Empire of Night (5 page)

T
he emperor motioned for them to walk in front of him. Daigo followed Moria, as if buffering her from the emperor's fury. Tyrus walked silently at her side until the emperor slowed to speak to a courtier.

“It's all right,” Tyrus whispered. “I suggested this. I'll fix it.”

He shot a look back at his father, part anxiety, part bewilderment. Nothing was more important to a warrior than honor, and Tyrus ought not to have impugned his to protect her. Ironically, in claiming dishonor, he was acting with honor—taking her punishment because he'd suggested that she eavesdrop.

Her true anger was directed at the emperor. The Keeper was allowed a lover. If she had rebuffed Tyrus and he'd persisted, that would be cause for his father's disapproval. Yet if he'd merely tested her willingness . . . well, was that not what young men did? She took no offense unless they failed to understand the meaning of “no.”

Moria was too caught up in her own thoughts for more than a vague impression of the emperor's residence, which was smaller and less conspicuous than she would have expected for a man who ruled most of the known land.

As they removed their shoes, Emperor Tatsu ordered out the servants with a brusque, “I wish to speak to my son.” They scattered as if he'd wielded a blade. Once they were gone, the emperor walked farther inside. They followed him into a room with a desk inlaid with ivory. Woodblock prints of dragons adorned the walls.

“Sit,” he said, his back to them as he looked at a print of the goddess riding a golden dragon into battle.

Tyrus lowered himself onto the nearest cushion. When Moria didn't move, he tugged at her leg. She stepped away.

“Your son did nothing wrong,” she said. “He did not do as he claims, and I'll not have him suffer for—”

The emperor turned. “So you're saying he lied to me?”

Moria's mouth closed fast.

“Moria?” Tyrus whispered. “Sit. Please.” His tone added
before you get me in worse trouble.

“I was spying on your dinner party,” she said. “I offer myself for punishment and ask that you pardon Tyrus. Whatever he did, it was my fault. I . . . I seduced him.”

The emperor burst out laughing, startling Moria. “As pretty as you are, child, I cannot imagine you seducing any man. Threatening him at the point of a blade, perhaps.”

“Father,” Tyrus began, rising. “I apologize for her outburst. She's unaccustomed—”

“—to matters and manners of court.” Emperor Tatsu waved
Tyrus down. “I'm well aware of that. She has spirit and honor. You choose your companions well, Tyrus. Though, if I truly thought you had brought her to the palace grounds to seduce her by moonlight, I would be as angry as I pretended. Now sit.” He turned to Daigo. “You, too. While some would wish me to add comportment lessons to your sword fighting, the truth of the world, child, is that some of us are above such niceties. You are a Keeper. Position comes with privilege, and none greater than the ability to speak your mind. The sword lessons will serve you better. Now, I understand you are frustrated by the situation in Fairview. You don't believe enough is being done.”

“No,” Tyrus said. “If anyone said—”

“I do not need tattling tongues to tell me what anyone can plainly see. The Keeper is angry and frustrated. She throws herself into sparring and eschews the comforts and entertainments of the court. Her sister is equally frustrated, in her quiet way, losing herself in her studies instead. If you had sent Moria to eavesdrop on treaty negotiations, the punishment for both of you would be severe. But you sent her to prove that I was indeed making progress on the matter of Alvar Kitsune.”

When neither said a word, the emperor pulled the low chair from his desk and sat on it.

“Yet that doesn't truly help, does it?” he continued. “What concerns her immediately is not the fate of the former marshal but the fate of the children. And on that, the news is less heartening.” He turned to Moria. “I have sent spies to assess the situation. One on the very night I learned of the events in Fairview, another two days following. Neither has returned. Presumably they are dead or captured. Alvar expected them.
That is the problem with fighting a man who knows me so well.”

“So what now?” Moria asked.

Tyrus cleared his throat.

“I mean, so what now, your imperial highness?”

Tyrus sighed. His father chuckled, then sobered.

“That is the question, child. What now? Am I to rally the army? March on Fairview? Free the captives? Slaughter the rebels? I suspect that is the answer you'd like.”

“Tyrus already explained why you can't do that. They'd see an army approaching and kill the hostages.”

