Around each of Seismorix's fingers was laced the chords of a grand harp. He was seated at his stage, a composer in contemplation. When next inspiration arose, he would clench and claw at the strings. Their hooks were embedded in his ancient adversary, long become his slave. Seimorix toyed with their misery, sending ripples through the realm. A new cacophony was surmounting. Soon, the earth would split at his command.

A chord struck him, brash and talentless. It was not of his design. The earth quivered, rattling his hand around which the chord was threaded. It had not done so in an age.

The Quakelord grinned. It inspired him much to know his slave still writhed in the agony of his bounds. His host. His muse.

***

The next morning, Orsin arrived with a fresh tunic for Skippii to wear to his summons.

"Tenoris sends his regards," he said. "The tonnage was summoned to drills, but Maritor let me drop this off first."

Skippii climbed out of bed. He expected to feel sore and fragile, but found his muscles fresh.

"How are you feeling?" Orsin asked.

"Good, somehow. There must have been something in Kylinissa's invocation that healed me while I slept."

"Kylinissa?" he said.

"Our arcanus."

Orsin raised an eyebrow.

Skippii dressed and shouldered his thorax armour, fastening his cloak with his mother's broach. He was surprised to find that most of his possessions were unburned. By Tenoris' account, he had not burned so brightly as the night they had rescued Cliae. And something had felt different about this evocation. The magia had come from deep within the earth.

Looking inward, he perceived the halo at his core–a solid golden ring. At its centre was a red pupil, and between them, a black iris. Scouring with his mind, he reached towards it, but unlike the halo, it remained distant. Only the rising glow reached him, like a candle at the bottom of a well. To think that he had harnessed that power upon the riverbank made him shudder. He had reached too far, too quickly, not knowing what he would find, not able to withstand its strength.

"Hey, Skip," Orsin urged. "You sure you're well?"

Opening his eyes, he shook himself. "Yeah. I'll manage."

Without meaning to, he was gripping the hilt of his kuri. The leather straps had burned off, revealing the charred antler-horn beneath. Skippii squeezed the grip, expecting to feel it crack, but it seemed secure enough.

"Want me to re-strap that?" Orsin said.

You've done enough, Skippii wanted to say, but something in his eyes gave him pause. "Yeah," he said finally, handing over the knife hilt-first. "Thanks. How do I look?"

"Rough."

"Think the Imperator will mind?"

They each shared a hopeless glance, then laughed. There was something oddly comedic about the ridiculousness of his situation.

"Thanks," Skippii said. "You best get back to duties, eh?"

Orsin paused by the exit to the physician's tent. He looked as though he had much to say, but shut his lips and grasped Skippii on the shoulder. "Good luck."

Outside, Custos Maritor was waiting. Skippii saluted his superior and followed him towards the centre of the camp, where the Imperator's tent was erected. He rarely wandered through the central district. There were less wood-fires and pack animals compared to where the legionnaires bedded; in their place, scribes hurried between large tents. The air smelled cleaner–a good distance from the palisade walls and trenches, which doubled as the legion's latrines.

Here and there, women strode through the muddy paths. Some were scribes, others arcanus, physicians and accountants. His eye was drawn to the few professional lovers, the thin silk of their underdresses peaked illustriously out from underneath the sleeves of thick fur coats. Lavender perfume lingered in the air, riling his gut and exciting his nerves.

"Listen," Custos Maritor said suddenly, and Skippii caught up to his superior's side. "When you enter, bow before the Imperator, and do not raise your head until told to do so. Then, salute. Give him your best salute. Don't look at anyone else, they are inconsequential to you now."

"Who else will be there?" he asked.

"Praegesta Summitus, the coven, and many others you don't need to know the names of right now. But don't worry about them at first. They'll address you in time. The first thing you do is pay your respects to the Imperator. He will decide your fate, not the Senior Primus, not the Coven, not anyone else."

