Unhewn Throne 01 - The Emperor's Blades(28)

Most imperial historians considered it a wise move to allow the provinces their small local armies—those armies provided an outlet for local pride and offered no real threat to the unity of the empire. Those same historians, however, had an entirely different opinion of Santun the Third’s edict allowing for the formation of religious military orders. “Ill-considered and unwise,” Alther wrote. Hethen went a step further, claiming the decision was “altogether lacking in common sense or historical perspective.” “Just plain stupid,” said Jerrick the Elder. Raaltans would never make common political cause with Si’ites, but both atrepies had citizens who worshipped Heqet and Meshkent, Ae and Intarra. It seemed never to have occurred to Santun that those citizens might very well join together for religious reasons and, in so doing, come to rival the strength of the Unhewn Throne. Miraculously, the worst had not come to pass. Most of the religious orders did maintain simple citizen groups to guard their temples and altars.

Uinian IV, however, the Chief Priest of Intarra, had been gradually building his forces for more than a decade. It was difficult to come up with an accurate estimate, but Adare reckoned they numbered in the tens of thousands spread across two continents. Worse, Intarra was the patron goddess of the Malkeenian line itself—the royal family with their blazing eyes claimed legitimacy precisely because of her divine favor. The growing power of the Temple of Intarra and its Chief Priest could only undermine the imperial mandate. Anyone wondering why Uinian would want to murder the Emperor need not have looked very far.

These troops were almost as neatly dressed as the Annurian legions, and like the legions, they eschewed martial pomp for serviceable weapons and armor. The first regiment carried flatbows while those behind bore a forest of short spears, the butts of which struck in cadence with their march. Also like the Annurians, these bore a sun standard, but unlike the symbol of imperial troops, it was not a rising sun, but a round orb in all its glory.

Only at the end of the long river of martial splendor did Sanlitun’s bier arrive. Twelve Aedolians bore it on their shoulders—the same twelve who had been charged with guarding the Emperor the day Uinian had plunged the blade into his back. As they drew closer, Adare could make out the neat bandages binding the end of each man’s wrist. Micijah Ut, the Aedolian First Shield since the death of Crenchan Xaw, had personally severed their sword hands. Why do you need swords, he had growled at them, rage rumbling beneath the words, when not a single one of you drew a blade to defend the Emperor?

Adare knew all twelve of the men—even the youngest had served in the Dawn Palace for the better part of five years. Anger and sorrow filled her at the sight of them. They had failed in their duty, and her father was dead because of that failure. And yet, her father had left them behind on his visit to the temple. It was difficult to protect a man who refused protection.

If the Aedolians felt the pain of their missing hands, they didn’t show it any more than they did the strain of bearing the Emperor’s bier. Each man’s face might have been chipped from stone for all the emotion he showed, and despite the sweat beading on their brows, the soldiers marched in precise lockstep.

When the bier reached the entrance to the tomb, the entire column halted abruptly. Soldiers stood at attention and the drums fell silent as Adare and the others descended the wooden steps from their platform.

The words spoken before the tomb were as long-winded as they were meaningless, and Adare let them wash over her like a frigid rain: duty, honor, power, vision. They were applied to all Emperors in all imperial funerals. They failed utterly to capture the father she had known. When it was finished, a huge Kreshkan tolled on his wide gong, and then she was following the bier into the darkness of the tomb itself.

The crypt smelled of stone and damp, and despite the torches blazing from the sconces, her eyes took a long time to adjust. When they did, she couldn’t help but smile through the welter of emotions. For all the severe grandeur of the tomb’s exterior, the inside was small, little more than a natural cave scooped out of darkness with a raised stone platform at its center. There were no carvings, no hangings on the wall, no piles of treasure.

“I had expected a little more…,” Ran il Tornja began, waving a hand as he searched for the right word. “I don’t know … more stuff.”

Adare bit off a sharp retort. The other High Ministers had accompanied her into the tomb to pay their final respects. Crass though he might have been, il Tornja was now the highest-ranking man in the empire. It would not do to tangle with him before the others, especially given the fact that he seemed disposed to accept her recent appointment.