“How,” said His Majesty, continuing the conversation. “The Lord Mayor?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“I wonder what he wants.”
“I think I know, Sire.”
“You think you know?”
“Yes, Sire. In fact, that is the real news which I have for Your Majesty.”
“The real news is the reason?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“And you can tell me what it is?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“You will do so, then.”
“Yes, Sire,” said the Captain imperturbably. “I will do so.”
“And this very instant, I hope.”
“If you wish, Sire.”
“If I wish? I think it is an hour since I wished for anything else!”
“Sire, Lord Adron e’Kieron, Duke of Eastmanswatch, and Prince of the House of the Dragon, has arrived at the city gates, and awaits the Lord Mayor’s word to be admitted.”
“Ah,” said His Majesty. “Lord Adron is here.”
“Yes, Sire.”
His Majesty frowned, and spoke no more while they opened the next several doors. At last he said, “Captain, when you are finished here, if you would be so kind, please convey to the Lord Mayor my desire that His Highness be granted permission to enter the city. I understand that this is not, of course, your office, but if you would … .”
“Of course, Sire. I should be honored.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
“It is my pleasure, Sire.”
As this is the only thing of interest to happen until after His Majesty’s breakfast, and as we are rigorously opposed to wasting the reader’s time with information not essential to the unfolding of the events of our narrative, we will now bring the reader forward in history a few hours, to the time when, in the Portrait Room, Lord Brudik droned, “His Highness the Duke of Eastmanswatch. The Countess of Limterak.”
At this announcement, the space in front of the throne was parted as if by the prow of a tri-mast, and into the opening, walking as if he had never belonged anywhere else, came Adron e’Kieron and his daughter, Aliera e’Kieron.
Lord Adron had eschewed his identity as Duke of Eastmanswatch and even his identity as Prince of the House of the Dragon, appearing simply as a Dragonlord, clothed in black garments with silver trim-garments that fell barely short of appearing to be a uniform. But, let us recall, Adron was not only the Heir of the House of the Dragon, he was scion of the e’Kieron line—which meant that he could trace his lineage back directly to Kieron the Conqueror; that is, to the man who, if anyone did, fathered the Empire itself by gathering the disparate hordes into the world’s first actual army. Looking at Lord Adron, one could imagine his forebear.
Adron was, at this time, past his thousandth year, and he was well known for his Breath of Fire Battalion, which had won its name in the Kanefthali Mountains, and proved its worth again in the War of Three Sieges, as well as in what is today called the Whitecrest Uprising, but was then referred to as “the unpleasantness along the coast.”
Khaavren, observing him enter from his (that is, Khaavren’s) place to the immediate left of His Majesty’s chair, noticed that Adron’s hair, in contradiction of Kathana e‘Marish’Chala’s portrait that hung in the Dragon Wing, was, in fact, thin on top, and it was so light in color that it almost appeared that he was losing it, like an Easterner, making Khaavren wonder with what sorts of spells His Highness had endeavored to keep his hair, or if, in fact, His Highness didn’t care or hadn’t noticed. Moving from Adron’s hair, however, it seemed to Khaavren that, over the years, Adron’s face had become even narrower, his jawline sharper and more pronounced, his lips thinner, and his shocking blue eyes colder and more distant.
Khaavren, no mean observer, would have, no doubt, noticed more about him, if he had not at that moment been distracted by his first sight of Adron’s daughter, Aliera e’Kieron, which sight affected him so profoundly that, for a moment, he quite forgot where he was, and nearly started forward in order to get a better look. Aliera had, at this time, passed her five hundredth year, yet to look at her, one would have thought her scarcely a hundred. Lest the reader think this an exaggeration, it may be pointed out that scholars, both of that time and of today, have proposed the most outlandish theories to account for her apparent agelessness, such as the recent contention of the Baroness Fernway that Aliera had been held “loosely in space, but tightly in time” by a benevolent Goddess (naming, it should be added, a Goddess not known for benevolence).
