“Hadrian.” Royce placed a hand on his friend’s arm, stopping them mid-step. “You’re not up to this. You don’t know Merrick. Think a minute. If he can kill a wizard, one who could create pillars of fire even without hands, what do you think your chances are? You’re a good—no, you’re a great fighter—the best I’ve ever seen, but Merrick is a genius and he’s ruthless. You go after him, he’ll know, and he’ll kill you.”
They were across from Lester Furl’s old haberdashery in Artisan’s Row, the shop that the monk Myron once worked in. The sign of the cavalier hat still hung out front, but the place was empty.
“Listen, I’m not asking you to come. I know you’re marrying Gwen. Congratulations on that, by the way. And it’s about time, I might add. This isn’t your problem. It’s mine. It’s what I was born to do. What my father trained me for. Finding Gaunt and protecting him—finding a way to put him back on the imperial throne—that’s my destiny.”
Royce rolled his eyes.
“I know you don’t believe that, but I do.”
“Gaunt could be dead already, you know? If Merrick killed Esrahaddon, he might have slit Gaunt’s throat, too.”
“I still have to go. By now, even you must see that.”
***
When they reached The Rose and Thorn, Gwen was waiting with anxious eyes. She stood in the threshold, her arms crossed, clutching her shawl. The autumn wind brushed her skirt and hair. Within the darkened interior behind her, patrons talked loudly around the bar.
“It’s okay,” Hadrian reassured her as they approached. “I’m taking the job, but Royce is staying. With luck I’ll be back for—”
“Go with him,” Gwen told Royce firmly.
“No—really, Gwen,” Hadrian said, “it’s nothing—”
“You have to go with him.”
“What’s wrong?” Royce asked. “I thought we were getting married. Don’t you want to?”
Gwen closed her eyes, shaken. Then her hands clenched into fists and she straightened. “You must go. Hadrian will be killed if you don’t—and then you…you…”
Royce took her in his arms on the steps of the tavern and held her as she began to cry.
“You have to go,” Gwen’s voice muffled by Royce’s shoulder. “Nothing will be right if you don’t. I can’t marry you—I won’t marry you if you don’t. Tell me you’ll go, please, Royce, please…”
Royce gave Hadrian a puzzled glance and whispered, “Okay.”
***
“Here, I made this for you,” Gwen said to Royce, holding out a folded bit of knitted cloth. They were in Gwen’s room at the top of the stairs of Medford House, and he had just finished packing.
He held it up. “A scarf?”
Gwen smiled. “Since I’m going to be married, I thought I should take up knitting. I hear that’s what proper wives do for their husbands.”
Royce started to laugh but stopped when he saw her expression. “This is important to you, isn’t it? You realize you’ve always been better than all those ladies in the Merchant Quarter. Having a husband doesn’t make them special.”
“It’s not that. It’s just…I know you had a less-than-perfect childhood, and so did I. I want something better for our children. I want their lives—our home—to be perfect, or at least as much as possible for a pair such as us.”
“I don’t know, I’ve met dozens of aristocrats who had ideal childhoods and they turned out to be horrors. You, on the other hand, are the best person I’ve ever met.”
She smiled at him. “That’s nice, but I highly doubt you would approve of our daughter working here. And would you really want our son living the way you did as a boy? We can raise them right. Just because they grow up in a proper home doesn’t mean they will turn out to be horrors. You’ll be firm, and I’ll be loving. You’ll spank little Elias when he acts disrespectfully, and I’ll kiss his tears and give him cookies.”
“Elias? You’ve named our son already?”
“Would you prefer Sterling? I can’t decide between the two. But the girl’s name is not negotiable—it’s Mercedes. I’ve always loved that name.
“I’ll sell this house and my other holdings. Combined with the money I banked for you, we’ll never want for anything. We can live peaceful, happy, simple lives—I mean, if you want to live like that, do you?”
He looked into her eyes. “Gwen, if it means being with you, I don’t care where we are or what I do.”
