Page 85 of Realms of Swords and Storms
Because if I wasn't—if my fears about tomorrow were justified—we might be walking into something far more dangerous than any of us had anticipated.
23
The message arrived as I was finishing my evening meal—a folded piece of parchment delivered by a boy in nondescript clothes who vanished before I could question him. No seal, no insignia, just my name scrawled across the front in a hand I recognized immediately.
Legate Santius.
I unfolded it carefully, tension creeping along my spine. The message was brief, cryptic: "The Broken Wheel. Midnight. Come alone."
The Broken Wheel was a tavern in the lower city, the kind of establishment no one of my supposed rank would frequent, let alone the Emperor's son. Which, of course, was precisely why Santius had chosen it. Whatever he needed to discuss couldn't risk being overheard by the wrong ears.
I burned the note in the flame of my desk lamp, watching the paper curl and blacken until nothing remained but ash. My evening plans—which had consisted mainly of reviewing tacticaltexts for next week's examination—would have to wait. When the Emperor's right hand summoned, one did not delay.
The lower city at night was a different world from the carefully manicured grounds of the academy. Here, the streets were narrow and twisted, the buildings leaning into one another like drunken revellers, and the air was thick with the mingled scents of unwashed bodies, cheap ale, and rotting food. I kept my hood pulled low, my expensive boots and tailored clothing hidden beneath a plain cloak I kept for such occasions.
The Broken Wheel lived up to its name. The tavern sign hung askew from a single chain, the painted wagon wheel so weathered and faded it was barely recognizable. Inside, the low-ceilinged room was dimly lit by tallow candles that filled the air with a greasy smoke. A handful of patrons hunched over their drinks, none giving me more than a cursory glance as I entered.
Santius was at a table in the back corner, his back to the wall, his face half-hidden in shadow. Despite his attempt at discretion, he couldn't quite hide his military bearing—the rigid posture, the calculated positioning that gave him a clear view of both the entrance and the back door. I made my way to him, careful not to draw attention.
"Lord Jalend," he greeted me quietly as I slid into the seat opposite him. Despite the informality of our meeting place, he didn't abandon the honorific. Some habits were too deeply ingrained.
"Legate," I returned, pitching my voice low to match his. "An unusual location for a meeting."
"Unusual times call for unusual measures." He gestured to the empty cup before me. "Drink?"
I shook my head. The ale in this establishment was likely to be more water than barley, and even if it wasn't, I needed my wits about me. Something about this clandestine meeting set my nerves on edge.
"What's this about, Legate? Why the secrecy?"
Santius leaned forward, his weathered face solemn in the flickering candlelight. "I come with a warning, my lord. And instructions from your father."
My body tensed involuntarily at the mention of the Emperor. My relationship with my father had always been complicated—a mixture of duty, fear, and a desperate, childish hope for approval that I had never quite outgrown despite knowing better.
"What warning?"
"Stay away from the Storm Festival tomorrow." His voice was flat, brooking no argument. "We have received intelligence suggesting there may be... trouble."
I kept my expression carefully neutral, though my mind was racing. "What kind of trouble?"
Santius glanced around the tavern, as if to ensure no one was within earshot. "Rumours of a possible attack by Talfen resistance elements. Nothing concrete, but enough to warrant caution."
I frowned. "If there's a credible threat, why not cancel the festival entirely? Surely public safety—"
"Cancelling would only cause panic and confusion," Santius interrupted. "And it would alert the perpetrators that we're onto them. Better to proceed as planned, with additional security measures in place."
"Additional security," I repeated, studying his face. "So there will be troops stationed throughout the city?"
"Precisely." He nodded, a thin smile stretching his lips. "Discreetly positioned to deal with any suspicious individuals. The festival should be safe enough for the general populace."
Something in his phrasing caught my attention. "Safe enough for the general populace, but not for me? If it's safe enough for citizens, surely it's safe enough for a nobleman's son."
Santius shifted uncomfortably, his eyes sliding away from mine. "Your father—the Emperor—has specifically ordered that you remain away from the festival tomorrow. It's a direct command, my lord."
"I see." I kept my voice neutral, though suspicion was now fully awakened within me. "And if I were to disobey this command?"
The Legate's face hardened. "Then I am under orders to take you into my custody until the event has concluded." He leaned forward, his voice dropping even lower. "Please don't make that necessary, Lord Jalend. I have no desire to restrain the Emperor's son."
I sat back, digesting this. The Emperor was concerned enough about tomorrow's events to ensure I was nowhere near the festival, yet not concerned enough to cancel the event itself. That suggested he knew more than Santius was revealing—or perhaps more than Santius himself knew.