"Okay," Skippii said as his heart beat faster, and his feet wobbled beneath him. In the brief time he had marched with Legion IX, he had learned so many new names and faces and ranks that his head swam with the information, springing leaks. His Primus sighed. "You're not ready for this, clearly, but you have some allies in there. The arcanus has put in a good word for you, as have I, and Summitus saw your deeds himself. If I had a read on the Senior Primus, I'd say he admires you. Just… don't piss off the Coven."

Their pace slowed as they arrived before a large pavilion. The flags of all ten cohorts flew outside the entrance, and the mark of the Imperator flew above the rest: a golden eagle with spread wings, upon the tips of each of the twelve largest feathers shone the colours of the twelve Pantheon Gods; in one claw it clutched a sheaf of wheat, in the other, a legion shield.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Skippii's heart stammered, and suddenly he felt short of breath. Six men guarded the entrance, adorned in immaculate bronze breastplates depicting the supreme musculature of hardened warriors. Their faces were grizzled and stern beneath high-plumed helmets. Their fine cloaks were not the typical blood-red, but deep-purple, like brutal bruises: the Custos Maritor saluted them, and their spears parted, admitting him and Skippii.

"Don't smile, don't get cocky," Marinus said, brushing Skippii's cloak clean. "Look stern. Look mean, if you can, but speak softly. Submit yourself, and you'll do just fine."

"Right. Stern and softly."

Before he could compose himself, Custos Maritor pushed him towards the entrance. It was all he could do to catch his feet under him and take a breath before the curtain was lifted, and all eyes were upon him.

A throne basked in the light of braziers, atop which sat Legion IX's Imperator: Titus Virelius. Skippii had heard the man's description spoken, and caught glimpses of him from afar, but had never before seen him up close. His long magisterial cloak flowed beneath him, draping over the rug-laden floor as though his very aura was spilling out of the confines of the throne. His iron armour glistened like dark silver as the brazier's fires flickered over the metallic musculature. Veins of blue light shone within its grooves, pulsating softly–veins of magia, infused by magi smiths. He wore bracelets of valour, earned in battle, the same simple bronze and silver adornments worn by common legionnaires. A necklace of spangling medals draped over his breastplate–enough metal in accolades to deflect an arrow. Atop his head sat a golden crown.

His blonde hair was receding, tied in a tight ponytail behind his neck. A small pale beard sprouted like a spear tip. His eyes were large and white, pitted by creases and bags. He did not hide his age nor old wounds behind makeup and dress, as Skippii knew was common amongst politicians. His neck was bare–deeply tanned by decades in the hot sun. A long straight scar cut him from chin to collarbone; he wore the wound as plainly as he did his many glittering accolades.

Skippii bowed low, and meant it.

"Legionnaire, idle."

Skippii straightened himself, however the Imperator had not spoken. The command came from his cohort's Superior Primus, Praegesta Summitus. Beside him was Kylinissa, her head hung deferentially. It looks odd on her. Was she nervous of the Imperator's audience, or…

"Helmet," muttered Custos Maritor from behind. With a jolt, Skippii removed his helmet and saluted the forum, dragging his eyes from Kylinissa and forcing them upon the Imperator. The formidable stare that was returned shook his resolve, but he bit his tongue and did not back down.

"Skippii Altay," a scribe spoke. "You have been summoned to account for your actions upon the riverbank, two days minus. You were witnessed invoking a potent magia which cannot be accounted for by the Gods. You are accused of keeping this magia concealed from your superiors. Clarivoxa Kylinissa has given her testimony, and sworn to this forum that she detected no traces of heresy, neither of this magia or of your mind. However, she has also admitted that much of her divination was unsuccessful, and beyond her skills."

Skippii forced his breathing to remain steady as his eyes flickered over the half-dozen superiors in attendance, accompanied by twice as many scribes and servants. More still peaked through the cracks in fabric partitions at the chamber's edge. Four thick posts held the tent's ceiling aloft, affixed with candles and incense. Purple-cloaked legionnaires stood on either side of him, iron-tipped spears in hand, but he did not pay them any heed. His eyes returned to the Imperator and those same steely, discerning eyes.

