Empire of Night (3 page)

M
oria hated court life. By the second day, she'd been eyeing the gates, plotting her escape. Admittedly, her attitude had been different when they first arrived. After they'd spent nearly ten days on the road, the imperial court—with its gardens and lake and forest and hushed tranquility—had been welcome sanctuary. That had changed once they were told that the emperor wished them to stay within the court walls until this matter was resolved . . . and Moria learned that the word “wished” meant something entirely different when it came from an emperor.

The court had quickly become a cage. It didn't matter if it was nearly as big as Edgewood. In their village, they'd been allowed to venture beyond the gates. That made all the difference.

The minister had tried to entertain them, in all the ways he
expected young women would like to be entertained. He sent dressmakers and hairdressers and arranged teas and puppeteers. Moria had no interest in dresses or hair or tea or puppets. Ashyn was more inclined to enjoy them, but even she could not while the children of Edgewood were held captive. They'd spent their days in the library and the gardens, in the temple and the training grounds, and they'd listened to whispers that the Keeper and Seeker of Edgewood were very odd girls, uncultured, perhaps slow-witted, which was not surprising, given that they were Northerners.

That afternoon, Moria sparred with Tyrus. The court Seeker—Ellyn—had tried to stop the lessons, because Moria wasn't allowed to carry a sword until her eighteenth summer. Others seemed more concerned about Tyrus, who was learning dagger throwing from Moria in return. Warrior daggers were considered more tools than weapons. To Tyrus, though, any battlefield skill was useful.

As for the swords, someone—she hated to name him—had told Moria that she would never be able to wield one as well as a male warrior. She was determined to prove him wrong. At first, that task had seemed more daunting than she expected. The typical warrior's sword was a long, slightly curved, single-edged blade. But there were other types, and Tyrus had called in the imperial swordsmith to help. They had decided Moria would be best served with a side sword. It was a shorter blade, sometimes worn instead of the dagger, generally used as an auxiliary sword for close-quarter fighting. It was also used for beheading an enemy, which meant that the blade was as sharp and as strong as any other.

That day, Moria did not practice battle decapitation, Tyrus having drawn the line at offering himself up for that. They sparred while Daigo lounged, dozing. For Moria it was a full workout, leaving her drenched in sweat and gasping for breath. Tyrus didn't even get warm enough to remove his tunic, which was a shame, though the lack of visual distraction did help her accuracy with the blade.

“You need to work on your stamina,” Tyrus said when they finished. “Are you running twice a day?”

She nodded, struggling for breath. “You said twice around the court wall, but I've been doing it thrice. I think I need more.”

“Three times around, thrice a day. We're going to skip lessons for a few days and work on continuous practice bouts to build your stamina and your spirit and improve your attention. You need more of that. Much more.”

Tyrus went on to list everything she'd done wrong. He offered no praise. Once, when Ashyn came to watch, she'd been appalled and shocked that the affable young prince could be so harsh a teacher. Ashyn had been quick to tell Moria she was doing very well. “Yes, she is,” Tyrus had said. “For an untrained girl. But she wants to do well for a warrior.” Ashyn had stayed away after that, and Moria was glad of it. Tyrus had promised to teach her as a warrior, not as a girl trying to play at being a warrior. She did not need her sister defending her from the sidelines.

Once the lesson ended, Tyrus shed that taskmaster guise as he shed his practice tunic. Moria watched. It was a very pleasant sight. He was lean-muscled, sweat making his golden skin
shimmer. He wore an amulet band intricately tied around his left biceps. It was red silk, with tasseled ends, the band embroidered with his name and sewn with a tiny protection scroll inside. An old custom, amulet bands had largely fallen out of favor, but his mother had given it to him and he wore it for her.

Tyrus pulled on a clean shirt, caught her hand, and whispered, “Come. I've something to show you.”

His dark eyes danced, and the smile on his lips promised a passionate tryst in some shadowy corner. Moria knew what that meant—they were being watched. Sure enough, two serving girls were strolling past, feigning no interest in the young prince, which was as good a sign as any that they were spies from one of his brothers.

