Blood of the Emperor (26 page)

Drakis followed Thuri’s extended hand and saw Braun, in his Proxi robes, looking back at him with a haunted and pitying expression.

Drakis glanced around him. Thuri pushed his blank face into the semblance of a grin. ChuKang, captain of their Centurai planted his enormous hands on his hips and let out a roar of joy. KriChan, another manticorian warrior stood beside him nodding with a fang-toothed smile. Next to them stood Karag, Belag’s brother, still wearing his battle armor. The gnomes Onras and Druth Ophas were straining to get a look at him.

His Octia…His Centurai…

He looked down at the bier on which he was sitting. It was a hero’s bier, draped in linen and covered in flowers.

“You thought I was
dead
?” Drakis grinned. He felt dizzy and euphoric.

“Well you gave a very good impression of dead,” ChuKang bellowed and the rest of the warriors around them joined at once in the laughter.

Drakis turned. Behind him sat the familiar temple. Jerakh, Skyu’klan, Indrisi…the rest of the Centurai were pouring from the octagonal fold wavering between two crystalline pillars.

Smoke and the shadow of fallen days

Welling from dreams that are dead

Familiar faces.

Lost from all traces…

“We had thought to bear you back as a dead hero,” Thuri said, “but given the circumstances, I suppose a live hero will have to do. I believe you have earned the right to present this.”

The chimerian reached with his uppermost pair of arms back over his head and pulled a metal circle from his pack. He pressed it into an astonished Drakis’ grip.

The Crown of the Ninth Throne of Dwarven Kings lay in his hands.

“A parade of triumph?” Braun suggested quietly. “Our hero is perhaps due a parade of triumph?”

“A parade of triumph indeed!” Karag called out. The Centurai cheered, raising their weapons into the air in acknowledgment.

ChuKang dragged Drakis off the bier, planting him on his feet, pushing him to the head of the column. “Form ranks! We’ve earned our pride. Drakis Sha-Timuran!”

“Yes, ChuKang?”

“Lead us home!” the Centurai commander ordered with a weary smile.

Drakis turned to look down the road across the familiar fields lined on either side by House totems. He could hear the Centurai of his brother warriors falling in behind him. He gazed down at his hands, his mind reeling as he contemplated the Crown of the Ninth Dwarven Throne in his hands. He knew the coolness of its metal and the heft of its weight. He could see the very top of the avatria of house Timuran shining in the morning rays. He knew that
she
would be there standing on the wall, searching for his return. Now he would come through the gates as a hero of House Timuran, just as he had dreamed he would so many times before.

So many times before…

“Wait,” he turned to face the Centurai. “Where is Braun?”

“Here, Drakis,” responded the Proxi quietly, his eyes averted.

“What…what about Ethis?” Drakis asked.

“He is coming later, my lord,” Braun replied, still looking away.

“And Urulani?” Drakis asked. The pain in his head was unbearable.

“Who?” ChuKang asked.

“Urulani,” Drakis responded. “She is…she is a dark-skinned human—a raider on Thetis Bay…”

“A dark woman warrior?” KriChan trumpeted with laughter. “That blow to your head must have been harder than we thought!”

“But she…”

“You need not worry about that right now,” Braun urged. “The Centurai is waiting to present their victory to Lord Timuran. We must proceed quickly. They will be waiting and our masters will brook no delay.”

Drakis nodded in dull agreement. He turned to face the path that was so familiar to him and so inviting. He breathed in the cool air, the
fresh smell damp with the morning dew on the fields. He could hear the distant birds call down by the tide pools and from the woodlands on the far side.

Everything was just as he remembered it.

The thought brought doubt into his mind.

Then he gripped the prized crown in his hand and, raising it above his head, yelled out, “Brothers of House Timuran! We return in triumph at last!”

A great cheer rose from the warriors behind him. He marched forward, down the path toward the sunrise, climbing up over the crest of a hill. Before him, crowning the next hilltop, stood the glorious structure of House Timuran. The slender avatria rose up above the subatria wall, outlined in the growing light of dawn.

She was there. He could see her silhouette atop the subatria wall, her cleanly shaven head aglow. Already she was running along the wall toward the servant’s stairs leading down into the garden, eager to greet him.

