IGS #4, Chapter 49

Leonis

The hour was upon them. From outside the temple came the sound of voices, hundreds, thousands of people awaiting his emergence. The world was inhaling, drawing him forth, demanding he appear and prove himself equal to the moment.

All his struggles. His sacrifices. The wash of blood so many soldiers had expended upon the earth in his name, for his glory, for his immortality. All of it culminating in this moment, this hour, his hour, if only he could seize it.

Leonis remained kneeling before the huge statue of the Overgod. The smell of precious oils and incense filled the dimmed atrium. The murmur of prayers from the anchorites walled into their cells, a hundred and forty four of them, the holy number, making this place the most righteous, and all of them, all of them praying for his success.

Footsteps. Distinct. His mother approaching.

Leonis grimaced.

“The Overgod has heard our prayers,” she said, voice arch, proud, disdainful. She knelt, not quite at his side, for that would be too presumptuous even for her, but only a few feet back. “Our long struggles are being rewarded. I have received word. He is come, as he promised, as I swore he would not. Your uncle is a braver, more foolish man than I believed. Like a calf he has come into the heart of your power, and he is now yours to do with as you wish.”

Leonis took up the golden vial and poured the honeyed oil over the Overgod’s foot. It treacled down to run between the large toes, into the stone slits and out of sight. He frowned.

He knew his mother studied him. Her tone grew sharp. “What’s the matter? Don’t you grasp how momentous this is? At long, long last?”

“Oh, I understand.”

“Then? Why do you dawdle? Your uncle awaits outside. He stands before the masses. Your generals, administrators, high priests, exarchs—all await. Rise, my son, and claim your destiny.”

“We gave him assurances,” said Leonis. He kept his voice measured, calm. “We swore the most sacred oaths in the Overgod’s name.”

“Pah.” He sensed her gaze rising to take in the immensity of the statue. “Our Lord understands necessity. He understood that for the flowers of our lineage to blossom, we must water the fields with blood, and plow the earth with the sword. He desires strength in such hours, Leonis. Not maudlin fidelity to oaths.”

“I swore that we would meet as equals.” Still he kept his tone mild. “That I would welcome him as family, and together we would put an end to the civil war that has bled our kingdom dry.”

“Nothing will end this war but death,” hissed his mother. “What’s the matter with you? Treaties are broken as easily as oaths. You have him cornered, his forces broken after Myrcenia. Of course he has come to treat with you—he has no choice! Strike, cut him down, behead the fiend that would see you dead were the tables reversed.”

Leonis pursed his lips and lowered his gaze.

The murmur of the huge crowd outside the temple was akin to the ocean.

“Leonis, my darling boy.” Her tone became warm, fond, patient. “None of this has ever come easy to you. Politics. War. Executions. But this is a man’s world. A man must play the game by the unstated rules, or fall to those who are more ruthless. You hate the game, I know this, but you have done so well. Oh, but your father would be proud of you. So proud. But it is in his memory that you must cut down your uncle. Kill the kinslayer. Avenge your father. Secure your kingdom. Free yourself from tradition and expectations, and forge your own destiny. Now, while he is in your power!”

He glanced sidelong at her. “Wouldn’t that make me a kinslayer, too?”

“Vengeance absolves thee of all sins.” She raised her chin, eyes flashing in the gloom. “Your father’s ghost demands justice. It is force that has brought your uncle to the table. Your might. He is within your grasp. Either you clench your fist and crush him now, or you will weep tears of blood in the long years to come once he’s recovered his strength and breaks this treaty.”

Leonis considered her. Her cheeks had hollowed out, somewhere along the line these past few years. Her beauty, always striking, had become gaunt, accentuated by her gold blush, her dark eyeshadow. Her headdress gleamed gold and ivory in the gloom. His mother. His counselor, his strategist, his apologist, his everything.

But in the dark she looked nothing so much as a vulture.

Leonis rose.

“Good. Act, my son. Remember your father. Think of the tens of thousands of souls you save today by killing your uncle. Be the Golden King. Make the hard decision. Own your destiny.”

Leonis bowed his head respectfully and strode past her.

