Percepliquis

CHAPTER 3

Get out of the way!” Hadrian shouted, his voice booming through the corridor. He stood just a few feet from the guard glaring at him, breathing on him. The two guards who watched from the end of the hall ran forward. He heard their chain mail jingling, their empty scabbards slapping their thighs. Both stopped short of sword’s length.

“It’s the Teshlor,” one warned in a whisper.

The soldier who blocked the door stood his ground. Hadrian sensed the tension, the fear, the lack of confidence, but he also felt the courage and loyalty that refused to let him waver. He usually respected such qualities in a man, but not this time. This man was merely in his way.

Behind him, a latch lifted and a door creaked. “What’s going on?” a befuddled woman’s voice asked.

Hadrian glanced. It was Amilia. She shuffled forward, wiping her eyes and fumbling with the tie of her robe.

“I need to speak to the empress,” he growled. “Tell them to stand down.”

“It’s the middle of the night!” she exclaimed in a whisper. “You can’t see her. If you want, I’ll try to arrange an appointment in the morning, but I must tell you, Her Eminence is very busy. The news-”

Hadrian’s hands rose and he took hold of his sword grips. The three soldiers tensed and all but the door guard took a step back. The man before him let his own hand settle slowly on his weapon but he did not pull it.

This guard is a cool one, Hadrian thought, and took another half step closer, until their noses nearly touched. “Get out of my way.”

“Hadrian? What are you doing?” This time it was Arista’s voice echoing down the hallway.

“I’m seeking an audience with the empress,” he said through gritted teeth. He broke his stare to turn and see the princess trotting up the fifth-floor corridor. As always these days, she was dressed in Esrahaddon’s robe, which was a dull blue and, at the moment, only reflected the fire of the torches hanging in the wall sconces.

“They have him locked up. They won’t even let me see him,” Hadrian told her.

“Royce?”

“He didn’t want to kidnap the empress, but he would have done anything to get Gwen back. They should give him a medal for killing Saldur and Merrick.” Hadrian sighed. “Gwen died in his arms and he wasn’t thinking straight. He never meant to harm Modina. I found out he’s being held in the north tower. I don’t think Modina even knows. So I’m going to tell her. Don’t try and stop me.”

“I’m not,” she said. “I have to see her as well.”

“What for?”

The princess looked uncomfortable. “I had a bad dream.”

“What?”

“No one is seeing the empress tonight!” Amilia declared. Six more guards arrived, trotting toward them. “I’ll turn out the whole castle regiment if I have to!”

Hadrian glanced at the imperial secretary. “Do you think they’ll stop me?”

“The door has a bolt on the inside,” the door guard said. “Even if you got past us, there’s half a foot of solid oak in your way.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Arista assured them. “But I should warn you, I can’t be responsible for wounds from flying splinters.” Her robe began to glow. It gave off a hazy gray light that slowly brightened, bleaching their faces and weakening the torch-fed shadows. Hadrian noticed a faint breeze in the corridor. A warm wind was rising, swirling around Arista like a tiny cyclone, fluttering the hem of her robe and the ends of her hair.

Amilia stared, horrified.

“Open the door, Amilia, or I’ll remove it.”

Amilia looked as if she might scream.

“Let them in, Gerald.” The voice emanated from the other side of the door.

“Your Eminence?”

“Yes, Gerald. It isn’t locked. Let them in.”

The door guard lifted the latch and gave a push. The door swung inward, revealing the darkness of the imperial bedroom. Amilia said nothing. She was breathing faster than normal, her fists clenched at her sides. Hadrian entered first, with Arista behind, both followed by Amilia and Gerald.

It was cold in the bedroom. The fireplace was dark and the only light came in through the open window in the far wall. To either side, sheer white curtains billowed inward, dancing in the faint moonlight like a pair of ghosts. Dressed in only her nightgown, Empress Modina rested on the floor, looking out at the stars. She sat on her knees, hands in her lap, her shoulders drawn up against the cold. Bare toes poked out from within the pool of white linen that gathered around her. Blonde hair fell down her back in tangles. She appeared much like the girl Hadrian had seen under the Tradesmen’s Arch in Colnora so long ago.

