With one last survey of the assembly, letting the moment stretch out, a small public flexing of my power—never let them forget they sit and stand with your permission—I finally lifted a hand, granting them the opportunity to rest themselves. Tertulyn lowered herself to a chair a step down, at my right hand, the others of my ladies on stools ranged below.
The emperor’s emissary remained standing. Of course. He was never one to appear to follow my dictates in any way. At least he’d left his Imperial Guards at the rear of the assembly.
Grandly garbed in the emperor’s somber grays and rigid gold armor, Syr Leuthar inclined his jaw ever so slightly but did not bow. He enjoyed special status in my court, and I pretended to be fine with it. My court, my palace, my kingdom even—my land in the most profound way—but all of that belonged to Anure, by force and fear. So did I and so did the emissary. It made us siblings, of a sort, both beholden to a mad parent more likely to starve us or deny our privileges than to care for or guide us. Like those siblings, too, we’d knife the other in the back if it meant our survival.
I could have him killed with a gesture, but that would risk spilling blood in violence on her soil—anathema to living land like Calanthe—and also bring unholy retribution down on us from His Imperial Nastiness. Leuthar could make things difficult for me with Anure, whisper in the emperor’s ear of vague treacheries—or, worse, insinuate that I no longer possessed the virginity Anure so prized in his blind certainty that no man in my bed kept me sexually innocent—but that would lose him the plum job of emissary to the wealthiest, loveliest, and most pleasurable of all the emperor’s subject kingdoms.
My father had preserved Calanthe in all her pristine beauty, much as he had his daughter, to be Anure’s prized possessions he dared not touch lest he ruin them. Leuthar enjoyed the privilege of pride of place, entrusted with those things.
So I made certain that the emissary’s spacious rooms with a breathtaking view of the hanging gardens and the sea beyond were always well stocked with his favorite foods, wines, and willing companions of all genders. In return, he reported only glowing tales of my loyalty and behavior.
I wouldn’t call us friends. In truth, I had no real friends besides Tertulyn. But our congenial détente served us both.
“Syr Leuthar,” I said, allowing the sound of delight to infuse my voice, a sweet jasmine touch. “We have missed you these last weeks. What news do you bring of My old friend, His Imperial Majesty?” I like to try out lies of varying sizes and to see how well I can make them sound sincere.
Syr Leuthar swept off his elaborate hat, less a helm and more a confection like those the court ladies wore perched on their wigs. Some unfortunate bronze bird had given up a significant portion of its tail feathers for the cause.
“His Imperial Majesty sends his regards to the rose of his empire, and also a box of the candied dates You so favor, which I’ll have delivered to Your rooms, once the ship has been unloaded. He’s also sent a special message of affection for Your Highness.” He reached into an inside vest pocket and produced a folded letter on the emperor’s stationery, Anure’s symbol clear even from that distance. Embossed in deep-gray tones on paper shades lighter, it was a stylized image of the citadel at Yekpehr, the rocks jagged and menacing. Someone had added a pink ribbon to decorate the missive—which I imagined Anure’s desiccated heart had thought romantic—but that only made the stark symbol look more grim. Maybe that was just me.
Leuthar vanished the envelope again with the deft sleight of hand practiced by con artists of all types. “I’m to place it in Your hands only,” he added with a sly twist of his mouth that insinuated a great deal.
To make a point, I nodded to Tertulyn. Anticipating me, one of her particular gifts, she’d been watching and sprang to her feet as if her gown weighed nothing and drifted light as a petal on a breath of summer wind to the emissary. She curtsied to him with perfect respect, holding out her gloved hand in patient demand. He only flicked a brief glance at me before producing the letter again and laying it in her palm. She brought it to me, her eyes full of lively mirth once only I could see her face, one brow cocked in a way that clearly communicated both her disgust and her amusement.
We both knew what the missive would likely say, and I would read it aloud for her later so we could laugh at it and pretend we weren’t afraid of what Anure would do. Such were our bedtime stories. I only hoped it was his usual vague promises and not what I feared.
For the time being, I tucked the vile thing away in one of my own hidden pockets, this one guarded by a cluster of indigo blossoms. The advantage of my grand gowns being so full of air is that I have multiple secret spaces to choose from. “My gratitude.” I bestowed a smile on Leuthar with the words. “If that is all, then—”
“I beg Your pardon, Your Highness,” Leuthar interrupted, “but I’m afraid I am tasked to bring You distressing news.” He paused with great significance—then he had the actual balls to simper at me.
I made sure to seem surprised. It served several purposes to have him think me a blissfully ignorant and loyal vassal. Not the least because sending spies beyond Calanthe made me a traitor. I like my head attached to my neck, thank you. I blinked, long and slow, the glittering crystals on my lashes falling, then rising again. They gave me a sleepy-eyed stare, as if everything that occurred bored me beyond belief. Also a useful impression to give. “Oh?” I cooed. “Not too distressing, I hope. Don’t say His Imperial Majesty is unwell!”
We should be so lucky. I liked to suggest it often. If only I’d been born a wizard, I could make it so by repeating it enough. In that case, however, even Anure’s lust to possess me wouldn’t have preserved my life.
A quicksilver grimace creased the corner of Leuthar’s mouth before he smoothed it, shaking his head. “Your concern for the emperor’s health does You credit, Your Highness. Not everyone wishes him well as sincerely as You do.”
“Well,” I said, adding a vague finger-flutter that had Tertulyn suppressing a smile, “I have no quarrel with the emperor. He has always treated Me with tender care.” I even produced a simper of my own, far better than curling my lip in contempt—or fear.
One day, no doubt, Anure would find a way to wed me in truth. A dire fate I’d managed to stave off by pretending to wish for it with all my heart, all the while reminding him of his existing stable of wives and citing his own vows to make me empress. As queen of Calanthe, my rank fell second only to the emperor himself, but if I became his fourth wife—no, it would be his fifth wife now that he’d married the Lady Ibb, practically on the battlefield of Derten while standing over the corpse of her former husband and king—I’d be lower-ranked than the previous living wives by ancient custom, and unable to be empress.
In destroying magical law, Anure had bound himself to man’s law, and that kept us at an impasse, which had so far saved me.
I wrote lavish replies to Anure’s stomach-turning love letters. Much as I loved him and longed for us to be joined, I just couldn’t risk angering the ancestors so—or destabilizing the empire by violating the emperor’s own laws—and bringing the wrath of ill luck down on his empire, and so on and so forth, ad nauseam.