Page 28

28

K ANTHE STIRRED WITH the ringing of the third bell of Eventoll. He had drifted off into a drowsy slumber while seated on his throne. He raised his chin from his chest and gazed blearily across the cavernous expanse of the grand audience chamber.

The space could have accommodated a wyndship floating under its arched rafters. Massive pillars—so wide that it would take ten men’s linked arms to circle one—held up the roof. Between them and off to the sides, tiered galleries of polished wood climbed the walls. They could seat thousands, but this late in the day, only a handful dotted those levels. Same held true for the rows of benches lining either side of the floor. The aisle between, shining in white marble, led from a spread of huge doors on the far side and arrowed straight toward the two gold thrones.

To work loose a crick in his neck, Kanthe stretched his shoulders and swung his chin from side to side. He almost dislodged the thin silver circlet that crowned his head. He craned up at the golden sheen of his seat. It stood notably shorter than its neighbor, where Aalia sat with a stiff back, nodding as a courtier bowed and scraped. The latter was clearly overwhelmed to be in the presence of the Illuminated Rose.

Kanthe had to admire Aalia’s fortitude. Over the past two bells, she had sat with the same pasted smile, maintained a quiet tone and demeanor, no matter if the petitioner sought a great boon or simply a nod of her head.

But at least the end’s in sight.

The last supplicant waited to greet Aalia. It was the envoy from Qaar Saur, whose demeanor certainly matched his land’s name. The sour set to his lips spoke of the man’s impatience. The white-bearded envoy had changed out of his midday garb. He stood now in a stiff green cloak that looked freshly ironed. Its fox-fur trim had been neatly brushed. Beneath the cloak, shimmering silver scales covered his satin surcoat, reflecting the room’s thousands of lanterns.

The envoy whispered to his entourage, who were also finely attired, just not as grandly as the man himself—no doubt upon his orders.

Finally, Aalia lifted a hand adorned with rings, including the one that bound Kanthe to her. She motioned the last group forward. “Ah, Millik hy Pence, I’m glad you could lengthen your stay. I had hoped to meet you, to welcome you properly to Kysalimri.”

He swept forward, each step more grandiose than the other, requiring much sweeping of his cape. He looked like an aging rooster trying to impress a young hen. As Millik approached, he ignored Kanthe, his eyes only on Aalia—which Kanthe could understand.

Aalia wore a silver gown laced with the faintest image in gold of the Haeshan Hawk. Above her brow, she carried a circlet of meteoric black iron imbedded with sapphire gems. But the most magnificent sight hung from her shoulders. Her matching cape had been spread wide across her seat, sweeping out like wings, revealing the rubies sewn across the inner silk, forming the petals of a rose.

The same image glowed above her as the sun shone through a rosette of stained glass. It was Aalia’s namesake: the Illuminated Rose of the Imperium. But the ethereal sight was flanked by two outswept golden wings and grounded by two massive obsidian swords in front of them. The latter represented the land’s symbol, the crossed blades of the Klashean Arms. Though, after Aalia had been crowned empress, many referred to the swords as the Black Thorns of the Rose.

Millik approached with a sweeping bow, then dropped to a knee. “It is an honor, Your Majesty.”

She bowed her head in acknowledgment.

As the pleasantries continued, Kanthe could not keep his chin from drifting lower. The droning lulled him.

Then a sharpness of tone drew his attention back up. He had clearly missed a significant portion of the conversation.

“Hy Pence,” Aalia said sternly, using the envoy’s last name, “our two lands have a long history of shared cooperation. Going back centuries. Was it not our Wing and Sail forces that shut down the piracy that plagued the seas around your archipelago? Yet, you begrudge us some additional tonnage of draft-iron from your forges.”

The envoy’s eyes flicked above, likely noting those Black Thorns. “We would be happy to oblige, but in this war footing, there has been a vigorous demand for our resources, with iron fetching much higher margins. You must appreciate our situation.”

“I appreciate that, in this time of great need, Qaar Saur turns its back upon its staunchest ally.”

“That… That is not our intent, Your Grace. We merely seek adequate compensation, especially with the shortness of delivery. It will be quite taxing to meet your schedule.”

Aalia leaned forward. Kanthe swore it was the first time over the last two bells that she had shifted in her seat. Her features darkened from honeyed bitterroot to shadowy storm clouds. By now, he knew Aalia could only be pushed so far. From the deeper lines edging her eyes, she was clearly exhausted, which always shortened her temper.

Kanthe had also learned much about the Qaar Saur envoy during their midday repast. He knew wounding this man’s pride would only serve to compromise these negotiations. Before the situation worsened, Kanthe cleared his throat.

Gazes flicked toward him, as if surprised to find him sitting there.

