Blood for the Undying Throne (The Bleeding Empire #2)

Chapter 1

EMERE

“Prince Emere.”

A familiar voice. One he hadn’t heard in some time, but a voice replete with good memories. He felt a rustling inside his heart.

“Prince Emere.”

There it was again. Emere opened his eyes. Or perhaps his eyes were already open? His surroundings came into focus.

Here were the plains to the south of Arland’s capital, Kingsworth.

The bodies of Imperial legionaries and Arland’s militia, broken bits of weapons and banners scattered about.

Blood splattered over receding patches of snow.

In the distance, a four-legged beast of metal—the gigatherion Clarios—spewed violet smoke from its joints, frozen in motion.

And right before his eyes, her dragon wings spread wide, was Loran. Her body was covered in red scales, and an azure light burned in one eye. He heard a low, faraway beating like drums.

The word “princess” was on the tip of his tongue, but then he quickly remembered that Loran was now king.

“Your Majesty.”

He tried to bow on one knee to show his respect, but he couldn’t feel the ground. Or his knee. Or any part of his body, for that matter.

“Listen carefully, Prince Emere.”

“I am at your bidding.”

The words came from his mind and he spoke them, but where he spoke from, he didn’t know. Loran smiled. Even with fearsome scales covering her face and a blue fire burning where her left eye should be, her smile filled him with gladness.

“Why so formal? Have we not taken meals together and fought side by side?”

“Your Majesty is now a king. I am a mere man.”

“A councillor of the Imperial Commons and the brother to the King of Kamori is a mere man?” She laughed.

“My brother hardly deserves his title. I knew this but still wasted many years on him. And a councillor I may be, but in name only—what I truly am is a hostage from an unruly province, standing in for my aging sister.”

Standing in? Yes—he shouldn’t be in Arland at all, but in the Imperial Capital.

He had been about to give a speech before the Kamori who lived there.

It was only a few words added to what the Commons Council had already decided he should say, but he felt it was important to connect with his countrymen who were living so far away from home.

“Your Majesty,” he said to Loran, realization dawning, “do I dream?”

Ever since he was a young man, he had had mysterious dreams. The ancient Kamori believed that destiny could be foretold through dream visions like these. The wisdom of the Tree Lords, who had interpreted dreams and read fates, had been lost since the Empire’s invasion, but many still believed.

Emere believed. How could he not, when dreams of Loran had haunted him long before he met her for the first time in the Dehan Forest two years ago.

“If this is a dream,” Loran replied, “wouldn’t I be a figment of Prince Emere’s slumbering imagination? Which means you shall wake soon and forget me before breakfast.”

“How could I ever forget you?”

Tears came to his eyes. If indeed they were tears, or his eyes. The rustling in his heart turned into an ache.

Loran smiled. “Dreams are rather futile.”

“We of Kamori do not think so. Just as the astrologers of Marthia believed our fate lay in the stars, we believe there is destiny in our dreams.”

Loran still smiled. “Then I should tell you this now. Prince Emere, you must become king. That is your destiny.”

In an instant, she lost her wings and scales to become a small woman wearing Kamori clothing. On her neck was her t’laran—the tattoo of her clan—and over her left eye was an eyepatch of red cloth. She looked just as she had when they had lunched every day in the underground palace of Kamori.

“Destiny passes by those who stand still,” Loran continued. “Reach out and grasp that which awaits you, up there.”

Her eyes looked up over the battlefield, and Emere followed her gaze. The clear blue afternoon sky turned into the blackest night. But instead of clouds of constellations, there was only one star, shining brighter than any he had ever beheld.

It enchanted him. His right hand returned to his control and he reached out to the star, or perhaps it was coming down toward him. His fingertips almost touched it.

He ripped his gaze from the sky. “What will you have me do?”

“Survive first.”

“Survive?” Emere questioned, confused.

“Yes, survive. The wound you’ve just sustained isn’t serious, but there will be other dangers ahead.”

Awareness of his whole body, from his eyelids to his toes, returned like a crash from a great height. Someone’s hand pressed down on the left side of his chest as if there was a wound. His back was cold.

Arland’s battlefield and the bright star in the black sky vanished, replaced by a gray raining sky.

