9Imperial Intrigue
Chapter 1 – The World of Politics
Dressed in skin-tight black clothing, Christos paced back and forth in the elegant quarters reserved for foreign delegations. His bare feet were silent on the soft fur carpet, but his harsh, nervous breaths were clearly audible. In contrast, on the other side of the room, his opponent sat cross-legged in meditation, emotions the exact opposite of his own.
Not for the first time, Christos cursed Giordano for his steel nerves. Giordano was famous for remaining calm before battle, an attribute that had allowed him to climb to the top of the gladiators' ranks. Now Christos's fate rested upon this one fight – and of course the fight had to be with the most renowned gladiator alive. Christos had only fought Giordano once, and that time he had almost died from blood loss.
But Christos was used to before-battle butterflies. What really frightened him this time was a certain age-old tradition. The tradition was technically top-secret, but every veteran gladiator knew it well. It was rumored that all gladiator fights in front of foreign monarchs were to the death. Christos was sure that he would lose to Giordano, which only increased his anxiety.
If only I'd never tried to escape marriage, he mused wistfully in his mind. If only…
Suddenly, the polished pine door leading into the room creaked open and in walked a tall man dressed in burgundy velvet and dripping with jewels costing more than ten gladiator slaves. The man held himself arrogantly, as befit the golden crown upon his head.
Christos and Giordano immediately dropped to their knees, murmuring, "Your Majesty." For the arrogant man was Halavin, king of Attica, come to parley with the newly crowned queen of Sierra.
As Halavin stepped further into the room, wrinkling his nose distastefully at the neat surroundings, another person swept into the room – a female, judging by the swishing sound of silk. Christos risked lifting his head to catch a peek, though it meant sure death if he was caught.
The newcomer was indeed a woman, or rather, a girl. She was hardly older than Christos himself, no more than eighteen. The swishing of silk he had heard earlier came from her pale green silk gown, a delicate style that accentuated her slender frame and complemented her dark green eyes. Her black hair was startling, as was her olive complexion. The young queen of Sierra – he was sure that she was the queen, though she wore no crown – looked…exotic, foreign, perhaps even Attican, though certainly not Ijan, not with those bottomless eyes.
The queen nodded regally to Halavin, saying in a polite tone, "Good day to you, Halavin. You had a pleasant trip, I hope?"
Halavin seemed surprised to be addressed so informally, but he soon recovered himself and forced a smile. "Good day to you as well, my dear cousin. Yes, the trip was very pleasant. Sierra's countryside is beautiful. But I send my sincerest sympathies for your father, Alexandrite. Kieran was a good man, never approving of his family's acts."
Christos started at the word 'cousin'. The two monarchs were cousins? Halavin was not one to make jokes, and even less one to send sympathies – true or false – for a dead king.
Queen Alexandrite offered a slightly indulgent smile, but Halavin didn't notice the undertone. "Indeed, Sierra is a beautiful country, if I do say so myself. I am sure that Attica is equally as scenic. My father's death was very sudden." She looked sufficiently sorrowful, but still guarded.
This type of meaningless banter continued for several minutes, neither party saying anything noteworthy. Christos found himself desperately longing for the two to finish their small talk and begin discussing the actual topic at hand – his knees were aching horribly.
Suddenly, Queen Alexandrite's voice became deadly serious, containing a level of authority Christos couldn't imagine possessing. "Enough pleasantries. What brings you to the palace of your sworn enemy, Halavin?"
From the sound – if no sound at all can be called that – of Halavin's silence, Christos guessed that he had underestimated the new queen. Personally, Christos was rooting for Sierra; he had witnessed and experienced King Halavin's cruelties far too many times to favor Attica. His preference would have been his native country of Ijan, of course, but that wasn't an option in this case. Sierra seemed a nice enough place so far – although Queen Alexandrite's exotic looks may have influenced his opinion.
Anyhow, he was just a gladiator slave, brought on this trip for entertainment. To his death, probably, if Giordano had improved at all since their last meeting.
Resting her hand gently on Ramden's arm, Alex allowed herself to be escorted to the Ambassadorial wing of the palace. She suppressed the urge to refuse the escort – it wasn't as if she didn't know her way around the palace – in the name of diplomacy. Something else she disliked about being queen.