Down the length of the huge temple. Past the countless incisions in the walls from which came the prayers of the anchorites. Past the priests and acolytes and hierophants who stepped back respectfully. Past the huge columns around whose sides were wrapped the founding myths of his people. Over the seventeen golden plates beneath which his ancestors were buried, from his father all the way back to Agloremon of the Sun, the mythical founder of their house.

The sunlight blazed like molten gold between the portico pillars. Leonis strode out through the huge archway into the light, and the dignitaries drew back. Senators and generals, mostly, with advisors, servants, guards. A hundred worthies right there outside the door, and as he passed through them to appear in the open at the topmost temple step, he saw the Golden Plaza open before him, thronged with citizens, tens of thousands packed in tight to witness the spectacle.

His Golden Lions were arranged in neat regiments about the plaza, their gold and crimson war banners resplendent. A thousand of the most dangerous men in the kingdom gazed stonily at his uncle’s Golden Bolts, a single regiment one hundred strong. But his uncle’s men were worn, ragged, and much abused. Yet still they stood straight, gazes locked ahead, aware of their predicament but not betraying a single tremor, a single worried glance.

And at their head? Standing proudly before his lieutenants and counselors? Vexorius, his uncle, his beard now mostly white where it had been salt and pepper but only five years before. He gazed up the broad steps at where Leonis stood, handsome still, broad shouldered, his smile roguish, his regalia resplendent.

Fratricide, strategist without equal, a monster with the blade, and beloved of his people. It was said that his followers would hurl themselves into hell itself if he commanded them, would quench flames with their bodies, would glut the appetites of lions with their own flesh if it succored their lord.

Pretender king.

False prophet.

Uncle.

The vast crowd settled and grew still.

The air was heavy and golden as the sun eased its final inches behind the Palatinate Hill, the huge palace burnished gold by the setting rays. All around him the grand edifices of his capital were painted bronze. The whole world seemed to hold its breath.

A choice.

He need but raise his fist and the Golden Lions would massacre his uncle’s men, cut them down without mercy and drown the plaza in blood. His uncle would be dragged up the steps to be forced to kneel before him. The whole city would watch as Leonis summoned Nezzar and extinguished his life, ended the rebellion, and brought peace to the land.

It was the right thing to do. His father wouldn’t have hesitated. It was the path to power. To greatness. To becoming the true Golden King.

And yet.

Behind the rakish smile Leonis could see a deep exhaustion in his uncle’s eyes. The man was bested, had no doubt chosen to come only because he had no choice. He knew his life was no longer his own to command. But even so, there burned a light in the man’s eyes that could only be called amusement.

Even now, his uncle’s laughter was close to the surface.

You had to admire the man.

Leonis pitched his voice to carry, “Approach, Lord Vexorius.”

A ripple ran through the crowd. So it wasn’t to be an immediate slaughter. His uncle tossed his crimson cloak back over one shoulder and did as he was bid. Alone, he climbed the steps. It took some time, so massive were they, and as his uncle climbed, nobody stirred.

Leonis watched. He felt frozen. Irresolute. His mother’s ire was a bonfire at his back.

Glory. Cared he nothing for glory? For the undying fame of his ancestors, for the only coin with which true immortality could be bought? His uncle had come expecting death.

And yet.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand Leonis knew he would do the right thing. Would observe the rough law of supremacy and cut his uncle down. Would claim immortality, grandeur, magnificence at his uncle’s expense.

Would pursue fame and power at any cost. Would become… would become the Golden King.

But strangely, the title had no savor today.

Fame? Power? Immortality? The very words that his mother had whispered in his ear since he was born, the guiding stars of his life, sounded hollow and foolish and banal.

What had come over him?

Vexorius stopped three steps below Leonis. One hand rested on the pommel of his ceremonial blade. A wind off the distant harbor caused his hair to flow, his cloak to ripple. “Nephew. Golden King. I have chosen to invite your gracious invitation. Secured by your oaths of hospitality, I have come to treat with you. To end this war, and restore peace and prosperity to the kingdom.”

Now. Now was the time to order the man seized. To cut him down. To baptize with blood the birth of his immortal reign.

