"Instincts rarely do, Sheng."
“I worry for Isao. What if they mean to bring harm to him tonight? Only he can – I mean, we must keep him safe at any cost. Any cost, Khalem. I want you to remove Isao from the imperial palace. We have no physical proof that he is in danger, but I will not take risks. I will not tolerate another soldier taking him; it is you who must watch over my son, Khalem. I insist. Take him away from here. Far away from here. I feel that this may be my last order to you. Will you do this for me, Khalem?"
“Sheng, I…” the General began, then trailed off, clearly arrested by the force of Saemon’s words.
This will be my last order to you.
The very air seemed to swell with those words.
“I must ask this of you,” Saemon spoke again.
Khalem’s eyes darted about the room. They drew in details, and seemed to constantly assess. Finally, the General nodded, having reached a conclusion. "Anything for you, Sheng."
Saemon clapped a weary hand on his shoulder. "Thank you, Khalem. My trust in you is implicit. I shall be able to sleep knowing you are looking out for him."
Saemon relaxed, just slightly.
Khalem had never failed him. He would not this night either.
Khalem straightened. "I will serve you well, Sheng."
Saemon nodded, dismissing Khalem.
He stayed in the hall and sank into deep thought.
Without people to serve, the servants cleaning up the great hall moved slower. They yawned, exhausted no doubt, as they struggled to carry off the heavy plates and platters for cleaning.
A glint of gold drew Saemon's gaze .
Hovering above the banquet hall was the imperial crest. A muscular, winged lion cut across it, snarling with sharp teeth. It hung from the center of the wall, gracing all those who entered with the power and the might of the Empire, which could reach all four corners.
With a melancholy sigh, Saemon stared at it, feeling somewhat despondent. The scent of juniper had increased now that several jars burned in the dining hall. It stretched into the hallway and off to the courtyard beyond. The long day and all the feasting had left him with a headache. It throbbed in his temples, making him dizzy even though he sat in his chair still.
A brief pang struck him in the heart as he sat in his chair. Then another.
He would stay put until he felt a bit better.
Sheng Saemon stared about the now-empty banquet hall, consumed by his heavy thoughts.
The servants had bustled away a long time before, moving back to their rooms and leaving only a few torches behind to cast light on the wide, open space. The gritty scent of the Dhul powder still lingered in the room, filling his nostrils.
Saemon clenched his teeth, then consciously relaxed them. When his fingers clutched at the armrests on his chair, he forced them to release as well.
Some part of his body felt tense no matter his every attempt to stay calm. He could not think clearly when he was this tense, and an Emperor who couldn't think, couldn't rule.
Once Saemon relaxed his arms, his left leg jumped up and down.
Something . . . something still felt off.
Saemon sprang to his feet, walked partway across the banquet hall, then turned around and walked back. The frantic movements loosened some of the jitters in his chest. He did it again, this time turning to stride around the sprawling banquet table that had just hosted dozens of people instead.
As Saemon strode about the room, flashes of the faces of the celebration attendees ripped through his mind at an equally nervous pace.
Isao. Ren. Her sister Yuna. Their brother Azuma. Khalem. All the others.
He analyzed them one at a time; the way they had frowned, or smiled. Or had made no expression at all, such as Yuna.
It all meant something. Everything meant something.
His job was to determine whether it meant something significant.
Before he knew it, Saemon was pacing the room in ever widening, agitated circles, mesmerized by the clack of his shoes against the tile floor. The sound gave him some comfort, like that of a heartbeat.
Light from the few remaining torches guided his way until he noticed a strange sliver of color on the floor. He stopped, lifting his shoulders back, and glanced toward the wall. Beckoned as if by an unseen power, Saemon moved until he stood underneath the window, gazing up on the moon.
The blood-red moon.
Something cold and tight rippled through his chest, seized at his heart. Saemon reached a hand to his breastbone and pressed into it, as if that would stop the pain. His throat tightened. He swallowed, looking away.
Surely he dreamed it. Surely there wasn't . . .
"No," he murmured, unable to tear his gaze away.
He must be seeing things. It was just the long night. Too much wine and food and celebration. Indigestion led to all kinds of funny hallucinations, especially with rice wine. There was no possible way a red moon could actually rise.
Saemon tore his gaze away. "I do not see a red moon," he murmured. "This is a dream."
When he looked back to the sky, the crimson moon remained, looming like a specter of death.
Everything but the disturbing sight of the moon emptied from his mind. He no longer thought of the celebration, his agitation at the strange attitude of the guests, or the niggling doubt of fear that whispered warnings to his mind. All he saw was the bloody moon, and all he felt was the clutch of cold fear in his heart.
"It cannot be."
Saemon looked away, and then back, wishing again and again for it to go away, but the sight of the moon remained, haunting his mind. Everything in the banquet hall seemed to grow taller and more sinister, threatening to loom over him and drown him in despair.
The shadows growled. The air thickened, as if it would grow teeth and slash him in half.
Evil spirits surely would spring from the shadows at any moment now, swamping him in their misery, pulling him back to the depths. The depths he already visited oh-so-long ago.
"No," Saemon whispered, shaking his head. It could not be. "This is not real."
Something rattled in his memory, moving like the slow ebb of an ocean tide. It whispered up, stirring memories before it drifted away. Saemon grasped for it, losing the memory the moment it appeared. With a violent growl, he turned around, putting his back to the moon.
It was there. Lingering at the edge of his mind. Something.
Of their own accord, his eyes drifted back to the dripping appearance of the moon, thick with crimson shadows. His body trembled all the way to his bones, rattling his teeth until they clacked against each other.
With a shiver, the words brushed through his mind with an icy clarity, clutching his heart in a cold fist of terror. A veil of crimson cloaks the moon.
He had remembered.
Oh how he wished he hadn't.
Sweat beaded across his forehead. His palms became clammy. He tore his gaze away from the moon, seeking anything – anything – but that desperate, frightening orb of death. The shadows in the courtyard below took life. They slid up the walls, seeking him. The courtyard shuffled with noise and the clinking sound of moving armor, and a strange, flickering green light came through from another one of the windows above.
An odd shape on top of the courtyard fence arrested his gaze.
Saemon sucked in a sharp breath, and his throat tightened in fear. A bird-like creature was sitting on the iron railing that stretched across the stone wall separating the courtyard from the city. Sleek feathers the color of ash cascaded down its elegant back, giving way to wide, folded wings that would allow it to fly long distances.
"Gube," he whispered.
The sound of screaming and clashing swords in the courtyard below followed.
The creature turned in Saemon’s direction, its luminous yellow eyes wide and shining. Saemon gasped as the Gube's intense gaze bore down on him through the window, as if promising to pull him away and take him under.
The Gube, such a rare creature, was acting as if it would steal Saemon’s very soul.