I am not your enemy, Skippii thought as a mantra, willing the truth to become visible in his eyes.

"Therefore," the scribe continued. "You will submit yourself and answer the questions of this counsel. Glory Auctoritas. Dominitus et Pantheon,"

All eyes were upon him. He sweated in the heat of braziers and many bodies, a bead streaking down his brow. The energy of the earth rose dimly beneath his feet, but he cast his mind away from it. As though sensing his temptation, three cloaked figures strode towards him–magi of the Coven of Kylin. Each had their faces painted with blue-coloured ink, but the woman in the centre bore the most intricate designs. Fine streams of curling circles, like the currents of a turbulent river, flowed symmetrically, forming vortexes upon her pointed cheeks and sharpness of her chin. Her lips had been painted black, and her small eyes shone like ice picks, stabbing into Skippii's skull.

A chill swept over him, cooling the sweat on his brow. He clenched his body not to shiver and returned their gaze, but there was no compassion in her eyes, no restraint or mercy. Only a feral hatred.

"Why did you keep your magia from the Imperator?" she asked, chin aloft.

"I was unaware of it-"

"That's not what the arcanus spoke," she said, shooting a glance at Clarivoxa Kylinissa, who froze before her ire.

"I was aware of it in the same way you are aware of your heart beating," he said. "I thought nothing of it, until a few days ago, I faced the enemy magus... A heretic, and it came out of me. It awoke. That was the first day I had ever done anything with this magia, of flames and power and heat. I swear, I was not aware when I gave my oaths to the legion."

"That much, I believe," Paegesta Summitus said, addressing the Imperator. "What would he have to gain from keeping it from us, only to use his magia now. He stands before us, head bowed, with an honest admission, unless my judgement of a legionnaire's character has inexplicably diminished."

The Imperator remained silent.

"These are not matters which you properly understand," said the Coven warmagi. "Only through divination can we know for certain his intent."

Praegesta Summitus hummed low. "And in doing so, you would ruin a true-hearted legionnaire. Isn't that so, arcanus?"

Kylinissa nodded, though she would not emerge from behind the Senior Primus' shoulder.

"It would," she ventured. "I am trained to divine carefully, without damaging the subject. That is my one, most useful skill. Last night, I displayed Skippii Altay's soul to Hesperia, and felt no disdain in her response. She would have detected heresy, or evil-heartedness, had it been there. It is true, the Coven are far more worthy apostles of the Stormtress Kylin, far more worthy than I could ever hope…"

"Their divination is blunt," Praegesta Summitus finished for her, raising his voice to address the forum. "They would send him to Kylin, who knows no soft touch. We would lose a spectacular legionnaire, whose odyssey has yet to leave port. Here, I have testimony from his Primus as to his excellence in battle. Foremost, he defeated the heretic magus at a farmstead not one week ago, and was tantamount in killing the Apertorix upon the trail. Furthermore, this act of his, which we have gathered to discuss, was performed against the enemy. Plainly, this speaks to his veracity."

"Then what has he to hide?" the warmagi asked. "What has he performed that we do not have accounts for? What is he planning? What voices speak to him? What magia does he possess?"

She turned her back on Skippii, facing the throne.

"My Imperator, release him to us, I implore you. Such a vagabond magus weakens the legion's phalanx, but we Twelve can purge his mind–cleanse his soul with Kylin's breath. If by some miracle, he has become astral overnight without patron nor ceremony, then whoever is his acheron will save him. If it is Erymenes, then he will entreat with Kylin and sooth her wrath. If it were Summitor, he would force her to stop. But if it is not, and no Gods come to his aid as we all suspect, then we will have done away with one more heretic infesting these lands."

The warmagi turned back around, and an icy wind ran up Skippii's spine. "Believe me, it would be my pleasure."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.