Dark Immolation Read online

  A forest of hands raised once more, accompanied by another chorus of “Aye.” The vote was certainly not unanimous this time, but obviously still a majority. Daval rose his hand among them, voicing his consent. His rival on the ballot was inevitable; it was better to move things along quickly.

  “And those opposed?”

  A few hands raised, but not enough to contest the nomination.

  Kirkan knocked the emperor’s gavel on the table once more. “Let it be written that Hirman Luce has been nominated to succeed the late Emperor Grysole,” Kirkan said. “His name shall be added to the ballot. Any other nominations?”

  A lord in the back row, on the opposite corner of the room from Daval, stood and nominated Dren Freysalt, of all people. Daval sat back. He had instructed Danzel Britstein, Lord of the Island Coalition and one of his vassals, to wait until the third nomination.

  Upon Freysalt’s potential nomination, a number of other lords balked, and an hour or so of discussion and counter-nominations took place. Daval was not particularly interested in who took the second spot. The final vote would be between himself and Luce, that much was certain. So Daval sat back in his chair, waiting for the nomination process to play itself out, when an unexpected name joined the list of potential nominees for that third slot: Danzel Britstein.

  Daval sat up, eyes narrowed, looking at Britstein. According to law, once nominated, a lord could no longer nominate anyone else. Daval had other supporters that he was sure would nominate him, but Britstein had been chosen. He had been promised a place on Daval’s inner council once he ascended to the throne. Surely Britstein wouldn’t throw all that away for an infinitesimally small chance of…

  “I accept the nomination,” Britstein said.

  Daval felt blood rush to his face. When the vote was already so close, losing any votes to Britstein would be disastrous. Britstein was publicly known as a supporter of House Amok; any votes they drew would likely come from other supporters of Daval and his house’s claim.

  Daval stared daggers into Britstein’s back, but the lord did not turn to face him. Fortunately, there were at least five other names vying for the second ballot slot at this point, and Britstein’s chances of actually getting through were slim. Britstein would face the consequences.

  But as the discussion continued, it became clear that Britstein was the frontrunner. Daval could enter the discussion, of course, try to state why Britstein was not fit for the job, but his words would seem self-serving, spoken only to stop his potential votes from fracturing. And the lords supportive of House Luce had caught on; they were saying all they could to tout Britstein’s qualities as potential emperor. Complete bullshit, of course. Britstein could hardly manage his own house, let alone the empire, but Luce’s supporters knew how important it was to split Daval’s vote.

  The vote was called, and the Council nominated Britstein to the second slot.

  Finally, Kirkan called for the third nomination. Daval clenched his jaw. Now, Daval had to rely on one of his other supporters. Surely they would realize the prestige and power that would be in it for them; surely they would see the opportunity, and seize it. Sure enough, Daval saw Lord Plade, one of Amok’s vassals, standing.

  But before Plade could speak, someone stood up.

  “I nominate Kirkan Mandiat for the third and final slot on the ballot,” the man said.

  This is not going as you planned.

  Daval froze. The Fear Lord’s voice in his mind had been strangely absent, recently.

  No, it is not, Daval admitted.

  What are you going to do about it?

  Daval didn’t know, but he was not about to tell the Fear Lord that. His hands, restless on the table, found the voting stone in one corner, a small, polished, blue-painted stone half the size of a man’s fist. He gripped it tightly in one hand.

  There was silence as Kirkan Mandiat, his face pale, eyes wide, looked around.

  Only three nominees were allowed on the ballot. If Mandiat accepted, and a vote was called for before Daval could be nominated, that would be it. Daval’s chance to be emperor would be lost before it began.

  You must be emperor, the Fear Lord’s voice, dark and deep and rolled in fire, whispered in Daval’s mind. That is how events must unfold.

  Daval met eyes with Kirkan Mandiat. Daval shook his head, ever so slightly. Kirkan looked at Daval a moment longer, before he finally nodded. He looked down. “Reluctantly, I must reject this nomination. It has been my pleasure to serve you as First Counselor, but I’m afraid I’m not the leader Roden needs for what we are to face.”

