Episode 22: No More Rainbow Cascades

 No More Rainbow Cascades 

by Rebecca E. Treasure

Ilsa's grief glittered in the harsh sunlight before shattering in frozen droplets on her armor. By habit she reached for a vial to capture the feeling, but her fingers fell still. The sapphire drops continued.

Only after the battle could she waste feelings so. The moment passed, the freedom of release dissipating with the last breaths of so many of Ilsa's warriors. All was ice, brittle and fragile in these final days of winter and war.

Ilsa cleaned her sword, wiping away the remnants of battle. She turned, clearing grief and rage from her cheeks. The dozens of thumb-sized glass bottles secured to her waist clinked with her swift motion. "The campaign went well."

"Yes, General." The chief ardormage wore layered furred pelts, giving the pale man the appearance of a mole emerging from a burrow. "Your mother will be pleased. Perhaps she will join the Parade of Sentimentals."

Ilsa almost chuckled aloud, but remembered herself and caught the sound in a glass vial. Yellow arcs of joy bounced around the little bottle, corked by her quick fingers. "Pleased enough to bestir herself from the palace, Urst? I think not." She tucked the vial in her satchel. "No, the Empress will await my return as always."

The smile warmed as Ilsa thought of Mother's joy in her return. It would be good to see her again, to share dinners on the balcony high above the city aglow with emotion, discussing the future of the Empire. Then the smile soured, thinking of what she would leave behind.

Beyond the living soldiers, the icy expanse resembled statuary more than a war zone. Frozen women, swords still clutched in strong fingers, stood in martial poses, testament to Ilsa's victory. Eternal Empty, their gaping icy maws stained with half-eaten rainbow feelings, were carted away to be burned. They would return with the snow as they did every winter, ravenous for the expressed feelings of the Empire, but for now the people were safe.

The heroines would remain until the cleansing acid rains of spring washed away the landscape, leaving it scorched and empty for another season of death. Ardormages moved amongst the drained and deceased warriors, collecting their hoarded feelings, carefully rearranging the expressions of those who had been in too much pain to reform their final expression into a more proper, stoic facade.

"Will the General be supervising the fires?" Urst's peach amusement burst from his mouth before disappearing into a bottle with a clink. He had an unusual number of emotions for a mage, though he followed protocol to the letter at all times. He did not ask if she would welcome the coming tide of the rich and powerful streaming from the capitol to view the triumphant dead. He knew better.

"No," Ilsa said, her jaw tight. "I have other business to attend to."

He bowed. Ilsa ignored the unexpressed feelings flickering behind his eyes. She turned away and crossed the ice wastes to her tent. She ate with the women, spent her evenings striding from fire to fire, ensuring everyone's emotions were reserved for the battlefield. Her nights, however, and her mornings, she spent violating her duty, selfishly ignoring every mandate of the empire Mother fought to forge.

#

Ilsa sat up, keeping her hand on Ember's bare back. She basked in the dazzling glory of their love. The tent reflected and refracted myriad emotions--scarlet and violet and amber and gold and silver--little chunks of their passion clinking on the mattress beneath their sweat-sheened flesh. Shimmers of need and desire arced from floor to taut ceiling, swirling and dancing with shafts of fear and anger and hope. Though Ilsa should have contained her emotions, and love was forbidden to the heir, with Ember she forgot--or ignored--all she'd been taught.

By rights and by duty, Ember should have been amongst the soldiers, but Ilsa had kept her away from this final battle. Many had been lost and Ember had so little control. It astonished Ilsa that the Empty had not sensed Ember's expressive nature and sent a hoard just for her.

Without warning, the tent flap swept back, pushing a gust of frigid air into the warm tent. Ilsa gasped, rainbow emotions freezing and falling to the ground in graying chunks.

Ember, never one to fear, shouted black-tinged words at the cold wind blowing through the opening. "How dare you disturb the general? Get out."

