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Sir Presley Kemp enjoyed the cool Argitis. Although today signaled the start of autumn, it had been a warm day, and the palace library with hundreds of guests was uncomfortably stuffy. Still, he found himself incredibly happy to be at the official imperial Equinox party. Since his retirement the month before, he found he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.
In the past, he had always particularly liked quiet nights in with Grigory. But now, when he spent all day at the house, an evening in didn’t have the same appeal. Grigory, however, was even more of a natural homebody than he was, so after all day on campus teaching and dealing with students and other faculty members, Grigory was seldom in the mood to go out after work.
But no one could turn down an invitation from the emperor.
Of course, the emperor and empress, Tullius and Vita, were their old friends in addition to being their rulers. Tullius was also an old lover of Presley’s from the sad years he and Grigory had spent apart. Not that anything ever came of their old relationship other than friendship when Presley and Grigory moved to the Empire. Typically, the people of the Immani Empire didn’t practice strict monogamy. But as grateful as Presley and Grigory felt toward their adopted home, they had no interest in these customs with Tullius or anyone else. They had each other and that was all that mattered to them.
Presley did, however, need some distraction in his life since retiring as the head accountant for Crispus Rufus Stylianos, richest man in the world. And a good Equinox party was just the thing. He had left Grigory on the first floor of the grand library talking to another professor of Engineering at the university and made his own way up to the balcony overlooking the room. He saw business acquaintances and other accountants. He nodded to financial professionals he knew, but he hadn’t committed to a conversation yet.
Instead, in between people watching, he scanned Tullius’s magnificent collection of books. He spotted a slim volume written by the hillichmagnar Caedmon Aldred about the Myrcian War of Independence that Presley hadn’t known existed. He’d just plucked it off the shelf when movement below caught his eye. He looked down to see Faustinus heading his direction with a broad smile. A second later, Faustinus rematerialized at Presley’s side thanks to a spell.
“Happy Equinox,” Presley said, picking up the glass he’d set down on the bookshelf.
“And a happy Equinox to you, as well,” Faustinus returned, clinking his glass against Presley’s. “And a happy Broderick-Gramiren-is-dead to you, once again while we’re at it.”
Presley tapped their glasses together once more and they both drank.
“That really never gets old,” Faustinus said. “Let’s never stop toasting his demise.”
“Happily,” Presley added, before taking another sip. “I wish Duke Brandon had lived to see it, but at least it finally happened.”
“Indeed.”
Broderick Gramiren had been the bastard son of King Ethelred, Duke Brandon’s best friend. Presley had been working for Duke Brandon when Broderick had killed the duke’s sister and manipulated his mentally unstable stepmother into killing his half-brother and the legitimate heir to the throne. Faustinus had been there when this tragedy struck, but none of them had been able to prove Broderick a murderer. After that, Broderick bided his time, through the reign of Ethelred’s brother, Edgar. But when Edgar had died, leaving a child heir, Edwin, Broderick had pounced.
The civil war had been bloody and long, and the fighting still hadn’t ended. But through all the ups and downs and changes of fortune, Broderick had sat on the throne of Myrcia from 352 until earlier that year.
“To Robert Tynsdale,” Presley offered, raising his glass to the man who had finally assassinated Broderick.
“A true hero,” Faustinus added, raising his glass in return.
Robert Tynsdale, in fact, had been a hero to Presley for much longer than the past few months. Two decades earlier, he had helped Grigory escape the war in his homeland, Loshadnarod, and reunite him with Presley. Then he had been instrumental in getting them here to Presidium. What he owed Robert Tynsdale was incalculable, even before he returned Edwin Sigor to his throne.
“Have you heard from anyone in Formacaster lately?” Presley asked, referring to the capital of Myrcia.
“Well, I’m always hearing from Formacaster,” Faustinus chuckled. “But if you mean our good friends, such as the Dowager Queen Rohesia, I have not since I last saw you. Then again, I doubt she would write me and not include a letter in the same pouch to you.”
