by Sever Bronny
“The emperor invites you to break bread with him, sip his wine, and parlay,” the guard continued. “Please proceed in peace to the royal tent.” The guards kept their gazes firmly above the group in a traditional manner evoking respect.
“I recognize and accept your offer of parlay,” Augum replied, then without turning his head shouted, “Shields down!”
The group disappeared their shields with a soft whoosh and marched past the saluting guards, entering the path between two lines of sputtering torches struggling to stay lit in the wind. One gust was so strong that it snuffed a torch just as Augum walked by, making him think of Maxine. Would she really follow through and sacrifice her life for them? Why hadn’t he made more of an attempt to get to know her? Why had the reality of her offer not hit him yet?
The line led them to a camp teeming with soldiers and servants. Feast tables had been set up near three central bonfires where Canterrans loitered, tankards slopping in their hands. Every single set of enemy eyes watched the companions.
In the center of the camp was a huge spired tent flanked by two hooded warlocks dressed in silken black robes, the hems and fringes threaded with fine gold embroidery. The golden crest on their chests indicated they were the mythic Golden Panthers, the most elite warlocks in the Canterran army and Emperor Samuel Sepherin’s personal guard. The trio had already seen these cold men and women up close in the academy’s fabled Room of Masters.
“Fates hold me back, look at all that food,” Leera cooed. “Smells so good. Ugh, I’m going to melt. I’m going to melt …”
None of them could keep their eyes off the feast tables. There was creamed fish and buttery potatoes and chicken crowned with sunny eggs and Canterran mirko stew and roast pheasant and countless other delectable dishes—even a whole pig on a silver platter! Haylee moaned pitifully, as did Cry, their stomachs no doubt particularly hollow after they had thrown up on the boat. Even Maxine kept smacking her lips and swallowing as she eyed a fat roasted turkey like a cat eyeing up a bird.
Augum stopped the procession before one of the Golden Panthers, an old man whose long gray hair spilled out from his hood. “We invoke parlay, protected by covenant of the Hallowed Trust, and request an audience with King Samuel.”
“Emperor Samuel,” the Golden Panther replied in a cordial and quiet manner. “You would be wise to remember the difference, young man.” He flicked a finger and the tent flaps parted with a gentle swish, revealing a spacious interior.
Augum and his group filed inside, only to lay eyes upon another feast, for there were two long trestle tables immediately ahead, both covered with a finely embroidered white tablecloth. One, however, was laid out with the finest fare Augum had seen since King Rupert Southguard’s coronation ceremony—custard tarts and meat pies and mirko stew and braised mutton and cabbage chowder and poached fowl and cherry pottage and roast pheasant and countless other delectable dishes. The crown jewel was an entire peacock, its feathers splayed in full fan-like bloom. The second table was circled with chairs and festooned with fine porcelain dishes and crystal goblets and shining silver flatware. The chairs were gilded wood and at the far end was a particularly fine gilded throne chair expertly carved to look like it had been made from books and scrolls and quills and ink stands.
The throne of a scholar, Augum observed.
As the tent flaps closed behind them, Augum focused on the scene beyond the two tables, for there, on a wooden plinth covered with crimson Tiberran carpeting, stood a royal party of men and women, surrounded by a slew of Golden Panthers. And standing in the center of that group was none other than Emperor Samuel Sepherin, wearing a spectacular silken white garment with crimson threading arcanely moving like the flames of a fire, reflecting his element. His skin was as pale as Augum remembered and just as grotesque, for the crimson lacerations that he had suffered from his youthful bout with the necrotic plague crisscrossed his face like cracks in dried earth, hence his nickname, Sepherin the Sufferer. His silver hair was perfectly parted down the center, and on top rested a fine golden circlet studded with sparkling rubies and sapphires and emeralds and diamonds. Yet it was that grotesque necromantic-like face that caused those among the companions who had not seen it before to inhale sharply, some even gasping—a reaction Augum knew the emperor enjoyed and used to his benefit.
