She swallowed grimly. After that, it would not matter.
• • • • •
Dusk found Amaranthe curled on her side on a park bench beside the lake. Fevered and numb, breathing shallow, she didn’t recognized the black boots at first. Sicarius squatted on his heels beside her head. She had wanted to tell him something. What was it? Shattered pieces of thought flitted through her mind, too elusive a puzzle to fit together. She just remembered they were important.
“Emperor…Hollow-” She licked cracked lips. Speaking was too hard. She drew a shuddering breath between each word. “Forge…assassin…ation. Can’t…celebration. Tell…someone.”
Amaranthe panted, fighting to get out more words. The effort devoured her remaining strength. Darkness crept into her vision. She tried to push it back, but it overwhelmed her, and she lost consciousness.
Chapter 7
P ain pulsed behind Sespian’s eyes. The words on the page blurred and danced. The medical journal from the Kyatt Islands was written in a language he wasn’t fluent in, but Kyattese used the same alphabet as Turgonian, and he had a language dictionary to reference. The translating should not be so hard.
Sespian slammed his pen down and grabbed his hair. What was wrong with him?
“Problem, Sire?” came a voice from the doorway.
Hollowcrest strolled into the library with a handful of papers. He stopped next to the table. Under his feet sprawled a massive floor medallion that depicted the muscled bulk of Agroth, the founder of Turgonia and the first emperor. From Sespian’s viewpoint, it looked like the ancient warrior’s sword tip was poking Hollowcrest in the ass-a rather pleasant notion.
“No,” Sespian said.
“Why are you reading that?” Hollowcrest frowned down at the book.
“I’m trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. When I woke up, the surgeon said nothing, but people my age aren’t supposed to collapse on the steps of their homes for no reason.” Now, if Hollowcrest pitched down some stairs, that’d be more understandable, but the lean old gargoyle would probably live forever.
“Yes, we should discuss that.” Hollowcrest slid into the chair across the table. “Surgeon Darrik was reluctant to speak his findings to you, but he confided in me.”
“Did he.” Sespian leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest, and eyed Hollowcrest.
“He was concerned you might not take his findings well and didn’t want to deliver them himself.”
A flutter vexed Sespian’s stomach. “What findings?”
Hollowcrest set down his papers, propped his elbows on the desk, and steepled his fingers. “There is a possibility-we don’t know for certain, mind you-that you have a brain tumor.”
The utter silence in the library made it possible for Sespian to hear his breaths quicken. “No.” He stared at his notes without seeing them. “No, I don’t believe that. I’m not that sick. I’ll be fine. I’m sure it’s just…”
What? He had no idea. That was the problem.
“We’re not certain, so there’s always hope it’ll be something less problematic.” An attempt at a sympathetic smile creased Hollowcrest’s weathered face. “It would explain your headaches, though, and your fainting episode.”
“I didn’t faint, I passed out in a manly way,” Sespian muttered. “I’m probably not getting enough exercise or the right kind of food. Or something. I’m sure it’s not a tumor. The whole idea is just ludicrous. I’m too young. I haven’t done anything I wanted to do yet. I…” He barely heard his own words. He couldn’t believe this.
“There is, perhaps, still time to leave a legacy.” Hollowcrest pushed the sheets of paper across the table.
“What’s this?” Sespian grabbed them and looked at the top page. His hands were trembling. “A picture of a woman? What is this supposed to-”
“A suitable prospect for marriage,” Hollowcrest said. “There are several ladies there, all of flawless warrior caste bloodlines, all of child-bearing age.”
Sespian stared at the old man. “You just told me I’m going to die soon, and now you want me to get married?”
“As you’ve said, Sire, you’ve had little time to fulfill your desires as emperor. Do you not, before you die, want to at least produce an heir to carry on your blood and one day rule the empire?”
Sespian started to respond but stopped. Something was very wrong here. He needed to think before he spoke. Why were his thoughts so fuzzy? It seemed like a child’s puzzle was before him, but someone had blown out the lamps, and he had to assemble it in the dark.
He took the papers, stood, and walked to a window overlooking the snowy banks piled against the courtyard walls. If he died, leaving a babe behind, Hollowcrest could end up as regent for the next eighteen years. Theoretically, Sespian could name another regent, but would anyone listen to his mandates? As Sespian had so recently seen, Hollowcrest had the full support of the guards. Everyone else snapped to obey his orders as well.
I’m just a figurehead. It was so obvious; why had it eluded him all year? He kept trying to insinuate his ideas, but he crashed against walls everywhere he turned. It was as if Hollowcrest had never really stepped down as regent.
How had Sespian let it all come to pass?
He could feel Hollowcrest’s eyes boring into his back, so he pretended to peruse the papers. It was time to do some snooping and figure out exactly what Hollowcrest was doing.
“Take your time, Sire.” A chair scraped as Hollowcrest stood. “Let me know if you wish to speak further, or please talk to the surgeon anytime if you have questions.”
“I will.” Sespian had no doubt the surgeon was ready with just the answers Hollowcrest wanted him to have.
Once he was alone, Sespian lowered the papers and returned to the table. The book and his notes were gone.
• • • • •
Dreams and reality meshed for Amaranthe, creating a fevered realm of fear and confusion. Nightmares of Hollowcrest, enforcers, and those dreadful bugs mingled in her head. Sometimes she saw a tiny room with wooden plank walls and metal beams on the ceiling. Perhaps those were her waking moments. During them, she was alone and afraid.
In one of her dreams, Sicarius appeared, accompanied by a pale-skinned man with tattoos and long braids of gray hair. They spoke in a foreign language. The stranger touched her forehead, chanting as he traced symbols on her skin with a gnarled finger. Confused and alarmed, she tried to pull away, but Sicarius held her down. The ritual had the feel of an ancient death ceremony done by a priest to send her spirit off to some hypothetical afterworld. Amaranthe struggled to retain consciousness, afraid every slip into blackness would be permanent, but it swallowed her again.
• • • • •
She woke alert and fever-free in the wooden room she had seen in her dream. Surprised, she struggled to prop herself up on her elbow. The effort made her heartbeat leap to double time.
A kerosene lantern squatting on a desk provided dim illumination. She was lying on a cot against a wall opposite a closed door. The only other pieces of furniture were a wooden chair and a stove burning next to a stocked coal bin.
A sickly odor permeated the air. Amaranthe lifted the scratchy wool blanket draping her and sniffed. Great. She was the source. Someone had removed her soiled clothing, but she badly needed a bath.
Abruptly, she laughed. Who cared if she reeked? She was alive!
But where was she?
On the nearest wall, a large rectangular panel of wood hung from hinges like some makeshift shutter. Curiosity won out over fatigue. She wrapped the blanket about herself and sloughed off the cot. Despite the heat radiating from the stove, the scuffed and dented wood floor wept coldness. She propped the panel open with a stick apparently there for the purpose. An optimist would have called the rectangular opening underneath a window. She decided “ragged hole sawed in the planks” was more accurate.