In the House of Five Dragons

27. Autumn Dance

“The greatest man in history has been returned to Carce and his family keeps him locked away. I call upon Emperor Tychon and the Lyceum to let us see Captain Mazrem. Let him see us. Let us show him our gratitude and remind him what he sacrificed so much for.”

— Avilla Sallusi

Rikard was staring into the mirror in consternation when he felt Thainna’s familiar presence nearby. She prickled with fear and fury, but that wasn’t unusual for the girl. He smiled into the mirror at her and then put the razor to his cheek again.

“What are you doing?” Thainna asked.

She carried a steaming cup of tea in her hands, but didn’t seem to be drinking it.

“Shaving,” Rikard answered shortly. It was too hard to speak while holding his face tautly rigid as the task demanded.

Thainna put the tea down on the table beside him. She pulled over a chair and sat down gratefully. The foster looked tired. Rikard put down the razor again, too distracted to try again just yet.

“I brought you something to drink,” Thainna said. “It… it will help you heal more quickly. I went to your bedroom first, but Lady Mazrem said you had gone. What are you doing here?”

Here was one of Laurael’s frilly dressing rooms. Thainna was faintly unsettled at seeing a renowned warrior in such soft floral surroundings. Rikard smirked at the sentiment. Even a soldier could not be in the field every day of his life and he was glad to be home. In fact, he liked being surrounded by reminders of his wife.

“I told the dressers to stop shaving me. I can do this myself,” Rikard explained. “But Laura said she couldn’t bear to watch me slice up my face, so I came here.”

Thainna picked up the razor and raised an eyebrow at Rikard’s still-whiskery face. “How long have you been at it?”

“Only about a smaller singing… an hour?”

“An hour?”

Rikard held out his hand for the razor. Thainna handed it back and he turned it over carefully, frowning at the blade. “Hae. I don’t remember very well and I don’t want to return to Laura with cuts all along my cheeks like a Jumaari gladiator. Can you show me?”

“Show you? I don’t shave!” exclaimed Thainna, blushing red as an apple.

“Your father, Aelos. You’ve seen him shave, hae?” Rikard asked. She nodded. “Can you remember it for me?”

The half-Fiori girl squirmed in her chair, but did as she was asked. Rikard reached and found the memory in the forefront of her mind.

A thin, whiskery Carceman crouched down in front of a filthy shard of mirror propped against the wall of a narrow alleyway. He scraped a crooked knife up his cheek and swore dispiritedly at the poor results. The man was aged well beyond his years. His clothes, his skin, his hair were all filthy. Everything was dirty, broken.

Rikard withdrew and stared at Thainna.

“That… that’s your father? That’s your home?” he asked, aghast.

Thainna blinked at him and then screwed up her pale face in an expression of sudden shame. “You wanted a memory. Isn’t it good enough?”

“Hae, it helps. But–” Rikard said, but stopped when Thainna turned away. “That place, the Rows… That’s where you live?”

“What does it matter where I come from?” Thainna asked with sudden and surprising fire. She scowled at Rikard. “I’m here and haven’t I helped you? Haven’t I been a good foster?”

“Hae,” he replied haltingly.

Why was she so upset…? Priests came from all manner of backgrounds, many of them poor. So did soldiers, Rikard thought. The Mazrem name was an old one, but not a wealthy one.

At least, it didn’t used to be.

Rikard did not understand and was tempted to reach into her mind again for answers — surely the ones he wanted were in the front of Thainna’s mind — but it would only upset the pale-faced girl even more. Rikard found himself reluctant to do so, even to satisfy his own curiosity. Thainna was right. She had been a good foster and a great deal of help. He put a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Rikard said.

Thainna looked up at him through her hair. Her green eyes were rimmed in red and looked uncomfortably swollen. He was struck again by how weary Thainna seemed to be.

“It doesn’t matter,” Rikard said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

She choked on a sob that turned into a laugh. “And that you didn’t kill me?”

“Hae.”

Rikard suddenly wondered what Thainna had been doing in the Rows that first night, dressed in dirty rags and sneaking through the darkness. Visiting her father, the despondent loafer in her memories? There certainly seemed to be little love between father and daughter. Perhaps seeing her twin brother? But no, Thainna said that he was sickly and remained in the fostral for care.