Kanthe lifted a hand. As the second-born son of a king, he had learned to study those around him. It had served him well in the past. While Mikaen shone brightly, Kanthe found the shadows offered him better opportunities. With a keen enough set of eyes, one could discern details that others missed.

Millik had already shown himself to be a coxcomb, full of pride, and no doubt seeking ways to enhance his standing—both at home and perhaps here.

Kanthe decided to test the man’s mettle.

“Millik hy Pence,” he stated formally, “I was delighted to see you included your daughter and son in your entourage.”

Kanthe nodded to the pair, who stood below the dais, shadowed by their father. The daughter looked to be a year or so younger than her brother, a touch mousy, but not without some beauty. The son, maybe a year older, was about the same age as someone Kanthe knew well.

“It seems Prince Rami has found himself forlorn of boon companions. He spends too much time locked away by himself. I can’t think of a better pair suited to draw him out, to perhaps become great friends—if not more.”

Millik glanced to his daughter, then to his son. When he faced back around, his eyes shone brighter, his back straighter. “Is that so?”

“It is indeed.” He turned to Aalia. “Would you not agree?”

Aalia leaned back, the storm fading from her face. “It is sadly true. My brother is sorely in need of true confidants. With the empire upon my shoulders, I’m afraid I’ve sorely neglected him. Especially considering he’s second to the throne.”

Millik licked his lips. “I must say I’d be honored to have my children spend time in Kysalimri. To learn what they can, to get to know your dear brother much better. As you said, our two lands share a long history of cooperation.”

“To that end,” Kanthe said, “I’m sure we can work out this other matter to everyone’s satisfaction, could we not? It is nothing compared to the bonds forged between families.”

Millik nodded, bowed, then bowed again more deeply. “I will make it happen. You have my word.”

Kanthe nodded, tried to stand, but he got pulled down by the weight of his cloak. The scabbard of his ceremonial sword clanked loudly against the edge of the gold throne. He settled back to his seat, lest he embarrass himself further.

Besides, I’ve done enough for one day.

K ANTHE WAITED IMPATIENTLY for his freedom. With the royal audience coming to an end, he let the final pleasantries and promises wash over him. Eventually those in attendance filtered away.

Finally…

Aalia lifted a hand and a cadre of Paladins crossed to her side. The royal knights—decked in light armor and chain mail—served as attendants and bodyguards. They dropped to their knees before her.

Aalia waved them up. “I believe we’re finished here, Regar. We’re ready to return to our residences.”

The Fist of the Paladins rose to his feet. “Of course, Empress.”

As Aalia stood, she abandoned her massive ceremonial cloak atop the throne. A trio of her chaaen-bound rushed forward to collect it.

Her other thirty Chaaen—a mix of men and women, all harshly educated at the Bad’i Chaa —had taken seats in the front rows of the hall. Though indentured into servitude, they acted as aides, advisers, counselors, and teachers. As was tradition, the head of the imperium had thirty-three Chaaen, one for each god of the Klashean pantheon.

Kanthe had twelve assigned to him, too, but he could not even remember all their names. In fact, he seldom saw them.

After assuming the throne, Aalia had loosened the demands upon the Chaaen. Normally, in public, the Chaaen were bound by silver chains that ran from their collars to their charge’s legs. Aalia seldom required this, reserving such a display for only the most ceremonial of occasions. Still, she had not cast aside the custom entirely.

It was a balancing act that Kanthe respected—especially as he had never learned to walk while dragging twelve Chaaen behind him by his ankles.

Sometimes he found the Klasheans to be a bewildering people.

But at least, they’re on the right side of this battle.

Kanthe hauled to his feet, drawing his cloak with him. He refused to ask any of his Chaaen to carry this burden.

Aalia joined him. She took his hand in a rare show of support as they set off with their cadre of Paladins. “You did well back there. Though I’m not sure Rami will think so. He will not be happy with you foisting those two Qaarens on him.”

“That’s what he gets for retiring early and leaving us to the wolves.”

“True. And whether he appreciates your effort or not, I did. Though I could do with a bit less of your snoring.”

He glanced at her, looking frightfully offended. “I don’t snore.”

“I think the entourage from Hrakken would disagree. I could barely hear what they wanted.”

She squeezed his hand with a ghost of a smile, then let him go. As they exited the throne room, Tazar swept up to take his place. None of the Paladins cast the Shayn’ra leader a second glance.

As Aalia took the rebel’s hand, she hung heavily on his arm, plainly exhausted, like a rose near to wilting. Tazar leaned down and kissed the crown of her head. They murmured to one another as they continued down the maze of hallways, aiming for the guarded residence tower.

Kanthe noted this quiet affection, wishing he had someone to share his burden—or at least this damned cape.

