Age of War

Chapter 2

Albrihn had always found the palace’s throne room to be a grim place, not at all in keeping with the city he remembered growing up in, but now it was more melancholy than ever. The great double doors were open, and beyond was a long, high hall flanked on each side by a row of enormous black columns. There were no windows; the only light was provided by torches set in sconces on the marble walls. Faded banners hung in the rafters, lost in the gloom and discoloured by centuries – perhaps even millennia – of rising smoke. At the far end, on a raised dais, was the obsidian throne of Atlantis, said to have been carved by the hand of Breal the Mason, first of the ancient line of Kings of Atlas. Today it was empty. Instead, set before it was an unadorned slab of grey stone, on which lay a shrunken corpse. He stooped a few strides from it and looked down at what remained of the Emperor. Dressed in simple white burial robes that contrasted with his almost charcoal-black skin, he seemed tiny. Just an old man, with a shrivelled bald head, a face etched with wrinkles, a great Atlasian beak of a nose and hands with paper-thin skin, resting on the hilt of a longsword he would never have had the strength to lift in life. His eyes were shut, and he smelt faintly of lavender.

“He looks smaller, doesn’t he?”

Albrihn looked up. Vion stepped from the shadows on the other side of the slab. In the torch light, her perfect skin took on the appearance of polished mahogany, and she wore a sable robe gathered at the throat. Her jet-black hair was adorned with a fan of ravens’ feathers, reflecting iridescent shades of blue, and she wore a broach of wrought iron and onyx. Only the whites of her shining eyes broke the monotony of her mourning attire.

He stared at her for a moment and then automatically dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Empress,” he said.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Rayke.” She walked around her father’s body with a swish of silk and lifted him up to his feet. They stood like that for a moment, her looking up at him, as beautiful as she had ever been with her full, soft lips, long nose and dark, slightly tilted eyes. Surely the most desirable woman in all Atlantis, and yet Albrihn felt no lust for her at that moment.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” he told her.

“You couldn’t know how ill he was.” She stepped away, still holding his hands, and looked over her shoulder at the body. “I suppose we thought of him as immortal. He was always there, in our lives.”

He nodded. He’d never known another Emperor or Empress in his lifetime. The notion that this man no longer ruled them was one that hadn’t entirely sunk in yet. “It was a sickness then?”

“A fever, brought on by the cold.”

“Are you certain?” he pressed.

“Yes.” Vion met his gaze. “Very certain. It wasn’t the first time he’d fallen ill. Just the last. I trust the physician who attended him.”

“These are dangerous times, Empress.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“It’s what you are.”

Her brow creased in annoyance, just for a second. “Of course, but you can still call me by my name, Rayke. I don’t call you Captain Albrihn, do I?”

“Perhaps it would be better if you did.” He let go of her and walked around the stone slab, looking down at the Emperor. He seemed at peace now. That was something – if anyone deserved to know rest, it was him.

“What do you mean?”

Albrihn shook his head. “It’s only been two days, from what I hear in the city.”

“That’s right.”

“How can you be sure he wasn’t poisoned?”

“He was almost a hundred years old, Rayke. There’s nothing suspicious going on. Now tell me what you meant.”