The Dragon Hunter and the Mage (38 page)

The spy rarely had any problems speaking her mind. It amused Cassia to no end. The Empress chuckled, sitting back up.

“Don’t worry, your majesty,” Venia assured her. “Relying on spies seems to be a common trend among people of your station.”

Cassia snorted. “I had no need for spies when I lived in Fausta. When I was married to Doric.”

“Yes,” Venia said. “And that sure turned out great.”

Cassia chuckled once again. “I’ll be wanting that bath now, Venia.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Venia said, standing up. “A steaming bath coming up. Lots of soap.”   

Sabium’s words still rang in his head. Fadan had left his master’s house immediately after the old mage’s breakdown, but he had not arrived at the Citadel in time to do as bidden. With the sun nearly up, all Fadan had been able to do was climb back into his room. Burning the book would have to wait until the next day.

That night, the Prince dreamt of a Dragon’s statue, its feet drowning in melted wax from a forest of candles burning around it. About twenty hooded figures encircled the statue, humming and chanting eerily, their shadows flickering behind them over a blood red floor.

In the dream, Fadan stood in a corner, making his best effort to keep quiet and invisible. Then, he had looked at his hand, realizing he still hadn’t mastered the invisibility spell. It had been as if his thoughts were heard by the hooded figures because their chants immediately died as they turned to face him.

He tried to look for some way out but found himself paralyzed. He tried using the spell to cross walls, but that didn’t work either. One of the hooded figures walked slowly towards Fadan, reaching out with his index finger until he touched the Prince’s forehead. It had felt like being touched by ice. When he woke up, Fadan could still feel the ice cold touch right between his eyes; a coldness that somehow spread to the rest of his body.

Fadan shook his head, pushing the dream’s memory away, and got out of bed. He dressed up in a blue uniform with his ducal insignia on the chest – Fadan had already inherited his mother’s Duchy – and the golden chevrons of a general on the shoulder. He had always felt ridiculous about having such a high military rank, considering he was still learning how to swing a sword, but the Emperor always insisted in obeying the formalities. All children of House Patros were the supreme commanders of the Legions. Their age was irrelevant.

Fadan rarely wore his uniforms, but it was something that pleased his father, and ever since he had begun his magic lessons, Fadan wanted to make sure he stayed on the Emperor’s good side.

Today was a relatively light day for him, with very little on his schedule besides the usual official meals. Sagun would surely barge into the room momentarily to let him know just that, but these days Fadan always made sure he was aware of his daily program. It was a necessity now that he had less than two hours of sleep per night. Days like today were the only reason he had been able to maintain sanity during the last month. They were rare, but not too rare, and allowed him to catch up on his sleep at least once every other week.

Today, however, he had one little thing to care of before taking his nap – burning the magic book. Fadan had a hard time seeing how a simple book could be so dangerous, even if it did belong to a creepy group of people, but his Master had looked scared enough that he wasn’t about to take any chances.

There was a knock on the door.

“You may come in,” Fadan said.

Sagun, the Core Palace’s Castellan, walked in, his colorful Akhami robes fluttering behind him. “Ah, an extremely appropriate choice of attire, your majesty,” he said.

“Good morning to you as well, Sagun,” Fadan said as he finished buttoning his uniform’s jacket.

The Castellan reddened. “A thousand apologies, your majesty,” he said. “I was simply surprised that you were already wearing what I had come to suggest you would.”

“I know, I know,” Fadan said, heading for the glass cabinet containing his swords. “My father likes it when I dress like him.”

Sagun rose to the tip of his toes and peeked at the sword collection. “Might I suggest the Aparantan saber, your majesty? The silver bladed one.”

Fadan nodded and grabbed the suggested sword. It was a magnificent weapon, with a gilded sheath, a golden head of an Imperial lion on the pommel, and a filigree guard so exquisitely sculpted it made the High Priest’s cloths look mundane. It had been a gift from his Aparantan cousin on his father’s side and was a little too flamboyant for Fadan’s taste.

“However,” the Castellan added, “it is not your father’s preferences that directed my wardrobe advice for today.”

Fadan sent him a suspicious look.

“I’m afraid next week’s petitioning has been moved forward,” Sagun said. “And your father insists on having you by his side, of course.”

Oh, Dragon crap…

How in the name of Ava had he missed that on the daily schedule?

“I don’t remember anything about the petitioning being moved forward,” Fadan said, a little too much frustration seeping into his tone.

“I may have forgotten to update the Prince’s agenda,” Sagun said in an obviously fake apologetic tone. “I hope it is not an inconvenience.”

How was he going to get any sleep today? Or worse, how was he going to keep himself from falling asleep halfway through the damned thing? Petionings could last an entire day. It was one of the reasons his father held so few. Of course, the fewer Petionings the Emperor held, the longer the ones that he
did
hold became, as petitioners simply accumulated further and further. 

“You could have at least told me last night,” Fadan said.

“Why, your majesty, was there, perhaps, something special you were planning for today?”

What is that supposed to mean?
Fadan thought.

“I’ll be right down,” he said. “You may leave.”

“Yes, your majesty.” The Castellan gave a deep bow, then turned on his heel to leave, his long, dark braid dancing behind him.

I’ll need to have a chat with Fabian about this… And the book will have to wait until tonight.
Fadan massaged his temples.
And my sleep will have to wait until tomorrow.