Rikard returned to the mirror and lathered his cheeks with a thicker foam of soap than Aelos had been able to achieve. Carefully scraping the edge of the razor along his cheek, Rikard was satisfied with the slightly stripped, raw sensation against his skin. Thainna watched him complete the task and then nodded.

“Well, you didn’t slit your throat,” she said. “If you’ll just open your saela, I can look over your stitches and send you back to your wife. Who are you seeing today?”

“I’m not sure. Last night, I told Laura that I want to see Tychon. Bastil is sending word.”

Rikard unbuttoned his saela. The skin over his ribs felt tight, but otherwise fine. Thainna checked the stitches, then rubbed in a new layer of salve. When she was done and resealing the medicine canister, there was a knock at the door. Before either could answer, Gaius came inside and dropped into the chair Thainna had just vacated.

“Morning, Father. Well slept? Bastil’s gone up to the palace to ask after some of Castum’s time. In the meantime, there’s a whole throng of others waiting to see you… What in the name of the gods are you doing? Are you shaving?”

“Hae. I finished,” Rikard announced proudly.

It wasn’t much of an accomplishment by most Terran standards, he knew. Rikard laughed suddenly at the childishness of it all, startling Gaius.

“Don’t you know it’s dangerous to shave yourself, Father?” his son asked. “You could slit your throat.”

“Your mother said the same thing.”

Gaius grunted.

“You can close your saela now, Lord Mazrem,” Thainna told him. “Don’t forget to drink your tea.”

Thainna bowed to the two men and excused herself to get some breakfast. Gaius watched the slender foster leave with a grin on his face that made Rikard uncomfortable. When Thainna was out of sight, Rikard picked up the tea she had brought. It smelled sweet, sugared. He sniffed the dark liquid and wrinkled his nose. He put the tea down. Was that how medicine was supposed to smell?

“That foster’s gaining a little meat. It suits her.” Gaius sniffed the teacup, too, and his brows shot up. “This is what she wants you to drink? She’s got better taste than I thought. Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” Rikard said. “I don’t want it.”

In the mornings that they had spent together, Gaius showed absolutely no interest in tea, but Rikard supposed that it was better than beginning the day with wine. His son brandished the cup in a mock salute and drank it down.

It was several more days of gradually lengthening audiences before Bastil’s visits to the imperial palace brought back a response. After a boring speech of thanksgiving from another Lyceum consul, Rikard and Laurael took their lunch outside, among white and lavender lilies. A black-armored Star Court imperial guard followed Bastil into the garden where his lord and lady sat, quietly enjoying the amber afternoon sun.

“Emperor Tychon would be pleased if you would join him for a performance in the imperial palace tomorrow evening,” Bastil in­formed them, suitably seriously. His pride was a quiet thing, private and personal. Nothing like General Castor’s brittle armor of ego, Rikard thought.

“Please tell the emperor that it would be our honor,” Laurael said.

She kept her pretty smile in place long enough to wave Bastil off and send the knight back to the palace. The imperial guard saluted and bowed before departing. When he was gone, Laurael twisted a cream-colored lily off its stem. She turned it over and balanced it on her palm.

“A week before any response! Tychon is stalling,” Laurael said. She flicked the lily away into the garden. “But even he couldn’t wait forever. He must deal with us. I’ll need a new tabba.”

Laurael’s garden inspiration was difficult to communicate to the tailors, but the next evening, Rikard thought his wife looked lovely. A little overwrought, but lovely. The new tabba was layered in sheer white, gold and cream, sparkling with tiny crystal beads and sashed in an elaborately cross-tied length of gossamer in verdant green. The dressers straightened Laurael’s hair with a pair of hot, flat iron plates and oiled it until it gleamed.

As beautiful as she looked, Rikard was privately glad that his VEIL saela was appropriate dress. It wasn’t very comfortable, but it looked more so than Laurael’s tight-cinched tabba and certainly took less time to prepare.

