Chapter 7 - Sephara

Seven

Sephara

Empyria, The Imperium

1st of Tournus

Sephara saw the body as soon as she arrived at the armoury. Amidst the chaos of the blue-coated Praevin combing the courtyard, the sprawled corpse lay obscenely still.

The Mallian Company’s armoury presented a tangled mess of ramshackle outbuildings and open-faced forges. To the compound’s rear rose the ugly sore of the still-smoking warehouse, its walls charred by the fire the Praevin had only recently extinguished.

She assessed the officers as she strode into the courtyard. They’d cordoned off a small patch around the victim’s body, though there were no bystanders here to interfere. Sephara’s eyes again snagged on the undignified lump of the armoury’s deceased director.

Assassinated, according to her father.

After what Valerian no doubt saw as her failure to secure any useful information about his aunt Novissa’s death from Captain-General Mendacium, he’d ordered her to the armoury after receiving word of this attack. Apparently, Sephara was little more than the lackey he sent out to look at dead bodies.

Her attention wandered to two women standing apart from the investigation’s bustle. Veering away from the body, Sephara made for them instead. They turned towards her as she approached. Recognising them at once, she flashed them both a smile.

Iana Mallian, a beautiful woman despite her advancing years, regarded Sephara with a reserved curiosity that barely showed on her sculpted features. Her companion, a young woman of about nineteen, met Sephara with a creased forehead, her considerable brows drawn down into a frown. From the resemblance she bore to the older woman, this could only be Lexia, bastard daughter of Iana and Endarion.

“Who’s this?” Lexia demanded.

Iana looked to Sephara in silent questioning. Sephara nodded her assent.

“This is your cousin,” Iana said after a moment of hesitation. “Valerian’s daughter.”

As closely tied to the Boratorrens as she was, Iana had already been told of Sephara’s dual identity. Lexia, as an illegitimate child and therefore far beneath Valerian’s notice, had clearly not been.

Sephara offered her hand to the girl. “Sephara Boratorren, at your service. Though it might be best not to call me that in front of anyone else.”

Lexia stared at the hand as if it offended her. Sephara couldn’t fault Lexia her suspicion; it was a necessary flaw in all the Imperium’s nobles, and something of a family trait.

“We don’t need her,” Lexia muttered to her mother.

“We need all allies available to us,” Iana replied. “And she’s family.” The woman turned to Sephara, the first flickers of worry passing over her immaculate face. “Whoever did this came to destroy and murder. They made no attempts to steal anything.”

“That’s notable?” Sephara asked.

Iana helmed many disparate warehouses scattered across the Industrial District, but this one in particular supplied Endarion’s army with its arms and armour. Had the attacker struck any other warehouse, Sephara’s father in his selfish blindness wouldn’t have bothered sending her here.

Lexia snorted. “Of course it’s notable. Weapons and plate are expensive. You’d be a fool to destroy them rather than steal them.”

“Not only is this armoury focused on supplying the Denjini army,” Iana added, “but it was only last night that I had Endarion sign an updated contract for this impending war. A contract I can no longer fully honour. I cannot help but wonder if the killer knew this and timed their murder accordingly.”

“This was political, then,” Sephara probed, not quite a question. She’d surmised this for herself but wanted to see if Iana agreed.

It was an obvious motive. Iana being the well-known ex-lover of Endarion, and mother of one of his children, meant that any strike against her was a strike against the family, indirect or otherwise. That a compound dedicated to Endarion’s army had been the target made the attack even more overt.

This was why her father had sent her here, hoping she could glean answers before the Praevin covered everything up.

“The Boratorrens have a lot of enemies. That means we have a lot of enemies,” Iana said.

Sephara nodded. “Did you have anyone specific in mind?”

“Hard to narrow down the entire noble ranks,” Lexia said with a scoff.

As true as that might be, Sephara ignored her. She nodded towards the slumped body. “What happened? Caught in the crossfire of whoever set the warehouse alight?”

Iana shook her head. “Director Seius died first,” she said, naming the unfortunate man. “Apparently, he dropped dead of a stab wound in the middle of the courtyard. The workers on shift told me there was no one around to stab him.”

“And no weapon left in him?” Sephara asked.

Iana shook her head again.

