Chapter Seven
Throne
Soldiers verify each citizen’s documentation before granting them entry to the tall cathedral walls of the throne room, forming a wide line from the streets of the Citadel to the bottom of the stairs leading up the wide, rounded stage.
Excited whispers fill the vacuous space as they crane their necks for a chance to take in the wonder that is the ornate golden throne rising from its center.
The Throne Room is the only part of the Palace built at the foot of the mountain, boasting a domed roof which can be seen from miles away.
A shape which feels out of place when the rest of the Palace is carved within the side of the mountain—except for the balconies which jut out from its surface, our only reprieve from being stuck inside the cold gray walls otherwise.
Imperial soldiers stand shoulder to shoulder, curving along the stone walls to enforce order, separated only by their assigned Imperial witches, who help maintain their solemn focus.
Telekinetic Guards are posted at the end of every pew, attuning to every citizen in their designated area to detect any use of unsanctioned magic.
Their own witches sit within their sections to keep their mood regulated so they may be consistent in discovering any citizen bold enough to break Imperial law.
Wyrth and his Guards are the first to be announced and paraded on stage, taking their place to the left side of the throne while his Imperial witch, Imelda, is forced to sit among the other high-ranking witches in the front row.
Seated next to her is her apparent confidant, and my assigned attendant, Drusilla.
Their camaraderie is a thing of mystery, as they each seem just as miserable together as they do apart, and I find it strange that they gravitate toward each other despite years of them having done so.
Though it seems even more ridiculous for me to be the only witch permitted on stage as I watch those assigned to the sorcerers in the highest roles gather in the middle-front pew before us.
All because His Majesty chose to laud my power by adding Grand to my title, affording me the privilege no other witch has been given.
A dozen acolytes in crisp black uniforms stream from the servant’s entrance, raising a banner in honor of each of my Guards. The Imperial page prepares to announce their titles and magical forms to the tune of the unnecessarily sinister song for the Imperial Grand Witch and her protectors.
Pulling in a breath, I gaze out at the tall black banners where the golden Ampara Deicra sigil alternates with my signet—the outline of an eclipsed moon, signifying emotional transformation, which frames the outline of our Empire’s flower in the center, so aptly named ‘Dragon’s Fury,’ after the frilled black petals resembling that of a Dragon’s skull.
The top petals flare wider than the lower, and purple stems sprout from its center, making it appear to be breathing fire—a symbol of both strength and beauty, assigned to me due to its essence, which causes anyone who ingests it to become far more susceptible to certain forms of influence.
The page steps forward, projecting his voice. “Presenting Imperial Grand Witch Tasch and her Imperial Guards.” He bows low before continuing. “Imperial Lead Guard Hendry, representing a higher-than-average strength in force magic.”
My heart lurches in my chest as I turn to assess Hendry, who merely releases a breath, so used to being mistreated since General Varic’s powers surpassed his own.
“Imperial Guard Malin, strongest in telekinesis. Imperial Guard Cirrin, strongest in healing. Imperial Guard Fray, strongest in flight, and Imperial Guard Lars, strongest in speed magic—each one of the seven known Anomalies of Ampara Deicra.”
Cheers erupt as we plant our boots in the designated spaces to the right of the throne.
Head held high, I clasp my hands before my waist and don my most intimidating expression.
Prepared to play the role expected of me should His Majesty happen to glance over his shoulder, despite the roiling emotions churning within my stomach as my magic draws in more than any being should hold with the level of excitement and awe expressed by the citizens all staring up at my Guards and me.
I siphon their excess emotions, with the sensitivity of my magic feeling much too heightened, as if it is seeking something—or someone.
As if the looming possibility of Varic reappearing at any moment calls on my power to find him before my eyes do.
Though I will know the moment he arrives, once that tell-tale heat begins to crawl its way up my chest and into my cheeks.
Pressure builds within my ribs while my magic feeds on the citizens' desires and wishes—cloying and clawing at me as I try to pull on my mental wards, needing something to keep me from falling over.
