Of Kings and Killers (Elder Empire Sea #3) - WIll Wight Page 0,61

had included a request for funds or manpower to support their efforts.

The governors would only listen to him if he had the power to back them up. The Regents had wanted to empower the governors to act independently, but that was clearly a mistake. The governors couldn’t be relied on to act for the greater good.

Maybe Calder could find a solution if he could speak with Jorin Curse-breaker, but the Independents were ignoring his messages.

Worse, he suspected they were killing the messengers.

Only one, the courier from the Magister’s Guild, had returned. He had reported delivering the sealed message into the hands of a personal aide to a Guild Head, but there had been no response from the Independents whatsoever.

Even if he could assume the other messages had been waylaid, at least one had made it through. Odds were, more had gotten through as well.

They were ignoring him.

He handed the Dylian governess’ message back to the servant that had delivered it to him in the first place, then took a deep breath, organizing his thoughts.

He was dressed in the Emperor’s old clothes today, layers of red and orange and gold like a sunset, with the silver Steward’s crown on his head. He didn’t need the wrestle against the authority of the Emperor’s Intent today, and if he had to compel his next visitors to do anything, he’d already lost.

Though he did wish General Teach was at his side as he addressed the remaining Champions.

Calder strode out into the Emperor’s throne room, which was like stepping into a mural of the Elder War.

Scenes of battle painted on the walls merged seamlessly with images of a littered battlefield on the floor and a smoke-darkened sky on the ceiling.

The depictions and the shape of the room cooperated to draw the eye to one place: the throne. It was opulent, imposing, and a reminder of its long history in Imperial culture.

His remaining Champions waited for him. Kern had brought very few of his Guild in the first place, and after the debacle in the Imperial Palace and Kern’s death, even fewer remained.

“The Independents have ignored our messages,” Calder said as he strode across the floor toward his throne. “Clearly, they are not interested in talking.”

His throne was a small, plain seat of polished wood at the base of the stairs leading up to the Emperor’s throne. At this point in his career, he had decided that it would demonstrate too much ego to take visitors while sitting on the Emperor’s ancient seat.

Even if his true throne had been the Optasia, almost no one knew that. This was the seat that represented the Empire.

Calder lounged as well as he could in his lesser chair, throwing a leg over the side in deliberate imitation of Ozriel. “If they don’t want to talk, I can only conclude they want to fight. That’s your department.”

He had been trying to ignore the fact that there were only two Champions before him.

Rosephus was smaller than most Champions tended to be—meaning that he was the size of an average man but muscled like an Izyrian statue—and he had weapons strapped everywhere.

Everywhere.

There was a sheathed dagger strapped to the back of his neck, and his helmet looked like it was made from the head of a hammer.

Calder knew Rosephus was deadly, as he must have been to have survived Champion training, but he looked ridiculous. His breastplate was a bunch of swords strapped strategically to his chest. The one practical aspect of the costume was that Calder had no clue which of the many exotic and strangely positioned weapons was the man’s Soulbound Vessel.

The second Champion, Tyria, hadn’t brought any weapons at all.

She had the naturally tan skin and brown hair of a Vandenyas native, and while she was a head taller than Rosephus and just as broad in the shoulders, she looked like she might have stolen her outfit from a milkmaid.

He had lived with Urzaia for years, and he had still never seen a Champion so casual. Urzaia often slept in his armor, and always kept his weapons close to hand. Tyria’s hair was tied in a loose bun and she carried a greasy paper wrap from which she was munching on something fried.

“And it looks like there will be plenty of fights to go around, if it’s just the two of you,” Calder added.

He masked his irritation; he had invited six Champions to this meeting, though he had expected the woman called Twelve to decline. She had been neutral to