  Daval relaxed; he now did not regret telling Mandiat everything. That, surely, was the only reason the man rejected the nomination.

  “I nominate Lord Daval of House Amok.” Lord Plade, finally.

  The nomination was seconded, and Kirkan looked once more to Daval. “Do you accept this nomination, Lord Amok?”

  Daval stood. “I do,” he said.

  Kirkan nodded, and looked around the room. “Is there any discussion on this point?”

  Silence.

  Good, the Fear Lord’s voice echoed in Daval’s mind.

  “Then let us vote. All in favor of nominating Lord Amok to the imperial ballot?”

  A chorus of “Aye” and raised hands. It was easy to see he had the majority.

  “Very well.” The knock of the emperor’s gavel resounded once again. “The ballot has been filled. Hirman Luce, Danzel Britstein, and Daval Amok have been nominated to succeed our late emperor. We will now begin the vote, for the good of Roden and her people.”

  “For the good of Roden and her people.”

  Daval spoke the words with everyone else, and felt an old, familiar fire in his veins. It was the fire he felt when he secured his first vassal. It was the fire he felt when the Fear Lord had come to him, months ago.

  “The voting will proceed as follows,” Kirkan said. “Each lord will come to the front of the room, and declare the man for whom he will vote. Then that lord will place his voting stone in the corresponding repository.”

  A door opened at the side of the room, and three servants walked in, each carrying a clear glass container. There was a series of lines on each, indicating the number of stones needed for victory.

  “Once one of the repositories has reached the two-thirds marker, the corresponding nominee will be sworn in as emperor. If, after everyone has voted, no repository has been filled to the two-thirds marker, we will allow for a brief period of discussion in which each of the nominees will speak, and then vote once more. We will repeat that process indefinitely, until we have chosen a new emperor. Let the voting begin.”

  * * *

  Daval watched the vote, gripping his own voting stone in his fist. As a nominee, he would no longer be able to use it. So far the vote had been split relatively evenly between Daval and Luce. It seemed Daval had a few more stones, but the count was close so far.

  The Ruling Council’s duty was to observe the election. Though members could not vote, they would know which nominee each lord had voted for. They could use this knowledge to leverage the other lords against the emperor, all while maintaining an air of neutrality. It was a despicable part of Rodenese law, one that Daval himself abhorred. But it was law, nonetheless.

  Most of the sixteen High Lords had voted, now, and none of the votes had been a surprise. It was not the High Lords who were the wild cards in these elections, it was the mid-ranking and lesser lords who carried the real power. Many had approached Daval with votes for sale, subtly broached. Daval was sure they had approached Luce with similar offers.

  Lord Trask declared his vote for Daval, and put his voting stone in the container. By Daval’s count, that marked nine for Daval and seven for Luce. As expected. Now for the lesser lords. Three more votes to Daval, three more to Luce. Lord Plade was the last of these, and his vote fell to Daval. Then Lord Gavrak walked to the front of the room. Gavrak was one of those who had approached Daval with an offer, but Daval’s spi
es whispered that Gavrak had approached Luce as well. Gavrak was a wild card; his vote would be one of the deciding factors. Lord Gavrak held up his voting stone. “I cast my vote for Lord Britstein.”

  Whispers wove throughout the hall. Daval’s eyes widened. That was certainly unexpected. There were, historically, one or two votes for the third candidate in any election, but Daval had not expected it from Gavrak. Gavrak’s house was powerful but not wealthy; and while Gavrak sought gold rapaciously, his atrocious spending habits negated his income. Britstein’s offer must have been generous, indeed, to buy Gavrak’s vote.

  Another vote was cast for Luce. But the next lord voted for Britstein. There were no whispers this time, but confused voices. There was even a shout of disbelief from among the High Lords.

  “A subversion,” Daval whispered. He spoke to no one in particular, but a few heads turned in his direction. Such a thing had been attempted before. The election of an emperor happened only rarely, when an emperor died with no living heir, but only once had a subversion been achieved, in which the lesser houses banded together to elect one of their own.