But whatever reason we assign for her remarkably youthful appearance, we need go no further than any book of poetry written by any court poet of the time to find descriptions of her beauty. She has been, by various of these, compared to the glitter of torches reflected off the icicles that hang from Dynnep’s Tower at midwinter; to the turning of the leaves of the plover tree in at least four different stages; to the gentle flow of Berrin’s Creek; to the roar of the ocean in the Straits of Kurloc; to the stillness of the night in the Desert of Suntra; to the majesty of the Kanefthali Mountains; to the—well, in short, to every facet of nature that anyone has at some time or another thought beautiful.
We will not attempt to duplicate or better the work of the poets; we will only give the reader enough of a sketch to allow him to visualize the lady in question, wherefore we will mention that she was extremely short, sturdy without a trace of heaviness, had the blonde hair that is exceedingly rare in the House of the Dragon, the long narrow face that is associated with the House (but softened by delicate lines about her eyes, which eyes, we should add, were green or blue), and she had something like her father’s chin without Adron’s extreme sharpness. She kept her hair long and straight, brushed back so that her noble’s point was prominently displayed. She wore a costume that was the match of her father’s, and her only decorations were a medallion with a dragon’s head, displaying a blue gem and a green gem for the eyes, and a fine silver belt such as one might hang a sword from, although, of course, only guardsmen could be armed in the presence of the Emperor.
As for her character, much less was known, and we consider it a sad comment on those court poets we have just had the honor to quote that they seemed utterly indifferent to this omission, as if Aliera’s physical perfection were so great that it overshadowed any other concern. Yet she was known to be proud, quick-tempered, and impatient with anyone who denied her what she wanted. It is perhaps to her credit that she never cared, when annoyed, whether the individual who incurred her wrath was her social superior, inferior, or equal.
As to other aspects of her personality, we hope the reader will content himself with allowing these to be revealed by the progression of events that our history will unfold; for our purposes, we believe it is sufficient to say that Khaavren was, for a moment, caught off his guard, and had there been, at that moment, any threat to His Majesty, our Captain would certainly have failed in his duty.
But, in the lack of any such threat, Khaavren, after a moment, returned to himself, tore his eyes away from Aliera, and resumed his passive study of the room. Adron, meanwhile, said, “Sire, I beg Your Majesty’s permission to present my daughter, Aliera e’Kieron, Countess of Limterak.”
His Majesty bowed his head, while, to the delight of the court gossips, the Orb turned to a blue so light it was almost white—a color that indicated His Majesty was holding his emotions sharply in check. Several courtiers looked around to see if the Consort were there, but she was not present. Khaavren, though his quick eyes noticed His Majesty’s reaction, noticed still more that Jurabin, who stood at His Majesty’s left elbow, took some few moments to recover his composure.
His Majesty inclined his head, first to Adron, then Aliera, and then said, “We are pleased to welcome you to Dragaera, Your Highness.”
“Thanks, Sire.”
“And how are matters on your estates?”
“Peaceful, Sire.”
“We are pleased to hear it.”
Jurabi
n, at this point, leaned over to whisper into His Majesty’s ear. The Emperor listened attentively for a long moment, then frowned, turned to Adron and said sternly, “Peaceful, you say?”
“Entirely, Sire,” said Adron, who appeared completely indifferent to whatever the Prime Minister might have whispered to His Majesty.
“Then it is not true, the reports we have heard of wanton destruction by brigands of Your Highness’s own game?”
“Game, Sire? Dare I ask Your Majesty to what game he refers?”
“I refer, Your Highness, to wolves.”
“Wolves, Sire? In the mountains, wolves are sometimes considered dangers, and often pests, but are rarely game.”
The Orb darkened and, with it, His Majesty’s countenance. “Dare you address sarcasm to your liege?”
“Not the least in the world, Sire,” said Adron so coolly that Khaavren was suddenly reminded of Aerich, which, in turn, reminded him of the warm feelings that had existed between Adron and the four friends so many years before.
