Shadow War - Deborah Chester [54]
Gripping it, she went to the wall and ran her fingers impatiently along its shadowy surface. Finally she touched a narrow crack. She found the depression and pressed it, and a section of the wall sprang silently open. She slipped through, taking care to close it quietly after her, and felt along a small table just inside the dark passage. She lit a lamp, and its yellow light drove back the darkness, showing her a cramped, crude passage filled with dust and cobwebs. It smelled of age and damp, but she did not care. It was her own private passage to the throne room, and she hurried along it with the lamp in one hand and her dagger in the other.
Years ago, when she was a young child, she had listened to her father talking about another warlord who had lost his life and his property to the hands of a rival. The warlord had just hired a new contingent of warriors to replenish his army. He felt secure from his enemies. But the new soldiers felt no loyalty to their lord and were bribed into turning against him. They let the enemy into the palace, and the warlord was slaughtered in his own chamber.
Elandra thought of the new guards who had sworn an oath to her with their lips but not yet with their hearts. She thought of her stepson, who was her enemy, and as yet an unknown quantity. She thought of what lay at stake in this affair.
She had no intention of being a fool. Better to be over-prepared than taken unawares.
Reaching the door that would open behind the curtains at the rear of Kostimon’s ruby throne, Elandra paused a moment, holding her breath as she listened. She decided then and there that she would choose her own protector following the coronation. If she had to, she would ask her father to provide her with a Gialtan candidate of unimpeachable loyalty.
Voices echoed in the throne room, rising in consternation. She heard no sounds of battle, no shouts, no evidence of danger. Only a hysterical babble.
Frowning, she opened the door and emerged cautiously behind the curtains. From their concealment, she could recognize not only the voice of some of her guardsmen but also that of Chancellor Wilst.
“What is to be done?” he moaned, wringing his hands. “What a terrible omen. It is the end of the world. We are finished. The gods have struck us a mortal blow. They mean for all men to die.”
Suddenly impatient, Elandra emerged from her hiding place, still holding lamp and dagger, her auburn hair spilling unbound down her back.
“Cease this commotion at once!” she cried. Her voice rang out over the others, and everyone grew silent.
As one they turned to stare at her, their eyes wide with fear.
Her frown deepened. “What in the name of the gods is the matter?”
Then her gaze took in the throne. It had always been a marvel to her since the first time she had seen it. Carved of a single gigantic ruby, it sparkled and glowed as though alive in the torchlight. No one knew how it had been fashioned. Its origins were a mystery. Where such a tremendous gemstone could have been mined was impossible to guess. Kostimon claimed it was given to him by the tribes of Choven, famous throughout the empire for their spell-forged metals. The throne had to have been spell-carved. According to legend, shortly after Kostimon proclaimed himself emperor, the Choven had entered the crude beginnings of his city. They bore the throne, swathed in cloths, upon the shoulders of ten bearers. Chanting in their eerie tongue, they had come before the emperor and unveiled their gift of tribute. The throne had caught the sunlight and turned to fire, dazzling the eyes of all who beheld it.
It was the seal of Kostimon’s reign, the very symbol of his power.
And now, within the vaulted throne room at the center of the palace, the ruby throne lay broken in half.
Elandra stared, her mouth dropping open before she recovered herself. Unable to tear her eyes away from the sight, she walked forward, right up to the shattered ruins. Her slippers crunched lightly over some of the tiniest fragments, and she stopped in her tracks.
She could