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Presley fell flat on his face across the bed. He paid no attention to the plate of candied nuts and the crystal decanter of silvery Argitis the servants had brought. He barely noticed the tall arched windows with their stunning view of the sharp blue mountains, capped with dazzling white snow even now, in June.
I don’t care about any of it. I only want to rest.
Work for the past few months had been brutal. His normally good-natured boss, Crispus Rufus Stylianos, liked to say that one does not become the greatest shipping magnate in the largest empire in the world without occasional ruthlessness and nearly inhuman hours of work. Managing the accounts for such a man and such a business was usually gratifying to Presley. But the past few months, full of takeovers and last minute changes due to shifting political landscapes, had left Presley with barely enough time to sleep, let alone have any sort of life.
Perhaps he had found it even more exhausting because so many of the disruptions were happening in Myrcia. He and Grigory had been in the Immani Empire for a decade now, and he couldn’t imagine anywhere else in the world they could be so happy. And yet, Myrcia was home. He had been born there, studied there, served a duke and a king and fought there. The Empire might provide the only place for two men to live happily together, but in his heart, a part of him would remain Myrcian forever.
But whatever else was happening in the world, he and Grigory were now on vacation, and he could forget about the troubles at work and at home for the next month.
As soon as Grigory’s classes at the Imperial University at Presidium had finished for the semester, they were on a boat, owned by Stylianos and rented to them at a steep discount. Once they had crossed the Axenian Sea and traveled upstream to the farthest navigable point of the River Teper, they splurged on the most comfortable carriage Presley could find and made their way over the mountain pass to Terminium.
Emperor Tullius had invited Presley and Grigory to make use of his villa for as long as they would like. Relaxing now on the bed after the long journey, Presley would have liked to stay indefinitely. However, they only had a month here, and then Presley had to head back to Presidium.
“Wake me up next week,” Presley mumbled into a pillow.
“You do not even want dinner?” Grigory asked, as he stretched out along Presley’s side. He rubbed his hand up and down Presley’s back. “You know how good the chef is. His roasts are always worth a little effort.”
Presley hummed happily, remembering how well he had always eaten here. When he had first come to this villa, he had been alone and miserable. He had been missing Grigory, who had returned to his home in Loshadnarod after they had spent several years together in Leornian. Tullius had offered him more than just good meals. It had been a remarkable time in Presley’s life, even in the midst of those horrible years apart from Grigory. And now he could call Tullius his good friend, along with his remarkable wife, the Empress Vita Rufina Ursicana.
Whenever Presley had a rare moment for pure reflection, he could only marvel at the strange twists and turns of his own life. He’d grown up a mere Mr. Kemp, and now he was Sir Presley staying at the villa of the Immani Emperor. He was richer than he could ever have imagined—richer, in fact, than most noblemen back in Myrcia could have imagined. If, in return, he merely had to endure a few hectic months at a job he otherwise enjoyed, then he could hardly complain.
My late father—Earstien rest his soul—would be astonished at how far I’ve come in life. He would also be appalled if I didn’t take the opportunity to enjoy it.
“Fine,” said Presley. “Wake me for dinner.”
Grigory kissed that special spot behind Presley’s ear. “What if we didn’t sleep and did something else instead?”
***
PRESLEY HAD BEEN LOOKING forward to a month in Terminium alone with Grigory. But he knew they would surely have company, sooner or later.
He also knew Emperor Tullius and Empress Vita were taking a trip of their own to the east, paying visits to senators, proconsuls, and legates in the provinces of Presidia, Axenia, Embaria, and Terminia. So, Presley had assumed they would eventually come to Terminium. He had not expected them to show up at the palace the second day after he and Grigory had gotten there.
He certainly hadn’t expected them to show up with Servius Lepidus Faustinus, the legendary sorcerer, who was another old friend. But even more mysteriously, they were joined by Intira Rufa Stylianos, daughter of Presley’s employer, Crispus Stylianos.
“Hello boys!” Vita said with a broad smile, embracing first Grigory and then Presley. “I hope you settled in nicely. Sorry to barge in, but we had to grab our dear Intira and hurry after you with a bit of news.” She threw her black curls off her slim brown shoulders and settled into one of the couches in the front parlor. “I think I’ll let Faustinus explain it all, though. I’m exhausted and need a drink.”
