Ever Lord

How long had it been?

Days? Years? What was time to the dead? There was no now, only then. The dead had no future, only a past full of pain and best forgotten.

Then, a point of light. He woke. The cold grip of life closed over his heart as the aches and pains of the burning air settled over him.

“Master Yebidesh, can you open your eyes?”

The voice was soft and gentle, a sharp needle in his ears through the rushing sound of blood and screams. He tried to open his eyes, stopping when the effort drained him. Nearby, the sounds of a medical monitor beeped at him, faint…too faint. He couldn’t fall asleep while he was holding a soldier’s heart in his hands. He needed to know what his patient was feeling. He reached out to adjust the monitor’s volume.

“Don’t try to move, just rest.”

Sen turned the corner, when a sudden sound made him stop in his tracks.

“Hey!” the call was from deep in the bunker. “Hey, is anyone here?”

Reinforcements!

Sen tried to run, but could only shamble forward like a broken toy. He wanted to shout and cry for help. He wanted to scream and bring his fellow soldiers running to his side. Safety! Warmth! Life!

No!

His legs wouldn’t listen, so with a surge of desperation, Sen pulled his body aside, crashing into the wall to stop his shambling run. They were dreams he shouted at his spasming body. Illusions. Hallucinations of a past or future that never happened.

The voice called from nearby, “my name is Captain Bellon of the Hyan Heavy Infantry, Third Echelon. We won’t hurt you.”

Sen’s eyes snapped open.

“Bad dream?” the Base Girl asked, her thick off-world accent tickling his ear. He curled up next to her, muttering platitudes as weeping wounds and bleeding eyes bubbled up from his nightmares.

She was cold; as cold as a corpse.

Struggling to surface from the torrent of dreams that pulled at him, Sen opened his eyes again.

His lungs hurt. They burned when he breathed in, they ached when he didn’t. His face was stuck to a metal floor, his mouth dry and cracked. He carefully tried to move, feeling his muscles resist, protesting in pain. With a sickening noise, he pulled his hands off the metal floor, feeling scraps of skin remaining behind. The pain cut through his confusion.

Pain. This was now.

“Sen?”

Sixty three, sixty-four, sixty five…

Sen of House Yebidesh, filial to House Hyan, burst into a sprint through the dark corridors of the underground bunker, his tiny bag tightly strapped to his back. Footfalls echoed like bullets, ricocheting through the metal halls and back to his ears. Stealth didn’t matter now; speed was what counted. If he was lucky, he would reach the other end of the hallway in time. He wouldn’t have to use the ChillPatch.

“Ho there, slow down! What’s going on?”

Frantically, Sen dodged the grasping hand. It wasn’t there. He kept moving, closing his eyes to the darkness, counting to himself in his head.

Without warning, his left leg, tired and worn from exertion, refused to clear the small lip through the central hatch.

Sen fell.

The Six Bells of the Ever Palace rang out its final call, Eve’nbell had come. The Ever Palace, once as vibrant and active as any anthill, was still and silent.

Bulquis Renner Torvis, Strike Commander of the Seventh Vanguard of House Torvis and Bearer of the Waliken Standard, was not still.

Renner was walking as quietly and swiftly as he could, moving from shadow to shadow on the streets, keeping himself hidden from the Doorsmin’s attention. It was nothing difficult. While it had been many years since he had fought as a soldier on any front-lines, his years as Strike Commander had given him a respectful understanding of both the limits of any guards attention, and the boundaries of even holy vows.

Besides, he had a holier charge than even that of the Doorsmin.

The cool night wind was refreshing after the heavily perfumed air of the ballroom. Navin breathed as deep as the tight clothing would allow. Pale fingers played along the edge of the stone balcony, tracing cracks and seams like a spider searching for a foothold.

The Viceroy’s Estate sat at the top of a great hill. From the balcony, the Port City of the Third World lay stretched out towards the horizon. In the distance, the giant Port Tower gleamed in the night, its marble walls glittering among hanging lanterns and guiding lights. Around the tower’s many docks and balconies hung both mighty and humble Velvet-ships of every shape and size. Each was built by the hand of their Ever Lord’s own engineers, by methods known only to the most secret of artisans.