That ruled out a thrown blade, unless the murderer had retrieved it. But then they would’ve been seen, exposed as the armour was.

An odd sense of familiarity tugged at her skull. “You said no one saw the attacker?”

“A few workers claimed to see a shadow move across the courtyard. A thundership passing overhead, most likely. Perhaps the killer used this as cover.”

Shadows again. Novissa had been struck down in the shadows at the base of Endarion’s statue. No one had seen her killer, yet the blade had been left lodged in her chest. Had the killer succeeded in reclaiming their weapon here where the first one had failed? Could it even be the same killer?

Director Seius was tied to the Boratorrens through Iana. Novissa was herself a Boratorren. Perhaps it was too early to start developing conspiracies against her family, but Sephara frowned at the stark similarities between the two deaths.

She doubted the Praevin would investigate such links even if she raised them. Not after how Dexion had skirted around her mention of the Caetoran targeting her family.

There was merit to Valerian’s paranoia, it seemed.

Sephara looked over to the body, then back to the warehouse. Finally, she resettled her regard on Iana. “Well, this one certainly wasn’t killed by the Drasken envoy.”

“And Novissa was?” This, from Lexia, who scowled at the nearby Praevin as if they were guilty of the murders.

―

To help him on his way as he sailed past her, Sephara punched her blade’s pommel into her brother’s rear. He released an indignant cry as he fell to hands and knees, his blade skittering across the smooth wooden floor of the training room.

“Again,” she said as Kaeso pushed himself to his feet and reclaimed his blade.

Where she’d kept her composure, her older brother was red-faced and huffing, sweat trickling down to his clean-shaven face and slicking his black hair to his forehead. They’d been at this for just over an hour now, Kaeso driving himself deeper and deeper into an impatient temper that had cost him every bout so far.

He braced his hands against his knees, blade angled outwards, and heaved a breath. Then he charged, pushing himself from a standstill and bulling towards her like a stampeding cow. When he lashed out, he swung his arm with unwarranted force, announcing his move as obviously as if he’d never held a sword before.

She sidestepped with ease, not even bothering to hit him as he passed this time. His momentum carried him halfway across the room before he skidded to a stop and turned to face her, grimacing.

“You fight too angry,” she said. “If you charge in without thinking, even a novice swordsman can disarm you.”

“You’re not a novice,” he scoffed. “And you shouldn’t worry about the killings. An old woman and some merchant die, so what? That doesn’t mean we’re next. You take your job too seriously.”

She set the dulled tip of her training blade against the floor. “I have to take my job seriously because Father does,” she said. “And Novissa wasn’t just ‘an old woman’. She was the Warmaster and our great-aunt.”

“I’ve studied the family tree, sister. I know who Novissa was to us.”

His tone was petulant and childish, and Sephara smothered the urge to roll her eyes. Her father and uncle planned to make this man Caetoran one day. He was twenty-eight years old, yet comported himself like a youth half that. Sephara, six years his junior, had spent her childhood watching her brother throw explosive tantrums at an age where such antics should’ve been long outgrown. She feared, given power and influence, his reckless temperament would translate to unchecked cruelty.

She raised her blade and beckoned to him. “Again.”

He advanced slower this time, sword held in a horizontal line. She gave him the offensive, as she always did, and he took it with a flourish, slashing at her unguarded flank and spinning away when she parried. Now he’d taken a moment to catch his breath and let his anger cool, his skills, un-honed as they were, finally emerged.

They engaged in a brief dance, Sephara giving ground where she could, keeping herself on the defensive, letting her brother taste victory, nudging him into using the longer reach his superior height granted him. But he grew overconfident and stepped in too close to disarm her. She caught the back of his leg with hers and sent him sprawling.

“Don’t get cocky,” she said as he rolled onto his back.

He punched the ground with his free hand and surged to his feet with a cry of pain, then advanced again, slowly, deliberately. She saw the glint of malice in his eyes, marked the evil twist of his scowl, and backed away.

“Kaeso,” she warned.

She extended her blade as he closed the distance but knew she couldn’t do anything with it. Dull as they were, the training swords could still harm, but their father would accept no excuse if she hurt Kaeso now. Her brother knew this, so he swiped the sword from her hands and swung at her.