Despite the attention Tyrus paid her, he showed no interest in more than platonic companionship. She'd wondered at first if he preferred men, but she'd heard enough stories to know that wasn't the case. It seemed that many foreign princesses and diplomats' daughters received real invitations to shadowy corners.

The disappointing truth was that Tyrus did not fancy her. Some men found Northern looks unattractive. More likely, though, given his taste for highborn ladies, it was Moria herself that didn't ignite those fires. As a companion, she was ideal. As a bedmate, he'd likely prefer a more feminine representative of her sex. She could not blame him. One's taste was one's taste, and it was merely unfortunate that hers ran to handsome warriors when she was surrounded by pretty courtier boys whose gazes said they'd happily keep her from growing bored in her confinement.

“Come?” he said, his brows arching, grin growing. He took
her hand and tugged it. “I've someplace to show you.”

“I bet you do,” she said. “Is it dark?”

“Possibly.”

“Private?”

“Probably.”

She laughed. “I think you've taken me there before.”

“No, not this one. Come.”

“But . . .” Moria motioned toward the two serving girls, now on a bench, one subtly watching.

He leaned in and whispered loudly. “They aren't looking. Now come. Quickly.”

They scampered off, whispering and laughing, as the spies headed back to the palace with their report. Tyrus took her past the Chancery for Medicines, and then into the Grove of Pines. He led her through to the palace wall at the far side.

“Can you climb?” he asked, pointing to a generously branched pine.

She nodded.

While she easily scaled the tree, he had a little more trouble. There were situations in which having a long blade hanging at your side was problematic. She remembered in the Wastes, when she'd broken into a run upon seeing Fairview ahead, and she'd laughed at—

Moria banished the memory. She'd not recall any that included him. The point was that a warrior's blade could hinder running or climbing, yet as long as a warrior remained upright, his weapons stayed at his side or in his hand. There were no other choices.

Once up the tree, Tyrus pointed to the wall and said, “Can you jump?”

“Into the palace yard?”

He nodded.

“I can but—”

“Then follow me. Tell Daigo to wait.”

He jumped onto the wall and then swung down. By the time she'd spoken to her wildcat, Tyrus had disappeared. She jumped to the base of the wall and looked about.

“Over here,” he whispered, peeking from behind a building. When she caught up, he said, “Keep following. Quietly. Don't sneak, though. There's no reason I can't bring you to my quarters, but I'd prefer not to take the ruse that far, for the sake of your reputation. Just follow quietly and take note of the route. You'll want to use it again. Soon.”

Like the court, the palace itself was a complex of buildings. The emperor's residence was in the middle—or so she'd heard, having not been here before. His first and second wives also had homes in the compound, as did his concubines, including Tyrus's mother. Tyrus himself lived here, like all the emperor's children, except the daughters who'd married and left.

When Moria once asked how many children the emperor had, Tyrus estimated fourteen—four legitimate sons, two legitimate daughters, and the rest by his official concubines, though he allowed he may have forgotten one or two. The legitimate offspring were all older than Tyrus. Two of the bastard daughters were older and married, living elsewhere. The remainder were at least three summers younger, meaning Tyrus was the only one who posed a threat, and thus garnered all his brothers' interest.

Given the size of the imperial family, the palace compound was not small. It may even have been larger than the
court. Besides the residences, it included a number of other buildings, for guests and entertainment. Those were along the wall adjoining the court, and that's where Tyrus led her. They stopped outside a window shuttered against the late-day heat. Inside, she caught the bustle of serving staff preparing for a meal.

“Can you hear what they're saying?” Tyrus whispered, leaning in so close his breath warmed her ear.

She could pick up nothing of import. Just someone asking a steward about the menu, someone else being chastised for poorly arranging flowers. When she said as much to Tyrus, he nodded.

“I only wanted to know if you could hear them. The window ought to be open tonight, but if there's a sharp breeze, they'll close it.”

