BOOK ONE: A Grand Summons

Prologue

Empress Zanna Caelestinius of Lucia stepped out of her carriage, accompanied by none of her advisors, courtiers or upper nobility.

She had come to the House of Gates, largely alone, save for her most trusted knights, mages and other magickers from the army.

I have wanted this my whole life.

She was only sorry that for this moment to come to pass, the Battle of the Dead Emperors had to have happened first.

Lucia and Florencia, two empires locked in mortal war for centuries, had been destroying themselves ever since. And though the hostilities waned at times, the last decade had been particularly grievous—for both sides.

Thunder rumbled in the black clouds overhead.

“My Empress!” Sir Hariacci said, and thumped a fist to his armored chest. He stood. “All has been prepared for you.”

“Very good.”

She walked across the grounds, her shoulders straight and her head held high as befitted her stature. Statues of lions, eagles and other majestic creatures lined the entrance of the Lucia side of the House of Gates.

Also in a long line were her knights and mages, loyal only to Zanna

The house—if it could ever truly be called a house or even a mansion—was brightly lit, the luminescence cascading out into the grounds.

She stepped into the foyer, her boots clacking against the polished tiles. At her hip, her rapier swayed with her steps.

“Empress Caelestinus!” October said in greeting. “It is a pleasure to see you.”

“General,” she said with a nod. “I will not be accompanied into the citadel drawing room.”

She walked, and he followed closely at her side, a small procession of knights and high-ranking officers on their heels.

“Forgive my impudence, Empress—but is that wise? With such hostilities between Lucia and Florencia, I must insist that I accompany you personally, at the very least.

Smiling, Zanna said, “No.”

“I beseech you, Empress!”

Stopping within the sumptuous hall, she glanced at her general. “October, you well know that I could best you in a duel within moments. Your presence would be nothing more than a formality.”

His countenance was one of mild embarrassment. “Even so, Empress.”

“You will remain at the drawing room doors,” she said, feeling completely at ease. “If I call for you, then—and only then—may you flood into the chamber to protect me. But I know it will not come to that.”

“How can you be certain?”

October was a tall dapper man. He was not a leader to get his own hands dirty with fighting. He wore crisp black trousers and a jacket with white-lace cuffs, his hair, also black, pulled back into a short tail at the nape of his neck.

She regarded his dark eyes.

“I know Emperor Albion well,” she said. “Need I explain myself to my generals—or do you trust your empress implicitly as well as explicitly?”

He took a step back, realizing his overreach. “My sincerest apologies, Empress Caelestinius. By the Gods, I serve at your pleasure and yours alone!”

“Then follow me.”

She stalked forward, not slowly, but not at a speed that bespoke hurry. That would be unbecoming of her. Ever was she the proper Empress of Lucia—a being of near perfect perfection.

At least in the eyes of the people of Imperial Lucia.

Albion left his entourage behind as he grasped the golden handles of the doors leading into the citadel drawing room and pushed them open.

Though Emperor of Florencia, he was not one to have his servants do something as trivial as opening doors.

Glancing beyond, the doors on the other side had not yet been opened. Empress Caelestinius was always one to be fashionably late—even before her ascension to the throne. She had, to Albion’s knowledge, never changed her character to suit the throne of Lucia.

She was born for it.

Unlike Albion, who felt out of place ruling his own empire, an empire come to him because of the Battle of the Dead Emperors. Nearly having abdicated the role, he had decided against it, due to his good friend Toni, who had encouraged him during those dark times.

Walking further into the drawing room, he glanced about. He had refused his guards to check the room beforehand. Albion trusted Empress Caelestinius. Zanna was… an old acquaintance.

Even still, he was looking about the drawing room.

There were no others in the chamber. Pushing out with his feeble magicks, he sensed no hidden auras in the chamber.

The House of Gates was something to behold. The rugs themselves, of dark floral patterns, were worth that of entire villages. The blood red silk curtains in this chamber alone contained enough materials to furnish the royal palace of Florencia.