“They arrested Royce,” Hadrian told her. “They’ve locked him in a cell in the tower.”

“I know.”

“You know?” he said incredulously. “How long have-”

“I ordered it.”

Hadrian stared at her, stunned. “Thrace-I mean, Modina,” he said softly. “You don’t understand. He never meant to harm you. He only did what he had to. He was trying to save the person he loved most in the world. How could you do this to him?”

At last she turned. “Have you ever lost the one person in the world that meant everything to you? Did you watch them die, knowing it was your fault?”

Hadrian said nothing.

“When my father was killed,” she continued, looking back out the window, “I remember I found it almost too painful to breathe. I had not just lost my father; it was as if the whole world had died, but somehow I was left behind-alone. I just wanted it to end. I was tired. I wanted the pain to stop. If I had the chance-if they hadn’t taken me away, if they hadn’t locked me up, I would have thrown myself into the falls.” She turned and looked at Hadrian once more. “Believe me. He is well cared for-at least, as much as he will allow. Ibis makes him good meals that he doesn’t eat. Can you think of a better place for Royce right now?”

Hadrian’s shoulders slumped; his arms fell loose at his sides. “Can I at least see him?”

Modina thought a moment. “Yes, but only you. In his present state, he is a danger to anyone else. Still, I’m not sure he will hear you. You can visit him in the morning.” She leaned over so she could see Amilia. “Can you see to it that he has access?”

“Yes, Your Eminence.”

“Good,” the empress said, then looked at Arista. “Now what is it that you have that can’t wait until morning?”

The Princess of Melengar stood shifting her feet, folding and refolding her hands before her, the robe a tranquil dark blue. She looked at the empress, then at Hadrian, Amilia, and even Gerald, who stood stiffly just inside the door. When her eyes once more returned to Modina, she said, “I think I know how to stop the elves.”

Hadrian had just descended to the third floor, where several people were returning to their rooms now that all the shouting had died down. He caught a glimpse of Degan Gaunt. The ex-leader of the Nationalists stood in his nightshirt, peering up the steps, both curious and irritated. This was the first time Hadrian had seen the man since the two of them had been released from the dungeon. His neck and nose were narrow, and his lips were so thin they were almost nonexistent. There were creases across his brow and lines about his eyes that spoke of a hard life. Hadrian could tell by the way he carried his weight, and the motions of his body, that he felt awkward, lost in his own skin. He had a faraway look in his eyes, two days’ growth of beard, and a plume of hair that hung out of place. If he had to guess, Hadrian might have pegged him as a poor poet. He seemed nothing like the descendant of emperors.

“What’s going on up there?” Gaunt asked a passing servant.

“Someone looking to see the empress, sir. It’s over now.”

Gaunt appeared dubious.

This was not how Hadrian had planned on meeting Gaunt. Hadrian had waited, giving them both time to fully heal. After that, he hesitated out of nerves. He wanted their meeting to go well, to be perfect. This was not perfect, but now that they stood face to face he could hardly walk away.

“Hello, Mr. Gaunt, I am Hadrian Blackwater,” he said, introducing himself with a bow.

Degan Gaunt greeted him with his nose crinkled up as if he smelled something bad. He critically observed Hadrian, then frowned. “I thought you’d be taller.”

“I’m sorry,” Hadrian apologized.

“You’re supposed to be my servant, right?” Gaunt asked. He began walking around Hadrian, orbiting him in slow, lazy circles, carrying a frown around with him.

“Actually, I’m your bodyguard.”

“How much am I expected to pay for this privilege?”

“I’m not asking for money.”

