Aegis of The Gods: Book 00 - The Shadowbearer (11 page)

C
HAPTER 12

S
everal flights up winding stairs that held one soldier at each landing brought Stefan and Cerny to the King’s chamber. Two red and blue clad Royal Guards at the door gave slight nods before they allowed them in. Stomach growling in earnest, Stefan strode through the foyer.

Members of the High Council and special dignitaries from prominent neighboring cities occupied the Royal chambers. Dressed in their finest, they milled about chatting quietly, not even giving a nod as Stefan passed. He recognized they were Council members by the insignias on their lapels and sleeves. Not one among them were people who held their positions before he left for the last war. The thought was so troubling, he found himself stroking his chin again.

Distant jeers drew his attention away from the nobles and to the four doorways ahead. Guards stood before each. The largest door led to the Royal Box from which Nerian oversaw the games. No action had started yet, of that, Stefan was sure, but the noise meant the crowd was growing impatient.

Not waiting for Cerny to lead the way, he headed toward the door. The King’s guards allowed him through and into the hall. More soldiers stood along the walls on either side making the spacious area feel uncomfortably small. Up ahead, sunlight shone through the entrance to the arena’s stands.

Stefan stepped out onto the stairs. Bright sunlight and a cool breeze greeted him. Shading his eyes, he waited a few moments for his vision to adjust. When it did, he took in the walls of people packed into the stands. In too many colors to count, they spread down the eastern and western sides of the arena, waving and yelling.

Set in the middle of the lower section of the stands, the King’s Box took up several seating levels. In silversteel armor, which glinted like a precious jewel, King Nerian sat on a cushioned throne. The giant man’s presence made everything else trivial.

“Finally,” shouted Nerian, a grin splitting his face. “I was beginning to wonder if Cerny and you ran off to some whorehouse.”

“Not at all, sire. The crowds … you know how they can be,” Stefan answered.

“Ah. To be expected with such a glorious event.” Nerian gestured out to the spectators. “Come, sit.” The King indicated one of the empty chairs next to his throne.

At least ten flights of seats above the King were clear of anyone but guards and two green liveried servants. After the space came the High Council then the other nobles in their personal chairs. Oddly, Kahar was absent. Servants weaved their way among the nobles, serving fruit, drinks, meats, and bread. Stefan’s gaze followed one particular platter heaped with what appeared to be venison. He licked his lips as his stomach protested mightily.

“Knowing your habits like I do, you have not eaten yet today.” King Nerian snapped his fingers as Stefan took the seat. Without looking at the servants, the King said, “Our guest of honor is here, and he is famished. Cerny,” the King’s gaze flickered to the reed thin man who’d approached as Stefan sat, “leave us.”

For a moment, Cerny’s eyes glittered, and then he bowed and headed up to the next level and the members of the High Council. Renaida and Senden were conspicuously missing from their number.

The King stood, his massive form casting a shadow that stretched up several seats. Almost immediately, the crowds silenced and rose to their feet.

“People of the Setian Empire.” Nerian’s voice boomed across the arena so clear and crisp Stefan knew he was Forging.

The crowd’s answering ovation rippled through the stadium.

Nerian raised a hand and the din simmered.

“People. Of. The. Setian. Empire.”

This time, the reply was defeaning.

Nerian’s grin and twinkling emerald eyes told how much he savored the words. Hand still in the air he turned as if basking in the glow of his people’s elation. He drew his hand across as if slicing the air and the cheers lessened. When all were silent once again, he continued, “It feels good to finally say that after all these years. Your loyalty and willingness to sacrifice has brought us the greatest reward possible. In appreciation for our General Dorn who has led the way in our campaign, I honor you, the people, with these games. Long live Seti.”

The crowd roared the sentiment. Thousands upon thousands of stomping feet shook the stonework beneath Stefan’s feet.