The Eve’nbell had rung on the First World, and so too throughout the Empire. Lights were dim all throughout the Port City as trade, labor, and conversation ceased. Peasants and nobles alike returned to their homes to eat and rest.

A light flickered in some distant window, a single red crystal to mirror the thousand icy cousins that shone above. Navin watched as the faint glow burned brighter, a beacon in the darkness. A fitful child, perhaps, and their mother waking to comfort it. A merchant, returning late from the tavern. Perhaps a nightmare had plagued an old man, who now sat up to drink away the horror. A young maid, reading again the letters of her love, aching for the morning. A thousand possibilities, and Navin would never know which was true.

CW: Physical and emotional control.

What had Navin done?

Nothing. Navin had done nothing.

Broken tool.

Wallin province was beautiful and verdant. Navin had heard this. Everyone had heard this.

Born to serve.

Navin had said nothing any other servant would not have said. No one would know what Navin had likely set in motion. There was nothing wrong in what Navin had said.

Navin had said it!

“Navin of House Bithrakai.” The gentle voice that drifted across Navin’s ears was rimmed with steel. It was half a question, half a command.

Navin turned to see a woman dressed in a simple green dress of silk and lace. Sparkles of silver and gold glittered across the fabric, and bright gems of purple and yellow danced on the top of thin tassels all along the sleeves. Her eyes, framed by silken locks of sable-black hair, were the only part of the woman’s face that weren’t covered by her ornate fan.

When their eyes met, the woman extended a white-gloved hand, palm down. It was a simple command, one Navin couldn’t help but obey. Navin curtsied and took the lady’s hand, smelling the strong perfume drifting lazily from the woman’s powdered face.

Deep in Navin’s mind, a thousand clues were collected and analyzed. The colors and style of the dress, the image on the fan, even the shape of the woman’s brow was useful information. Even before Navin had gripped the fragrant glove, the hidden face had a name.

“My dear Lady Vach,” Navin smiled, “what a delight to see you. House Bithrakai is grateful that you could come.”

The silver sash was fastened by gold chain-and-seal at the top of the left shoulder and then allowed to drape half-way down the waist. The remaining fabric was looped through the belt and tied properly at the right waist.

There was a proper way to do things. Navin knew this more than anyone. Even more so than the guards that could be stripped of their House name if they did not stand tall when the Viceroy was in residence, Navin knew this. There was, in the twenty years of Navin’s life, nothing more constant than that most primary lesson; to serve properly was to live properly.

The gallat was fixed to the right shoulder by a clasp and pinned to the edge of the collar. The tassels were allowed to dangle freely, the bells woven to them tinkling gently when brushed by the puffy sleeves of the blouse.

Navin wasn’t sure it understood propriety the same as others did. When other people talked about propriety, it sounded like they were describing the seasoning of a dish or the accents of a hem, not the meal or dress in itself. It was like listening to barbarian Kits when they first learned Imperial; they spoke the words, but the meaning was somehow still foreign.

It was said that across the Five Worlds of the Empire of Ever and Always, that there were over a Thousand Houses, each given their own sigil and dictum by the Ever Lord Himself. They each had their own ways, their own codes, and their own customs. Some ate large meals of meat and wine when the sun hung overhead. Others sat down at dusk to eat large stews of nuts and vegetable. Some devoured raw fish, others charred roots.

All who resided in the Ever Palace ate at the same time. It didn’t matter which House they belonged to or what customs they practiced, the largest meal of the day was always served at Eve’nBell. There was not a soul allowed out of doors while the evening meal was eaten, nor after, until the dawn broke the next day.

Lippothalus, personal Hand-servant to the Archduchen Belah Tharghem, knew better.

The law of the Ever Lord was universal, yes, but too did it need to be selective. While the curfew was strictly enforced, it was impossible for the nobility of the Empire to remain still and silent. Messages were slid under doors, meetings were held under cover of darkness, all with the security of honor and title.

The perfect irony of the Ever Lord’s curfew: those who had more reason to defy it had the least to fear from its enforcement. Night was not when the Empire slept, simply when it closed its eyes.

And what happened with eyes tightly shut, well…