“No? What is it, then? You want me to make you a duke or something? Is that why you’re here? Boy, people come out of the woodwork when you’ve got money and power, I guess. I mean, I don’t even know you and here you come begging for privileges before I’m even crowned emperor.”

“It’s not like that. You’re the Heir of Novron; I am the defender of the heir, just like my father before me. It’s a… tradition.”

“Uh-huh.” Gaunt stood slouching, sucking on his teeth for a moment before jamming his pinky finger into his mouth to struggle with something caught between them. After a few minutes, he gave up.

“Okay, here’s what I don’t get. I’m the heir. That makes me head of the empire, and head of the church. I’m even part god, if I get that right-great-great-grandson of Maribor or some kind of which or whether. So if I’m gonna be emperor and have a whole castle of guards and an army to protect me, what do I need you for?”

Hadrian didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what he could say. Gaunt was right. His role as bodyguard was only important so long as the heir was in hiding.

“Well, guarding you is sort of a family tradition that I would hate to break,” he finally told Gaunt. The words sounded silly even to him.

“You any good with a sword?”

“Pretty good.”

Gaunt scratched his stubbly chin. “Well, since you aren’t charging anything, I guess I’d be stupid not to take you on. Okay, you can be my servant.”

“Bodyguard.”

“Whatever.” Gaunt waved at him as if shooing away a pesky fly. “I’m going back to bed. You can wait outside my door and do your guard thing if you like.”

Gaunt returned to his room and Hadrian waited outside, feeling decidedly foolish. That had not gone as well as he had hoped. He failed to impress Gaunt, and he had to admit, Gaunt did nothing to impress him. He did not know what exactly he had expected. Maybe he thought Gaunt would be the embodiment of the noble poor. A man of staggering integrity, a beacon of enlightenment, who had grown out of the earth’s salt and struggled to the pinnacle. Sure, his standards were high, but after all, Degan was supposed to be part god. Instead, just being near him made Hadrian want to go bathe.

He leaned against the wall outside the door, looking up and down the quiet hallway.

This is ridiculous. What am I doing?

The answer was obvious-nothing. But there was nothing to do. He had missed his opportunity and was now useless.

From somewhere inside, he heard Gaunt begin to snore.

The next morning Hadrian found Royce sitting on the floor of the cell, his back resting against the wall, one knee up, cocked like a tent pole. His right arm rested on it, his hand hanging limp. He wore only his black tunic and pants. His belt and boots were missing, his feet bare, the soles blackened with dirt. He hung his head back, tilted upward resting against the wall and revealing a week’s worth of dark stubble that covered his chin, cheeks, and neck. Lengths of straw littered his hair and clothing, but on his lap lay a neatly folded, meticulously clean scarf.

He did not look up when Hadrian entered the cell. He was not sleeping-no one could get this close to Royce without his waking, but more obviously, his eyes were open. He stared at the ceiling, not seeing it.

“Hey, buddy,” Hadrian said, entering the cell.

The guard closed the door behind him. He heard the lock slide in place. “Call me when you want out,” he told Hadrian.

The cell had a small window near the ceiling, which cast a square of light where the wall and floor met. Through its shaft, he could see straw dust lingering in the air. A cup of water, a glass of wine, and a plate of potato and carrot stew sat beside the door. All untouched, the stew having dried into a solid brick.

“Am I interrupting breakfast?”

“That was dinner,” Royce said.

“That bad, huh?” Hadrian sat across from him on the bed. It had a thick mattress, a half dozen warm blankets, three soft pillows, and fine linen sheets. It had not been slept in. “Not too bad in here,” he said, making a show of looking around. “We’ve been in much worse, but you know, this was pretty much the last place I was thinking you’d be. I sort of thought the idea was for you to disappear and give me time to explain why you kidnapped the empress. What happened?”

“I turned myself in.”

Hadrian smirked. “Obviously.”

“Why are you here?” Royce replied, his eyes dull and empty.