Sighing, the Prince left his room, heading to the main hall and making sure to keep to the narrower, back corridors, as the main hallway would be packed full of petitioners and everyone accompanying them. The problem was, he hadn’t slept more than two hours a night for almost two weeks. He was so sleep deprived that he actually had a hard time walking in a straight line.

I have to sit as soon as I enter the Great Hall…

To his great relief, Fadan’s smaller, Princely throne had been added to the main hall’s blue dais. Next to his father’s and his mother’s thrones, whose blue satin covered backs stretched up to the ceiling, Fadan’s throne looked like a wooden kitchen stool, not that he would complain. All he needed was something that kept his legs from betraying him. Once, he had been forced to stand through all nine hours of a petitioning for being caught playing catch with Aric in the courtyard.   

“Father, mother,” he greeted, bowing slightly, as he climbed onto the dais. “How are you this morning?”

“Ah, son,” Tarsus said, lifting his head from a roll of parchment. “Sit, sit. Food should be along shortly.”

“Good morning, Fadan,” Cassia said. “I hope you slept well.”

“Well enough,” the Prince replied.

Oh, goddess…

“We are ready to begin, your majesty,” Fadan heard someone say. It was Chancellor Vigild, who received an approving nod from the Emperor and placed himself behind him.

Beneath the dais, Secretary Fressia and Seneschal Daria took their seats at a very large mahogany table overflowing with parchment rolls. Legionaries moved to their positions, creating a rectangle that stretched from the gate to about a third of the way to the Imperial throne.

“Open up,” Tarsus ordered.

Two Legionaries pulled the large wooden gate of the hall open. The noisy crowd poured inside. Only nobles were allowed to petition the Emperor, as it would have been impossible to attend the petitions of every citizen of the Empire. Plebs had to settle with regular courts, no matter how long those took to settle most matters. Some minor nobles, however, accepted small fortunes by rich plebeians, like merchants, to present their cases to the Emperor. This practice was known as advocating and was actually the only way some nobles could avoid abject poverty.

The ceremony was a very straightforward affair. Secretary Fressia called each petitioner by name and the person presented their issue. Sometimes the Emperor exchanged some words with the petitioner before making his decision. Other times he simply uttered his sentence after hearing the matter and the petitioner was quickly sent away. There was rarely the chance for an appeal.

Fadan knew that his father loathed the petitioning. Tarsus found it beneath an Emperor to be forced upon such lowly concerns. Fadan, however, liked the idea of Imperial subjects having the right to discuss their problems in person with their ruler, even if it was so seldom an occurrence. It seemed just to him.

The first petitions of the morning turned out to be a succession of the usual squabbles between Barons, Viscounts, and other petty nobles. One Marquis had come to petition for a temporary exemption from taxes because of a weak crop. The Emperor fined him twenty thousand gold crowns for being a poor farmer and hurting the Empire’s food supplies. An unlanded Thepian noble, claiming that each and every one of his ancestors were great military heroes of the Empire, begged the Emperor for a job in the Legions. Tarsus sent him to do latrine inspection in the expeditionary Legions stationed in Northern Aletia.

It was all either boring or depressing, and Fadan’s eyelids grew heavier and heavier.       

“Lady Margeth Abyssaria, Arch-Duchess of Pharyzah,” Fressia called.

That managed to wake Fadan up. What was such a high ranking noble doing in a petitioning? Their affairs with the Emperor were usually dealt with much more privately. Tarsus’ dinners served that very purpose.

This should be good,
Fadan thought, looking forward to anything that would keep him from falling asleep.

“Your Imperial majesty,” the Arch-Duchess greeted, curtsying deeply.

Instead of the flamboyant dresses Ladies usually wore to important occasions, Margeth donned the feminine version of an Arch-Ducal uniform, much like the one Fadan himself was wearing. She was in her late thirties, and even though she was far from beautiful, something in the way she stood was deeply attractive. Dark hair fell over the golden chevrons on her shoulders, and the ivory white of her uniform was a stark contrast against the olive hue of her skin.

“Lady Margeth, it has been too long,” Tarsus said flatly.

“I was unable to attend the Empress’ birthday ball,” Margeth explained. “My presence was required in Pharyzah, your majesty.”

“I’m sure you had a very good reason not to come,” Tarsus retorted. “Please, proceed with your petition. As you can see, the line behind you stretches endlessly.”

“Of course,” the Arch-Duchess said, removing a document from inside her coat. “It has come to the attention of several Great Houses of the Empire that your majesty has been working on the draft of an edict that seeks to limit the right of nobles to muster their own military forces.”

The hall became suddenly very quiet.

What!?
Fadan thought.

The Prince was no fan of his lessons on law, but he was competent enough with the subject to understand what the Arch-Duchess had just implied. If such a thing was true, his father would be violating, at least, five main tenets of the Unification Charter, the very document that bound the Empire together.

“You are exceedingly well informed, my Lady Arch-Duchess,” Tarsus said. His face was the perfect likeness of calm. “I wonder how you came by such information.”

“I have come to present you with this,” Margeth said, ignoring the Emperor’s question and presenting him the document in her hand. “Your majesty’s proposed law is highly illegal, to say the least.”

Fadan had not met many people brave enough to speak to his father that way. In fact, this woman was probably the first. What was truly troubling, though, was that Tarsus looked thoroughly unfazed by it.