“Mosar has fallen!” she said. “Your obligation is over.”
“It will never be over,” said Janto.
“Whatever plan you have, it is hopeless,” said Rhianne. “You cannot retake Mosar. Even if you did, Kjallan forces would take it back from you. You will wind up enslaved or on a stake. My uncle has destroyed your country. Why let him destroy you as well? Let this be your small victory, your way of showing him he cannot win every battle. Come with me, and we’ll build a life together. Please.”
“I can’t do it.” He stroked her hair. “However . . . you could come with me to Mosar.”
She looked up. “And assist in your rebellion?”
He nodded.
She rested her head on his shoulder and sighed. “No. If you take back your country, I’ll be cheering for you, but I’m Kjallan. I can’t fight my own people.”
“Then it seems we’re at an impasse,” said Janto.
Indeed they were; she could see no way around it. Rhianne closed her eyes and warmed herself in Janto’s embrace until she could no longer bear the pain of their imminent separation. Why had she not brought a gift for him, something for him to remember her by? Perhaps she had never truly believed he would refuse her and stay behind. She would give him a well-wishing, since it was all she had to offer. “Soldier’s blessing upon you,” she whispered.
He smiled and drew three fingers down her forehead in the Mosari way. “Blessings of the Three: Soldier, Sage, and Vagabond.”
She reached up and kissed him one last time. Then she headed for the stable, alone.
Back at the palace, Janto felt Rhianne’s loss keenly, but he knew he’d done the right thing in helping her get away. Augustan was as bad an intended husband as he’d imagined—worse, in fact. He only worried that he had not helped her enough, that he should go with her to protect her and hide her from the guards who would inevitably be turned out to search for her. But he was king of Mosar, and his people needed him. Rhianne was smart and resourceful. He had to trust in her abilities. She had as good a chance of outrunning Florian’s minions as anyone.
He’d been of half a mind to confess his true identity to Rhianne at their parting. What harm would it do now? But then, what purpose would it serve? Their paths were diverging. Let her memories of him remain untainted. She didn’t need to grieve, as he did, about what might have been, had their countries never been enemies.
Donning his shroud, Janto collected paper, ink, and a quill and returned to the hypocaust. In showing him this secret passageway, Rhianne had given him a magnificent parting gift. And until now, he hadn’t even known of its existence! This underground heating system apparently lay beneath the entire palace, a thin layer filled with heat-glows that servants activated or deactivated as needed to keep the Imperial Palace at the desired temperature. Rhianne had claimed it was useless for spying, because it had only one entrance, and spells prevented sound from leaking through the walls and floors, but for all that he loved and trusted Rhianne, the uses of the hypocaust were easily something she might lie about. Or be ignorant about. She cared about him, but she was Kjallan, and, as she had just made so abundantly clear, she would not knowingly betray her people.
In a way, he was glad she’d refused to go to Mosar with him. It was a fool’s errand; he would almost certainly be killed there. Better she should stay here on Kjall and begin a new life.
Gasping in the stifling heat, he summoned magelight and, with paper and ink, mapped the entrance corridor and everything he could see from the place he now sat, marking each individual heat-glow on the map.
Rhianne said that she and Lucien had sneaked out together through the hypocaust. She could have meant they both sneaked out through the trapdoor in her room. But wasn’t it far more likely that Lucien had a trapdoor in his own room? If so, he needed to find that door. The rooms of the Imperial Heir could hold valuable intelligence about the attack, or feint, or whatever it was that was happening on Sardos. If Janto had to map every inch of the hypocaust to locate Lucien’s trapdoor, he would do it.
Hours later, around dawn, guards began pouring into the once-empty hypocaust, and Janto knew Rhianne’s disappearance had been discovered. They crawled up and down its sweltering passageways, searching perhaps for Rhianne herself, or else the exit she’d taken. No doubt they were bewildered, trying to work out how she could have slipped past the Legaciatti.
Their presence made any further mapping dangerous, so he left the tunnels. It was time for a new approach anyway. His all-night study of the hypocaust had impressed upon him the difficulty of mapping the entire system; the structure was enormous. Since his priority right now was finding a trapdoor into Lucien’s room, why not find out where Lucien’s room was located aboveground, and then, back in the hypocaust, map his way directly to that location? He headed into the north dome with that goal in mind.
23
Lucien Florian Nigellus, heir to the Kjallan throne, tugged an ear as he studied the Caturanga board. Should he make a bid for the Soldier? Or was it time to put his Traitor into play? He raised his eyes to the young man sitting across from him in case his opponent’s facial expression might offer him any clues. Trenian was a student he’d discovered at the palaestra, where young officers-to-be were trained. At the end of the season, Trenian would earn his officer mark, and when that happened, he’d be transferred to a distant battalion, but Lucien intended to keep an eye on him from afar. He admired sharp minds, and this boy was one of the most promising Caturanga players he’d met. At the moment, Trenian looked absolutely guileless, which meant he had a trick or two up his sleeve.
Lucien moved the Traitor.
The door that led to his rooms groaned on its hinges.
“Gods curse it,” he muttered, studying the altered board as he awaited Trenian’s move. The boy was setting a trap for him, somewhere. But where? He called to his door guard, “Can it wait, Hiberus?” When there was no answer, he glanced up. Florian was striding into the room.
A bolt of fear shot through him. He seized his crutch, pushed back his chair, and stood. Trenian rose awkwardly, aware that he should not embarrass the higher-ranking Lucien by standing faster and more smoothly, but not wanting to appear disrespectful to the emperor.
It was clear from the length of Florian’s stride and the tightness of his jaw that the emperor was angry about something. Lucien swallowed nervously. What had he done this time? He never tried to upset Florian. Indeed, he’d done his best to stay on the man’s good side. “Father.” He inclined his head as the emperor approached.
But Florian just kept coming. He strode to the small rosewood table upon which sat the Caturanga board, tucked his hands underneath it, and upended it, using his magically enhanced strength to fling table, board, and pieces across the room. “This. Useless. Game!” he shouted.
The board landed askew and broke. Pieces rolled along the wooden floor and under chairs and tables. Trenian stood frozen, horrified.
Lucien met the youngster’s eyes. “You’re dismissed,” he said. “Go.”
Trenian left the room as swiftly as he could without breaking into a run.
Florian advanced on Lucien.
Lucien took a step backward. “Is something wrong?”
Florian answered with a blow across Lucien’s face that might have broken his jaw if his war magic had not signaled him to turn his head. Still the impact knocked him backward and off balance. He staggered.