“Well, now that I know you’re here, I thought you could use some company. You know, someone to talk to, someone who can smuggle you fig pudding and the occasional drumstick. I could bring up a deck of cards. You know how much you love beating me at… Well, you just like beating me.”

Royce made an expression that was almost like a smile. He reached out with his left hand and grabbed up a handful of straw. He crushed it in his fist letting the bits fall through his fingers and watching them in the shaft of light. When the last of it fell, he opened his hand palm-up, stared at it, turning it over and back as if he had never really seen it before.

“I want to thank you, Hadrian,” he said, still looking at his hand, his voice soft, lingering, disconnected.

“Awfully formal, aren’t you? It’s just a card game,” Hadrian said, and smiled.

Royce lowered his hand, laying it on the floor like a forgotten toy. His attention turned vaguely toward the ceiling again. “I hated you when we first met, did you know that? I thought Arcadius was crazy making me take you along on that heist.”

“So why did you?”

“Honestly? I expected you’d be killed; then I could go to the nutty wizard, laugh, and say, See? What did I tell you? The clumsy fool died. Only you didn’t. You made it all the way to the top of the Crown Tower, no complaining, no whining.”

“Did you respect me then?”

“No. I figured you suffered from beginner’s luck. I expected you’d die on the return trip that next night when he made us put it back.”

“Only, again I lived.”

“Kinda made me mad, actually. I’m not usually wrong, you know, about people? And man, you could fight. I thought Arcadius was feeding me a load of crap the way he went on about you. ‘The best warrior alive,’ he said. ‘In a fair fight Hadrian can best anyone,’ he said. That was the telling part-a fair fight. He knew not all your battles would be fair. He wanted me to educate you in the world of backstabbing, deceit, and treachery. I guess he figured I knew something about that.”

“And I was supposed to teach honor, decency, and kindness to a man raised by wolves.”

Royce rolled his head to the side and looked at him. “He told you about me?”

“Not everything, just some of the ugly parts.”

“Manzant?”

“Just that you were there, that it almost killed you, and that he got you out.”

Royce nodded. His face drooped, his eyes stared again, his hand absently scooped up another handful of straw to crush.

Hadrian’s eyes drifted around the cell. Centuries of captives had left a dark smoothness to all the stones a bit higher than halfway up, like a flood line. On the far wall, a year’s worth of old hatch marks scratched a pattern that looked like a series of bound bales of wheat. Up in the window, a bird had built a nest, tucked on the outside corner of the sill. It was empty, frosted in snow. Occasionally, he heard a cart, a horse, or the sound of people in the courtyard below them, but mostly it was quiet, a heavy, dull-gray silence.

“Hadrian,” Royce began. He’d stopped playing with the straw, his hands flat, his stare focused on the wall, his voice weak and hesitant. “You and Arcadius… you’re the only family I’ve ever known. The only two people in this whole world-” He swallowed and bit his lower lip, pausing.

Hadrian waited.

Finally he went on. “I want you to know-It’s important that…” He turned away from Hadrian, facing the wall. “I wanted to say thank you for being there for me, for being here. For being the closest thing to a brother I’ll ever know. I just-I just want you to know that.”

Hadrian did not say anything. He waited for Royce to turn back, to look at him. It took several minutes, but the silence drew the look. When he did, Hadrian glared at him. “Why? Why do you want me to know that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Tell me-no, don’t look at the wall; look at me. Why is it so important that I know this?”

“It just is, okay?” Royce said.

“No, it’s not okay. Don’t give me this crap, Royce. We’ve been together for twelve years. We’ve faced death dozens of times. Why is it you’re telling me this now?”

“I’m upset. I’m distraught. What do you want from me?”

Hadrian continued to stare but slowly began to nod. “You’ve been waiting, haven’t you? Just sitting here, leaning against that wall, waiting-waiting for me to show up.”

“In case you forgot, they arrested me. I’m in a locked cell. There’s not much else I can do.”

