Over the next quarter century, Coltair dedicated himself near exclusively to the voices in the crypts. Upon his father’s death, he’d announced his connection, that he was a ‘Chosen Son’ of the ancestors and that he would lead them in the ways of an eternal dawn. It was his task and his destiny and Rogun would rise superior in the world, an empire stretching the globe and providing every need or desire. This he guaranteed, so long as he was on the throne.

Zephen, shocked as much as anyone at the claim initially, to hear for the first time what his brother had been doing in the basement all those years when they were young, could no further understand his brother's madness than hear the voices himself; there was still the possibility that Coltair was simply insane. Zephen had not a friend in the world if he accepted his brother’s dogma. Besides a dangerous place to be politically, it frightened him to death. He had no choice but to turn toward his duties as advisor, dedicating himself to the well-being of their country. All the while, he would cover for Coltair in his long absences, essentially leaving his brother to his bizarre fantasy.

But the emperor performed his basic duties, for the most part, and had two sons and two daughters already. Coltair, he’d finally realized, had very carefully strategized to meet all the basic requirements of the throne by the time their father’s rule ended. All along, his early adherence to the throne’s traditions was for appeasement of the court. Still, since ascending, Zephen could only watch as almost nothing Coltair embraced he or the court could understand, though someone believed enough to spare them the assassin's blade.

Now, after twenty-five years of dedication to these ‘ancestors,’ from which no one had seen evidence of progress at all, the emperor’s brother and advisor were exhausted by competing with whatever ruled Coltair’s ambitions in the crypts. The first ten years, Zephen had begged and cajoled him in the late hours and, after several days of absences, to rise and seek his bed, food and a bath. To renew himself and to satisfy appearances.

But still the void between them widened every year. Coltair continued to glean plans and make decisions in the underground vaults, rather than his council chambers among his high council. Pressure mounted on Zephen to at least join his brother there, go to him to keep an eye and understand his practice, but he hated the crypts. They were damp and darker than any nightmare. To make matters worse, a dark faction of fanatics arrived a few years into his reign.

They’d called themselves the Black Tower, in reference to the beautiful white that graced the Rogun skyline, but they were opposite in colour to denote the emperor’s ideology. Big guards dressed in black began to appear at the entrance to the crypts, big enough to intimidate the royal advisor and any staff he sent to aid his reclusive brother. Coltair not only allowed this but revealed he had ordered the regiment's creation himself. Its mandate was to guard the crypt so the emperor could continue without fear for his personal security. Zephen heard it loud and clear; although the palace already had a private security force, these men, chosen and likely rewarded for their extreme and exclusive loyalty, would stand between Coltair and anyone wishing to reveal the depths of his brother's madness. Gruff, deadly guards now attended him around the clock so he could continue his ranting and raving in total seclusion.

A once brilliant prospect, Zephen had known his brother would be a great emperor. He was serious and dedicated and what he’d lacked in compassion and warmth, he’d made up for in wit and determination to see all that was Rogun and her interests prevail.

Now in despair, barely a quarter-century into a tumultuous reign, Zephen gave up seeking his brother’s wellness. Lower and lower, the emperor descended to his personal campaign and Zephen could only secretly hope the end would mercifully find him sooner than they planned.

---

Coltair turned from the crypts at the top of the stairs. He took the first flight and landed fast and impatient on the next landing. A boy of about ten, pox-scarred and filthy, halted short and prevented—just barely—the bucket he’d been handling from splashing all over him.

“Watch it, boy!!” Coltair barked angrily.

“Apologies, Sir!” the boy replied and moved back with the disgusting bucket that he now saw was human waste.

“Bah!” he hollered at him and ran fast up the stairs and away from the horrible stench.

A listener. A woman that was like-minded, bearing a gift…

Coltair was so angry at their cryptic response, it was repeated daily for over two decades and nothing had come of it! Two decades he’d followed their rules and instructions, but so far it had gotten him nowhere!

He huffed and pulled his loose robes tight in frustration. Everything he’d ever done was for the satisfaction of the faceless voices that infested his brain and convinced him his path was righteous and ordained. First, it was to do as his father said: marry and produce children. Unhappily, he’d obliged but only because that was tradition and expected of any emperor worthy of taking the throne. If he’d been unsuccessful, Candice would have been discarded. But if again he had proved unfruitful with a second wife, he would have been set aside instead. Zephen would have then been put to the test and Coltair already knew his brother was more than fertile; he had three bastards in the wings of the courts already. A secure line of succession was paramount for an emperor. It didn’t work without heirs.

Frowning, Coltair arrived at the top of the stairs, noticed no one around and proceeded with relief back inside the main palace complex. Inevitably, his obsessive thoughts returned.