That wasn’t to say that the dressers failed to fuss over Rikard as well. They inspected and brushed clean every inch of his new saela, combed his hair and even buffed his nails with a piece of wool. Thainna checked his healing injuries and assured Laurael that her husband would not bleed through his nice clothes. The foster bowed and reminded Rikard that she would look in on him when he returned later that night.

The early autumn twilight was a rich violet color, speckled with shining stars like the beads on Laurael’s dress. Gaius met them outside the main house, already pulling himself into one of a pair of waiting chariots. A hostler tightened the kajja’s bridle and then handed the reins to Rikard. Quilted red padding lined the chariot, like a jewelry case, to protect the expensive, valuable things inside. Rikard helped Laurael up into the chariot beside him and held the reins un­certainly.

“Do you remember how to drive?” Gaius asked. He flicked his reins expertly and the kajja trilled, scraping its claws im­patiently on the paving stones.

“Hae… I think so,” Rikard replied reluctantly.

Not that he had much occasion to drive, even before the war in distant Fiore. Like all knights, he learned the basics, but little more. The rocky, icy mountains were difficult to ride across, much less traverse by chariot. Rikard gave the reins a small, experimental tug. Even when his driving lessons were fresh and new, they had been with horses, not these huge, sunset-hued birds.

“What say you to a little race then?” suggested Gaius. “A little friendly competition?”

“A race…?”

Rikard had no chance to ask for details. His son snapped his reins once and whistled. His kajja lunged and leapt into a low, smooth run. Gaius raced down the drive, hurtling toward the front gates. The guards shouted, clambering and barely managed to yank them open in time. Gaius called back to his parents, but the dis­tance between them swallowed his words.

Rikard tried mimicking Gaius’ commands as best he could, but the kajja only looked over its copper-colored shoulder at Rikard and clacked a long, hooked beak at him. Quickly bored, the bird began preening its bright feathers. Beside Rikard, Laurael sighed. He shook the reins again and clicked his tongue, but still the kajja would not move.

Gaius was already out of sight down the road. Since the usual Terran methods were as useless as ashes in his hands, Rikard reached into the kajja’s simple mind, playing his own desire over the bird’s, like plucking the strings of a harp.

Go, run there… Fly? he added as a questioning afterthought.

Rikard wasn’t sure if the tall, lanky bird could take to the air, even when not tethered to a heavy chariot. He didn’t know the route to the imperial palace, not through the unfamiliar streets of the new Dormaen, but he felt along the kajja’s nerves and found a sharp sense of smell. Smoky-bright and sharp-sour city smells, but the brother-scent was still young and thick. The kajja smelled her sibling, the one that pulled Gaius’ chariot.

Follow him, Rikard instructed.

The kajja sniffed the air, hissing softly. She caught a scent strong enough to track, trilled triumphantly and leapt into motion, jerking the chariot behind so abruptly that Laurael cried out in surprise and grabbed onto Rikard’s arm. Even through the sleeve of his saela, her nails bit into his skin.

They raced out through the open gate. Gawkers outside cheered as they thundered past. The smell of the other kajja drifted this way and that on the restless air. Following it, the chariot wove an erratic path through Dormaen, bumping down into the gutters and then jumping out again. Every pop and shudder made Laurael shriek and cling tightly to her husband.

The road was full of people, many with thoughts of Gaius’ re­cent passage still resentful in their minds. Some of them filtered cautiously back into the road, numerous enough that Rikard had to yank back on the reins several times and think jerky stop commands to his kajja. He swerved around another chariot, close enough that he could have reached out and touched the driver’s tabba. The other man swore until he recognized Rikard and his grumble rose to a cry.

“It’s Captain Mazrem! Rikard Mazrem!”

The crowd took up the chant all along the street, shouting his name and raising their fists into the air. Just as at the Moon Court archouse, their jubilation made Rikard feel light-headed, as though he floated through whipping clouds. Hot and heady, not unlike the rush of battle. Spurred by her driver’s burst of borrowed enthusiasm, the kajja sprinted through the close crowd.

Rikard rounded a corner so fast that the chariot tipped up onto one wheel and Gaius came into view just ahead, but so did the great white domes and spires of the imperial palace. The gates — taller and broader than those of the Mazrem estate and gilded even more brightly than the kajja’s plumage — stood open and flanked by rows of VEIL knights in armor of black leather and shining steel.