This was true. Presley and Queen Rohesia had known each other since he and Duke Brandon had helped arrange her marriage to the future King Edgar. And it had been the queen who helped coordinate Robert Tynsdale’s rescue mission of Grigory. For the past several years, she had been living in exile in the Empire with King Edwin, and although Presley had wanted nothing more than to see Edwin restored to his throne, he missed Rohesia’s company. But once Robert Tynsdale had killed Broderick, and Edwin’s invasion had taken Formacaster and driven Broderick’s wife and son from the kingdom, naturally, she had returned to Myrcia.
Her wisdom would be needed to help her son hold his throne, which could go back to Broderick Jr. given the right, or wrong, circumstances. Unlike his father, Broderick Jr. was a good man. He was also well liked and an excellent, battle-tested general, neither of which Edwin could claim to be. In fact, a large part of Edwin’s victory could only be attributed to the other top Gramiren generals not being on the field against him. Duke Lukas Ostensen, Broderick Jr.’s uncle, had fled the country with Broderick Jr.’s mother, Muriel, when Broderick the Usurper had been assassinated. They had gone south to the Kingdom of Annenstruk where they were related to the very rich king. If given the mind to, the King of Annenstruk could give Lukas, a brilliant battlefield commander, money and troops, and Edwin would once again be in serious trouble.
The other great Gramiren general who had not fought Edwin on his return was William Trevelyan. Edwin’s cousin, and the stupidest and least reliable man in Myrcia, Duke Aldrick Sigor of Newshire, had negotiated Trevelyan’s defection to the Sigor cause. Presley did not know all the details of the deal that had made this happen, but he was happy that Rohesia would be on hand to see that he remained true to Edwin, and his loyalty would not be left to Aldrick.
“Have you thought about going home?” Faustinus suddenly asked, pulling Presley from his reverie about the political situation in Myrcia.
The fact was, he had. While Broderick lived, Myrcia would never have been safe for him or Grigory. With Edwin now the ruling sovereign, he and Grigory would no longer be under threat of death, or worse, from the throne. However, Myrcia still had one other drawback. Although things had been lax in his hometown of Leornian, Myrcia was not open to committed, lifelong romantic relationships between two people of the same sex. On the other hand, society in the Empire was entirely welcoming of Presley and Grigory. They would never be as comfortable in Myrcia or anywhere else than right here in Presidium, where they had built a happy life over the past twenty years.
“Thought about and dismissed. I think Grigory and I are quite happy here in Presidium.”
Presley searched the floor below until he finally spotted Grigory. He was next to one of the large white pillars holding up the arched doorway over which a mural of one of Horatius’s great victories was painted. He was still as handsome to Presley as he had been that first day they’d met more than 30 years ago. At the moment he was only just smiling at something being said by the distinguished gentlemen who had joined Grigory and his colleague. Presley knew that smile. It might not seem like much, but he knew it meant Grigory was enjoying the conversation. How could he ever take Grigory away from this?
He felt his own grin as he turned back to Faustinus. The hillichmagnar had been following Presley’s gaze, and now he looked somewhat enigmatic. At that moment, Presley recalled that Faustinus was not so lucky as he was. Faustinus’s marriage was ending. When Presley had heard about Faustinus and Moira’s marriage, he had thought it a mistake, but as a friend to both, he had done his best to support them, although the impending divorce did not surprise him, unfortunately. It all served to bring home to Presley just how lucky he was, and that he would be a fool to change anything about his life with Grigory.
“Have you heard about the new Myrcian refugees making their way here to the Empire?” Faustinus asked.
“The old Gramiren supporters? They’re rather hard to miss.”
“Presley, dear! How good of you to come.”
Presley turned around just in time for Empress Vita to embrace him. She was still a stunningly beautiful woman with brown skin that glowed and curly black hair he expected had some help retaining its color. Her face was thin and the small crow’s feet at her eyes and smile lines around her mouth only made her look more distinguished.