Sephara ducked beneath the swing, dodged the next, spun away from the third. Kaeso hissed with each missed hit, forcing her further and further back, until she was pressed up against the far wall. He flung his sword away as if the thing had caused him great offence and grabbed her throat, pushing her hard into the wall.

His fingers were iron around her neck; her throat tightened as she sucked in a troubled breath. In his anger he’d neglected to pin her arms in place or further incapacitate her, and she briefly toyed with the idea of punching him in the face.

“Let go,” she wheezed, reaching up to grab at his arm. She tried to push him away, but he was unmoved. When she pried at his fingers with her own, thinking to loosen them, he strengthened his grip, his thick brows pulling down into a deep frown. Sephara marked the glimmer in his eyes, unsure if he’d stop. He’d done this before—hurt her because he felt slighted by her besting him—but he always pulled away when she demanded it of him, perhaps afraid of pushing the confrontation too far.

But they hadn’t scuffled in years, and Sephara wasn’t familiar with the man her brother had become. Her time spent in isolation back in her father’s Reign, training in anonymity, had made a stranger of Kaeso. It seemed likely he’d nurtured his cruel streak in her absence.

“Let go,” she repeated, as forceful as she could with the breath remaining.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

When he refused, she planted her knee between his legs, aiming for where it would hurt most. Not hard enough to inflict lasting damage, but enough to make him curse and jolt away, releasing her for long enough to cup his crotch. His anger superseded whatever pain she’d inflicted, because he righted himself and rounded on her again, practically spitting his rage.

“How fucking dare you?” he seethed.

The door to the training room swung open and their father strode imperiously in. Despite being in the privacy of his own home, Valerian still wore a formal knee-length coat of Boratorren blue, his regis cullo draped regally across the back of his shoulders. He cast his gaze between his two children, and though he clearly knew what he’d interrupted, he kept his conclusion unvoiced.

“Sephara, I require your presence,” he said.

“Fine.” She dipped her head in acknowledgment as she turned away from her brother, his stare a thousand hot needles pricking her back, then moved to follow Valerian out into the hallway beyond. She rubbed at her neck, wondering if the marks of her brother’s fingers were visible. Even if she bruised, Kaeso wouldn’t be scolded.

“What of me, Father?” Kaeso called after them.

Valerian halted and glanced back at his son, expression softening as he regarded his clear favourite. Sephara rolled her eyes and manoeuvred around her father. “This is a trivial matter, Kaeso,” he said. “It would not interest you.”

She heard her brother’s derisive scoff and knew he aimed it at her. Her father probably soothed his son’s ego with the comment, but it only fuelled Kaeso’s belief in his superiority over her. Leave the minor issues to Sephara because she was the second child and of no import. Kaeso, the golden firstborn, should only be called upon for crucial matters.

This late in the evening, Valerian’s estates wallowed in darkened emptiness. His serving staff—a small army of about thirty—had already retired for the night, leaving behind an atmosphere of unnatural quiet. She noticed, as she did every time, her father’s not-so-humble abode was far too grand for something as simple as mortal habitation. The ceilings soared too high, the doorways were too tall and wide, and too much space yawned in each room. Even the training room she’d left behind could serve as a small arena all its own.

Like the rest of her father’s estate, like the rest of the whole damned capital, in fact, the office Valerian directed her to was outsized, designed for immortal denizens larger than humans. To fill the space, Valerian had mounted an immense bookcase along the back wall so tall it required a ladder to scale. Dominating the other wall, square and crude and jutting, perched a fireplace in which a small fire angrily blazed, casting the room in sunset hues.

“I hope this is quick, Father,” she said, raising her voice to quieten her worry. “I’ve got an appointment at the Golden Beau later. You might know it as the most popular brothel in the Slates.” Her father hissed her name as he crossed the threshold. For effect, and because she knew his prudish nature, she added; “They recently showed me the ins and outs of the business. Very hands-on.”

She’d only said it to goad him, because she didn’t appreciate him storming into her training session and demanding her attention, even if he had inadvertently stopped Kaeso from pressing his attack. She hated, more than anything, her father’s refusal to recognise his son’s shortcomings, even when faced with them directly. So, when she saw they weren’t alone, she halted in the doorway.

