Seven Sorcerers(27)

He raised the silver sickle and sliced a three-foot sprig from a vertical roof branch. Sap like honey dripped along the blade and pattered upon the curled roots below. A twinge of pain shuddered through the tree and along Sungui’s fingers; a momentary sensation of discomfort, soon replaced by numbness. The amber leaves rustled.

“Be still,” Sungui whispered, as one might speak to a horse being fitted for shoes. “A few more, my darling. We are almost finished.”

The tree responded with a silent rush of understanding. Sungui regretted the small pains that pruning caused the Ethus, but it was necessary to maintain the Daystar’s physical perfection.

The dilemma of preserving the Ethus Tree, the Almighty had told Sungui, is the dilemma of preserving the Living Empire. Sometimes one must remove a limb in order to preserve the integrity of the body. When we destroy a rebellious city or depopulate a riotous province, the process is much like pruning the unwanted branches of the Ethus. A moment of quick pain leads to years of peace and order.

Sungui placed the severed branch, still leaking its golden lifeblood, into the basket in his left hand. Several more branches lay there, results of his morning’s work. The tree seemed to understand the need for these moments of pain, though it could not prevent itself from sprouting more needless sprigs and stems. Its very nature was to grow beyond all orderly shape, so the High Seraphim worked constantly to preserve the shapes of the Holy Dreadnoughts.

In his most private moments, Sungui wondered if the same was true of mankind. Perhaps mortal beings could not help but erupt in sedition and treason every once in a while. This must be their nature, as the Ethus Tree’s nature was to grow into a glorious yet chaotic tangle of woodflesh. Without Seraphim to tend and prune the Living Empire, it would grow into chaos, and nature would inevitably destroy it.

Sungui dismissed this line of thought as something his female aspect might ponder more readily. Duty was the soul of his male aspect. Questions about the worthiness of his position among the Seraphim sank like heavy stones into the black depths of his subconscious. He knew they would emerge to trouble him once more as soon as his aspect changed. This did not worry him, as so many other qualities changed when that metamorphosis occurred. He had accepted that, as the Ethus Tree had accepted the need for its weekly pruning.

“There,” he said, tucking the final cutting into his basket. “All finished.” He placed a slim hand upon the golden trunk. Warmth radiated from the bright bark, and a shudder of contentment rattled the leaves about him. Sungui closed his eyes and reached out to the rest of the ship through its living core.

Winds rushed across the curved hull, sliced by the bladed keel. The massive hold lay silent and stuffed full of provisions. Above it sixty slaves pulled upon oars to flap the two sets of canvas wings extending from the sides of the ship. The snores of another hundred and twenty slaves rattled the sleeping chamber on the same deck. At midnight the oarsmen would change shifts. The power of the Ethus Tree itself levitated the dreadnought vertically, but it took the beating of these wings and the sweat of slaves to drive it forward through the air. Conjured winds in the sails added speed, but the true mobility of the armada rested on the backs of these honored slaves. Such oarsmen were pampered and well fed, almost a separate class of slave royalty. Their strength was augmented by alchemic elixirs brewed for this purpose.

On the next deck above the oarsmen, hundreds of Manslayers honed their blades, oiled their armor, and spoke in anxious voices about the battles to come. Above that level the quarters of sailors and Lesser Seraphim ran the length of the ship. Finally, the upper deck vibrated with the steel-shod steps of Manslayers sparring or keeping watch, the tread of busy sailors, and the footfalls of slaves preparing meals in the ship’s galley.

In the forecastle the palatial cabin of the Almighty himself was empty of his presence. Holy Zyung stood near the mainmast, directly beneath the rippling violet sails stitched with the likeness of his flame-eyed face. Next to him stood Red Ajithi, the flagship’s captain. The two were speaking, but Sungui could not hear their words from the heart chamber. He imagined the Almighty’s eyes scanning the western horizon of the sea, perhaps looking beyond the waves toward his goal. Zyung must see further than any of those who served him. Perhaps he saw his future victory lying beyond the heavy clouds.

Sungui sensed the familiar presence of two others next to his sovereign. The Black Wolf and the Pale Panther walked always at Zyung’s side these days. His favorite new pets. The Wolf he called Gammir, the Panther Ianthe. He named them his allies, but Sungui knew them to be little more than traitors. Both had abandoned their kingdom in the Land of the Five Cities and come to Zyung’s side as fawning turncoats. At times they walked in the shapes of man and woman, but they seemed to prefer the bestial forms. Or perhaps it was Zyung who preferred those forms. Vis ible reminders of their true nature?