Authors: Tony Gonzales
Instructor Muros joined his side.
“Is this real?”
Vince asked.
“Yes,” she answered.
“You are immortal.”
“Where did I come from before this?”
“You were born to us this way,” she said.
“In the service of Amarr and our Holy Empress.
We rescued you from death, and in return you devoted yourself to our faith.
Tell me your creed.”
“I am a Templar,” Vince said, mouthing the words from implanted memory, even though he remained shaken.
“I am eternally devoted to our faith; I am the holy sword of the righteous, and I will defend Amarr will all my might.”
“Remember, all living things were born from dust,” Instructor Muros said.
“But now, you can never return there.”
15
DOMAIN REGION—MADDAM CONSTELLATION
THE SARUM PRIME SYSTEM—PLANET III: MEKHIOS
CITY OF XERAH
SOVEREIGNTY OF THE AMARR EMPIRE
Twelve Years Ago
Heir Mekioth Sarum, ruler of the Sarum House and former Grand Admiral of the Imperial Navy, lay dying within the walls of his own palace.
At nearly 180 years of age, not even the wondrous technologies of the day could save his life, for these advances could not overcome the simple fact that the will to live had left him.
To make the outcome absolutely certain, he had all his life-sustaining implants removed and his clones destroyed.
It was now just a matter of time.
Surrounding his withering shell were various diagnostic machines and their metallic caretakers.
The house physician stood solemnly nearby as slaves tended to the heir’s bodily needs.
Holders and priests prowled the antechambers; only a select few were allowed such privileged access to the palace grounds, let alone to the place where Mekioth Sarum would breathe his last.
The moment seemed woefully unbecoming for a scene that in the mind of most Amarrians should have been a divine spectacle complete with choirs of angels and the radiance of heaven itself.
An unprecedented shift in power was about to take place, as the heir of one of Amarr’s five holy houses was soon to pass his sanctioned right of Imperial ascension on to the next chosen heir.
Instead, the atmosphere reeked poignantly of anticipation rather than piety or sorrow.
When Jamyl Sarum—just fifteen years of age—appeared in the doorway, the room fell silent.
This slight young lady hardly looked the part of an heir apparent to an interstellar kingdom.
Accompanied by her mother, Anla, she approached her father for what could possibly be the last time.
Lord Falek Grange, the youngest and most influential Holder in the room, was speaking with the physician and caught her eye.
He bowed his courtesy and then stepped out of sight without a word.
The rest of the occupants, recognizing the moment for what it was, did the same.
Confident they were alone, Jamyl approached her father’s bed wishing she felt only sadness.
Toxic emotions assaulted her as she took one painful step after the next, dreading the moment so much that bile crept up her throat.
She was fearful for the things he would say.
She was frustrated that their time together had been so devoid of meaning, and bitter that he was always hateful toward her, no matter how hard she tried to love him.
Anla had warned her daughter this was going to be difficult, but Jamyl insisted it was the right thing to do.
Her father’s yellow eyes found hers while she struggled to find the words.
“Why did you come here?”
he hissed.
“To be by your side,” Jamyl said, trying to mean it.
“To offer comfort, if you would be willing to accept it.”
“Comfort?”
he scoffed.
“You came here to see it yourself, didn’t you?
That’s a good little heiress … make certain I’m out of your way before claiming victory.”
“Father, please…” Jamyl said.
“I just want to wish you well in the afterlife and let you know you’ll always be with me—”
Mekioth coughed violently, spitting up across the space in front of him.
“Is it not clear that God hates me, you stupid child?”
he hissed.
“Your whore of a mother should have told you that by now.”
“Mekioth, you bastard…” Anla started.
“Anla, my dear—I have to know something before I die: Are there any more heirs festering in that rotten cunt of yours?”
“She will carry the burden of your tainted name,” Anla growled.
“Your legacy is the Battle of Vak’Atioth, and mark my words, if my daughter claims glory for Amarr, it will be by erasing your existence from history!”
“Then tell this unwanted child the truth!”
Mekioth wheezed.
“Have you prepared her?
Does she know how to lead armies and rule an empire?
Then show her!
Show her to follow your example, you conniving wench!”
It was too much.
Jamyl turned and began walking out.
“That’s it—turn your back to me!
You should have never been born, you hear?
Only I can speak for Amarr!
I alone!
Not you, not ever—”
He broke into wheezes and coughs laced with droplets of blood.
Anla followed her daughter out as slaves rushed back to assist the dying heir.
Lord Falek Grange, who remained hidden, watched as mother and daughter left, and thanked God that Mekioth would soon be dead.
* * *
THEY WERE IN THE PALACE GARDENS,
where the most exotic species of flora from every corner of the Empire were displayed in breathtaking arrangements, lavished by ornate sculptures carved from precious metals and stone.
The air smelled of perfume and the sea, which you could hear from across the great courtyard and over the walls beyond.
This place seemed as good as any to confront some hard truths about destiny.
Jamyl stopped and whirled around abruptly.
“What did he mean by ‘truth’?”
she demanded.
Anla took a deep breath.
“The truth is that if he had his way, you would have never been born.”
She paused a moment to let that sink in.
“You were artificially conceived,” Anla continued.
“My ovum was fertilized with genes selected from his DNA.
You are a Sarum: The lineage of great leaders runs through your veins, but Mekioth is no more your father than a stranger.”
It was becoming increasingly difficult for Anla to speak.
“I had to keep my pregnancy a secret, because if he knew, he would have killed us both.”
Jamyl threw her hands in the air in disgust.