Urst stepped into the shadows of the tent, the flap falling shut behind him. His narrow nose poking from the fur cloak resembled a rat sniffing from a burrow. "Your Majesty." He paused, letting the terrible import of the address sink in. "We must return to the capitol."

The chief ardormage would not err, using Ilsa's future title by mistake. Only one event could have caused him to address her so. Before Ilsa could stop it, crystalline blue grief erupted in a moan. It cascaded down her breasts, stomach, collecting in a cool puddle around her thighs.

Ilsa pictured Mother as she'd last seen her--stout, comfortable, aged, yes, but ruling her Empire and her emotions with iron control. Now she'd died. Ilsa was Empress and could afford no more luxury. Nausea clawed up her throat.

She would have to remember at all times. No more long mornings with Ember, no more winters campaigning and triumphing over the Empty. No more rainbow cascades. She clamped her mouth shut, scrambling for a vial to collect her loss. She had a duty.

Ember kneeled on the mattress, fiery eyes dimming. "What is it?" Realization sparked silver and violet. "No! You cannot leave me!" Ember reached for Ilsa, clinging to her arm.

Ilsa shook her off, her lips pressed hard against the shrieking emotion within. "I must," she managed to gasp, even that falling blue shot with angry black.

Ilsa turned to Urst, nodded. He swept disapproving eyes over the scatter of emotion on the floor, then bowed and retreated. Ilsa fell to her knees, scooping up any remnants of still-flickering feeling into vials. In her haste, the emotions mixed, boiling and reacting in the bottles. Anger collided with love, hope with despair.

A bottle shattered, the feelings within too fresh to be combined. Ilsa flinched, pulling a shard of glass from her forearm. The blood dripped out. At least in the pain of her flesh she could release the torment of her soul.

Ember stood, pulling a light robe over her shoulders. Her eyes wept, deep-hued grief, fear, and loss rolling from her in waves that further cluttered the feeling-strewn floor. "I can join you. I could learn control."

Ilsa looked up at her love. For a moment, she permitted the surge to peak against her throat. Red and blue obscured her sight. Then she gulped, sealing the feelings deep, so deep that light could never reach them. She allowed a small smile to lift her cheeks, catching the pale pink amusement before it fell to the ground.

"No, you never could." She stood, her jaw tight. "But I can. And I will."

Ember drew back as though Ilsa had hit her. Turning away, Ilsa dressed in her armor once again. The chainmail and leather jerkin slid over her skin taut and warm, familiar as her own thoughts. Yet her heart was cold.

Ember wept behind her, wasteful of the feelings puddling around her ankles. "You cannot leave me. We belong together."

"I do not have the luxury of love. It was always this way."

"You are the Empress. You can change the law."

Ilsa turned, strapping her vambraces into place. "I can."

Ember's eyes filled with fresh hope, the green of summer's first buds.

"But I will not."

The hope soured, sickly yellow streaks tainting it, and slid away.

Ilsa offered her hand to Ember, pulling her up and then dropping the warm fingers. "The Empire is strong because of our laws. They protect our people. I must not marry, I must--" She stopped, remembering the fate her own family's laws condemned her to face.

Ember's words flashed in an angry black shower. "You must sleep with men from all over the country, letting them rut like hogs while you suffer. Every night. For a year."

"It's the only way. I was born of such connections. I am truly a child of the Empire."

Ember reached out, stroking Ilsa's cheek. Ilsa winced, a purple-grey ribbon shattering against her breastplate.

Ember cupped her hands, pooling Ilsa's fear in her palms. "You will not be able to endure it."

Ilsa raised her chin. "I will serve the Empire as my Mother before me, and her Mother, and all the way back to the founding of the imperial city."

Ember turned away. "Go, then."

Ilsa reached out, but let her hand fall. As the heir, she'd had more freedom than anyone else in the Empire. She answered only to the Empress. Now she answered to no one but herself, but owed her duty--and her control--to millions. She belted her sword into place and stepped from the tent.