Hadrian snorted.

“What?”

Hadrian stood. He needed to move. There wasn’t much space but he still paced back and forth between the wall and the door. Three steps each way. “So when are you going to do it? As soon as I leave? Tonight? How about a nice morning suicide? Huh, Royce? You could be poetic and time it with the rising of the sun, or just the drama of midnight, how would that be?”

Royce scowled.

“How are you gonna do it? Your wrists? Throat? Gonna challenge the guard to fight when he brings dinner? Call him names? Or are you gonna make an even bigger splash? Head for Modina’s room and threaten the empress’s life again. You’ll find some young idiot, a big one, someone with an ego. You’ll draw a blade, something little, something not too scary. He’ll draw his sword. You’ll pretend to attack, but he won’t know you’re faking.”

“Don’t be this way.”

“ This way? ” Hadrian stopped and whirled on him. He had to take a breath to calm down. “How do you expect me to be? You think I should be-what? Happy, maybe? Did you think I’d just be okay with this? I thought you were stronger. If anyone could survive-”

“That’s just it-I don’t want to! I’ve always survived. Life is like a bully that gets laughs by seeing how much humiliation you’ll put up with. It threatens to kill you if you don’t eat mud. It takes everything you care about-not because it wants what you have, or needs it. It does it just to see if you’ll take it. I let it push me around ever since I was a kid. I did everything it demanded just to survive. But as I’ve gotten older, I realize there are limits. You showed me that. There’s only so far I can go, only so much I can put up with. I’m not going to take it anymore. I won’t eat mud just to survive.”

“So it’s my fault?” Hadrian slumped down on the mattress once more. He sat there running his hand through his hair for a moment, then said, “Just so you know, you’re not the only one who misses her. I loved her too.”

Royce looked up.

“Not like that. You know what I mean. The worst part is…” His voice cracked. “It really is my fault, and that’s what I will be left with. Did you think of that? You were right and I was wrong. You said not to take the job from DeWitt, but I talked you into it. ‘Let’s leave Dahlgren; this isn’t our fight,’ you said, but I got you to stay. ‘You can’t win against Merrick,’ you said, so you went to protect me. You told me Degan Gaunt would be an ass, and you were right about that too. You didn’t do what you knew was right because of me. I pulled you along while trying to redeem myself to the memory of a dead father. Gwen is gone because of me. I destroyed what little good there was in your life trying to accomplish something that in the end means nothing.

“I’m not the hero who saves the kingdom and wins the girl. Life isn’t like that.” Hadrian laughed bitterly. “You finally taught me that one, pal. Yep. Life isn’t a fairy tale. Heroes don’t ride white horses, and the good don’t always win. I just-I guess I just wanted it to be that way. I didn’t think there was any harm in believing it. I never knew it would be you and Gwen that would pay.”

“It’s not your fault,” Royce told him.

“You tell me that a few million more times and I might actually start believing it. Only that’s not going to happen, now is it? You’re not going to be around to remind me, are you? You’re going to give up. You’re going to walk out on me and that will be my fault too. Damn it, Royce! You have a choice. I know it doesn’t seem like it, and I know I’m a fool that believes in a fantasy world where good things can happen to good people, but I do know this. You can either head into darkness and despair or into virtue and light. It’s up to you.”

Royce jerked his head up and looked at Hadrian, a shocked expression on his face. Shock turned quickly to suspicion.

“What?” Hadrian asked, concerned.

“How are you doing that?” Royce demanded, and for the first time since Hadrian had entered the cell, he saw the old Royce-cold, dark, and angry.

“How am I doing what?”

“That’s the second time you’ve quoted Gwen, once on the bridge and now-this. She said that same thing to me once, those exact words.”

“Huh?”

“She read my palm and told me there was a fork-a point of decision. I had to choose to head into darkness and despair or into virtue and light. She told me this would be precipitated by a traumatic event-the death of the one I loved the most.”

