Her leap was accurate. She landed on the first guard, slamming him to the ground. With a swipe of her knife she slit his throat, then leaped on the second. He reached up a hand to block her attack. She ducked under it and stabbed him in the ribs, then grabbed him by his hair and slit his throat.
By now both guards were slumped on the floor, their blood pooling around them. Yuna stood up and stepped back, breathing hard until their bodies stilled. When the second body twitched for the last time, Yuna glanced down the corridor and, finding no one watching, advanced for her parents’ door, knife in hand.
Isao
Isao lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
Flashes of the wedding ceremony slipped through his mind, mixing with memories of the dinner afterward and his father's concerned frown at random parts of the night. He felt like a stranger looking in on his life, so distanced was he from the events that had just occurred.
For a moment, he wished he was a stranger staring in at his caged life.
The path had been set already. Life-altering decisions had been made without any regard for his feelings.
A recollection of Ren's gentle, soulful expression slipped in and out of his mind's eye at random intervals. It offered him a constant reminder of what he had married, and how little he knew the bride.
Yet, would he have ever known real love, given the chance?
He wished he could let go of his desire to control his own life, but he just couldn't.
Would he ever really come to know Ren? Would they be able to carve out some semblance of a happy life together? She was so quiet. So calm. And she looked so miserably out of place here.
Isao tried to imagine living his entire life with a melancholy wife, but he couldn't.
His thoughts continued to spiral deeper and deeper as he considered the heavy weight of the legacy that his father had thrust on him.
All his future days stretched out before him in defined lines. Ruler. Emperor. Servant of the greater good.
The traitorous thoughts slipped away as soon as he allowed it in.
To question his life and the responsibilities in it would bring about answers neither he nor anyone else was ready to face. His father would never forgive him for even questioning his place.
Saemon would never forgive him for wanting something else.
Isao flipped onto his side with a heavy sigh, seeking some place comfortable in the silk sheets and downy pillows. But his whole body felt restless and fitful, as if infused with too much energy to ever settle down again.
He flopped onto his stomach and stretched across the bed, burying his face in the pillows. Then he rolled onto his side, and finally onto his back again.
Perhaps he could hide from it all now. Just burrow deeper into this pillow and continue to sink. Down, down, down.
The creak of his bedroom door opening drew Isao from his thoughts. He leaped into a crouch on the mattress.
General Khalem and two guards slipped into the room. Deep lines furrowed Khalem’s broad brow. He moved with a swift, jerky gait as he strode into the room, heading for the bed.
"Isao," he said, "we must leave. Now."
"What's wrong?"
"The palace isn't safe."
"But – "
"There's no time to explain. I'll tell you along the way. This is your father's explicit command. Get dressed."
Khalem yanked Isao's shirt off the back of a nearby chair and tossed it to him.
"Khalem, please – "
"Not now! We must go. Immediately. "
"I cannot just leave. Surely it's more dangerous out there than here in the safety of my bedroom in the palace."
"You must trust me."
"Of course I trust you, Khalem, but I won't just leave. I am a man now. I deserve respect, and the full truth. My father cannot protect me from knowledge of his ideas and thoughts for the rest of my life."
Isao stood next to the bed and folded his arms across his bare chest.
Taking a stance – however small – against his father infused him with a new feeling of control and strength.
Khalem's nostrils flared. "I've already explained that we're wasting time. Every single second we spend here is another we could have used to move you to safety. I've sworn to your father, and on my life, that I would keep you alive, Isao. "
Isao frowned. "I see your agitation is real, my friend. But I will not proceed against an unknown enemy. What wisdom is there in that?"
The two guards at the door glanced into the hall, then back to their general. Khalem grabbed Isao's shoes and thrust them at him.
"Fine," he growled. "You dress. I'll talk."
Reluctantly, Isao agreed, lowering to the side of the bed while he pulled on the shirt. He grabbed up a shoe just as Khalem opened his mouth to explain.
