Page 11 of Lady of the Drowned Empire
I hadn’t seen an order be visibly given, but the Imperator’s wolves all began to shift, taking slow, measured steps through the room, adjusting their gazes and their stances and embedding themselves more fully into the Court.
“It is of the utmost importance that we take a delicate approach to the issue of the Emartis. With such division in your country and threats from outside, we must avoid dissolving into chaos, into civil war. Arresting anyone who disagreed with the Ka’s rule is not the answer. Further dividing the country will not lead to peace. We must all come together. Ka Batavia and the Council of Bamaria must unite behind Lady Arianna and honor the alliance created with Ka Kormac in order to protect your people. A month is too long for the crisis you face.” He stepped before Eathan and snatched the silver laurel from his head.
Eathan’s hands rose up as if to take it back before he forced them down to the golden armrests, his fingers tensed.
“Lord Eathan,” the Imperator’s voice shouted across the Seating Room, “in the name of the Senate and Emperor Theotis, High Lord of Lumeria Nutavia, I declare your services to Bamaria complete. I place the silver laurel of the acting Arkasva on Lady Arianna’s head until we may replace it with the gold. Lady Arianna shall begin her rule of Bamaria tonight.”
My throat went dry. The Imperator’s soturi were still moving about, beginning to surround the entire Council. Two of his wolves were approaching my sisters and me.
I schooled my expression as my heart pounded through my chest.
The doors to the Seating room exploded open, slamming into the walls with a bang. A dark shadowy presence gusted through the air—an aura of power, death, and readiness. Golden armor and a red arkturion cloak glowed behind the shadows spilling forth.
Morgana gasped, as a small cry of relief escaped my lips.
Finally, Aemon was here—and he had an army of Ka Batavia soturi behind him.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Apologies for the interruption, my lord.” Aemon strode forward, bowing before Eathan. “Or is it your grace now? For one month, yes?”
The room stilled, and my heart lightened at Aemon’s presence. The Ready had squashed the rebellion last time. He had single-handedly stopped the Emartis, saved my father from the mob, and defeated Arianna’s husband, my uncle Tarek. Because of Aemon’s quick acting, Arianna had first been arrested. The event had earned him his nickname and his reputation as a God of Death.
From the presiding silence of every nobleman and woman before me, the Imperator himself, and the Bastardmaker, I knew that this fact had not been forgotten. If anything, Aemon’s presence tonight seemed to remind everyone of what exactly had happened eighteen years earlier. The parallels could not be ignored, especially when Turion Dairen, Aemon’s cousin and Second, appeared at his side, his eyes blazing with fury. Dairen had taken my father’s killing blow during the rebellion—he was the reason my father had survived with only a limp.
“Arkturion Aemon,” drawled the Imperator. “Welcome to the proceedings.”
The Ready bowed once more, the movement deep enough to avoid censure but brief enough to assure insult. His eyes darkened as he assessed the scene before him: Eathan, laurel-less, sitting in the Seat of Power, and Arianna, standing beside him, adorned with the silver laurel of the arkasva.
“The hour is later than I anticipated,” Aemon said. “I apologize for my tardiness. I should have liked to witness these proceedings from the start. Unfortunately, we had something of a commotion outside, your highness. Hundreds of Lumerians gathered beyond the fortress wall under the impression they were to receive a special announcement.” His fingers danced along the hilt of his sword, his aura pulsing.
The Imperator glared, and at once I knew he’d been behind it.
Aemon shrugged. “However, I was not informed of any such special announcement, particularly since the city had been ordered into lockdown and every last Lumerian has been sent home. Or they’ve been sent to the Shadow Stronghold after some,” he coughed, “debate. I commend the soturi standing behind me. Thanks to their efforts, we all came to an agreement.” The silver starfire blade in his hand reflected the flames of the torches in each corner of the room. Aemon turn the hilt in his hand, the steel shining before he slid the weapon back through his scabbard.
“Agreement?” The Imperator leaned back on his heels, both hands sliding across his leather belt.
Aemon nodded. “Lumerians who’d approached the wall could choose their bed for the evening—their own or the prison beds. Lady Sila, you must forgive me if you find your quarters overburdened tonight. I know the Stronghold was already full. However, Emartis were not given the choice. We do have some soturi of Ka Kormac that appear to be without assignment. Perhaps they may take the additionally needed posts we need covered.” Aemon’s eyes settled on the Imperator, the challenge clear. “I, of course, defer to your judgement, your highness.”
Every soturion in the room wearing silver armor of Ka Kormac took a fighting stance, their legs widening, their hands on their sword hilts and daggers, their shoulders tensed. They were slowly extricating themselves from the crowd, stalking forward and center, coming into formation.
The Imperator’s lips quirked, giving me a sinking feeling in my gut. The Imperator looked…happy. As if he’d expected no less—as if this were a trap he’d set for the Ready.
The small army that stood behind Aemon at last filed into the room. They all wore the golden armor of Ka Batavia with their shoulders covered in sharpened seraphim-feather-shaped metal. The sigil of Ka Batavia—the proper sigil, a silver moon above golden seraphim wings—was emblazoned across their chests.
Nothing was right. Nothing was going according to plan. I should have been in my apartment with Rhyan celebrating my victory over the Emperor’s test. Not grieving Haleika, Leander, and my father. Not watching the Imperator usurp power with Arianna.
But at least our soturi still stood strong. At least they were here now, armed and more than capable of fighting the soturi loyal to the Imperator.
I held my breath until the last soturion made his way into the room, and my heart stopped as he did. This soldier stood tall, his presence commanding, the muscles of his arms clearly displayed beneath his green cloak and armor, but he did not wear gold like the others. Black leather covered his chest and abdomen. It was singularly unique armor that only he wore, armor that had originated in the north with an original sigil design that bound him to me.
His sigil showed a seraphim’s profile facing a gryphon. A sun and a moon had been filled in with blood—the blood of a kashonim. My blood. And his.
Rhyan’s green eyes found mine across the room at once, and for a second, time stopped. The scar running through his left eye was more pronounced than usual, his skin pale. His deep brown curls stuck to his head with a mix of sweat and snow. He’d been fighting hard out there, defending our fortress.
Defending me.
I tried to scan him for any sign of injury, but from where I stood, he only seemed to be sustaining the few he’d received the previous night. His boots were muddied, but his soturion cloak was perfectly wrapped around his waist and shoulders, held in place by his black leather belt. Seven straps hung past his thighs, each one with a shining and sharpened Valalumir star at the end.
