Illuminata: The Chosen Chapter 2

Water over ice… suchi soars… raptor dives…. Nakith Maon flowed through the forms of Ang-stro, hoping for distraction, but they were too familiar, leaving his mind free to ruminate. Why had the Autarch called his offspring back to Overheersing? Distance from his siblings had kept Maon alive. His ship would make landfall in three hours; it remained to be seen whether or not he would survive the day.

The comm chimed. “Answer,” he commanded the system as he turned to face the screen. His communications officer’s smooth gray face filled it, showing only a few of the dull green feathers that Maon knew covered the rest of his head.

“First son, you asked to be informed when we entered the system.”

“Thank you, Sobur. Open a secure channel to Nakith Numak.”

Lukath, second son, would not have bothered to learn his communications officer’s name. He most certainly would not have thanked him for doing his job. And he would not have garnered the loyalty Maon’s staff gave him. His arrogance was Maon’s one edge. Or maybe not the only one. Maon trained longer, harder than any of his brothers. Would it be enough when the inevitable challenge came?

“Channel open and secure.”

Maon scrambled the connection, an extra precaution against crew who might be less loyal than he hoped. A hologram formed in the room, as if a fifteen year old version of himself stood before him. He was certain he and Numak had been borne by the same female. Both of them had faces and hands a darker gray than their siblings, whose lighter flesh was clearly inherited from their shared father. Like the rest of them, his feathers were still dark brown. None of the sons of Nakith Damon would come into their royal red until their first adult molt, shortly after they turned twenty-two.

“Numak. How fares our father?”

“The Autarch is as odious as ever, brother. However, he is, for once, not instigating murder amongst his sons. It seems he has other things on his mind.”

“Is everyone there?”

Numak reached beyond the range of the lens and when his hand came back into view, it held an ornate blade, which he tucked into his boot. It was answer enough. He replied anyway. “Yes, when you arrive, all twelve will be in residence, though the younger clutch are not to be part of whatever father has planned. They are all sequestered at the lesser palace.”

Maon’s eyes narrowed as he considered that. “Then just your clutch and mine. Are Osuk and Leut any threat?”

“Not for now. They’ve grown since we last saw them, but I don’t think they’re a match for either of us yet. I also don’t think father wants anyone to die right now. Rumor has it he’s almost ready to move. He wants stability in the hierarchy when war comes.”

War. Maon had not expected it so soon. Though soon was a relative term; this war had been hundreds, if not thousands of years in the making. He brought his attention back to the more immediate concern. Neither Lukath nor Bokun, from his own clutch, would let his father’s desires stay their own ambitions. “Are we still allied?”

“Of course. I have no more desire than you to die, Maon. Whichever female bore us, she did not gift us with the strength of the others. I will support you, in return for being permitted to live. I’m happy with the governorship of Kulat. It’s a rich, comfortable world. Much more pleasant than this rock. You’re welcome to it.”

Maon felt a small measure of relief. Numak would not last under the reign of any other of their siblings. He knew that his only chance of survival, however slim, lay with Maon. He would see that there were no unpleasant surprises waiting in his chamber. Maon cut the connection. They would land soon, and he needed to be ready. He returned to the forms.

 

Sobur commed Maon an hour before touchdown. Maon ended his practice and cleaned up. As he drew on his scarlet robes of occasion, he thought back over the world he had managed to leave behind for two years. The brutal reality of life as part of the royal family flooded back in.  The woman who bore him had been a servant. He had no idea who she was. His father had sired him and both of his next oldest siblings on three different virgin females in his seventeenth year, making certain that the children they bore were his own, before setting out on his quest for the throne. Nakith Damon was not the first son of his generation, but he was the best. He had become Autarch through assassination, a time honored means of ascension amongst the Michi. He had five brothers, and was third son. By the time he was eighteen, he had killed the two elder. At twenty-two, he slit his father’s throat and replaced him on the throne. He waited until his rule was secure before killing his younger siblings and their sons with them. There would be no disputing his rule.

