8. THE PURPOSE OF AN EMPEROR

Tyentso’s story

The Soaring Halls, the Upper Circle of the Capital City of Quur

The day of Vol Karoth’s escape, an hour after dawn

Tyentso woke slowly, blinking open her eyes to gaze up at the enameled ceiling. She wasn’t used to living in the imperial palace, to say nothing of the emperor’s quarters. It was almost funny how much time—how little time—had passed since she took hold of the crown.

At some point in the distant past, someone must have decided the imperial bedchamber needed a ceiling decorated with enough flowers to fill every garden in Eamithon. Stunning in their realism even if these were picked out in an intricate mosaic of ceramic tile. Undeniably beautiful and completely out of character for the tone of the palace, which was otherwise cold, majestic, and dedicated to showcasing the imperial might of Quur.

Tyentso began laughing.

The young man in bed next to her groaned and rubbed the back of his hand against his forehead. “By all the gods, what time is it?”

“It’s morning,” Tyentso said. “Which I realize is normally your bedtime, but get up, anyway.”

“Whatever you say, Your Majesty.”

She frowned at him. For a moment, he’d sounded sincere. Which was extremely out of character for him, too. As was what he said next: “Nightmares?”

Tyentso flicked her gaze to him for a second. He seemed like he gave a damn, which meant that this really was too early for the High Council representative. “I was just thinking that I’ve fucked the man who made this.” She nodded up at the ceiling.

He laughed. “I’m pretty sure the man who made that was Atrin Kandor.”

Tyentso gazed at him coolly. “I said what I said.”1

A hint of doubt entered those pretty brown eyes. But then everything about Fayrin was pretty, from those thickly lashed eyes to the well-muscled body of someone who was … Well.

Not quite half her age, although she suspected he held the record for the youngest person to ever serve on the High Council. If she kept this up, she was going to have to admit she’d developed a taste for younger men.

What Fayrin saw in her was easier to guess: power.

“You’re not that old,” Fayrin murmured.

Tyentso tucked her hands behind her head and continued staring at the ceiling mosaic. Almost certainly made by Atrin for his wife, Elana. She doubted that the people Atrin and Elana had reincarnated as—Teraeth and Janel—either remembered or gave a damn.

She mentally slapped herself. She didn’t give a damn either. What she did care about was Kihrin—and that dream.

The bed shifted as Fayrin crawled out of it, probably heading to the washroom for a little early-morning bladder emptying. She heard his feet slap against the warm marble floor.

She was sure the dream had been real—or rather, a real visitation by someone. But by Kihrin? That was the hard part. Because it was hardly lost on Tyentso that ordering her to give Urthaenriel to Relos Var was very much in line with Relos Var’s plans too. And something that Kihrin wanted to prevent by any means necessary.

She’d never heard of Relos Var being able to visit dreams before. Surely he’d have used the power by now if he’d had it.

And gods, Kihrin had gotten so many details right. Not the things on the Misery—if he’d been right, that was her doing. But the details on himself, right down to the gleam of that damn Stone of Shackles around his neck and the particular pattern of bleeding whip wounds on his back.

That was not a certain insurance of authenticity, however.

She levered herself up on an elbow as the scent of freshly ground coffee wafted in her direction. Fayrin was using magic, but she wasn’t going to complain about him taking a shortcut.

“I’d hardly blame you if it was a nightmare.” Fayrin didn’t raise his head from where he was concentrating on turning coffee beans into fine powder. “I can only imagine the vast ocean of inspiration you’ve stockpiled.” He flashed a grin at her. “Of course, my definition of nightmare is being stuck somewhere without a proper selection of Quuros wines.”

Tyentso rolled her eyes. It wasn’t the alcohol selection that gave her nightmares about her years on board the Misery. “Oh, I doubt that. You’re Ogenra, aren’t you?”

His second glance was far warier. “Most everyone on the council is. Was. Even debauched rakes only there to collect easy bribes and seduce everyone’s daughters.”

Tyentso doubted he limited himself to the daughters, but that was neither here nor there. “Qoran once told me you were the most brilliantly wasted mind he’d ever encountered.”

A brief, uncomfortable flicker crossed the man’s face as he turned several cups of fresh water into the copper pot and began to stir. “Really? How disappointing. I thought I’d done a much better job of convincing that man I’d never been good for anything at all. I’ll have to try harder.”

