Necromancer Falling: Book Two of The Mukhtaar Chronicles (14 page)

When the wagon train had pulled out into the darkness of the country road, he peeked through the gap between the tarp and the wagon.

The guards had made their way out of the collapsed awning and were starting a building-to-building search.

Aelron wasn’t sure where this wagon was going, but he hoped it was better than where he’d been.

Zorian stepped onto the marble stairs that led up to the palace entrance. The walk from the harbor had been a long one, and he wanted to sit somewhere. But Admiral Unega’s order that Lucian—the ambitious temple priest—accompany him was complicating matters. Zorian couldn’t afford that clerical upstart getting the emperor’s ear first. Lucian’s presence frustrated Zorian. Countering Unega was going to be difficult as it was without having one of his lackeys interfering.

The entrance to the imperial palace in Dar Rodon reminded Zorian of the grand temples of Barathos. It had the look of new construction to it, though it was unclear whether it was indeed new or simply whitewashed. The palace may be a royal residence, but it exuded piety. Not the piety of a humble pilgrim performing a ritual at the end of a long pilgrimage, nor the piety of a hermit who spent his day in prayer. This was the piety of a wealthy noble who wanted the world to see how religious he was.

The palace spanned more than five-hundred feet across and four-hundred tall. Its white stone reflected the orange afternoon sun to such a degree that Zorian had to shield his eyes. He, Lucian, and Tullias—Zorian’s manservant—climbed the marble steps behind Lieutenant Belding and several palace guards, who had joined them at the docks once their landing craft was secured. Not even Belding’s voluminous hat was enough to block the palace’s radiant glow.

Lucian stumbled on an uneven step, but he regained his balance with a well-placed hand on Tullias’s back.

Zorian’s frustration peaked.

“You will not speak to the emperor unless I am present and you are directly addressed,” Zorian said. “Is that clear?”

“I serve at the Glorious One’s behest,” Lucian said. He folded his arms and rolled back his right sleeve, so his golden bracelet of office was visible.

“As do I. And I assure you a low-ranking priest from a small temple will not be missed by the court, regardless of your association with the admiral.”

“I trust you will not interfere with my mission here.”

“Have you ever seen battle on foreign soil?” Zorian said. “You’d have no reason to know this, but before becoming Zhuma, I was a naval commander. I’ve lost many good men to accidents along the way.”

“I’m not the sort of man who—”

“Don’t be one of them.”

Zorian continued climbing the stairs as Lucian stopped.

Among other things, the palace was an impressive display of military power. Guards stood along both sides of the wide entrance hall. They dressed like desert nomads, in billowing white robes that could be swept over their heads to provide shade, but there was no mistaking their true purpose here. Two short and curved scimitars hung at their waist from a belt that partially concealed two daggers and a pouch. Scouts reported those pouches carried small, circular blades used as throwing weapons.

No, these weren’t desert nomads. They were warriors, pure and simple.

The arched roof above the hallway was plated in gold mosaic. Oval windows along the sides of the arch allowed natural light to flood the hallway with an amber glow, accentuating the gold trim that ran along the walls and baseboards, and spotlighting the portraits along the way.

Pristine for a nation that suffered from decades of ground quakes.

When they arrived at the intersection at the end of the hall, their guard escort stopped. The wall across from them was a masterwork of ostentatiousness. Two latticeworks of gold filigree worked their way in from the edges of the wall in thick lines until they converged at the center and spread out, up and down, surrounding a portrait of a man that was thirty feet from floor to ceiling. The man was younger, in his twenties or thirties, with jet hair that hung below his shoulders. A bushy black mustache covered his upper lip, ran down both sides of his mouth, and hung to the center of his chest. His head was topped with a delicate gold crown laced with an ivy design that matched the gold chains hanging from his neck and waist. Precious stones decorated a chain that draped over his chest and swept over his back. His robe was form-fitting, emphasizing the muscled chest and arms resting at his sides. He held a rod in one hand and an orb in the other. He stood upon a map of the Three Kingdoms, with one foot in the Bay of Relig, and the other foot off the west coast of the Shandarian Union.

A golden plaque at the foot of the portrait read
The Destiny of
Toren Relig
.

Cavernous hallways ran from left to right in front of the portrait, and a quick glance revealed similar portraits and gold filigree in each direction, on both sides of the hall.

The attempt at opulence was laughable compared to the Palace of Ages, within which sat the Diamond Throne. The Builders themselves had created the Palace of Ages in a time before recorded history. Nothing could compare to the way in which crystals and precious gems were
grown
to form the passageways and rooms…and even the Diamond Throne itself. This place might be lavish by Three Kingdom standards, but many Barathos nobles lived this way.

A woman whose face was painted as gold as the filigree approached them. A yellow silk veil hid the lower half of her face. She wore no shoes, and her form-hugging blouse and sheer billowing pants would be considered scandalous even at the Palace of Ages. The woman exposed her naval, which was the mark of a courtesan in Barathosia.

Lucian must be thinking the same, the way he gazed at her bare midsection.

Strange. Zorian had been told prostitution was frowned upon here. Perhaps the reports were wrong. A society could change in many ways over the course of forty years.

“Arin’s peace upon you,” the woman said.

It was disconcerting when she blinked. Painted on her eyelids were exact replicas of her own ocean-blue eyes, creating the illusion of a perpetual stare.

Zorian nodded without responding. She’d offered no name or title, so protocol dictated it was safe to assume her beneath his station.

“The emperor will see you now,” she said. “This way.”

She began walking down the hallway to the left. Long black hair spilled from the back of the yellow veil and fell to her waist.