A low shriek came from outside the doors. Both guards grabbed their swords, extracting them from their sheaths, and crouched, ready to attack any intruders. Khalem grabbed Isao by the shoulder and shoved him toward the other side of the room .
The clang of two swords meeting rang through the hallway, and ended with an agonizing, muffled note.
Isao's breath caught. Someone had just died.
The two guards slipped behind a smokescreen on one side of the door while Khalem pushed Isao behind the sprawling wardrobe that held all Isao's ceremonial garments.
"Khalem – "
He silenced Isao with a sharp jerk of his head.
There was the sound of footsteps approaching the doorway, then a pause. A light snick preceded the door opening. The long shadows of two men filled the room, backlit from torches in the hallway. They advanced into the room in two steps, revealing the glint of light armor over their shoulders. The armor rippled down their chests, protecting their hearts in long lines of bronze.
Both men gripped long swords in their hands. Their heads twisted from side to side, searching the shadows. Isao stared at the rumpled bed where he'd been laying not two minutes before and gulped.
Khalem had not exaggerated.
Khalem slid silently in front of Isao, pulled a dagger from a hidden sheath in his arm, and tossed it. It hurtled across the room, striking the bronze-clad soldier on the right in the back of the neck. He let out a cry. His arm shot up to grip the knife, but the damage had been done. Blood spurted out of his neck as soon as he pulled the knife free.
The second intruder swung around with a cry, facing the wardrobe. Khalem slid back, hiding both he and Isao in the deepest shadow.
A moment later, a second scream followed.
Khalem rushed into the room with a battle cry as his two guards did the same.
Isao stepped out from behind the wardrobe to find both enemies now on the ground in a pool of blood. The two guards had thrown their daggers, striking the second invader in the eye and the neck.
Khalem plunged his sword into the chest of the first body. The man died with a gasp and a gurgle. The second man was completely motionless on the floor.
"Nari," Khalem murmured, gesturing to the armor. "Saemon was right. We have been betrayed." He straightened, looking to Isao. "Your life was clearly one they meant to take. Do you trust me yet?"
The blood drained from Isao's face, leaving him feeling weak and breathless.
"My father," Isao whispered. "He won't be safe either."
"I am here to protect you," Khalem said. "Your father will take care of himself. Grab your jiang."
Isao nodded, refusing to give any power to the thought that his father might already be dead. He strode to the table next to his bed, pulled open a drawer, and removed a short steel dagger inlaid with etched gold and gems. His jiang. It felt heavy in his palm, and it gave Isao a reassuring reminder of his strength.
He had some way of fighting now, and fight he would.
Khalem, his two guards, and Isao slipped into the hallway.
The sounds of battle now rang through the air and all over the palace.
Men screaming. Blades clashing. The dista
nt thud of things falling and mirrors shattering.
With a flick of his wrist, Khalem motioned for Isao to follow him.
"Go," he whispered to the guards, nodding the opposite way. "Your skill is needed elsewhere."
The guards departed with brief nods, disappearing to the other end of the hall. Khalem motioned to the nearby corridor with a finger.
"Come."
They drifted through corridor after corridor along the edge of the palace. The greatest ruckus seemed to come from the central portion of the palace, and Khalem took care to avoid any hallway that led directly there. Frequently they ducked into empty rooms to avoid discovery by running groups of Nari soldiers.
As Isao fled, his throat tightened in fear for his father’s life.
Would Saemon make it? If not, the world would then fall to his shoulders. And he wasn’t ready.
His thoughts slid to Ren.
Did she have something to do with this? Her eyes – they had seemed so innocent. It didn’t seem possible that she would betray him. Or would she? Sometimes those who seemed most innocent were the least trustworthy.
Khalem led them to a back stairway. Chilly air rushed over Isao, bringing goose bumps to his skin, as they descended down to the kitchens.