“My son knows his battle tactics well and his politics better than he'll admit. Yes, that's why I cannot march on Fairview. But there is more to it. I do not prepare the army for war because I hope to avoid war. I allow the citizens of the empire to continue on their daily business because, again, I hope to avoid war. I will avoid war in any way I can, short of handing over the imperial throne. That includes the sacrifice of Edgewood's children and the citizens of Fairview.”

Moria's head shot up. “Did you say . . . ?”

“Yes, I did. War would kill thousands. It would ruin the lives and destroy the homes of tens of thousands. Would I allow a few hundred to die to avoid that?” He met her gaze. “Yes, I would. Make no mistake, child. I will do what I can to save those children and that village, but my eye is on the rest of my empire. On stopping Alvar Kitsune and whatever sorcery he works before he captures more villages.”

He paused, then continued, “You've no doubt heard Tyrus say he does not aspire to any high office. Part of that
is self-preservation, but part is this, too—emperors and marshals must make decisions that Tyrus could not. He has a good heart, a pure heart. He takes after his mother in that. He will make a great warrior someday. A great commander. But not an emperor. Not a marshal.”

Moria snuck another look at Tyrus, but he kept his face averted. Anger flared in her as she looked back at the emperor.

“You think I ought not to speak of him like that in front of him,” he said.

“Yes, I do.”

Again, Tyrus cleared his throat. Again, his father only chuckled.

“You mean well, son, but she'll speak her mind as long as she has a tongue to do it with, and if she didn't, she'd still speak it with her eyes. She objects because she feels I insult you. You may even feel insulted. But you will do great things, and you will live to do them, which matters more to me than that you should be suited to a throne you would never see. The empire is built on great warriors. It can always use more of those, and fewer men vying to be emperor or marshal.” He paused. “Speaking of uses for warriors, I have a task for you, Tyrus. Your first military assignment.”

Tyrus shot to attention, his dual swords rattling. “Yes, my lord father?”

“I will dispatch no more spies to Fairview. It is time to send an envoy. One they will see coming, but one that is small enough to be of no threat. One that bears royal blood.”

“You wish me to accompany it?”

“Sending your older brothers would insult Alvar, implying
that they are speaking for me. Sending you says I take the threat seriously and wish to open direct negotiations between myself and Alvar, and send you to arrange for them.”

“You said he would not negotiate,” Moria said.

“He won't. But it is only right for me to attempt it. I will send a convoy with my son and with the Keeper of Edgewood, presuming she wishes to go.”

Now Moria straightened. “Yes, I do.”

“Your sister, too, if she wishes. You brought Alvar's message, so you will return it. He sent you here accompanied by his son. I will send you back accompanied by mine. It is an honorable move. When you reach Fairview, you and Tyrus can accomplish what my spies could not.”

“Assess the situation,” Tyrus murmured. “Confirm that the children and villagers live, determine where they are being held and how one might free them.”

His father smiled. “Precisely.”

Emperor Tatsu had asked Tyrus to walk Moria and Daigo back to their quarters. As they crossed the palace grounds, she began to wonder if Tyrus had agreed only because he could not refuse. He'd been silent since they left the emperor's quarters.

When they reached the gate between the court and palace grounds, she said, “I can find my way from here.”

He brushed off her words with a distracted wave, following beside her but still not speaking. Daigo bumped her hand, as if in sympathy.

Once they were out of the guards' earshot, she said, “I'm sorry.”

He glanced over then, and it took a moment for his eyes to focus, as if he'd been lost in some other realm.

She continued, “I broke every rule of decorum, speaking to the emperor like that. But you were the one I hurt by digging us both into a hole. I don't blame you for being angry.”

A faint smile touched his lips. “I think you've spent too much time with—” He bit off the sentence before saying Gavril's name. “If hearing you speak your mind upset me, I'd hardly have lasted a day in your company. I expect no less. I'm not angry, Moria. If I was, you'd know it. You don't need to search for nuances with me. If it seems as if I'm thinking, that's truly all I'm doing. Thinking about what my father said about the children and the villagers. And thinking of the trip to come, and whether he may be underestimating his enemy.”

“You fear it's not safe.”

He hesitated, then said, with obvious reluctance, “I do.”

“Your father wouldn't put you at risk.”

“It's not me I'm thinking of, Moria. Yes, you can take care of yourself. But you are a Keeper and unnecessary risk is still unnecessary.”

“You think that sending me is unnecessary.”

