Shades of Gray (41 page)

“Shartoh, have you removed the skins of the two dead Sholans? And where has the Empress’ body been taken?”

“They’re all with the embalmers, General,” she said, coming to a halt and saluting him. “The Sholans are to be placed in small caskets to be returned to their Ambassador. As for the Empress, from the position of her wounds, it looks as if she was struggling with K’hedduk, perhaps to protect her son. Anyway, we cleared the area as you requested, then searched it for any traps or explosive devices. There were none. Guards have been posted both in here and in the Royal Chapel next door. Our Sholan contingent is checking out the other floors, room by room. Any prisoners have been taken downstairs to the old dungeons.”

Kezule nodded. “Good work, Lieutenant. Were any . . . remains . . . of the late Emperor located?”

Shartoh looked away from him. The desecration of a dead body did not happen often, and it had affected all of them badly.

“We removed all the trophy heads from the stakes on the Palace walls, as requested. One, thought by its location to be the late Emperor, was also sent to the embalmers.”

“And the remains on the throne?”

Shartoh glanced back at him, eyes widening in shock. “I forgot . . . I’m sorry, General, I’ll see to it immediately.”

“I’ll see to it myself,” he said, reaching out to stop her. This was not a task he’d have her do. “Have the surviving members of the Court been located?”

“Only a few, General. We’re gathering them in the Court Chapel, in the priest’s quarters where they can clean up and get ready for the ceremony.”

Kezule sensed her hesitation. “What?” he demanded.

“Don’t you need a priest for the coronation?”

“No,” he said brusquely, walking past her toward the back of the hall and the actual Throne of Light itself. “It can be performed legally by a member of the Royal Family, a throw-back to the days when the King was the accepted head of the ruling family.” Even as he said it, he wondered where the knowledge had come from. He brushed the thought aside as inconsequential. All that mattered right now was finding the damned Imperial Crown. Without it there could be no coronation. With any luck, K’hedduk had no idea the crown worn by Emperor Cheu’ko’h was a fake, made because the real one was too heavy for everyday wear.

Footsteps echoing on the gold-flecked blue-tiled floor, Kezule made his way quickly over to the pillars leading to the shrine of the throne. Between one step and the next, he faltered as memories began to clamor for attention.

He was kneeling on the red carpet before the throne, waiting to accept his next commission from the Emperor—his Emperor, Q’emgo’h—the commission that would take him to Shola to guard the Royal Hatchery there—and lead him inevitably to this moment in the then far future.

Hard on its heels came others, of him kneeling not before an Emperor but before a Queen. Head down, he knelt in the obligatory position of submission, daring to cast a quick glance up at her. She was tall, of middle years, but still a striking beauty. His mind recoiled from the memory in shock. This was impossible! There had been no free females in his lifetime—until now.

With a jolt that rattled his thoughts, his foot hit the ground again. Slightly off-balance, he staggered, a feeling of confusion passing through him. Coming to a stop, he looked around the room as if trying to remember why he was there.

The crown: He’d come for the crown. Starting forward again, he took the three steps up to the throne in one stride, cut sharply to the right of the golden seat, and, passing behind its sunburst backing, headed for the colossus of the God-King Q’emgo’h.

Fully fifteen feet high, the intricately carved marble statue was decorated in a mixture of gold, inlaid precious stones, and vibrantly colored enamels. Wearing only the Warrior’s pleated kilt, held at the front by an elaborately carved knot from which a single engraved fold fell below its short hem to his knees, the statue’s pose was one of majesty. Royal staff in its right hand, right foot resting on a footstool, Q’emgo’h stared regally ahead. Around his forehead was a simple silver band bearing the protective head of the same predatory bird that adorned the throne.

The raised foot rested on a footstool decorated with the likenesses of their enemies. Without needing to look, Kezule knew he’d find all the subject races of his time depicted there—the Mryans, Delmoi, Hrana and the Vieshen, but not the Sholans. They’d not yet been added in his time. Briefly, he wondered if K’hedduk had had the time to add them. He doubted it from the number of statues he’d passed all now bearing the head of the usurper.