As she'd expected, her army had assembled. Armor glittered in the thin northern sun, standards flapping in the frigid wind. Ten thousand warriors under a pale blue sky, and she knew them all. Not by name--even her prodigious memory could not hold so many--but by their fierceness, their control, their ability.

Ilsa sniffed, refusing the welling emotions an outlet. The army could only move on with her strength, her control. The Captains raised their swords and as one, the army saluted her. In the breath of silence that followed, Ember slipped from the tent, cast Ilsa one defiant glare, and ran toward the rear of the troops. Ilsa glanced at Urst, who arched an eyebrow, his eyes darting to Ember's retreating figure.

Ilsa stepped forward. "You have served the Empire well," she said, pleased her voice did not waver. "We conquered the Empty once again and our control and our bravery will protect the Empire for another year. Though I now go to my own service, I will never forget you."

For a moment, just a fraction of a second, she allowed her respect and admiration for these fierce and powerful women to overwhelm her. The deep red emotion fell, melting into the snow around her boots. "Such feelings you cause in me."

Then she turned to the sound of their shouts and climbed into her waiting carriage, already heated by feelings running hot through the walls. She shivered, frowning, and settled against the muted hum. Next winter, another general would lead this army to battle.

As the carriage swept her from the battlefield in a cloud of pale, exhausted feelings, she caught a last glimpse of a black-haired woman in a blue robe, stark against the ice.

#

"Your Majesty, this way..."

"Your tea, Your Majesty..."

"Is the room warm enough, Your Majesty?"

On and on. Ilsa wanted to shout at the meek servants that her name was sufficient, that she hated their formality. She longed for the simple address of the battlefield. General would be better than the endless majesties reminding her constantly of Mother's death, the loss of Ember, and the trap of duty and tradition facing her.

The morning had dawned cloudy, muted and gray. Ilsa settled into Mother's throne--it would be decades before she could think of it as hers--and steeled herself for another day of documents and unpleasant courtiers. The gilt armrests dug into her arms, and the plush cushion that elevated her even further provided scant comfort.

The throne room stretched away from her, all marble and gold and tapestry. For now, the cavernous space echoed with emptiness, but soon it would fill with the clatter of vials, the shuffling of slippered feet, and the whispers of the mighty. Fresh orchids surrounded the dais, but their fragile scent scarcely reached Ilsa's nose.

Urst hovered nearby as always, a slight smile on his pink face. He'd discarded his thick robes, here in the warm capitol, for swirling robes of deep purple and red. He still resembled a rodent. She snorted quietly. The emotion-mages thought they were so clever, but they would die as easily as anyone if the Empty were not contained. They served the Empire as much as she.

He bowed once she turned her eyes to him. "The first of the Fathers will come tomorrow evening after the coronation."

Ilsa nodded, her stomach churning. Urst took an unhealthy joy in reminding her, watching her squirm. She did not answer for fear her disgust and unhappiness would pour out onto the marble steps of the dais. Mother had been buried scarcely an hour before Urst began his gentle reminders of the Fathering.

An unusual gentleness softened Urst's expression and he stepped forward, waving away the servants hovering behind the throne. At his querying eyebrow, Ilsa nodded, and he climbed the three steps toward her.

"I know you are uneasy about the Fathering." He had dropped the formal title, but was it an insult or an attempt at familiarity?

Ilsa glared at him, expecting a smirk or a sneer, but instead his eyes were wide and sincere. She nodded, once, thinking of black hair and a blue robe.

"There are medicines, concoctions that will make it easier to endure."

Ilsa shook her head. "No." The purple-red flash of pride and fear dropped into a vial. "I will endure as my Mothers before me."

"It is not uncommon." He lowered his voice even further. "Your Mother, for instance, partook."

Ilsa stared at him. Mother had drugged herself to avoid the discomfort and invasion of the Fathers? Ilsa had always pictured Mother embracing her duty, going willingly to the bed each night, eager to produce an heir for the Empire. "What would it do?"