The weight of eyes studying my being draws my attention up to the seats on high, where Imperial Army commanders, government officials, and members of the nobility occupy what is considered to be a coveted area, only accessible by invitation from our Emperor to stare down over the citizens.
I scan the faces until the pale blue eyes belonging to the witch who birthed me stare back, brimming with the glint of forced tears, which she swipes from her cheeks in a flourish where she sits by my father.
A sorcerer who could not be less interested in my presence as he stares at some ledger, while his wife clutches her hands to her chest, doing her best impression of what a proud mother to the Empire’s greatest asset might look like.
Leech that she is, happier than any parent should be when benefiting from their own child’s despair.
Afforded every privilege a noblewoman could ask for, all because I was born with extraordinary power.
Applause dies with the music, pausing until it is time for the Emperor to grace us with his presence.
As the beginning notes of his entrance song begin to play, acolytes stream on stage, carrying His Majesty’s banners where the Ampara Deicra sigil alternates with his own signet—a gold crown with a large flame rising from its center.
Rare sunbeams stream in through the arched windows, glinting off of the rubies set within the golden crown upon the Emperor’s gray hair, matching that of his irises, which wander and snag onto mine as he stalks by.
He pauses to lift his chin before the black and gold throne, where he tosses his leather skirts back in a flourish, lowering himself to the black velvet cushion while absorbing all the adoration the citizens offer him.
Danor, the Emperor’s telekinetic Guard, stares over, narrowing his bright green eyes as he looks me up and down. My magic detects a sense of satisfaction rippling around him as his own must notice the distress in my body's response to His Majesty’s appearance.
A chill rolls down my spine with the distinct fluttering of Raki’s wings filling my hearing as the hybrid creature careens closer, nearly clipping my ear on its way to the Emperor.
While Danor’s heightened powers are nothing in comparison to Malin’s, his magic is still sensitive enough to detect the strong energetic shift from an emotion such as disgust.
Applause settles once the Emperor commands it, with his hand held out in a gesture meant to silence us. His tiny spy lands on his shoulder closest to me, and he tips his head to nuzzle the thing before righting himself to begin our traditional chant.
“To Ampara Deicra!” His Majesty cries, raising a fist high above his head.
“Our glorious Empire!” the room chants in return.
Silence descends as we pay our respects to the Dragons in an offering of coin, and my vision glazes over with the motion of acolytes wearing the golden robes of those who serve Imperial Priest Kado in the Temple of the Dragon.
They file down the steps in tidy rows, past the golden Dragon heads where incense disperses through the air in wisps of smoke, curling out from the gleaming crystal teeth fashioned by our skilled artisans.
Those with coin to spare set what they must in one of the offering bowls, hoping to earn the right to seek counsel from their ruler, if he deigns to remain long enough to see all who have made their contribution.
Once the acolytes have completed their duty among the citizens closest to the stage, we raise our voices in unison and exclaim, “Glory to the Dragons! To whom we owe everything! To our benefactors, granting us land and wealth beyond that of any other land! We prove our fealty and honor you with this offering.”
An Imperial Guard at the bottom of the stairs releases the first citizen to approach the dais. A sorcerer raises his hand and forms the sign with his first two fingers, indicating the citizen is deaf, which effectively summons the Imperial Interpreter to assist as the citizen describes his issue.
After His Majesty dismisses the first citizen to address him, he nods to a telekinetic soldier, who stands off to the side, firmly holding onto the arm of another undecorated sorcerer.
The two gold bars above the soldier’s sigil indicate his level of importance, reflecting the sun when he steps forward, forcing the sorcerer he practically carries to join him.
“I detected this force sorcerer using speed magic while carrying a pallet on the docks, Your Majesty.”
The Emperor’s eyes narrow on the force sorcerer as ice trickles down my spine.
“You would waste your life to move a bit of foreign goods with more speed?” His Majesty makes a show of standing from his throne.
“You value the customs of our superior Empire so little that you spit in the face of all those who abide by the decree?” His pallid fingers curl around the sorcerer’s chin, forcing him to turn his head from one side to the other while he sneers, lifting his gaze to the citizens forming a long line before him.