Rikard urged his kajja onward and raced through the gates just seconds behind his son. Gaius grinned broadly when Rikard pulled to a stop beside him.

“You won a war but you can’t win a simple chariot race? I think the empire’s in trouble!” Gaius said with a wink.

Rikard had no answer to that and covered his embarrassment by helping Laurael down from the chariot. She avoided his gaze and went to Gaius. She patted her son’s shoulder and congratulated him on his victory.

Rikard used the moment alone to inspect the palace, the first place other than his own home he had seen in weeks. When last he had seen it thirty years ago, the royal palace of Carce was a lovely, sprawling house of red and blue, surrounded by well-trimmed box­wood hedges. But like the rocky Everstones, the palace had grown like a single flower left to seed for three decades until it filled the entire garden. This citadel was not just the center of a single small kingdom, but the axis of a vast empire that spanned all of Terra.

Delicately tapered towers lined a long courtyard ten times the width of the street outside. The air was full of the gentle sound of fountains carved in the graceful shapes of leaping carp and crouching lions with crystal claws. In the midst of it all rose the tallest building Rikard had ever seen in the Terran world. He thought at once of the Uprising, of the great white tree that dominated the eastern sky of Alterra. Tychon’s imperial seat was almost a city unto itself, a mountain of marble and quartz and alabaster touched here and there with brighter green and gold. A vast dome capped the palace, gilded and shining like the rising sun. Depictions of men and animals fought and frolicked in carved friezes, all far larger and lovelier than their real-world counterparts.

Rikard would have liked to inspect those carvings more closely, but a steward — probably one of many in a place so immense — cleared his throat. He waited a polite distance away, wrapped in a long formal tabba pinned at one shoulder with the imperial lion and laurel crest. He wore the same expression of gravity that Rikard had grown used to seeing on Bastil. The royal steward bowed deeply to Rikard.

“Lords and Lady Mazrem, his Imperial Majesty bids you a warm welcome. If you’ll follow me, I’ll escort you to the stage.”

“Stage?” Rikard asked curiously.

A drama? He had never seen one before. Rikard offered Laurael his arm and she took it, still pointedly not looking at her husband. Her smoothly oiled hair was disheveled.

“Hae, Lord Mazrem,” said the steward. “Emperor Tychon has arranged a performance of dancers for your entertainment.”

Rikard had never seen one of those, either. He had danced with Laurael at their wedding, of course, but professionals were something else entirely. Or so Rikard assumed. He pulled Laurael along excitedly as the steward escorted them across the courtyard and into the palace.

The halls were paneled in exotic hardwoods and wide enough that Rikard could have driven his chariot inside while still leaving enough room for the steward to walk beside him. Great polished columns lined the distant walls like the trees of some impossible forest. Jasper capitals beautifully carved in the likeness of laurel leaves only heightened the illusion. Rikard stared.

“You were not half so impressed at home,” Laurael reprimanded him under her breath.

“It’s not half so impressive!”

Laurael scowled at Rikard.

They arrived at a wide, semi-circular room with a floor angled down like the slope of a hill and set with rows of white-cushioned seats. Most of these were already filled by people in long formal tabbae. Another man in imperial dress whispered with their guide for a moment and then raised his voice.

“Lord-Captain Rikard Mazrem, his lady wife and his son,” he announced.

The attendant nobility stood together, all applauding. A few of the younger Carcaens cheered and whistled, but were shushed by their older and more gracious companions. The steward caught Rikard’s attention.

“His Imperial Majesty has arranged seating for you and your family up front.”

“Where is Tychon?” Rikard asked him.

“There is the emperor’s seat.” The other man pointed to a small balcony on the far wall of the theater, hung with velvet bunting in red and gold. A gilded throne sat empty on the balcony.

After all of the fighting to get Rikard into the imperial palace, Tychon wasn’t even there. Rikard looked up into the royal box seats. Perhaps not so much had changed since he left Carce thirty years ago. Emperor Tychon still lived apart from his people. Above them, like a god.