Augum recognized someone else among the enemy party, an old man with weasel lips and beady yellow eyes. He had a hunched posture, a small, cunning face, and scraggly brows. Augum vividly recalled the man skillfully playing a crowd of powder-faced nobles like a master of the lute as he questioned Augum’s integrity in the Grand Hall of the Black Castle.
The Lord High Steward raised his chin … and flashed them a weasel smile.
Augum’s blood raced and he found his nails digging into his palms as a single word bounced about in his mind. Traitor. Traitor …
Others were there too. Spearmen stood evenly spaced around the voluminous tent walls, wearing the royal Canterran tabards of purple, gold and red. Young stiff-backed female servants in matching livery and small hats pinned to tightly-woven buns of hair stood off to the side in a neat line, heads bowed in compliance.
There was also a line of twenty-one white-robed Path Archons, identifiable by their red-and-white crests. They varied in age from the mid-teens to late twenties, though every single one was male and had a freshly shaved pate. All stood rigid-straight in military formation, eyes dead ahead—all except for one, a man Augum had already faced once.
Sensing Augum’s gaze, Prince Gavinius Mercel Frankephelius Sepherin the First, Heir to the Empire, turned his thick neck to watch him with those golden eyes, the hallmark of his royal bloodline. His bulldog goatee was perfectly shaped and sculpted with grease. A garland of oak leaves and acorns, the symbolic tree of Canterra, sat on his shaved pate, indicating that the advancement ceremony was in his honor.
The two groups stared at each other before the emperor stepped off the platform and calmly strode toward the companions. The Golden Panthers were about to follow him only to be stayed by a slight lifting of a bejeweled finger. He stopped before Augum, bringing with him the faint scent of eucalyptus. His golden eyes examined Augum’s face before he extended an open hand, ceremonially indicating that he did not have a weapon in it. As the customs of the Hallowed Trust demanded, Augum accepted it.
“I bid you welcome, Dragoon Sto—” Sepherin abruptly broke the handshake, turned, and began violently coughing. His aides rushed to him but he waved them off and dabbed at his lips with a white silk cloth. When he removed it, Augum saw blood.
He’s dying, Augum realized. This troubled him, because he believed Sepherin to be the sort of man who would give everything of himself for his causes before departing this life, which made him that much more dangerous.
The emperor turned back to Augum and flashed a false smile. “Forgive me, a minor malady. I imagine you have had quite the journey and must be famished.”
“We are, Your Highness,” Augum said, observing the traditional courtesies required of the Hallowed Trust by using the title.
The emperor’s gaze wandered past Augum to his group, who stiffened. He walked past them, ignoring them all, and stopped before Esha. Then, to gasps from nearly everyone, he bowed deeply before her—and remained bowed.
After a moment of hesitation, some of the guards took a knee and bowed their heads, quickly prompting the rest of the Canterrans to follow suit, including the white-robed Path Archons. Only the Golden Panthers did not react.
“The Ancient One known as Esha,” Sepherin said with the slightest vibrance to his voice. “I, Emperor Samuel Sepherin, bow to you, the last living Dreadnought—” He was seized by another coughing fit, followed by yet another dab of the now-bloody cloth. “Excuse me. I bow as nothing more than a humble student of history.”
He remained bowed until she inclined her head and said, “I am honored by your respect for history, Emperor Samuel.”
He straightened, nodded, and gracefu
lly strode toward the long table, where he stopped to stand before the book-motif throne. He eyed his entire kneeled delegation before slowly sliding it back. “Ancient One, I humbly beg you to accept the head of my table, for this is an honor I have been waiting upon my entire life.”
Augum could feel the tension oozing from the Canterrans, but he remembered well how much Sepherin respected—no, worshipped—history, and so to him the man’s actions made perfect sense.
The emperor opened his hands invitingly. “Please sit and be merry, we have much to discuss.”
Augum took a breath and led the way, allowing Esha to take the head of the table as requested. While Herzog the Historian stood behind Esha to continue his chronicling, Sepherin sat to Esha’s right and indicated for Augum to sit to her left. One by one, the companions took their places. Leera sat beside Augum, then Bridget, Haylee, Cry, Maxine, Jengo, Olaf, Mary, Arthur, and finally Brandon.