“Oh, never fear. He absolutely believes you’re a waste of his time.” Tyentso threw off the sheets and walked to where the servants had left out clothing the night before. She ignored those, naturally. That set existed to give the assassins something to poison if the mood struck them. “Which family? Given your eye color, there are only four options.”²

His voice was carefully neutral. “I don’t know that it matters.”

A feeling came over Tyentso then, a disquiet that whispered that it did, in fact, matter a great deal. Or maybe she was still trying to distract herself from thinking too much about what Kihrin had said.

“I suppose I’m just wondering if I executed your father.”

His hand jerked. Fayrin nearly spilled his coffeepot. He set it carefully back down on the metal plate he’d heated. “What?” His laughter stood on the precipice of hysterical. “No. Gods no. My father died over a decade ago. Murdered by some little slave girl who was defending herself from the creep.”³

“Your father sounds charming.”

“Yeah, he sure was.” After checking to make sure he’d caused no permanent damage to the warming coffee, Fayrin added, “I mean, you’re right to assume he was a high lord.” A curious expression crossed his face; he frowned before a scoff escaped his lips. Fayrin twirled his fingers as though presenting a card trick, something frivolous and unimportant. “House D’Jorax.”

“A D’Jorax high lord died at the banquet.”

“My half brother,” Fayrin explained in a voice as empty of emotion as a blank piece of paper. “Also perfectly charming. I won’t be filing any petitions with the Church of Thaena, even if that were still an option.” He sniffed and refocused his attention on the coffee. “Haven’t I said thank you enough? I’ll have to try harder for that too.”

She finished wrapping one of her silk agolé around herself. “Is that why you’re fucking me? As a thank-you?”

Fayrin snorted. “No, I’m fucking you because it’s incredibly sexy when you boss everyone around.”

She snorted. Yeah, she didn’t believe that was the reason for one white-hot second. “You always say the nicest things.”

“That’s because my greatest ambition in life is to be a kept man who lounges around all day looking pretty.” He twisted out a strand of his hair. “At least the looking-pretty part is easy.”

Her response was interrupted by a knock at the bedroom door. She glanced at Fayrin and then tilted her head toward it.

Fayrin looked torn between coffee and following her unspoken order. Reluctantly, he set the coffee aside and answered the door while she finished dressing.

She often wondered at the clothing. Tyentso hadn’t ordered any of it made for her. It was just … there. Along with an entire staff of servants and officials who had apparently been waiting their entire lives to serve an emperor who bothered to live at the imperial palace. Although for all she knew, they might have been giving her the magically preserved castoffs of the last dozen emperor’s concubines. She didn’t much care. They were beautiful and clean, not to mention delightfully free from curses, poisons, or baleful enchantments.⁴

When Fayrin came back from the door, he was frowning.

“There isn’t a problem with the march, is there?” Tyentso had ordered the army to be ready to leave immediately. While the Quuros army traveled with a speed that gave its neighbors nightmares, it was still a lot of people that all needed to be coordinated. They wouldn’t leave until the afternoon, if then.

“No,” Fayrin murmured. “Just a messenger who wanted me to let you know that the high general’s returned to the palace along with his son and daughter-in-law.”

Tyentso kept her face expressionless. “And why is that a problem?”

Fayrin straightened. “I never said it was a problem.”

“The expression on your remarkably pretty face suggests otherwise.”

Fayrin looked her right in the eyes, and for once, there was nothing about him that seemed frivolous or lecherous. “It’s just … Jarith’s dead.”

Fuck. She should have answered the door herself. “People do come back from the dead. I’ve done it myself when the occasion called for it.”

“Sure, or you wouldn’t be here now. But—”

“But?” She waited for the explanation.

“But you told me Thaena died. And I distinctly remember hearing that Jarith was killed by a demon prince, which means either his soul was eaten or he was turned into a demon himself. In either case, he wouldn’t be showing up with his wife and father. So the question I’m wondering is: Who’s wandering the palace pretending to be Jarith Milligreest?”

“Fuck,” Tyentso muttered under her breath.

The last thing she wanted was Fayrin Jhelora running around the palace blabbing out a theory that was lamentably close to reality. Of course, it all depended on whether or not “Kihrin” had been telling the truth, didn’t it? And the decision she’d wanted to put off for as long as humanly possible was suddenly a decision she had to make now.

“My point exactly,” Fayrin said.

“Finish your coffee,” Tyentso snapped. “I’ll take care of this personally.”

She teleported out of the room.