This apartment complex was the largest in the palace, a series of interconnecting rooms that allowed for the imperial family and their most loyal retainers to live apart from the rest of the administration of the Empire for long stretches. A lavish garden rested at the entrance to the residence as you approached from the centre of the palace. It was an oasis of calm in an otherwise constantly busy and noisy community, complete with a huge pool surrounded by pavilions with hanging curtains of silk in which to evade the heat of the day. Now those precious silks were ablaze as if some wayward magical bolt of energy had ignited them.
It took Miranda only a moment to apprehend the situation. A pair of Dasati Deathpriests lay dead next to a fountain. Somehow several had materialized inside the Emperor’s garden. The evidence of the carnage around them suggested that without considering their situation, they had started casting their death-spells in random directions, at any human they spied. The Tsurani magician who had been with the Emperor had answered instantly with a blazing ball of fire, probably to cover the Emperor’s retreat or to forestall the Deathpriests easily locating him. Either way, the result was a conflagration that was quickly burning its way through a small fortune in silks and cushions. Miranda glanced around, her vision obscured by the smoke and dying flames. From what she could see, many servants and Imperial Guards had died a horrible, painful death. None of the bodies was garbed in imperial fashion, so the Emperor must be in another part of the complex. Miranda felt a sense of relief at the realization.
The Emperor was young, without a wife, so his life was seen as doubly precious: with no heir to crown should he die in an untimely fashion, the Empire would be without a ruler and the political chaos in such a time of great turmoil would be disastrous. As was Tsurani custom, in times of war after the formal breaking of the Red Seal on the great doors of the Temple of the War God, a herald with the imperial clarion was stationed nearby, to signal any danger to the Light of Heaven. A priest of the order of Jastur also stood watch outside the Emperor’s door.
Miranda arrived just behind the first wave of Imperial Guards who were outside the family complex, and was in time to see the powerful priest of Jastur unleash his magic warhammer. It flew through the air to strike a Deathpriest in the chest, slamming him backwards through the air. A fountain of orange blood exploded from the creature’s chest as he slid half a dozen yards across the stone floor, almost to Miranda’s feet.
Over the tumult, Miranda tried to be heard. ‘We need the other one alive!’
She instantly knew that her cry was in vain, for Tsurani soldiers, pledged to give their life for the Emperor, swarmed over the remaining Deathpriest, bearing him down quickly under their weight and before she could reach the mass of bodies they had pierced him countless times with sword-points and daggers. Pushing aside any irritation over things she couldn’t control, she turned to see an officer in the guard standing with his sword drawn, covered in orange blood. ‘Where is the Light of Heaven?’ she demanded.
‘In his bedchamber,’ answered the officer.
Miranda noticed that his skin was beginning to blister where the Dasati blood had touched it and she said, ‘Wash that off before you suffer seriously, Strike Leader.’
‘Your will, Great One,’ he answered. Even though she had no official position within the Assembly of Magicians, because she was the wife of Milamber and confidante of the Emperor, the tradition-bound Tsurani insisted on addressing her with that honorific. She had stopped correcting people: it was a useless exercise.
She hurried past servants and guards, to where armed guards protected the entrance to the bedchamber. ‘The danger is past,’ she instructed them. ‘I must see His Majesty.’
The senior guardsman motioned for her to stay. He moved inside the chamber and a moment later reappeared with word that the Emperor would see her. She was through the door before he had finished and found the young ruler wearing his traditional armour, all gold, holding an ancient metal sword, ready to fight. There was something about his manner and bearing that spared him any appearance of the ridiculous. He looked every inch the Tsurani warrior, despite his sheltered life.
Standing at his side was a slender magician named Manwahat, who nodded once at Miranda. He gave her a questioning look. She returned a curt nod, and could sense that somewhere under that immobile Tsurani exterior, he must be breathing a sigh of relief. He was a young magician, as the Assembly accounted such, but Miranda knew him by reputation: he was level-headed and powerful.
Without preamble, she said, ‘Majesty, you must leave the Holy City.’
The Emperor blinked as if he didn’t understand her words, then his manner changed. He took a deep breath and sheathed his ceremonial sword. ‘May I ask why, Miranda? I rarely receive orders.’
Miranda understood belatedly that her informality was ill-suited to any situation where they weren’t alone. ‘My apologies, Majesty. In my concern for your welfare, I forgot my place. It must be Varen. Disguised as Wyntakata, he has been through this palace a dozen times, and he’s the only one who would know how to get those Deathpriests into your private garden.’