“Yes, I do. I've been quiet because you'll not appreciate my saying so, and because going along is what you'll want.”

“I must go. Your father insists.”

“That doesn't make it easier,” he said softly.

She nodded. “You ought to go back to your quarters and prepare.” A wry smile. “You'll be stuck with me soon enough.”

His gaze met hers. “There is no one I'd rather be stuck with.”

Moria tried to drop her eyes. She knew that's what she ought to do. Shyly look away. But it was all she could do not to move toward him, to take that first step herself, see if he'd reciprocate, if he'd reach out and—

“It grows late,” Tyrus said, backing up. “You'll need to speak to Ashyn quickly. We depart at dawn, and my father brooks no delays.”

M
oria was gone. She'd mumbled something about possibly spending the evening with Tyrus but had said nothing more on the matter. Then, Ashyn had returned from the library to find their quarters empty and dark. There'd been a note.

I went out. Don
'
t wait up.

That was it. Six words. Ashyn did not expect more. These days, even when Moria was in the room with her, she seemed not truly there—at least not as the brash, boisterous sister Ashyn knew. If their father were with them, he'd scarcely recognize Moria. Of course, if their father had been there, Moria would have less cause to be so unrecognizable.

They were orphans now. More than orphans—young women without a home or family, having only each other and an uncertain future. Life was not kind to those without kin.
Ashyn knew better than to broach these fears with her sister. If Moria hadn't realized their predicament, Ashyn wouldn't add to her burden by telling her.

That burden was already great. Whatever Ashyn had gone through, it was a pale shadow of her sister's travails. Both had walked through their village after the massacre, but Ronan had protected Ashyn from catching more than glimpses of the horrors. Gavril had not shielded Moria—he'd known better than to try. Both girls had lost their father, but it was Moria who'd found him, possessed by a shadow stalker, and been forced to kill him to escape. Both girls had journeyed across the Wastes, separated from each other. Moria had faced down a thunder hawk—
twice.
Ashyn? She'd gotten a smattering of death worm venom on her skin, leaving burns so minor they'd all but vanished by the next day.

The worst of it, of course, was Gavril himself. Ashyn remembered seeing them fighting mercenaries together, back to back, and where before she'd always failed to comprehend beauty in battle, she'd seen it then, in her sister and Gavril. He was a true match for her matchless sister. Even if Moria refused to entertain thoughts of more than friendship, when Ashyn watched them together, it was like looking through a scrying glass and seeing the summers fly past, the two of them together, happily bickering and battling into old age.

Then came the revelation. The betrayal so incredible Ashyn's breath stopped even thinking of it. As difficult as it was for her, it was devastating for Moria. She had trusted Gavril. Defended him. It was as if he'd turned in battle and sunk his blade into her back.

Moria was broken, and as desperately as Ashyn wanted to be the one who put her back together, the only person whose company Moria accepted these days was Tyrus. A young man she'd met six days ago. Moria didn't discuss with him her father's death or the village slaughter or Gavril's betrayal, so there was no cause for jealousy. Yet Ashyn still felt those pangs.

She heard footfalls on the cobbled path outside. Tova rose first, going to the door. Ashyn slipped to the window. It was Moria and Daigo. With Tyrus. In the beginning, to her shame, she'd searched for darkness in him, almost hoping to see it—the devious bastard prince masking his ambitions under amicable smiles, manipulating the vulnerable young Keeper to his advantage. In a bard's tale, that was exactly what he'd be. In life, though? There was nothing dark in Tyrus. Nothing false.

She watched them, Tyrus whispering to Moria, his head bowed over hers as she pulled her cloak hood down to listen. He said something that made Moria smile and that dagger of jealousy dug deeper.

She only smiles for him.

Ashyn balled her fists.
Stop that.

Moria said her good nights and headed inside. Tyrus watched her go. Even after she'd passed into her quarters, he stared after her before wrenching his gaze away and plodding off into the dark, none of the usual jaunt in his step.

“Good, you're still up,” Moria said.

Ashyn watched as her sister swept in, kicking off her boots, sloughing her cloak, Daigo grumbling as it landed on him before sliding to the floor. And it was like being back in Edgewood, the old Moria sauntering in after an adventure.

“I have news,” she said, and for perhaps the first time since Gavril's betrayal, she smiled at her sister.