Maon knew that his own brothers wanted to move up, and that he was relatively small and vulnerable. Even from a young age their father had fostered a sense of rivalry amongst them, reveling in the brutalities they inflicted upon one another. Maon had to be better, faster than his brothers to survive. And so he excelled at Ang-stro and knife play. He learned weapon craft young. Of course, weapons were not permitted in the Autarch’s presence, but at all other times he went armed.

He slipped his own favored, double edged dagger into its sheath in his boot, secreting various other blades in the many easily accessible compartments of his robes. He cursed the necessity of the clothing. It would hamper mobility if he was forced to fight. His only consolation lay in the requirement for all of his brothers to wear them as well. He would have been happier with an energy weapon, even a stun gun, but they were not permitted in the first nest at all.

Finally, Maon stood in front of the door to his ship’s quarters. He looked back over his shoulder at the space that had been home for the twelve weeks of his flight here. Bare though it was, even this felt more like home than the nest in which he had been raised. He fervently wished he would survive to utilize it again on the return journey to Ridla.

 

The sun rode high in Overheersing’s perpetually cloudy sky when Maon strode through the doors of the palace. The cold black marble of the walls, relieved only by tapestries depicting bloody historical battles, seemed to suck the warmth from the busy entryway. It was, of course, an illusion. The air in the first nest was as hot and humid as everywhere else on Overheersing. Maon suppressed a shiver, refusing to let the palace guard see his feathers ruffle.

His staff fell in around him as he handed off his weapons to the steward, maintaining a slight distance. To keep them too close would show fear. No one would attempt anything here, anyway. Not with the entire court looking on. He accepted a glass of wine as he swept into the grand hall, laughing and joking with various nobles. His father would not appear until everyone was present, and he could see that Lukath had not yet arrived. It was a deliberate insult to Maon that he had not.

“So, Maon, How was the trip?” Bokun, third son, was already impaired. It was sloppy of him, and so typical of his arrogant disregard of any threat his siblings might present. The Autarch would not be pleased.

“Tedious, as one would expect.” Maon maintained a congenial smile. “And what of Stith? Are you enjoying its many pleasures?”

Stith, the world Bokun had been given to govern, was a hole. Maon’s brother’s own smile became forced, and he suddenly showed himself to be far more sober than he had appeared. Before he could answer, Nakith Damon, Autarch of the Michi Empire, swept into the hall. All present turned to face him, bowing low, arms outstretched. No one raised so much as an eyebrow until he was seated on the great throne, a winged monstrosity of metal and jewels that stood on a dais at the far end of the room from where Maon stood.

“My sons, attend me.” His father’s voice boomed, magnified to carry.

Lukath had managed to arrive just before the Autarch. He was first to the dais, but Maon was gratified to see that their father acknowledged no one until he stepped forward.

“Maon, come stand beside me.”

Maon obliged, taking the position of honor, to his left. He noted that Lukath was not invited to take the right. It remained empty, a sign of his disfavor. What had he done, or failed to do? It didn’t matter. Maon stood silent beside the most powerful Michi in the galaxy, as he allowed his lords to greet him one by one, and all saw that he alone remained firmly in his good graces. His peril was greater than he had known.

 

The ordeal finally over, Maon made his way to his rooms. He kept them spare, no heavy curtains to hide an assassin, no decorations in which to secrete a bug or bomb. He swept through it anyway. Numak had been true to his word. Maon half expected him to show up, so was not surprised when the internal chime sounded. However, it was not Numak, but one of the serving women.

She shook as she sank to her knees in front of him, hands on the floor before her. “First son, I must speak with you privately.”

“Leave, while I allow it, woman.”

“First son, forgive my boldness, but your life is in danger.”

Maon’s eyes narrowed as he looked more closely at her. She was an older female, middle aged, with teal feathers, starting to fade. He did not assess her a threat.

“You may enter.” He stepped back and she stood and crossed the threshold, eyes still averted.

He closed the door behind her.

“Thank you, my prince. I am grateful.”

Maon waved a hand, impatient with her dissembling. “Get on with it.”

“I have overheard something that I feel you must know.”

He nearly struck her for daring to listen to her betters’ conversation, but something stayed his hand. His eyes narrowed further. “Go on.”

