Chapter Four

Imperium Primus, Palace of the Emperor

The storm clouds hung heavy and brooding over Palatine City, capital of the planet Imperium Primus, itself the heart of an Empire that encompassed a thousand worlds and had at its height ruled over all of humanity. The great city seemed to be in a bustle under the shadow of the clouds, as if people were hurrying to see their business completed before the rain began. Every so often, lightning flickered faintly in the gloom in presage of the downpour to come.

Publius Vedrans Quarinis watched the gathering clouds from a window high in the tallest tower of the Emperor’s palace. The room itself was small, comfortable, tastefully decorated; a room for receiving personal guests rather than for conducting official business – though in truth, much unofficial business was indeed conducted here. Its window overlooked the sweeping towers and plazas of the city below; Quarinis’s gaze passed the Grand Arena dark now for no games were being played today, and the spires of the Church’s great Basilica before lighting on the man who stood with him, the room’s only other occupant.

Verus Licinius, rightful Emperor of Humankind, master of Imperium Primus and the thousand worlds beyond, was a tall man, broad shouldered and athletic. He stood watching the city below him with his hands clasped behind his back, clad in flowing violet robes that were more comfortable and less formal than his robes of state, but still left little doubt of his station. He was facing away from Quarinis, and so the one-time ambassador to the Dozen Stars could see only the back of his short, neat hair – mostly black, but with a bit of grey creeping in at the temples.

Licinius looked to be a well-preserved man in his fifties, but Quarinis knew he was older than that. How much older was the subject of much gossip in the Imperial court; the truth of the matter was one of many secrets regarding his sovereign which Quarinis was just as happy not to know.

“Is it done?” Licinius asked without turning.

“It is done, my lord,” Quarinis replied, saluting with a fist over his heart. “The ultimatum was presented and, as you predicted, rejected.” He paused, steeling himself. “I admit, I am curious as to why you requested that I frame your demands as I did. We both knew that the girl Queen would reject them. The people of the Dozen Stars are fractious, yes, but they are stubborn and proud, and have no love for us, or for your throne.”

“Too long has the Dozen Stars stood against us,” the Emperor mused, half to himself. “The very existence of their nation is an insult against the Empire’s rightful rule of humanity. There are others, of course, which have defied us, but it was they – and their allies in Realtran – who were the first. If I am to rebuild the Empire to its heights of glory, then the Dozen Stars must be brought to heel. And now we have our excuse. Our generous hand was extended, and it was slapped away. Now, we shall have war.”

“Of course, sire,” Quarinis said, nodding. In truth, this talk of the inevitability of war disturbed him, but he was not a senator or consul – creating policy was not his role. His purpose was merely to carry it out.

“And, of course, there are other matters,” Licinius continued as if Quarinis hadn’t spoken. “Matters of which you know, don’t you? Even if the Dozen Stars had acceded to us, Artakane would have needed to die, and her throne would have been abolished. You know why, my servant.”

“I do, my lord.” Though it was hardly a secret that the Emperor maintained a small cabal of Adepts loyal to the Imperial throne, Quarinis was one of the few who knew that Licinius was an Adept himself – an immensely powerful one. And he was one of even fewer who knew that the Emperor sometimes dreamed of the future, and that those dreams had convinced him that the Queen of the Dozen Stars would one day be his doom. This was the true reason for the Empire’s concentrated campaign to undermine the Dozen Stars and slay its monarchs; it wasn’t about regaining the Empire’s rightful primacy or avenging ancient wrongs, whatever Licinius said. It was about removing a threat to the power and life of the most powerful man in the known universe.

Slowly, now, the Emperor turned to face Quarinis. His face was hard, handsome, regal, and he appeared to be a man about two decades younger than the ambassador himself – at least, until one saw his eyes. Those eyes were ancient, and the weight of them seemed to bear down mountainously on anyone upon whom their gaze fell. They seemed to see into the soul; though perhaps there were reasons for that beyond the supernatural. Verus Licinius had been a pontifex of the Imperial Cult before the coup that overthrew his predecessor, the corrupt and incompetent Tibarus Graccus, had swept him to the throne, and he still had something of the priest in his manner.

