by D N Meinster
Chapter Twenty-Three
In the Presence of the Empress
Radite’s sparkling magnificence was not as wondrous to behold this time around. The golden capital still glistened and gleamed, but Doren had seen too much that easily dwarfed his initial impression of the foreign city. It was small and squat compared to the endless skyscrapers of Cortex. It was excessive compared to the natural beauty of the Enduring Mountains. And it was lacking the nostalgia of his home in Kytheras.
Passing through its narrow streets on the back of Lady Yveen’s velizard, Doren was less in awe and more in a hurry to get to the imperial palace and then return to Rikki.
Rikki.
His eyes narrowed in on the spot of the imperial palace’s roof where he and Rikki had watched the fireworks together. That seemed so long ago already. They hadn’t disclosed their feelings yet, but that moment almost made it inevitable.
That was the warmest memory he had of Faunli. The rest were less pleasant, either due to the woman he was presently riding with or his absent friend that had gone into an offensive rage on their first visit.
“Aros,” he murmured, shaking his head. He wasn’t sure they’d be able to remain friends after his violent outbursts, but somehow, they’d managed to put those events behind them. Doren had sympathized with Aros’ loss, and Aros hadn’t acted out in the other kingdoms. If he had, their entire journey may have gone rather differently.
“Did you say something?” Lady Yveen asked.
“I don’t recall Simma allowing velizards to roam the streets of Radite last time,” Doren said, not willing to share what he’d actually been thinking.
“She makes exceptions for those that matter most,” Yveen said, turning her head so he could view her wink.
“You think a lot of yourself, don’t you?”
“I am the smartest woman in Faunli.”
They disembarked from the velizard at the bottom of the wide staircase that led to the palace entrance. “Wait for me,” Yveen instructed her pet, and then they began the long climb.
It wasn’t as bad as climbing the side of a mountain, but each step made little progress. This was a place that could use Bellish technology. An elevator perhaps? Or a dedicated AGT? Since the kingdoms were reunited, would that eventually happen?
Nothing was guaranteed. Not while Neanthal sat on the throne of Kytheras.
Doren dug his fingernails into his palm as he thought of how that false king had slain the rightful ruler. Halstrom was dead. His father was gone.
Doren dropped to his knees to try and catch his breath. It wasn’t the trip up that had winded him, but the reminder that he’d never see either of his parents again.
Yveen looked back at him. “What happened? Do you need me to carry you, Prince?”
Prince? If they did defeat Neanthal, would that make his title King?
Doren was on the verge of falling backward, but Yveen grabbed his arm to prevent such an outcome.
Looking into his eyes, she said, “I’m sorry you lost your father.”
How did she know? Doren’s throat nearly closed up as the potential responsibilities joined in with his unraveling grief to completely overwhelm him.
“It can take men ages to process death,” Yveen said. “Especially complicated men.”
Doren hadn’t expected Halstrom’s death to affect him in such a manner, especially in a locale that had absolutely nothing to do with him. Why here? And why at all? They weren’t very close, and the most they had in common was that they loved the long-lost queen.
“Sorry,” Doren mumbled, trying to force the air down his throat.
Her good eye scanned him. “The offer to carry you stands.”
Doren tapped on her hand, which was still bound to his arm. “I can make it.”
She didn’t seem so certain. “You first.”
Doren tried to move past the thoughts of his father and incoming responsibilities, but they weighed on him so heavily that he couldn’t lift his foot onto the next step. “Maybe I need another minute.”
Yveen was in no mood to wait. She lifted him straight off the stairs and flung him over her shoulder.
“Hey!” Doren protested, but she climbed the rest of the staircase with the Prince hanging over her back.
When they reached the entrance, she slid him off her shoulder and back onto his feet.
Doren might’ve been furious if he wasn’t so impressed.
“Get yourself together before we are in the presence of the Empress,” Yveen ordered.
Doren patted his hair into place and used extra effort to force himself to breathe.
Had the reality struck him so hard because his friends weren’t with him? Did Rikki and Aros keep him from going to a darker place?
Rikki was the girl he loved, and Aros was the best friend he’d ever had besides Rikki. It made sense that he’d grown somewhat dependent on them. He just never realized the extent of it.
It was good that Simma was likely to be amendable to their needs, for then he could get back to his friends all the sooner.
But maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe he needed time to work through the emotions losing his father had brought about.
“Come along, Prince,” Yveen insisted as the entranceway opened for them.
The inside of the imperial palace was exactly as he remembered. Everywhere he looked he saw polished white marble, except the ceiling, where massive figures had been painted in a spectrum of colors. Golden chandeliers hung from above, while crystal statues decorated the sides of the room.
“I hope you bring better tidings than your mage,” Empress Simma said from atop her throne at the center of the room. “We only just got this room back in order.”
Simma’s hair had grown longer than when he’d last seen her, so that it fell past the crown atop her head, but her cheeks and lips were as rosy as ever. Her skin was like porcelain, and her eyes were more golden than the city she called home. Her red and white dress was pristine and lengthy enough that it reached the floor even from her high position.