Her husband, Tullius Ursicanus, Imperator of the Immani, Consul of the Senate, Tribune of the People, and a dozen titles besides, dismissed the servants who had accompanied them in, scanned the hall to see no one else was around, and then locked the door.
“Whiskey?” offered Intira. She was a lovely woman in а her mid-30s. In her dark complexion, she took after her Themaseki mother. In her determined (some might say “stubborn”) attitude, she took after her Thessalian father.
Intira was often at court, and Presley knew she and Vita were old friends, though he hadn’t known them to travel together on intimate outings before. Was she somehow a part of this pressing news? Was something terribly wrong with Stylianos Imperial Shipping? Earstien, he hoped not.
“I think whiskey all around,” said Faustinus. Not wanting to waste anyone’s time by doing something as mundane as walking to the sideboard, Faustinus used magy to levitate a decanter and six glasses over to the sofas where he and Vita had already settled in. “Come. Have a seat everyone.”
Presley and Grigory exchanged wary glances, but sat down all the same next to Vita. When his glass of whiskey floated over to him, Presley took a good, long drink.
“So, what is the bad news?” he asked. “You didn’t come all this way to tell us something good. That you could have put in a letter.”
“Well, it’s not good, but I wouldn’t say that it’s wholly bad, either.” Faustinus flashed his charming smile, but Presley had known him long enough to be wary of that smile.
“Things are not going well for the Sigors,” Tullius now chimed in. “I would like to support them, but,” he shrugged his slender shoulders, “there is only so much I can do. Even less that I can be seen doing.”
Grigory squeezed Presley’s hand.
“How bad is it?” Presley asked.
“I received a bird from Caedmon,” Faustinus explained. Years of being around hillichmagnars had taught Presley and Grigory that these angels of Earstien could send brief messages to each other in the minds of animals, birds being the most popular because of their ability to travel distances at speed. “Keelweard has fallen to Broderick. The entire Sigor army has retreated to Leornian. If Leornian falls, well then, we worry for King Edwin. I don’t think we can count on Broderick’s good graces.”
Ah, Broderick Gramiren—murder, usurper, and cold-hearted bastard.
When Grigory had escaped his homeland, Broderick had wanted to send him back—send him back to face execution—simply to gain some kind of temporary political advantage. Grigory had barely escaped.
In all his life, the person Presley had most admired—with the possible exception of Grigory—was Brandon Dryhten, the previous Duke of Leornian. No one else had ever been so genuinely decent and caring, so loving and forgiving.
Brandon managed to find the good in everyone. Well, almost everyone.
The only person Brandon had despised without reservation was Broderick, and with good reason. The thought of Broderick not just claiming to be King of Myrcia, but conquering the city of Leornian, Presley’s birthplace, made him furious. The thought of Broderick entering the Bocburg—Duke Brandon’s old home—in triumph made his gorge rise. But what could he do?
Then he caught Vita’s grin out of the corner of his eye, and he suspected she already had a suggestion. “You have an idea?”
“You always have been one of the cleverest people I know,” she answered with a wink. “The three of you will go to Leornian to help the Sigors.”
Home? Could he really return to Myrcia? He didn’t think he would be remotely safe, and neither would Grigory. “Three of us?” Presley asked. He turned and addressed Faustinus. “You’re coming as well? I didn’t think you would want to go back after, well, everything with the Loshadnarodski War.”
“Oh, I’m not going! You’re absolutely right. There are far too many people in the Sigor camp who would not be pleased to see me. And that would be far too public a declaration of active support for the Sigors for Tullius to make.”
“I’m your third,” Intira said with a cheery grin.
“I’m sorry, but why?” Presley asked.
Faustinus leaned forward. “Vita and Moira and I have been working with Intira, and we think she can be quite useful.”
“Wait. Stop. Presley will not be safe in Myrcia,” Grigory said. “I know he wants to help, but Broderick will kill him. He cannot go.”
“I think Broderick would rather kill you, actually,” answered Faustinus. “But you will have Immani diplomatic protection. He won’t dare touch you for fear of bringing the Empire into the war openly.”
“Grigory, you have been invited to be a visiting professor at Leornian University,” Tullius explained.
“I have?”
“Well, not as such,” said Faustinus, “At least not yet. I’ll let Caedmon know to arrange it. And Intira is your teaching assistant.”