Surprisingly, Ramden guided her to the Imperial Delegation quarters. An imperial delegation? Which sovereign could it be? Ijan's emperor was throwing one of his moody fits again and had sealed off Ijan from contact with the rest of Kalahar, and the Misroitian ambassador had just left. Kalahar only contained four countries the last time she checked, and Attica certainly was not about to pay a visit.
This logic was perfectly sound, so Alex was shocked when the door swung open to reveal a tall, dark man dressed in rich velvets with a gold crown on his head. His back was turned, but she instantly recognized his profile. How could she not? From the moment she could comprehend complete sentences, this man's image had been constantly drilled into her head as Sierra's eternal enemy. Why in Silea's name had Halavin Quoniera Jinul, celebrated and infamous king of Attica, crossed into Sierra as a peaceful delegation?
Alex was at a complete loss as to the proper protocol for the occasion – her tutoring lessons, while extensive and exhaustive, had never covered this particular possibility. Thankfully, Ramden was not as stunned. He nudged her and gestured for her to enter the room. Nodding, she smoothed her mask into distant perfection and crossed the threshold, intentionally swishing her silk skirts to announce her presence.
Halavin turned at the sound but looked unsurprised to see her. Well, he wouldn't, being as he decided to come here, she thought wryly. It was time to enter the treacherous world of politics. "Good day to you, Halavin. You had a pleasant trip, I hope?"
She hid her smirk behind her mask as Halavin turned red at her blatant informality, though he quickly recovered himself. His reply was just as thinly veiled. "Good day to you as well, my dear cousin. Yes, the trip was very pleasant. Sierra's countryside is beautiful. But I send my sincerest sympathies for your father, Alexandrite. Kieran was a good man, never approving of his family's acts."
Cousin. Technically, Halavin was her second cousin by blood, but Alex disliked acknowledging the tie. How could they be related and be so different? And her father – her late father. Halavin's 'sympathies' were just for show. He held sympathy for no one, not even his own wife.
Yet Halavin too was a master at political games. His words left nothing to work with. She was forced to continue with a polite smile and a harmless reply. "Indeed, Sierra is a beautiful country, if I do say so myself. I am sure that Attica is equally as scenic. My father's death was very sudden." She gazed into the distance silently, so that her sorrow seemed real. Real it was, but she had no true emotions to express to him.
Halavin's answer was barely heard by Alex. She understood it enough to form the proper response, but not to impress it upon her memory. The talk was pointless, as both parties knew well, but neither would risk a strategic position to begin the real conversation.
Finally, Alex had had enough. She made her mask as regal as she could and said, trying not to snap, "Enough pleasantries. What brings you to the palace of your sworn enemy, Halavin?" Her crisp words would have been seen as a huge blunder by her Politics tutor, but patience had never been Alex's strong point.
Halavin's stunned silence surprised her. He had been king for almost ten years now – how could he be surprised that she had committed a beginner's mistake? He hardly knew that it was an intentional error.
Puzzled, Alex absorbed her surroundings for the first time. She noticed two men – though one of them looked to be the same age as herself – kneeling on the floor next to Halavin. With a start, she realized that they had been listening to their entire conversation; she would have immediately caught any sign of movement. Not that it mattered. Their conversation hadn't exactly contained any state secrets.
By now, Halavin had thought of a smart comeback. "Is it illegal for me to visit you, Alexandrite? I merely wished to express my sympathies for your late parents and congratulate you on your ascension." A rather condescending smile.
Alex was no longer willing to beat around the bush. "Not illegal, Halavin, but highly dangerous. Or do you not value your life and your country?" It was risky to threaten him, but she wanted to be on the offensive.
"I shall not dodge the subject any longer then, my dear." Halavin's voice turned cold. "I invite you to visit Attica, as I have visited Sierra. You will be an honored guest." He added, "It is obligatory to return the favor. You wouldn't want to appear rude, would you?"
