A Rite of Swords (Book #7 in the Sorcerer's Ring) by Morgan Rice Page A

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to make sure he had a throne left to come back to. His move had emboldened the
Council; they now acted as if they had real authority over Romulus. And Romulus
had to, for the time being, suffer the indignity of having to answer to these
people. They were all hand-picked cronies of Andronicus, people Andronicus had
entrenched to assure his throne would never die. The Council searched for any
excuse to strengthen Andronicus and weaken any threat to him—especially
Romulus. And Romulus’ defeat left them a perfect opening.
    Romulus marched all the way to
the shining capitol building, a huge, black, round building that rose high into
the sky, surrounded by golden columns, with a shining golden dome. It flew the
banner of the Empire, and embedded over its door was the image of a golden lion
with an eagle in its mouth.
    As Romulus climbed its hundred
golden steps, his men waited at the base of the plaza. He walked alone, taking
the steps to the capitol doors three at a time, his weapons clanking against
his armor as he went.
    It took a dozen servants to open
the massive doors at the top of the steps, each fifty feet high, made of
shining gold with black studs throughout, each embossed with the seal of the
Empire. They opened them all the way, and Romulus felt the cold draft rip
through, bristling the hairs on his skin as he marched into the dim interior.
The huge doors slammed shut behind him, and he felt, as he always did when
entering this building, as if he were being entombed.
    Romulus strutted across the
marble floors, his boots echoing, clenching his jaw, wanting to be done with
this meeting and on to more important things. He had heard a rumor of a
fantastical weapon, right before coming here, and needed to know if it was
true. If so, it would change everything, shift the balance entirely in his
power. If it really existed, then all of this—Andronicus, the Council—would no
longer mean anything to him. In fact, the entire Empire would finally be his.
Thinking of this weapon was the only thing keeping Romulus confident and
assured as he marched up yet another set of steps, through another set of huge
doors, and finally into the round room that held the Grand Council.
    Inside this vast chamber was a
black, circular table, empty in its center, with a narrow passageway for one to
enter. All around it sat the Council, in twenty-four black robes, sitting
sternly around the table, all old men with graying horns and scarlet eyes,
dripping red from too many years of age. It was humiliating for Romulus to have
to face them, to have to walk through the narrow entry into the center of the
table, to be surrounded by the people whom he had to address. It was
humiliating to be forced to turn every which way to address them. The entire
design of this room, this table, was just another one of Andronicus’ intimidation
tactics.
    Romulus stood there in the center
of the room, in the silence, for he did not know how long, burning up. He was
tempted to walk out, but he had to check himself.
    “Romulus of the Octakin Legion,”
one of the councilmen formally announced.
    Romulus turned and saw a skinny,
older councilmen, with hollow cheeks and graying hair, staring back at him with
scarlet eyes. This man was a crony of Andronicus, and Romulus knew he would say
anything to curry Andronicus’ favor.
    The old man cleared his throat.
    “You have returned to Volusia in
defeat. In disgrace. You are bold to come here.”
    “You have become a reckless and
hasty commander,” another councilmen said.
    Romulus turned to see scornful
eyes staring back at him from the other side of the circle.
    “You have lost thousands of our
men in your fruitless search for the Sword, in your reckless confrontation with
the dragons. You have failed Andronicus and the Empire. What have you to say
for yourself?”
    Romulus stared back, defiant.
    “I apologize for nothing,” he said.
“Retrieving the Sword was of importance to the Empire.”
    Another old