Year 924YC, in the Year of the Church

VOICES IN THEIR thousands whispered to Aiyana. Shooting pain followed their onset as the cacophony reverberated throughout her skull. So many voices. All saying the same thing.

Whenever she was alone, ghostly figures would also crowd the edges of her vision. This new phenomenon had begun a few weeks earlier. If she turned her head to look at them there was never anyone there. She couldn’t make out their features, and the more she concentrated the less substantial they became.

It’s coming, their voices warned. It comes for you. You must act, Aiyana. You must. They never commanded or berated her, just pleaded, and oh, how their cries were heart-rending. She wanted to help them. It was her duty besides. It was the reason she existed.

The would-be imperatrix cried out in her mind for them to quieten, while massaging her temple as she attempted to collect her thoughts, to focus. She then scrubbed at the gold ring on her left hand with its inset of black wings as she sought to place herself in the present. At times, she felt pulled outside of herself as though she too was a ghost. Once, when those wings had been of silver, she would have kissed them for luck. When she looked at them now, she felt the urge to toss the object into the flames. But, she did not.

Wincing, she forced the voices deeper before raising a shaky goblet to her lips to savour the spiced liquid. A pity wine did not impact the undead as it did the living; her talent at appearing alive had limits. It would have been pleasant to lose herself in a drunken haze, to forget everything, if but for a while.

In control again, she eyed her guest while offering him the cup.

The Calamiri envoy took the goblet while examining her with a look of concern. Whatever he thought of her behaviour he kept it to himself suggesting he wasn’t a fool. She’d met too many of those. Taking a deep draught of the wine before handing it back, the envoy smiled. Her gesture was meant to be a sign of companionship, of trust; a load of old diplomatic shittery she no longer had patience with. She’d just needed the extra moment to collect her sanity. It seemed ruling was as much about the façade. She despised it, but to gain the backing and the finances she needed, it was proving necessary.

The bronze-skinned man, in gold sequenced robes of white and a wide golden belt complete with a red-jewelled hilted dagger, bowed low. Since she wasn’t the imperatrix yet, he had no need, but she appreciated the gesture. He also wore his jet-black hair in long braids and had a bone necklace.

The reception room in the Black Palace felt massive with just the two of them and two servants. She’d insisted the guards remain outside, including her imperial marshal. She had wanted to make it feel less intimidating, at least at first.

‘The hospitality of your imperium is most welcome, princess,’ said the envoy in a greasy voice. ‘We had worried … well, due to recent events that we would not be well received. The rumours reaching us were most unpleasant. We almost expected to find someone undead on the throne.’ He offered a polite laugh and resumed his scratching. The poor fellow appeared to be developing a skin condition.

How awful.

Nearby were cushioned seats close to a wide basalt fireplace. Flames fingered the fat logs but gave off little warmth. Not that she needed the heat, but at times she almost believed she was living and breathing. It had been her dream once, to be alive. Then something would remind her of the truth hidden beneath the lies and a darkness would fall upon her.

There were several windows to her left looking out over the palace gardens and city. She glided to one, forcing the envoy and a servant to follow. Glancing through the bubbled glass down into the overgrown summer garden, she said, ‘By rumours, I believe you mean the reports from your spies? It is my understanding they are numerous here in Icarthya.’

He grunted, clearing his throat. ‘Diplomacy is—’

‘Let me stop you there,’ she said raising one hand with her back still turned to him. ‘I have no time or patience to be diplomatic. I also don’t care if you take offense. We both know you have your spies everywhere. Your rulers see opportunity in our misfortune. Let us not play these political games.’

She turned to place the goblet on a silver platter held by one of the few human servants remaining to her. Aiyana smiled at her visitor, who took a fresh cup. He drank it a lot faster. He was the eighth such sent north from Eladaldor, admitted through the lone gateway at the Gulley. At least that part of the imperium wasn’t falling apart. Yet. Only one envoy, from the kingdom of Tage to the southwest, had arrived by ship.

Overt spies, they came to see whether they could pick clean whatever remained. With the legions under the command of a new imperial marshal she imagined this envoy wasn’t pleased. He had likely expected a greater mess. It wouldn’t stop him from seeking out weak points, and given the opportunity he’d find them. Aiyana was in a precarious position. The imperium was wounded if not dead. Undead might have described it best, and she had to stifle another giggle. It was a joke Threadfin would appreciate. She laughed despite herself. The diplomat frowned, uncertain if he should take offence. Yes, she thought, keep him unbalanced.