“Ah,” she said. “Guests.” She pushed away embarrassment in favour of assessing the two visitors.

She shouldn’t have been surprised her uncle and his daughter were here, not after the Prodessium’s favouring of war with Kalduran and the complications it caused their family’s insurrectionist plot. She nodded to Arch-General Boratorren—now Paramount-General if word from the Prodessium was accurate—and Daria, wondering whether she should bow and scrape to them. She received curt nods in return, the sort of greeting one gave a perfect stranger, not a niece or cousin.

“Want to enlighten me?” She directed the question at her father.

His answer was to thin his mouth to a firm line.

Before nervousness could overcome her, she took the seat beside Endarion, folded one leg over the other, and struck what she hoped was a confident pose. “Why am I here? I wasn’t lying about the brothel. I want to be on time. They host this event called the ‘Golden Hour’, and I’d quite like to witness it.”

She noticed Daria wearing a warmly amused smile. With their family’s squared jaw and heavy brows, the expression looked odd on the young woman, and Sephara had to remind herself Daria was only two years her senior. Two years, and much more the paragon of Boratorren-ness. Sephara, with her brown hair, brown eyes, and average height, felt like a shadow in this room, with these three.

Her uncle, for his part, gave no indication of being affected by her comment, but why should he? His own bed-hopping had embellished his reputation, and Sephara knew one of the fabled Heaven’s Paramours, the Imperium’s most elite prostitutes, was a former companion of his.

“Why did you want me, and not Kaeso?” she asked. “This appears to be a family gathering, and Kaeso is the favourite child.”

Before Valerian could reply, Endarion leant forward and braced his elbows on his legs. “You’re the one with the necessary skills, not Kaeso. He doesn’t need to know what we discuss here.”

She looked into the man’s stern green eyes and tried to reconcile her early memories of him with the rumours she’d picked up in the intervening years. When still a young child, she’d known Endarion as the slightly less strict, quicker-to-smile echo of her father. She’d learned, years later, that he had been—maybe remained—a merciless tyrant. Apparently, he’d personally killed the Tharghestian royal family and had a habit of feeding enemies alive to his pack of war dogs.

But this man before her just looked weathered and weary, grey beginning to taint his hair at the temples and invade his beard in speckles. He wasn’t as aged as her father, sure, and he still boasted the powerful build of a career soldier, but for once Valerian appeared the haler of the brothers.

“Discuss what?” she asked. “More insurrection plotting?”

She knew the details of her father and uncle’s plans to topple the ruling dynasty, unseat the Caetoran, and replace him with Kaeso. Sephara’s part in that treason was less defined. She was, after all, not nearly as important as any other Boratorren.

“The Warmaster was assassinated more than a week ago,” Endarion began.

Sephara raised a hand to interrupt. “Stab wound, yet apparently killed from a distance. No sign of the killer, though they attacked in the middle of the Path of Triumph, with dozens of witnesses. Killed beneath your statue.”

Her uncle frowned. To clarify, she added, “I saw her body, as my father’s no doubt already told you. The Praevin were quite happy to have a noble’s lowborn bodyguard present.”

“That is exactly why I thought of you for this,” he said.

“This?”

He settled back into his chair, stretching his left leg out with a sigh. For the first time, she noticed the metal brace encasing the limb, and recalled the torture he’d suffered four years ago. She hadn’t seen him since before his captivity, and for some reason the sight of the brace made her think of him as vulnerable. When she looked up to meet his gaze, she noted the jagged notch of a scar jutting out from within his beard.

“I want to know who killed Novissa,” Endarion said.

“Did no one tell you? It was the Baltanos’s envoy.”

Daria snorted. “No one believes that. Least of all us.”

“The envoy’s presence was never publicised. He spoke formally with only the Caetoran,” Endarion added.

Sephara latched her hands together in her lap. “So what?” she said. “You think the Caetoran killed his own Warmaster, and blamed it on Drasken?”

“Just a theory,” Endarion said. He drew a dagger from a pocket inside his coat and held it out to her. “Novissa left this to me when she died.” He placed the blade into Sephara’s palm. “It was forged for her decades ago and has been with her ever since.”