“I could not help but notice,” continued His Majesty after a moment, “that you use the phrase, ’are considered.’” “Yes, Sire? And does not Your Majesty think it a fine phrase?”
“No, I do not. For it is very passive, and my preference is for more active phrasings.”
“If Your Majesty would condescend to explain—”
“I mean that you say nothing about who does the considering.”
“Ah. Well, Sire, I consider wolves in the way in which I have already had the honor to mention, and so do all who live among them.”
“All? Does Your Highness, then, refer to peasants?”
Adron appeared to shrug without actually moving. “Peasants, yes, Sire, and others.”
“But do not the wolves belong to you?”
“Yes, Sire, they do.”
“And yet you countenance their destruction by peasants?”
“Sire, it is my opinion that if the wolves are allowed to destroy the little livestock the peasants possess, the peasants will hardly be able to render unto me my portion.”
“And how long has Your Highness held this opinion?”
“How long, Sire?”
“Yes. I ask because word has come to us that you attempted to stop the slaughter of the wolves until the rising of peasants against them became too widespread for you to contain.”
Once again, from where Khaavren stood, it seemed that Adron shrugged without actually moving. “There is,” he said, “some truth in that, Sire, in that I preferred a wholesale slaughter of wolves, who destroy livestock, to a wholesale slaughter of peasants, who raise livestock.”
“This is, then,” said His Majesty, “what you mean by peaceful? That you, liege of one of the most important estates in the Empire, are unable to control your own peasants?”
“If Your Majesty will permit me to say so,” said Adron, “there is a large step between the slaughter of my wolves and the slaughter of my person and retainers.”
Khaavren glanced at Aliera, and remarked to himself, “She has some distance to travel before she learns to keep her emotions from her face; if thoughts were deeds, I should at once arrest her for attempted regicide.” His Majesty, it should be noted, was doing scarcely better—he was plainly impatient with the answers Adron was giving him, and the Orb was not only giving off a reddish hue, but was moving about His Majesty’s head at a noticeably faster pace—a infallible indication that the Emperor was agitated. “Perhaps,” thought Khaavren, “I shall be called upon to arrest him. Well, if the order is given, I shall certainly carry it off without argument; for this Duke, Dragonlord though he is, ought to know better than to annoy His Majesty.”
But no such order was given, at least yet. Instead, His Majesty burst out with, “And what, Eastmanswatch, of the reports I am hearing that you have dabbled in the sorcery of the ancients, that which was declared illegal at the beginning of the Empire?”
This charge seemed to catch His Highness by surprise, for his brows rose and his eyes widened. But he recovered himself quickly and said, “Sire, anyone who knows me at all could assure Your Majesty that such reports can only be lies.”
“Indeed?” said His Majesty haughtily.
“Yes, Sire. As everyone knows, I never dabble.”
There was something like a simultaneous gasp from the assembled courtiers; at the same time the color of the Orb darkened still more, and His Majesty, normally pale, darkened as if he wished to match it. He visibly trembled for a moment, sputtered, then croaked out, “This interview is at an end. Leave us.”
“Yes, Sire,” said Adron, and bowed, stepped back, and walked toward the door, his daughter matching his paces. Khaavren was taken with a desire to applaud, but restrained himself, and instead looked at His Majesty to see if the latter should give the order for the arrest of the man who had so annoyed him—which order, for a moment, to judge by the way His Majesty caught the Captain’s eye; and by the corners of His Majesty’s mouth, which trembled with agitation; and by the edges of His Majesty’s eyes, which deformed his face with their squinting; and by the set of His Majesty’s jaw, which nearly made Khaavren’s ache to watch—which order, we say, it seemed the Emperor might be about to give; but the moment passed and His Majesty relaxed into his chair, while an inaudible sigh seemed to extend out from the throne to be picked up by each of the assembled courtiers, who then turned to watch the retreating backs of the two Dragonlords as they passed the guards and the doorway, and retreated into the comparative safety of the world outside of the Portrait Room.
