Firstborn - Brandon Sanderson [11]
“At least the High Empire believes in honor, Dennison,” Kern said. “Is there honor in that face? The face of a man who would slaughter his own father?”
Dennison glanced away, shutting his eyes. “Please.”
He heard the holo wink off. “I’m sorry,” Kern said sincerely. “Here, let me show you something else instead.”
Dennison turned back; the holo shifted to an image of Varion. This image, however, was in motion. Varion sat behind a broad, black commander’s desk, a small data pad in his hand.
“What is this?” Dennison asked, perking up.
“The feed from a bug we have in Varion’s study,” Kern explained. “Aboard the Voidhawk.”
Dennison frowned. “How—?”
“Never mind how,” Kern said. “This is our only bug feed of the Voidhawk that didn’t fuzz off within an hour of the incident on Kress. I doubt that Varion’s scanners caught the other twenty but missed this one.”
“He knows about it, of course,” Dennison said. “But why would he. . . .” He trailed off. Silvermane had left the bug because it amused him. Even as Dennison watched, Varion looked up—directly toward the ostensibly hidden camera—and smiled.
“That man . . .” Kern said. “He wants us to watch him, to know how unconcerned he is by our spying. He’s so arrogant, so certain of his victory. You would bow before this creature? Whatever the empire is now, it will be worse with him at the head.”
Dennison watched Varion lounge in his study. But I am him—an inferior knock-off, at least.
Kern eventually snapped off the feed. “I’m giving you a sub-command, Dennison.”
Dennison frowned. “I thought we had an understanding.”
“We have too many fighters and too few officers. The time for study is over.”
Dennison felt himself pale involuntarily. “We’ll be facing . . . him?”
“Just a minor battle,” Kern said. “A preliminary skirmish, really. I doubt Varion will even bother directing his side of it. It will happen some distance from the bulk of his fleet.”
Dennison knew Kern was wrong. Varion directed all of his battles personally.
“This is a bad idea,” Dennison finally said, but Kern had already turned back to his review of the Kress incident.
* * *
“Yes, son. It’s true.” The emperor looked . . . weary.
“It’s illegal to clone a member of a High Family,” Dennison said, frowning as he knelt in front of the wallscreen image.
“I am the law, Dennison,” the emperor said. “Nothing I do can be illegal. In this case, the potential benefit of a cloning outweighed our reservations.”
“And I was that benefit,” Dennison said bitterly.
“Your tone threatens disrespect, young Crestmar.”
“Crestmar?” Dennison snapped. “Clones have no legal house or family.”
The High Emperor’s aged eyes flashed with anger at the outburst, and Dennison looked down guiltily. Eventually, the emperor’s voice continued, and Dennison was surprised at the softness he heard in it.
“Ah, child,” the emperor said. “Do not think us monsters. The laws you speak of maintain order in High Family succession, but exceptions can be made. It was your father’s stipulation in agreeing to this plan. Your right of succession was ratified by a closed council of High Dukes soon after your birth. Even had your father not required this, we would have done it. We did not create a life intending only to throw it away.”
Dennison finally looked back up. The weariness he had noted in the High Emperor’s face was evident again—during the last few years, the man had aged decades. Worrying about Varion would do this to any man. “Your majesty,” Dennison said carefully. “What if I had turned out as much a traitor as he?”
“Then you would have gone to war against him,” the High Emperor said. “For Varion would never be willing to share rule, even with himself. We hoped maybe you would weaken each other enough for us to stand against you. That, however, was a contingency plan—our first and foremost goal was to see that you did not turn out as he. It . . . seems that we were too successful in that respect.”
“Apparently,” Dennison mumbled.
“If that is all, young Crestmar,