Once Ashyn recovered from her heart palpitations—she couldn't believe Moria had been caught spying on the
emperor
—she calmed and listened. With every word Moria said, Ashyn felt like she was exhaling after holding her breath. While she'd never doubted that the emperor was doing something, she'd quietly shared her sister's opinion that it seemed too little. This news came as a relief. Until Moria told her who'd be the envoys.

“You and Tyrus?” Ashyn said. “While I logically follow his reasoning, it seems . . .”

Coldly logical.
Like admitting he would sacrifice the children and the villagers to protect the empire. She understood it, but could not fathom making such a choice herself.

She'd seen Emperor Tatsu's warmth and affection for his son. Now to send him as an envoy after two spies had presumably perished? While she agreed the risk was much smaller, it was still a risk.

“Do you have a choice?” As soon as Ashyn said the words and saw her sister's face, she knew it didn't matter.

“I must go,” Moria said. “But you don't need to.”

Ashyn went still.

Moria rose from where she'd collapsed, sprawled over cushions with Daigo, and she moved to sit beside Ashyn on the sleeping mat. Her voice softened. “You've been through enough. Tyrus and I can handle it.”

Of every unintended slight Ashyn had suffered over the last six days, this one cut the deepest. Before the massacre,
they'd never been separated for more than a half day.

Tyrus and I can handle it.

“I'd like to go,” Ashyn said.

Moria grinned. “All right, then. If you're sure you want to give up all this”—her hand swept across the luxurious room—“for a horse and a hard pallet.”

“I'm sure.”

“Then start packing. We leave at dawn.”

And that was it. Her sister didn't wish her to stay behind, but simply hadn't presumed she would join them. Life had changed. They were no longer children, tumbling on each other's heels. They'd not been for many summers. This was but another step down a path they couldn't avoid.

Moria rose. “We'll need to get a message to Ronan.”

“Why?”

“Because he should know. I'm also hoping he'll offer to come along. He can't actually join us, of course—”

“No, he cannot. Because he has not been pardoned. He will not be until he allows us to ask for it.”

“He hoped to see you today. With me. In the market.”

Ashyn struggled to keep her face neutral. “The fact remains that he is a thief condemned to the Forest of the Dead, and until he seeks pardon, he is safest where he is. I'll ask you to humor me in this. Please. Until the sentence is lifted, I'd not have him in any danger, and sending him that message implies we need his help.”

Moria hesitated, then nodded. “All right. I'll take that extra time to bathe. It'll be days before we have another chance.”

“Fetch the water. I'll stoke the fire.”

When her sister was gone, Ashyn heard a grumble and looked down at Tova, lying by her feet.

“Ronan should not be told,” she said.

Tova fixed his dark eyes on her, and she squirmed under his stare. While she'd not have Ronan endangered, the truth was a little less selfless, a lot less honorable. But to admit her own troubles seemed to cheapen Moria's, as if by saying, “He hurt me,” she put Ronan's betrayal on the same level as Gavril's.

When she'd first met Ronan, he'd seemed infatuated with Moria, which was no surprise. Yet as they'd traveled together, his attention had turned Ashyn's way. Before they reached the imperial city, Ronan had told her how to contact him. Then, as they parted, he'd kissed her. She was not as experienced in romantic matters as Moria, but there seemed no other way to interpret his actions. There truly did not.

After two days, she'd done as he'd said—tossed a missive over the courtyard wall, to land between it and a neighboring building.

It was a simple
I'd like to see you.
His reply came a day later:
I don't think that's wise.

No explanation. No apology. A cool refusal, as if she were some starry-eyed village girl asking him to the Fire Festival.

While that had stung, she'd told herself she was overreacting. He merely meant what he said—that it was not wise at the time.

But then he'd agreed to see Moria, and Ashyn realized there was no excuse other than the obvious. His kiss had not been a beginning but the ending. A good-bye.

In bard songs, love was love, and when you found it, it was
forever. In life, romantic entanglements came and went, and sometimes they were not entanglements at all, but merely two people, brushing against each other before moving on.

That was what had happened here, and she ought to be mature about it. Savor the memory. Chalk it up to experience. That was certainly what Moria would do. Except, she was not Moria, and perhaps she was not all that mature, and so it hurt, and it did not seem likely to stop hurting soon.