“Why would I—?”

He waved for her to follow. When she caught up, he whispered, “You'll need to return to the court a different way. I'll show you.”

He took her almost to the rear corner. One of the palace buildings came close enough to the wall that they could climb onto it. They emerged in a quiet pocket behind the armory. There was a bench there, with a small koi pond. They'd barely sat when Daigo appeared and settled silently at Moria's feet.

“When I was growing up, my father loved to tell me tales of dragons,” Tyrus said. “I swear he didn't know a story that didn't have at least one.” He rubbed his thumb over the red dragon on his forearm. “They were as important to him as our actual ancestors. One of his favorite tales was of a sand dragon.
I presume I'd be wasting breath if I asked whether you know your types.”

“Sand, snow, rock, timber. Corresponding to the four major parts of the empire—the southern desert, the frozen north, the western mountains, and the eastern forest. There are also corpse dragons, but they aren't the same.”

“This story is about a sand dragon, which lives alone, for very good reason.”

“Because they guard treasure.”

“Exactly. The problem with having treasure is that everyone wants it. No matter how far away the dragon hides, eventually men will come. Being in the desert, though, the dragon can see approaching armies from afar. So this one waited, and when the men arrived, he did not meet them with fire and death, but with kind words and hospitality. He was very pleased to see them, having been alone for so long, and if they would share his company for a time, he would happily share his fortune in return. Of course, the men suspected a trick. The first dinner they attended with hidden blades and anxious hearts, but the dragon was as pleasant a host as one could wish. The second night, some left their blades behind, but most were still mistrusting and prepared for battle. Yet the dragon was even more hospitable, the banquet bigger, the entertainment grander, and at the end, he gave them all a bag. Those who left their blades behind had received gold coins, enough to feed a family for many seasons. Those who'd brought their weapons found their bags filled with sand. They knew their host had detected their duplicity, and they were shamed. So on the third night, no one carried a blade to the banquet, and the dragon was in his best
mood ever, the food and the entertainment beyond anything imaginable. At the end, he invited them into his treasure room, to take all they could carry, and once they were there, he barred the door and left them to die.”

“As he should,” Moria said.

Tyrus smiled and nodded. “As he should, because they came to his home with treachery in their hearts. They accepted his hospitality while plotting his demise. Now, like the men of the story, there is an invited guest on the palace grounds who came with treachery in his heart, and plots with Alvar Kitsune to bring about my father's demise.”

“Either the Sultan of Nemeth or the King of Etaria.”

“My father has entertained them sumptuously for two nights. This is the third night.”

“Meaning whoever betrayed him will die.”

Tyrus laughed. “No, that's where the story diverges, because it would hardly be in my father's best interests to murder a valuable source of enemy intelligence. Each night, while the food has grown richer and the entertainments more exotic, the number of invited guests has dwindled, allowing a more intimate affair . . . and allowing my father more time with his guests. Tonight it will be a very small gathering, with much wine and diversion, and he will determine who is betraying him.”

“And the dinner will take place in that room.”

“Yes.”

“Where I can listen in.”

“Yes.” He moved so close their legs rubbed. “This will not help you get the children back, Moria, but it may help you see that progress is being made. We are all frustrated, but if we
swoop into Fairview with an army, they will see us coming and slaughter the children and villagers. Alvar Kitsune is playing a game. A terrible and cruel game, but a game nonetheless. We cannot break the rules. We must find a way to subvert them. That's what my father is doing.”

She nodded.

He leaned in further, taking her hand in his. “I can see how much this is hurting you. I just want . . . I want to make it stop hurting, and I know it won't until you have some resolution, not just with the children, but with Gavril—”

She pulled back so fast she nearly fell off the bench. “Don't—”

“Yes, I know.” He straightened, anger spiking his voice. “We cannot say that name. We cannot discuss what he did. But you need to speak of it, Moria. It's like swallowing a dagger—it's ripping you apart from the inside. You can talk to me. He was my friend, too.”