“Mala,” Drakis said her name in a whisper, as though he were afraid to utter it, that somehow doing so would break the wonderful moment.

Thoughts tugged at his mind. Wide savannas and ocean voyages…vast deserts of sand…ruins obscured by foliage so thick as to nearly hide them completely…dragons breathing destruction and death…and a woman with skin as dark as midnight who was beautiful and terrible all at once…

Mala waved at him and, smiling, he marched on.

The Centurai came to the gates of the chakrilya—the Warrior’s Way—and found them thrown open at their approach. The household slaves were lining the curving passage, their cheers unrestrained. Drakis held the crown high once more as he marched through the gates, to even greater cheering from the Centurai that marched behind him.

Se’Djinka, the war-mage of House Timuran and a Tribune of the Imperial Army stood in the center of the chakrilya in his battle robes his arms folded across his chest. The ancient warrior held up his arm, palm facing Drakis in salute.

“Victorious and bearing the greatest of honors,” Se’Djinka proclaimed. “The warriors of House Timuran are home at last.”

Drakis smiled broadly and bowed, extending the crown toward the war-mage with both hands.

Braun stepped forward, standing just to the right and slightly behind Drakis as he spoke. “May Drakis—champion of Timuran—present the crown before the altar of Devotions?”

Se’Djinka frowned, his featureless black eyes resting on the Proxi with disapproval.

“It would be his greatest desire,” Braun urged.

Se’Djinka straightened up and turned, passing through the open gate between the chakrilya and the interior of the subatria. Drakis followed him, trailing Braun, and the rest of the Centurai marched behind him into the central garden of the House. The inverted dome foundation of the Timuran avatria floated above their heads, perfectly restored.

Drakis’ smile diminished slightly.
When did it look any different? When was it that I saw it fall to the ground?

The bowl of the garden lay before him. The altar of Devotions stood near the center, directly before the Aether Well of the House. By now the entire household had turned out to stand against the walls of the central garden. Slaves, free elven servants, craftsmen of every estate and all of the Impress Warriors from their Centurai watched in adoration, admiration and wonder.

Next to the altar of Devotions stood Sha-Timuran, tall and noble in his appearance. His wife and daughter were nowhere to be seen but he barely took notice of it.

Next to Timuran, stood Mala.

He could clearly see the Sinque mark at the crest of her shaved head. Her large eyes set in her heart-shaped face sparkled with joy. She held out her hand to him, beckoning him to come to her.

Drakis marched proudly down the path to the center of the garden. He stopped before Sha-Timuran—the elf who had been like a father to him…

Drakis winced. He felt the blows on his back, the sting of the firereed whip across his flesh.

It must have been a dream…a bad dream…

“Drakis Sha-Timuran!” The high-pitched, nasal voice of the House Lord cut above the cheers of the household, calling them to silence.

Drakis looked up into the pinched face of his master. Then, without another thought, the human knelt down before the tall elf and, extending his hands above his head, offered the crown to Sha-Timuran.

“Never before in the glorious history of our House has any Impress Warrior performed his duty with such distinction. Of all the Houses of the Rhonas Imperium, you stand alone as victor. You hold the spoils in your hands of the defeated dwarven thrones. Your name shall be whispered with reverence and sung in songs of magnificent accolades for ages to come. Look upon me, Drakis Sha-Timuran!”

Drakis raised his face to the House Lord.

“I have pled your name before the Ministers of Imperial Estates,” Sha-Timuran said, his voice raised so that all might hear in the garden. “By the Will of the Emperor, you are hereby granted your citizenship in the Imperium and your elevation to the Sixth Estate! Drakis Sha-Timuran is no more. Long be the life and great the fortunes of Drakis Sha-Drakon…first Lord of House Drakon!”

The tumultuous cheers rang across the garden as Sha-Timuran took the crown from Drakis’ hands and then, extending his own, pulled the human to his feet.

Drakis barely noticed Braun moving softly behind Lord Timuran.
What was the Proxi doing back there?

“Every House Lord requires a mistress of his house,” Sha-Timuran observed, arching a thin eyebrow over his dull, black eyes. “Would you take a wife?”

