#
The halls down which Jaret ran were brightly lit by immaculate stained-glass windows, great crystal chandeliers, or intricate lanterns of silver and gold. Any of those light sources could feed a family for a generation. Some had existed for hundreds of years, and all were so extravagant that he found his attention continuously drifting to them despite the urgency of his trip. In turn, the light they generated revealed walls covered with marvelous tapestries, extravagant paintings, and intricate sculptures. They depicted the glory of the Empire, history, and mythology in miraculous detail that would best all but the finest craftsmen.
Despite those wonders, the seemingly utilitarian floor was a marvel beyond. It was made of tiny tiles the size of a ladybug that had been laid to form rune-like designs in reds and bright-blue. The magnificence of the floor was not in its beauty or the craftsmanship with which the tiles had been laid, but rather with the tiles themselves. Those same tiles had been in the palace since before the creation of the Empire, and despite their eons of age, they never wore, faded, or cracked no matter how many feet strode across them or how much abuse was dealt them. Today, as every day, they shone as if with an inner light beyond what should have been possible with any amount of polish; it was a wondrous art of a forgotten age.
From those mysterious tiles the last of the bloody prints had faded several strides before, forcing Jaret to rack his brain for the quickest route to the throne room. Over the ages, the various emperors had made so many additions to the palace that it had become an enormous labyrinthine shrine to extravagance. For someone like Jaret, the Palace of the Dawn was a spider’s web of dangers, the one place where the Emperor’s whims were still followed with deadly authority, and he avoided it as virulently as the wisest of flies. When he did venture into the heart of the Empire, he made sure he was accompanied by those who knew their way not only through the halls but also the political webs that stretched across them. As a result, he had paid far too little attention to where he was going on those trips. Now, as he passed one fabulously ordained hall after another, he cursed himself for his lack of attention.
He turned onto an especially long, window-lined corridor heading south then came to a large intersection with another long hallway running back to the east. The throne room was in the eastern-most part of the palace, so he veered down the wide hall. A fine rug padded the pounding of his feet. Chandeliers in the shapes of flying cranes lit the space from above while multi-colored glass lamps modeled after flowers were spaced along the walls between delicately carved wooden doors and oil paintings. Jaret allowed himself to marvel at the magnificent decorations as he ran and wondered how he had not noticed the chandeliers before. The answer, he knew was that there was nothing to distract him from the antiquities. Normally, these halls were thick with maids, bustling with couriers, and clogged by nobles. Today, there was not another living being.
The realization gave him another jolt of anxious energy, and he sprinted down the halls around one turn and another until the passages all began to look alike. He stumbled upon another pile of bodies where a second patrol had been ambushed and followed another set of bloody prints. The freshness of the blood told him that he was getting close.
Suddenly, he wondered what he would do against a force that butchered armored guards without losing a single man. He did not have much of a chance, he admitted, but if he could just get to the throne room before the assassins, he could rally the Emperor’s bodyguards, could buy time for the Emperor to escape. It was not much of a hope, but he had pledged his life to the task, and it was a promise he was prepared to keep.
Around another corner, Jaret saw his goal. The huge doors leading to the Emperor’s rooms were marked by the bodies of the half-dozen men who guarded them. Each man had an arrow protruding from his face or throat – Jaret made a mental note to be careful of those archers. An examination of the guards showed that he was very close. One of them was still breathing, and from the location of the arrow, he could not have been hit long ago.
Passed the colossal golden doors, which thankfully stood open, the hall continued on straight for a hundred paces to another set of equally mammoth doors. Those doors led to the throne room, to the very seat of imperial power, and they were tightly closed.
Jaret’s heart sank. He was too late. The doors were closed for the first time in his memory, but more disturbing than that were the two men who stood outside them. They wore black pants with red shirts. Over the shirts were black leather vests with an embroidered red sun that just peeked out from the steel rings that covered it. Their faces were obscured by the haze of black veils, but Jaret did not need to see them. He knew those uniforms well. His heart sank. He nearly dropped to the floor. What have I done? I have brought this on myself. This is all my fault.
With a deep breath, Jaret dismissed his agony and ran down the hall. The guards saw him and ran to meet him. They pulled bows as they came, brought arrows to the ready, and fired.
Jaret grabbed a shield from one of the guards at his feet and brought it up just in time to catch the arrows. He held it in front of his face, ducked behind it, and kept running. An arrow rang off the bronze of the shield. Another clipped his shin, sending a pang through him. He ignored it. The men were close now. He threw the shield at the one to his right and followed it with his sword.
“Traitors!” he yelled as his sword split leather and chains driving through the assassin’s chest nearly to the hilt. He abandoned the blade and rolled away from the swing of the other guard. The tip of the blade found his shoulder, scoring his vest but failing to find his flesh. He sprang to his feet and spun but had only his dirk left. It would be enough.
He spun and unleashed his most potent weapon. He stood so that the man could see his face. The assassin froze. His sword in mid-swing fell to his side. “Lord. . . .” was as much of Jaret’s title as he could say before the dirk sank into his chest. His eyes popped and he gurgled quietly as Jaret eased him to the ground.
“I am no longer your commander,” he whispered. “I was sworn to defend the Emperor and so were all those I command.” Retrieving his dirk, Jaret wiped the blood on his pants and grabbed the assassin’s sword.
He did not need to but he looked at the blade as he ran toward the doors. He still did not want to believe it, but the symbol etched there only confirmed what he already knew. The two swords crossed over a rising sun perfectly matched the etching on his own blade. It was the symbol that he had created and commissioned imprinted on the swords that he sparingly presented to the men that he personally selected to be the most sacred protectors of the Empire, the Legion of the Rising Sun.
Chapter 24
From Across the Clouded Range Page 61