With a grunt, Khalem held Isao back with one hand. His gaze first swept through the room. Finding it empty, Khalem moved them farther inside.
Knives had been taking from their wooden docks, no doubt by servants hoping to protect themselves while fleeing the uprising. The chaos found in the rest of the palace hadn't reached here yet; everything lay in orderly stacks and cupboards.
"Here," Khalem whispered, motioning to a far wall. "By the pantry."
A thin wooden door lay near a brace of onions hanging from their hairy roots. It was tucked into a corner, and nearly invisible to the eye.
Isao couldn't imagine where it led, but he pushed through and in anyway.
Giving the room one last glance, Khalem studied the empty kitchen to make certain no one followed them, then quietly pulled the door closed behind them.
Saemon
Saemon threw open the old armoire that housed nothing but the armor he had worn during the Horat-Vu war. He stared at the plates, which would stretch across his shoulders and swoop over his chest in a hard, defensive layer. They had saved him many times in the past.
Would they do so again?
A light sheen of dust covered the plates. His shield, featuring a snarling, ferocious winged lion, shone in the light cast by his torch. The metal glimmered a dull, gray sheen. He grasped it in his hand. Holding it felt reassuring, and quelled the uneasy feeling in his chest. It felt right to be with his armor again.
He put it on piece by piece, one part at a time with reverent, hallowed respect.
The final, most important piece, of his armor – his katana sword – rested along the top of a wooden rack. The blood of countless men had once run down it, although no stains were on the metal now.
Well-crafted katanas were unaffected by age, time, and dust. They never tarnished. Saemon respectfully clasped the sword with his free hand and brought it to his side. The weight of his armor, sword, and shield settled deep into his bones, whisking him back to a distant memory. One he hadn't recalled in many, many years.
A woman, barely twenty years of age, stood in the throne room in front of Saemon, who sat in his throne halfway across the tiled floor. Pearlescent hair spilled onto her shoulders, and a white linen tunic was draped around her thin, sprite-like body.
A strange glow surrounded her, as if light was radiating from her skin.
In her hand she held an oak staff. The twisted knot at the top supported a half-black, half-orange sphere – the sun and the moon.
"Blessed Saran of the Triad," Saemon murmured, inclining his head whilst forcing a calm, welcoming expression to his voice. "You are welcome to my palace anytime, of course. I am but a loyal servant to the Sacred Triad, as I always have been."
He didn't stand, and she didn't move any closer, but suddenly Saemon could feel strange energy emanating from her like a low, distant hum.
She blinked her cerulean blue eyes. Saemon shifted in the chair, clearing his throat.
"I am always pleased to see you, Sheng," she whispered, her voice rolling in the strange lilts of the Saran.
"Blessed Saran, please tell me what you saw in your dharma. I assume that is why you have come? You know my life is committed to serving the Empire and its people. Please help me to serve them best. What fate is in store for us?"
She furrowed her brows, and turned the edges of her lips down. Although no breeze moved through the room, strands of her hair suddenly fluttered in the air.
"Sheng Saemon," she murmured, "the Sacred Triad gives me many visions. You know this."
"I do."
"Just as you know that the visions are not complete. They are cryptic, their meanings hidden. I must discern what they are, and what they are not, in order to understand their place in your Empire and the Sacred Triad's power."
"Yes."
She tilted her head back and lowered her eyelids. "I see what could be, and what is. I know who people are, and what they will do. All things are before me, thanks to the Sacred Triad."
Saemon forced himself to nod. The light surrounding her seemed to grow with every measured word that slipped from her lips, as if she gained power from speaking to him.
"Yes, Blessed Saran of the Triad. I understand."
She relaxed, her shoulders rolling back.
"As you wish to know what I see, then please understand that these are my interpretations."
She closed her eyes, pulled in a deep breath, and then opened them again. "A veil of crimson cloaks the moon. The herald of the blackest night returns. Heed his mournful wail."
A strange intensity colored her voice.