Gavinius sat to the right of the emperor and across from Leera. Mysteriously, an empty chair remained beside him, and beside that empty chair sat the Lord High Steward, followed by a slew of Canterran officials, all of whom were old men with the sorts of faces weathered by years of intrigue and political machinations. Interestingly, not one was an elder Path Disciple—nor did other Path Archons take a seat, remaining in a line overlooking the table.
The emperor’s own chronicler stood beside Herzog, the two quills scribbling furiously. He was the dead-eyed man Augum would never forget as being the one to coldly read aloud not only the number of lives Solia owed Canterra—a quarter million—but the number of lives womankind owed mankind—seven hundred fifty-three thousand, one hundred twenty-one—numbers that had been engraved into Augum’s mind like tombstone epitaphs.
Knowing how historic and critical the situation, Augum made sure to pay careful attention to everything happening before him, from Esha sitting gracefully in the emperor’s throne chair, looking too small for its size, to Gavinius glaring at him with open hostility, even to the emperor’s labored breathing, for although he looked utterly relaxed and in his element, his breaths were racked with rattling pain and whistled like a broken bellows.
As the Canterrans settled in, with a few servants aiding some of the older and enfeebled enemy statesmen, Augum finally matched Gavinius’s gaze with a cold and unblinking stare of his own. Of all the Canterrans present, only this man showed open contempt and disrespect. The stare was brutish and unrestrained, the sort one received from a bully promising to later exact vengeance for a perceived wrong. This man was the oldest child, a male, and the heir apparent to the Canterran empire. He was used to getting his way and his bullishness had no doubt been nurtured and tuned for the emperor’s use.
And now that the emperor was dying, this short-tempered brute’s power had certainly already increased.
Except the longer Augum stared the more he saw behind that iron gaze. There was a zealousness, the kind his younger brother, Darby, possessed. But there was also restraint, if only in public. And underneath that restraint, like dirt swept under a carpet, bubbled a cruelty Augum had seen before in people who enjoyed tormenting for the power it yielded them. And he even saw a creativity in that gaze too, although it was the kind that came with imagining myriad terrible things the person would like to do to an enemy, the kind that lent an advantage in combat.
Augum concluded that this man only respected one thing—force. He stared at Gavinius, knowing that the man would take every advantage available to him, no matter how cruel. That was his strength, one Augum would have to be extremely mindful of. But he also saw that the bubbling rage was his weakness, and he planned on using it against him.
In turn, Gavinius slowly placed his gaze on Bridget and then Leera—and held it on each of them for a pregnant moment, making the girls squirm uncomfortably, before placing it back on Augum, the threat clear if not clumsily done.
Yet it seemed to have done the trick, for Augum found himself quietly seething with the same sort of rage he had felt out in that snowy plain up at Northspear. He fantasized dueling the brute again, this time punching in his arrogant face and tearing him limb from limb with his mighty arcanery before finally grinding him into dust. And that fantasy, like a snowball rolling downhill, gathered weight until he imagined himself soaring above the Canterran kingdom, his dragon mount raining vengeance with leathery wings, leveling its cities with black claws and unleashing the mightiest fury since—
He felt a gentle hand on his knee from Leera and realized that he had been glaring at Gavinius with wolf eyes, lost in those rage fantasies. She raised an eyebrow ever so slightly, asking, You all right?
Augum cleared his throat and nodded, chastising himself for losing control. Where did this unbridled rage come from? After everything that he had experienced and learned, why couldn’t he keep it under control? Was it the long shadow of his mass-murdering father … or was it more?
Gavinius, seeing all this, sat back a little, the corner of his goateed mouth curving upward slyly. He knew he had won a small battle.
Augum stared back at him, promising a war.
And then, just as the party had settled in and the servants readied to bring washbasins, the tent flaps parted and an all-too-familiar voice sang out, “Forgive my tardiness, my lords!”
