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“I find it hard to believe there was ever a time I did not know you existed.”
Lyr takes a breath. “Opeth told me Jareleezi has fled to Ismagaar. She feigned going south. She took a ship to Ashkan and then went north by road. She will be travelling through Sofilio and the Mortingale Mountains until she reaches the northern border.”
“Very well,” says Damon. “I will go and see Selim at dawn. I will tell him this on the condition he lets me take you to Vashti. You will attend me as my personal slave and share my bed.”
“And they will allow it? You are sure?”
“They are so desperate to find Jareleezi and the Books of Alios I believe they will. Zai is a cruel faith, but exceptions are made all the time. Look at my father. He committed a crime against Zai that should have led to his enslavement for twenty years, but he was instead allowed to simply send me into the Imperial Army, by enforcers bending the rules of law around their will. Emperor Selim’s word is law. He favours me. If he gives us his blessing we will be safe for the rest of our lives.”
They lie together under the willow, bodies entwined until the mortingales sing. And when they do, Damon reaches down and brings Lyr to spend with his hand, watching Lyr’s face with an idle curiosity as if he just wants to see it happen. As if he’s checking it wasn’t all a dream.
The runes twinkle again.
The sky is greying at the eastern edge.
15
DAMON
Damon sends a messenger ahead to request an audience with Emperor Selim. A private audience with the Emperor is not something that is easily granted, however Damon has confidence Selim will find the time.
When he dismounts his horse in the Great Imperial Stable Yard of the Rose Palace, he finds one of Vindar’s pages waiting for him.
“Master Damon,” says the page. “His Imperial Majesty Emperor Selim and his Grace Chancellor Vindar are breaking their fast in the Emperor’s private dining room. They request your attendance.” The page is young and slender, dressed in the purple robes of Vindar’s personal servants.
“Very well,” says Damon, grateful Selim is not at prayer for once.
He follows the page through the maze of corridors of the Rose Palace, up a sweeping flight of stairs and to the entrance to the Emperor’s private quarters. He is led past the Imperial Guard and through three different opulent parlours and into a dining room with walls and ceiling of carved, gilded marble and a long wide open balcony overlooking the sparkling waters of the Gleam. A small number of servants and guards stand around the edge of the room. Silent and still.
Selim sits at one end of a long table in his usual grey robe. Vindar is at his right hand. A place is laid for Damon on the left. The table is set with the traditional food eaten to close the Feast of Surrus. Dark berries and spice cakes. A strengthening honeyed tea.
Damon bows to Selim.
A noblewoman sits beside Vindar. Tall and red-haired and in a red gown. She sips a cup of the honeyed tea. Damon doesn’t recognise her. Selim gestures for Damon to sit, saying, “Ah, my dear nephew, Master Damon, please sit down.”
Damon takes his seat. Vindar waves a hand in the direction of the woman. “Do you know Lady Underlia?” Damon shakes his head as Vindar continues. “Her husband is Warden of Pluma-Ferris. My Lady, meet the man who secured your husband’s command. Damon Darekul. The One Man Army of Azuria.”
The woman extends a pale hand on a slender wrist across the table. “An honour, Master Damon.”
Damon takes her hand and stands briefly to kiss it. Up close, he can see she is a little older than she looked at first glance. Closer to Selim and Vindar’s ages than to Damon’s.
Damon slips back into his seat and says, “I trust the island is still at peace.”
A page steps forward and pours Damon some tea from a silver pot.
Lady Underlia says, “The savage Plumians stay in the eastern mountains. The border between our half of the island and theirs is well-guarded. The Ferric Wall is true.”
The Ferric Wall, Damon thinks. He may as well have laid the stones for that wall with his own bare hands. The annexation of Pluma-Ferris is a stain on his heart he can never wash away. He thinks wistfully of Trysta. His heart aches a little. It feels like a long time since he saw her, heard her laugh. He has so many enemies and yet the person in the world who should consider him her greatest foe calls him friend.
Damon drinks a little of the tea. It is very sweet, too much honey. A page places a golden cup of Fanosti peach wine in front of him too. He sets down his tea and sips a little of it. It soothes his blood but it is also sweet as nectar. There is no water or ale on the table. Everything is sickeningly sweet.
“Lady Underlia,” Vindar says, “I must beg of you to take your leave. We have important business to discuss with Master Damon, although it pains me to deny us your company.”
A soft, sour look crosses Lady Underlia’s face. But she stands up. “Of course. I quite understand.” She glances at Damon. “Master Damon, Chancellor Vidar, Your Imperial Majesty.”
When she has left with her two ladies, Selim says, “Do not bring that woman to my table again, Vindar.”
Vindar wets his bottom lip. “She wants something from us, Your Grace. And we ought to keep her loyal.”