The white doors on the other side of the chamber, gilded in gold floral patterns, opened to reveal two knights, Empress Caelestinius in an opulent white dress between them. Her upper arms were exposed, but her gloves covered her bare skin up to her elbows.

As she walked forward, her boots knocked against the floor, making sounds that could draw the ear from thirty paces away.

Albion swallowed as he went nearer the furniture in the center of the room. There was a series of sofas and small tables that created an enclosure—almost a separate room within the chamber.

“Albion,” Empress Caelestinius said with a barely perceptible nod.

“Zanna,” he said, returning the gesture.

They both sat on the furniture.

Zanna was as straight-backed as a piece of the wall furniture, her posture seemingly at complete ease. Albion doubted he looked half as decorously prim in his trousers, tunic and doublet—even with the lace.

In the past I felt like a commoner in her presence. As I do now. If there should be one ruler of the two empires, it should be her.

“How was your journey here?” he asked, trying to maintain propriety.

“Damp,” she said.

Zanna’s face carried a slight smile, or was that simply a look of superiority? If it was, she was not improper to feel that way in his presence.

With a nod, he said, “You look well.”

“Thank you. As do you, Albion.”

He couldn’t help but smile at her compliment. “You are too kind.”

There was a pause between them.

Finally, Zanna said, “This cannot go on, Albion. Our empires have been tearing each other apart. We are weakening.”

“I agree,” he said.

“I am sorry that it took the Battle of the Dead Emperors to bring us together like this.” In truth, Zanna and Albion had been the emperor and empress of their respective empires for nearly a decade,

Glancing into her eyes, he nodded.

Then she smiled. “You always were a quiet one.”

“What are we going to do?” he asked. She had hinted in her letters, but never outright told him what she thought the solution was to the endless bloodshed between Florencia and Lucia.

“Our enemies are on our doorstep and tensions between Lucia and Florencia are worse than they have ever been in my life.”

He nodded.

“We must unite—but not only to defeat our enemies, but to stop our rivalries. An exchange of nobility will not be enough.”

“That failed the dead emperors.”

Often called the “dead emperors,” the past leaders of Florencia and Lucia were in fact the parents and grandparents of both Albion and Zanna.

“Yes,” she said with a heavy sigh.

Part of Albion wanted to hate Zanna—hate her family—hate the nobility of which she came from. Either he was too tired or too weak to remain hateful these past years.

That was nothing to say for the people of Florencia.

“The only way we can stop the hatred and bloodshed,” Zanna said, “is to unite. More fully.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I am suggesting an exchange of nobility.”

With a mild frown, he looked at her, confused. Had she really brought him here to suggest something that had failed in the past?

“What I mean,” she continued, “is a more… permanent exchange.”

“You are suggesting Florencian land titles be given to Lucian nobility and vice versa?”

She said nothing for a moment. “Yes,” she said. “And more.”

“More?”

“Marriage, Albion.”

He tried to hide his feelings of being taken aback at what she had just proposed.

“Yes,” she added. “Our noble houses must intermarry—from the lowest of the nobility… all the way up to the Emperor of Florencia and the Empress of Lucia. I see that look in your eyes. Do not discount what I am proposing. There has been so much bloodshed. I hate you, Albion. I want to kill you as I sit here with you, maintaining a proper demeanor of decorum and formality.”

Narrowing her eyes, she continued. “I want to strange you with my bare hands for what your mother and father did to my family. I want you and all of your descendants to lie dead and bleeding at my feet while I crack your skull with my boot.”

His heart was beating hard enough to make his chest hurt. Had she chosen to, she could indeed kill him here. He did not have the magical prowess to best her in a duel of magic.

Breathing in deeply, he made to speak, but Zanna interrupted him with a raise of her finger.

“It must stop. But when? When we are all dead? Shall we slink away from this meeting now and continue to kill one another until both of our empires are conquered by some outside foe? Shall we leave it to our descendants to settle the affairs that we—me and you—have the power to change?”

