Excerpt: The Sylvan Monk Book IV: ?

Being summoned to the Emperor’s compound like a subject didn’t sit well with the Sylvan Monk, but he knew he had to appease whatever whims struck his friend, a fact made all the more important by their impending departure. Earlier in the day, as he attempted to repair the rift between himself and his compatriots by allowing them to shape his plan. They weren’t fast to warm to it, and Whisper at least remained disappointed she hadn’t taken part in coming up with the plot, but in the end they came to a consensus that the sooner they left Infall the better they could execute the new plan. Whisper had been overruled, the only one among them still believing the Emperor could be persuaded. As the Monk left the hotel, late at night after most of them had retired to their rooms, she seemed buoyed by the possibility the Emperor had changed his mind. The idea was reinforced, in her opinion, by the Monk’s inability to explain why he had been called.
The halls wound through the compound, and he always felt as he traveled them like an infection traveling the artery of a body that was ready at any moment to reject him. Perhaps the Emperor, who had all but ceased to be known as “Cale” in his mind these days, served as the brain of the organism, and recognizing the Monk as an invader had chosen such a moment to flush him from the body. Security soldiers, including the unpredictable monk Barrow, escorted him the entire distance to the quaint private dining chamber, its red doors opened like valves to the heart to welcome him.
As the Monk flowed into the chamber, he was surprised by another familiar guest on her way out. Initially he couldn’t place her face, She stopped as she nearly passed him, and the recognition was in her eyes as well.
“The monk from Allma,” she said, smiling wide. “I’ve heard from Ethmer that Mala Gee caused a great deal of trouble for you both.”
“If I hadn’t been so rushed, I would have thrown off the top floor of that hotel,” the Monk replied, without much humor. The name had brought everything back at once, marked the girl as the one from Utopia City, to whom Cale had given most of their money after a night of intimacy. Having her shipped from across the galaxy to his bedroom, now that he had such resources, should not have stunned the Monk. All the same, something about her presence did not feel right to him, even as her smile continued to shine at him.
“I’m sorry for my association with her,” the girl said, her grin fading a little, shaking her head. “I chose my friends poorly those days. I didn’t see her again after that, except the rare times we crossed paths in the same taverns. She revealed herself as quite a scoundrel that night, and I wanted no part of her company.”
“Some friendships are formed in times of need, perhaps,” said the Monk, and she smiled again.
“I’m glad to see Ethmer and you have maintained yours—”
“Ausya, my beauty,” interrupted the Emperor, seated at the head of a short table and surrounded by servers and his bodyman, “I beg you, might I see the Monk privately?”
She said nothing dismayed in return, but had clearly been offended by the polite dismissal. “I’ll return to my quarters as planned then.”
“I may call on you later, if you like…”
“I will likely be asleep soon,” she said, bowing to him perfunctorily, then to the Sylvan Monk with a kind smile, and then she exited.
Two security soldiers closed the doors to the chamber from the outside, leaving the Monk, the Emperor, three more security soldiers, and two servers clearing the last of the wine.
“I will have them bring you an ale,” said the Emperor, gesturing to the nearest server, but the Monk stopped him.
“I don’t need a drink.” The Monk approached the table, and Ethmer did not rise to greet him as he sipped on his glass of wine. The pair of servers were dismissed with a cavalier wave of the Emperor’s hand, and they left through a curtained door behind the bodyman. “I’m not sure for what purpose I was brought here, so late in the evening and without prior notice.”
“Fandon has joined the Empire,” the Emperor stated with a sigh, swirling his wine in the glass before him.
With a speculating breath, the Monk furrowed his brow and said, “Fandon. It’s a neighbor of Allma, is it not?”
The color instantly drained from Ethmer’s face, and as he looked to the Monk again, he only nodded. His reason for sudden alarm didn’t seem clear.
“Is there a reason Fandon is worth mentioning to me?”
“No. Not at all,” said the Emperor, loosing an uncomfortable laugh. “The truth is, I received the update as a private communiqué from Commander Shrain during dinner. I… naturally, I didn’t want to spoil the meal with talk of politics, so I didn’t inform Ausya. But I did feel inclined to tell someone I trust.”
“No worry of spoiling our conversation with politics?” said the Monk, studying Ethmer with a peculiar look.
“It was a peaceful annexation, considering alternatives,” the Emperor told him. He indicated a seat at the table, presumably where the girl had sat minutes before, but the Monk remained standing. Ethmer continued, “The largest government conceded to terms just hours ago, by our clocks. It’s a terrific victory. The smaller governments are expected to agree to similar terms over the next few weeks, and at the very least they won’t be raising arms against us without a wider resistance effort working actively. I’m sure there will be some who refuse the terms, both in organized and individual fashions, but it does spell an end to major operations. Fewer will die in this annexation, and life will improve for the natives of Fandon over the—”
“I applaud your victory, Ethmer,” said the Monk, his patience noticeably thinning. “The Empire’s spread over the galaxy is not my concern. If you have reason for summoning me, might I hear it?”