Urst's thin lips turned up, an approximation of a smile. "You will be hazy, unfocused. The memories will not cling to you in the morning."

"It's safe?"

"Yes."

"For the baby, too?"

He spread his hands. "You are healthy enough."

A thought occurred to Ilsa, a thought tinged with purple and blue. "Is it possible to choose the Father?" She was tied to this fate, but perhaps she could reclaim a sort of choice without betraying her duty.

Urst stepped back, his eyebrows raised. "That would defeat the purpose of the Fathering."

Ilsa shook her head. "The Fathering is a symbol, to tie the heir to the people." She had begun to wonder which people were meant to be tied. "Perhaps I am not the first to suggest this. It is odd that all of the heirs look so much like the people of the capitol."

"Your bloodline is strong, no more." Urst was rubbing his little finger with a nervous thumb.

"Are you certain?"

Urst had no answer.

Ilsa leaned forward. "I know there are medicines that can prevent a baby, and the opposite. I want a baby from the Western Isles. A Father with black hair and dusky skin." She looked away, unable to keep the tears from forming in her eyes. "I command it."

Urst frowned, disapproving, but he nodded. "Very well, Your Majesty."

The first of the courtiers and penitents were drifting in from the far door. They were easy to tell apart. The courtiers moved into the regal space without glancing around, smoothing their gowns and doublets, their vials tinkling like tiny bells. The penitents, however, shuffled wide-eyed, staring at the floor-to-ceiling tapestries, the glittering gilted columns, and the imperial figure on the far throne. They shed emotions in their distraction.

Ilsa turned her eyes to Urst. "Prepare your mixtures."

He retreated down the steps without another word.

#

The crown weighed more than all the armor Ilsa had ever worn. When Urst settled it atop the mountain of braids and pins the handmaidens had concocted out of Ilsa's thin hair, a headache sprang into being immediately. A lifetime companion, she assumed, from dawn until dusk for the rest of her days. She was free to express emotions during the coronation, a liberty allowed to the Empress on the first day of her reign, but Ilsa kept her face blank. There were too many eyes watching to allow the feelings clawing at her throat to erupt.

The Ambassador from the Western Isles, tall and haughty with a light tan complexion and bony features, scarcely looked away from Ilsa during the ceremony. His people--Ember's people--had only been subdued in the last decade of Mother's reign, and the hand of the Empire had yet to calm them. They would revolt, break away, if they detected any weakness.

So the nerves churning in Ilsa's gut could not be expressed.

A delegation from Saga City, cowled and somber, swept their disapproving eyes over the assembled and watched for any emotion waste. Their dead eyes, purged of most emotion, would detect any doubt in Ilsa.

So the disgust for her coming year that threatened to vomit all over the silk and pearl gown must be contained.

The Governor of the Imperial City, skin as black as the night sky, glittering with sweat like stars, was a kind man, but he, too, had the interests of his own people in mind. The common people had long hoped for a child to be born that was more like them, but somehow the heir was always fair-skinned. They had their suspicions about the Fathering.

So the hope keeping her back straight as the crown stifled her spine must remain hidden.

How had Mother borne it? How could Ilsa possibly balance the realms of the Empire, the threat of the Eternal Empty, and her own weaknesses? Fear, more than any other feeling, colored her mind. Fear of failure, fear of the Fathers, fear that she would never see Ember again, fear that she would, fear that without her leadership the following winter the army would fail and the Empty would sweep across the Empire.

So as Ilsa turned to face the silent crowd, she kept her face carefully blank, fulfilling her duty to the letter though her heart was hollow.

#

After the Coronation, Ilsa was escorted to her rooms to change for the first night of the Fathering. Her comfortable rooms, decorated in her favorite light blues with paintings of birds from across the Empire on the walls, could not soothe her spirit. The servants dressed her in a modest nightgown, but the illusion was shattered by the skirt that split easily into four curtains at the waist. Her upper body would remain covered by the thick, white cotton, but her legs would be bare. Trapped by the duty that freed the Empire. They removed her crown and her jewelry, and then bowed out to give her a moment of privacy.