He looked at her, then. He wasn’t certain what to say—had not been expecting her to broach a suggestion so radical. Over the years, the two empires had tried various things to lessen hostilities, to attempt to bring the animosity down to a point where there could be peace.

This is not peace she is suggesting, but a merging of the empires like the days of old. But could this be possible?

“You look on at me as if I am a mad woman,” Zanna said.

“No,” he said. “I am… I do not know what to say.”

And that was the truth.

“Albion, you have always known me to be a woman of pride—and at times, of anger. But I am tired. We are all of us, tired.”

“How would… How do you suggest we get the houses to intermarry?” he asked, the thought of him marrying Zanna sitting before him coming into his mind.

The very idea almost seemed ludicrous!

She almost chuckled. “I can tell that you have doubts.”

“Doubts,” he said, “is an understatement.”

“Indeed.”

“But, I am not unwilling to entertain your idea. For the time being. But how?”

“I can only speak of my personal experience,” she said. “I hate Florencia. I hate your ancestors for killing the ones I love.”

“I know your feelings well, Zanna.”

“Yes. And yet, there are members of the Florencian nobility of whom I’ve never met, of whom have never met or killed my family. Why should I hate them?”

“Because they support those who have killed your family.”

She looked at him, her eyes intense.

He wondered after her thoughts.

“Perhaps,” she said. “And yet, with that logic, I should hate half the world for every war Lucia has ever fought. Am I not correct, Albion?”

“You are.”

“We know what must be done.”

“But… how?”

“We must hold a grand ball, here at the House of Gates.”

“Truly?”

“Yes!”

Despite her decorum and formal demeanor of propriety, he sensed an inner hotness about her, a furious burning inferno being tamped down—controlled.

“A grand ball such as the like the world has never seen,” she said. “Our noble houses will meet here, and none of us leaves until we have settled our differences.”

“Like children,” he said.

She smiled, her eyebrow raised and shrugged.

“And if we don’t? Don’t settle our differences?”

“Then we kill one another until there are none left to wage war on the other. Let the commoners sort out the empires of Florencia and Lucia without us.”

“Some may—“

“Call me mad?”

“Perhaps I am mad. But it would take madness to end this madness between our nations, Albion.”

“We are at war—even now. How can this come to pass—this dream?”

“We can no longer fight for our empires,” she said. “You and I—we must ally together—to fight for an end to this all.”

“What do you suggest?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Not now,” she said, glancing about as if someone might be listening. “That is enough for now. Let this be the first of our secret meetings, Albion. Say you will think on what we have discussed?”

The look in her eyes…

It was not one of beseeching, though that was his first impression. Empress Zanna Caelestinius was not one to beseech.

There was more there.

She was looking at him, as a woman looks at a man?

Surely not.

Clearing his throat, he stood. “I will… think on what you have told me tonight, Zanna.”

She stood as well.

“Then it has begun,” she said. “The start. Not Lucia against Florencia, but Emperor Albion and Empress Zanna against them both, as the future birth of a new empire, the seed of which has been planted—begins to grow.”

With a short bow, he said. “I bid you farewell, Empress.”

“And you,” she said with a nod, “Emperor.”

They parted ways there in the citadel drawing room.

Zanna, her heart beating faster than it had in months, walked toward the doors that opened up into the Lucia side of the House of Gates.

Her knights opened the doors for her. But before she passed through them, she did something she hadn’t done in years.

She glanced back into the chamber she had meant to leave. On the other side was Albion, looking on at her.

Even from the distance, she could see the shock—feel the shock—the apprehension on and within Albion.

And within herself most of all.

Gods forgive me if I am making a mistake.

Zanna turned and left the drawing room, her knights closing the gold gilded doors behind her. He looked on at those doors for a moment.

“My lord?”

She’s right, he thought. Florencia and Lucia can battle one another, locked in mortal war forever.

Until it destroys us both.

For the future, and the future of generations to come… a change had to happen. Would happen.

If the Emperor of Florencia did—and accomplished—what he thought to be only a dream.

