Free The Last Praetorian by Christopher Anderson Page B

answer to a riddle, no one else had thought of.
      The empress was in the habit of giving a very brief address after the coronation, but this time she waited until the silence became palpably uncomfortable. She looked over the nobles, elves and the generals and said, “It has been an age since I first took up this tasking and every day since I fulfilled my father’s wishes and the Imperium’s need. Not so today, for I perceived a need to flaunt convention even to the point of disregarding the wishes of the Gods.”
    Tarion’s brows drew together in stunned consternation. A hush settled over the temple. What could she mean? He glanced at Ancenar but the elf was equally puzzled.
    Minerva smiled at the new vitality of doubt in the guests. She soaked it in for a moment, and announced, “I will take a different path than that appointed for me in the past. I will take a husband this day and right the wrongs of my father.” She looked directly at Tarion and held out her hand. “Tarion Praetorian, come and take the hand of your empress! As my father the emperor promised so shall you receive; come hither!”
    “My empress,” Tarion began, but she cut him off.
    “I will take no counsel on this . I will, if necessary order you; come to me my husband!” She held out her hand to him again. Tarion felt his heart caught in his throat, but he had no choice. The empress gave him a tasking and he was by Imperial law and tradition bound to accept it. He stepped forward.
    Thunder rumbled. The shaft of light pouring through the dome went dark. Torches fluttered in a sudden wind. Minerva ignored it all and said imperiously, “I defy the very earth if necessary! Take my hand Tarion and so shall the Holy See of the Creator bind us together as one flesh!”
    Tarion straightened his purple cloak, set his already square jaw and reached for her hand.
    “Do not touch her Tarion Praetorian!”
    It was a woman’s voice that rang through the temple, punctuated by thunder, accentuated by lightning. It was deeper, more poignant, and more powerful than that of the empress, steeped in vivacity and enchantment.
    The assembly stared behind the empress. Furious, Minerva stomped her foot and whirled to face the voice that stopped her wedding. A swath of darkness stood between two pillars at the end of the hall. From the darkness emerged a great silky-bronze horse with a golden mane and tail, a Pegasus with wings folded. Astride the stunning creature was a beautiful and imperious woman. She was wild, a daughter of the storm, perilous and enthralling. Long tresses of hair framed a tanned face at once beautiful and imperious. Eyes of sapphire blue sparkled in the gloom. Her hair cascaded like a mountain waterfall from beneath her helm, tumbling like frothing waves of sun bronzed wheat over her shoulders. A cloak of dark green edged with lion trailed behind her. She was clothed as a huntress with tall boots, leather raiment edged with gold, and a black dragonscale vest and gloves. She was wondrous to behold in a voluptuous mortal manner.
    “Lady Freya! ” the Bishop gasped.
    Tarion’s breath stopped, his tongue clove to his pallet and his limbs froze. The blood rushed to his head. He didn’t want her to see him thus, but she looked right past Minerva and her dire blue eyes locked on his.
    “Hello Tarion, it’s been an age since we last met,” she smiled. Goddess that she was, Freya didn’t hide her feelings; rather she enjoyed the effect she had on the great of the world—especially one specific Praetorian, Tarion. The lusty possessiveness of her smile was at once coquettish and sincere. The Goddess did indeed love Tarion in her own way. She paid him a level of attentiveness that few earned; yet she demanded absolutely that he return that attention with boundless adoration.
    The Norse Goddess of the hunt moved so that her Pegasus looked down upon the little empress of Roma, snorting at the monarch and pawing at the marble. Freya looked at the