Arjen stood in the center of the audience chamber like a statue.
Before him, upon the gilded throne, sat Emperor Illius Lantar, unchanged. The hair, gold pale as silver. The lean frame. The gaze that looked down on Arjen with unfeigned contempt.
And the face that might have been that of Arjen’s father, the late Crown Prince Ayd Lantar, his twin brother’s mirror.
In truth, if Arjen did not drink the dye that altered his hair, one might take him and Illius for father and son. He had not told Elliot so, but this was the chief reason he bothered with the draught at all.
A likeness to the Emperor.
The whispers among courtiers about the masked duke were not entirely wrong.
Worse still, Arjen’s popularity and renown outstripped that of the Crown Prince, Illius’s own son. Unlike the slight Emperor and his heir, Arjen was broad of shoulder and straight of limb. To the eye alone, he looked more like a born sovereign.
Had Arjen’s father not died so miserably, the name upon the throne would now be Ayd Lantar, and Arjen would in time have inherited that highest seat.
Illius knew it all too well. Hence the scythe of a messenger’s summons, thrust at Arjen without rest.
“Your face has improved,” the Emperor said with distaste.
“Your Majesty’s concern is generous.”
“Insolent wretch.”
Arjen held his silence, his mask unchanging.
A great black hound prowled about him, growling. The Emperor’s dog. Blood-flecked drool dripped from its jaw.
“Kun tasted man-flesh a moment ago,” the Emperor observed. “He is excited.”
He tapped the marble twice with his ornate scepter. The hound, well schooled, went at once to the imperial foot.
“Kun, that prey still breathes. You need only eat what I give you.”
He smiled a smooth smile, lifted the scepter high, and brought its tip down upon the stones.
A thin, strangled yelp.
Arjen shut his eyes. The Emperor knew how keen Arjen’s senses were, and whenever he called him to court he made a show of savagery. The victims varied. A page, a maid, a beast, a prisoner. To-day the beast had been chosen.
“Do not reach for my meat without leave, Kun.”
The reek of blood spread sharp as iron. With a languid, deadly charm the Emperor cast his gaze down at Arjen.
“Does it trouble you, Arjen?”
“Yes. It does.”
Arjen, masked, answered as he always did.
The Emperor smiled, satisfied. “Good. You had better suffer. I suffer daily from your mere existence.”
He rose from the throne and wiped the scepter’s bloody tip against the dog’s flank. “You shall dine with me this evening. Until then, remain here while I finish the affairs of state, nephew.”
“…Yes, Your Majesty.”
The Emperor left the chamber. It was eleven of the clock. A royal supper began no earlier than seven. A petty cruelty.
Arjen sat without expression upon a sofa along the wall. He watched the hound tremble and bleed upon the floor. He clicked his tongue, stood again, and drew from his breast a small bead. It was the selfsame cure Elliot had swallowed, a monstrous bauble priced like a house, fashioned to heal any wound.
He had bought a second against Elliot’s next calamity and had not thought to spend it thus.
Even in spasms, the hound bared its teeth as trained. Arjen ignored it, stepped in, seized the jaw, and thrust the bead down its throat.
Soon the bleeding paw stilled. New flesh crept. The claw grew whole. The beast coughed, then blinked, licking its own foreleg in dazed confusion.
“You have eaten the bead meant for Elliot Brown. See that you live.”
A growl in answer. The hound understood nothing. The moment Arjen drew a thread of killing will up from his belly, the beast’s courage failed.
“Your master is a fool. You are no wiser,” Arjen said with a curl of the lip.
He checked the hour.
At least eight hours.
He would pass them in meditation. Long schooled by cruel insomnia, he had learned to endure such waste without misery. The Emperor’s mischief was trifling.
“A profit, rather. I have had no time for practice.”
Thanks to Elliot Brown. Lay his head upon the pillow and sleep came like a charm, leaving no hour for the first letter of meditation.
He closed his eyes and began to empty his mind, counting within.
One, two, darling, three, four, darling five…
Promise me, darling.
Darling.
Whom did Elliot Brown call darling?
Arjen opened his eyes.
He failed in meditation. In its place a snarl of thoughts rose, enough to devour eight hours.
***
That night Elliot opened the door to His Grace’s chamber with a careful heart. Perhaps the duke had heard the foolish rumor that ran through the house and was angered.
His face was as unreadable as ever, yet to-day he wore full dress instead of a nightshirt. Black coat with gold shoulder cords and buttons, a tight breast crowded with orders and ribbons.
Magnificent.
Elliot felt that itch again to own a portrait, a small stiff card of this exact look. He approached with care.
“Good evening, Your Grace. I hope your day was well.”
“It was not.”
“Yes. It was not,” he echoed faintly.
Please answer like a common soul. No one asks to learn your day in truth.
He bit the soft inside of his cheek to call up patience, then shaped his brows into a meek arc and folded his hands.
“Then we must see you to bed at once, Your Grace. Sleep is the only medicine. Allow me to take charge again to-night. Pray change and lie down.”
He rolled up his sleeves and gestured toward the bed.
Arjen did not move. Seated, he watched him.
“Elliot Brown. Are you friendly with everyone by nature?”
The voice was dangerous. Elliot knew at once.
He has heard it.
Low birth, not to his taste, and yet this talk of an affair. No wonder it had soured him.
In his other life, female coworkers had been paired with men at random and pursued without grace. They came to him, shuddering, or begged him to play the part of sweetheart for a day. He had seen it often enough.
He knew people hated such rumors and the hands that fanned them. Least of all would that sharp, ill-mannered duke bear it graciously.
He kept the sigh in his chest and spoke.
“I wished to behave properly as a valet, Your Grace, and it seems I have looked overfriendly to other eyes. I shall take care. I am sorry.”
A proper apology demanded a face struck with contrition and plain words. Name the fault. Promise prevention. He had learned such arts upon his knees before many masters.
“As a valet. A merry excuse.”
“I am sorry.”
He bowed to a right angle. At such punctilio Arjen’s voice eased, and he gave a bloodless mercy.
“There is no need to apologize so far. It is only a question of your private life.”
This was the moment to add self-reproach. Elliot bent lower still, as if testing his spine.
“No, it is entirely my fault. How dare I trouble Your Grace?”
It was an apology close to tears.
Perhaps Arjen felt the same, for he answered slowly, and not without reluctance. “You have not troubled me. I do not care whom you see. I asked only because I was curious.”
Elliot snapped up his head.
He did not care, though Elliot himself was caught up in the talk. He had not troubled him.
Since when is he so kind? Elliot thought, and then his face fell of a sudden.
It was not kindness. It was not pardon. It was worth nothing to him. The duke meant what he said. He did not care for Elliot, therefore such talk could not matter.
At that thought a sharp ache pricked a corner of Elliot’s chest.
What is this?
His face darkened. Seeing him sink, Arjen rose.
“I shall change. Wait.”
“Yes.”
Elliot nodded without lift. The duke stood a moment, as if to speak, then turned and went into the dressing room.
Elliot set his hands to the bed. He forced himself to ignore the sting behind his ribs. Feelings came like weather and passed like weather. Truly, this was nothing at all.