As soon as she was alone, Ilsa opened her mouth and wailed. Her mind and spirit were already shrinking under the weight of a year of Fathers. Yet what choice did she have? She could not abandon her duty to the Empire.

A kaleidoscope of feelings cascaded down, too many to capture and contain, though she scrambled for vials and tried to catch them. She was Empress now. Her feelings were powerful. She sobbed, unable to stem the trembling, aching terror that threatened to rip screams from her throat and set her heart pounding more than the battlefield had ever done.

She had to calm down. The first Father would come to the bedchamber soon--Ilsa peeked at the double door to the room between her fingers--and she would have to join him. He would be masked, not allowed to touch her beyond necessity, and there would be two imperial guards to protect her should he lose control.

Would they be women she knew? Women who had fought for her? Would they be aroused? Disgusted? Pitying? What would she feel?

Where was Urst with the sedative and preventative? She could not face that room without it, now that she knew there was an alternative. The thought of feeling every touch, of remembering it with sharp clarity for the rest of her days was too much to bear.

Urst finally slipped into the room a few minutes later. Ilsa silently handed him the cluster of vials, each containing a fractured rainbow. He accepted them without changing expression. In return, he offered her a vial of his own, containing a silvery liquid that clung to the glass.

"It will take effect almost immediately," he said. "The Father is awaiting your arrival."

Ilsa raised an eyebrow, and he shook his head.

"He is from the north."

"Thank you," Ilsa whispered, unable to stop the trembling shower of fear from falling with the words. She uncorked the vial and drank.

The medicine tasted of chalk and vinegar, but she gulped it down. Then she turned, smoothed her nightgown, and strode into the bedchamber.

#

Eagerness.

Heat.

Rough hands.

Pain.

Exhaustion.

Delirium.

Confusion.

Ember.

Not Ember.

Cold eyes.

Hot eyes.

Grunting.

Moaning.

Groaning.

Sighing.

Panting.

Pressure.

Relief.

Release.

Carnal.

Reproductive.

Animal.

Bestial.

OH LET IT END.

#

Mid-autumn, as the soldiers drilled in the camp outside the city and the farmers provided annual supplies to the soldiers from their districts, Urst offered her her nightly potion with a half-smile.

"He has black hair, like the woman from your tent. He is from the isles."

Ilsa waved the sedative away. She was breaking tradition, violating her duty to the Empire. The least she could do would be to remember this night, remember the conception of her child.

The bedchamber sparkled in sharp clarity, the guards silent along the walls as always. The enormous bed in the center of the circular, windowless room surprised her--under the cloud of Urst's drug, it had seemed all soft edges and comfort.

Without the fog over her eyes, Ilsa could see the bed for what it was. A stage, meant for performance, hard and sharp all around. The wood frame she'd thought was rounded had corners, almost spikes at the edges, and the soft white blankets and pillows were the bland white of faded parchment, not the bright clarity of snow as she'd thought.

The room stank of sweat and flesh, and Ilsa's stomach twisted. She clamped her jaw and eyes shut, closing off her throat to contain any emotions. The Father had to be comfortable enough to do his part.

The Father appeared much as the others. He burst through the door, proud of his dark muscled body--a sailor from the stench of fish and his calloused hands. A naked man in a clay mask, only his eyes peering at her, orange in the candlelight. He came to her as soon as she lay on the bed.

He wasted no time, rough and impatient. He sprayed scarlet eagerness over the sheets and was done in a matter of moments. Without a word, he flopped onto the pillow next to her and began to snore. Ilsa watched his black hair on the pillow until dawn, weeping and holding her hands on her belly in hope.

She would remember that night forever.

