I.
The woman's ice-blue eyes studied Fedor's broad back as he sat on the edge of the bed, his face in his hands. "What's wrong, your majesty?" she asked, her voicing dripping with a sweetness like honey. Placing her hand on his left shoulder blade, she swept it to the other side and then down his spine, slowly, gently. She pulled herself closer to him until her bare breasts were touching his skin.
"Nothing, woman," he said, with muted force. Fedor threaded his hands through his golden hair, which he had allowed to grow out like a mane, and he let out a long breath before rising.
"No more time for play?" the young woman mused. She was still smiling, her face beautiful and her body young.
"Leave it be, Kassandra." His voice was harsh and she abruptly lost her glee, but not for long, as he turned around to put on his briefs. "We will see each other again. Perhaps tonight?" he inquired, although it was very nearly a statement. Fedor continued dressing as he waited for her response. He looked at her all the while, his eyes just as blue as hers, like the fabled Lake Voratoog not more than a day's travels from the palace.
"I suppose," she said, playfully, seductively. Kassandra lay on his bed, hiding nothing and proud of all. She traced an invisible line on the bed sheets with her finger.
Fedor had never seen himself here. His and Sofie's marriage had been a political convenience, but there had still been love between them. Somewhere in the midst of crisis and war that love had begun to dissipate and fade. That the marriage was falling apart was obvious to all except the public and the bureaucrats. Fedor still cared for his wife and, perhaps somewhere deep in his heart, there was still a love, a longing, for her, but it was fading and by now was only a whisper. A man's lusts are, after all, irrepressible and it was inevitable for him to come across Kassandra and the many women like her, all gorgeous, insatiable, and ambitious.
A silence fell upon the room that was only filled when she asked, "Will you stay here long? In Beda Fromm, I mean."
"No." His reply was brusque. "I leave for the Timocratic Republic tomorrow morning," he added, more softly this time. "I embark on a great hunt to find and kill some of this world's deadliest and mightiest creatures. My business in the city has concluded and I must move on." He buttoned the sleeves of his shirt.
"Business, Your Majesty? Are you not sure that you came here to see me?" Kassandra had not moved from where she lay. "What would dear Sofie think?"
Fedor smiled, but the muscles on his face had tensed. Shaking his head, he said, "Perhaps we won't see each other again tonight after all." With that, he whipped his jacket around his shoulders, nodded his head, and left the room through giant oak doors. Behind him, Kassandra rolled her eyes and fell back asleep.
It wasn't the first time he had seen her. It most likely wouldn't be the last. The Daughter of the Six Celestials, as she was known around here, was a woman one could not avoid for very long. Her stunning beauty was one thing, but she was also cunning and the daughter of the most powerful Frommian lord of them all — the deceased King Damian of House Goradaán. Kassandra Goradaán was a queen in all but title and absolute power, but one only dared to tell her that. It wasn't the ancestry or even her glamorous grace that brought Fedor back, though. He could find those things anywhere. What woman wouldn't attend to His Imperial Majesty's needs? No, there was more here than lust or ambition. Perhaps it was that she was the only woman other than Sofie who seemed to actually care for him, to truly want him. In these trying times, it was nice to be able to count on love. Oh, but what a mouth that woman had.
The emperor put those thoughts behind him as he walked down the colonnaded corridors of the palace, turning at intersections topped by honeycombed roofs that formed into domes above. Servants stopped where they walked or stood to bow as he passed, and he made sure to nod at each and every one of them in gratitude. A wise emperor rules with the privilege of happy subjects, Fedor's grandfather had told him once.
After walking for what seemed for the better part of a half an hour he finally arrived at one of the auto parks in the palatial complex, where his trusted bodyguard Ekrón and a chauffeur he did not recognize had been patiently waiting in expectation of his arrival. Hardly a word was spoken as the chauffeur opened the rear door to let the emperor and his bodyguard into the vehicle. He closed the door behind them and walked around the auto's nose to get into the driver's seat. All the while, a guard posted at the garage's exit opened the gate through which the vehicle peeled out.
