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Prologue

Staring blankly at a sheet of paper in the rain had never helped anyone, or at least, not as far as she knew. Then again, Niem’s worldly experience was limited at best. She had spent the entirety of her fifteen years safely within the boundaries of Sathen, a pleasantly straight-forward and no-nonsense town with decent enough residents (if you didn’t ask too much of them) mostly of the large, farm-working persuasion. And yet, for all of its commonness and lack of interest in the rest of the world around it, Sathen was being watched—she knew it was true now.
The notice, posted outside the townsfolk’s most frequently inhabited tavern was just the beginning. Not that any of the others really saw its significance, since few Saths could even see the need for education beyond the primary three years. In fact, for those peculiars actually interested in learning to read and write, finding an able teacher was difficult.
Niem should know; she had spent every spare minute since she was six at the side of old Rayn i Paina, the slightly eccentric herbalist who was now completely bed-ridden. But for all of her oddities, Bei Paina was well-known as an apt scholar in the arts if herb-lore, scripting, and weather-casting. Under her instruction, Niem had gained almost as much skill in these subjects as her teacher.
But now, staring at the dampened notice-board before her, with Sathen mud garnishing her shoes and skirt hem, Niem knew that none of her studies could have prepared her for this.
It wasn’t the message itself that bothered her; that part was clear enough, stating only what was now common knowledge—that a new emperor had set up his dominion over all residents of the surrounding town and area and demanded due acknowledgement of his sovereignty in the form of monetary taxes, etc. etc. It was the seal at the bottom of the single posted page that troubled her.
Niem unconsciously tugged at her hood, trying to pull it back over her hopelessly wet hair, thinking hard. If there was one thing that Bei Paina had taught her of politics over the years, it was to watch for the surreptitious subtleties of those in office. Every previous emperor (and there had been four in Niem’s lifetime) had demonstrated his own personal style in certain ways, and one of those was by slightly altering the official seal of the Empire. The Great Unicorn, the symbol of her people was sometimes white, sometimes grey and once, even a light purple. It was pictured in a full gallop, rearing, or standing gracefully in many different backgrounds of Sur’s diverse landscapes. But always the Unicorn had worn a chain of silver links and was encircled by a golden garland of beautiful Rithu leaves.
This new Emperor, the youngest in her people’s history, had a seal that was not incredibly different at first glance. The Unicorn was shown in white, serenely racing through a green field, one of the more popular poses in recent years. But Niem’s keen grey eyes, well trained to notice the unobvious, detected three frightening observations. One, the Unicorn’s silver chain, its symbol of honor and dignity appeared more akin to the iron shackles of a prisoner. Two, the sky behind the animal was a deep grayish black as if before an approaching storm. And three, from its eyes dripped barely perceptible tears of blood.