#

Ilsa awoke in a cold pool of sunlight, her skin so translucent she could almost see her bones. It was over. The Fathering bed was wide, covered with silken sheets and a thick woolen quilt for the winter, but she would never see it again. Candles flickered in the corners, desperate spurts of flames moments from puffing into smoke, clinging to the heat. Ilsa willed them to sputter to darkness, no longer needed.

The rugs on the floor were littered with discarded feelings from the last Father. His were guilt and pleasure and pride and shame. Ilsa had seen them all through a veil. The last Father had been a quiet man, uncertain behind his mask, gentle.

When he finished, he'd whispered, "I'm sorry."

She'd wondered if Urst chose him for the last.

He had pitied her, and Ilsa hated him for it. She hated all of them. Had she not endured? For four seasons, she had faced each night with the vial of Urst's silver concoction in one fist and the emptiness of memory clutched in her mind.

After the first few nights, it became routine. Routine in the way saluting fallen troops had been, routine like saying goodbye to Ember each frigid morning afraid they'd never kiss again, routine like the well-wishers after Mother's funeral had blended together into one white-shrouded stream of regret. She awoke each morning sore and exhausted, but the memories were vague.

Except for that one night.

A slight swell in Ilsa's lower abdomen promised she would never again have to endure the Fathering, and the General she'd appointed in her stead--one of her most reliable Captains--had sent a dispatch the day before reporting certain victory over the Empty once again. There were rumors of unrest in the Western Isles, and a poor harvest in the farms surrounding the imperial city, but these were commonplace concerns for an Empress. She would send the army to the isles, and though her heart ached for the hungry, there would be enough food.

She rose and hurried back into her own chambers, a relief and a refuge once again. She brushed out her own hair without calling for a servant. One appeared anyway and gasped, taking the brush without a word. Ilsa winced when a warm hand brushed her neck.

More servants appeared, bringing food and warm drink, a gown for the trip north for the Parade of Sentimentals. Another tradition broken. Ilsa would go and see her army, and would thank them for protecting the Empire for another winter. Would face the Departed and their grieving families. She owed it to the Empire to be present for this ritual, especially after avoiding the other.

Ilsa left the capitol the day before the rest of the courtiers and powerful of the Empire. She wanted time to be with the army before the 'Your Majesty' business began anew. Urst sat across from her, silent. If he moved too near, Ilsa could not contain the fear that vomited from her. She'd replaced all the male staff of the palace, kept the courtiers at a distance.

All the long trip north, Ilsa's hand rested on her belly. The magic of the emotion-fueled vehicle kept her warm and protected from the jostles of the road, but the growing instinct to protect that unusual mound of flesh was undeniable.

The child would be Ilsa's alone, just as Ilsa had been Mother's. Only to Ilsa could Mother speak freely, relax and allow her emotions to run without censor. At least with the child--Ilsa couldn't decide whether to name her after tradition and call her Iilya, or follow her heart and call her Ember. Either way, when the child grew old enough to communicate, Ilsa would no longer be totally, devastatingly, alone.

She refused to even consider the possibility of a boy. She could not, would not, face another Fathering.

At long last the carriage crunched into the ice fields. Without warning, a flurry of emotions tumbled into Ilsa's lap, spilling away from her growing belly. She gasped, scrambling for vials. Urst still said nothing, only bending to help collect the cascade. Memories of Mother collided with recalled sensations of nights with Ember, overlaid with the vague, indistinct horrors of the past year. Ilsa swallowed hard and stepped from the carriage onto the ice.

The troops were arrayed just as they had been the year before, pennants snapping in the ice-swept wind, armor glittering. They were so still they all could have been statues, frozen until the spring rains. She'd missed them.

She stepped forward, reaching for the projection device to thank them. Then her footsteps faltered. She fell to her knees, a wave of black and blue washing away the snow at her feet. Urst stepped forward, a question in his voice, and then he, too, fell silent.

They were statues.

The entire army was dead, frozen by the Empty, solid and forever perfect. Looking up through icy fingers pressed to her cheeks, Ilsa saw their eyes were black, dead.