The entire table turned to see a young woman with an angular face and rich olive skin saunter in. She wore a brilliant white gown and white leather gloves, dark hair arranged in an elaborate braid. A retinue of six Golden Panthers guarded her.
The infamous Princess Katrina Von Edgeworth had arrived.
And somewhere out there sat the mighty husk of Orion, silent, dark, waiting.
A Historic Meeting
As the entire table rose out of respect—Augum’s group rather begrudgingly—Katrina Von Edgeworth took her sweet time sashaying over to Emperor Samuel. As she neared, she stretched out her white-gloved hands and twiddled her fingers, squealing in delight.
“My lovely future daughter,” Emperor Samuel said, accepting her hands with graceful ease and bringing one to his lips. “We are honored by your presence with such short notice, Princess.”
Katrina pinched the skirt of her fine gown and curtsied properly, inclining her head. “I am honored to be accepted on this special evening, Your Emperorship.” Her accent had developed a more refined Canterran lilt since Augum had last seen her in person back in the academy. “And it was no trouble at all,” she added with a girlish squeal. “In fact, it was a wonderful opportunity for me to practice my teleportation.”
Augum, after witnessing the arcane-amplifying power of the engine first-hand when Katrina used Telekinesis to yank him to herself, instantly understood the ramifications—and imagined the engine suddenly teleporting into a city or behind enemy lines, causing catastrophic devastation. It also explained how she got to Northspear so quickly. It was a power only experienced once in history thousands of years ago, and it was … bone-rattling.
Katrina glanced over at him with an expression oozing with unrepentant glee, savoring his reaction.
Gods, they’re going to train her up as quickly as possible, Augum realized. And if there was anyone who would take full advantage, it was Katrina.
Both chroniclers, standing side by side behind Esha, scribbled furiously into their tomes, certainly describing every nuance possible. Herzog’s book floated as usual while the Canterran scribe held his stiffly before him with his right hand, a large vulture-feather quill in his left.
“Ah, then you will be a most studious daughter indeed,” Samuel cooed, warding off another coughing attack by grabbing his own throat. “Excuse me,” he said as Katrina tactfully glanced away. “And how is training going, my dear? I hope your duties for the empire have not been overly hampered by my demanding schedule.”
“Oh, not at all, Your Grace, not at all. I serve the empire first and foremost with every breath I take and with every thought I think.”
Leera gave the smallest snort of derision, causing more than a
few people—Bridget, Gavinius and the Lord High Steward included—to glare at her, making her swallow and shrink where she stood.
But Augum was thinking about the siege engine. Was there a way to capture it when Katrina was not in it? Recalling his detailed studies on Sepherin, something told him that the engine was protected under countless layers of the most advanced arcanery in Sithesia and who knew how many warlock guards. Any attack upon it while Katrina slept would be suicide.
“And I count myself immensely fortunate to be mentored by the finest warlocks that walk Sithesia, Your Grace,” Katrina added. “They are teaching me things I did not think possible, allowing me to make key breakthroughs with the engine. I have been working very hard, Your Grace, and look forward to impressing you.”
“You have been succeeding most marvelously thus far, my sweet dear. You are the mightiest defender of our realm history has ever seen, and we are honored by your undying loyalty, your renowned beauty, and your pious grace.”
“Your Highness flatters me so.”
“A future daughter deserves no less. Now may I have the honor of introducing you to someone very special to my heart?” The emperor opened a hideously scarred hand.
Katrina slid one of her gloved hands into it like a snake entering its den. “Your Grace, I am touched by your humility and feel that any thanks of mine are but small payment for your many and unrivaled kindnesses.”
The emperor smiled and led the trio’s mortal enemy to stand before the lioness. “This is the last living Dreadnought, the Ancient One known as Esha.”
Katrina imperiously offered the lioness a gloved hand to kiss, but Esha only said, “I recognize Princess Katrina Von Edgeworth, the driver of the siege engine dragon known as Orion, named after the Rivican God of War and crafted with the aid of my enslaved people.”
“Indeed,” Katrina said, withdrawing her hand and pressing her lips together. “And how old are you supposed to be again?”