There was just enough superstition left in him that he hesitated before grasping hold of the statue’s calf and pulling himself up onto the footstool.

“General . . .” Shartoh said from behind him, a tone of shock and censure in her voice.

He ignored her; he knew what he was doing. It was the head of the staff he needed. Where better to hide the most valuable treasure in the Palace than in plain sight? Reaching up for the massive thigh, he groped along the carved folds, claws searching for a firm grip, then hauled himself up, swinging his legs up until he was crouched on the Emperor’s thigh.

Slowly he raised himself upright, keeping his attention focused on the carved staff before him. The head of it was yet another representation of the Royal raptor, but on its head sat the real Royal crown. Resting one hand against the Emperor’s gold encased chest, Kezule reached out for it. It was heavy, as befitted the crown of the Emperor of not only all the Valtegans but of all their subject races. It was no light thing to rule such a vast Empire, and the weight of the crown was meant as a constant reminder of this.

The gemstones on it were artificial, and the crown itself, hollow—just like the Empire, came the unbidden thought. He shivered reflexively, almost losing his footing. Immediately he squatted down again, sinking his claws into the ridged folds of the Emperor’s carved kilt.

“Shartoh, take this,” he said, leaning down toward her and holding out the crown. “Be careful, it’s heavy.”

“What is it?”

“The Imperial Crown,” he said. His arm was beginning to ache with the effort of holding it out for her. “Quickly!”

Slinging her rifle over her shoulder, she reached up for it with both hands, taking the weight from him.

“I have it,” she said.

He released it, the relief to his tensed muscles instantaneous.

“Burn it! You didn’t say it was
this
heavy!” she exclaimed, staggering slightly.

Kezule cast her a reproachful glance as he straightened up and leaped to the ground beside her.

“Wearing a crown is not a light matter,” he said, taking it from her.

Zsurtul, pale and unsteady on his feet, was helped from the litter to the Throne of Light. As he grasped hold of the carved armrests and lowered himself onto the cushion-strewn stone Throne, he looked questioningly at Kezule.

“Your father’s remains are being tended to by the Palace embalmers,” Kezule murmured. “I saw to it personally, Majesty.”

Zsurtul inclined his head briefly, then leaned back in the Throne and closed his eyes as Zayshul fussed around him.

“Tiredness, nothing more,” said Kusac, aware of Kezule’s and Zayshul’s concern as he let his suit take over the task of keeping him upright. The Touiban doctors, then Zayshul, had tried to check him over thoroughly, but the most he’d let them do was check his suit diagnostics and give him high-energy drinks. His leg, though almost completely healed, was hurting like hell, and he could barely keep his eyes open, but he dared not take anything yet.

Shartoh returned, and Kezule stepped aside to talk to her.

“I haven’t yet thanked you for saving my life, Kusac,” said Zsurtul, opening his eyes and with an effort turning to look at him.

“You’re a fool, but a brave one,” he replied. “Don’t let anyone ever tell you that Warrior blood doesn’t run in your veins, because it does.”

A faint smile quirked the young Emperor’s lips. “You certainly saw enough of it when you rescued me. They said that you healed me, that there should have been more damage than I had . . .”

“They say too much,” he growled. “You concentrate on recovering. You have a world to govern and a war to fight.”

“You’re right,” Zsurtul said after a moment’s silence. “There’s much to be done.”

Zayshul handed Zsurtul a bowl. “Drink this. It’ll help you get through the next couple of hours. You really shouldn’t be doing this, Majesty.”

Zsurtul sat up and took the drink from her, draining it in one gulp. “I’m well enough to perform my duties to my people,” he said, handing it back to her and waving her away.

Kezule came back, this time sketching a small bow before he ascended the steps to the Throne.

“We’re ready to begin, Majesty.”

Zsurtul nodded, looking around the hall, lined now by Touiban, Sholan, and Prime guards. It hadn’t escaped damage caused by the fierce fighting in the open square outside. The large windows at the far end were shattered, and the three smaller stained glass decorative ones were missing a few of their panes.