Still smiling, Nerian sat. The spectators’ celebration continued as the metal gates on either side of the arena slid up and two dartans entered. Carried by a Forging, an announcer’s voice rose over the racket to proclaim the upcoming fight. The look on the King’s face conjured memories of a time when the man reveled in leading Seti for the good of its people. Stefan wondered if that man still existed beneath the armor.

“So,” Nerian said. “Fatherhood appears to have been good to you. You enjoy your children and those gardens of yours so much you have yet to come visit me.”

Stefan lounged back in his chair and allowed his limbs to relax. The King was letting him know he had someone within his house. Any sign of emotion now served no purpose. Stefan briefly considered which guard or servant might be the spy, but speculation was a pointless exercise. Even if he did discover the one responsible, Nerian would find another. “Yes. It’s been wonderful. Better than I ever imagined.” He studied the empty throne next to Nerian. The man had never taken a wife as far as Stefan knew. “Maybe it’s time you find a queen and have an heir.”

“Why?” Nerian shrugged. “I rather enjoy my rule. Considering that I have no intention of relinquishing the crown or dying anytime soon, I do not have a need for one. You are the closest thing I will ever have to a son.”

Despite the King’s nonchalance, Stefan caught the quick glimmer of sadness in his eyes. As with most of the Alzari on the High Council, Nerian lived an extended life. Stefan had traced the King’s ancestors once and how long he’d ruled. The annals went back at least five hundred years before they became too disjointed to tell who held the throne before Nerian. One of the biggest issues with all Matii was that they often had only one chance to give birth. Most took advantage of the opportunity to pass down their power and extend their lineage. Others preferred to allow their line to die off rather than have their children experience the walk at the edge of sanity that burdened them all. Nerian’s last words confirmed he’d made such a choice long ago.

“If you only knew what it is like …” the King’s voice softened. “A gift but so much more a curse.” He looked out to the crowds, but his expression was as if he saw nothing. “You have heard the voices once, I’m sure, when you first touched Mater—the way they whisper, goad you, make promises, seep into your core—all Matii have. But to live with them every day, every waking moment, invading your dreams, your nightmares … Such a burden becomes unbearable. Such a life might make a man want to kill himself, yet the same things that drive you mad also prevent you from taking such a course.” A solitary tear dripped down Nerian’s cheek. “Why would I want to bring a child into that?” With his thumb, he flicked the wetness away. “You are a braver man than me, by far. You have brought two.”

Mouth open, Stefan broke eye contact with the King. This was the first time Nerian revealed such sentiments to him. The man he saw now was more the person he remembered if a bit more emotional. He thought back to when he first returned to Benez, and felt as if two completely different people inhabited the King’s body. Absently, Stefan glanced down into the arena where the two dartans were tearing into each other to the crowd’s delight. When he met the King’s emerald eyes again, an icy coolness had replaced the melancholy.

“Does this mean you will let me live in peace to raise them?” Without blinking, Stefan held the King’s gaze.

“You and I both know that is not possible.” No hint of emotion resided in Nerian’s tone. “For me to succeed, the men need you. They believe in you. The people believe in you. Stefan the Undefeated and his Unvanquished are names that strike fear into many an enemy’s heart.”

“If I refuse, will you force Thania and the children into service?” Stefan tensed.

A frown clouded Nerian’s features. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

“The last time we spoke, you—”

“Not once did I make such a threat nor would I.”

“So Galiana is lying?”

Nerian arched an eyebrow.

“She said you’re willing to allow me a year with my family before I make a decision.”

“I am.”

“So it’s true. Coupled with what you implied that day—”

“Do not try to read me,” Nerian’s face became a blank slate, “or read anything into my words. If I wanted to say I would force your family to serve in the coming wars because they are powerful Matii, I would have.”

Stefan thought back to that day and what Galiana said. He’d judged everything from Nerian’s mood and what he thought the King meant.
What if I was wrong?

“This is not to say that they,” Nerian tilted his head to the side and back, indicating where the High Council sat, “have not broached me on the subject. I told them you will make the right decision for our people, as you always have.”

