Firstborn - Brandon Sanderson [7]
Dennison could see this, but he didn’t know how to accomplish it. As always, he grasped the concepts, but not the application. He was not a practical, hands-on commander of the type the empire preferred. It wasn’t so odd. Dennison knew of men who loved music, couldn’t play a note themselves. One could enjoy a grand painting without being able to replicate its brush-strokes. Art was valuable for the very reason that it could be appreciated by those of lesser skill. Remote leading and battlefield tactics were indeed arts, and Dennison would never be more than a spectator.
“Where are we, anyway?” Dennison asked an aide.
“Gammot system, my lord,” the aide answered.
Dennison frowned, leaning down on the railing. Gammot? He hadn’t realized that Varion had gotten so far, let alone Kern’s mop-up force. He waved for an aide to bring him a datapad, then punched up a map of the empire and overlaid it with a schematic of Varion’s conquests. He was amazed by what he saw.
It was nearly done. Varion’s forces were approaching the last rebellious systems. I really have been distracted lately, Dennison thought. Soon there would be peace. And with that peace, commanders wouldn’t be as important. They hadn’t been during the Grand Eras.
Why, then, was it so imperative that Dennison be forced into Varion’s mold? Everyone—the High Emperor, Kern, Dennison’s father—acted as if Dennison’s studies were absolutely vital.
It had to be his father, pleading for Dennison’s continued training—not because it mattered to the empire, but because Sennion didn’t want a failed warrior as a son.
* * *
“Of course there will still be a need for commanders,” Kern scoffed as a servant ladled soup into his bowl. “What makes you think otherwise?”
“The Reunification War is nearly over,” Dennison said.
Kern’s dining chamber was a compact version of one in an imperial mansion back on the Point, complete with marble columns and tapestries. The High Admiral’s rank forbade his fraternizing with his other Sub-Commanders, but Dennison’s higher birth and relation to Varion Crestmar made him an exception. Kern seemed able to relax and dine with Dennison—as if he didn’t see him as an underling, but rather as a young family member come to visit.
Kern snorted at Dennison’s logic. “There will be insurrections for some time yet, Dennison,” he said, attacking his soup. Kern lived like an imperial nobleman, but he was far less reserved than most. Perhaps that was why Dennison got along with him.
“Yes, but Varion and his officers will be free to handle them,” Dennison said, ignoring his own soup.
“All men age, and new blood needs to replace them,” Kern said.
“The empire doesn’t need me, Kern,” Dennison said. “It never has. Only my father’s stubbornness keeps me here.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Kern said. “Either way, I have my orders. How is your training coming?”
Dennison shrugged. “I fought the Marcus Seven battle four more times today and lost twice. Still can’t win it consistently.”
“Marcus Seven,” Kern said with a frown. “You’re taking your time. At this rate, it’ll take you another year to get through Varion’s archive.”
“At least I’m not complaining any more.”
“No,” Kern agreed. “You aren’t. In fact, you actually seem to be enjoying yourself.”
Dennison took a sip. “Perhaps so. My brother makes for an interesting subject.”
“When you first came on board, I could tell you hated him.”
Dennison rested his spoon back in his bowl. “I suppose I did,” he finally said. “At the Academy, I was never given a chance to succeed—the other boys challenged me to battles before I was ready, each one wanting the prestige of defeating Varion