Ever Lord

“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…

Mura adjusted her grip on her rifle.

She was one of four in her family who had taken to the art, the rest had made do with bows, swords, and spears. Even accounting for her natural talent, she had wished she had been given more opportunity to practice; but they had limited ammunition and getting more was both complicated and dangerous.

Mura’s eyes narrowed as she saw the marching soldiers break over the distant hill, pushing against the windstorm. She fought the urge to press herself down behind the barn rooftop where she lay; hiding would do no good now, and she needed to watch them approach.

Two years. Two years of banditry, as a family outside the Empire. Two years since they had killed a Knight of House Noonan, and was cast out of the Empire as heretics and bandits. Two years of waiting for the day when the Baroner’s soldiers would march down the road with weapons gleaming and deadly to either kill or imprison them all.

Two years of silence.

Heim Outwater was not a particularly handsome boy. Neither was he especially strong or clever. He was not known as a particularly skilled farmer nor tender of animals, he was a passing flue-player and could dance no better than any of the other awkward boys his age.

Mura was grateful for his lack of special skills, as it made him well suited to be House Outwater’s messenger boy. He traveled often between the farms of the Barony of Noonan, gathering and sharing news as he could. Mura didn’t doubt that House Ashtree was not the only House that saw him less as an Outwater and more as a wandering vagabond, accepting a meal and warm bed for his service.

He was still sleeping in that bed when Mura had woken up to start her morning chores. She didn’t begrudge his exhaustion; He had arrived late last night on his tired horse, bearing the news from the other farms.

Mura had given Heim a kiss on the cheek for his efforts. This made him first blush most furiously, and then stagger when Oklan slapped him heartily on the back with a laugh. It was a welcome moment of levity, considering the news he had brought.

Ordinarily, the evening meal in House Ashtree was a boisterous affair. Ashtree was a one of the larger farms in the Barony, with no fewer than forty men, women, and children. Each had a place at the longhouse table, and they all ate together when the day’s work was finished. Even when the day had been long and their muscles exhausted, there was always a story worth telling and laughter worth sharing.

Unlike the morning meal; which had three tiny courses of egg, butter-root cakes, and thick honeyed curd to provide energy for the day; the evening meal was longer, richer, and seasoned with good company. Roasted roots and grains were mashed into crispy cakes next to thick and chewy vegetables. Honeyed fruits garnished thin cuts of meat and bread. Nothing was served that took long to prepare, but all of it would insure a deep and restful sleep.

On the days that marked the changing of the seasons, a large paper-wrapped cheese was brought out at the end of the meal to much celebration, and everyone would share a hearty slice. The children would then be sent to bed while the adults would stay awake, pulling bottles of old wines and beers out of the pantries, sharing a drink and speaking with each other about the news between local families and rumors from the other Houses and farms.