Doren bowed, even though Lady Yveen did not.
“At least you have manners,” Empress Simma stated. “Yveen seems to have lost hers since I gave her free passage into this palace. Perhaps I should tell my guards to turn you away next time?”
“But then I couldn’t bring you foreign royals and vital news,” Yveen replied.
“I was already alerted to Ghumai’s reformation,” Empress Simma responded.
“But not to why.”
Simma’s eyes fell on Doren. “Speak, Prince Doren of Kytheras.”
Doren went on to explain what had occurred upon their return to Kytheras. Simma remained emotionless throughout the story, undisturbed by Neanthal’s freedom and unexcited for the reunited land.
“I come here to request your aid, Empress. It will take all five kingdoms working together to defeat Neanthal. If we do not, a new Dark Reign shall begin.”
Simma considered the request. “Neanthal is a god. Even the combined effort of all our kingdoms stands little chance of defeating him. Or am I wrong?” Her gaze fell upon Yveen.
“Would you do nothing?” Yveen asked.
“I want to know that the sacrifices my soldiers make will not be in vain,” Simma replied.
“Kucha la bisbaos cia doch,” Yveen said.
“Les interos,” Simma replied.
Doren looked back-and-forth between the two women. “There is only one outcome if we do not fight,” he said.
“Faunli will stand with you,” Simma replied. “We will march against Neanthal.”
“She knows she owes you,” Yveen whispered.
“All of Faunli owes you,” Simma stated. “We will not abandon you in your time of need.”
Doren dropped to his knees. “Thank you, Empress.”
“Stand,” she requested. “That’s not necessary.” She looked at Yveen. “On the other hand, I would not mind seeing this one on her knees.”
“I’m afraid I was unabl
e to hear the Empress’ words all the way down here.” Yveen turned away. “I’ll alert the forty families of the coming battle."
Doren’s eyes followed Yveen. “Should I come with you?”
“Not all Fauns are as kind to foreigners,” Yveen replied, nearing the exit. “Especially Kytherans. We’ll meet again soon, Prince.”
The massive door opened to allow Lady Yveen to exit.
“How soon do you plan to strike?” Simma asked.
Doren’s focus returned to the Empress. “Once we know who’s agreed to our alliance, within days.”
“Not much time to strategize,” Simma said. “Neanthal has been patient. Why aren’t you?”
Doren didn’t have an answer. The Goddess had certainly imparted a sense of urgency in him and his friends. But why hadn’t Neanthal led his Massku into the other kingdoms already? What was he waiting for?
“I know you must want to avenge your father, but we cannot be sloppy,” the Empress said. “Stay with me and we can plan the coming attack.”
“I…” Doren did not know much about the strategies and tactics of war. Planning for armies was different than grabbing a shield and overcoming an opponent.
“It’s settled,” she stated, taking his silence as an affirmation. “You can have the room you stayed in last.”
“Thank you, Empress,” Doren replied. He wasn’t sure what help he would be, but he could not dismiss her request.
“You may have free reign of our grounds,” she added. “Treat it as you would your home.”
Doren bowed and departed for his room. He didn’t know if he was heading in the right direction, as he’d only been there once, but it was too late to ask for assistance. He was sure he’d find it eventually.
He was unsure if his stay would help him plan an attack against Neanthal, but he could use the time to process the emotions that had snuck up on him. He didn’t want to freeze like that again, especially in the midst of battle. It was his hope that it wouldn’t take too long to deal with his feelings, as he had to get back to his friends eventually. For all he knew, they were already in Tunsev Manor, waiting for him.
Doren had fallen into such a deep slumber that he didn’t understand how or why his eyes had popped open. It felt like decks since he’d been allowed such a pleasant location to sleep in, and he had figured that even the morning light wouldn’t wake him.
Yet here it was, the middle of the night, the room as dark with his eyes open as when they were closed, and he was awake.
That’s when he saw it. The slightest light breaking into the room from a crack in the doorway.
Someone was coming inside, and they weren’t announcing themselves.
Doren’s body tensed. He was naked beneath the sheets. He’d soaked himself along with his Bellish undergarments in the bath earlier that evening. They’d needed a wash as badly as he had, for the decks without a cleaning had embedded a rank smell in the grimy cloth. He’d left them hanging near the window to dry, not so far from Slythe’s cloak, which draped from a hook on the wall.
His shield, however, was resting next to him on the mattress. He thought he was safe enough to discard his clothing for the night, but he never felt confident enough to leave his shield out of reach.
Inch by inch, he dragged the shield from its spot and slid it over his chest. The darkness gave him the cover to do so without being noticed, but it also hid the identities of the multiple individuals slipping into the room.
His arms went stiff beneath the shield as he held them in position. He closed his eyes to ensure his visitors still believed him to be asleep and waited.
Whoever they were, they tread silently as they gathered around his bed. They were skilled, trained for an undertaking like this.
Doren knew they were there, listening to his shallow breaths. But they took no action.
He waited, the anxiety creeping in the longer it took. Were they reconsidering their plan? Or were they prolonging it all to get a sick joy from it?
