Chapter One
Druadaen had to lean backwards to see the parapet at the top of the lookout spire. Rising up from one of the wallway towers, the slender stone needle seemed poised to chase the day’s sparse white clouds higher into the bright blue sky.
His mother leaned down close to his ear. “From the top,” she whispered, “you can see all the way to the bay.”
Whereas just a year ago, Druadaen might have become wide-eyed in surprise at such a claim, he buried that reflex under a doubting sideways glance. “Mama—Mother: that’s almost fifteen leagues.”
His father shrugged. “A bit more, actually. But you can indeed see the bay and well out into the Sea of Kudak.”
“So, have you been up there?”
His father’s eyebrows raised in what began as genuine surprise and then became feigned injury. “Son! You don’t believe me? I am cut to the quick!”
Druadaen smiled. “Still, Papa, you didn’t answer the question: Have you been on top of the spire?”
His mother wrapped her arms around him from behind. “You are as stubborn as your father!”
Who smiled ruefully. “I prefer the term ‘persistent,’ dear wife.”
Her answering laugh sparked Druadaen’s own. His father’s smile widened. So did his arms as he reached out and gathered them close. It was a fine feeling, being in that family embrace, looking out upon the ships coming up the river as they stood on the wallwalk, cool in the wide shadow of this particularly squat wallway tower.
None of the wallway’s many towers were exactly alike, but seen from the barge that had brought them almost a hundred leagues south into Dunarra, their outlines were identical. But this tower also served as the spire’s foundation, and so was very different. “I wish we could go up there,” Druadaen said, pointing overhead. “I would like to see the bay!”
By way of answer, his father swung him up to his broad shoulders and pointed to where the river wound through forests to the west.
Druadaen hugged his father’s forehead with both arms. “Thanks, Papa…but I still can’t see the bay.”
His father tilted his head to smile up at him. “Your mother’s right. You are stubborn.”
“Persistent,” she amended with a smile.
Druadaen was still staring at the top of the spire. “That’s a lot of stairs. It must take an hour to climb them all.” He considered. “Is there a faster way up? In case of emergencies?”
His mother smiled. “Yes, and that’s a very good question.”
“So how do they do it?”
His father hitched him up a little higher on his shoulders and Druadaen could hear the grin in his voice. “Maybe you can tell us.”
Druadaen sighed. He usually enjoyed answering his father’s real-world riddles. Except when they didn’t come with any clues. Like this one. Besides, Druadaen just wanted to watch what was happening down in the port, look at all the different ships pulled up along the wharves, all the different peoples working in and around them, all the different cargos…
Cargos…
Druadaen glanced back at a ship that was off-loading a very heavy crate but without any stevedores manning the block and tackle. Instead, there were only two Dunarrans standing by. The one on the deck of the ship signaled that the crate was secure. The one waiting on the dock nodded, but rather than hauling on the pulley lines, he simply reached down and released a lever that protruded from between the wharf’s granite blocks. After taking a moment to make sure that the load wasn’t swaying, he pushed a second, longer lever.
The large crate rose slowly, the cables groaning but without anyone straining at the ropes. Druadaen stared. Was Dunarra so wealthy and powerful that it used mancery just to off-load cargo ships?
But that made no sense; mantics did not agree to use their powers for day-to-day tasks. So Druadaen looked more closely—and discovered that the main cable from the block and tackle was not wrapped around what he’d thought was a take-up drum. Instead, it was simply passing over a roller which guided it down through another gap in the wharf’s stonework.
As Druadaen wondered what was lifting the crate, he was distracted by motion up at the bow of the ship; a work gang was slowly turning a windlass to retrieve the anchor. He flinched at what felt like a bright flash in the middle of his mind: sudden understanding of how the crate was being lifted, which also revealed how people could move up and down the tower so quickly.
“It’s machines,” he blurted out, the ideas coming much faster than he could find words. “It’s like the anchor’s windlass. The power is stored. Like in a spring. In a machine built under the wharf; that’s what’s lifting the crate.” He pointed at the top of the tower. “And something like that must be used to move people up and down the spire.”