Saemon lifted an eyebrow as an extended silence prevailed. Finally, he spoke. "Ominous words, Blessed Saran. But that cannot be all that you see, for your power is great. Please, continue."
"The young lion refuses his kingdom. The fires burn, heralding chaos. The era of disorder begins. Balance is shattered."
"Heralding chaos? Era of disorder?" Saemon repeated with a frown. "Blessed Saran, surely you must have perceived these things in the wrong way. There is no chaos in my Empire. What does the Triad really want me to know? "
The Blessed Saran paused, staring at him. Her wide eyes seemed to suck at him, as if trying to pull him into the depths and places of despair and sorrow of which she had spoken.
"Continue," he murmured, waving a hand. "Please."
"And then, my Sheng….”
She became silent. Saemon wondered whether she was weighing whether he was worthy of hearing the next words. He straightened in his chair, gripping the arms of his throne by his hands as he slid to the very end of the seat.
"What? Then what?" he urged.
Her nostrils flared. She pursed her lips.
"Speak, Saran!" he commanded.
"And then the moon will hide. Eternal night descends until the blood of the ninth beckons the old sun to the new kingdom."
"Blood of the ninth?" he whispered. "What does that mean?"
"My Sheng, the blood of the Sanra – the Savior – will bring a new era with his sacrifice."
Saemon sucked in a sharp breath.
The Blessed Saran intoned, "The ninth – "
Saemon shot to his feet, holding out an arm in protest, as if to block her from speaking.
"Don't you dare say it!" Saemon ordered.
"Isao, the ninth descendent of the Hiwan clan."
"Madness!" he cried. "The Triad overwhelms you with these visions. Saran, you are surely confused. "
"The truth does not change because of your inability to believe in it."
"I will not tolerate blasphemy!"
As soon as Saemon uttered these words, a hot sensation ripped through his body, tearing through him all the way from his heart to his toes. A haze of crimson
arose in his mind, blocking his ability to think. To stop this, he pressed the heel of his hand into his eyes.
After, there was only the sound of the Sheng’s deep, panting gasps until the Saran's dulcet tones rang out again.
"Sheng, you know of me and what I do. I am the Saran, servant to Lord Suryan, Lady Canandra, and their Messenger, Braham. I perceive. I translate. I give you the interpretation of the visions they give me. This is what I see."
"Be SILENT!" the Sheng commanded.
Her expression didn't waver as Saemon rebuked her.
To even think about Isao dying . . . it couldn't be so, Saemon thought. Isao had life. Vivacity. He would ascend the throne and continue the proud legacy of their family!
Saemon knew this reality all the way to his bones. He had planned for it always; he deemed it so!
He drew his shoulders back, expanding his chest as he took a deep breath.
"Sheng – "
"Another word from you and I . . ." He paused, swallowed, and forced a wave of agitation to pass out of him. "Saran, I have shed too much blood on behalf of the Triad. Did I not fight for them in the Horat-Vu war? How can they ask this of me? My son. My only son. No. I will not sacrifice him to their whims. My blood was what was needed to usher in a new era." Here he thumped on his chest with a fist. "My blood. The last Saran told me so. She predicted this."
"I cannot speak for the previous Saran. I can only tell you what I see."
"I will not allow Isao’s blood to be spilled," Saemon yelled. "Not now. Not ever!"
The Blessed Saran reached out a hand, but didn't move any closer. In a gentle voice she soothed, "Isao has all of our hearts, Sheng. You are not alone in your love for him. I wish I hadn't seen what I revealed to you, but I cannot deny what they have given me. I – "
"Silence!" he roared. "You test my patience, Saran. All of you…you are fickle beings that don't know anything. Get out of my sight. Now!"
Her lips formed a frown. She paused, then bowed at the waist. "As you wish, my Sheng."
She left the room on bare feet that barely brushed the floor. Then Saemon fell to his knees and gave a deep, guttural growl.
Faces of Betrayal Page 14