Grigory looked at her, frowning. “I do not want to be rude. What do you know of engineering?”
“Almost nothing!” she laughed. “But it’s a long carriage ride to Leornian. You can teach me.”
“I am sorry,” Grigory shook his head, “I will go with Presley if he wishes it. But I cannot be responsible for a lady who does not know anything about what we are doing.”
“Grigory Sobol!” Vita smacked his knee. “I never expected to hear such nonsense from you.”
“But how can I help her if she knows nothing and the Myrcians catch her in a lie?”
Intira held up her left hand and wiggled her fingers. The gesture caused her sleeve to drop back to her elbow, exposing her forearm. Or rather, it exposed the magysk prosthetic Faustinus had made for her a year or two ago to replace the arm she had lost in a boating accident. Presley did not know what Faustinus had done exactly, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Intira could use that arm to do everything from start campfires to collapse bridges.
Presley looked at it more closely now, having been a bit self-conscious about staring at it before. It had the shape of a normal arm and was mostly covered in supple leather that had been tanned to match Intira’s skin tone. But it had several stripes of various colors and gems of red, green, and blue inlaid. Each, Presley guessed, contained spells.
I already pity anyone on the receiving end.
“I will be there to protect the two of you,” she said.
“So, when can you leave?” Faustinus asked.
Presley looked at Grigory, wondering if he might read Grigory’s answer in his eyes, and perhaps find his own while he was at it. But all he felt was overwhelmed by this huge, sudden change of all his plans.
“Give us some time to talk,” Presley said.
***
PRESLEY TRUSTED FAUSTINUS to give them privacy and not magyskly listen at their keyhole, but he preferred to go outside for this conversation with Grigory. They walked the lawn in silence for a time, while Presley ordered his thoughts. Eventually, he came to a stop at the edge of a precipice. Tullius’s villa perched atop Terminium’s highest hill, and from this vantage, if he pushed the hair the wind whipped into his eyes aside, he could see the Myrcian ambassador’s home down in the city. He had stayed there when he’d first come here with Duke Brandon and Lawrence Swithin seventeen years ago. They had come to see if the teenage daughter of the ambassador would make a good wife for a future king.
That girl, of course, was Rohesia Swithin, and her marriage to Prince Edgar Sigor was supposed to put an end to Myrcia’s succession problems. Presley should have known that as long as Broderick still drew breath, the question would never be settled.
“You want to go,” Grigory said, putting his arm around Presley’s shoulders.
Presley relaxed and leaned into Grigory. “I think I do. I... just... abandoning Myrcia to Broderick. It’s what I worked for years to prevent. And I feel like I owe it to Duke Brandon’s memory. Does that make sense?”
Grigory kissed the top of his head. “Of course it does. I will go with you. It will be nice to see Dr. Stark again.”
“And to get cinnamon rolls at Crane’s Bakery.”
“We will eat them every day.”
Presley poked Grigory’s stomach, which was only moderately softer than when they had met in Leornian more than twenty years ago. “I don’t know about every day. We don’t want you getting too much of a tummy.”
Grigory laughed and spun Presley a bit so they were looking at each other. “You are jealous because you are still as skinny as a little boy.”
Presley had been rail thin all his life. But he knew he wasn’t a boy anymore, and neither was Grigory. Presley’s dark brown hair had gotten rather more salt and pepper lately, and Grigory had little lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. They were now, in fact, not much younger than Duke Brandon had been when he came here to Terminium, hoping to secure the succession away from Broderick.
If he managed to do so much back then, surely Grigory and I can face the dangers of civil war to see the rightful king once more ruling Myrcia.
“We have to go,” Presley said.
Grigory nodded, but he was prevented from saying anything by Vita’s approach.
“You’ve decided to go, yes?” she called, taking her last few strides across the lawn to join them.
“You knew we would,” Presley answered.
Vita laughed and kissed him on the cheek. “Of course I did. Which is why I made certain everything would be ready for you all to leave in the morning.”
“The morning?” Presley groaned and leaned against Grigory. “Not much of a vacation, is this?”
“No,” Vita said. “I’m terribly sorry that you’re going to miss my Solstice party in a few days. But now that you’ve decided, you know as well as I do that you have no desire to wait.”
“I suppose I don’t.”