Read Online Aegis of The Gods: Book 00 - The Shadowbearer by Terry C. Simpson - Free Book Online

the city ascending on the lower slopes. The crowds grew thicker as they drew closer to the massive amphitheater built squarely between the ending of the slums and the beginning of the middle class’ brick and mortar edifices. People hung out the amphitheater’s windows, cheers rising in a roar to drown out all else. They showered the soldiers with flowers. A few women flashed their privates to the amusement and appreciation of several warriors.
    Their surroundings changed to more affluent neighborhoods, cleaner streets and a network of drains to carry the stink of sewage away from the city, and so did the people’s garb. Rich wool and moleskin blends became the main fare among the folk. Choice of clothing again altered as they trekked even farther into the Upper City. The people here wore the most expensive silks and satins but made certain to cover their shoulders in ermine scarves or cloaks. The avenues widened, became pristine, and lined by gardens, fountains, colonnades, and villas, many with spires rising into the sky against the backdrop of the Cogal Drin’s expansive fangs.
    The Royal Palace sprouted before them, Seti’s Quaking Forest flying from the highest points. Stefan frowned at the omission of the Tribunal’s Lightstorm banner. The castle reminded Stefan of a delicate off–white flower tinged with blue on its towers, spires, and parapets. The rugged battlements, the guards with watchful eyes, hands on weapons, and the many murder holes lining the castle’s surface proved the appearance to be a lie. The Royal Palace was a fortress.
    Still, no sign of his wife. Hopeful that one woman he picked out with velvet hair almost to her waist and a lithe frame could be Thania, he paced a little ways from his men. His heart sank when she turned, and an unknown face greeted him.
    “People of Benez.” Nerian’s voice boomed above the din. The King stood on the palace’s walls with his arms outstretched, golden armor glinting. His lone bodyguard, dressed all in black with a long cloak to match, was only a few feet away. The noise from the crowd died. “I give you … the Unvanquished.”
    Wild cheers followed. People danced and capered in the streets and threw hats high. Many showered the army with flowers.
    “In honor of their return,” the King’s deep voice rose higher still over the cacophony, “games will be held in two months.”
    The jubilation pitched to new heights. A tap on Stefan’ arm made him glance down.
    “The King requires your presence immediately.” The man who spoke wore black. He was of average height with a face plain enough to fit in anywhere, but Stefan never forgot those eyes. The way the silver flecks within them shifted to hide the green of his irises was disconcerting and made them appear to witness everything at once. The man was Nerian’s bodyguard, Kahar.
    How had he gotten down from the walls so quickly? Taken aback, Stefan paused for a few moments before he nodded, tossed his helm to Garrick, then dismounted to follow Kahar.
    Without the bodyguard speaking or even making a gesture, the crowds parted before the sinuous man. Each person appeared oblivious to his presence, yet still made room for him to pass. Together, they strode up the steps, into the western tower, around winding stairs, and onto the battlements.
    “Stefan,” King Nerian proclaimed. A wide smile on a face still wearing the past summer’s tan made him appear a darker shade than his usual olive. The King did not look as if he aged a day.
    “Sire,” Stefan replied, going to one knee.
    “Oh, my son, stop, no need for formality. Not here.” Nerian strode over, and they embraced, the King having to bend a ways to get his arms around Stefan.
    Stefan was not a small man. At a little over six feet, he was taller than many a Setian, but next to the King he always felt small and not only from the man’s stature. Nerian was at least a foot, maybe two, taller than him. The King often reminded Stefan of the