But Phoran needed Avar. He needed his praise. He needed his support against the older council members who weren’t happy with an emperor who indulged himself in nightly parties, and yet they still refused to let him do anything more useful. Needed him because Avar, when he stayed at the palace, often slept in a bed in the Emperor’s suite—and when Avar was there, Phoran was safe.

“Leheigh is southwest, sire, along the Silver River below Shadow’s Fall,” said Avar, his face settling into its usual warmth. “I didn’t have time to visit the battlefield—but I will next time I go there, if I can find a guide. All in all, I’m very happy with the lands; my father wasn’t a hunter so he left the forest wild and filled with game. The keep dates back to a few centuries after Shadow’s Fall—the family legend claims that my many times great-grandfather was a solder of the Remnant of the Army of Man, and a few of those soldiers settled along the river after the final battle. There’s a couple of towns in the district, a largish village near my keep, and a smaller town on the banks of the river. The Redern villagers—that’s the smaller town—still talk as if the Fall of the Shadowed happened yesterday. I suppose because nothing interesting has happened there since.”

“I see,” said Phoran. “When did you get back?”

“The day before yesterday,” Avar said. “My apologies for not coming to you directly, but I had to make arrangements for some items I brought back.” He hesitated. “And, I came back and found that my mistress had a few extra men warming her bed while I was gone. By the time I dealt with that my temper was none too sweet.”

A good reason for waiting, thought Phoran with secret jubilation. Maybe Avar’s brother was jealous of the time Avar spent with him; maybe that’s why he’d said such hurtful things. Phoran could understand Toarsen’s jealousy.

“I thought I’d go riding today,” said Phoran, changing the subject as if Avar’s trip and return were something that held no interest. “Will you accompany me?” He hadn’t intended to ask for company. But Avar’s presence soothed the hurts Toarsen and Kissel had dealt. Avar was his friend—anyone could see it by the warmth of his gaze.

Avar’s eyebrows climbed up that perfect forehead. “Of course, my lord. I’ll send word to the stables. I left my horse at home.”

“I’ve done that already,” Phoran said, setting his fork aside. “You can ride the horse my armsman was to take.” He’d have no need of a guard with Avar by his side. “I feel as if I haven’t been out of the castle in months.” Only after he said it did he realize that it was true. When was the last time he’d been out? Oh, yes, that tavern crawl in disguise on Avar’s birthday four months before.

“Ah.” Avar frowned a little. “Is something bothering you?”

Phoran shook his head and stood up. “Just bored. Tell me about your new curiosity. A Traveler, you said. Is he a mage?”

Avar grinned, “Aren’t they all? But truthfully, I don’t think he has a drop of Traveler blood—he is, however, a skilled healer.”

And as they strode through the palace to the stables, Avar chatted cheerfully about his trip, not at all like a man talking to someone he held in contempt. Phoran wondered whether he should tell Avar what his brother had said—and decided not to. Not because he was afraid to hurt Avar, but because he didn’t want Avar to know that anyone held Phoran in contempt.

Under the cheerful flow of Avar’s attention, Phoran began to rethink the whole of last night’s debacle. It was traditional for people not to like their rulers—and he probably misunderstood what they were saying about his uncle. They hadn’t said that they had killed him, just that he had been killed. Phoran hadn’t been drunk, precisely, but he hadn’t exactly been sober either. It was easy to misinterpret things in that state.

Phoran relaxed and let himself revel in his hero’s company. It had been weeks since he’d had Avar’s undivided attention. His contentment was somewhat shaken when they brought his stallion to him.

Phoran, who had learned to ride as soon as he could walk, had to use a mounting block to attain the saddle.

Fat, indeed, he thought, red-faced as the stablemen who’d known him from the time he was a toddler fought not to meet his eyes. At least they had trusted him with his own stallion, who had responded with his usual fury to the weight of a rider—perhaps a little worse for having not been ridden for so many months.

By the time Blade quit fussing, Phoran was tired, quite certain he’d pulled a muscle in his back, and thoroughly triumphant. Not everyone could have stayed on such an animal, and he’d managed it. The stallion snorted and settled down as if the previous theatrics had never been.

“Nicely ridden, my emperor,” murmured Avar with just the proper amount of admiration to make the comment too much.

Phoran watched the stablemen’s faces change from approval to veiled contempt. Had Avar done that on purpose? thought the small hurt part of Phoran that was still writhing under Toarsen’s derision.

Avar had things to look after that evening, and Phoran did not follow his impulse to plead with Avar to stay. The ride had reminded him of his uncle, who had taught him horsemanship. His uncle, who would have been disappointed in the man Phoran had grown to be.

“You have brains, mi’lad,” he remembered his uncle saying. “Emperor or not. Use them.”

So it was that as darkness fell in his rooms and the flames in the fireplace died to bare glowing embers, Phoran was alone again when the Memory came.

It stood taller than a man and stopped some few feet away. Doubtless, Phoran thought with humor that barely masked his terror, it was taken aback that he was not in a drunken stupor or crying in the corner as he had been on more than one occasion.

It looked like nothing at all, as if a human eye couldn’t quite focus on what it was—though tonight it looked, somehow, more real than it had been before.

Its hesitation, if it had hesitated at all, was only momentary. For the first time, Phoran stood quietly as it enfolded him in its blackness, taking away his ability to move or cry out. He’d hoped that it would be better if he held still, but the burning pain of fangs piercing the inner skin of his elbow was as terrible as he remembered. Cold entered Phoran from the place where the Memory fed, as if it was replacing what it drank with ice. When it was done it said the words that had become too familiar.

“By the taking of your blood, I owe you. One answer. Choose your question.”

“Are you afraid of other people?” Phoran asked. “Is that why you don’t come if someone’s in the room with me?”

“No,” it said and vanished.

Shivering as if he’d been hunting in winter, Phoran the Twenty-Seventh curled up on the rug on the floor of his room.

CHAPTER 8

This time it wasn’t the grating that opened, but the door. Tier shot to his feet and had to stop there because the sudden light blinded him.

“If it please you, my lord,” said a soft tenor voice that could have belonged equally well to a young man or a woman, “Would you come with me? We have arranged for your comfort. I am to offer you also an apology for how you have been treated. We have not been ready to receive you until now.”

Tier wiped his eyes and squinted against the glare of what was, after all, a fairly dim lantern to see the backlit form of a woman.

The sight, he could tell, was staged. She held the light carefully to exhibit certain aspects of her form. The slight tremor in the hand that held the lantern might be faked as well—but he’d have been worried about facing a man who’d been caged for as long as Tier had, so he gave her the benefit of the doubt.

“I’m no lord,” he said at last. “Tell me just who it is I have to thank for my recent stay here?”