“Gwen?”

He nodded. “But you weren’t there. You couldn’t have heard her say that. We were alone in her office at the House. It was a year ago. I only remember because it was the night Arista came to The Rose and Thorn, and you were getting drunk and ranting about being a parasite. So how did you know?”

Hadrian shrugged. “I didn’t, but…” He felt a chill run up his spine. “What if she did? What if I’m not quoting her-what if she was quoting me?”

“What?”

“Gwen was a seer,” Hadrian said. “What if she saw your future, bits and pieces like Fan Irlanu did in that Tenkin village?” Now he was staring at the wall, his eyes wandering aimlessly as he thought. “She could have seen us on the bridge, and here in this cell. She knew what I would say, and she also knew you wouldn’t listen to me. She must have known you wouldn’t listen to me at the bridge either. That’s why she said those things.” He was speaking quickly now, seeing it all before him. “She knew you would ignore me, but you can’t ignore her. Royce, Gwen doesn’t want you to die. She agrees with me. I may have been wrong in the past, but not this time. This time I’m right, and I know I’m right because Gwen saw the future and she’s backing me up.” He sat against the wall, folding his hands behind his head in victory. “You can’t kill yourself,” he said jubilantly, as if he had just won some unspoken bet. “You can’t do it without betraying her wishes!”

Royce looked confused. “But if she knew, why didn’t she stop it? Why did she let me go with you? Why didn’t she tell me?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? She wanted us to go, and either she couldn’t avoid her death, or-”

“Or what? She wanted to die?” he said sarcastically.

“No, I was going to say, she knew she had to die.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know-something else she saw, maybe, something that hasn’t happened yet. Something so important it was worth dying on the bridge for, but whatever it is, it doesn’t include you killing yourself. She made that pretty clear, I think.”

Royce threw his head back against the stone wall hard enough to make an audible thud and clenched his eyes shut. “Damn it.”

Mauvin Pickering stood on the fourth-floor balcony, looking out at the palace courtyard. It was snowing again, thick wet flakes. They fell on the muddy earth, slowly filling in where carts had left deep ruts. One after another, the flakes hit the ground and melted, but somehow, they managed to overcome. The puddles receded; the dirt disappeared; the world turned white and pure once more.

Beyond the wall he could see the roofs of the city. Aquesta stretched out below him, hundreds of snow-covered thatched peaks clustered together, huddling against the winter storm. The buildings ran to the sea and up the hill north. His gaze rose to the gap he knew was Imperial Square, and farther out to Bingham Square, where he could see the top of the Tradesmen’s Tower marking the artisan district. He continued to look up, his gaze reaching out beyond the open patches of farm fields to the forested hills-a hazy gray line in the distance, and the suggestion of higher hills beyond-masked by the snowy curtain. He imagined he could see Glouston, and beyond it, across the river, Melengar, the kingdom of the falcon-crested kings, the land of his birth, his home. Drondil Fields would be blanketed in snow, the orchard frosted, the moat frozen. Vern would be out breaking the ice on the well, dropping his heavy hammer tied to the end of a rope. He would be fearful the knot would come loose like it had five years earlier, leaving his favorite tool at the bottom of the well. It was still there, Mauvin thought, still lying in the water, waiting for Vern to claim it, but now he never would.

“You’ll catch your death out there,” his mother said.

He turned to see her standing in the doorway in her dark blue gown-the closest thing she had to black. Around her shoulders was the burgundy shawl Fanen had given her for Wintertide three years before-the year he died. It became a permanent part of her attire that she wore year-round, explaining how it kept the chill away in the winter and the sun off her shoulders in the summer. That morning he noticed she was also wearing the necklace. The awkward thick chain weighed down by the huge pendant was hard to miss. It was supposed to look like the sun. A big emerald pressed into the gold setting, and lines of rubies forming the rays of light. It was an ugly, gaudy thing. He had seen it only a few times before in the bottom of her jewelry box. It had been a gift from his father.