Beside her, Emperor Tullius stood, looking mildly amused, as he often did at parties. He had allowed his hair to gray, and it appeared quite striking next to his tanned complexion. Although Presley had no lingering feelings for him romantically, he could not deny that Tullius was still remarkably handsome, even now in his late 50s.
“What are you two troublemakers chatting about?” Vita asked, kissing Faustinus on the cheek.
“Certainly not planning any trouble,” Faustinus answered with a wink at Tullius. “Actually, I was just asking Presley what he had heard about the new Myrcian refugees who have recently begun arriving in the Empire.”
“The religious men and nobles,” Tullius replied, slender eyebrow curving up. “I fear the situation might not be entirely settled for our friend, King Edwin.”
“What am I missing?” Presley asked. “Obviously, Gramiren nobles are leaving Myrcia now that the Sigors are back on the throne. But are they particularly causing trouble here? I would have thought the nobles looking to rebuild would have followed Muriel to Annenstruk.”
“Many have,” answered Tullius. “But the Gramirens are not without support here. Broderick was good for business, and the Sigors did not make themselves universally liked during their exile.”
Presley had to concede this point. Economically speaking, Broderick had been good for trade, and Edwin was young and decent but not hugely impressive. And then, of course, there was Elwyn, Edwin’s older half-sister. Even by Immani standards, the woman had always led a scandalous sex life. That was until she married the son of the most powerful man in the Immani Senate from one of the richest families in the Empire, very much against the family’s wishes.
“Are they trying to raise troops?” Presley asked. “Has someone written Rohesia?”
“Not yet. On both counts,” Faustinus chimed in. “But the people from the religious orders seem to be working directly for Broderick Jr. But never worry—Moira and I am on the job.”
Once again, Presley thought of Faustinus and Moira’s divorce. He appeared confident that they would be able to work together on this, but Presley couldn’t help noticing that Moira hadn’t come to the party. Maybe he was wrong to guess that she had done so in order to avoid Faustinus, but he knew Moira usually liked a party.
“But enough business for the night,” Faustinus announced with a grin. He looked over the balustrade at the teeming crowd below, and somehow in all the chaos managed to spot a full bottle of wine he levitated up to them. “Tonight is for celebrating and drinking and enjoying ourselves.” With a nod of his head at the bottle and a few muttered words in Old Trahernian, the typical language of magy, the wine began to refill their glasses.
“I very much agree,” Vita declared. Her glass had been filled first, and she now took a quick sip. “Mm. Presley. Is that something interesting?” she asked, nodding at the book Presley had forgotten he was holding.
“I’m not sure. I never knew that Caedmon wrote a book about the Myrcian War of Independence, but I assume it must be interesting.”
“Oh gods,” Faustinus said. He rolled his eyes and plucked the book from Presley’s grasp. “Tullius, you should be embarrassed to have this in your collection. It’s completely fraudulent. Caedmon would no sooner publish the lurid details of the war and King Edmund Dryhten’s sexual escapades than light himself on fire. Honestly, when we found the little cretin who had written this under Caedmon’s name—he was a pompous, second-rate Brigantian novelist—setting him on fire was exactly what I suggested to Caedmon we do with him.”
Everyone laughed, and it was Tullius who asked the obvious question. “So, what did you do to him?”
“Well, I’ll only tell you, if you all swear not to tell Caedmon, who merely gave the man a stern look and left.”
Presley had seen Caedmon’s stern look, and honestly, he thought it a fitting punishment. And if that look were turned on Presley, he knew without hesitation he would confess to Caedmon everything Faustinus was about to say. Not that he said any of this now.
“Clearly,” said Tullius. “Now tell us.”
“There are certain memory altering spells that are completely forbidden by Diernemynster, and I will admit, even I try to avoid. But I might have made an exception.” Faustinus paused, Presley assumed for effect, which worked as they all leaned closer. “I made him forget the proper conjugation of all irregular verbs. An apt punishment for a writer, don’t you think?”
Everyone burst out laughing.