Free The Last Praetorian by Christopher Anderson

and said gravely, “Now you understand what it is to be an elf.”
    Tarion looked at him; he’d spent an entire age with this elf. They knew each other better than anyone could possibly imagine, for they knew each day would play again. They talked of different things, read the scrolls of the library, played chess—they took each day as if it were a different day—yet when the new day dawned it began just as the old one did.
    Ancenar sighed, “You feel the weariness of day after day but to elves that is life. Perhaps it is why it takes so much to move us; perhaps that is why most mortals see us as detached.” Ancenar looked into his eyes. “You must not let that cloud your judgment. It is a gift to you Tarion. You’ve profited by it.” The elf smiled sadly, looking around the court at the dead elves, dwarves and Praetorians. “Alas, it has not helped our people. You feel the days, my friend and I feel their deaths. That is what wears on me.”
    “I feel that as well, Ancenar,” Tarion nodded. He headed for the door to the citadel. “Very well, as I’m the last Praetorian there is no council to be called—it’s up to me. Let’s find Minerva and invest her as the new empress.” That didn’t prove to be difficult; she was looking out over the smoldering city from the citadel balcony, just as she had for the last age.
    “Does it have to be this way,” she asked when they entered ? She no longer noted their entrance. While most mortals and immortals knew nothing of the Dragonheart curse, Ancenar thought it best to inform Minerva of it. She glanced at them as they approached the balcony. Her eyes were hard as flint. Her expression was featureless, neither angry nor happy. “You told me long ago to use this time to my advantage Lord Ancenar. I’ve done as you asked. I know every scroll in the Imperial library, every language of men and elves and dwarves, every facet of history—what does it gain my realm or me? We are still under the curse. Face it, the Wanderer is not coming.”
    “Minerva, it’s time to go to the Pantheon. Everyone will be there waiting for us,” Tarion told her.
    “I know,” she said. She followed them down the stairs. Halfway down, she said, “I was serious about what I said—the Wanderer is not coming.” Her voice echoed in the stairwell.
    Tarion was in front and Ancenar was behind Minerva. The Praetorian didn’t even bother glancing back at the soon to be empress. “We’ve had this conversation before.”
    “I want to know why.”
    “So do we all Minerva.”
    “Do not be so informal with me,” she snapped. “I hate it when you do that Praetorian! Remember that I am your empress!”
    “Not yet you’re not; not this today at least,” Tarion growled with his signature half-strangled laugh. The girl is feeling the years. How can I blame her, I feel the same way. He took a deep breath and tried to soothe her. “Listen, Minerva when we come through this you’ll be the most learned ruler in the history of the Imperium. We’ve been through darkness it’s true, but there’s always light shining somewhere. Ancenar has been reminding me of that for the last age.”
    She stopped on the stair, her eyes suddenly welling up with tears. Burying her face in her hands, she sobbed, “An age; we’ve been trapped here for an entire age! When is it going to end? Where is this Wanderer—what if he doesn’t come—we’ll be trapped here forever?”
    Tarion stopped, reaching for her, but then he lowered his hand. She was right again. They’d debated that very point hundreds, thousands of times. There was nothing new to say; they had no more answers. He looked to Ancenar. This time the elven lord took the girl by the shoulders and comforted her.
    “Minerva, you are not alone in this,” he said. “We don’t have the answers, but you know that all of us are asking the same questions that you are. You’re not alone.”
    The princess dried her tears, sniffing, “Very well, let’s