So that was why the bastard had come here, of all places. To force her into visiting him, into venturing past Sierra's borders. Alex's response was equally as cold. "I must make that decision myself, Halavin. Surely you understand that a sovereign's life is highly valued." But was there a way to preserve her reputation and turn the visit to her advantage? Her mind raced as it ran through all possibilities, but every chance depended on the moves Halavin made. It was something Alex despised, having to depend on others.
Halavin sank lazily into an armchair and gestured for Alex to do the same. She did so warily, suspicious of his intentions. Ignoring her, Halavin made another motion to the two men still kneeling on the floor. The men rose silently and stood on opposite sides of the room – all of the furniture had already been pushed to the side, a fact that Alex cursed herself silently for not noticing. She was out of practice; it was difficult to leave the palace now that she had been crowned queen.
Without waiting for a signal, the men began to circle each other in the obvious beginnings of a fight. As they circled, neither willing to make the first move, Alex studied them carefully.
Both men were dressed in fitted black clothing, loose enough to allow free movement but tight enough to leave nothing to grab onto. It was common assassin's garb, though missing the customary scarf covering the nose and mouth, but these two hardly looked like assassins. Halavin was not stupid enough to risk an attempt on Alex's life in her own palace.
The taller of the two seemed older as well, around his thirties. His face was wrinkled and scarred, but a fierce determination was clearly present. He moved with the grace of age-old experience, like a tiger in its prime.
The other man was more a boy, looking only around eighteen. His face and body were trimmed of every drop of excess fat, but his dark brown eyes constantly darted around, searching for an opening. The boy disguised his fear well, but Alex could sense the underlying nervousness and anxiety. Obviously this fighter was a rookie, doomed to battle an experienced veteran.
Unexpectedly, Alex found herself feeling sorry for the boy. There was no possible way he could win this fight – he himself knew it, and that knowledge already decided his fate.
Sure enough, the boy warrior soon made a crucial mistake. He made the long-awaited first move, giving the other man a perfect chance to throw him off-balance. The battle continued, but the boy had lost his only advantage. He defended himself frantically against relentless blows, unable to get in any of his own. At this rate, he would lose even more quickly than predicted.
The boy's technique only worsened as time wore on. His defense was weak and ragged, and he no longer even bothered to try and find openings. Alex was disappointed; the fight held no suspense, no interest. But as the boy was pushed closer to the wall and Halavin showed no sign of calling an end to the fight, she began to suspect an ulterior motive. Did Halavin really mean to allow the battle to continue to the death?
Alex's suspicions were confirmed when the older warrior pinned the boy against the wall, one muscled arm pressed crushingly against his windpipe. When the man looked at Halavin questioningly, Halavin gave a slight nod. It was a tiny movement, barely noticeable, but nevertheless, Alex noticed.
Restraining her anger, Alex directed a comment at Halavin, loud enough that the two warriors could hear. "Is the fight over? Surely you will not kill the boy, Halavin. What right have you to take his life?" Seeing him open his mouth indignantly, she quickly added, "And I speak as a priestess of Silea, from an ethical viewpoint."
Halavin frowned, but he had no choice. If he allowed the boy gladiator's death, he would have a reputation as a merciless man throughout Kalahar. It would ruin his relationship with Ijan, which placed a huge emphasis on ethics and honor. "Of course not, Alexandrite. What kind of king would I make if I did that?"
"All's well, then." Alex smiled brightly before standing up. "If you will excuse me, Halavin, I have other business to attend to. Good day." She strode out the door without a backward glance, happy that the clash of wits was finally over.
Christos barely heard the rest of the conversation. He remembered only circling Giordano, making the first move out of impatience, then being crushed against the wall, waiting for death. That was when Queen Alexandrite had intervened, cleverly manipulating Halavin so that he couldn't afford to kill him. Why the queen would want to save his life, Christos had no idea. She knew nothing of his past and heritage; to her, he was only a slave. So why? It was highly unlikely that his father would ever find him, and therefore, his death would not cause any political uproar. No one on this side of Kalahar knew his identity. No one, not even Halavin.
Dimly, Christos remembered Halavin ordering them to pack their belongings. He did so in a daze, and boarded the carriage numbly. Throughout the entire journey, he did nothing but gaze out the window at the passing landscape. Sierra…until today, when his life had been miraculously spared, he had not fully comprehended how beautiful Sierra was.