"I was beginning to think you weren't coming, Your Imperial Highness," said Ekrón after some time, with the once the sprawling Palace of Baar Joceim and its countless bulbous, colorful domes was well behind them in full view of the car's rear window. "I figured that perhaps you were busy...attending to the Lady Kassandra."
Fedor arched an eyebrow at him. "No, but now that you mention her, take note to spread the order to bar her from the palatial premises tonight. I must not be distracted from what lies ahead."
Ekrón gave his lord a hard look, but one that Fedor did not notice. The stare lingered as if the bodyguard were trying to penetrate into his emperor's thoughts, perhaps to feel his pains or to know what troubled him. Almost an old man now, Ekrón had watched over Fedor ever since the man was a mere lad in the Kabera'al of Macabea. Duty prevented his retirement. But it never bothered Ekrón, who even at the ripe age of 47 believed himself more than fit to personally protect His Imperial Majesty. To him, it was a pleasure, an honor of the highest kind — the privilege of serving the emperor himself, who some still believed (including Ekrón himself) was the manifestation of Utu (the sun) herself. Fedor's pain was Ekrón's, and the man worried for his lord's health. Perhaps he would let Kassandra into the man's quarters, after all. Fedor needed to have his mind drawn away from what ailed him. He'd fire a palace guard as a scapegoat at no great cost.
A few seconds of silence transpired until Ekrón replied, finally, "As for what lies ahead, Kríerlord Sektora awaits our arrival to her summer estate. I am sure you are prepared."
The window between them and the driver was closed. No one could hear the bodyguard speak informally to the emperor, that is without reciting his lord's title. It did not perturb Fedor, of course. Ekrón was expected to speak in a straightforward manner when they were in private. Not because he was Fedor's bodyguard, but because they were almost kin. Ekrón would die for his emperor. "There is not much to say, really," was all the emperor said was in response.
"Easy to say, until the empire burns in your absence." The bodyguard looked at Fedor with unwavering eyes.
Fedor tisked. "You will not raise this matter again, Ekrón. My trip cannot be postponed and I am due some rest. With the wars, the family, and the pressures, I must get away and drain myself from it all so that I can come back in full spirits. This...adventure...will be good for me and for the empire, I promise you that." Ekrón did not seem sold, but the emperor continued on as if his bodyguard had wholeheartedly accepted his arguments, "Come now, let us speak of other matters. Tell me how we are doing across all fronts. Tell me of my people. I've been gone no more than two days and I am already left thirsty for management. Anything requiring last minute arrangements left with Sektora?"
Ekrón gave a deep, resigned sigh, but nevertheless moved on along to his lord's change of subject. "All fronts are stable. Gholgoth remains a bloodbath, the Theohuanacan pirates are still cornered, but alive, and the territories continue to burn beneath the insurgency. Holy Panooly is deteriorating, once again. Clashes between the Hakaras and the indigenous are escalating. As for New Empire, that quagmire is not so much news anymore. So, no, I suppose there is nothing new to note."
"Wonderful news," said Fedor, with apparent irony. "How are the children?"
"They are good," responded the bodyguard. "Elasny is doing well with the Priestesses. Karl is learning the classics. They all miss you." He did not say her name. The emperor had not asked about her.
"Arrange for them to visit me in the Timocratic Republic. They shall like to see the country and Karl must begin to meet those he may one day meet again as emperor. Sofie may come along as well, it would only be proper." There was a bit of resignation or uncertainty there. The state of the imperial marriage had worsened, to Ekrón that was obvious.
The bodyguard bit back his words and replied only by saying, "As you wish." And the two fell into silence as they rode through Beda Fromm to the other side of the city, where the vast rural estates of the old aristocracy still stood and prospered. Silently, though, Ekrón brooded as his mind twisted and turned in deep thought. The emperor's happiness was failing and an unhappy emperor could not rule effectively. Ekrón pondered his duty and hoped that the Timocratic hunting trip revived Fedor as much as the emperor thought it would, even if he knew it would not. Fedor's problems started with his family and that — and she — would still be there when he came back.
