It might win the respect of an empire.
“The location of the Hidden Temple of Ay-Ibunda may be known only by the master of the Noorhitam Empire. Should I be seen by all the assembly to give you access to that secret, I should have been forever stamped as weak. As too willing to give up those precious things that set the Imperial Glory apart from mere men. I would be dishonored in the eyes of my people.”
He turned left at the street and started again at a brisk walk, weaving between the urchins and beggars who were already swarming the city. Lionheart had to be nimble on his feet to keep up. “Besides,” the emperor said over his shoulder, “my uncle would have been furious.”
“So why have you changed your mind?” Lionheart asked.
“I have not,” said the emperor. “I always intended to bring you to the temple. I made you a promise, and it would dishonor me to go against my word when what you asked is within my power to grant.”
“But . . .” Lionheart frowned. “But you said you would be dishonored if you granted my wish.”
“In the eyes of my people.” Khemkhaeng-Niran Klahan turned his grave black eyes upon Lionheart. Those eyes seemed far too old for that young face. “But I should be dishonored in my own eyes should I refuse.”
No doubt about it. The boy Lionheart would have hated this child.
The exiled Lionheart, struggling to fulfill a quest that was, he knew deep in his heart, impossible, could not help but be grateful. And he was curious too. After all, if the emperor was willing to disguise himself and show up at his door at such an unmentionable hour, then Ay-Ibunda must, in fact, exist. Yet Lionheart could have sworn he had combed every street, every nook, every alley in the last several years, desperate to find it. As far as he could gather, it was not to be found. He still wasn’t entirely convinced it was real.
Perhaps this strange child was leading him somewhere else entirely. This could be a trap. Lionheart cast the emperor sideways glances as they proceeded up one street, turned, and started down another. This one led past a market square where vendors were already setting up their wares, calling greetings and insults to each other, half of which Lionheart could understand (the insults especially).
“Have you been to the temple before?” he asked the boy.
“No,” said the Imperial Glory.
Now, that was a surprise.
“Then . . . how do you know where it is?”
“The same way I knew where to find you.” The boy gave him another of those enigmatic looks. “I am the Imperial Glory of Noorhitam. The Paths of my empire are open to me.” He grinned mischievously. “But don’t let my uncle know!”
As he didn’t understand what this meant, Lionheart had no reply to offer. He followed the emperor, trying to tell himself that they were not crossing the same streets over again, that they weren’t wandering in circles. The emperor was only a boy, after all. He could easily be mistaken—
There was no lurch. There was no flash of light. There was no discernable sensation. One moment they were walking up the market square, listening to the shouts of fruit sellers and fishmongers; the sun was swiftly climbing and shining hot upon the streets, baking those who moved about their lives.
The next, the world was shrouded in mist, and they stood at the gates of a temple.
Lionheart stopped and stared. The emperor proceeded to the gate. It was not an iron gate, merely wood. But somehow, Lionheart knew that no assailants could penetrate here. The posts were painted blood red, and above the doors were many words written in Noorhitamin characters, which Lionheart could not read. As he drew nearer, rather timidly behind the emperor, he saw that the left-hand post was carved like a dragon, and the right-hand, like some fantastic plumed bird.
The Imperial Glory raised his voice and spoke in Noorhitamin. “Open to me, Ay-Ibunda,” he said. He sounded so young standing there before that great gate in the dark mist. Why should so powerful a portal open at the word of one so small?
But immediately the gates parted. Their hinges must have been perfect, the construction exquisite, for though they were enormous and exceedingly heavy, they swung out without a sound, parting the mist.
The boy emperor beckoned to Lionheart. “Come, clown,” he said. “I will take you to the Mother’s Mouth.”
The emperor passed to the inner court, vanishing within the mist. Lionheart gulped and hastened after, thankful when he caught up enough to see the top of the Imperial Glory’s hooded head. He cast a last glance back and saw to his surprise (and somewhat to his horror) that the gates had swung shut as silently as they had opened. He decided not to look again but focused on following the little emperor.
He heard humming.