Shadow War - Deborah Chester [56]
He swung around, livid now, and raised clenched fists. “I shall have your tongue cut out for that. You impertinent little hellcat—”
“Yes, I am impertinent, because I speak to you tonight as your equal. Is that not what you wanted from me? Is that not what you assigned me?”
“Not yet!” he roared. “Not until tomorrow—”
She chopped across this impatiently. “What do these niceties matter in a crisis? Only a few days past you spoke to me of holding the empire together. If you panic, what choice do the people have?”
“How dare you?” he whispered, his yellow eyes blazing. “How dare you accuse me of panicking?”
“Haven’t you?”
They glared at each other in tense silence. It was the emperor who dropped his gaze first.
“I have never panicked in my life. I see how greedy you are for power, how swiftly you grab for it at the first opportunity—”
“You threw it at me!” she shouted, truly furious now. He was unfair, stupidly unfair. She had liked him, believed in him, but in reality he was just a wicked old man who would turn on even the people who loved him. “Did I caress you and whisper to you, begging to be crowned a sovereign? Did I? Did I ever ask for it? Did I ever scheme for it? No! If nothing else, at least admit the truth!”
“I make my own truth!”
“Then it is good your throne has broken! Has the weight of your own caprice and injustice shattered it? How can you think only of yourself at such a time? How can you be so selfish?”
“I am the only one who matters,” he told her. “I am the center of the world. Everything revolves around me. You were a fool to forget that. Hovet!”
The door opened, and the protector entered. He saw in a glance their flushed, angry faces. He drew his sword, advancing slowly.
She was too angry at this shortsighted, arrogant man to care about the danger she was in.
“If you were not so conceited and vain,” she said sharply, “you would understand that I agree with you! Of course you are the center of our world, the center of the empire. It does depend on you. It needs you to stand firm and calm, to look unconcerned by this omen. It needs you to mend the throne so that the people need not know what has happened. It needs you to sit on it and to dispense your justice as you have always done. Sweet Gault, man, send to the Choven to come and repair it, or ask them to make you another, but do not crumple before your own servants and say you are finished. If you believe it, they will also. Then the empire will begin to die. And it will be your fault.”
By the end of her speech, Hovet had reached her. Grimly, he held his sword ready, awaiting the order to strike her down.
Breathing hard, spent from her emotions, Elandra raised her chin and glared at the emperor like a true Albain. Inside, her heart was hammering, but she was glad to die in a fight, glad to die with her blood hot and her last words the truth. Kostimon would not see her quail, she assured herself, trying to maintain her courage. He would not see her back down.
The emperor raised his hand, only to let his fingers curl weakly. Lowering his hand, he shook his head at Hovet, who looked almost disappointed. The emperor snapped his fingers in dismissal, and Hovet trudged out again, sheathing his sword as he did so.
Elandra thought she might faint with relief. Barely she held herself together and went on standing there, proud and straight, her chin still high.
“By the gods,” the emperor said quietly. He still looked angry, but he was calmer now. Reason had returned to his eyes. “It is true, my assessment. I said you would go to the wall for what you believe in, and you have.”
Her anger came back, a flash of white heat in her face. “Was this another test?”
“No.” He gestured at his broken throne. “Even I would not go to these lengths to test you.”
She turned her back on him, filled with disappointment so sharp it was like a pain through her ribs. “I believed you,” she whispered. “I thought you meant all the things you said. But it was only a cloud, fluffy and bright, meant to amuse us, nothing more.”