Even after bearing four children, Belinda Pickering still turned heads. Too many for his father’s comfort, if the stories were true. Rumors had circulated for decades of the numerous duels fought over her honor. Legend asserted there were as many as twenty, all sparked by some man looking at her too long. They all ended the same, with the death of the offender via Count Pickering’s magic sword. That was the legend, but Mauvin knew of only two actual incidents.

The first had occurred before he was born. His father had told him the story on his thirteenth birthday, the day he had mastered the first tier of the Tek’chin. His father explained that he and Mauvin’s mother had been traveling home alone and were waylaid by highwaymen. There had been four bandits and his father was willing to give up their horses, his purse, and even Belinda’s jewelry to escape without incident. But his father had seen the way the thieves looked at Belinda. As they whispered back and forth, he saw the hunger in their eyes. His father killed two, wounded one, and sent the last one running. They had given his father a scar nearly a foot long.

The second had happened when Mauvin was just ten. They had come to Aquesta for Wintertide and the Earl of Tremore became angry when Count Pickering refused to enter the sword competition. The earl knew that even if he had won the tournament, he would still be considered second best, so he challenged Pickering to a duel. Mauvin’s father refused. The Earl of Tremore had grabbed Belinda and kissed her before the entire court. She slapped him and pulled away. When he made a grab for her, he tore free the neckline of her gown, exposing her. She fell to the floor, crying, struggling to cover herself. Mauvin remembered with perfect clarity his father drawing his sword and telling him to help his mother back to their room. He did not kill the Earl of Tremore, but the man lost a hand in the battle.

Still, it was easy to see how the stories spread. Even he could see how lovely his mother was. Only now, for the first time, did he notice the gray in her hair and the lines on her face. She had always stood so straight and tall, but now she leaned forward, bowed as if by an invisible weight.

“I haven’t seen you much,” she said. “Where have you been?”

“Nowhere.”

He waited for her to press, to demand more information. He expected it-but she just nodded. His mother had been acting this way since arriving and it unnerved him.

“Chancellor Nimbus was by earlier. He wanted to let you know that the empress is calling a meeting this evening and you are requested to attend.”

“I know. Alric already told me.”

“Did he say what it was to be about?”

“It’ll be about the invasion, I’m sure. She will want to mount a full-scale retaliation. Alric expects she will use this crisis to demand Melengar join the empire.”

“What will Alric do?”

“What can he do? Alric isn’t a king without a kingdom. I should warn you that I intend to join him. I will gather what men Alric still has, form a troop, and volunteer to fight.”

Once more the quiet, submissive nod.

“Why do you do that? Why must you give in to me without even a protest? If I had said I was going off to war a month ago, I would have never heard the end of it.”

“A month ago you were my son; today you are Count Pickering.”

He watched her clutch the shawl with a white-knuckled fist, her mouth set, her other hand holding the doorframe.

“Maybe he survived,” Mauvin said. “He’s gotten through tough situations before. There’s a chance he could have fought his way out. With his sword no one could ever beat him-not even Braga.”

Her lips trembled; her eyes grew glassy. “Come,” she said, and disappeared back into the castle. He followed as she led the way to her chambers. There were three beds in the room. With all the refugees, space was tight in the palace these days. The chamberlain did his best to accommodate them according to rank, but there was only so much he could do. Mauvin bunked with Alric and now his brother Denek as well. Mauvin knew his mother shared her room with his sister, Lenare, and the lady Alenda Lanaklin of Glouston, neither of whom was there at that moment.

The room was a fraction of the size of her bedchamber back home. The beds themselves were small single bunks. The plain headboards were dressed with quilts adorned with patterns of roses. Leaded glass windows let the light in, but sheer white curtains turned the brilliance into a muted fog, which felt heavy and oppressive. The room had the air of a funeral. On the dresser he spotted the familiar statuette of Novron that used to be in their chapel. The demigod sat upon his throne, one hand upraised in a gesture of authority. Beside it was a single salifan candle, still burning. On the floor before it lay her bed pillow, two dents side by side where she had knelt.