“Yes, ’Dae.” his mother murmured through a pleased smile. “The machinery is in the tower. It raises and lowers an enclosed platform, rather like a coach, called a funicular. That, and the weight of the spire, is why this tower is so much larger than the others along the wallway.”
Druadaen laughed, not because it was funny, but out of sheer joy at solving the puzzle. Until he realized there was a potential problem with the solution. “Still,” he said, “it would take a lot of people to wind the spring, or the ropes, for the elevator.”
“That’s true,” his father agreed. “So I wonder: Are there other ways to get those gears turning and store that power?” But rather than looking at Druadaen, his eyes had begun to follow along the river’s upstream course. It ran close against the outer edge of the city wall, where, at regular intervals, small, fortified mills dipped their waterwheels into the swift current.
Except, Druadaen realized, those weren’t mills at all. He pointed. “It’s those. They’re doing the work. Instead of people or animals.”
His father’s arms tightened briefly, imparting a fond hug to both legs. “That’s right, lad.”
But Druadaen wasn’t done. “And the mills—uh, wheels: they’re all the same. Like the walltowers. Like…like almost everything here!”
Again, he was almost drowned under a sudden rush of ideas and concepts for which he had no words. But he knew what he wanted to say, and what it meant about Dunarra. So much of what was built here was nearly identical, as if it had been cast from molds like they used back home when making candles and loaves. But here the tools, and wagons, and ships, and machines, and even most of the buildings had been formed that way, too.
His stuttering struggle to find the right words wasn’t necessary. His father patted his thigh in a way that said, Yes, son. You are correct.
It was everywhere, Druadaen realized, as Aedmurun transmogrified before his eyes. The weapons of the guards, their armor, the tack of the horses and titandrays, the streets, the lights that lined them, even the clothes of the people going about their business: they weren’t exactly alike, but they all had the appearance of having been shaped and finished in the same fashion. “How…why…?” he said hoarsely, mostly to himself.
By way of answer, his father turned slightly. Now Druadaen was facing directly over the wall into the trade quarter: the maze of market stalls where foreign merchants came to barter, buy, and sell.
Again, the setting transformed. What Druadaen had beheld just minutes before with both delight and wonder—all the different people with different languages and gestures and dress—was now a scene of desperation and want. Most of the outlanders were not so much fit as wiry; many were underfed. Their clothes, while varied, were as much made from patches as original materials. Swarms of young children—far younger than Druadaen—were hard at work alongside their parents. And many of the adults were so wrinkled that he couldn’t be sure whether they were parents or grandparents.
Druadaen swallowed. “So many of them are old…and still they work? After all the years they had to save?”
His mother’s voice was quiet. “Most outlanders age much more quickly than us and have more children to feed.”
“But isn’t it harder to raise and feed so many?”
“It is, but in most nations, children must help so that the family can fulfill its obligations.”
“Obligations? You mean, like your work tithes?”
His father’s voice was dark. “No, ’Dae. Most of those people must give a part of everything they make, or grow, or earn to a ruler who also decides how much they must give.”
“But if their lives are nothing but work, then how do they learn to read or—?”
His mother put a finger against his lips. “The world is very different beyond the borders of Dunarra, dear son.”
He rarely heard sadness in her voice, but it was there now. He also heard something similar to…fear? “Our emperor doesn’t treat people that way…does he?”
“Dunarra has a Propretor Princeps, ’Dae, not an emperor.”
“But if this is an empire, shouldn’t it have an emperor?”
His mother shook her head. “Dunarra isn’t an empire. It’s a Consentium.” She frowned. “Who told you it was an empire?”
“Heyna. She says that Dunarra is an empire with an emperor and that it used to rule the world.”
His mother smiled the way she did when she was being extremely patient. “Heyna is a young lady with very strong opinions.”
Druadaen shrugged. “Yes. And sometimes I think she tries to make me feel stupid.”