‘We understand,’ he said in a cold voice, ‘you are having trouble with your bid for the throne. Since we are not being, diplomatic.’

Now, that is direct. I guess I did offend him. Oh, well, no point holding back now.

‘The Kalasari of Calamir,’ he went on in an imperious tone, ‘might be positively disposed towards you. They stand ready to gather support and finance, should you require it.’ He scratched at his neck again, the beginning of a red sore appearing above his golden collar. Poor fellow was starting to look pale too.

The translation of his words was easy enough; they would back her with military aid to secure her position, murdering her rivals and critics, while propping her on the throne as their puppet. Calamir would finally have a foothold, if not outright control, in the imperium. Did they think her so naive or desperate? Wasn’t she? Sometimes she felt like a child pretending to be an imperatrix, ruling over her dolls with imperial iron.

‘The trouble is,’ she answered sweetly, feeling anything but, ‘you do not understand the situation at all.’

The envoy’s eyes narrowed, a slight shake of the head while he scratched furiously. The sores climbed his neck towards his chin. His scratching made them angrier, and he began to appear anxious.

With a sigh, she let go of her power and the façade she’d long shown the world. Threadfin had let the kecc out of the sack with his misadventures, although it was unfair to blame him for all of it. Just some of it. No matter, the time for hiding was over. It could never have lasted, not with what was coming.

The envoy’s eyes widened, his mouth opening and closing. To his credit he didn’t flee, though he clearly wanted to. He downed the rest of the wine in a single gulp and began to splutter. The servant moved to render aid, but the envoy flapped a hand to stay him.

‘As you can see,’ said Aiyana, ‘your rumours were most accurate.’ Her viral face wasn’t at all beautiful as breathers considered beauty. Lifting a finger, she touched her desiccated skin, moving up towards her sunken eye socket and repositioned a wisp of lank grey hair, to cover a bald patch. She offered him a gap-toothed smile. She felt a maggot burrowing through her right cheek and there were new changes since her battle with Avitus. Both iris and pupil were missing in each of her eyes, and dark veins smothered her body. Her magic-wrought façade managed to keep it hidden, although the effort proved greater than it once had. Several of the servants had taken ill, though she tried to spread it out as much as possible. After all, her magic needed life.

‘Our sources,’ the man mumbled, gagging from either her face or the wine, ‘did inform us you are, um, of the undead. I must admit, I did not believe it. However, this is not news. We have encountered such in our own lands in the past. Virals have existed throughout the world at one time or another.’

Impressive, she thought. Most breathers would trip over themselves trying to get away, gibbering their allegiance. ‘Yes, you have encountered us.’ She offered him her fiercest glare, which considering her current appearance, must have been terrifying. The Calamari had beheaded and burned every undead viral they’d uncovered.

‘Return and inform your leaders this is a viral imperium,’ she said. ‘I will become imperatrix and rule as my father did. I welcome any alliance that will benefit the Icarthian Imperium. However, I will not tolerate interference. Any Calamiri spy caught within our borders, I will have executed, including any posing as envoys.’

The man’s face paled further and he backed away a step, one hand on the hilt of his dagger.

‘Either Calamir is our friend,’ she continued, ‘or it is not. Please, I hope you don’t mind if I do not escort you out. I have a lot to do. Spies to round up and kill. You know, lots of important matters of state.’

The man walked backwards, bowing as he scratched furiously, the boils vicious. Aiyana sagged on to a gilded chair as the doors shut. She had drawn on the man’s life but a touch, and yet it made her feel dirty.

She allowed her façade to return. While she had accepted who and what she was, she didn’t enjoy showing her true face or the fear it caused. Old habits, she supposed. People’s reactions would always bother her. Am I some sort of monster then? Poor old Fin, suffering all those years, while everyone had looked at her beauty and smiled.

Now, Threadfin looked more a monster than before, but at least he was comfortable with it. All virals had power, albeit not equal, but her brother was a true mage with a greater level of magic. It had marked him inside and out. He was not her little brother anymore and she grieved for the innocence of their youth.

It was then the voices resumed their familiar clamour.

It’s coming! Aiyana. Flee!