“I would, my lord,” Drakis turned his attention and gazed at once into the large, violet eyes of Mala, staring so hopefully up at him. “I would with every breath of my life take Mala to me in mine.”

“Then as the Emperor has given you your citizenship,” Sha-Timuran nodded, “permit me to give you Mala as my thanks for the honor you have brought to my House.”

Tears welled up in Mala’s eyes.

They threw their arms around each other.

Drakis drew in a shuddering breath. Mala was here. She was solid and real. He could feel her warmth in his arms, the brush of her eyelashes against his neck and her hot tears of joy.

It was everything he had wanted. Every desire he had ever dreamed.

Drakis lifted up Mala, spinning her around in his embrace. The cheers of the assembled servants, retainers, and his brother Impress Warriors rang around him.

Then he saw Braun standing next to the House Aether Well.

Dread suddenly overwhelmed him. Drakis quickly set Mala down, extending his hand toward Braun.

“No!” Drakis called out. “Please!”

Braun, with a look of infinite sadness on his face, reached up with his right hand toward the crystal of the Aether Well. He shook his head as he spoke. “I’m so sorry, Drakis.”

Drakis tried to lunge toward the Proxi but Mala was still clinging to him.

Braun’s hand touched the crystal of the Aether Well.

A blinding flash of light filled Timuran’s garden, causing Drakis to slam his eyes closed. In that instant, a sudden blast of wind nearly pushed Drakis off his feet. A horrible chorus of screeching voices from every direction filled his ears with pain. He reached both hands up, trying to cover his ears from the sound but realized even as he managed to do so that the sound had already fled.

He stood in an elven garden far different than the one he had stood in moments before. No avatria could be seen overhead—only the unobstructed sky filled with stars. The Aether Well remained, but its once blue glow now pierced the sky in a column of purple-tinged light.

Braun, his dark face fallen into a thoughtful frown, stood next to the Aether Well, pulling his hand away.

Braun, who had started all of this in the first place, Drakis thought. It had been this same Braun, mad as moonlight, who had abandoned Drakis and his brother warriors at the worst possible time. He had robbed Drakis of his victory and the greatest prize of the Battle of the Ninth Throne. It occurred to Drakis then that losing the crown as he had was what caused him to remain behind at the dwarven throne. If he had not lost the crown, he would never have met Jugar—and he might still be a slave.

And she might still be alive today…

Drakis had thought Braun dead in that battle for the dwarven crown deep beneath the mountains—had even thought that he had discovered his corpse among the dead. But it had been Braun who had
been the first to welcome him when Drakis had slid down from the back of Marush on the shores of Willow Vale. Drakis had been too shocked to kill him outright at the time and had been conflicted about the man ever since.

One thing remained at the center of Drakis’ thoughts regarding the human mage: more than anyone, Braun was responsible for what had happened to him.

“You,” Drakis reached for the hilt of his sword, his hand shaking. “You did this to me!”

Braun glanced at Drakis. “No, Drakis. This was
your
plan, remember?”

“
My
plan!” Drakis yelled, drawing his sword. “I had everything—
everything
—and you robbed me of it. Worse, you showed it to me, let me taste it, and then tore it away from me!”

“Everything you ever wanted,” Braun said, stepping back from the Aether Well.

“Yes!”

“And the sirens,” Braun continued, stepping to the side of Well. “What is their danger?”

Drakis blinked, his mind trying to see past his pain.

Braun raised his arms up, shifting them in the air as he murmured strange sounds. A circular fold tore open in the air, the light at its rim intensely brilliant.

“Think! You know,” Braun said again to Drakis. “What is the siren’s danger?”

“That…that they give you what you want,” Drakis said, his voice ragged with emotion.

The edges of the fold grew slightly, its light brightening into an unbearable purple that was uncomfortable to observe. Ten of Braun’s mages moved through the fold as quickly as their weary legs could take them. As each stepped through, their faces brightened as though life and renewed strength were flowing into them.

“Marun!” Braun called out. “Take four other mages with you toward the south. Klestan…take the other half with you to the north. Establish the fold link with your paired mages back at the encampment. There’s more than enough Aether now. Belag should have everyone arranged in their ten camps by now…one fold per camp.”