greatest fear is for her,” the Emperor confessed, interrupting her flailing thoughts. “My Rucha, she will have my intelligence, and more. Your indefatigable will, and more. My Spirit, and more. Your Spirit, and more. Yet our combined gifts will not be able to protect her from the Road of Pain.”
“We all walk the Road of Pain. It is on the Map from–”
“It is on the Map from Birth to Earth.” He quoted the old proverb. “Indeed.”
He said no more. Instead, he gave her belly a pat in farewell to the babe. Before he quit the room, he said, “You need not fear me, Raeche. You have never needed to fear me.” He closed the door quietly behind him.
Raeche exhaled before dropping back onto her bed. She struggled for calm. Rubbing soothing circles on her belly, she tried not to upset the child. The girl. She had not known she would have a girl.
Rucha.
The name the Emperor had given her meant “Raeche” in his language.
Chapter 2
On a day that knew no daystar, on a day when only the blackest of dark clouds blanketed the sky and hung so low they were pierced by the mountains in the West, a storm brought the child. Raindrops fell, fat and fast, accompanied by the crack and roar of thunder. The windows rattled and at some moments it felt as if the palace itself shook.
Raeche knew only pain. Her body had become a prison walled with suffering and strife. The primal instinct to push pulsed through her, dragging screams from her throat. She fell to the Spirit of Agony, sobbing as her flesh rent. While she struggled to deliver her, the child, angry and frightened, lashed out with her first blast of Spirit, swamping them with her emotions.
The Emperor himself stayed near through the labor, soothing them both with his own Spirit of the Empath as much as he dared. The Imperial couple had been warned that the interference of too much Spirit during the birth could drive both mother and child mad, or worse. Despite the warning–and though Raeche knew herself to be an unfair woman–her Spirit told her she would be forever grateful for his help and restraint.
After the labor the nurses cleaned the girl child. Taritana, performing her duty as the Empress’s Personal and Woman of the Spirit, blessed her. As Raeche listened carefully–waiting for the Rage to overtake the Emperor–Valor, performing his duty as The Emperor’s Personal and Man of the Spirit, witnessed the Emperor’s acceptance of his heir. Then the child was returned to Raeche, laid in her arms against her breast.
When the new heir to the Empire, calm and on her way to slumber, blinked up at Raeche, the Empress noticed the pale, almost icy-green irises of her eyes, which were already open, aware. They looked like the Clear Pool beneath the trees of the Forest to the East. With timid, trembling fingers, Raeche brushed back the portion of the blanket covering the baby’s head. Skin fair as the nightstar, Rucha’s wisps of hair shone with the color of the daystar at its highest.
Raeche gasped before remembering that Taritana watched with narrowed eyes. Valor stood at her side and neither would fail in their duty. Raeche steadied herself and accepted Rucha with her own rite, proud she did not stumble and inspire further suspicion.
Raeche looked up at her husband–the tall, blond, all-powerful, fair-skinned, green-eyed devil.
She had known nothing of fear before this day.
Chapter 3
With their Personals flanking them, the Imperial couple stood on the tower balcony and presented the new heir to the Empire. The Personals swore on the Spirit the legitimacy of the child, vowing to protect her happiness and livelihood and, by doing so, protect the Empire’s happiness and livelihood, as long as they lived. This vow acted as the first official step in relieving them of their responsibilities to the Empire. Two more ceremonies and they would no longer be Personals. In the next ceremony, a child Personal would be chosen for Rucha. Her betrothed, young Eynow, would also receive one. In the final rite, Rucha would be deemed a woman, a scholar of the Spirit, and a warrior, thus ready to inherit the Empire.
As was the unwritten tradition of Personals, both Taritana and Valor relished this moment–the beginning of freedom–but neither would openly acknowledge their relief, which was also traditional. They were honored by this duty, the most important in the Empire after that of the Imperial couple, but it prevented either of them from pursuing their own lives, their own spouses, even their own property. They needed at all moments to be prepared to replace either ruler as half of the Empire in order to execute the strength of continuity.
When the ceremony was complete, the Imperial court retired to a reception in the Great Hall of Victory, named thus for its myriad tapestry depictions of the war that created an Empire even as it isolated the South.
After arriving at the reception, Valor used detached efficiency to extract himself. He greeted members of the Imperial court, danced with the Empress despite his distaste for her, and kissed his niece and Personal daughter, Rucha. He challenged the Emperor to a battle of swords–an ancient tradition–and was dutifully bested. Valor assured all in attendance that the Death White Border that separated the Empire from the land of Poachers and Riddlers needed him once more. He embraced his brother, ignoring the Empress, whom he found to be beautiful yet spoiled, powerful yet immature and spiteful. He made official declarations to Taritana while holding her hands, which she returned in kind. Then they made a traditional toast. All needed to witness their devotion to the Empire and the Imperial family.
Finally, Valor quit the reception with plans to pack before traveling to the South. While stuffing the last provisions into a bag made of the thin but nearly impenetrable greatch hide, the door whispered open and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
“Taritana.”
“Valor,” she said, her voice deep and controlled as usual. “May I enter?”
“You may.”
Valor sensed her coming deeper into the room, though he did not turn to greet her. Laying eyes on her might very well lead to disaster. Besides, he did not need to look at her. No one in the Empire knew her form, the way she moved, the shape of her Spirit as well as he. He busied himself with reorganizing his bags.
“You are off to the South again,” Taritana said.
“Yes, as always.”
“Is that wise?”
“The Death-White Border is lovely this season.” He smirked.
Always so devout and dutiful, she ignored his quip. Instead, she paused to say a prayer and make a sign to the Spirit for the great, fallen aurus–once thought to be immortal, indestructible–whose bones now dug into the soil of the south and curled up to the sky, marking the line of destruction for any born of the Empire who dared cross it. “As Personal, you should not put yourself in direct danger.” She did not sound concerned for his good health. Like a perfectly dedicated Personal, her concern for the Empire ruled.
“Better me than Lanus.”
Her silence marked agreement.
“You and I both know the sole danger facing our Emperor is the Empress. What happens to me is of no importance. He will survive.”
He sensed her shudder. Sensed her come nearer. Not near enough to touch, only to whisper. She wanted something from him. “Valor, I know what part of the Spirit takes you. I know your real name. I need to know–”
“You know very little, Taritana, especially about me.” He knew the words would sting. She did not care over much for him but she had never been treated to his temper either. It would make her uncomfortable. Far be it for Valor to leave her, his secret weakness, to her discomfort. “I apologize for my tone, Second Empress. The Empire is strong but there are those that stir the wind with questions. You have done something to calm the swaying trees and breaking waves, for now. It is an honorable thing you have done, Taritana.”
He imagined she