“Councillor! Councillor Emere!”

Another familiar voice. But this time, the urgent call shouting down at him came from the mouth of Gildas, his young aide. His round face hovered over Emere, his spectacles splattered with raindrops. Gildas was on one knee inside a puddle and had his hands pressed to Emere’s chest.

“Councillor, you must wake up!”

Emere’s consciousness came back in a rush. Over Gildas’s voice, he could hear the consternation of a crowd.

Emere used his right hand to sit up slightly, as Gildas kept his hands pressed to Emere’s chest. There were puddles of rainwater all over the wooden platform he was lying on.

It had been erected at the edge of a small square surrounded by old buildings, and there was a panicked crowd quickly dispersing like surprised cattle.

“Gildas, what—”

“An arrow during your speech, sir.” Gildas’s voice was still urgent. “Do you not recall?”

Emere looked down, and a short wooden shaft protruded from the left side of his chest in between Gildas’s hands. Not an arrow, but a bolt from a crossbow. His voluminous white Imperial suit, worn only twice before, was now soaked in blood.

“There is a lot of bleeding, but it doesn’t appear to have hit your heart or your lungs.”

“And what of King Loran?”

“Who, sir?”

A misspoken name. He shook the sleep from his head.

“Never mind. Perhaps I’m still not my—”

“It seems the patrollers cannot make it into the square because of all the people,” Gildas interrupted, looking around as he assessed the situation.

It was a poor neighborhood inhabited by immigrants from Kamori.

The buildings were built on top of each other and the streets were narrow.

There would be no way for the patrollers to stop the crossbow assassin if the nervous crowd that filled the small square fell into true chaos.

Which meant more opportunities for bolts to come flying at him.

“We have to leave,” said Emere. “There’s no time to wait for help.”

“I will help you walk, sir.” Gildas quickly ripped some strips from Emere’s cloak with his teeth and deftly wrapped his wound. Groaning from pain, Emere furtively looked around them for an escape route. Bolts studded the podium where he had stood only moments ago.

Gildas noticed where he was looking. “At least seven shots in the blink of an eye. A citizen was killed.”

Crossbows take time to reload. How many shooters, then, were there? Emere saw a body bleeding out in the middle of the square, where the crowd was beginning to thin out as it headed for the alleys. But their screams were becoming more panicked as they realized how slow their escape was.

“Ready, my lord,” said Gildas, taking hold of Emere’s right arm.

“My wound is not as serious as it seems,” Emere assured him.

But Gildas insisted on helping Emere to his feet.

Suddenly, there was a whizzing sound—Gildas let go and Emere latched on to the podium to keep from falling. His aide, however, collapsed onto the platform, a bolt piercing his temple, the pupils of his surprised eyes shrinking behind his spectacles.

Emere stared down at him, dazed, until a second bolt hit the podium and new screams began to ring out.

He immediately leaped off the platform and ran toward the door of the building behind him, the bolt in his chest digging into him more with every step.

He collapsed against the door as he reached for the handle.

It was locked. He pounded on the door in frustration, knowing there was likely no one inside.

Emere’s makeshift bandage was already drenched.

Blood dripped along the edges of his garments and splattered to the ground.

The square, while now completely empty in the middle except for the body, rang with the sounds of people trying to flee, sharp screams piercing through the hubbub.

So many innocents would be trampled, but there was nothing he could do.

Who would dare attempt an assassination in the Imperial Capital? A provincial councillor meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, even if he was a member of a fallen royal family—surely there was no reason to expend this much effort in assassinating him?

Gildas’s body lay sprawled on the platform. As shameful as it was to flee from where his aide lay dead, his own life was still in danger.

Emere placed a hand on the dirty limewashed wall next to him, gritted his teeth, and kicked in the door. The bar holding it shut shattered with a loud crack, the shock of its break reverberating into his injury. The pain made him stumble and slide against the wall to the ground.

There were people in the world who could ignore their pain. Emere was not one of them, but he knew he couldn’t stay here—not if he wanted to live. Steadily, leaning on the corner of the wall, he got to his feet.

The wound you’ve just sustained isn’t serious …