Instead he pushed her off and away with a pat. “Go find someone else to cuddle tonight, there’s a love. This fine ale suits me better than a woman… tonight.”

Someone giggled as if his remark had been witty. The woman who’d been on his lap swayed her hips and half staggered onto the lap of a handsome young man who’d been seated on the end of the bed, watching the party with a jaundiced eye—Toarsen, Avar’s younger brother, who’d doubtless been told to watch over Phoran while Avar was out in the wilds taking stock of his new inheritance.

Phoran swallowed the better part of the contents of his cup then closed his eyes once more. This time he left them closed. Maybe if he feigned a drunken stupor (a common enough occurrence) they would all go away.

He let his hand fall away from his lips and the mug fell on the plush rug his great-grandfather had imported from somewhere at great expense. He hoped the dark ale ruined the rug. Then the chatelaine would run to Avar when he returned. Avar would listen gravely, and when the chatelaine left, he would laugh and pat Phoran on the back—and pay attention to him again.

Avar, mentor, best friend, and Sept of Leheigh now that his miserly old father had died hadn’t had much time to spend with his emperor lately. Spitefully, Phoran wondered if he should take away the title and lands that kept Avar from noticing that his emperor needed a friend more than he needed another Sept.

Tears of self-pity welled up and were firmly repressed. Tears were something he shed alone, never, never in front of the court no matter how drunk he was.

Self-indulgence aside, Phoran had no intention of taking Avar’s inheritance away. He even knew that Avar had to attend to his duties; he just wished he had duties to attend to as well. The endless parties had become… sickening—like too much apple mead. When would he be old enough to start ruling his empire?

Someone patted his cheek and he slapped at the hand, purposefully making the movement clumsier than necessary. He could drink a fair bit more than he had tonight before it affected him much.

“He’s unconscious.” Phoran recognized the voice. It was Toarsen. He must have gotten rid of the cow, too. “Let’s get this room cleared out.”

The Emperor listened while people shuffled away. At last the guardsmen came in to gather the few who’d passed out in the chamber. His door shut behind them and he was alone. Without people around, without Avar to keep it at bay, the Memory would come for him, again.

Before he could sit up and call them back, someone spoke. It startled him so that for a moment he didn’t quite recognize the speaker.

“Some emperor,” sneered a voice quite close to his ear. Not his Memory but someone who’d stayed after the guardsmen had left—Kissel, the younger son of the Sept of Seal Hold. The relief of his mistake almost blinded Phoran to the words. “A beardless boy who drinks himself to sleep every night.”

“Got to hand it to Avar,” agreed Toarsen. “I thought that the boy would be harder to tame and we’d have to have him killed like the Regent was. But Avar’s turned him into a proper sot who jumps when Avar asks.”

“Well I’d rather not have to be on the cleanup committee. He’s gone to fat like a capon. Come help me heave him to the bed.”

They managed it with grunts and swearing while Phoran concentrated on being as heavy as possible. How dare they speak of him like this? He’d fix these imbeciles. Tomorrow his guards would have their heads. He was emperor, they’d forgotten that. He’d have Avar… Avar was his friend. Just because Avar’s brother talked that way about him didn’t mean that Avar felt the same way. Avar liked him, was proud of the way he could outdrink and outinsult any man in the court.

“And why isn’t Avar here to do the honors?” asked Kissel. “I thought he was going to see the Emperor tonight after resting yesterday.”

Avar was in Taela?

“He had some pressing business,” grunted Toarsen, pushing Phoran toward the center of the bed. “He’ll admit to coming in late tonight and greet the Emperor over breakfast.”

When the men left him alone in his room, the Emperor opened his eyes and rolled off the bed. He walked to the full-length mirror and stared at himself by the light of the few candles that had been left burning.

Mud-colored, too-fine hair that had been coaxed into ringlets this afternoon hung limply around his rounded face, spotty and pale. Hands that had once had sword calluses were soft and pudgy, covered with rings his uncle had eschewed.

“Ruins your sword grip, boy,” the regent had said. “A man who can’t protect himself depends upon others, too much.”

Phoran touched the mirror lightly. “But you died anyway, Uncle. You left me alone.”

Alone. Fear curled in his stomach. Unless Avar was with him, the Memory came every night.

If Avar was in Taela, as Toarsen had claimed, he’d be staying with his mistress in the town. Phoran could send a messenger to bring him here.

The Emperor stared at his image in the mirror and rolled up the sleeve of the loose shirt he wore. In the reflection the faint marks the Memory left on him each night were almost invisible in the dim candlelight.

Avar planned to lie to his emperor: Avar, who was Phoran’s only friend.

The Emperor made no move to summon a messenger.

Food came at irregular intervals through a small opening near the floor that Tier had somehow missed on his first, blind, inspection of the cell. An anonymous hand opened the metal covering and shoved a tray of water and bread through, shutting and latching the cover before Tier’s eyes even adjusted to the light.

Still, he’d grown grateful for those brief moments, for the reassurance that he was not blind.

The bread was always good, flavored with salt and herbs and made with sifted wheat flour rather than the cheaper rye. Bread fit for a lord’s table, not a prison cell.

First he’d tried to fit his situation into some logical path, but nothing about his captivity made sense. Finally he’d come to the conclusion that he was lacking some information necessary for a solution.

Only then had he raged.

He’d slept when he was tired, worn-out from anger and fruitless attempts to find a way out of the cell. When he’d realized that he was losing track of time he told himself stories, the ones he’d gathered from the old people of Redern, saved word for word from one generation to the next. Some of those were songs as well as stories, ballads that took almost an hour each to sing.

When the toll of the hours grew too great, he’d quit singing, quit thinking, quit raging, and given in to despair. But even that left him alone eventually.

Finally, he developed habits to fill the empty hours. He did the exercises he’d learned when he’d been a soldier. When he ran out of the ones he could do in his confined space, he made up others. Only after he was sweating and panting, he’d sit down and tell one story. Then he’d either rest or exercise again as the impulse took him.

But it was the magic that had given him purpose.

He’d known some of the things his magic could do. Seraph had told him what she knew—and, despite the danger, he’d used it some over the years. It helped that his magic wasn’t the showy sort that people all knew about, like Seraph’s. His magic was more subtle.

He could calm an angry drunk or give a frightened man courage with his songs. Such things as any music could do, but with more effect. When he chose, he could commit a song or letter to memory and recall it, word perfect, years later. When he’d sung at the tavern in Redern, he almost always gave his last song a push to cheer his audience.

It had made him feel guilty, because Seraph had given up her magic entirely. But she’d never seemed to mind, never seemed to miss the power that she’d set aside.