That had been more than forty years ago, and Licinius had already looked like a man in his fifties then. Since taking the throne, in all the years that Quarinis had known him, he hadn’t seemed to age a day. Quarinis didn’t normally believe in the pontifexes’ declarations that there was some divine will which watched over humanity and was embodied in all the emperors in turn, but when he spent enough time in Licinius’s company, it was almost enough to make him have faith in the existence of the Imperial Spirit.

Almost.

“Events are moving now,” Licinius mused, half to himself. “And destiny is in play. You did not manage to overthrow the Dozen Stars with your engineered civil war, my servant, but while that would have been useful, it is not necessary. You bought us time enough to crush the Alaelam threat and bring a swift end to the Third Alaelam War, and that is what matters. Now, we have a chance to bring all our power to bear upon the Dozen Stars. Artakane must die; this is the important thing. Midaia ast Carann as well, if it can be managed. The throne of the Dozen Stars must be crushed, that no queen may ever sit upon it again, and their entire kingdom brought to heel. Once that is done, Realtran will fall, and the minor nations, and at last the Alaelam homeworlds themselves. Once again, all humanity will bow before a singular vision, a singular rule, as should have been done.”

“A magnificent vision, my lord,” Quarinis said carefully.

“Yes,” Licinius said. “But it isn’t assured yet. We must move carefully, and yet decisively, if we are to prevail. I have come too far, sacrificed too much, to allow myself to be stopped now.” Pausing, the Emperor turned back to the window, staring out at the cloudy sky. “Can you feel that, old friend?” he whispered, and Quarinis knew that he was no longer the one being addressed. “Can’t you see the inevitability of what is to come? Will you not now admit that I was right all along?”

He shook his head. “It matters not. You are dismissed, Quarinis. Admiral Decimus waits outside; send him in as you leave. He and I have much to discuss.”

Quarinis bowed and saluted again. “At once, my lord,” he said. “I will await your pleasure.”

He turned to leave the room, and as he reached for the door, he risked one last look back over his shoulder. Licinius stood at the window once again, hands once more clasped behind his back, apparently lost in contemplation.

In the skies above Palatine City, thunder rumbled and the storm finally broke. The heavy rains began.

///

The Imperial Palace had stood for more than a thousand years, a mighty edifice towering above the peoples of the galaxy. It had been rebuilt and renovated many times, accumulating layer upon layer of new construction, but some remnants of the original structure could still be found if one went deep enough. The Palace’s foundations were sunk deep into Imperium Primus’s bedrock, and in their depths were catacombs that had been long forgotten. Forgotten by most, at least. There were still some who remembered and found uses for them.

He who walked through one such corridor now was such a person. He seemed more wraith than man at first glance, for he always went about shrouded in heavy, dark robes, his face concealed beneath an elaborately painted, inhuman mask. Though he had been a fixture at the Imperial court for decades now, few could say that they knew him well, and there were many rumors about just what lay concealed beneath his strange garments. He was not offended by the rumors; in truth, they amused him, and he’d started some of them himself. He was Al’Aymar Alaen, the Prince of Night, once a member of the Conclave of Disciples who ruled the Alaelam Alliance and now an exile in service to a foreign lord until such time as the One saw fit to return him to his rightful place. Alaen had no doubt that would happen, for he was an Adept of rare skill. The cosmos itself bent to his will.

He approached the door at the end of the corridor, where two soldiers of the Imperial Legions stood guard. They saluted in acknowledgment as he approached, for he was expected, and the door swung open to admit him. Alaen did not pay them any mind. They were dayif – non-Adepts – and therefore not worth his time unless they were foolish enough to set themselves against his plans.

