“We’ll have to rethink having the castle guard watch over your rooms,” said Avar. “Did you notice most of them wear standard-issue boots? I don’t see any faces I recognize, but I bet they are all from the castle guard.”
“So,” said Phoran, when they had finished. “I’m assuming that none of you has decided you need a new emperor.”
Gerant patted him on the shoulder. “That law was not meant for this kind of situation. We’ll help you.”
“It’ll be a few days before the gossip starts to spread,” said Avar. “And even then, all they’ll have is bits and pieces. Those pauper children don’t associate with the Septs. It’ll come from the servants upward.”
“Unless I can get rid of it,” said Phoran, “how long it takes won’t matter. When the gossip hits, the Septs will demand I show them I’m untouched by sorcery—and I have no reason not to, except, of course, that I can’t pass the test.”
“The stone can be stolen,” said Toarsen.
Phoran shook his head. “What we’ll do is this. Gerant, Avar, and I’ll go on to my scribe now. Avar might inherit a little earlier than I thought. Kissel and Toarsen, I want you to go to the Emperor’s Own and have them make ready to go. Pick out a few of the most trustworthy to ride with me as my personal guard. I’ll leave early in the morning. Gerant, if you would, I need you to take the rest of the Pass”—he caught himself—“the Emperor’s Own to your home and train them. I won’t abandon them here to rot, and I can’t stay. I’ll see to it that a suitable purse goes to you—”
“Not necessary,” he said.
Phoran waved a hand. “I thank you for that, but they are mine, and I’ll see to their housing and training.” He took a deep breath. “I’m headed out for Redern. Hopefully Tier and his Traveler lady will be there and can help me. If not, I’ll send word, and we’ll fake my death—since I have no real interest in being beheaded, having lately gained a new aversion to the process.”
“You can’t leave,” said Avar. “Without you to stem the gossip, they’ll have you Shadowed and worse before you return, and you’ll never live it down.”
“I’m closing down the palace,” said Phoran. “Kicking out the nobles and their families for six months, while a plethora of workmen redo the entry hall. Renovations.” He tipped his head to Toarsen, who’d given him the idea. “They’ll have to be gone by tomorrow noon.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Avar. “There’s nothing urgently wrong with the entry hall—they’ll all wonder why you didn’t give them a month’s notice.”
Gerant chuckled unexpectedly. “Oh, that’s all he’ll have to say. They’ll think he intends to search their rooms for signs of their guilt—and there’s enough guilty or nearly so to cause considerable distress. Not one of them will think it an unlikely thing for the Emperor, who just beheaded thirteen ruling Septs, to do. They’ll be far more worried about not leaving anything incriminating than they will be in discovering the Emperor’s whereabouts.”
Kissel smiled. “He’s right.”
Phoran gave a quick bow. “If I can’t fix this in six months, it’ll be too late.”
“So you and I’ll take some of your guard and my men—” began Avar, but Phoran shook his head.
“You’re my heir,” he said. “We can’t afford to be in the same place. I won’t travel with a large group of men, because I won’t be the Emperor, I’ll be some rich merchant’s son. The people left at the palace will know I’m gone, but we won’t tell anyone else. You’ll stay here and supervise the work—or you can go with Gerant.”
Avar opened his mouth to protest, but, in the end, he didn’t say anything. Phoran was right.
“I have an objection,” said Toarsen.
Phoran raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not certain I know how to find my way back to where you’re housing the Emperor’s Own from here. Can you give me directions?”
CHAPTER 9
Tier watched quietly as Phoran fell silent at last, leaning against one end of the table and watching the flames in the fireplace leap and crackle. He moved less like an overweight courtier and more like a fighter than he had when Tier had last seen him. He still carried extra weight that left his face softened, but there was muscle now under the padded shoulders of his velvet tunic.
“I notice Toarsen and Kissel are with you and not at Gerant,” commented Tier.
He saw Toarsen hide a grin.
Phoran smiled. “I told them to find a few of the Emperor’s Own who could be trusted, and they decided they trusted themselves the best. Gerant and Avar are keeping the rest of the Passerines… of the Emperor’s Own busy while we’re off running about.”
The smile died and he walked to the fireplace, bracing himself on the mantel. “I’ve come here,” he said in a low voice, “hoping that you can save me again.”
“I don’t know much about Memories,” said Tier. “Seraph might be more help, and Lehr is riding to find Brewydd tomorrow morning.”
“Who is Brewydd?” asked Toarsen.
“The healer from the Traveling clan that helped us with the Path,” explained Tier.
“The old woman?”
Tier nodded. “They left us before we got quite this far. It might take Lehr a couple of days to find them.” He thought a moment. “Brewydd told us the Memory would leave when it had its vengeance. Maybe it doesn’t feel its vengeance has been fulfilled yet.”
“The wizard who escaped,” said Phoran.
Tier nodded. “The Shadowed.” Tier had told the Emperor about their suspicions before he’d left Taela, but Toarsen started at the name. “We’re not happy about his escaping either. If that’s what’s keeping the Memory around, then maybe we can help. We’ve been looking for him ourselves.”
“The Shadowed?” asked Toarsen harshly. “He was killed a long time ago.”
“Not the same Shadowed,” said Seraph, her voice husky with fatigue. “Not the Nameless King. This is another wizard who found a way to tap into the power of the Stalker. He doesn’t seemed to have amassed the same kind of power yet—and we don’t know why.”
“You’re certain there is another Shadowed?” asked Phoran.
Tier nodded, but he didn’t tell the Emperor their certainty was based mostly upon the word of Ellevanal. Somehow he thought Phoran would find it more believable if Tier didn’t explain too much.
“What is the Stalker?” asked Toarsen.
“The guilt of the Travelers,” she said. “Though I’d ask you to keep it to yourself. A very long time ago, before there were Travelers, there was a city of wizardry, where mages collected to learn from each other and from the library there. They were an arrogant bunch, trusting to their great power to save them when they delved into things best not touched.”
“They created something,” said Lehr. “Something that all of their power and learning could not control. So the wizards sacrificed the city and everyone in it, except for themselves, and bound the Stalker. Then, knowing that the bindings were imperfect, the surviving wizards vowed to fight the damage it could still do. They became the Travelers—and the Shadowed is one of the things they fight.”
Phoran rubbed his face, and Tier could see the fatigue that bore down upon him. “So we have to kill this Shadowed in order to rid me of the Memory?”
Tier shrugged. “I don’t know for certain. Have you asked the Memory?”
“It hasn’t shown up since it killed my attackers.”
“It’s not feeding from you?” asked Seraph, straightening. “That’s dangerous, Phoran. If it’s still bound to you and quits feeding, it will fade.”
“That’s good, though, isn’t it?” asked Toarsen.
“It’ll take the Emperor with it when it goes.” Seraph’s voice had a bite to it, but Toarsen didn’t seem to mind.
“If it killed enough people, it wouldn’t have to feed for a while. A mage might feed it for longer—and since the Masters were the ones who killed the Raven who spawned the Memory, that feeding might hold it longer than other people’s death.” Hennea’s voice sounded calm and alert, with none of the fatigue that dragged at his wife’s.