Sudden rage boiled within Stefan. Fists clenched, he gazed toward the High Council. These men and women, most of whom he did not know, dared ask such a thing? His gaze met Cerny’s. The Knight General gave him a smile and a nod. Stefan scowled. In response, Cerny shrugged. To resist the urge to charge up the stairs and separate Cerny’s head from his shoulders, Stefan shifted his attention to the King. “Was it his doing?”

“Cerny? Who knows? He is as crafty as any in terms of political maneuvering and he has eyes in the unlikeliest of places. Anyway, enough talk about that for now. Our food is here.”

Still seething, Stefan made to say more, but he stopped himself. He needed time to think. Not to mention the King’s dismissal meant any further discussion would either go ignored or spark the King’s ire.

Five servants brought the food to the table. Heaped on silver platters were an array of fruits, cheeses, breads, and meats. Stefan spied corn and various ground provisions covered in a creamy sauces. Two more servants arrived with several flagons. The mix of scents varied from peppery, to hints of mint, to outright sweetness. Despite his temperament and the concerns clouding his mind, Stefan’s mouth watered and his stomach’s rumbles reminded him of his hunger.

After they placed the feast on the table, the servants hurried away. The King stood, took a plate, and set about piling on food. With a smile on his face, Stefan followed his lead. Soon they were both eating and drinking wine while taking in the sights within the arena.

The first fights between the dartans ended. Slaves with spears and whips led away the surviving beasts. Several others dragged the prone and torn forms of the dead dartans onto drays and rolled them out through the arena’s gates. A buzz of anticipation thrummed through the patrons. Horns blared. The announcer called out the next event.

A game of Senjin.

“Your favorite sport in honor of you,” Nerian called amid the people’s applause. He held up a ball a foot long and half as wide made from layered leather. “Wait until you get a taste of the twist.”

Two flags, set opposite each other across the arena’s width, marked the middle of the playing field. Red paint on the walls divided the two halves into thirds. At the far end of each side, white sand covered the ground in an area roughly twenty feet across and ten feet wide. If lines were drawn across each section, they would divide the playing field into eight parts, four per side—scoring zone, rear, mid and forward.

The players filed out the gates. From the east, they were dressed in gold. For these men, the crowd cheered. When the ones from the west entered wearing white, the spectators jeered and threw food. The ebony skin of the men in white stood out. Squinting, Stefan made out the slits on the sides of their necks.

“Astocans?”

“The officers that escaped into the Sang Reaches to be exact,” Nerian said.

“Against Banai?” Stefan guessed, from the baldheads and wiry frames of the Astocans’ opponents. “A Senjin match to the death?” The Banai and Astocans were mortal enemies. The game could end no other way.

“Oh, that is only a part of it. Wait until you see the stoppers.”

As the players took positions facing each other on the field, the gates opened once more. On lengths of chain, slaves led two dartans, one mottled green, and the other a dusty brown, toward the scoring areas marked by the white sand.

“Oooo,” the crowd cooed, their excitement near palpable.

The stoppers were slaves?
Even as the question crossed Stefan’s mind, the slaves fastened the chains to steel rivets on the wall a few steps behind the sand. They turned, bowed to the crowd and left. As he understood, Stefan’s eyes widened. The dartans were the stoppers.

Nerian laughed. “You should see the look on your face. This makes the game so much more interesting. You have to risk your life to score.”

“What if they choose not to?”

“That is the beauty of it. They are condemned to death anyway. If they do not score, they die. We start with the shielders if the teams hesitate to give a full effort.”

Stefan was speechless. He hadn’t played Senjin in years, but the positions and rules returned to him as if his last game was yesterday. Shielders played in the section closest to the stoppers. They were not allowed to cross into other areas like the supporters and assaulters, but they defended all the way to their scoring zone. Removing them placed a team at a severe disadvantage. It didn’t matter that the supporters were limited to the middle and forward areas, because assaulters traversed the playing field at will except for their own defensive zone. If Nerian had a team’s shielders removed, that team’s lone stopper would face two opposing assaulters. In such a case, preventing a score was near impossible.