Empty.

The Empty had drained them all. The Empty would be powerful. Too powerful to stop, too powerful to hold back without these brave soldiers. The Empire was lost, the child would never be born. Somewhere in those ranks would be Ember, too, her black hair and vivid eyes stilled forever.

Movement drew Ilsa's eye, a shifting shadow amongst the frozen army. She scrambled back toward the carriage, though that would not protect her from the Empty. She cradled the warm rise in her belly, closed her eyes, and thought of a black-haired woman with fire in her eyes. Anger, fear, rage, horror, loss, grief, love, despair, the rainbow cascade of colors danced before Ilsa's eyelids, clenched shut against the pain.

"Ilsa."

The death-dream was so real Ilsa could hear Ember's voice. She smiled, murmuring apologies and love, waiting for the icy touch.

A warm hand touched Ilsa's cheek. Her eyes snapped open. Ember drew back her hand. She stood, dressed in a thin jerkin of black leather with silver chainmail and a long sword strapped at her side. Tall boots of matching leather were cracked and caked with ice at the heels.

Ember frowned, looking down at Ilsa. "I didn't expect you to come. Your mother never did."

Urst stepped forward, snarling. "How dare you!"

Ember's sword skewered his heart before he took another step. He fell to the ice, blood pouring out onto the snow, and all Ilsa could think was how embarrassed he would be to have his fear on display in sharp purple puddles.

Ember wiped her sword on the snow and sheathed it. She swept back her hair, sparkling like icicles in the harsh winter sunlight, and sniffed. "How was your year?"

Ilsa shook her head. This couldn't be happening. Ember wouldn't do this; the passionate woman who had shared her tent had loved her. And Urst ... For all his stodgy ritual, he'd helped her, protected her from the Fathering memories, given her a child of the West. She gulped, hoping the emotions she was fighting to contain did not spill out and draw the Empty. "You've been busy."

Ember laughed and Ilsa's heart ached to hear it.

"Yes. I found something worth fighting for."

"Not this." Ilsa's whisper came out a plea, and she couldn't contain the hot shame that mixed with Urst's blood in the snow. "So many people will die."

Ember's eyes flashed. "What of it? Thousands of my people died resisting your Empire. Thousands die from starvation, from disease, because they can't afford the magic of your precious emotion-mages." She kicked snow at Urst's body. "The ice will sweep the Empire away, and leave the rest of us free."

"Only on the isles." Ilsa stood, watching Ember closely. She seemed to be alone, but then how had the army been defeated? There had to be more Islanders close. "You care nothing for the rest of the world?"

Ember's resolve cracked. Red-tinged black spat at Ilsa. "I cared for you! And you left me."

"I had to. It is my duty."

"Duty." Ember spewed violet and ochre across the ice. "What of love? What of self? What about me!"

Ilsa held up her hands, hoping to calm Ember. Ember's eyes fell to the roundness in Ilsa's skirt and a violent tide of rage screamed from her. Her face twisted in pain, pain Ilsa had felt night after night for a year, fresh on the face of the woman she'd loved.

"I didn't think you could do it." Ember shook her head, her eyes clenched tight. "I didn't believe you would."

"I had to."

A growing sound reached Ilsa's ears, a familiar sound that had her reaching for a sword she no longer carried. The screeching, teeth-itching sound of the Empty's approach.

Ember sighed, lowering her sword. "I suppose you'd prefer to join the warriors. You always cared deeply for the army."

Ilsa nodded. She raised her eyes to the horizon, knowing what would meet them. The shifting whiteness tumbled toward them, creaking and crunching, an avalanche glimmering with menace. Something shifted in her mind, looking at the Empty beyond Ember's familiar shape.

The emotions that had taunted her, tormented her for the past year, crystallized into something separate. Something as frozen as the women of the army before her. She brushed a stray hair out of her eyes, and stepped forward. No feelings fell.