Something different resided in the Emperor’s face: No uncertainty at being told to reach the point, no hesitancy at what he was about to say, and like never before, Ethmer showed no fondness for the Monk in his expression.
“Why do you want the sword from the Fountain Museum?”
“Sword?” echoed the Monk, attempting to straddle the line between an impression of ignorance and an outright lie.
“The relic from the Fountain Museum you requested,” said the Emperor, unblinking, leaning forward on his elbows. “The object in question is a sword, correct?”
With reluctance, the Monk replied, “Correct.”
“A sword used to slay an ancient Emperor. The Scarro Blade, some call it?”
Another moment of consideration, and the Monk answered, “Yes.”
“A unique item, no doubt valuable,” said Ethmer, his eyes on the glass of wine tabled before him, and his finger rubbed thoughtlessly at his chin. “I know currency means nothing to monks. You said you want it for a good will donation? A wall-hanging for your temple yet to be built?”
“That is what I said,” claimed the Monk, feeling the regret of his initial lie.
“Would you think terribly of me if I refused the request?”
“You have already agreed to it, Ethmer. I remind you, of course, respectfully.”
The Emperor smiled, bowing his head, and agreed. “It’s true. I did. Oh, if you knew how foolish I feel when I make such promises…”
“You’re betraying your promise?” The Monk made the accusation sound, at the same time, as offhand and as reproachful as he could.
“Servers!” shouted the Emperor over his shoulder, and a kitchen worker hurried from the curtain. Though surprised by the outburst, the Monk had not visibly reacted. “Another glass of wine. Put the bottle on the table. And bring a mug and pitcher of ale for my friend.”
As it had not come as an invitation, the Sylvan Monk did not reject the decree. He watched the Emperor and waited for an answer to his own inquiry.
Turning his head back to the Monk, the Emperor smiled thinly. “If you had another purpose in mind for that sword, would you confide it to me?”
Fragile answers came to mind, and the Monk wasn’t sure how to respond. His doubt ballooned, and in the moment of decision, he resorted to the truth. “No.”
“Why?”
“It concerns me and my companions alone,” the Monk stated. “Involving you in its purpose when it isn’t necessary seems… unwise.”
Neither smiled; the Emperor watched the Monk for moments, waiting for any finish to his admission. “You don’t trust me.”
“I trust you, Ethmer. In many ways. But I have concerns about your loyalties.”
“You lied to me,” growled the Emperor, adding unease to the first server from the curtain as the man brought a full glass of wine and an open bottle to the table. Another followed with a pitcher of beer and a mug, which he poured between the Emperor and the Monk as the conversation grew colder. “That sword was never intended to hang on a temple wall. You plan to use it for chasing the beast of Harmony.”
The remaining server followed the first out of the chamber.
“Once that is finished, I’ll build my temple,” said the Monk, unmoved by the anger directed toward him. “I’ll hang it on my wall. In that sense, I have told you the truth.”
“Lies of omission are lies, by my judgment.”
“Then tell me your lie,” the Monk countered, raising his voice the match the Emperor’s. “I look into your eyes and I see a more desperate change than falling into the lap of power effects. From my first plea to you, when I described Icon and the destruction he wrought, you closed your ears to me. Your trust left the room first, Cale. I don’t know what you conceal—”
“Don’t call me that,” the Emperor snapped. “You… years since we left each other, I send for you to bring you here and share in my good fortune, you must beg my favor like… I’m not your servant anymore.”
“You don’t see yourself as my equal anymore, do you?” said the Monk. As he had railed, the Emperor had stood up and clenched the end of the table with wrathful hands, an action perhaps lost on the Emperor himself, but regarded by the Monk. “Would you prefer I call you ‘My Lord,’ like your other followers?”
“Don’t shame me with your charges,” spat the Emperor, his hands shaking on the lip of the table. “I treated you as an equal. Once I respected you—I saved your life, don’t forget that. I came to your rescue, more than once. There is nothing I owe you.”
“I have asked nothing for myself,” the Monk said, his steel-colored eyes fixed on the Emperor. “I brought you urgent warnings. When your own life was at stake, you trusted my judgment over your own. Is it not so important now that other lives are at stake? After all, you are well-protected behind these thick walls—”
Taken by his own rage, the Emperor retracted a fist to lash out, but the Monk’s voice gave him pause.
“Careful,” said the Monk, “I notice your bodyman is not here to defend you.”
Around the room, the hands of the security soldiers tightened on their rifles, but at the same time, the Emperor lowered his fist, humbled but still defiant in the face of the threat.
“I asked you to join this cause—Fortune’s cause. To bring your newfound might against an enemy that threatens us all,” the Monk said, hiding his own rising rage. “You elected to talk of other things. To showcase your wealth and all the men jumping to your attention. To talk of the dangers we already survived. Very well. Then I ask you give me the Scarro Blade, and that’s all I ask, a final token of our friendship. I’ll take it to Icon and kill him myself.”