Rikard allowed himself to be guided down the stairs to a trio of empty seats. Aside from Tychon’s throne, they were the only ones in the entire theater. Laurael seated herself gracefully between her son and husband. On Rikard’s right, a Carcaen woman in a filmy tabba of sunset-orange smiled at him.

“Welcome home, Captain Mazrem. I’m so glad you could join us,” she said. The woman extended her hand, an awkward gesture when she was seated next to him. “I’m Cerris Ael. My brother was one of the knights who made it home because of you. Harlaen. Do you remember him?”

Rikard didn’t, but Cerris did. She wore the memory as boldly as her revealing tabba and he almost had no other choice but to look. Her brother was gone, but she remembered him so clearly. Sir Harlaen Ael, a round-faced man with an infectious smile.

“Hae, I remember him now,” Rikard said.

Cerris’ red-lipped smile widened.

“He spoke of you every day for the rest of his life. Even when he died, he thanked the gods for you, Captain Mazrem, for returning him home to Dormaen instead of dying up there in the Fiore snow. Ah, speaking of Fiore!”

Unseen servants had shortened the lantern wicks, sinking the theater into deep shadows. Rikard followed Cerris’ gaze to the stage. A pair of young women stepped from the curtained recesses that flanked the stage, one from each side. They were Fiori, with the same slender build and flaming red hair as Thainna. Rikard stared and felt a hot flush creep into his cheeks. The two women wore only their own luminously pale skin.

The dancers came together in a pair of svelte, graceful strides. Despite their nudity and beauty, there was nothing sexual about their performance. One woman darted her hands at the other, with fingers oddly curled, as though she should have held something. Her partner flipped away acrobatically and then circled back in a series of leaping twists that flared her fiery hair like the petals of an exotic flower. The first dancer kicked high, stepped to the side and snaked behind her partner.

Their dance was all too familiar. Though they were smoothed and rehearsed, Rikard recognized those movements — the sinuously graceful leaps and twirls. Small steps, high up on the toes like a prowling cat, made for moving across the icy, craggy ground of the snow-bound Fiore mountains. Thousands of soldiers and knights had died locked in that beautiful, terrible dance.

It was lovely to watch, but eerie, like finding Thainna that first night in the Rows. Wrong somehow. Martial skill that should have been deadly dangerous reduced to a mere show, performing like chained bears. Rikard shifted in discomfort that had nothing to do with the soft seat beneath him or even the proximity of the sensual Cerris Ael. The Fiori were his enemies, so why should it bother him? He had no answer, but couldn’t shake the feeling.

All around him, the other nobles shared none of Rikard’s un­ease. They watched the Fiori women’s fighting dance with the fascinated disdain of an owner observing a pet.

By the time they completed their dance, the Fiori shone under the dimmed light with sweat and were panting hard. Their audience applauded appreciatively. The two women bowed and then retreated from the stage. Rikard sat quietly, thinking, until Laurael repeated his name a third time and finally roused his attention.

“Hae?” he asked.

“Emperor Tychon’s sent for us.”

Laurael gestured to a woman who waited beside the stage, a few feet away. She wore the imperial crest, just like the steward and herald. Rikard nodded and stood. Overhead, the balcony remained empty.

“I so very much hope to see you here again, Captain Mazrem,” Cerris said. She offered her hand again. Rikard took it briefly and then turned back to his family.

“Harlot,” Laurael grumbled under her breath.

Gaius chuckled and winked. “Never fear, Mother. Cerris can’t afford the care you have. She’ll be a baggy old crone in a few years.”

“Why don’t you like her?” Rikard asked, surprised. Cerris had seemed kind and sincerely grateful.

Laurael declined to answer that, which only made Gaius laugh again. He put his mother’s hand on his arm.

“Come along, Mother,” he said. “Tychon wants to see us.”

Gaius sobered at the icy look Laurael shot him. She gave the lingering servant a brittle smile.

“Thank you for waiting,” she told him. “Please take us to the emperor.”

Other guests tried to stop Rikard as they left the theater. Even as Laurael greeted each by name, their escort gently but firmly in­formed them that Emperor Tychon was waiting. Outside, she led Rikard and his family through a manicured miniature orchard and then into a labyrinth of more gigantean halls. After what seemed a full day’s march, they finally arrived at a library. Warm firelight flickered through open doors.