“Then it’s settled.” Gwen grinned and her eyes brightened. “It’s what I’ve always dreamed of…the two of us in a small cottage somewhere safe and warm raising a family.”
“You make us sound like squirrels.”
“Yes, exactly! A family of squirrels tucked in our cozy nest in some tree trunk while the troubles of the world pass us by.” Her lower lip quivered.
Royce pulled her close and held her tight as she buried her face in his shoulder. He stroked her head feeling her hair linger on his fingertips. For all Gwen’s strength and courage, he was forever amazed at how fragile she could be. He had never known anyone like her, and he considered telling Hadrian he had changed his mind.
“Don’t even think it,” she told him. “We can’t build a new life until you’re done with the old one. Hadrian needs you, and I won’t be blamed for his death.”
“I could never blame you.”
“I couldn’t bear it if I felt you hated me, Royce. I’d rather be dead than let that happen. Promise me you’ll go. Promise me you’ll take care of Hadrian. Promise me you won’t despair, and that you’ll set things right.”
Royce let his head lower until it rested on hers. He stood there, smelling the familiar scent of her hair as his own breathing tightened. “All right, but you have to agree to go to the abbey if things get bad like they did before.”
“I will,” she said. Her arms tightened around him. “I’m so scared,” she whispered.
Surprised, Royce said, “You’ve always told me you were never frightened when I left on missions.”
She looked up at him with tears in her eyes and a guilty expression on her face. “I lied.”
Chapter
3
The Courier
Hadrian stood in the anteroom, waiting in line to deliver the dispatch. The clerk was a short, plump, balding man with ink-stained fingers and a spare quill behind each ear. He sat behind a formidable desk, scribbling on documents and muttering to himself, unconcerned with the growing line of people.
They had ridden to Aquesta, and Hadrian had volunteered to deliver the dispatch while Royce waited at a rendezvous with horses at the ready. Although he had performed jobs for many of the nobility, few here would know him by sight. Riyria had always conducted business anonymously, working through third parties such as the Viscount Albert Winslow, who fronted the organization and preserved their anonymity. He doubted that Saldur would recognize him, but Luis Guy certainly would. As a result, Hadrian kept a clear map of the nearest exit in his head and a count of the imperial guards between him and freedom.
The seat of the New Imperial Empire was busy and members of the palace staff hurried by, entering and exiting through the many doors around him. They ran or walked as briskly as need, or dignity, demanded. Some turned his way, but only briefly. As he knew from experience, the degree of attention people paid was inversely proportionate to his or her status. The lord chamberlain and high chancellor passed without a glance, while the serving steward ventured a long look and a young page stared curiously for nearly a full minute. While Hadrian was invisible to those at the highest levels, he was becoming uncomfortable.
This is taking too long.
Two dispatch riders reached the front of the line, quickly dropped off their satchels, and left. A city merchant was next and came to file a complaint. This took some time, as the clerk asked numerous questions and meticulously recorded each answer.
Next, came the young, plain-looking woman directly ahead of Hadrian. “Tell the chamberlain I wish an audienc
e,” she said, stepping forward. She wore no makeup, leaving her face dull. Her hair, pulled back and drawn up in a net, did nothing to accentuate her appearance. She was pear-shaped, a feature made even more evident by her gown, which flared at the waist into a great hoop.
“The lord chamberlain is in a meeting with the regents and cannot be disturbed, Your Ladyship.”
The words were proper, but the tone was cold. Exhibiting more than a mere professional indifference, the words sounded contemptuous. The inflection on Ladyship sounded particularly sarcastic. The woman either did not notice or chose to ignore it.
“He’s been ducking me for over a week,” the woman accused. “Something must be done. I need material for the empress’s new dress.”
“My records indicate that quite a large sum was spent on a gown for Modina recently. We are at war and have more important appropriations to make.”
“That was for her presentation on the balcony. She can’t walk around in that. I’m talking about a day dress.”