A large room waited on the other side, shaped roughly like a dome with walls lined with strange images, meditation-aids from a dozen worlds, including some from the Alliance. Two figures waited him there, a man and a woman, both robed and masked as Alaen himself was. The woman was short and slender, clad in pale blue armor that clung tightly to her body and a cloak of white fur over it; her mask was of a human-like face that seemed carved from ice. The man was taller, taller even than Alaen; the robes that swathed his broad-shouldered frame were of gold, and his mask was of a face within a sunburst. The woman was Al’Thaj Amaru, Rain of Bitter Ice; the man was Gedeb Ashams, Fury of the Sun. Titles, not names; like Alaen himself, they had surrendered their birth names long ago so as to better find harmony with the will of the One. They had been his students in the days when he had still held an exalted rank in the Conclave of Disciples, and they were the only members of his faction to have followed him into exile and still lived.

They were Adepts both, of course. Though not the only members of the Adept cabal which Alaen headed for Verus Licinius, they were the most powerful and, as the only Alaelam, the only ones Alaen trusted completely.

They were both sitting with their legs crossed in meditation as their master entered. No sooner had the door hissed shut behind him than they both stood fluidly and turned to face him before bowing from the waist. “We are honored by your presence, Revered Disciple,” Amaru said in the language of the Alliance. “How may we serve you?”

“The time has come,” Alaen said. “Verus Licinius prepares his forces to make war upon the heretics of the Dozen Stars. We must make ready to accompany them.”

“At last!” Ashams said. “But, if you will pardon the question, my teacher, why the Dozen Stars now? Why not continue to pursue our war against the Alliance, that we might return you to your rightful place at the head of the Conclave?”

“The Emperor has his reasons,” Alaen said. “I trust you are aware of them.” He did not consider himself a servant of Verus Licinius – he was Al’Aymar Alaen, the Prince of Night, and he bowed only before the One – but for now, so long as he remained in exile, the Emperor was the most powerful ally he had. Alaen had never met an Adept as strong as Licinius, a fact which troubled him somewhat, for the Adepts of the Alaelam Alliance were typically more powerful than those of the Empire or the minor kingdoms. He certainly did not believe, as the ridiculous Imperial Cult taught, that merely occupying the Imperial throne made a man or woman the vessel of some nebulous divine power. No, Licinius had other secrets, and Alaen was privy to some of them, though not to all. But for now, he believed that the One had placed him here on this planet for a purpose, and that Verus Licinius was the instrument of that purpose.

For now. Someday, Alaen knew, the One would no longer require the Emperor to carry out their purposes. And on that day, it would be Al’Aymar Alaen, the faithful Disciple, whose star would rise.

“The Emperor has reason to fear the Dozen Stars,” Alaen continued. “Therefore, he seeks their destruction. We will aid him in this endeavor, as we are directed to do. And once we have secured his power against this threat, then he shall aid us in reclaiming Alae from those who have led it so badly astray. Do not forget – the Queen of the Dozen Stars may be young, but she is an Adept, one of us. Therefore, it will be we who shall be called upon to lay her low.”

“An Adept, yes,” Amaru murmured under her breath, “but an Adept who surrounds herself with dayif. She is weak.”

“Do not underestimate her, or her companions,” Alaen warned. “Even dayif can be dangerous. And there are those who support her who are Adepts.” He still remembered his battle not so long ago against the woman Midaia ast Carann, the queen’s half-sister. She had met him blow for blow. That defeat still rankled, not least because it was a dayif – an untried boy, no less – who had ultimately laid him low. No, Alaen would not forget that day – but he was wise enough that neither would he ignore its lesson.

“A lesson you should remember well, my student,” he said, nodding at Amaru. The woman stiffened, and Alaen imagined she was flushing under her mask. She had led an attempt to capture the man who now called himself Shiran, another associate of young Artakane’s, an Adept who, for reasons only he knew, the Emperor demanded must be taken alive. Amaru had four other members of the cabal with her, Shiran had been alone. And still he had escaped and captured her wrist comm in the process. The device had been quickly locked out of the Imperial network once she reported the theft, of course, but it still rankled her. Alaen expected her to do better next time.

“The time is at hand,” Alaen said. “There can be no further errors, no mistakes. We will bring the Dozen Stars to its knees and capture its Queen and bring her before the Emperor. In doing this, we obey the will of the One, and the One shall reward us with victory. In Matari’s name.”