Who could they be? Thalians from Neanthal’s Hamlet that heard of his arrival? Fauns that didn’t appreciate Kytheran meddling? He even considered that Sarin could have been revived once more and was leading this group.
He so desperately wanted to get a peek at them, but any slight movement would give him away. So he forced his eyes to remain shut and left his arms in place even as they started to cramp.
Finally, he heard it: the sound of a blade cutting through the air. And then: CLONK. It hit his shield.
Doren thrust his shield upward before he’d even opened his eyes. He leapt out of bed as the assassin stumbled backward.
There were five of them, all dressed in black but only the one showing any weapons. The night concealed their faces, but there was just enough light for him to see their movements.
Their indecision was plain as they stood in place, looking to one another. They’d expected a simple and quiet assassination. Doren was glad to have deprived them of it.
“Well?” Doren said, glancing around.
The first assassin came at him with a dagger once again. As he slashed out at him, Doren pounded the shield into his arm.
Then he did it again. And followed by slapping the blade from his possession.
The assassin jumped back against the wall. It was his compatriot’s turn.
One of them slipped on battle gloves, covering his hand in pointed pyramids. Another withdrew a jagged blade that was nearly impossible to see in the low light. The third fetched a spear from just outside the room. And the fourth used a single glove that transformed their fingers into talons.
Doren was outnumbered and completely unprotected. But he never shouted for help or ran for his cloak. If he wasn’t proficient enough to take out these men, how could he ever face Neanthal?
There were no battles he could run from anymore; no opponents that weren’t worth his time. The Beast was waiting for him. All else only led to that one confrontation.
“Mind telling me your names?” Doren asked.
That set the first one off. He came at him ready to impale both pyramid gloves in Doren’s chest.
Doren easily knocked both gloves to his sides, preventing any impact.
Then he blocked a jagged blade aiming for his cheek. He pushed back against its wielder, giving him a moment’s space.
The spear came at him next, targeting his knee.
Doren bounced his shield into it so it only scraped the floor. He caught the bronze disk in time to protect against another swipe from the jagged sword.
The three did not let up. He was quick enough to block them but couldn’t get in any hits of his own.
Doren used his next opening to hop back atop his bed. He stood on the mattress, surveying his adversaries and trying to figure how best to beat them.
They didn’t give him much time to think, however. The spear zoomed through the air and stuck into the wall, just missing him.
As Doren leapt off, the mattress propelling him high into the air, he targeted the disarmed spear-thrower and smashed the shield into the top of his head while in midair.
The assassin crumbled by the time Doren’s feet were back on the floor.
The one with pyramid gloves moved in for another strike, but Doren knocked his shield into the gloves with such vigor that one abandoned the assassin.
Struck by his loss, the assassin stood in place. And Doren raised back his arm and sent his shield colliding into the side of the man’s face.
There was an audible crunch as his neck twisted too far to the side, and the assassin fell atop the other.
“You can run,” Doren suggested.
And then he let out a piercing shriek as the talons dug into his shoulder. Doren felt the warm blood leaking down the side of his body. As he tried to think of how best to remove it and its wielder from his back, the jagged blade came at his front.
Doren lifted his shield in front of his face and waited until the blade hit. As it did, he dropped his shield. Both weapons fell towards
Doren’s feet.
Doren launched a punch into the assassin’s forehead before he even saw it coming.
“My Lord!” the talon-gloved man cried out.
Doren kicked his shield back up into his hands. And, with his good arm, he swung it over his head and down into the assassin’s implanted limb.
There was another audible crack, and the assassin willingly withdrew his glove from Doren’s shoulder.
Doren spun about and tapped his shield into the sharpened glove.
The assassin was unable to regain control of his broken limb as it headed for his neck. The talons on his fingers cut into the exposed flesh, and the assassin choked and gagged, eventually joining the other two on the floor.
“Scum of Kytheras,” the sword-wielder growled, charging at Doren.
Doren sidestepped the assassin and pushed him onward with his shield.
The assassin was unable to stop himself as he broke through the glass window and fell from the imperial palace.
Doren listened as the sound of shattering glass was following by an obvious splat.
The last living assassin bolted from the room.
Doren didn’t chase after him. Instead, he slipped both his undergarments and Slythe’s cloak back on. He could feel the blood seeping from his wound and staining his freshly washed clothes.
He wished Rikki was there to heal him. But he had to deal with the pain as it continued to get worse.
Doren raised his shield back up as two men entered the room, but they were merely lookouts carrying torches.
“By the Goddess,” one of them said.
With the extra light, Doren was able to get a better look at his attackers. Only one looked familiar: the assassin with the mustache and pyramidal battle gloves.
“It can’t be,” he murmured.
Doren backed up towards the window and gazed upon the body down below. All he could make out was the yellow hair on the assassin, but it was enough.
The former Emperors of Faunli, Luewen and Kuwain, had tried to murder him.
It was obvious why they might want him dead. He and his friends had removed them both from power during their last visit to Faunli. The two must have been holding a grudge and had united to exact their vengeance.