The Archshade

Two

Emerging from a hidden servants' door, we file into the Grand Throne Room—a lavish hall with a high ceiling held up by enormous columns. In the middle of the cavernous room on a raised platform, there are two lurid thrones of pure gold, molded and shaped into elaborate, twisting designs. They're cushioned with black velvet, edged with ebony, and fitted with rare gemstones amassed from every corner of the world. The smaller throne sits to the left while the larger, more imposing throne sits in the exact center of the great hall.

As we walk, the chill of the crystal floor seeps through the soles of my bare feet. Despite the hot winds gusting in from the desert, the blue-white crystal keeps the massive room unseasonably cold. Like the shivering water of a frozen oasis, the floor reflects our hollow expressions as we traipse across its surface.

Around the Grand Throne Room, other hidden doors fly open as a half dozen guards escort more women into the great hall, completing a collection of every female thrall in the palace. With a great deal of rough shoving, the guards line us up against the eastern wall. I ignore the ache in my legs, trying not to fidget or even breathe loudly as I hold my place in line. Nothing to draw attention to me. Some of the women are trembling; others are mouthing prayers to their gods. I stay silent and motionless. I know how this goes.

Once we're all in place, the Thrall Keeper turns to the Royal Speaker. "Tell the ambassador we are ready for him."

"Yessir."

We're left waiting in silence as the Royal Speaker rushes off through a small passage concealed by a velvet curtain. A pair of colossal doors serve as the main entrance to the Grand Throne Room, but those are only for the Emperor, his Royal Assembly, and all foreign dignitaries and monarchs. Centuries ago, a soothsayer supposedly called upon the Mother Goddess and placed a spell on the doorway to prove the Emperor's divine right to rule. If a thrall or anyone of unworthy blood passes through, we're forever damned to an eternity of suffering—or so the story goes. I don't believe it. But that doesn't mean I've done it.

With a great booming groan, the doors slowly open. The Royal Speaker reappears beside the entrance and shouts the proper introductions.

"Announcing the ambassador of Arcadia from the High Summerlands accompanied by his captain of the guard! Hail to our allies across the desert!"

The clicks of polished boots echo over the crystal floor alongside the rustle of fine fabric, but before I can catch a glimpse of the powerful men walking through the doors, the Thrall Keeper snaps at us.

"On your knees!"

I kneel on the crystal surface, spreading my arms out in front of me and almost touching my forehead to the cold floor. All the other women do the same. Raising my head to peak at the dignitaries would earn a severe beating, but there are other ways of seeing. The men's shadowy reflections pass over the crystal floor as they make their way across the room. The reflections aren't clear enough to make out any details, but I can tell they're broad, bold men with stomping strides and straight postures—harsh men from the northern Summerlands.

The two visitors stand before the Thrall Keeper and bow slightly from the waist. The Thrall Keeper bows back. They don't speak. It's forbidden until the Emperor declares the introductions himself.

As if triggered by my very thoughts, the Royal Speaker bellows out another introduction, this time reciting a hollow list of titles. "Announcing His Divine Grace, Our Blessed Harbinger and Great Majesty, the Emperor of Aaru-Sheol, Conqueror of Vayssar and Son of the Gods!"

I'm not even tempted to look up. I know the man who next crosses the threshold of those immense doors. His bronze skin is smooth and faultless, untouched by sun or labor but decorated with subtle, curling tattoos. Plaited with strands of gold, a well-trimmed beard of thick, black hair covers his chin. His head is smooth-shaven, and his eyes are dark, though not a warm dark like Baden's. Unimpressed by all he sees, the Emperor's eyes hold a bitter darkness of disdain and boredom.