With a flick of his wrist, Khalem motioned for Isao to follow him.
"Go," he whispered to the guards, nodding the opposite way. "Your skill is needed elsewhere."
The guards departed with brief nods, disappearing to the other end of the hall. Khalem motioned to the nearby corridor with a finger.
"Come."
They drifted through corridor after corridor along the edge of the palace. The greatest ruckus seemed to come from the central portion of the palace, and Khalem took care to avoid any hallway that led directly there. Frequently they ducked into empty rooms to avoid discovery by running groups of Nari soldiers.
As Isao fled, his throat tightened in fear for his father’s life.
Would Saemon make it? If not, the world would then fall to his shoulders. And he wasn’t ready.
His thoughts slid to Ren.
Did she have something to do with this? Her eyes – they had seemed so innocent. It didn’t seem possible that she would betray him. Or would she? Sometimes those who seemed most innocent were the least trustworthy.
Khalem led them to a back stairway. Chilly air rushed over Isao, bringing goose bumps to his skin, as they descended down to the kitchens.
With a grunt, Khalem held Isao back with one hand. His gaze first swept through the room. Finding it empty, Khalem moved them farther inside.
Knives had been taking from their wooden docks, no doubt by servants hoping to protect themselves while fleeing the uprising. The chaos found in the rest of the palace hadn't reached here yet; everything lay in orderly stacks and cupboards.
"Here," Khalem whispered, motioning to a far wall. "By the pantry."
A thin wooden door lay near a brace of onions hanging from their hairy roots. It was tucked into a corner, and nearly invisible to the eye.
Isao couldn't imagine where it led, but he pushed through and in anyway.
Giving the room one last glance, Khalem studied the empty kitchen to make certain no one followed them, then quietly pulled the door closed behind them.
Saemon
Saemon threw open the old armoire that housed nothing but the armor he had worn during the Horat-Vu war. He stared at the plates, which would stretch across his shoulders and swoop over his chest in a hard, defensive layer. They had saved him many times in the past.
Would they do so again?
A light sheen of dust covered the plates. His shield, featuring a snarling, ferocious winged lion, shone in the light cast by his torch. The metal glimmered a dull, gray sheen. He grasped it in his hand. Holding it felt reassuring, and quelled the uneasy feeling in his chest. It felt right to be with his armor again.
He put it on piece by piece, one part at a time with reverent, hallowed respect.
The final, most important piece, of his armor – his katana sword – rested along the top of a wooden rack. The blood of countless men had once run down it, although no stains were on the metal now.
Well-crafted katanas were unaffected by age, time, and dust. They never tarnished. Saemon respectfully clasped the sword with his free hand and brought it to his side. The weight of his armor, sword, and shield settled deep into his bones, whisking him back to a distant memory. One he hadn't recalled in many, many years.
A woman, barely twenty years of age, stood in the throne room in front of Saemon, who sat in his throne halfway across the tiled floor. Pearlescent hair spilled onto her shoulders, and a white linen tunic was draped around her thin, sprite-like body.
A strange glow surrounded her, as if light was radiating from her skin.
In her hand she held an oak staff. The twisted knot at the top supported a half-black, half-orange sphere – the sun and the moon.
"Blessed Saran of the Triad," Saemon murmured, inclining his head whilst forcing a calm, welcoming expression to his voice. "You are welcome to my palace anytime, of course. I am but a loyal servant to the Sacred Triad, as I always have been."
He didn't stand, and she didn't move any closer, but suddenly Saemon could feel strange energy emanating from her like a low, distant hum.
She blinked her cerulean blue eyes. Saemon shifted in the chair, clearing his throat.
"I am always pleased to see you, Sheng," she whispered, her voice rolling in the strange lilts of the Saran.
"Blessed Saran, please tell me what you saw in your dharma. I assume that is why you have come? You know my life is committed to serving the Empire and its people. Please help me to serve them best. What fate is in store for us?"
She furrowed her brows, and turned the edges of her lips down. Although no breeze moved through the room, strands of her hair suddenly fluttered in the air.
"Sheng Saemon," she murmured, "the Sacred Triad gives me many visions. You know this."
"I do."
"Just as you know that the visions are not complete. They are cryptic, their meanings hidden. I must discern what they are, and what they are not, in order to understand their place in your Empire and the Sacred Triad's power."
"Yes."
She tilted her head back and lowered her eyelids. "I see what could be, and what is. I know who people are, and what they will do. All things are before me, thanks to the Sacred Triad."
Saemon forced himself to nod. The light surrounding her seemed to grow with every measured word that slipped from her lips, as if she gained power from speaking to him.
"Yes, Blessed Saran of the Triad. I understand."
She relaxed, her shoulders rolling back.
"As you wish to know what I see, then please understand that these are my interpretations."
She closed her eyes, pulled in a deep breath, and then opened them again. "A veil of crimson cloaks the moon. The herald of the blackest night returns. Heed his mournful wail."
A strange intensity colored her voice.
Saemon lifted an eyebrow as an extended silence prevailed. Finally, he spoke. "Ominous words, Blessed Saran. But that cannot be all that you see, for your power is great. Please, continue."
"The young lion refuses his kingdom. The fires burn, heralding chaos. The era of disorder begins. Balance is shattered."
"Heralding chaos? Era of disorder?" Saemon repeated with a frown. "Blessed Saran, surely you must have perceived these things in the wrong way. There is no chaos in my Empire. What does the Triad really want me to know? "
The Blessed Saran paused, staring at him. Her wide eyes seemed to suck at him, as if trying to pull him into the depths and places of despair and sorrow of which she had spoken.
"Continue," he murmured, waving a hand. "Please."
"And then, my Sheng….”
She became silent. Saemon wondered whether she was weighing whether he was worthy of hearing the next words. He straightened in his chair, gripping the arms of his throne by his hands as he slid to the very end of the seat.
"What? Then what?" he urged.
Her nostrils flared. She pursed her lips.
"Speak, Saran!" he commanded.
"And then the moon will hide. Eternal night descends until the blood of the ninth beckons the old sun to the new kingdom."
"Blood of the ninth?" he whispered. "What does that mean?"
"My Sheng, the blood of the Sanra – the Savior – will bring a new era with his sacrifice."
Saemon sucked in a sharp breath.
The Blessed Saran intoned, "The ninth – "
Saemon shot to his feet, holding out an arm in protest, as if to block her from speaking.
"Don't you dare say it!" Saemon ordered.
"Isao, the ninth descendent of the Hiwan clan."
"Madness!" he cried. "The Triad overwhelms you with these visions. Saran, you are surely confused. "
"The truth does not change because of your inability to believe in it."
"I will not tolerate blasphemy!"
As soon as Saemon uttered these words, a hot sensation ripped through his body, tearing through him all the way from his heart to his toes. A haze of crimson arose in his mind, blocking his ability to think. To stop this, he pressed the heel of his hand into his eyes.