The woman cringed back, aware that punishment might have followed as easily as permission. “My prince, your brother, second son, plans to kill you after the evening meal tonight. He will ambush you in the third corridor, before you reach your rooms.”

Maon felt the chill of the striking knife. He had known this day would come, was actually surprised it had not come sooner. And in his heart, he knew he could not prevail against Lukath. If he faced him he would die. “Why have you brought this to me?”

The female looked into his eyes for less than a heartbeat. She knew it was forbidden. But why not be bold when addressing a dead man? She averted her gaze. “I honor the first son. You are the rightful heir.”

“I cannot meet Lukath and win.” It galled Maon to admit this to a female.

“Perhaps there is a way.” She didn’t look at him, but when he did not strike her, she continued. “Your father was also not the strongest son.” This was new information. “He drugged his brothers and his father before he slew them.”

Maon could not help his sharp intake of breath. “How do you know this?”

“Because, my prince, he had me administer the drugs.”

It was possible to survive! Perhaps Maon’s father also wanted Lukath out of the way; perhaps he had sent this female to him. He could not rely on that. It was equally possible that she had come to him of her own accord. After his plans were made, Maon dismissed the serving woman and set about preparing himself for the late meal the Autarch had planned. At least robes would not be required. On his way into the dining hall, he secreted his blade in a large fern.

Although he watched closely throughout the meal, Maon saw no sign that the serving woman had given Lukath anything different from anyone else at the table. Perhaps she was actually working with Lukath, and had spoken with Maon only to give him a false sense of hope. That would be typical of Lukath. In addition to his native brutality, he was cruel and liked to toy with his prey. Maon looked with suspicion at the glass in his own hand and set it carefully on the table, the wine untouched.

Half way through the meal Lukath started to slur his words. No one else at the table seemed to notice. Maon relaxed slightly, but then began to worry that the woman might have administered too much drug. If Lukath were incapacitated at the table, Maon might be found out. He grew impatient.

The Autarch always required his sons to sit after dinner while he discussed affairs of state. Tonight he avoided the reason they had been called home. It was a statement. He would take them into his confidence when he was ready. Until then, they would play at what passed for normal in the first nest. Maon schooled himself to patience and finally his father stood to depart. The sons rose to bow, showing the required deference.

 Lukath staggered a bit when he got up. The Autarch turned his glare towards Maon, and for a heart stopping moment Maon was afraid he knew, but his eyes passed over him and lit on his brother. “You shame yourself, yet again Lukath. If you cannot keep your wits about you, you are of no use to me. Get out.”

Maon was not the only one at that table to suppress a smile. Lukath truly was out of favor. Their father did not normally allow the royal sons to leave until he had departed to his rooms for the night. That Maon’s second brother had been dismissed spoke volumes. After tonight, however, it would no longer matter. Not if he was the one to emerge alive from the third corridor.

 

As Maon walked the halls to his rooms, he felt as though Lukath’s knife was already across his throat. He listened carefully and finally, as he approached the third corridor, heard Lukath’s breathing. There, in the second alcove. He swung wide, the blade he had secreted outside the dining hall in his hand.

Lukath, discovered, stepped out of his place of hiding. “So, brother, it’s time. I have let you live longer than you deserve.”

Maon’s lips curled up in a smile. “I won’t be the one to die here today, Lukath. You’re slow and tired.”

Lukath started to circle. They had plenty of room for the dance in the wide hallway. He stumbled once, and then again. It finally dawned on him. “You drugged me. Which one of the serving women did your dirty work for you? I’ll find her after I’ve finished with you.”

Even drugged, Lukath thought he would best Maon. He was heavier and larger, with a longer reach. But Maon was much faster, and better with a knife. When Lukath came for him, instead of meeting him, Maon rolled and hamstrung him on the way back up.

Lukath fell heavily to the floor and Maon kicked the blade from his hand. “You will not become first son today, or any day brother. Today you die.” Lukath’s eyes were already closing from the drug as Maon slit his throat. He waited for his final breath before cleaning the blade on a nearby tapestry and continuing on to his rooms. One of the servants would find Lukath. Perhaps the one who had warned him.