But even the Gods allow dreams to come true sometimes…

Almost three years had passed since that strange and secret meeting between the imperial powers of Lucia and Florencia.

And now Maximilian Silvanus was leading a band of mounted knights against a rival Florencian knight by the name of Gabriela Farreli. In a way, these two were arch nemeses, having fought against one another on the field of battle half a dozen times.

Max’s only regret was that he was never able to catch Lady Farreli in the fray so he could kill her.

He was atop his horse, Inorio as his scouts came riding up.

“Tell me,” Max ordered.

“It is her, Lord Silvanus. Lady Farrali. She is leading a group of some fifty mounted knights. Our spies have confirmed that they carry large chests.”

“The gold,” Max said to no one in particular, though his men and friends surely heard, as they too were atop their horses, with him, ready to ride. There was Sir Hulio, Lord Drenna and of course, the commoner, but loved by the group, Jon.

This Florencian band had raided the Lucian countryside for weeks. And not for the first time. Max wanted to strike at something, cleave it in two.

“What is their direction?” he asked.

The lead scout glanced back toward where they had ridden up from. “They’re riding along the river—to meet a boat, no doubt so they can continue raiding.”

“As they always do,” Max said. He gritted his teeth. “It’s that lady bitch knight again,” he growled.

“She’s bold to come raiding thrice in one year,” Lord Drenna said as he leaned forward atop his horse.

“We’ll overtake her this time, my lord.” It was Sir Hulio. He grinned. “Do we ride?”

Max nodded and kicked his horse.

Behind him he heard Sir Hulio bellow, “WE RIDE!” to the company, and his forty knights thundered after him.

They rode quickly for a time, then slowed their horses to a trot and crossed the river to the side where Farreli was. They had to gallop quickly to get ahead of them, and with the treasure en toe, that was not difficult.

Their horses thundered across the bridge.

Max signaled for the band to turn as they trotted down the river toward Farreli and her group. Once they were visible, Max would order the general charge.

“Lord Drenna,” he called.

“Max?”

“I want you to take your knights left and then wheel into Farreli’s side. Smash them!”

“As you say.”

“Leave Farreli to me!”

Lord Drenna laughed. “I wouldn’t try to kill her before you if I was getting paid to do so, my friend.”

Max glanced at the other lord and smirked.

His scouts had galloped ahead in search of the enemy. Once they had them in their sights again, they would return to Max with the information.

And with that thought, his scouts appeared above the hills, the forests of darkwood trees providing a thick overhead canopy that blocked out the early morning light.

Galloping to meet Max, he pulled up short on his horse’s reigns and waited for the scout. He stopped not ten paces ahead, his horse kicking up mud and dirt in its haste to stop.

“Lady Farreli is over the next rise!” He pointed.

Narrowing his eyes, Max turned to his friend, Lord Drenna. “You know what to do!”

With a nod he galloped off, his men riding with him. The other twenty or so knights under his direct command waited for his signal. He tuned in his saddle. “You all know what to do! Kill as many of them as you can. If you find the loot, secure it and get away. Leave Lady Farreli to me. If you have a chance to capture her, do so.”

“For Lucia!” one knight cried.

The rest followed suit.

“Onward!” Max bellowed. Kicking his horse, he raced ahead of his knights.

The delay would give Drenna more time to maneuver his men into position, and once the fray began, Farreli wouldn’t know what was happening.

Max dismounted his horse and glanced about.

“We’re too late,” Jon Said.

Max glanced at the blonde-haired man. He was of a smaller stature with slightly watery eyes and a narrow chin.

Still glancing about, it was evident that his commoner friend was correct. Farreli and her knights were nowhere to be seen. On the ground were scattered remnants of a dozen campfires, some of them still smoking after being doused.

“Damn.” Max Said.

“We can still catch them if they’re on horseback,” Sir Hulio said. He hadn’t gotten off his horse.

“No,” Max said musingly as he followed some wheel tracks toward the water’s edge. He bent, pulled his riding gloves off and touched the tracks with his bare skin. “No, they’ve already boarded their boat. We’ll never catch them.”