“We’ll need to get those windows repaired,” he murmured.

“In good time, Majesty. Let the Court in now, Shartoh,” Kezule ordered. “ZSAHDI, start the broadcast.”

Kusac started to move away from the Throne, but Zsurtul’s hand closed on his armored arm, preventing him. “You stay, Kusac.”

 

Out in the courtyard, Dzaka and the others watched as a hologram of the Throne of Light with Crown Prince Zsurtul sitting in it suddenly appeared in the air in front and above them.

“Kusac’s all right then,” said Garras, as, like the hundreds of Primes and the armored Touibans in the courtyard around them, they watched Kezule step forward carrying an ornate crown.

“I told you he was,” said Dzaka absently.

Garras glanced at him, seeing his slightly vacant look. “You relaying this to Kitra?”

“Yeah, she’s still mad at being left behind,” he replied, focusing on the hologram as Zsurtul reached out to lay his hand on the Imperial Crown and repeat the oath after Kezule. “Zsurtul’s out of danger, but still badly injured, Kaid says. Kusac healed him, repairing a badly damaged organ . . .”

“Repairing?” asked Rezac. “How repairing?”

“Kaid doesn’t know. All he can tell us is that from the hole in the Prince’s side, the organ should have taken fatal damage. There are signs it was regrown . . . no, re-formed. Zsurtul should be dead.”

“But that’s . . .” began Garras.

“Impossible? No. Zashou and I could do that once,” said Rezac. “Not healing, but destroying tissue using our mental abilities.”

Garras turned to look at Rezac.

“It’s rumored only the First Telepaths could do that,” he said slowly, switching to a private channel on their suits, one only Rezac could hear. “Who are you, Rezac? Where did you come from, because I’ve never believed you were Kaid’s brother?”

“There’s no mystery. Kaid told you what happened, Garras.”

“You came back from Jalna with them. We were all too wrapped up with Kusac at the time to give you much thought, but I’ve been looking into it, and he had no family. So who are you?”

“Ask Vanna, she’ll confirm we’re related,” Rezac said, making a gesture to silence the other. “I need to concentrate on what Kaid’s sending me.”

Garras growled his displeasure. “Vanna will tell me nothing, and I already know you’re related—you are too alike not to be.” He stopped and looked more closely at him. “Are you his son?”

Rezac snorted his amusement and turned to watch Zsurtul being crowned. “Hardly!”

“Then that only leaves . . . his father. But that’s impossible . . .”

“Now you know,” said Jo quietly on the same channel. “He and Zashou were trapped in a stasis cube that the Valtegans dropped on Jalna. They all come from the past, from Vartra’s time. He and Zashou were two of the first enhanced telepaths.”

Garras’ jaw fell open, and he stared at Jo until Rezac’s elbow thumped him in his armored side.

“Look,” he said.

 

Kezule had stepped back and bowed before moving to the other side of Emperor Zsurtul’s throne from Kusac. For the first time, Kusac caught a glimpse of the crown.

Made of a metal lighter in color than gold, the front of the crown had the serpentine head and neck of one of the beasts he’d seen decorating various areas of the Palace. Leathery wings swept back from a bulge at the back of its neck, sweeping around to cup Zsurtul’s head. They arched over the top, the wing struts meeting in the center.

A memory tickled at the back of his mind—not his, Carrie’s.

A prehistoric bird—or a Dragon. It looks like a Dragon!
he thought, then his attention was pulled away from it to what Zsurtul was saying.

“I rule today because of the help of our allies, the Sholans and the Touibans. For that, I thank them, and I make good my promise of formal alliances with them. I rule today not only by inheritance but by Right of Conquest—I fought alongside our allies to free us from K’hedduk’s yoke. By those rights, I retroactively give Ch’almuth its independence and do now dissolve the Empire and relinquish the title of Emperor. One world is enough responsibility for one person. As from now, I will be known as King Zsurtul. There has been no Empire for 1500 years; it’s time we all faced that reality.”