She was at no great risk riding Dice. The mare was gentle, with smooth gaits, and her name came from her coloration, not from any tendency toward risky behavior. Dice’s natural color was what horsemen called flea-bitten gray—white flecked with black spots—but the stable staff bleached out the spots, having decided pure white was a color more appropriate for the mount of a princess.
Augustan steered Flash alongside her. “You ought to have that groom whipped.”
“Because of the saddle?” She shook her head. “It was a natural mistake. I usually ride this mare with the hunt saddle.”
“Don’t permit your staff to be lax and lazy around you. It speaks to a lack of discipline. You are a princess, and they should fear to displease you.”
Rhianne stiffened her shoulders. She liked Dice’s groom, who had a close personal connection with the mare and spent hours every day grooming and massaging and exercising the animal, keeping her happy and in top condition. She would not jeopardize that over a tack error. Was Augustan always so rigid and punitive? So far he was fitting bullet-to-bore with his reputation as a stern disciplinarian.
They set off, trotting and cantering down well-worn bridle paths, trailed not so discreetly by their entourage, now also mounted. Rhianne led the way since she knew the lay of the land. South of the Imperial Palace was the city of Riat, but on the other three sides were lands belonging to the imperial family, pastures and plains dotted with lakes, and forests of all types, most of them cultivated, but there were two ancient, old-growth forests that the continent’s many wars had miraculously left untouched. Rhianne led her fiancé-to-be on a tour through some of the finest of these lands, and when the horses began to tire, she and Augustan dismounted at the side of a lake and picnicked, their entourage setting out blankets and food.
“You are not quite what I expected,” said Augustan, biting into a pigeon tart.
“Oh?” Rhianne looked at him sidelong. “And what did you expect?”
“A more delicate, retiring sort of woman. Don’t get me wrong. I’m quite pleased with you.”
Rhianne wasn’t sure how to answer this. She was glad he didn’t dislike her. On the other hand, he was pleased with her? He spoke like a parent praising a child.
“Are you pleased with me?” asked Augustan.
“Legatus, we’ve barely met.”
“That’s fair,” said Augustan. “It was good of the emperor to bring me here so we could get to know each other a little before the marriage.”
Rhianne nodded. “How is the war going?”
“Very well,” said Augustan. “We’ve nearly wiped out the last pockets of resistance. I expect we’ll have it wrapped up soon.”
It was good news, but Rhianne couldn’t help but feel a pang for poor Janto. His country was about to fall, and once it did, his people would be enslaved forever. She touched her chin. “How did you get this?”
Augustan mirrored the gesture. “Musket fire. That was years ago.”
“You were shot?”
“Grazed.” He smiled crookedly. “Bullet left its mark, though.”
“You have been many years at war,” said Rhianne.
“Indeed. This governorship of Mosar will be a new adventure for me, commanding people in peacetime. Although leadership is nothing new. I consider your uncle a great example.”
“Do you?” Rhianne raised an eyebrow.
“Absolutely. He’s decisive; he’s bold. And he can be charitable too, as you must know.”
Florian did have his positive traits, but Rhianne could not, for the life of her, think of a time he had been charitable. “What do you mean?”
“Well, for example, when he adopted you and shielded you from the shame of your birth.”
Rhianne stared, shock rippling through her body as if he’d slapped her in the face. Surely he could not have actually said that. “The shame of my birth?”
“Don’t be coy,” said Augustan. “You know what I mean.”
Her cheeks prickled with warmth. “Legatus, my parents were married. I am a legitimate child.”
“Yes, but they eloped, did they not? Emperor Nigellus did not approve the match.”
“He didn’t approve, but according to Kjallan marriage law, he didn’t have to. The contract was legal.”
“Still,” said Augustan, “when Florian adopted you, he gave you his name so that you carried the imperial name, not your father’s.”
“He did,” said Rhianne. “But on the other hand, it was a bit of an insult to my real father, who didn’t give me up by choice. I wonder sometimes what my life would have been like if I’d been raised by my parents instead of by Florian.”
“Well, I always considered the adoption a grand gesture on Florian’s part.” Augustan wrinkled his brow, as if he found her a puzzle. “You know I would never hold it against you, your father’s low birth. You may not appreciate it, but your uncle was right to get you out of that situation. Just because the parents have done wrong doesn’t mean the child will.”
“Of course. I never imagined you would hold it against me,” said Rhianne, still stunned. Did he think her damaged goods? If so, why did he want to marry her? For her name, of course—Florian’s name—and the governorship of Mosar. Unless she was much mistaken, he had no respect for her as a person. “The horses are looking refreshed. Perhaps we should head back to the palace.”
“If Her Imperial Highness wishes it,” said Augustan, rising to his feet in one fluid motion. “I have some betrothal gifts for you—one-of-a-kind items from Mosar I think you’ll find very special.”
“I can’t wait,” said Rhianne dully. She didn’t mind being challenged by a man. Janto challenged her. Lucien challenged her. Somehow when those two forced her to question her assumptions, she felt herself growing and stretching, becoming wiser and more knowledgeable. Janto disagreed with her often, even grew angry at times, but on some fundamental level he believed in her. Augustan’s criticism—and for that matter, even his praise!—made Rhianne feel small. No betrothal gift, no matter how one-of-a-kind or special, was going to make up for that.
7
With Augustan and his entourage in residence, and a betrothal ceremony in the works, the palace was stirred up in the manner of a trodden-on anthill. Janto would not waste this opportunity. With the staff preoccupied, it was time to invade the palace and brave the magical wards that were the bane of a spy’s existence. Sirali had said that the Kjallans didn’t place them in the hallways, only across doorways and probably only in sensitive areas. He prayed she was right.
Just inside the slave entrance was an enormous, bustling hall. Janto twisted sideways to avoid a wheeled cart piled high with laundry, then dodged a pair of burly slaves carrying sacks of flour, his shoes slipping on the polished floor. Though this was only the service wing of the palace, it was striking in its beauty. Vaulted ceilings rose to lofty heights. From them, semicircular light glows hung in alternating colors of orange, blue, and white. Each glow was as large as a man. Silk hangings, bright with color, cascaded down the marble walls.
Fine place, he commented to Sashi, who clung to his shoulder.
Ugly, said the ferret.
I know you’ve no appreciation for stone, but do you not at least like the artwork?