  The next lord voted for Britstein, as did the one after that. And soon, when Britstein’s receptacle was at equal measure with Daval and Luce’s, Daval knew his suspicions were correct.

  But, after a quick count of the votes that had already been cast, Daval knew this voting session would be inconclusive. Mandiat would call for another. There were forty-nine votes in total; thirty-three were needed for a two-thirds majority, but between Luce and Daval, twenty-one votes had already been cast. Even if every lesser lord voted for Britstein, they wouldn’t reach their goal.

  And, sure enough, that was what happened. Every lesser lord voted for Britstein. Even Freysalt, the lord with whom Daval shared a table.

  “You can’t win,” Daval whispered to Freysalt as he sat back down. “Not while the High Lords are still split between myself and Luce.”

  Freysalt smiled. “Then we shall have to reconcile that split, won’t we?”

  Daval frowned. “This is not the time for subversion. This is the time for unity.”

  “I agree,” Freysalt said. “And we should all unite behind Lord Britstein.”

  They do not understand the stakes, the Fear Lord whispered. They do not know. They think they are doing good, but they are sowing their own destruction. You must stop it.

  “The final vote,” Mandiat declared from the front of the room, standing once more with the emperor’s gavel in hand, “is as follows. Ten votes for Lord Hirman Luce. Eleven votes for Lord Daval Amok. And twenty-eight votes for Lord Danzel Britstein. As we have not reached a two-thirds consensus, we will now give each of the nominees a few moments to speak, after which we will vote again.”

  There was murmuring. If the first vote was inconclusive, the second almost always was, too. They could be in for a long day, perhaps even a long night.

  The emperor’s gavel silenced the murmurs. “Order, my Lords, order,” Mandiat shouted. “We will do our duty, and we will be here as long as it takes.” In a quieter voice he spoke to the servants stationed at the doors. “Bring us food and water, and be sure the cooks are alerted as to the situation. They will need to be on call for the day.”

  The servants left the room. Mandiat looked back out at the lords. “We will do our duty,” he repeated, “until our duty is done. For the good of Roden and her people.”

  “For the good of Roden and her people,” the lords repeated without enthusiasm. Daval felt it, too. This would be a long day. But the Fear Lord was right; Daval needed to find a way to bring the lesser lords to his side. For the good of the realm.

  “Lord Luce, the floor is yours,” Mandiat said, sitting down. “I advise you to be brief.”

  Daval shook his head. Brevity would be the last thing on Luce’s mind.

  * * *

  Daval rubbed his eyes. The bodily enhancements endowed by the Fear Lord were significant, but even he was getting to the point of exhaustion.

  They had been voting, talking, and voting for a day and a night and an entire day again without pause. The sky darkened once more outside the great glass windows, and still no consensus had been reached. At one point Daval feared the minor lords, and Britstein’s eloquence, had won over enough High Lords to carry the nomination through. But then, nearly a day later, the vote had been split evenly once more.

  Servants, looking equally as tired as the lords, walked between the tables, delivering food and drink. No alcohol was allowed during a vote, but Daval watched more than a few lords taking furtive sips from flasks stashed in their robes. As lords placed their votes once more—the twenty-seventh vote—Daval observed at least a half-dozen men drifting in and out of sleep.

  As people’s tempers shortened they would seek the easiest solution. Britstein still carried the majority, usually around twenty-five votes, while Daval and Luce split the rest between them.

  There was an audible sigh of frustration. A lord had just cast his stone for Hirman Luce, ensuring that this count, too, would be deadlocked, though ten or so votes had yet to be cast.

  You are all wasting valuable time. The Fear Lord’s voice pierced Daval’s mental haze like a dagger. Your efforts are all better focused elsewhere.

  I am aware of that, Daval thought, wearily. Do you have any suggestions?

  I have many suggestions. Perhaps I should connect with this Britstein, if his case for the throne is stronger than yours. Perhaps he was the better candidate all along.

  Britstein is a faithful Cantic, Daval complained, unable to stop the panic rising in his chest. He had thought his own position was assured; he had thought he would be emperor.