His father leaned his head back and smiled up at Druadaen. “That’s because she likes you.”
“That’s a strange way of showing it.”
“Yes,” his mother explained, “but sometimes that’s what young girls and boys do when they are embarrassed about…liking someone.”
Druadaen heard the evasive tone. “You mean she likes me that way? But I’m nine, and Heyna’s—”
“Why, she’s almost a grand old lady of twelve,” exclaimed his father. “Three whole years older than you!”
Druadaen did his best not to sound surly. “Well, only two and a half years older.”
His father swung him down and rested a hand gently on his head. “’Dae, you’re so big for your age, I think all of us have a hard time remembering you are not quite as old as you look.”
“Heyna says that, too. And she says I’m too serious. Like her parents.”
Druadaen’s mother had that expression she got when she was about to roll her eyes but stopped herself at the last moment. “Yes. And I can imagine just how she sounded when she said that.”
Druadaen was about to nod but was distracted by a faint odor of grilled something that wafted up from the stalls down near the docks. His stomach growled in response.
One of his father’s eyebrows rose. “Sounds like someone is hungry.”
Druadaen was about to deny it when a woman’s voice answered before he could: “Well, of course ‘someone’ is hungry. You’ll all starve to death up here!”
His father glanced over his head, smiled at whoever he saw there. “We’d starve to death anywhere, if we were waiting for you,” he answered with a broad smile.
Druadaen turned. The woman who had spoken was considerably older than the two people who were approaching with her and smiling more broadly with every step. The next moment, Druadaen was caught in the middle of five adults welcoming each other with nods, embraces, and clasping of forearms. He tried to step back from the scrum of camaraderie but didn’t make it out in time.
The woman who had spoken to his father looked down at him. “And is this young master Druadaen?” He nodded. She nodded back, smiling, but her eyes were intent. Or maybe they just seemed that way because they were staring out of a well-seamed face framed by silver hair.
Which gave Druadaen a moment’s pause as he realized, She’s very old, for a Dunarran. So formal address was wanted. “I am honored to meet you—” And he stopped. By what title should I call her? “Elder” would be appropriate, but she might be insulted—
Her smile became wry and she waved away his confusion of courtesies. “You may call me Shaananca if I may call you Druadaen. Would that be acceptable?”
The words left him a relieved rush: “Yes, please! Thank you, kind Lady!”
Shaananca’s smile slipped from wry to rueful. “I am not of high birth,” she murmured. “No one is, here.”
Druadaen’s mother put an arm around his shoulders. “And these two people with Shaananca are our friends, Indryllis and Varcaxtan.”
Druadaen bowed slightly as they nodded and smiled. His eyes were on Indryllis’ unusual…robe? gown? habit? It had what appeared to be fine silver threads woven into its length. “Are you a priestess, Mistress Indryllis?”
Her eyebrows rose, as did the corners of her mouth. “In a manner of speaking. I am what is called a Guide.”
Druadaen frowned. “A guide? I have not heard of temples with ‘guides.’”
Indryllis nodded. “You are correct. I serve in no temple.”
“But then—?”
His mother hugged him. “Plenty of time for questions, later, ’Dae.”
Varcaxtan, a heavily built and muscular man in a tanned tunic and breeches, nodded. “No mysteries to solve in my case, young Druadaen. Your father and I were comrades, years ago.”
“So, you, too, are a mariner?” But his garb was not like any mariner Druadaen had ever seen or heard of.
Varcaxtan’s quick glance at Druadaen’s parents did not escape his notice. “A mariner? Sometimes. We served together on land, as well.”
“I should like to do that, too. Very much,” Druadaen said more loudly than he had intended.
“Well,” the large man answered with a serious nod and assessing gaze, “you certainly look big enough for it! How old are you? Eleven? Twelve, maybe?”
“No! I am only nine, but everyone says I look older, and that I’m very big and strong for my age!”
“Well, well: you certainly are that!”