She was about to question its importance when her fingers grazed an indentation on the bare hilt.

The immortals killed me

“What does it mean?”

Her uncle shrugged, a surprisingly casual gesture. He bore such a distinct resemblance to Valerian that she’d assumed they shared many of the same characteristics and inability to show emotion.

“Apparently, our aunt was involved in something long-winded and dangerous,” Valerian supplemented. “Something she knew would eventually be the death of her.”

She cupped the dagger’s pommel in her palm and inspected the image crafted into the metal: a shield adorned with the image of a lone tower. It wasn’t an insignia she recognised.

“What’s this?”

“No idea,” her uncle admitted.

She set the dagger on her father’s desk with a shallow thud that cleaved through the office’s subdued atmosphere. “I think Captain-General Mendacium is involved,” she said without looking up. “If the Caetoran sanctioned the killing, the Praevin would help cover it up. He would know everything. The Praevin were at Mallian’s armoury earlier today. From what Iana told me, her director and Novissa were both killed in the same manner.”

Endarion spread his hands in an almost supplicating gesture. “So, we are being targeted.”

Valerian huffed quietly. “Director Seius wasn’t one of us. Iana’s not either.”

The way both Endarion and Daria rolled their eyes together suggested this was a tiresome argument, one Sephara had no stake in. She decided to halt it before she found herself the unwilling audience to a family debate.

“I have contacts in the Slates,” she said. “But none in the upper echelons of society yet, apart from maybe Mendacium. It’ll be difficult to investigate, especially if the Caetoran’s involved.”

Endarion shared a knowing smile with his daughter before turning to Sephara. “Talk to the First Mistress of the Heaven’s Paramours.”

Before she could offer a reply, Valerian slapped the flat of his palm onto his desk with an ear-splitting crack. “I know Sephara was provoking me when she spoke of a Slates brothel,” he spat, lips pulled back into a snarl, “but you are not joking, are you? Your whores have no place in this family discussion.”

Sephara looked to her uncle and found red rage roiling in his hard gaze, saw anger in the set of his jaw. “I can assure you the First Mistress is no one’s whore,” he snapped.

“She is everyone’s whore,” Valerian said. “Is that not the point?”

Endarion rose quickly, his movements so sudden his leg brace groaned. Daria straightened in her seat, half-rising, but Sephara found herself rooted in place.

“You continue to disapprove of my associates as if you have the right,” Endarion growled, leaning over the desk.

“Bed-warmers are not associates,” Valerian retorted. “I have every right to disapprove of your dalliances when you drag our name through the dirt with them. As I’ve already told you, all you needed to do was marry one of the whores you sired a child on or accept a betrothal from the list I drew up. You prove nothing with this juvenile obsession with meaningless affairs, apart from the fact you cannot control your base urges.”

“You make it sound like I entertain a stream of paramours on a nightly basis,” Endarion snapped.

Valerian canted his head ever so slightly. “Do you not?”

The younger brother’s eyes flickered. “I only ever had one partner at a time, Val, and not for twelve years. You know that.”

The elder scoffed. “How gallant. I will be sure to tell the political enemies who spit on our name because of your promiscuity that you are capable of a slither of self-control after all.”

Endarion balled one fist and punched the table, the noise a whip crack, loud enough to sting. Valerian was unmoved. “I can count the number of partners I have enjoyed throughout my life on both hands and have fingers spare. Do you truly put weight in the rumours?”

“I must because you do not,” Valerian countered. “If the nobility believes you have bedded hundreds, then you may as well have bedded hundreds.” He canted his head, something like cruelty entering his expression. “Though perhaps these new rumours of your injuries on Shaeviren will counter the stories of your whoreish behaviour. Not that these supposed injuries prevented you from entertaining Iana yesterday.”

Beside Sephara, Daria softly gasped. Even as Sephara tried to unpick what her father had just insinuated, Endarion lashed one hand down to his hip, to where a sword would usually be sheathed. He hadn’t brought a blade with him tonight, though the gesture was obvious. Thwarted, he gripped the rim of the desk as if he meant to throw it aside to get to his brother.

“By entertain, I assume you mean she came for my signature on the updated draft of the contract I, as Arch-General of Denjin, have with her, as overseer of the Mallian Company?” Endarion said. “Are you having me watched?”

