Brown - Born of empire: the chronicles of kydan 1

About Born of Empire: The Chronicles of Kydan 1

Simon Brown likes his fantasy fast, clever and unpredictable. BORN OF EMPIRE is all of these and more, an excellent recommendation. BOOKSELLER & PUBLISHER

The Kevleren dynasty rules both the Hamilayan empire and the kingdom of Rivald because they, and only they, can use the Sefid, the true source of all magic. But Wielding the Sefid comes at a terrible cost, the sacrifice of something loved.

Hamilays new empress, Lerena, no sooner ascends the throne than she is faced by the joint crises of an expansionist Rivald overseas and an unstable, love-spurned sister at home - whose influence with the Sefid is greater than any who have come before. Then a revolution in Rivald creates the greatest threat her family has ever faced, and the Kevlerens confront extinction at the hands of those they trusted most.

Also by Simon Brown

The Chronicles of Kydan
Book 2: Rival's Son
Book 3: Daughter of Independence

For the Smith sisters Carey, Lindy and Tanya. Wonders never cease.

For Caleb, the most recent arrival.

And for Julianne, the best of us, and the bravest.

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I owe a debt of gratitude to Alison Tokley for her patience and expert eye, Tara Wynne for her perspicacity and persistence on my behalf, and Cate Paterson, Brianne Tunnicliffe and Julia Stiles for their trust, insight and wise suggestions. Thank you all.

238th YEAR
AFTER THE
DESCENT

PROLOGUE

A fterwards, Poloma Malvara tried to remember what the sound had been like. A rattling, like nails thrown around in an iron bucket. Crackling, like fat on fire. Close, but not quite right. Maybe it had been like rain falling on a terracotta roof, or coins dropping onto a counting tray, or linen sheets being torn in half...

In truth, nothing could ever quite describe the sound the first time he heard a volley of firegons, or the first time he heard the metal-insect whistling of round lead balls cutting through the air or the wet slapping sound they made when they hit a body.

But his minds eye would never let him forget what he saw, and in his memory it was like turning a page in one of the illustrated manuscripts kept in Kydans basilicas. On the first page the Great Quadrangle of Kydan, dominated by the Assembly and filled with members of the citys ruling council, all dressed in their finest clothes, filling the space with colour the blue of a beetles wing, the crimson of a winter sunset, the yellow of freshly churned butter, the green of a spring day. On the next page the same square but muted by a cloud of black powder smoke, colour and life torn and bled onto grey stone. And from one scene to the next had taken no more time than a dozen heartbeats, the time for two lines of Rivald infantry to fire into the crowd. Every lead ball struck someone. The impact had been like a gust of wind hitting a pile of leaves, leaving everything scattered and bewildered.

On that morning Poloma had been standing with the rest of the council before the great wood and brass doors of the Assembly, waiting for them to be opened for the first summer parliament. He watched his colleagues with pride and affection. The Kydans were a strong and vigorous people, well built with the occasional slim exception like Poloma and brown-skinned with dark curly hair and generous faces. With their colourful clothes and noble appearance he thought they looked like a parliament of particularly wise and beautiful birds.

He was in the middle of the space, so did not see or hear the Rivald infantry march into the quadrangle from the north, but when the first rank shot their firegons a shudder passed through the crowd as if it was a single living mass. Poloma heard something whiz by his ear, and out of the corner of his eye saw the councillor behind him start to fall. He automatically reached out to help, grabbing her arm, but she was a dead weight and slipped out of his grasp. Poloma turned around to see if she was all right, but then he saw there were great holes in the crowd, as if many of the councillors had simply vanished, and a pall of black smoke, strangely thin, rolled above the quadrangle towards him. He caught a whiff of it, and its salty bitterness caught at the back of his throat.

Because the crowd had thinned so much he could now see the Rivald infantry in their white and blue uniforms, lined up in two ranks, the first starting to kneel. The second line raised their firegons, and it seemed to Poloma that every barrel was pointed directly at him. The air in front of the second rank sparkled and flashed, and that was when he heard the sound, like nails rolling in a bucket or fat crackling in a fire. Something pulled at his cloak; he looked down and saw a hole in it. Then he noticed the councillor he had tried to help and saw she had a hole in her cheek, and that the back of her head was swallowed by a red pool of blood.

His brain caught up and he realised the Rivald infantry were shooting at them. He knew about firegons but had not realised they were so destructive. He had always thought the bullets they shot would be like small arrows...

Another volley rippled through the morning air. Poloma looked up again. It was the first rank firing again. The second rank were furiously ramming rods down the barrels of their firegons. The quadrangle seemed almost empty now.

He heard moaning, rising from the ground like a heavy black bird, growing in volume until it was a chorus of pain, and for the first time since the shooting started he was fully aware of what was happening. Fear as cold as ice ran through his veins and he could not move. Some of the councillors still living were running away, but he could only watch them.

Above the moaning he heard a barked command in a language he recognised as Rivald but did not understand. The first rank dropped to their knees again and this time the second rank moved forward before raising their firegons. Poloma realised he was crying. He could feel his tears run down his cheeks. A cry broke from his wet lips.

From his right came the metallic tramping of the Kydan militia as its phalanx marched down from the Citadel and into the quadrangle. They were heading straight for the flank of the Rivald infantry and were too close for the enemy to wheel and shoot; nothing could stop the militia from rolling the enemy up and skewering them on their long, heavy-bladed pikes. Poloma felt a shout of joy rise in his chest. Then he saw the Kevleren. Poloma knew right away who he was. Even in Kydan they had heard stories of those from the land across the great sea who used the Sefid. His pale skin and midnight-black hair marked him out. He had stood behind the two lines of Rivald infantry, surrounded by his own bodyguard, watching the progress of the battle in the square. When the militia appeared the Kevleren grasped the neck of a young woman standing by his side. Poloma saw the womans eyes open in sudden pain, saw the blood flow over the Kevlerens fingers. Polomas whole body went cold with the sudden impact of unseen energy, and the air between the Rivald lines and the approaching phalanx shimmered like the air above an oven. Blue flames licked off the barrels of the firegons.

Poloma could not move his gaze from the young woman in the Kevlerens grasp as she withered and died, her blood soaking her clothes, so he did not see the first rank of the militia suddenly burst into flame, but he heard the screams of the dying and the clatter of their pikes as they fell to the ground.

*

Grey clouds had been building up over the Vardar Mountains for a tenday, finally bursting over Omeralt just as the funeral procession for Empress Hetha made its way from the great yellow gates of the capital city. The train stretched for two miles as the Kevlerens and their Axkevleren attendants special household servants and other leading subjects of the Hamilay empire wound their way to the imperial mausoleum set in a fissure in the eastern flank of Hassouly, the nearest peak of the Vardars. For the people lining the great wall of the city, the mourners and their sedans, all dressed in black, seemed to melt and disappear in the rain.