“And so you are hoping to become a mariner, too?” Indryllis asked.
Druadaen looked at her in surprise. “No. I will serve in the Legions once I grow up. And become a general!”
All the adult eyes around him widened. “That is quite an ambition,” Shaananca said with a somber nod.
“It is,” Druadaen answered with a frown. “But I am working to be worthy of it. I exercise and run every day, that I might be the best recruit there has ever been.”
Shaananca was peering at him oddly. “You may be the size of a twelve-year-old, young master Druadaen, but your dedication is that of a still older person.”
“A person of, well, fourteen, do you think?”
Shaananca’s answering smile was both amused and rueful. “At least,” she murmured. “But how will your parents tend to the farm without you when you are a Legior?”
“Oh, they won’t be alone.” Again he was ringed by perplexed adult stares. “By then, I will have a brother or sister. Actually, by this winter, I suspect.”
What happened next struck Druadaen as very odd. The adults not only became silent but became very still. Varcaxtan’s and Indryllis’ eyes were wide and lips tightly closed.
However, Shaananca was looking over Druadaen’s head at his parents. She, too, appeared surprised, but she also seemed to be concerned. Or angry. Or maybe fearful?
His father leaned closer. “How long have you known, ’Dae?”
Druadaen shrugged. “Maybe a month.” When his father’s eyebrows rose, he explained, “Mother doesn’t run as much or walk as fast. Your walks have become slower and longer. And Grip always sticks close to her now. He even chases off the rooster.” He shrugged again. “It’s not so different from how Heyna’s mother acts when she is with child. It’s just happening more slowly with Ma—Mother.”
Shaananca’s gaze had shifted to him, but when he fell silent, her eyes returned to Druadaen’s parents. “This news is most unexpected.”
Druadaen’s father stood straighter. “We had intended to share it while here.”
“And not earlier? Much earlier?”
Indryllis stepped forward. “Certainly, questions can wait, and surprise should not keep us from honoring so happy an occasion.” She bowed slightly toward Druadaen’s mother. “Your joy is a blessing upon us,” she intoned ritually.
Varcaxtan and Shaananca murmured the same phrase and copied the bow, but there was still something wrong. Druadaen was sure that Varcaxtan and Indryllis would rather have been somewhere—anywhere—else, now.
A long, silvery trumpet peal sounded down near the docks. Shaananca straightened. “She has arrived.”
“Who?”
“The Lady of the Mirror,” Druadaen’s mother murmured.
“The one making a progress through Dunarra?” Druadaen was happy for something to break the awkwardness he’d caused by referring to his mother’s pregnancy.
“Yes,” answered Shaananca. “It is why I suggested we meet here.” A genuine smile came back to her face. “So that you might see her arrival.” She pointed over the parapet of the wallway.
A large ship, flying several different standards and long, streaming silver pennants, had drawn up to the wharf. As its mooring lines were tied off around the bollards, a broad gangway was run out to its side, where a large group was gathering, preparing to debark.
Druadaen stared. It was the strangest entourage he had ever seen. Granted, he hadn’t seen many. However, every year, at least one or two went past on the road near their farm, and they all had one thing in common: almost everyone traveling with it wore livery that matched the house or league colors of the person whom they were escorting.
Not so this group. All of them wore tunics and robes of different colors and cuts. Of those in armor, no two wore the same kind, just as no two had the same helmet. The mix of field plate, mail, boiled leather, and two form-fitting Iavan sheath suits created a restless collage of contending shapes, angles, and colors. The weapons were no less distinctive and disparate.
“Tell me, Druadaen,” Shaananca asked from over his shoulder, “what is that you find so interesting about the Lady’s traveling companions?”
“They are all dressed—and equipped—so differently.”
Shaananca nodded. “That is because the Lady has no retinue of her own.”
“Why?”
Shaananca’s eyes twinkled. “You should ask her yourself.”
“But…how would I do that?”
“Why, when you meet her. Come: we’ll have to start now if we mean to make sure that you get some food!”