His fretting hand thumped against the table absently as the Emperor stared with hatred at the temple-dweller. “You once pledged to walk my path as long as Fortune allowed.”
“And you chose to walk away from me on Myin,” reminded the Monk. “Enjoy the prosperity you found. Without your help, I will go to my own end.”
Awaiting no dismissal, the Sylvan Monk went for the closed doors, and the security soldiers again tensed as he carried himself with purpose toward them.
“If you want the Scarro Blade, I will give it to you,” said the Emperor, and the words stopped the Monk at the end of the table, turning to evaluate Ethmer’s sincerity. “Not as a friend, not on good will alone, but in exchange for services. A trade is not an unreasonable request, is it?”
It was a proposition that gave the Monk hope, but so great was his need it gave the prospect of a trade an ominous tone. He crossed his arms, studying the Emperor with growing distaste, and allowed him to make the offer.
“The blade is meaningless to me, even if the people of Equon value it,” said the Emperor, seating himself at the table again and lifting his wineglass. “I have but to ask and I can have it in my hands. From there, it is yours. But while I care nothing for the blade, there is much you can do for me to make acquiring the blade worth the trouble.”
“Tell me what you want done or allow me my leave,” the Monk spat.
With a defiant half-sneer, reclining in his chair as if to challenge the Monk’s demand, the Emperor tipped his wine glass again and let the time linger before he swallowed. “Advisers on all sides are telling me to leave Infall. But it’s become my home—as it was home to my family for generations. I won’t give it up to the traitorous fanatics who call themselves the revolution. As long as they live, however, it’s hard to argue against Ausya or the Security Chief or the rest of them who plead with me to seek a safer home. Talk goes around the compound—they don’t believe I’m aware of it, or else they believe they can convince me in time… but Infall will be mine after the revolutionaries are all dead.”
“What do you want?” The Monk found his vexation at a peak.
“I want the heads of every disloyal cur on Infall delivered on this table,” said the Emperor, and the Monk could practically feel the blood dripping from his words. “My expectations, however, are more realistic—you and your party, the ones you believe are enough to execute a destroyer of worlds, I do believe they’re enough to break the revolution’s back. I want a fatal strike against the resistance cells. Kill or detain as many leaders as you can, splinter the soldiers, drive a wedge down the middle of their—”
“No,” the Monk replied with gravity. “Your war is yours, just as mine is my own. My sword was not forged to slaughter your enemies.”
“Your sword was forged in the metal shops that serve me—at my hospitality,” the Emperor shouted, leaning forward again. “My war remains mine, yours will be yours. But if you seek my sword for your own ends, you will loan me yours in the same fashion. Cripple the revolution here. I ask for but one attack—at the heart of the largest resistance cell, while my soldiers launch simulataneous assaults on the others. Kill whomever you please. If you think their miserable lives are worth sparing, then bring them to me in chains. Exercise your discretion, if it serves you. I don’t need their blood, but I will break its back.”
“You,” said the Monk, his tone weaker than before, “who lectured me on the value of mercy. Sending me to murder on your behalf.”
“I’ve come to see the strength of answering violence with violence,” sighed the Emperor, taking another drink. “Bring me every one of them intact, if you wish.”
“The better for you to dispense justice yourself,” the Monk said.
He showed no disagreement or agreement, but the Emperor answered, “You may protect them if you deem it worth your sacrifice. Or if you judge their suffering pales next to whatever tortures Icon will inflict, fulfill this request. You will get the Scarro Blade as promised. In time… if the resistance shatters from the wounds you inflict, maybe the Empire will have the resources at its disposal to join your quest.”
For a long moment they stared across the table, neither revealing any give in their position; finally, the Monk turned and renewed his stride to the door. As he reached it, the security soldiers standing aside to allow him passage, he looked back to the Emperor, drew a heavy breath, and returned the distance to Ethmer Sauger. The Emperor stood and received the Monk’s extended hand.
“I have your promise you will honor the agreement?” the Monk asked. “Even if I should fall, you will allow my companions to take the sword?”
“I swear it on the Empire itself,” said the Emperor, smiling weakly.
“Swear it on the name Meadham Cale,” the Monk insisted, and the Emperor blanched.
“If that name means more to you—”
“I believe it means a great deal to you as well, and you may come to realize it.”
A tenuous pause, then the Emperor assented. “I swear as Meadham Cale, when your deed is done, the Scarro Blade will be yours.”
Their hands separated. While the Emperor urged the Sylvan Monk to stay and drink with him to mark their deal, the Monk told him—blatant in his refusal to beg leave—that he would return to the hotel and inform his fellow travelers of what had been promised by both sides.
The formulation of final plans on the assault would begin the next day, the Emperor promised, and the Monk accepted the information without quarrel. He left the Emperor drinking his wine in the dining chamber, with three soldiers and nearby kitchen staff at his beck and call, but as relatively alone as his position allowed.