“His Imperial Majesty is inside. I will be waiting here when he’s done with you.”

The guide’s words sounded slightly ominous to Rikard, but he felt no fear or malice from her. Laurael and Gaius certainly didn’t seem to think anything of it, so he followed them inside.

The library was vast, every wall lined with shelves that rose so high that the upper reaches were lost in shadows. Rikard had never seen so many books. Titles glittered in gold leaf on the leather-bound spines, dancing in the firelight like the Fiori girls in the theater. Accounts of Njorn Pass, The Still Wind, Maiden’s Song, Our Red History, Poetry of the Po’Mar Lowlands, Beyond the Veil, Rikard read. There were thousands of others — perhaps tens of thousands — many marked in languages he could not read.

In the library’s center sat Emperor Castum Tychon. He looked… old. Tychon’s once-black hair lay now like white mist settled against his brow. Fifty-nine years of life had carved deep lines into his face.

Almost sixty. A lifetime. Sixty years. Anything more is just greedy. The thought echoed as though across a great distance.

Tychon’s taste hadn’t changed much, however. The emperor’s evening tabba was of a loose, comfortable cut that nevertheless glittered with threads of woven gold. Rings adorned his fingers and his wrists were hung with a dozen thin silver bangles. Even his ears were pierced and studded with gems.

Tychon closed the book he had been reading and laid it aside, stood and embraced Gaius. He kissed Laurael’s cheek and nodded gravely to Rikard.

“Captain Mazrem, Carce’s greatest son,” said the emperor. “We are so pleased to have you home once more.”

“Thank you. It’s good to be home, though it has changed a great deal since I left,” Rikard answered carefully. He was pleased when the correct words came to him.

Tychon smiled and invited them to sit. “What did you think of the dancers? I thought you might particularly appreciate them.”

“I have never seen anything like it,” answered Rikard. “They’ve turned battle into dance. It is… very strange. Why didn’t you come to watch?”

“I’ve seen enough Fiori war-dances to last a very long lifetime,” Tychon told him with a dismissive wave of his bejeweled hand. “I outlawed the Fiori battle arts. They taught their women to fight, you know. Barbaric!”

Rikard touched Laurael’s powdered cheek. He couldn’t imagine sending his wife into war.

“But you let them… dance?” he asked.

“They think they’re quite clever, turning their martial art into dance,” Tychon said. “I permit the Fiori their little deception. Such small rebellions keep them from a greater one. And their girls are quite lovely, it must be said. How are you, Rikard?”

The emperor’s casual familiarity seemed terribly out of place, so different from Rikard’s dim memories of the fervent young king who sent thousands of VEIL knights and soldiers to die in Fiore. Had time changed him so much?

“It’s good to be home, as I said,” Rikard replied. “Terra has be­come very different in thirty years.”

“Years spent fighting in an Alterran civil war, I’ve been told. How terrible. And over us? Tell me, Rikard, what’s that all about?”

More smoothly than he had with Saul, Rikard explained the Al­terran war to his emperor: the battles waged over the fate of worlds, the Shatter’s desire to turn away from Terra, to sever all ties bet­ween the worlds and their people… those few fragile bonds which still remained. A world torn between stability and tumultuous change in which Rikard had served as a warrior of chaos. Much like Alexander Ferro, Emperor Tychon seemed interested in only one particular point.

“After the great expenditure of power to bring you through to Alterra, they sent you back early, with their war not yet won?” he asked. “That seems odd.”

“Hae, Majesty. I don’t know why. I… I think I was told. It might even have been my idea. But passage through the veil is difficult and there are things I still don’t remember.”

“Have you asked?”

Rikard shook his head. “I have as… as best I can, but found only silence. If Flickerdim hears me, then he is not answering.”

“An Alterran ignoring you in a time of need? I’m not surprised. They will come to you when they wish.”

“If Flickerdim is still alive but silent, then I believe it is for a reason. He is an old and great wisdom.”

“Your faith is commendable, I suppose. Do you think that you’ll remember what they wanted?” Emperor Tychon sounded curious, but not terribly concerned. “Well, little good ever came from discussion with the dream-eaters. Perhaps it’s for the best.”