Fine. Where was he to find this gift that he hadn’t checked a thousand times before? A listener with a gift. West. West of where, the island?

He stopped and turned in the direction described. Due west of his current position, near the very centre of the palace, lay the docks, the open ocean.

The port.

Turning fast, he hurried back to his fifth-floor office.

“I am at your command, My Esteemed Emperor,” the chief commander said and bowed low when he arrived in front of his desk.

“Chief Commander, I am looking for someone near the docks who may be out of the ordinary. I hear they bear a gift for me, one I have been waiting on for some time, but that person seems to have gotten lost. I would like your help to ensure she is found.”

“But, of course, Sire,” the man agreed and bowed again. He was sweating profusely and had trouble bowing over his extended belly. His uniform fit well, which only indicated to Coltair that his salary—and whatever side-hustle he had—was abundant enough to support his lifestyle and his excess. “Do you have a description of this friend?” he asked.

“No, she is west of the palace and… unique,” Coltair replied. “Bring them all to me, whatever you find. To the dungeons and I’ll meet them there.”

“Yes, My Emperor,” the man answered immediately, looking as though he might faint. Bowing, he left in a fast waddle.

Three days later, Coltair was summoned to the depths of the dungeons and found himself on the landing once more. The boy wasn’t there, but a dozen palace guards were. Each one gleamed in the perfection of their white and red uniforms and looked utterly out of place in the dark, damp, dingy cellblock.

“Here, My Emperor!” the chief commander called out cheerily from the end of the row.

Coltair moved slowly, his hands behind his back, inspecting as he walked. At the end, he paused and waited. Inside the cell were ten women of varying status and maturity. An older woman sobbed in the corner, her dress torn and her face and hands dirty and two younger ones clasped each other in terror near the door. They were more finely dressed and stared at the ground with an air of the lower noble class that knew a bit about rank etiquette. The rest mingled around, mumbling.

Coltair smiled. Finally.

“Which shall we interview first, Chief Commander?” he asked the bulbous man.

Clearly unprepared to make the call, the man frowned and looked back to the shuffling group behind bars. “Um, well, Sire, you were looking for something unique,” he began. “These were assembled because they were seen or were reported to have been seen doing something irregular.”

Coltair nodded, his eyes glued to the shifting women. “Go on,” he replied.

“Well, the old woman in the back, she was talking to animals,” he began, “full on conversations, now, a cat and a crow near the brothels.” Coltair frowned but indicated he should continue. “The two in front were reading the leaves, Sire, a doubtful practice, of course, and illegal to charge,” he added with a heavy layer of contempt in his voice. The girls whimpered and buried themselves deeper in each other’s arms.

Again, Coltair frowned and now shook his head. While some didn’t like that the images gleaned from the bottom of the teacup sometimes touched close to the truth, it was a parlour game he himself had been taught as a child.

“The one in red has been throwing curses at patrolmen for two nights straight and the one in blue swears the sea monster is going to strike the next full moon.”

Coltair finally turned and looked at him. The chief commander stepped back.

“That one talks to ghosts,” a small voice volunteered from behind the closest palace guard. Coltair turned sharply to try and see the orator. Squinting, he bent to see it was the bucket boy from the previous day. He curled his finger for the boy to come out.

Warily, the boy did but stayed well close to the wall.

“How do you know this?” Coltair asked him evenly. The boy, the same who would have more than likely faced execution had he not been quick with the buckets when Coltair had startled him on the stairs, shrugged.

Coltair took in his tattered clothes, no shoes and black feet. His face was scarred from what looked like old pox and was smudged nearly the same colour as his soles. He looked gaunt and malnourished.

“I beg for food at the dockside pubs, Sire,” he told him and wiped a sleeve across his running nose. “I seen her there. Talking to the spirits, I heard her. Said she was here as they said she should come. Said she was scared and didn’t want to die. Saw her get here a week ago, got a babe in her arms.”

Coltair’s left eyebrow rose slowly but very high.

“A child, you say?” he intoned curiously. With his hands still behind his back, he turned to view the caged inhabitants again. “Point her to me, boy,” he said.

Instantly, the boy was beside him; his skinny, very dirty hand squeezed through the bars as far as his body would allow. His index finger stretched toward a very short woman in a green robe.

“Her,” he said with confidence, making a small grunt at his effort to push himself against the iron. “Green Lady.”

Coltair grinned.

“Very well,” he said and turned back to the chief commander. “Have this woman delivered—with her child—to my office suite within the hour.”

He turned to leave but stopped to notice the boy staring at him now, wide-eyed and needy.

“And give this boy a gold piece, new clothes and a bath. I want to see him tomorrow, at my office as well,” he added and turned smartly to leave. “He is in your charge from now on, Chief Commander.”