"It won't work, Ember. I am the Empress. They will fall."

Ember sneered. "You've gone mad, Ilsa. All those filthy men drove you insane. The Empty will freeze you and then will sweep south and destroy the Empire."

"They will not." Ilsa raised her chin and strode past Ember, to the front rank of the army. She reached out, her feelings as separate from her, yet one with her, as the child in her belly, and touched the cheek of the General. She pushed the riotous feelings she had contained for so long into the icy skin.

The General's dark lips flushed with life. With warmth. Her eyes faded from black to brown, a sharp expression taking the place of the stoic facade she'd been forced into. "The Empty, they've tricked us! They attacked at night, they knew our patrols." She gasped, looking at Ilsa. "Your Majesty! You must leave the field, it's not safe."

"No, General. But we don't have much time. Form your defense." Ilsa moved down the line, pouring her heart, her depth of feeling for Ember, for the Empire, for her unborn daughter, her rage and hope and loss, pouring all she was into the soldiers. As she moved, she heard the comforting sound of swords being drawn, orders being given. She feared she would run dry, wouldn't have enough to give, but as the battle raged on the sparkling wastes, Ilsa reached the last warrior.

A tall woman from the Western Isles, as it happened.

Without a word, the soldier drew her sword and turned to battle the Empty. Ilsa turned to where, in the distance, Ember still stood beside Urst's cooling body. Her shoulders were hunched, and she did not look up as Ilsa approached.

"How?" Ember's eyes were blank now, and full of fear.

"I am Empress," Ilsa repeated. Urst could have explained, could have answered the question of how Ilsa knew what to do, and how the transfer worked, but Urst was dead.

Soon Ember would be dead, too. "I'm sorry I hurt you," Ilsa said, because that's what she was supposed to say. The right words. She felt nothing.

Ember scattered emotions on the snow. A stray Empty escaped the battle, inevitably drawn by Ember's heat, and charged toward them. Ilsa turned and faced it, secure in her icy, emotionless heart. The Empty ignored her, for it was as cold as she, and reached for Ember instead.

Ember's frozen expression was one of sadness and loss. Not fear, not pain. Somewhere deep in what used to feel, Ilsa was relieved by that.

She turned and watched the battle. Her army would triumph. They were the best, and had many years of training. The Empty had only won with Ember's help. Nearly won.

When the battle at last subsided, nearly a quarter of the women were once again frozen, but their faces were fierce and dignified. Ilsa had no feeling left to revive them, but the Empire was safe. Ilsa thanked the general, returned to her carriage, and directed it back to the capitol. There was much to do.

She would free the isles--they weren't worth the trouble--and ensure that the food from the capitol was better shared across the Empire. Without the cluttering emotions in her mind, these decisions would be easy to make. Ember had been wrong to despair, but she was not wrong to be angry.

Ilsa watched the battlefield fade away without expression, her hands loose at her side.

#

Ilsa's labor had been difficult, but she'd faced it as she had everything since the battle. Without expression. Now it was over, and she could turn to the task of raising the child--she'd settled on Iilya for tradition's sake--and securing the Empire. It would be winter again soon.

The midwife leaned over the bed to hand the child to Ilsa. Dutiful, Ilsa reached for the little bundle. The warm weight settled in her arms, comfortable in a new way. She looked down.

Looked into bright eyes, wide and innocent, beneath fuzzy eyebrows and a stunning head of short, black hair.

The blanket and bed suddenly overflowed with a riot of color, every imaginable shade toppling over the startled newborn. The feelings drained by Ilsa's army resurged with the tiny warmth in her arms. Ilsa's grief tore her chest, clawed at her throat as it ripped its way to freedom.

This child would never endure the Fathering, would never have to choose between love and duty. Rules could be changed, traditions shifted to allow for new understanding.

Duty meant nothing if it was only for show.

The baby gurgled and blinked. Ilsa raised the infant to her cheek, weeping bright colors.

"Hello, Ember."

END