Rikard leaned forward and rubbed at his eyes until his vision swam with spots of exploding color. He wanted to remember. He needed to. It was important, vitally important…! But no one else seemed to think so. Why couldn’t he remember? Why didn’t Flickerdim tell him?

“There’s a foster working with my father. I’m sure she’ll help, if she can,” Gaius supplied when it became obvious that Rikard had no answer to give the emperor. “A Fiori girl, of all things.”

“Half-Fiori,” Rikard corrected automatically. He opened his eyes and looked at Tychon. The spots had not faded and the emperor floated in a haze of red and green. “Don’t you worry, Majesty? All of Alterra is at war!”

“I am emperor of Terra, Captain Mazrem. This is my world,” Tychon said. He lounged back in his chair and waved his hands, taking in the library, the palace and the entire world beyond. “Let the Alterra make whatever war they like. I will shed no tears.”

“But they’re our allies!”

Rikard’s voice was rising and Laurael placed her hand against his arm.

“Please, my lord,” she said gently. “We are guests of the emperor and his loyal subjects.”

Rikard jerked away. “Laura, no! Why isn’t anyone else con­cerned? You’re all so busy celebrating me that you don’t even see the war burning just beyond the veil! It’s been waged for thirty years. Why does no one know about it? They fight at the Uprising over us, for us. Surely even that tears sky for you, Tychon! If the flatlands bloom and sunder the spire, the walls break…”

Rikard trailed off. The other three stared at him and shook their heads as though at the inevitable stumbling of a clumsy child. He wasn’t making sense anymore and even if he did, they weren’t listening. The Alterran war was unimportant, far away.

“You barely cared about a war in your own world!” he snarled at Emperor Tychon. “It was naïve to think you might give a single drop of blood about theirs!”

Rikard started to rise, to storm out of the library, but Laurael’s fingers wound around his wrist like tree roots through stone. He had embarrassed her, Rikard realized, and felt a sharp, heartsick stab of shame. Gaius watched the whole thing with a slightly sur­prised smile, as though it were all some amusing play. Like he was watching the Fiori dancers.

Tychon didn’t look at Rikard for a long moment. He twisted a ring adorned with a huge ruby around his middle finger. The air hung heavy with anticipation. Tychon looked… tired. Not angry or hurt by Rikard’s words, simply wearied by them.

He just wants us to leave so he can go to bed, go to sleep.

Rikard looked down at the book on the table beside Emperor Tychon. The cover was emblazoned with a nude woman kneeling in the petals of a lotus.

Well, perhaps not to sleep yet, but certainly to bed.

“We are promoting you to legens.” Tychon still didn’t look at Rikard. “We could do no less for the hero of Carce, but we remind you that the war is over, Legens Mazrem. Terra is at peace and we intend to keep it that way. We have spent enough of our lifetime fighting, legens, and so have you. It’s time to enjoy the fruits of our youthful labors, hae?”

“Hae,” Rikard agreed through gritted teeth.

“We understand that you’re still suffering Fiori injuries, Legens Mazrem. VEIL has survived thirty years without you and a century without any legens. Take your time in recovery. Your men will be there when you’re ready.”

Fatter and lazier with each passing day, the emperor thought, as thick and sour with contempt as curdled milk. Do with them what you will. Carce has no more need for knights or Alterra. Just leave us alone. Leave us in peace, hero.

“We fought for you,” Rikard said. “We died for you, for Carce! We bled and sacrificed for the empire that you built!”

Rikard wanted to scream and cry, like the child they thought him. It wasn’t fair! Laurael told him to forgive Emperor Tychon, to be thankful for the good done and forget the rest. How could he? Tychon cared nothing for the men who had given so much for the empire or for the Alterra who shared their twin existence, who died alone and forgotten beyond the veil. All the old man wanted was peace and quiet to enjoy his rich, lavish life.

Rikard rose and bowed. “I… Thank you, Majesty.”

Every word burned. When they were done, Rikard turned on his heels and stalked out of the library. He could hear Laurael behind him, speaking softly to the emperor.

“He’s still a little fragile, but he’s recovering.”

“That’s the man you left to hold in memory?” hissed Tychon, also quietly.

