with very sharp fingernails.”

  Ioanna looked up. “What do you mean?”

  Grandmother Irianthe glanced back toward the door again, verifying she had remembered to close it behind her. Then she said in a considerably quieter voice, “In my experience, the worst thing about being empress was not the loud parties, the dreadful, tedious people, the poisonings, or the stabbings. It was the shouting.” Grandmother Irianthe touched two fingers to her forehead. “Imagine, if you will, a woman following you about all day long, yelling terrible advice in your ear. Kill him. Kill her. Invade Ibaia. Invade Ieflaria. Invade Masim. Raise taxes. Raise an army. Fight. Kill. Fight.”

  Ioanna shook her head incredulously. “Reygmadra spoke to you?”

  “At first,” said Grandmother Irianthe. “Before she realized I wouldn’t give her what she wanted, and then the speaking turned into screaming. At night when I dreamed, it was always of the battlefield. Of victories, of winning effortlessly, and people gathering around and praising me. I knew she meant for me to feel glorious and triumphant, but I couldn’t forget the sight of the mutilated soldiers. The visions were so vivid I made my guards take turns watching over me as I slept and ordered them to wake me if I became distressed.”

  “You think they were visions?” asked Ioanna.

  “I know they were,” Grandmother Irianthe said. “And I hardly needed to call upon a priestess to interpret them. I don’t deny I didn’t care to be empress in any case, but they made the decision to abdicate easier than it might have been otherwise.”

  Did Netheia have those visions too? She’d never mentioned them—but then, of course, why would she speak of such things to Ioanna? Ioanna wondered if Netheia would find them disturbing or think them as thrilling and glorious as Reygmadra intended them to be.

  Was Reygmadra already leaning over Netheia’s shoulder, invisible, murmuring that she ought to kill Ioanna? Convincing her it was for the best because it was the only way to ensure stability, and Enessa would forgive her sooner or later?

  “After you abdicated, the shouting and dreams, they stopped?” asked Ioanna.

  “Better yet. The day I left Xyuluthe was the day I lost my blessing.”

  Ioanna’s mouth fell open, and she gaped like a hooked fish.

  “I’ve never told anyone before this moment,” said Grandmother Irianthe. “Though I do frequently wonder if anyone has guessed. I suppose it hardly matters now at my age. Nobody is calling upon me to duel.”

  “She truly was angry with you then,” marveled Ioanna.

  “Like a little girl throwing a tantrum because she’s lost a favorite toy.” Grandmother Irianthe smiled fondly, her eyes pale and distant. “At the time, though, it was a rather devastating thing. You can probably imagine.”

  Ioanna nodded. For a blessing to be rescinded was rare and deeply shameful. Stories that described such an event usually featured an act of great evil as the catalyst. The loss of a blessing was a sign to the audience that the subject had moved beyond the possibility for redemption.

  “She got what she wanted in the end, of course. Your father was perfect for her. I doubt she ever had to shout in his ear or send him visions. Netheia will be just the same if she takes the throne.”

  “I don’t see the sense in it,” said Ioanna. “Why should Xytae be at war with Masim, or anywhere else for that matter? None of those lands have done anything to trouble us, and there’s hardly any advantage to us taking them. The priestesses speak of valor and glory, but I mean practical things—our people cannot eat glory. Besides, the Masimi are honorable people even if their interpretation of the Ten is a little different from
ours. It is not as though they venerate chaos gods or send monsters against us, so I do not believe there is any glory in their defeat.”

  “What makes you so certain there must be sense in it?” asked Grandmother Irianthe. “She is the goddess of war, so she seeks war.”

  “War for war’s sake?” Ioanna questioned.

  “Can you blame her? It’s only her nature.”

  “And when we’ve warred ourselves into extinction, and all her worshippers are dead on a battlefield? What does she intend to do then?”

  “I do not know. Perhaps you ought to ask her if you believe you can reason her out of her own domain.”

  Maybe I could, thought Ioanna. But then she thought of Netheia. Of how even the most well-reasoned arguments consistently failed to touch her heart or her mind. Of how she would resort to rage and violence whenever she knew she could not win through logic. Perhaps Reygmadra was like that too. Perhaps Reygmadra was a thousand times worse.

  “Animals cannot help their natures,” said Ioanna. “But a goddess? It seems so wrong someone so powerful is no different than a mindless beast. Besides, doesn’t our ability to reason come from the gods? How could they bestow something that they themselves do not possess?”

  Grandmother Irianthe did not appear to find this as compelling as Ioanna did. “Do not trouble yourselves with the nature of the gods,” she advised. “Your work is here.”

  “You do not wish for me to become empress. I know that is true.”

  “It was once,” agreed Grandmother Irianthe. “I will not deny it—when you were young, your blessing was a great shock to us all. And I did not believe one with Iolar’s light would be able to lead Xytae in the way her people were accustomed. But that was many years ago. Now I see what has become of our nation, and I realize you could hardly be worse than the rest of us.”

  “Do you believe I ought to be empress, then?”

  “I don’t believe anyone deserves such a terrible fate,” said Grandmother Irianthe. “Let alone a girl so soft as you. I’d hate to see you turned harsh and bitter. Nor do I wish to facilitate a war between you and your sister. But it is clear to me that Netheia will only continue along the path your father laid down, and it will lead to our ruin.”