As for the rest of the day, it went just as the emperor had expected to. Sektora's summer estate was vast. It bordered the sea and along its coastal flank ran a long and narrow marina that spread into the water like reaching fingers. The manor house sat in the middle, surrounded by a campus of glass, concrete, and wood buildings that gave shape to Konen Teknolog — Sektora's tech corp kingdom. They weren't there long.
Final preparations for Fedor's brief voyage were concluded. Kríerlord Sektora would oversee day-to-day imperial duties until Fedor's return. She was a charming woman. Not exactly beautiful, but attractive undoubtedly. Dark-haired, green-eyed, and slender, she looked at His Imperial Majesty with seductive eyes. Apparently, the news of the fractioning marriage had spread. The emperor did not bite. By the early afternoon, they were traveling back through the city to the palace in the far south and it too was done in complete silence. Fedor dined in a smaller, hidden dining hall by himself and then went to his chambers, where Lady Kassandra awaited him...with nothing to wear.
Ekrón had let her in.
II.
Two mornings later, Fedor and Ekrón left for a small private airfield that the Imperial Family and Imperial representatives used to go to and from Beda Fromm without having to make a public arrival. The drive was a short one and along with the emperor and his head of security came two more officers, dressed in suits and carrying holstered handguns, with who know what else hidden throughout their bodies.
At the airfield awaited four others. One was a poet, who composed spectacularly lyrical stories around Fedor's legend. Another was a historian, who served to take more accurate notes — although, not too accurate. Some details were better not to be remembered, after all. A third was a photographer, who's job was to take stills, analyze them against criteria of propagandistic acceptability, and upload them to make the people proud of their leader. These women had worked with Fedor before, but the fourth person was here for the first time. He was the new cameraman after the last one had been eaten alive by a bear that had been trailing the emperor's hunting party during their last trip to the northern forests of Hailandkill. Apparently, the poor lad had fallen behind after Fedor hadn't noticed that the man had stopped to change a lens. Of course, the party keeps up with Fedor, not the other way around. All alone and vulnerable, the old cameraman had apparently made quite the tasty treat for the hungry, brown-coated fellow — of course, the bear had made a good dinner once it had been tracked down and vengeance sought.
They and the emperor did not speak, even when they were but two feet away from him. All orders were given through Ekrón, who usually gave it to one of the other two guards with him. But even the two bodyguards spoke little other than when instructed to. The four artists, as they were called, talked among themselves if they wished to talk at all, although if they talked too much or too loud an ominous look from Ekrón was enough to shut them up.
It did not take long to board the aircraft and take-off. His Imperial Majesty did not wait for anyone but himself, and so any checks and inspections were done before he and his party had even arrived. In under a half an hour they were on their way to the Timocratic Republic. Fedor voyaged in his private cabin, with a guard posted outside the hatch. Ekrón and the other bodyguard stayed with the four artists, who conversed with themselves and made liberal use of the aircraft's bar of wines, liquor, and spirits. A small group of flight attendants serviced them with drinks and food, their uniforms strangely scant and traditional in a way that was difficult to pin down. The emperor, of course, benefited from his own dedicated service.
Ekrón disappeared at times to report to and brief the emperor, including updates on the wars in the territories, satrapies, and in faraway Gholgoth, where two multi-billion-man armies slugged it out knee-deep in the Scandinvan rubbus plantations. They talked of the decisions that had to be made, and although Fedor had left the empire in the wise and capable hands of trusted Kríerlord Sektora, it would be unlike him to avoid giving direction at all. And so the emperor dictated his word and Ekrón stored it away to communicate it later over the phone to Sektora personally. Fedor left not one detail out, meticulously digesting the information that Ekrón told him and returning orders that left his representative with little room to extend her arms in. He could not but help it, of course, for his boundless energy was truly insatiable. When Ekrón reappeared in the main cabin he looked and seemed mentally drained, pale, and tired.