“Enough, Castum,” Laurael said. “Rikard is as important to you as he is to me. Give him peace and he’ll give you the same. He’s a simple man.”

“A simple man that you’ve just made legens,” interjected Gaius, speaking up for the first time.

“Go find your father, Gaius. Castum and I can handle this. I’ll see you in the orchard.”

“Mother–”

“Go make sure the new legens doesn’t lock himself in a closet or something,” said Tychon.

Rikard hadn’t meant to eavesdrop and vaguely remembered that he should feel guilty for it, but they were talking about him. He was too angry to make himself care much about social niceties. He retreated down the nearest hallway and found the woman who had escorted him to the library. She bowed and greeted him, cool and professional. Rikard said nothing in reply. He leaned against one of the tree-trunk columns and waited.

Gaius found him only moments later. Rikard did not look up at his son’s approach. He didn’t need to see his son’s face to sense the anger and displeasure that mirrored his own.

“There you are, Father. Mother will be along in a little while to collect us like so many parcels. We’re to wait for her in the orchard.”

“Hae, I know,” Rikard grumbled.

Gaius was quiet for a moment. “You heard, then?”

Rikard pushed himself upright.

“Which way is the orchard?” he asked the waiting servant.

“I know the way,” Gaius said and flicked a finger at the woman. “Go find us something to drink, sweetheart.”

Gaius and Rikard walked together in sullen silence out to the small orchard. It was getting late and the starlight transformed the first autumn apples into great silver-black pearls. Gaius plucked one down from a sculpted branch and took a crunching bite.

“You’re not pleased,” he said. “Don’t you like your promotion, Father?”

“You don’t like it.”

Gaius bit into the apple again and then he dropped it to the ground, only half eaten. It thumped into the neatly cropped grass at their feet.

“Ever since I made captain, Mother’s had me turn down every single promotion,” said Gaius. “You’ve been back a couple weeks and she’s happy enough to let you jump right up to legens.”

“I don’t want to be legens,” Rikard argued.

“You didn’t protest.”

“I didn’t want to embarrass Laura any more than… than I al­ready did.”

Gaius quirked a smile. He didn’t really believe Rikard, but he shrugged. “You still don’t care much for Tychon, do you? I’d not say it here, though. We’re up to our asses in political muck.”

“I don’t understand. I never understood politics.” Rikard hated the petulant tone of his own voice.

“Tychon waited a week before inviting us here, to a theater full of Dormaen’s aristocracy,” Gaius explained. He understood. “The emperor never came himself. He’s showing you — and everyone else — who still calls the plays.”

“But he made me legens.”

“Tychon isn’t stupid, Father. He wants to put you in your place — which is below him — but he doesn’t want to make an enemy of you, either. If he takes something away with one hand, he has to give something else with the other.”

The imperial servant returned then, bearing cups of cold wine. She offered them to the two VEIL knights and then retreated to wait for other orders. Or to listen to them, perhaps. Gaius worked on another apple and guzzled his wine in a few long gulps. He and Rikard waited together in silence for the better part of an hour before Laurael came to collect them.

After a much slower and quieter ride home, Gaius made curt goodnights to his parents, then left to find his own bed. As they wound slowly up the graveled path, Rikard put his arm around Laurael. She was cool and stiff at his touch, like a statue only grudgingly given life.

“What did you talk to Castum about?” Rikard asked.

“Only you, my lord. Details concerning your return to VEIL,” Laurael replied. “After your outburst tonight, Emperor Tychon worries for your health. He hopes you’re well enough to rejoin your knights soon.”

“But he doesn’t question my ability?”

“No. Of course not, my lord. You’re the greatest hero ever born to Carce. Who better to lead VEIL?”

“If Tychon doesn’t like the things I say, thinks that I’m unfit or unwell, he should keep me away from VEIL,” Rikard said. “I could be dangerous to him and to the empire. Unless he thinks I can’t do any harm there.”

Laurael pulled him to a stop and turned to face Rikard. “Even if Castum Tychon is foolish enough to think that, he’s wrong. You are an important man. You can still do a great deal of damage.”

Rikard kissed her hands and then her lips. “Thank you, Laura.”

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