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.”“Yes, sir.”They didn’t have long to wait.The door opened, and Master Tennison beckoned them in.Norwood was surprised at the austerity of the room’s décor.Walls of muted hues of blue and gold were broken only by two doors in the room’s back corners.Overhead, a simple chandelier supported bright-burning lamps.Upon a low dais rested a simple upholstered armchair, the imperial sovereign upon its cushioned seat.Tynean Tsing II bore little resemblance to the portrait that hung in Duke Mir’s audience chamber, or the silhouette stamped on every gold crown in the realm.He looked older than those images, older even than his purported sixty-two years.The burdens of the empire had, it seemed, left their mark on the emperor.The crown rested upon a head of immaculately groomed silver hair.Deep lines radiated from his eyes and mouth, clearly showing that this was not a face accustomed to smiling.But he sat straight, his narrow shoulders squared, his wizened hands gripping the arms of the chair with strength.His eyes were keen and ruthless.Imperial bodyguards flanked the emperor’s seat, two at each side.Another stood at the foot of the dais, his hand on the hilt of the curved blade at his hip.They all looked enough alike to be brothers: close-cropped hair, weathered skin, steely eyes, garbed in identical surcoats and gleaming mail.Norwood knew the badges on the shoulders their uniforms: blademasters of Koss Godslayer, protectors of the emperors of Tsing for the last five hundred years.They were rumored to feel no pain and know no fear, gifts from their deity for in exchange for pledging their very souls.The rigors of their life-long training shone in the deep scars on their hands and faces, decades of discipline etched in blood.Most horrifically, blademasters had their tongues cut out at an early age.Reading and writing were also banned.There would be no careless words to betray the secrets of either their training or their sovereign.To the emperor’s right stood a man identifiable by the circlet of gold adorning his brow.Crown Prince Arbuckle, the emperor’s sole heir.He looked perhaps ten years younger than Norwood, fit and hale, his dark hair barely flecked with white.His lips were pinched tight in what the captain interpreted as irritation.The prince was flanked by his own two bodyguards, as grim, scarred, and expressionless as the emperor’s.The only other person stood with a thick tome balanced open on his hip, a long quill pen poised above the page, undoubtedly the imperial record keeper.“Captain Norwood of the Twailin Royal Guard, Your Majesty.” Tennison stepped aside and bowed low.“Your Majesty.” Norwood bowed from the waist, and Tamir followed suit.“You may rise.We’ve been told that you bear a message for Our ear alone, Captain.” The emperor’s voice, belied his age, resonating with the power of one who knew his words commanded an empire.“Yes, Your Majesty.” Norwood straightened.“It is of the highest importance that—”The emperor’s raised hand silenced him.“We know.A matter of Our own personal safety, and the security of the empire.” His lip curled in a derisive smirk.“Well, We suppose We should hear it, and grant your request for privacy.” The emperor turned to the crown prince.“Leave Us, Arbuckle, and take Our secretary and record keeper with you.Wait in the east audience chamber.We will arrive shortly and take Our next appointment there.”“Yes, Your Majesty.” The three men bowed low before departing through the east door, the prince’s bodyguards following at his flanks.Norwood felt like a bug under a magnifying lens beneath the gaze of the emperor.For a long moment the sovereign said nothing, but simply stared at the two, resting one elbow on the arm of his simple throne and tapping his chin with a long, slim finger.Norwood fixed his eyes on the emperor’s feet, his hands clasped tight behind his back, his spine ramrod straight [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]