Lucian lowered his head, but Zorian could tell where his eyes were staring.

The furniture between the giant portraits caught Zorian’s eye. They didn’t have much dark wood in Barathosia, and the deep browns and reds of the buffets and cabinets struck him as unnatural. But like everything else in this pompous monstrosity, they too were trimmed in gold.

He thought he’d seen the worst of it, but he was proven wrong when they turned a corner. Two golden doors that ran thirty-odd feet from floor to ceiling, and spanned thirty feet in width, gave the appearance of a giant golden square on the wall in front of them.

Zorian wanted to laugh. Emperor Relig was nothing more than a petty man who flaunted wealth and religion to control his people.

Or, Zorian could be underestimating this emperor. Emperor Relig may, in fact, flaunt wealth. But he
had
managed to conquer half a continent in the last forty years. And Zorian doubted he’d
purchased
it.

A little less arrogance from now on.

Arrogance could blind him to a truth that would otherwise be apparent. He couldn’t afford that kind of mistake. Not here…not now. He
would
outmaneuver Admiral Unega, and he needed to keep his wits about him to do so.

A small door cut into the larger golden monstrosity of a portal swung open, and the woman stopped.

“Only one may enter,” she said.

Lucian took a step forward and Zorian stopped him with a stiff arm.

“You have a short memory,” Zorian said. He faced the woman. “I am Zorian Osa. I have been sent by Admiral Unega to speak with your emperor.”

“As you say,” the woman said and stepped aside, allowing Zorian to walk past her.

Zorian entered the Religarian throne room and the woman followed. The door swung shut behind them, sending a deep echo through the vast chamber.

Guards stood around the throne room as they did in the hallway outside. A lone assassin might manage to make their way in here…but they wouldn’t leave.

The throne room’s central ceiling was a dome with an inner walkway running around the rim. Archers with longbows stood at intervals around a banister on the walkway’s edge. Above them, a mural depicting the ascension of Arin into the heavens spanned the dome ceiling.

Did the Religarians believe the gods were once human? He’d have to make it a point to study their local superstitions. Such knowledge could be useful in the hands of the right person.

As Zorian’s eyes drifted back down beneath the dome, his gaze fell upon a platform on the other side of the room. Polished stone stairs led to a golden throne, upon which sat Emperor Toren Relig, expressionless.

Another man stood to the emperor’s left in a simple blue robe; he was old, with a hooked nose that had seen the end of a fist or two, and eyebrows that could attract nesting birds.

The emperor’s lack of expression troubled Zorian. What most people considered
expressionless
was a myriad of subtle movements that, when examined by one such as he, could reveal the most well-concealed feelings. But Zorian saw nothing.

The woman stopped at the base of the platform, bowed, then climbed until she stood next to the throne. Her pose was…
casual
.

“I do not know
who
you are, though I know whence you came,” Emperor Relig said. His was the voice of an old man. An old man who would have little trouble winning a sword fight.

The uniform Emperor Relig wore was identical to the one in his portrait. But hair that was once jet black was white as spider silk on the man who sat the throne.

Zorian bowed at the waist and remained staring at the marble floor. No need to break protocol just yet.

“Rise,” Emperor Relig said.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Zorian said as he stood. “Allow me to introduce myself and make your knowledge whole. I am Zorian Osa, and I represent the Glorious One, Grand Empress of the Barathosian Empire, Servant of the Gods, Mother of Yantoo.”

Zorian waited for the emperor to speak the traditional response,
long live the Glorious One
, but the response never came.

So much for protocol.

“Need I remind you, Emperor, that the Glorious One is also the Mother of Yotto?”

“How dare you address the emperor in such a tone?” the blue-robed man said.

“Forty years may be long enough for you to have forgotten your oath, Emperor, but I assure you the empress has not forgotten.”

The blue-robed man took a step forward. “You will—”

Emperor Relig waved his left hand and the man grew silent. The emperor stood and began climbing down the raised platform, his steps emphasizing every word as he said, “This is
my
empire.”

“The Diamond Throne is not interested in your
empire
, Emperor Relig. Only your obedience.”

“You’ll find my army has grown considerably since your predecessor last visited.”

“Yes,” Zorian said. “I understand you’ve expanded to the Great Orm river. A glorious military accomplishment. It takes the combined might of two kingdoms to hold your empire at bay. And now that your so-called…Treaty of Three Banks is it?…is null and void, I suppose there’s nothing stopping you from picking them off one by one. Your
manifest destiny
will finally be complete, and that portrait of yours out in the hall will become reality.”

The upward turn of the corner of Emperor Relig’s mouth was subtle.

So he
can
display emotion. Time to remind him of reality.

“I trust you’ve expanded your
navy
in the intervening years as well?” Zorian asked. A rhetorical question, of course. Zorian had his answer before he’d set foot on land. The only ships operating in the Religarian Empire were fishing vessels and merchant transports. “They must be hiding. Not one of the two thousand ships I arrived with reported any resistance.”

The emperor’s subtle smile faded.

“You swore a holy oath to Yotto, Emperor Relig. And in return, the Armada allowed your city to remain standing. Do you think your oath was somehow invalidated because of that…
shield
you concocted?”

“That was Archmage Kagan’s doing, not mine,” Emperor Relig said.

“Yes, Kagan has
much
to answer for,” Zorian said.

The emperor narrowed his eyes in an expression of confusion.

“Now you threaten the holy archmage?” the blue-robed man said.

Zorian glared at the hook-nosed man and spoke slowly. “Who is this
inconsequential
man who keeps interrupting us?”

“Silence yourself, Saleem,” Emperor Relig said in the tone of a father to an unruly child.