Free Protector of the Flame by Isis Rushdan Page A

of Abbadon, a welcomed sight. They clasped each other’s forearms in the traditional greeting of friends.
    “Where is Serenity?” Abbadon asked, looking back at the warriors that accompanied him from New York.
    Cyrus kept walking. “Has the Council convened?”
    His old friend and most trusted advisor narrowed his eyes at the deflection. “The Triumvirate is in chamber awaiting you and your kabashem .”
    Avoiding eye contact with as many of his kinsmen as possible, Cyrus headed toward the ceremonial chamber. Abbadon placed a hand on his shoulder, urging him to stop, but Cyrus drove onward.
    “Tell me what happened,” Abbadon said in a low voice. “Is Serenity well?”
    “I don’t know.” Cyrus met Abbadon’s bewildered eyes and stopped. “I’m only going to explain once. If you want to know what happened, I suggest you come with me.”
    Minerva, the Lady in charge of all servants, cooks and the proper running of the House, broke through a crowd and seized an opening provided by Cyrus’s miscalculation in halting. Beaming as the others had, with flowers in her arms, she gave a deep curtsy, silken skirt swirling around her ankles.
    “Lord Cyrus, praise be to the Creator you’ve returned.” Rising, she looked around, undoubtedly in search of his kabashem . “Shall your consort, Lady Serenity, share your quarters or will she have her own?”
    “Serenity and I were sealed. She’s my uxora , not my consort.” The words left his mouth with a sharp edge he didn’t intend.
    Minerva bowed her head. “A thousand pardons. I meant no disrespect.” She glanced around again, resuming her search. “Will she be along shortly? I have to make preparations and ensure attendants are ready to receive—”
    “My chambers will suffice,” he snapped, his patience shredded to a thread after the long flight. “No other preparations are needed.” He pivoted and left before more questions ensued.
    The intricately carved double doors of the ceremonial chamber loomed ahead, the Eye of Herut engraved in the center of each. Dazzling emeralds the size of his hand were set as the pupils. Abbadon increased his pace to open the door for Cyrus.
    Drawing in a breath, he tamped down the sickening sting of failure churning his stomach, but nothing would abate the sense he was less than whole since being separated from his mate. He crossed the gleaming onyx floor, approaching the three Council members perched on gold thrones studded with jewels. In the center sat Lord Constantine, his grandfather. To be nearly a thousand years old, his weathered face and age-spotted bald head looked remarkably dignified.
    At Constantine’s right hand was the stunning Lady Leta, his maternal aunt and consort-misère of his father. On Constantine’s left sat Lord Orazio.
    Cyrus lowered to one knee, head bowed.
    “It warms our hearts to have you back at Herut,” his grandfather said.
    “Rise.” Lady Leta’s voice overflowed with enthusiasm. “Where is your kabashem ? It would bring us immense pleasure to meet her.”
    Cyrus pulled himself to his feet, straightening his spine and clasping his hands behind his back. He opened his mouth and spewed the details he’d concealed from them about the last two weeks in New York. Every word uttered—the prediction of a crazed oracle, Sekhem’s battle-guard discovering Serenity, Seshata’s visit and invitation to Aten—sucked joy from their faces.
    Then he shared the events of his honeymoon and the devastating tragedy of their loss.
    Lord Orazio stroked his gray mustache in contemplation. Leta clutched her chest, lips pinched, swaying as if she might faint.
    Constantine gripped the arms of his solid gold chair until metal squealed beneath his fingers. “You dared lie to us?” Surprise overwhelmed anger in his tone.
    “I didn’t lie.”
    “An omission is a lie!” His voice rang in the chamber, echoing off the stone walls. “Then you take it upon yourself to let your kabashem run off to House Aten