“It was very expensive nonetheless. You don’t want to take food from our soldiers’ mouths just so the empress can have another pretty outfit, do you?”
“Another? She has two worn hand-me-downs!”
“Which is more than many of her subjects, isn’t it?”
“The empire has spent a fortune remodeling this palace. Surely it won’t break the imperial economy to buy a bit of cloth. She doesn’t need silk. Linen will do. I’ll have the seamstress—”
“I am quite certain that if the lord chamberlain thought the empress needed another dress he would provide one. Since he has not, she doesn’t need it. Now, Amilia,” he said brazenly, “if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”
The woman’s shoulders slumped in defeat.
Footsteps echoed from behind them, and the small man’s smug expression faltered as he looked past Amilia. Hadrian turned and saw the farm girl he once knew as Thrace walking up, flanked by an armed guard. Her dress was faded and frayed just as Amilia had said, but the young woman stood tall, straight, and unabashed. She motioned to the guard to wait, as she moved to the front of the line to face the clerk.
“The Lady Amilia speaks with my authority. Please do as she has requested,” Thrace said.
The clerk looked confused. His bright eyes flickered nervously back and forth between the two.
Thrace continued, “I am sure you do not wish to refuse an order from your empress, do you?”
The scribe lowered his voice, but his irritation still carried as he addressed Amilia. “If you think I am going to kneel before your trained dog, you’re mistaken. She’s as insane as rumored. I am not as ignorant as the castle staff, and I’m not going to be toyed with by common trash. Get out of here, both of you. I don’t have time for foolishness this morning.”
Amilia cringed openly, but Thrace did not waver. “Tell me, Quail, do you think the palace guards share your opinions of me?” She looked back at the soldier. “If I were to call him over and accuse you of…let’s see…being a traitor, and then…let me think…order him to execute you right here, what do you think he would do?”
The clerk looked suspiciously at Thrace, as if trying to see behind a mask. “You wouldn’t dare,” he hissed, his eyes shifting between the two women.
“No? Why not?” Thrace replied. “You just said yourself that I’m insane. There’s no telling what I might do, or why. From now on, you will treat the Lady Amilia with respect and obey her orders as if they come from the highest authority. Do you understand?”
The clerk nodded slowly.
As Thrace turned to leave, she caught sight of Hadrian and stopped as if she had run into an invisible wall. Her eyes locked on his, and she staggered a step and stood wavering.
Amilia reached out to support her. “Modina, what’s wrong?”
Thrace said nothing, and continued to stare at him, shocked. Her eyes filled with tears and her lips trembled.
The door to the main office opened.
“I don’t want to hear another word about it!” Ethelred thundered as he, Saldur, and Archibald Ballentyne entered the anteroom together. Hadrian looked toward the hall window, estimating the number of steps it would take to reach it, but did not move when none of them took notice of him.
The old cleric focused on Thrace. “What’s going on here?”
“I’m taking Her Eminence back to her room,” Amilia replied. “I don’t think she’s feeling well.”
“They were requesting material for a new dress,” the clerk announced with an accusing tone.
“Well, obviously she needs one. Why is she still wearing that rag?” Saldur asked.
“The lord chamberlain refuses—”
“What do you need him for?” Saldur scowled. “Just tell the clerk to order what you require. You don’t need to pester Bernard with such trivialities.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Amilia said, placing one arm around Thrace’s waist and supporting her elbow with the other as she gently led her away. Thrace’s eyes never left Hadrian, her head turning over her shoulder as they departed.
Saldur followed her gaze and looked curiously at Hadrian. “You look familiar,” he pondered, taking a step forward for a closer look.
“Courier,” Hadrian said, his heart racing. He bowed and held up the message like a shield.
“He’s probably been here a dozen times, Sauly.” Ethelred snatched the folded parchment and eyed it. “This is from Merrick!”
All three lost interest in Hadrian as Ethelred unfolded the letter.