“Now you’re lying to make another point—”
“You have no idea what that man was capable of,” Anla interrupted.
“None at all.
But, thank God, you had powerful allies.
When they found out I was with child, they vowed to protect us from him.
And the way they did it was by proclaiming the news to our people.
The word spread quickly—even the other houses sent their congratulations.
When your father found out, he was beset by unspeakable rage.
But he couldn’t harm us, because the people of House Sarum adored you before you were even born.
They hailed him for producing an heiress.
They saved you, Jamyl.
Not even an heir could stand up to their will.”
“Stop.…” Jamyl interrupted.
“Just tell me why … how … what did he want?”
“What else, but the throne,” Anla said.
“Emperor Heideran is hundreds of years old; he doesn’t have much longer, and Mekioth thought he would live to see it happen.
He has been posturing to seize power for most of his life.
A child would complicate those plans: He wanted no more competition than he already faced from the other houses.
His selfishness was so great that he would place our lineage in peril by not producing an heir, violating the most sacred codes of our—”
“Glorious,” Jamyl spit.
“So I was conceived to give this house the heir my own father thought he would never need.”
“Jamyl, I wanted a daughter,” Anla pleaded.
“I wanted
you.
To be your mother, to have a wonderful life together.
But in this palace, what I wanted was irrelevant.
Leaving House Sarum without an heir was a greater shame than Mekioth’s infamous failure at Vak’Atioth, and that is why I was able to conceive you at all.
Lord Falek Grange arranged for everything; you have him to thank for your life.
As for Mekioth Sarum, his bitter words betray the jealousy he feels.
You have bested him already.”
“This isn’t a contest!”
Jamyl said angrily.
“He’d rather die than live without the throne?”
“Men like him never let go of their ambitions, even when they can no longer be reached.”
Jamyl was beside herself.
“He’s been dead to me for a long time.”
“Power corrupts all but the strongest among us,” Anla said.
“Our namesake reaches back more than a thousand years.
Every army that has ever served Amarr has been led by a Sarum.
We have an
unfathomable
responsibility, to this house and to Amarr.
Your father believed he would be Emperor because, for a time, so many wanted him to be.
That moment passed him by.
It now belongs to you.”
“Then I choose to pass it on to someone else.”
“We do not get to choose.
We are Sarums.
This is our destiny.”
“
I don’t want it.
And you can’t force me to take it.”
“You’re right: I can’t.
But your people can.
And they will.”
“My people?
You mean the ones disgraced by that … bastard up there?”
“Don’t speak to me about disgrace.
I’m married to the man who gave Amarr the most humiliating defeat in her history.
The man who emboldened an entire race to revolt against us … whose failures shook the foundations of everything we believed in.”
“Mother, I don’t believe in those things.
I don’t believe in this faith, and my father’s failure to win the love of his own daughter is proof of its hypocrisy.”
“If that is what you believe, so be it.
The test of faith is different for us all.”
Jamyl rolled her eyes.
“Oh, these primitive traditions!
What kind of God is so insecure that he needs to ‘test’ people’s faith in him?
It’s absurd!”
“You can choose what you want to believe, Jamyl.
But you cannot choose the beliefs of our people.”
“I don’t want this life!
I’m here not for an act of love but for an obligation to myth!”
“Jamyl, you are here for the greatest love there is!”
Anla pleaded.
“For all its abuses and distortions of meaning, people need
something
to believe in.
They want to believe in
you.
The thought of you sustains them in their difficult lives.
They find strength in believing that one day, a Sarum will be Empress.
What greater love is there?”
The garden was beautiful, but Jamyl was fixated on the palace walls beyond it.
“I hate this place,” she said.
“I hate everything about it.
I feel trapped here, no better off than the slaves.
I’d rather endure the hardships of a commoner than be imprisoned here.”
Her mother smiled.
“Every Sarum that has ever ruled this house has said the exact same thing,” Anla said.
“Except one.
And he will be dead very soon.”
DOMAIN REGION—THRONE WORLDS CONSTELLATION
THE AMARR SYSTEM—PLANET ORIS
EMPEROR FAMILY ACADEMY STATION
SOVEREIGNTY OF THE AMARR EMPIRE
Present Day
Concentrating with almost superhuman focus, Lord Victor Eliade, Captain of Arms for the Imperial Navy, gathered his thoughts carefully.
Although the implants made it easier to hold such undivided attention, the extended duration of this session and the countless others since the ascension of Empress Jamyl were taxing him nearly to the breaking point.
Thoughts were supposed to be the most private possession a man could have.
But now, in his service to Amarr, even this inner sanctum belonged to her.
The burden of having to audit every thought as it formed in the mind would drive lesser men to madness.
For years, Empress Jamyl was suspended in clone stasis at the Matriarch Citadel.
In the plot engineered by Lord Grange to fake her death, her brain-state information was sent there after the Succession Trials.
But instead of reanimating her, the AI safeguarding her essence began rebuilding her clone, changing its anatomy and performing biotechnical augmentations that no one believed were possible.
Even Lord Grange was helpless to stop it, for fear of killing her.
All they could do was watch and pray she would awaken.
When she finally did, she was blessed with divine powers, able to enter the minds of followers and hear their thoughts from across the cosmos.
She had knowledge of wondrous things that were hidden from the rest of the universe.
But there were dark moments as well.
From time to time, she would speak in unknown dialects, harming herself and those around her in fits of supernatural rage.
Something sinister was trapped within her, and Victor wondered if that was the price of being able to glimpse God.