  You are dispensable, the Fear Lord growled. You all are. Show me that you are less dispensable than these others, Daval. Prove yourself to me.

  I will do as you command, my Lord.

  The last lord had cast his vote, and sure enough, no one had the two-thirds majority.

  Mandiat tapped the emperor’s gavel on the table with significantly less enthusiasm than he’d had when the meeting began almost two days ago. “We will hear from each of the candidates once more, and then vote afterwards.” Mandiat tapped the gavel again. “Lord Luce, you’re first. Speak.”

  Lord Luce stood, and there were more groans. The lords were tired of hearing empty promises. Even Britstein, who had begun his speeches with an astounding amount of charisma, was losing his touch. They were all tired, Luce and Britstein and Daval most of all, their voices hoarse from speaking.

  Luce blabbered on about his same topics, his claim to the throne, his strengths as a leader. When he was finished, Daval was pleasantly surprised to see Britstein looking almost as lethargic. Britstein was making jokes, now, which would only move the crowd in the favor of the High Lords. No one wanted a childish man as their emperor.

  “The best thing about the vote taking this long,” Britstein said, shaking his head, “is that the longer the vote takes, the less likely it is that one of the lords will rise up against the others when the final vote falls. This might be the most peaceful ascension we’ve had in centuries, simply because we’re so exhausted.”

  Daval smirked. It was true that in the past, lords had spoken against the new emperor following an election, and sometimes those words had led to violence.

  Which was all the more reason for Daval to take the throne. Now.

  Britstein took his seat. Daval observed more than a few heads shaking; the lords were not pleased with Britstein’s nonchalance. This was Daval’s chance. He stood, smoothing his robes. He had elected to wear the robes of the Tokal-Ceno’s office in place of his lordly garb. The statement was clear; while Daval was one of the High Lords, he also had a calling still higher. It also made his absence from the Ruling Council that much more obvious.

  Daval walked to the front of the room. He stopped, looking out at the lords, many of whom were ignoring him completely. Daval stood in silence for a few moments, and eventually all heads turned to face him.
They were wondering at his silence.

  Let them wonder.

  In addition to his strengthened physique, Daval had received other gifts from the Fear Lord. He had been reluctant to use them, wanting to save them for the right time. No better time than now. He snapped his fingers.

  A crack of thunder filled the room, and everything was engulfed in utter blackness. While Azael was the Lord of Terror, his domain of power spread far beyond fear. Darkness, too, was his to command, and as the Fear Lord’s servant, Daval shared that power.

  Shouts of frustration, anger, and confusion filled the room, but Daval was less interested in those shouts than he was in the whispers. The whispers of horror that roiled beneath the braying of those whose first reaction in times of danger and uncertainty was to shout their boldness to the world. But beyond those sounds was something else. A sound Daval recognized very well. It was indistinguishable from the other whispers, at first, hardly louder than a rush of air, but it was constant, and it was growing. It was the whisper of an empty seashell, but magnified, constant and terrible. It was the rush of nothing, and it grew to fill the ears of every lord.

  Daval let the darkness and uproar continue for a few moments, then snapped his fingers once more, and the dark veil lifted. The noise, however, continued, and it was now so loud that many of the lords were covering their ears, though little good such a thing would do them.

  All eyes were on Daval. And, when Daval raised his hand, the terrible rush of the void around them collapsed, and the room was silent.

  “This charade ends now,” Daval said, his voice echoing in the chamber. “We have gone on long enough. Roden needs an emperor who will carry her through the times to come. Times that hold a danger for our empire that you don’t yet know.”

  Daval turned his head to Hirman Luce, seated at the Ruling Council’s table. “Lord Luce is a coward and a drunkard. His occupation of the throne would only send Roden into ruin.” Daval glanced at each of the High Lords who supported Luce. “You all know this. Accept it.”

  Daval’s gaze fell upon Danzel Britstein. “And Lord Britstein, who supported me until this evening, is a turncoat and a child. He will sell his loyalty—and Roden’s—to the highest bidder. He is not fit to lead. Each of you know this.”