Rise of Empire (The Riyria Revelations #3-4)

That’s what makes it an art.

There was indeed a gap in her education, but it was because what was missing could not be taught. Esrahaddon had not held back anything. The gap was the reality of magic. Instructors could teach the basic techniques and methods, but a mastery of mechanical knowledge could never make a person an artist. No one could teach creativity or invention. A spark needed to come from within. It must be something unique, something discovered by the individual, a leap of understanding, a burst of insight, the combining of common elements in an unexpected way.

Arista knew it to be true. She had known it since killing the knights. The knowledge both excited and terrified her. The horrible deaths of the seret had only compounded that terrible realization. Now, however, standing alone in the yard under the blanket of stars and in the stillness of the warm summer night, she embraced her understanding and it was thrilling. There was danger, of course, both intoxicating and alluring, and she struggled to contain her emotions. Recalling the death cries of the knights and the ghastly looks on their faces helped ground her. She did not want to get lost in that power. In her mind’s eye, the Art was a great beast, a dragon of limitless potential that yearned to be set free, but a mindless beast let loose upon the world would be a terrible thing. She understood the wisdom of Arcadius and the need to restrain the passion she now touched.

Arista set the candle down before her and cleared her mind to focus.

She reached out and pressed her fingers in the air as if gently touching the surface of an invisible object. Power vibrated like the strings of a harp as her humming became a chant. They were not the words that Esrahaddon had taught her. Nor was it an incantation from Arcadius. The words were her own. The fabric of the universe was at her fingertips, and she fought to control her excitement. She plucked the strings on her invisible harp. She could play individual notes or chords, melodies, rhythms, and a multitude of combinations of each. The possibilities of creation were astonishing, and so numerous were the choices that she was equally overwhelmed. It would clearly take a lifetime, or more, to begin to grasp the potential she now felt. That night, however, her path was simple and clear. A flick of her wrist and a sweep of her fingers, almost as if she were motioning farewell, and at that moment the candle blew out.

A wind gusted. The dry soil of the street whirled into a dust devil. Old leaves and bits of grass were buffeted about. The stars faded as thick, full clouds crept across the sky. She heard the sound ring off the tin roof. It sang on the metal, the chorus of her song, and then she felt the splatter of rain on her upturned and laughing face.





CHAPTER 13





MODINA





The ceiling of the grand imperial throne room was a dome painted robin’s egg blue interspersed with white puffy clouds mimicking the sky on a gentle summer’s day. The painting was heavy and uninspired, but Modina thought it was beautiful. She could not remember the last time she had seen the real sky.

Her life since Dahlgren had been a nightmare of vague unpleasant people and places she could not, and did not care to, remember. She had no idea how much time had passed since the death of her father. It did not matter. Nothing did. Time was a concern of the living, and if she knew anything, it was that she was dead. A ghost drifting dreamlike, pushed along by unseen hands, hearing disembodied voices—but something had changed.

Amilia had come, and with her, the haze and fog that Modina had been lost in for so long had begun to lift. She started to become aware of the world around her.

“Keep your head up, and do not look at them,” Nimbus was telling her. “You are the empress and they are beneath you, contemptible and not worthy of even the slightest glance from your imperial eyes. Back straight. Back straight.”

Modina, dressed in a formal gown of gold and white, stood on the imperial dais before an immense and gaudy throne. She scratched it once and discovered the gold was a thin veneer over dull metal. The dais itself was five feet from the ground, with sheer sides except for where the half-moon stairs provided access. The stairs were removable, allowing her to be set on display, the perfect unapproachable symbol of the New Empire.

Nimbus shook his head miserably. “It is not going to work. She is not listening.”

“She’s just not used to standing straight all the time,” Amilia told him.

“Perhaps a stiff board sewn into her corset and laced tight?” a steward proposed timidly.

“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Amilia replied. She looked at Nimbus. “What do you think?”

“Better make it a very stiff board,” Nimbus replied sardonically.

They waved over the royal tailor and seamstress and an informal meeting ensued. They droned on about seams, stays, and ties while Modina looked down from above.

Can they see the pain in my face?

She did not think so. There was no sympathy in their eyes, just awe—awe and admiration. They simultaneously marveled and quaked when in her presence. She had heard them whispering about the beast she had slain, and how she was the daughter of a god. To thousands of soldiers, knights, and commoners, she was something to worship.

Until recently, Modina had been oblivious to it all, her mind shut in a dark hole where any attempt to think caused such anguish she recoiled back into the dull safety of the abyss. Time dulled the pain, and slowly the words of nearby conversations seeped in. She began to understand. According to what she had overheard, she and her father were descendants of some legendary lost king. This was why only they could harm the beast. She had been anointed empress, but she was not certain what that meant. So far, it had meant pain and isolation.

Modina stared at those around her without emotion. She was no longer capable of feeling. There was no fear, anger, or hate, nor was there love or happiness. She was a ghost haunting her own body, watching the world with detached interest. Nothing that transpired around her held any importance—except Amilia.