Free The Last Praetorian by Christopher Anderson Page A

get this over with.”
    They walked out of a small back entrance to the citadel. It was a thick, narrow door meant for messengers and not befitting a princess, but Tarion did not want to subject Minerva to the carnage in the court. A small party of Senators and Elders waited with a carriage—they had knowledge of the curse and would be present for the coronation. Marshal Fanuihel was there along with Captain Nar, the chief of the surviving dwarves.
    Tarion helped Minerva in and then got in himself. The Praetorian and Ancenar sat on either side of her. Fanuihel, Nar and the Imperial Incantator Ankhura took the seats opposite them. The driver shook the reins and slowly the carriage made its way to the Palatine Hill. Behind the carriage, the party walked solemnly as if for a funeral. Even the horses seemed forlorn.
    Halfway there, Minerva lamented, “How I long for the first days of this age when I didn’t know every cobble of this way, every misstep of the horse, every chill breeze and every single one of your replies to my questions Praetorian!”
    Tarion thought hard, but try as he might, he couldn’t think of anything that Minerva hadn’t already heard. “It has always been my intention to be spontaneous for your entertainment; alas I’m a general not a jester.”
    “So you say, and say, and say Tarion,” she grimaced. “You would have made a tedious husband. My father was right. You are much better suited to an elven princess.”
    “Thank you for your kind consideration,” he replied dryly. Tarion thought of something new. It happened every once and a while, and while the conventions of a thousand years past would’ve stopped him he felt no such compulsion now. “Fortunately, your father did change his mind; else we’d have been married on this day for the last thousand years and you’d be enduring not only the ceremony but the wedding night—now don’t you feel better?”
    Minerva gasped and muttered something unintelligible. The carriage stopped at the entrance to the Pantheon, the great temple of the Creator. Waiting at her carriage door was an elderly man with snowy white hair and a long white beard. His robes were as white as his hair. He looked like a wizard except that he bore a golden sheppard’s crook instead of a staff. He welcomed the party and held out his hand to the Princess.
    “Welcome my empress to be. Welcome to you all! Alas, only the Gods of the Norse remain. Olympus fell under the onslaught. Therefore, Odin will be The Creator’s witness before the Gods. Come and let us begin!”
    The shock of the announcement wore off long ago— Olympus was no more. Only Asgard and the family of Norse Gods remained to guide men, elves and dwarves.
    He led them through a pair of tall gilded doors. The Pantheon was a large temple that could hold hundreds if not thousands. The painted dome was high overhead; it had a single crystal paned window directly in the center. A shaft of light came down from the window, working its way through the dusty air to fall upon the marble floor. The sound of their feet echoed throughout the temple.
    The ceremony was short, as everyone knew his or her place and purpose. Tarion stood next to Ancenar, trying not to look bored. He forced himself to watch the Bishop crown Minerva, the same thing he witnessed thousands upon thousands of times. There was rarely any variation to the ceremony. The crown settled on her dark hair and Minerva turned to the assemblage. She stepped forward into the shaft of light pouring down from dome.
    “Behold the empress of the Imperium!” the Bishop announced.
    A golden glow enveloped Minerva. She appeared surrounded by dancing diamonds. The crown gleamed with sparkling gems and polished gold. Despite her youth, Minerva looked every bit the empress. Tarion remembered the first years of the young empress’s reign; centuries of experience washed that doubt away and left her haughty and unhappy. This day, however, she smiled; as if she knew the