“Welcome, uncle. It’s been a hell of a war.” Leonis’ smile felt as worn and tired as his uncle’s. “You’ve tried and tested the best of the Golden Kingdom, and your men have done you much honor. I’m glad you chose to come.”

His mother couldn’t restrain a scandalized hiss from the crowd behind him.

“And you, nephew.” His uncle looked him up and down. “You have grown mighty in deed as well as stature. Why, you dwarf me now, where once I thought you a stripling. I am honored to be welcomed back into the capital, and look forward to hammering out terms.”

Leonis heard himself speak, the words coming as if from a different person, a world away, a lifetime ago. “Then let us retire with our advisors to the council chamber and—”

“Enough of this foolishness!” His mother burst forward, burgundy and gold dress seized in both fists so that she could move freely, her eyes flashing. “Leonis! Cease this madness! Cut him down!”

The world froze.

Generals and exarchs, luminaries and senators, all gazed, stunned and amazed, at where the Queen Mother stood.

And in their faces, Leonis realized, there was no true shock. No real surprise. It had been common if unspoken knowledge that she ruled him as one did an unruly hound. That the hardest decisions were made at her behest.

That she, not Leonis, was the granite will behind the kingdom’s continued success.

Vexorius smiled, but spoke not. How could he? He’d murdered her husband and begun this war.

“Well?” She drew herself up. “Prove yourself a man, the rightful king, the Golden King! And have this travesty of a man executed!”

Her words were like whips. Once Leonis would have shuddered, but something had changed. Some deep, tectonic shift. He didn’t even feel anger, so much as sadness.

“Senator Bavos. Senator Effren. My mother is wearied by the sun. Please escort her to her quarters.”

Now did he see shock in the faces around them. The two senators, both loyal to his cause, glanced at each other in horror, and then stepped forward to do as they were bid.

“Weak,” hissed his mother, eyes flashing once more. “I had hope for you, but you are not worthy of the hour. You are not the man your father was. You are weak, Leonis. You ruin your kingdom!”

Leonis inclined his head. “You are correct, mother. I am not the man my father was. But I bid you rest and recover. I shall visit you when duty allows.”

For an aching eternity she remained poised, glaring, scarce believing, and then with terrible dignity turned to walk away, flanked on both sides by the senators, to disappear into the crowd.

“Well.” Vexorius’ smile was rueful. “I must admit, I am surprised.”

“As perhaps am I. But.” He didn’t care how many hundreds heard him, how many men of power, of station, of rank. “If you are sincere in your desire to end this war, to observe the oaths, and bury our blades, I will treat with you. We shall find common cause. We shall place the kingdom before our ambitions.”

“And share power?” His uncle raised a skeptical eyebrow. “If you are speaking plain, then state as much. I for one scarce believe it, but came in hope that your letters spoke true. You would split the kingdom?”

Leonis gazed out over the Golden Plaza, over the thousands, at the ancient buildings painted blood and burgundy and copper by the setting sun. He was the eighteenth of his unbroken line. All this his ancestors had fought for, bled for, died for.

“I will split the kingdom,” he said. And his voice was strong. “With the Overgod as my witness, I choose peace over absolute power. I choose mercy over strength. I choose family over blood. Let us end our feud, uncle. Let us usher in a new age together.”

And he extended his hand.

His uncle glanced at it, back up at him, and then stepped up the last two steps to clasp it tight and stand upon the same level. “Let it be so, nephew. Let it be so.”

Leonis turned to face the crowd, to face his kingdom, to face his future. He raised his uncle’s arm alongside his, and stood thus as the crowd erupted into cheers, the Golden Lions roaring as loudly as his uncle’s men.

Leonis gazed out at the sea of faces, and hoped that this peace would last. That his uncle would hold true. That the age of bloodshed would end.

And if it didn’t?

Then he would die knowing he had done his best.

And with that thought, the world went dark, the host and his uncle disappeared, and Leonis found seated upon Jova’s plinth. Xandera and Kelona were fighting on either side of him, six Philosopher Silverines pressing them, and beyond whirled the cacophony of war.

His Nezzar network had vanished.

The world around him was pure chaos.

But great certainty filled him, an endless resolve, and Leonis inhaled deeply.

He’d done it.

He was a Dread Blaze.

And it was time to rejoin the battle.