His Majesty, meanwhile, after making a sign to Khaavren, rose so quickly that the courtiers scarcely had time to stand before he made his way out of the room through the hastily opened Mirrored Doors, the Captain at his heels.
“Sir Khaavren,” said the Emperor as he traversed the long corridor.
“Yes, Sire,” said Khaavren, matching his pace.
“He did not deny the charge.”
“That is true, Sire.”
“In fact, he all but boasted of his guilt.”
“That is also true, Sire.”
“And before the court!”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Arrest him, then. We will see if he will give us an honest answer when the Orb is over his head. Practicing elder sorcery is punishable by death.”
“Very well, Sire.”
They walked a few more paces, bringing them to the foot of the gently curving stairway of green marble that led up to the Seven Room. As they climbed, the Emperor said, “Well?”
“Yes, Sire?”
“I nearly think I gave you an order.”
“There is certainly no question about that, Sire.”
“Well, is there a question about something else?”
“Sire, there is a question I would put, if Your Majesty will permit me.”
The Emperor stopped just outside the door to the Seven Room. “Very well,” he said.
“I would guess,” said Khaavren, “that Your Majesty knew something about this already, before you questioned the Duke about it, else why would Your Majesty have brought the subject up?”
“Well?”
“Well, Sire, I wonder why it is that Adron has not been arrested already.”
“Why? Because he is the Dragon Heir, and his arrest would precipitate—” Tortaalik stopped in mid-sentence, and frowned.
“Yes, Sire?” said Khaavren.
“If he proves to be innocent,” the Emperor began again, “to have arrested him would …” His voice trailed off, and he seemed, for a long moment, to be lost in thought.
“And,” continued Khaavren, “if he is guilty?”
His Majesty stared angrily at the Captain, then took a long, slow breath. “If he is guilty, his arrest will precipitate chaos among the representatives of the Houses, and would delay the decision as to the allotment of Imperial funds.” His frowned deepened. “He plays a dangerous game, Captain.”
“Yes, Sire. And the order for his arrest?
”
“I withdraw it. For now.”
“Yes, Sire.”
His Majesty looked shrewdly at Khaavren. “Thirty hours have changed you,” he remarked.
“Sire?” said the Captain, affecting a surprised expression.
“Yester-day, you would not have been so bold as to question my orders.”
Khaavren bowed. “Yester-day, Sire, it was not my duty to do so.”
The Emperor nodded slowly, then leaned against the door of the Seven Room and closed his eyes, as if he were suddenly very tired. “Do you know, Captain,” he said softly, “that it is assumed by those learned in history that Emperors of my House will become, toward the end of their Reign, weak-willed, or addled, or silly, or power-mad, or that we will neglect the Empire, giving over our responsibilities in a quest for pleasures of the moment?”
“I have heard this said, Sire.”
Tortaalik nodded. “So have I. All my life. And from the moment I took the Orb, I vowed that none of these things would happen to me. I have tried to keep my desires in check, and to find trustworthy retainers for all positions of importance, and to keep a close watch on my temper. And yet, Captain, at times like this, I feel that I am overwhelmed by my destiny; it is as if there were hidden forces that try to pull me into the abyss.”
Khaavren looked at his master, as if seeing him for the first time, and, in a sudden return of the youthful loyalty that had been all but eradicated by the heartless years, dropped to his knee, took His Majesty’s smooth, manicured hand into his own sword-callused one, and said, “Sire, only the fates know the final outcome of the battle, but surely there is glory in knowing one has not surrendered, and surely there is comfort in knowing one is not alone.”
The Emperor nodded, and the Orb turned to a soft, gentle green as he straightened his back. “Yes,” he said. “That is a kind of glory, and that is surely a comfort.” Tortaalik indicated by a gentle pressure that Khaavren should rise. “Come, Captain. Go you and find Jurabin, and tell him that I wish to see him.”
Khaavren stood, bowed, and turned hastily away, so that His Majesty wouldn’t see the emotion that erupted unbidden in the soldier’s eyes.