“Someone must,” Valerian said, glancing down at Endarion’s whitened knuckles. “What will you do, brother? Kill me in front of our children?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

For a moment it seemed as if violence would erupt. Sephara, frozen, thought she was about to watch her uncle murder her father. Every hardened line of Endarion’s body had poised for attack, and savagery emanated from him in waves. He was, after all, a soldier with decades of fighting experience; Valerian wouldn’t stand a chance.

Daria’s firm hand on his back seemed to calm Endarion. He reclaimed his seat, movements stiff, and cleared his throat.

Silence chilled the atmosphere. Sephara thought on her father’s words, realising she was just as guilty as everyone else of believing the rumours of her uncle’s promiscuity. Even knowing how vicious the nobility could be in verbally attacking one another, she hadn’t considered that, in this, they lied, exaggerated. And the fact her father was spying on his brother? That boded ill for the family’s security. It implied Valerian’s paranoia now extended to his own relatives.

Endarion’s voice was clipped when he next spoke. “The First Mistress would prove useful to Sephara. Prostitutes are overlooked by everyone. They hear much.” Valerian scoffed. It was an ugly sound. In response, Endarion snapped his head away from his brother and addressed Sephara directly, the glimmer of violence still dancing in his green eyes. “The Paramours deal in information just as much as pleasure, and the First Mistress has a network of spies and informants. She might try to seduce you in order to collect secrets from you. I would recommend you resist her, even if you are that way inclined.”

She took immense pleasure in the horror that shattered her father’s composure. She knew her uncle’s relationships embarrassed his older brother, who was prudish enough to ignore the mere existence of prostitution. She wondered how Valerian would react if he knew Sephara had actually dabbled in such vices before.

Her uncle continued. “The Paramours are elite, the very peak of refinement. The First Mistress is the apex of this, and will only ever engage in business, or consider entertaining a client, if you surrender incredibly sensitive knowledge.”

What secret did you share, then? To the best of her knowledge, her uncle was one of the only clients the First Mistress had ever personally taken on, and the fact she was mother to one of his bastards proved whatever secret he’d revealed had been powerful indeed.

“Sounds like it will be an interesting conversation,” she said, despite—or because of—her father’s scandalized reaction to the sinful territory their conversation had strayed into. “I’ll do what I can, starting with this First Mistress.”

Seemingly satisfied, Endarion and Daria got up to leave.

“How will I let you know of any developments?” Sephara asked.

“My cavalry-general, Palla Hasund, is an unregistered worldstrider,” Endarion replied without turning. “She’ll be sent back here regularly for updates.”

The door easing shut behind Endarion and Daria was too gentle to justify the charged atmosphere of the office. Her father released a hollow sigh and braced himself against his desk.

“He is spiralling again,” Valerian muttered. “I can see it in his eyes.”

Sephara nodded in agreement; her uncle had become enraged quite suddenly and, for a second, she’d read homicidal purpose in the way he’d loomed over his brother. She’d also noted how Daria’s hand on his back had calmed him, as if he needed to be physically torn back to reality. Though she hadn’t witnessed any of Endarion’s much-mocked bouts of madness, she imagined she’d just witnessed a prelude to such an episode.

It wasn’t too dissimilar from the madness she’d spied in Kaeso’s eyes as he’d advanced on her with every intention of hurting her. Was madness a family trait, she wondered?

“You were unfair to him, though,” Sephara admitted.

She expected Valerian to snap at her, but instead his brow creased, deepening the lines marring his face. “I spy on him to protect him, sometimes from himself,” her father said at length. “It happened to be Iana knocking on his door that night. Next time, it might be someone who wishes him ill.”

Maybe tell Endarion that, rather than throw the rumours about him back in his face. She didn’t say that, though; her father’s relationship with his brother was none of her business, though he seemed to treat Endarion with the same patronising disdain as he did most others. That he supposedly meant well likely made no difference to Endarion.

“I do not like the idea of you being thrown to the wolves like this,” Valerian continued, as if eager to move past the revelation that, beneath the insults, he looked out for his brother. “But this conflict with Drasken needs to be stopped before it can begin in earnest. I fear a great many things will end with it, our family included.”