Lord Drenna and his men rode up. “Max!” Drenna called.

Max stood up. “What is it, man?”

Dismounting, he stalked over to Max and put out his hand. In it, was a sealed letter.

The wax was marked with crossing rapiers over a coat of arms he didn’t recognize. But Max had a feeling he knew who wrote the letter.

Taking it, he broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. It read:

Dear Maxi,

As you well know, it is I, Gabriela Farreli who writes to you. We’re an inseparable pair, it seems. And… as it seems, I have bested you yet again in our little game of cat and mouse. How I wish I could pinch your cheek and tell you “Better luck next time!”

Sincerely yours,

Gabriela Farreli

With narrowing eyes, Max breathed out heavily, a strong sense of annoyance washing over him. He handed the letter to Drenna.

He took it, read, and then began laughing.

“I do not enjoy you laughing at my expense,” Max said.

“I am sorry, my friend. It is not you I laugh at, but this woman’s boldness. She’s like a mountain claw in heat.”

“That does not make me feel better, Drenna.”

“Hmm.” He tapped Max’s arm. “Perhaps you will capture her soon. But I wonder if you will know what to do once you have her?”

“I know very well what I will do!”

Sir Hulio and Jon did not request to see the letter. Even though they were both friends of Max, they were of a decidedly lower station than he, Jon particularly so. Such a request, especially after Drenna’s behavior would be ill suited indeed.

But Drenna, being Max’s equal, could react however he wished, short of being challenged to a duel of honor, that was.

Another rider came up and joined the group. Max looked at him, realizing he was not one of Max’s men. He was a royal courier of the army.

“My lord Silvanus?” he asked.

“Here,” Drenna said, pointing at Max with his black glove.

“Speak, man,” Max said. “What message do you bring me?”

The courier pulled out a letter from his satchel and handed it to Max. “Our Royal Emperor has commanded that all forces withdraw from the enemy at once.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Max asked. “We’re in Florencian territory, you fool—why do you give me this?”

“All aggressions are to be held back,” the courier said. “Read the letter, Lord.” Then he turned and asked, “Lord Drenna?”

“Here.”

“I have one for you as well, my lord.” He handed Drenna the letter.

The courier did not wait for Max and Drenna to do as he suggested, instead he mounted his horse and rode off, to some other group to deliver a similar letter no doubt.

Max ripped the letter open.

By royal decree, all hostilities to Florencia and her armies are to be henceforth stopped for a time, until a parley of the noble and royal houses of Lucia and Florencia have finished convening.

You, Maximilian Silvanus are commanded by our glorious emperor, Albion Justin of Florencia to make way to the House of Gates immediately.

The empires of Lucia and Florencia are to have a royal ball, such as like the world has never seen, where both sides will parley. It is time for this conflict to come to an end.

And so it shall be.

Albion Justin, Emperor of Florencia

“…sighed Albion Justin, Emperor of Florencia,” Drenna read, then lowered his own letter. “I do not understand.”

“It has the personal signature and seal of the emperor,” Max muttered. “Is yours addressed to you personally?”

Drenna nodded.

“A lot of care was taken to write, seal and send these letters.”

“Time taken out of Justin’s days,” Drenna added.

The very nature of a letter, signed and sealed by the emperor carried a certain weight—the kind of weight that could not be ignored. Should Max choose to disregard this letter, he could be stripped of his rank—possibly worse.

“Has something like this ever been done before?” Sir Hulio asked.

Max looked up at his friend and knight, feeling like he wanted to snap and gnash his teeth. “Never.”

“Well,” Drenna said. “I guess that means we can clean and sheath our swords.”

Damn, I was close.

“Don’t worry,” Drenna said as he tapped Max’s arm. “Lady Farreli can wait. Who knows—she might even be at this parley.”

“Ball,” Hulio said.

“Whatever.”

“I hope not,” Max said. “If I ever meet her in person, I’ll strangle her.”

Drenna laughed.

“Damn you, sir.”