As he forged on, his feet began to drag.

But he was not the first to stumble.

A Paladin on his left tripped, tried to catch himself, then fell headlong with a rattle of armor. Kanthe frowned. He had never seen a knight take a misstep.

Then another fell.

And another.

Tazar swung Aalia under him, shielding her with his body. “We’re under attack.”

Kanthe could not fathom from where. Then he felt taps on his cloak. He stared down at the little feathered darts peppering the thick fabric. He recognized them—from when he had been ambushed last winter while lounging in a bath in X’or.

Assassins…

Tazar grunted, then slumped to the floor, plainly struck. His gaze swept to Kanthe, pleading, desperate—not at his own predicament, but in concern for Aalia.

The first Paladin who had fallen had begun to convulse on the floor. His armor chimed like an alarm bell against the marble tiles.

Poisoned…

Back in X’or, Kanthe had only been knocked out, drugged into oblivion.

That’s not the case here.

Kanthe spun and whipped off his cape. He threw it over Aalia, covering her fully. “Stay down!”

By now, Tazar had gone limp.

More knights fell, attacked by darts from unseen assailants.

The last—the Fist of the Paladins—managed to free a horn. He had wisely crouched low, balling up tight. The posture bunched his armor into a shield, while offering less of a target to the darts.

Regar blew his distress, a deafening blare that echoed away. Hopefully it reached the tower residence, whose entrance was heavily guarded.

Kanthe understood the choice of the location for this ambush. In these hallways between the throne room and the tower, their defense dropped to its weakest point.

Taking advantage of this, four shadows dashed into view. Three came from ahead, one from behind. With the horn sounded and time running out, the assassins had abandoned their blowguns, especially as Aalia remained shielded by the cloak.

To remedy that, the four rushed at them, carrying swords.

The three in front swarmed Regar, pinning the Fist down. Steel clashed amidst low grunts. There were no harried shouts. The determined silence spoke to the assassins’ skill.

Kanthe moved to block the fourth man, who sprinted up from behind, racing for Aalia. Kanthe yanked out his ceremonial sword. The curved blade was his only weapon, but steel was steel, and its point was sharp.

Kanthe recognized the dark garb of the assassin. The clothing was belted at hip, knees, and elbows, leaving little loose cloth to snag. A scarf covered head and face, revealing only eyes. He had seen such gear before and knew who attacked him now.

The Brotherhood of Asgia.

It was the same mercenary group who had kidnapped and delivered Kanthe to Mikaen last winter. The Brotherhood’s talent was notoriously daunting, but that did not stop Kanthe from defending Aalia.

He lifted his sword.

Clearly unimpressed, the attacker did not slow. He swept close and leaped at the last moment. Kanthe tried to feint to the left, but the assassin was not fooled. The assassin’s sword pierced Kanthe’s guard and stabbed for his throat.

Reacting on instinct, Kanthe took the only action he could. He jammed out his hand and grabbed the sword. As the blade struck, it found no flesh. Its steel clanged against the bronze palm of Kanthe’s replacement hand.

Shock narrowed his assailant’s eyes.

Kanthe used the moment to drive his blade into the assassin’s belly. The curved blade arced deep and high, passing under the rib cage to the heart. Fueled by panic, Kanthe’s thrust lifted the man off his toes. The assailant hung on the sword for a long breath. Blood poured through the scarf over his mouth. Then his body toppled away, tearing the impaled sword from Kanthe’s fingers.

No…

Kanthe lunged after it, especially as he heard the soft pad of an assassin’s sandals rushing this direction. He clutched the sword’s handle and tugged, while twisting around.

A black-garbed figure raced toward Aalia. Past him, Regar was down on both knees, one arm hanging limp, his sword on the marble. Two bodies lay sprawled in spreading pools of blood.

The third assailant hadn’t bothered to dispatch the wounded Fist.

Not with the true target vulnerable and defenseless.

Kanthe yanked his sword free, but he was already too late.

The assassin ripped away the heavy cloak.

As he did, Aalia sprang out of hiding, leading with her ceremonial sword—her true Black Thorn. She stabbed the blade under his chin, twisting as she did so. He fell backward, off the sword, his neck torn to the spine—then collapsed dead.

Kanthe hurried to Aalia, holding aloft his blade.

Regar stumbled to join them, leaving a trail of blood.

Then shouts reached them.

Knights and guardsmen rushed in from all directions.

Aalia ignored them, pushing free of Kanthe and Regar’s protection. She fell to her knees before Tazar’s form. Two Paladins continued to rattle in convulsions. The others lay still, already dead.

“Tazar…”

She tried to grab his hand—but a savage convulsion ripped it away.