His mother walked to the wardrobe and withdrew a long blanket-wrapped bundle. She turned and held it out. There was a formality in her movement, a solemnness in her eyes. He looked at the bundle-long and thin, tied with a green silk ribbon, the kind she and Lenare used to bind their hair. The blanket it held was like a shroud over a dead body. Mauvin did not want to touch it.

“No,” he said without meaning to, and took a step backward.

“Take it,” she told him.

The door opened abruptly.

“I don’t want to go alone,” Alenda Lanaklin said as she and his sister, Lenare, entered. The two women were also dressed in dark conservative gowns. Lenare carried a plate of food, and Alenda a cup. “It’s awkward. I don’t even know him. Oh-” They both stopped.

Mauvin hastily took the bundle from his mother. He did not look at it and quickly moved toward the door.

“I’m sorry,” Alenda said. She was staring at him, her face troubled.

“Excuse me, ladies,” Mauvin muttered, and walked past them. He kept his eyes focused on the floor as he went.

“Mauvin?” Alenda called down the hallway.

He heard her steps behind him and stopped, but he did not turn.

He felt her touch his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“You said that.”

“That was for interrupting.”

He felt her press against him, and she kissed his cheek.

“Thank you.” He watched as she worked hard to force a smile even as a tear slipped down her cheek.

“Your mother hasn’t eaten. She hardly even leaves the room. Lenare and I went to get her something.”

“That’s very kind.”

“Are you all right?”

“I should be asking you that. I lost a father, but you lost a father and two brothers as well.”

She nodded and sniffled. “I’ve been trying not to think about it. There’s so much-too much. Everyone has lost someone. You can’t have a conversation anymore without people crying their eyes out.” She half laughed, half cried. “See?”

He reached up and wiped her tears. Her cheeks were amazingly soft; the wetness made them shine.

“What were you and Lenare talking about?” he asked.

“Oh, that?” she said, sounding embarrassed. “It will sound foolish.”

“Perhaps foolishness is needed right now.” He made a face and winked at her.

She smiled, this time more easily.

“Com’on,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her with him down the hall. “Tell me this terrible secret.”

“It’s not a secret. I just wanted Lenare to come with me when I meet my brother.”

“Myron?”

She nodded. “I’m a little nervous about it-frightened, actually. How do I explain why I never bothered to see him?”

“Why didn’t you?”

She shrugged self-consciously. “I should have. I just-He was a stranger. If only my father had taken me, but he didn’t. He seemed like he wanted to forget Myron existed. I think he was ashamed of him and some of that rubbed off on me, I guess.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“Of him.”

“You’re scared of Myron?” He started to chuckle, but he stopped abruptly when he saw the seriousness in her eyes.

“I knew you’d think me foolish!”

“It’s just that we’re talking about Myron and-”

“He’s the marquis now!” she exclaimed. “He’s the head of my house. By law, I have to do as he says, go where he orders, marry whom he chooses. What if he hates me? What if he decides to punish me for the hardships he has had to endure? I’ve lived in a castle with servants who dressed, fed, and bathed me. I’ve attended feasts and tournaments, galas and picnics. I’ve worn silk, lace, finely embroidered gowns, and jewelry. While he-” She stopped. “Since the age of four, Myron has been sequestered at the Winds Abbey. He has been forced to work with his hands in the dirt, worn coarse wool, and never gone anywhere or seen anyone-not even his family. Now they are all dead, except for me. Of course he hates me. Why wouldn’t he? He’ll curse me and I’ll be the target of all his pain and frustration. He’ll deny me, just as we denied him. He’ll send me away, strip me of my title, and leave me penniless. And… and… I can’t even blame him.”

She looked up at Mauvin’s face, confused. “What? What?”