“Dawn itself, properly speaking, has come and gone while you slept. You are out of time. They waited for you at Brillin Hill Fields a full half hour, as custom apparently dictates these days. Then your second, a man named Darby, stood in for you and was duly killed by your opponent. He gave a good account of himself, it seems, but was simply not well enough versed with a court sword to hold his own.”

Ringil closed his eyes, bit his lip until he tasted blood. Behind his curtained-off vision he saw it, the little gathered knots of men on the open ground down by the fish pools. Gray sketched figures, not enough light yet to color them in. And the two men between, the back-and-forth shunt of the duel. He heard its miserly metallic tones on the cool air, the clink and scrape of the court sword blades. Saw Darby drawn in, wrong-sided, feinted out. Riposte—the grating blade goes home. Bright crimson on the graying pastel palette of a day that Darby now won’t live to see.

How long did it take Iscon Kaad to find the opening? Was Darby sober, had he made that much effort for the man that might have been his commander once?

Ringil opened his eyes. Whatever the dwenda saw there, it didn’t like much. It swayed back a fraction.

“Easy there.”

“You knew. You fucking knew.”

The dwenda nodded. “So did you. But you allowed yourself to forget.”

Ringil wrenched his shirt straight. “You take me back. Back into the Aldrain marches, back before it happens. You—”

“I’m afraid that can’t be done.”

Through clenched teeth now. “You fucking take me back or—”

“Or what?” Abruptly the dwenda’s arms whipped out. A grabbed handful of shirt, Ringil was jerked forward. A flat palm came at him like stone, slapped palm-first into his forehead, and suddenly he was on the floor, arms and legs robbed of anything resembling motive force. He flopped like a landed fish.

The dwenda stood over him, arms folded.

“Ageless Realm is a misnomer, you see,” it said somberly. “We can swim to the shallows, yes; with practice we can step into places where time slows to a crawl, slows almost to a stopping point, even dances around itself in spirals. It’s a matter of gradient relative to, well . . . never mind, it’s not something you’re equipped to understand. But however slow the crawl, we cannot actually stop time, and nor can we turn it back. What is done, cannot be undone. You will have to accept this as truth.”

Ringil managed to get onto his front and force his knees under him. The room rocked and shifted around him, ice trickled down his limbs. He struggled for strength to push himself upright.

He heard the dwenda sigh.

“I was afraid it might come to this, Ringil Eskiath, but not so soon. We are none of us used to dealing with humans after so long. It’s a constant learning experience.”

A booted foot came out and gently shoved him over on his side. Getting up faded to a distant dream. Ringil summoned what breath he could.

“Who sent you?” he panted.

“I am not sent, as you put it.” The dwenda knelt beside him. “But you do have your petitioners for my favor. There are those, it seems, who have no wish to see your grim but still rather beautiful face get slashed to ribbons in squabbles of petty honor.”

He raised his hand again, palm-down, fingers lightly flexed. The gesture blocked light from Ringil’s eyes.

“Wait, wait.”

It took Ringil a moment to understand that the dwenda had obeyed. He could not read the sudden flurry of expression that chased across the unhuman face as it hung there. He thought he saw impatience, but impatience with whom it was hard to tell.

“Well?”

“Tell me.” Faintly. Ringil’s voice was almost emptied out, no stronger now than his limbs. “One thing, I need to know. It’s important.”

The palm hovered. “Yes?”

“What’s your name? We fucked all night, and I never asked.”

Another hesitation, but finally it gave way to a curious smile. “Very well. You may call me Seethlaw, if that will serve.”

“Oh, it will.” And now Ringil smiled as well. “It will.”

Silence dripped between them. The dwenda’s palm stayed where it was.

“You mind telling me why now you suddenly want to know my name?” it asked him finally.

Ringil nodded weakly. Summoned some last fragments of breath and made his lips move.

“Simple enough,” he whispered. “A cheap fuck doesn’t need to have a name. But I like to know what to call the men I’m going to kill.”

Then the dwenda’s hand came down, touched his face, lifted gently off again. It seemed to lift consciousness away from him as well, like a delicate mask he’d been wearing and hadn’t noticed until now.

The last thing he saw, as his own vision inked out, was the dwenda’s gaze as it raised its head to face the windows; the featureless empty eyes, now washed the color of blood by the rising sun.

CHAPTER 24

She went up to the palace at first light.

Earlier would have invited arrest. While the lower echelons of palace life—the lighting of stoves, the cleaning of acres of marble flooring—got under way well before dawn, courtiers did not present themselves before breakfast. It was a rule of thumb with strong precedent. Two years ago, a provincial governor had made the mistake of bringing his concerns before Jhiral while the Emperor was still in bed. The occasion was a local revolt by resettled eastern nomads who’d jumped their reservation and reverted to banditry against the trade caravans, so there was some justification for the urgency, at least in the eyes of the governor’s special envoy, who rode up to the main gate at the head of a cavalry squad just as the sun was rising, and started yelling for the Emperor’s immediate attention.

He got it. Jhiral had him thrown in jail for a week, along with his men, summary sanction for lack of respect before the imperial throne. Protests by senior advisers at court were in vain; the punishment stood. By the time the man was brought into the imperial presence and formally reprimanded, the revolt had more or less sputtered out, and the issue was moot. Proving, Jhiral observed drily, that there’d been nothing to get so worked up about in the first place. He took a rhetorical turn about the throne room to drive the point home, gesturing, pitching his voice for effect in the vaulted space. These are not the days of my father’s reign, my friends. Not the days of bitter warfare and privation, however much various of my father’s faithful friends and advisers in that struggle appear, inexplicably, to wish otherwise. Give it a rest, gentlemen. We are no longer at war, we face no implacable enemies or unhuman threats. There is no need for panic-stricken counsel and steely decision before the dawn comes up. Our Empire is prosperous and at peace. Our difficulties in these times are small and undramatic, admitting of equally small-scale solutions, which, though they may offer scant chance of wild glory, should nonetheless be effective. I, for one, welcome that change. It has been given to us to enjoy the legacy of all those who sacrificed for us—not to imitate their suffering. I am glad and grateful for that fact, as I am grateful for their sacrifices, and I would have thought that those of you who went through the horror of the war with my family would feel the same.

Does anybody here not feel the same?

Eloquent silence in the gathered ranks of the court. Somewhere off to the right, someone cleared his throat, then evidently thought better of speaking up. The sound turned magically into a cough. Jhiral heard it, knew what it meant, and smiled. He waited the echoes out, then clapped his hands.

Excellent. I am, as ever, indebted to you all for your loyal support. Now—next order of business, and please tell me it’s a simple budget for city sewer repairs.