“In Matari’s name,” the younger Adepts chorused, invoking the name of the man who had been the founder and guiding light of the Alliance, he who had attained enlightenment and first taught the truth of the One Who Is All. Matari had died a martyr, executed by the Empire. In time, when he no longer needed his alliance with Verus Licinius, Alaen intended to take revenge for that. But that was a dream that was far off yet.

“Master,” Amaru said, “before we proceed, there is one other… concern. Someone has been attempting to spy on the palace from the psychic plane. We’ve encountered several attempts since Bahrina and have thwarted them, but our intruder is persistent.”

“Midaia ast Carann?” Alaen asked. “She encountered the Emperor not long ago; I believe he plans to deal with her personally. Do not concern yourselves.”

“No, master,” Amaru said, surprising him. “The feel of the attempts is different. It feels… Alaelam. Whoever they are, they have been trained according to the Path, not by some Dozen Stars upstart.”

Alaen frowned beneath his mask, considering. “Intriguing. Perhaps the Conclave is not as badly defeated as they would have the Emperor believe. Keep a watch for this intruder, and alert me at once if they show themselves again. I wish to speak to them personally. Now, then,” he continued, “If there is nothing else, I believe that you have something for me?”

“Yes, master,” Ashams said. “The cabal captured a subject and brought him here earlier today. He awaits your presence.”

“Then let us not keep him waiting long,” Alaen told him and began walking towards the far side of the room, his robes billowing behind him as his students took up their positions by his side. Another door slid open between two of the paintings and the three Adepts walked inside; it sealed itself behind them.

The room in which they found themselves now was smaller than the meditation chamber they had just left and was clearly outfitted as a laboratory. Its walls were lined with computer terminals, but the center of the room was dominated by a table that was raised and tilted at an angle. Two men stood beside it, lower-ranking members of the Adept cabal. They wore robes in imitation of their master, though as they had not converted to the Alaelam Path Alaen forbade them the honor of wearing masks. A third man was bound to the table beside them; his eyes widened in terror as he saw the three Alaelam Adepts approach.

The two cabal members bowed towards their master. “Greetings, my lord,” one of them, Nicasius, said. “We found this man at a hotel here in the city. He has the gift, but not strongly. He did not wish to accept our invitation and tried to resist, but we subdued him.”

Alaen hummed quietly to himself as he bent over the man, studying his face. This man was an Adept, of course, as all subjects who were brought to this room were. Adepts were rare, especially outside the Alliance where few people knew the proper techniques to cultivate the ability, but in an empire of a thousand worlds, most of which had populations in the millions or even billions, a fairly steady supply of them could still be found, if one knew where to look. Those in whom the gift was strongest were recruited into the Adept cabal, granted a life of luxury beyond that of even most patricians in return for their services in any matter which the Emperor might require them.

Those whose skills were too weak to be deemed worthwhile met a different fate, for the Emperor had a use for them as well. Most were simply observed, but otherwise allowed to live out their lives. But periodically, the Emperor had certain needs that had to be met – and when he did, an Adept would be brought here, to the catacombs beneath the palace, and would never be seen again.

Al’Aymar Alaen was one of the few who knew what fate awaited them, for he was responsible for administering it. He had lived long, far beyond the span of an ordinary human life, and had seen and done many terrible things, but this procedure still left him uneasy, sometimes. But he reassured himself with the knowledge that the One called upon the faithful to make sacrifices, and that it would all be worth it in the end.

“Who are you?” the man strapped to the table demanded, looking up at Alaen’s mask with panicked eyes. “What do you want? What’s going on here? I’ve done nothing wrong; I swear! You have to believe me; I’ll testify before a magistrate, I promise!”

Alaen held out his hand and Nicasius placed a syringe in it. “Be calm, my brother,” he whispered in a soothing voice as he pressed the needle into the man’s neck and watched his eyes go glassy and his limbs slack. “Don’t be afraid. It will all be over soon.”