Fortunately, the flight was not long, as Fedor was one to grow anxious when confined for long periods of time and he detested long voyages — unless they were absolutely necessary, like the absolutely atrocious flight to Citadel City, deep within fiery Gholgoth. They flew by large, powerful hypersonic aircraft, as was becoming custom with the proliferation of GATA. It 'skipped' in the upper atmosphere, bouncing like a ball down the court. And so it was almost like no time at all had passed when they arrived in Atlanta only a few hours later.
Atlanta was a sprawling, extensive city of suburbs surrounded by rolling green hills and lush forests. In its center rose dozens of tall spires made of glass, steel, and concrete, and it bustled with human activity throughout.
"I know you already know the rules. But, it's protocol," started Ekrón, speaking to the four artists as the aircraft began to descend through the clouds from the dark upper atmosphere. "Plus, we have the new guy, William. When you are in the presence of His Imperial Majesty, you do not speak out of turn. Do not say anything unless you are asked to. When His Imperial Majesty is elsewhere or far enough ahead, or away, you may speak, ask the local questions, and act freely. Do not, I repeat, do not, speak directly to the emperor unless he addresses you first. If His Imperial Majesty asks you to leave or, in fact, asks you to do anything, you must do it. Immediately. I don't need to tell you ladies, but you William," he turned to the cameraman, "do not get yourself in trouble. Remember that you represent the empire and the emperor. That means no strip clubs, no prostitutes, no drugs. Got it?"
From the look on William's face, it seemed as if he wasn't sure whether to take it seriously or to laugh. The head bodyguard's face, however, did not communicate comedy. His stare was hard and his face as readable as a rock, dark brown eyes flat on the fidgeting man. "Yes, sir," said William finally, with a sharp, loud gulp.
"Don't pay him too much mind, he's just trying to scare you a little," whispered one of the women, giggling as she spoke, when Ekrón turned back in his seat and closed his eyes.
Fedor emerged from his cabin soon after the aircraft landed and taxied toward a remote area of the tarmac, far away from the low, tetris-like terminal complex of the airport. He wore a thick cape of curling fur skinned from a monstrous thornburn bear that he had killed in the predator-infested northern Killian forests. A metric ton and a half the beast had come out to. This was, of course, the same bear that had killed the last cameraman. It made for an impressive trophy that the emperor carried with him on the shoulders, wrapping around him like a sheet of armor. Beneath it he wore tight, rugged trousers tucked into tall brown boots that came up to just below his knees. Beneath the cape, draped around him like a coat as it was, he wore his white cuirass decorated with black scrollings depicting his many victories. Tall, slender, but muscular, he looked all the emperor that he was.
The bodyguard who had been at his door trailed him, and soon Ekrón and the other guard rose as well. The artists remained seated, waiting for Fedor and his security detachment to decend down to the tarmac. The last guard stayed behind to wait for the artists and direct them to their vehicle, once the emperor had gone through the greeting.
He was awaited by a small group of Timocratic State Department personnel flanked by two operatives who looked like a cross between elite soldiers and policemen. Fedor had heard of them before. Wardens they were called. In any case, there was not much fanfare. They welcomed His Imperial Majesty to the Timocratic Republic and then directed him to one of the vehicles sitting behind him. Ekrón spoke for Fedor, although the emperor frequently whispered orders in his ear. The four artists were quickly ushered out of the aircraft — their equipment would be taken to their destination for them — and rushed into another vehicle that trailed to the rear of the mini-convoy. The cars ahead of them barely waited for them to buckle in before rolling forward.
As Ekrón and the other guards spoke to their hosts, a stoic Fedor looked out the tinted windows silently. He had looked forward to this adventure. But there was a look of some gloom about him, as if he knew that this was all just a distraction.
