Wosirye II

"Please wait here, my lord. Archmage Yisril will see you shortly." The manservant bowed and disappeared behind the large ironwood doors, leaving Wosirye to his devices. He welcomed himself to the elaborately carved bench in the empty hallway and breathed in deeply. All was quiet, an irony given the state of things.

The historian Thum Ali once said that if all the cities on the continent were jewels on a crown, Ishbet would be the brightest. Wosirye was forced to agree with him. He had not been in Ishbet for a long time, but it was as beautiful as ever. Assad zo Hirzad IV had hired the best architects and engineers to build the capital of his dreams, and though he would never see his wish completed as he died quite young, it was agreed that those he had put his trust in to complete the project had done their very best. The city had been defaced, looted and burned during certain times, but it had stood back up again. It was the ultimate symbol of Beyish resilience.

How long that resilience would last was the question, when the country was being torn from the inside out. Ishbet seemed to pay no mind - its walls were still white and tall, its spires still shined gold and teal, new pyramids seemed to appear every other day and the bells rang at every peak of dawn and dusk. Life went on. The undercurrent of fraught political turmoil seemed almost nonexistent but Wosirye knew better.

It was known to all that no woman had greater influence in the capital - and to an extent the Empire itself - than Reverend Mother Zubeia. She had held that title and its appropriate seat in the Qadiya for more than sixty five years, and no other in all the Circles was more respected or beloved - and feared - than her.

While she had never been vocal about her misgivings about His Divine Majesty, she'd made some moves of her own - not too rebellious, not too noticeable, but more than enough to give her an edge. It had been her way for decades; crafting goodwill and acquiring important favors so when all hell went loose, she would be among the last left standing. She was an elusive shadow, a master at her craft. It seemed however, that she had finally met her match in the Emperor.

Wosirye had expected outright, bloody rebellion in the city when he'd heard that she'd essentially been put under arrest by the Emperor's personal muharid. No such thing had happened and even now, two full moons later, there wasn't so much as a whisper on the streets of what had happened. Only those concerned with the affairs of the Palatine seemed to know what was going on.

Tread carefully, Imruz had warned him, the Emperor has eyes and ears everywhere.

True, but one man cannot control everything, no matter how cunning or powerful.

He is no ordinary man, Imruz had said darkly, and he took that statement to heart.

*****

"Eshab," said Yisril, clasping their hands together. Wosirye returned the greeting and kissed the older man's cheek. His mentor and friend had not changed - the bald head had the same number of liver spots since he last saw him, the lines on his brown face were exactly as he remembered and the beady brown eyes still shone with a familiar wit and wisdom. The man had looked seventy for the past twenty years, albeit he was far older than that.

Yisril zo Tarze was Imruz's maternal uncle - and a renowned sorcerer. Many believed that he was the greatest battlemage of his generation despite the fact that his was the Circle of Rhonya*. He had served as a tutor to the late Crown Prince - blessed be His Name - who was half brother to the current Emperor. It was for this reason that, despite Wosirye's misgivings about their ruler, did not believe him to be the cause of his predecessor's disappearance and sudden demise. Yisril had loved the boy, and his heart - and honor - would not have allowed him to serve his murderer as the Qadiya's chief spymaster.

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"I assume you heard about what has happened?" He asked without further ado, signalling a manservant to serve them wake-tea* as they sat on the balcony with pleasing views of the garden below.

"Yes. Although it has been rather difficult to put the pieces together. Nobody knows the complete story." Wosirye replied.

Or are too afraid to speak of it.

"A necessary evil."

Ah. "You are directly involved in the matter, then?"

"Hm. You know what will happen when word gets around that the hog-hearted crone has chains around her neck. She has too many around her crooked finger."

"I did not know that you felt so strongly towards the Reverend Mother."

"I never liked her, but she has gone too far this time, I'm afraid. If anything, I am doing her a favor." He sipped his drink. "She is not in some squalid cell at the bottom of the keep, mind you. She is detained in her own home. If not for me, her head would've been on a pike weeks ago."

"What did she do to attain His Divine Majesty's ire?"

Yisril pursed his lips, and Wosirye could feel the temperature drop. The older man leaned in, speaking softly, "She's gone mad, my friend. Mad. She attempted regicide."

"Regicide?"

It was not what he was expecting to hear.

"Who would accuse her of such a thing? Is there verified proof?"

"She was caught red-handed, comrade. As hard as it is to believe, there are multiple witnesses. I do not know what possessed her to do the thing in front of so many people - I did not know her to be so foolish, but unfortunately that is what happened and spilled milk cannot be scooped back into its pail. I barely convinced His Majesty not to kill her outright."

Wosirye let out a shaky breath. "Gods."

"Gods." The other man repeated.

"What happens now?"

"Damage control. The Emperor cannot appear weak, not now. It is an embarrassment that this event even came to pass, and by a sitting member of the Qadiya no less - this must be rectified."

With fire and steel, Wosirye thought, nausea bubbling up his throat.

His face must've let his displeasure be known because the older man raised a hand to shush him. "I know how you feel about this. No doubt my nephew has wheedled a favor out of you to be his eyes and ears in an otherwise inaccessible area. You have a soft spot for him. But this is not something he should be concerned about, Third Commander or not."

"It is merely the state of the realm and the aftermath of conflicts that worry him."

Yisril snorted. "The only thing Imruz zo Quen cares about is the dogma that that fool Aduro feeds him. The Emperor is not a kind man, and never will be. The Golden Days are long past. If he is wise, his will turn his eyes west."

There was a minute of silence between them, broken by the tolling of bells.

"How will you fix this, Master?"

"The war for Taytamba is over. Vo will fall in a matter of moons or weeks, if word is to be believed. Holding Jabba is still difficult, but not unattainable. Two victories - and a prized tribute from the deep south that Hoshnu's Chosen and dy'Korste are more than qualified to deliver. It will be more than enough to cover the bases. "

For now, remained unsaid, as was Eshkil dy'Korste's demise and the shadow that his ghost had spawned, and the unknown name that haunted Wosirye's dreams.

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Mother/Father Reverend - the highest title an archmage can have, the leader of all the Circles in Beys.

Muharid - literally means destroyer; knight.

Rhonya - goddess of intuition, mind and soul.

Waketea - coffee