"But why be Emperor at all? He can’t have wanted to make himself into a statue. To not ever eat or sleep or have any fun. Rennyn said he can’t even take it off, without dying."
Duchess Surclere, riding double with Captain Faille, glanced back, then nodded.
"Very unlikely to survive the removal, at any rate," she said, without any hint in her tone that Kendall shouldn’t be asking such things of the Emperor’s personal representative. Duchess Surclere really was extraordinarily tolerant of Kendall’s cheek.
But Dezart Samarin didn’t seem to mind either. "I think you’d find the Lion Throne is difficult to run away from."
"If he’s so fancy a mage as to think up that lobster shell thing, that means he’s a deviser, right? You’re not going to tell me that he couldn’t find some way to make it look like he died, so someone else was stuck with being Emperor?"
"Lobster…" Dezart Samarin broke off, though it looked to Fallon that he was struggling with laughter, not anger.
"But he stayed," Kendall continued, relentlessly. "And put himself somewhere he can’t get down. That’s not something you do for yourself—that’s what you get when someone thinks it’s important, necessary, for them and only them, to do something."
The quick glance she threw forward to Duchess Surclere made clear the comparison Kendall was drawing.
"The Emperor’s thoughts on the subject aren’t recorded," was all the Dezart said.
"It’s widely believed that Corusar had nothing but the Empire left to live for," Fallon offered, then cursed his eager tongue when Dezart Samarin turned to consider him.
But the Dezart simply nodded. "The Emperor’s family had been killed some years before, during one of the more extravagant spates of poisonings," he explained to Kendall. "Is it such a mark of pride, to not walk away from your responsibilities?"
"Being born doesn’t make you responsible for something," Kendall replied. "No matter what anyone else says, you have to choose to start giving people orders. Your Emperor made it so he can’t even step down."
"And the Empire has flourished."
"I’m not certain, even ignoring the preservation casting, that Corusar could step down," Fallon said carefully. "Not without starting up the succession wars again. There’s an official heir, but I guess even more people now who could claim to be next in line."
"There is a carefully mapped out succession, along with three regional governors who have been directed to manage any transition," Dezart Samarin said. But then he shrugged, and added: "Still, ambition is a snake that turns in the hand."
Kendall sniffed, but before she could launch another sally, Sukata had taken advantage of a widening of the lane to ride between Kendall and Dezart Samarin’s horses.
"We are coming to the edge of the Nymery Steading," she said, thin voice determinedly clear. "When we crest this rise, we will see the forest proper."
"You have been through this area before?" Dezart Samarin asked, courteous but with a faintly disappointed air, as if he had wanted to see what Kendall would come up with next.
"I lived here until I was seven," Sukata explained.
Kendall didn’t say anything. Since that day in the market, she always either went silent around Sukata, or was carefully polite. It really was quite unfair of Kendall to not forgive her friend for being out of temper over that Sigillic exercise. Fallon hadn’t enjoyed that at all either, even though Duchess Surclere hadn’t lectured them for relying too much on the standard forms. But it had been painfully embarrassing to realise how far they were falling short of her expectations.
He dropped back a little further, since the mare Sukata was riding had shown herself particularly intolerant of being followed closely, then let himself dwell on expectations for a while.
He had to be carefuclass="underline" whenever he thought too much about the unique divination the Duchess had created, and the possibility that it was Auri the Duchess had detected, his breathing suffered. He’d had years of practice in turning his mind firmly to safe subjects, but his head was too full of possibilities, of imagining what the Duchess would do with the divination, and what he could safely say.
Auri was less hopefuclass="underline" she thought it coincidence that the tune the Duchess had been hearing was the same as the one she’d been humming the night of the attempted theft. Probably, she said, she had heard the same thing Duchess Surclere had been listening to. Even so, she’d finally agreed to go hum at the divination the next time the Duchess set it—something sadly not likely until they reached the forest settlement of the Kellian.
Fallon had not yet fully worked out why they were even going to this "Rest", other than to give their Kellian escort a chance to visit the place. It was more than that, though, or they wouldn’t be risking Duchess Surclere to the trip. A carriage was impossible on this road, and a cart would be a jouncing punishment: even the gentle amble on horseback took its toll, which was why the Duchess rode with Lord Surclere. He would hold her before him when she began to tire.
The slow pace grated, since Fallon was so anxious for the Duchess to re-establish the special divination. He sighed softly, and made himself think of something else, then noticed that the younger Kellian girl, Tesin Asaka, had strayed up beside him. Her direct gaze was assessing, so he hastily groped for something to say.
"Do you have trouble getting Circle Turners to come all the way into the forest?" he asked, referring to the minor mages who travelled through all the small towns and villages renewing their protective circles.
"That was a problem for a time," she replied. "It’s not necessary now, since my mother is living there."
"Did you have a mage when the settlement was first established?"
"No. The Ten kept watch, and killed any Eferum-Get that came near."
Fallon blinked at this simple solution. Circles were islands of safety from the night’s stalking death, and to sleep outside was suicide. Even in Tyrland, where the Sentene so effectively dealt with emergent Eferum-Get, there were always the filmy, drifting life-stealers: slow and weak and doom to the unwary and unprotected. In the early days of the Eferum-Get invasion, it was said that all people could do was travel by night and sleep during the day, and pray to the departed gods that they did not encounter Eferum-Get they could not outpace.
Kellian, however… Fallon glanced ahead, remembering how Sukata had strode through the market, fuming and ablaze and glorious. Yes, he could readily believe ten Kellian capable of dealing with every Thing nights in the forest had thrown at them.
He wanted to ask more, but decided against it, knowing well that too much interest in Kellian would be a mark against any nephew of his uncle. And then his gelding reached the crest of the rise, and he forgot everything but the forest.
Semarrak was famously dangerous. The few forest settlements had been overrun during the first years of the incursions, and Kole’s method of dealing with Eferum-Get using periodic large-scale sweeps had not meshed well with a boundless woodland. The Eferum invaders, left to themselves, had either died or adapted, and now Kole’s north had a surfeit of predators quite happy to hunt during the day—and, apparently, more human-like creatures with Eferum origins. Those, though, were said to hide in Semarrak’s heart.
At any rate, the forest was famed for the creatures that dwelled within it—not even mentioning Kellian—but staring north, Fallon felt that it should be better-known for its trees.
Dark trunks rose in a wall, disdaining frippery considerations such as undergrowth or bordering woodlands. A herd of cows, placed conveniently close to the forest edge, offered perspective, should it not already be clear that these were trees to make specks of men: wider and taller than any that Fallon had ever seen. Yet they didn’t spear directly for the sky, but lolled and sprawled, as if resting on their elbows beneath their glorious autumn crowns.