This was his chance to slip out while they were distracted. He could not risk Thrace drawing attention to him again. She had no idea what was going on, no way of knowing that just saying “Hello” would put a noose around his neck.
“Your Lordships.” Hadrian bowed, then turned and quickly walked away, passing Amilia and Thrace. With each step he felt her stare upon his back, until he turned the corner and disappeared.
***
“Any problems?” Royce asked when Hadrian met him outside.
“Not really. I saw Thrace,” Hadrian said as they walked. “She doesn’t look good. She’s thin, real thin and pale. They have her begging for clothes from some sniveling little clerk.”
Royce looked back, concerned. “Did she recognize you?”
Hadrian nodded. “But she didn’t say anything. She just stared.”
“I guess if she was planning to arrest us, she’d have done it by now,” Royce said, relaxing slightly.
“Arrest us? This is Thrace we’re talking about, for Maribor’s sake.”
“They’ve had her for two years—she’s the Empress Modina now.”
“Yeah, but…”
“What?”
“I don’t know,” Hadrian said, remembering the look on Thrace’s face. “She doesn’t look well. I’m not sure what’s going on in the palace, but it’s not good. And I promised her father I’d look out for her.”
Royce shook his head in frustration. “Can we focus on one rescue at a time? For a man in retirement, you’re really busy. Besides, Theron’s idea of success was to get his eldest son a cooper’s shop. I think he might settle for his daughter being crowned empress. Now, let’s get down to the wharf. We need to find the Emerald Storm.”
Chapter
4
The Race
The imperial capital of Aquesta, while not as large or as wealthy as Colnora, was the most powerful city in Avryn. The palace dated back to before the age of Glenmorgan and was originally a governor’s residence in the ancient days of the Novronian Empire. Scholars pointed to the gray rock of the castle’s foundation with pride and boasted about how imperial engineers from Percepliquis had laid it. Here, at Highcourt Fields, great tournaments were held each Wintertide. The best knights from all of Apeladorn arrived to compete in jousting, fencing, and other contests of skill. These weeklong events included an ongoing feast for the nobles and provided healthy revenue for the merchants, who showed their wares along the str
eets. The city became a carnival of sights and sounds that attracted visitors for hundreds of miles.
Much of Aquesta’s economic sucess came from possessing the largest and busiest saltwater port in Avryn. The docks were awash with all manner of sailing watercraft. Brigs, trawlers, grain ships, merchant vessels, and warships all anchored in its harbor. To the south lay the massive shipyard along with rope, net, and sail manufacturers. The northern end of the bay held the wharf and its fish houses, livestock pens, lumberyards, and tar boilers. All the industries of the sea and sea-going were represented.
“Which one is the Emerald Storm?” Hadrian asked, looking at the forest of masts and rigging that lined the docks.
“Let’s try asking at the information office.” Royce hooked his thumb at a tavern perched on the edge of the dock. The wooden walls were bleached white with salt and the clapboards warped like ocean waves. The door hung askew off leather hinges, and above it a weathered sign in the shape of a fish announced: The Salty Mackerel.
The tavern had few windows, leaving the interior dim and smoky. Each tiny table had a melted candle, and a weak fire smoldered in a round brick hearth in the center of the room. Men packed the place, dressed in loose trousers, long checkered shirts, and wide brimmed hats with glossy tops. Many sat with pipes in mouths and feet on tables. Some stood leaning against posts. All heads turned when they entered, and Hadrian realized that they stood out in their tunics and cloaks.
“Hello.” Hadrian smiled as he struggled to close the door. The wind whistled through and snuffed out three candles nearest them. “Sorry, could use some better hinges.”
“Iron hinges rust overnight here,” the bartender said. The thin, crooked man wiped the counter with one hand while gathering empty mugs in the other. “What do you two want?”
“Looking for the Emerald Storm,” Royce spoke up.
Neither took more than a step inside. None of the haggard faces looked friendly, and Hadrian liked the comfort of a nearby exit.
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