Zephen waited at the entrance to the basement for two hours before his brother emerged. It seemed a bit extreme, especially after the first hour. No one knew to look for Coltair here, so it was unlikely he too would be found. It was a safe place to hide until he emerged in the company of his brother, as his mother had requested.
“Coltair!” he exclaimed and hopped off the high wall to the stairwell entrance.
Clearly startled, his brother’s eyes narrowed when he recognized his younger sibling. Undeterred, Zephen fell into step beside him.
“Why are you here?” Coltair asked, not even looking at him.
Zephen shrugged. “Mother insisted I stay with you,” he replied truthfully.
Coltair exhaled loudly in exasperation. “I am not your governess. Away with you.”
Zephen, used to Coltair’s coldness, frowned but kept pace with him. “She didn’t want you to care and occupy me, brother,” he replied, “but they expect me to provide assistance and support you in your endeavours. You know this. We are the next generation. Together, you and I. Remember the emperor’s words?”
Coltair turned to look at him once, though he did not slow his determined pace. He frowned and looked back ahead.
When he had turned thirteen, a man’s age to his father, the emperor had called the two boys to his presence. In a somewhat formal ceremony, he’d delivered a speech that enshrined both of his sons’ futures. Coltair would inherit the throne as the eldest blood heir. Zephen, the next male in line, would support him as his advisor. Bound forever by their laws, their father had gone on at some length over what he envisioned of his sons' responsibilities, mostly for the court who stood witness and who were expected to continue in their loyalty to his sons, and, therefore, the empire.
“His Imperial Highness expects you to study,” Coltair said and turned sharply around a corner, back toward their apartments. Zephen followed but worked to keep pace. “I can’t do that for you. Earn your place, Zephen. Be busy when our bored mother looks for you. You know her spies find you lounging in the parks and lagoons all day. It irritates her to find you idle. You invite her ire on yourself, brother.”
Zephen frowned. He was schooled at least four hours a day by tutors over a wide variety of subjects. He resented the comment that he was indolent.
Compared to Coltair, however, Zephen realized he had little in common. Whatever was in the basement that fascinated his brother, he dedicated himself to every waking hour.
“You will come out for your wedding at least?” Zephen ribbed him.
Instead of a smile, Coltair bent his shoulders and walked faster.
“Coltair?” Zephen called after him. He stopped running after him when his taller and stronger brother started to jog, slowing until finally stopping altogether to stand alone in the empty, enormous hall.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
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Coltair clenched his jaw and worked not to snarl at his brother. It wasn’t his fault, but winds, he was an annoying distraction.
His work was important. Right now, the ancestors had a plan and he would need to learn this plan in every detail before he would become emperor; it was that simple.
His father, Emperor Cirrus, worked diligently on the plans that kept Rogun relevant, wealthy and safe. Alliances across the vast oceans around the world took time and a great deal of money, but it was the role of the ruling family that kept Rogun’s prosperity and sovereignty unchallenged. Since near decimation a few thousand years ago, it had been their singular focus.
It was no small irritation that their closest neighbour, the Orak’Thune, seemed blessed with all the favours of the winds that Rogun worked so hard to obtain and then maintain. Self-sufficient, Rogun was limited in their growth and diversity. They grew some food, were enormously proficient at fishing but not much by way of land crop staples such as grain. They had wealth, by way of industrialization of core commodities. They had world-famous goldsmiths and textile mills but didn’t mine the gold or glean the silk themselves. Imports provided the rare raw materials; Rogun grew talented artisans.
Orak’Thune, however, had warred itself into submission under one republic and now bowed to the wandering whim of a dual and weak leadership in a muscle-bound king and addle-brained regent. It had everything to sustain an enormous population across a vast territory: plains for agriculture and forest for lumber, shores for fishing and trade, but what they exported most of all was their muscle.
And what the world paid to get that muscle, provided everything else so the Orak’Thune didn’t have to work for it.
Bullies of the world, that’s what they were.
Coltair pushed his way through his private suite door and slammed it shut behind him. His servant had been setting out his dinner and jumped, dropping his towel, but collected it fast and scurried to the corner to hide from him.
“Leave me,” he grumbled and the servant bowed and ran from the room.
Treaties had begun to cross the globe thousands of years ago. Once lines of contact, now were valuable shipping lanes. In most cases, Orak’Thune seemed to have gotten there first. Bigger ships, bigger navy and all the might to enforce whatever deal they brokered, Rogun seemed to have nothing as valuable to offer. It was difficult to argue when all around the world the Orak’Thune were successfully brokering peace deals that saw hostilities of warring tribes cease, in return for export contracts of precious trade to bring wealth to the new king's coffers. Not to mention, sitting across the table from a silk-robed ambassador, backed by multiple, giant men in steel armour, seemed to tip the flavour every time.
Coltair ran a hand fast through his hair, gripping the ends hard enough to hurt.
The knights. He cursed in his mind. Even their king was one. Called the Order of Elite, they were founded as a specialized fraction of the army. Extra training, cavalry with armour-plated horses, it was outright ridiculous, but no one had ever won a war against them and they were an exclusive concept to the Orak’Thune. As if to train the world to share their prowess and equalize their influence could be so bad. Of course, they would keep that skill to themselves.
Winds, how he hated them. The Orak’Thune considered they were fair to the Rogun, trading and such, but when asked to give more to the trade routes, so Rogun could share the wealth of ferrying and cargo across the globe, the shipping barons that ran under enormous contracts invented by the Orak’Thune were less than forthcoming. The king wouldn’t even meet with the emperor to discuss the bad behaviour of his syndicate of the seas who operated in his name.
To hell with them. Coltair had a plan. His father wouldn’t even know it; it would be his own, for his own time as emperor and if played right, his would be the last generation to grace the throne. He wouldn’t have to succumb to his father’s weakness. He didn’t have thanatophobia; there was no finality to any death that Coltair would fear. The secrets he gleaned from the darkness were his alone for the taking.