Chapter Text
There were many small reasons why this day, of all days, was brighter than most of those that had gone before in the reign of Artorin Damara, the Last Emperor of Astandalas and now Lord of Zunidh. They ranged from the chef having provided a rich ginger and toffee cake for breakfast, to the ability to take that breakfast sitting out on the terrace that made a high and secluded vantage point about the Palace of Stars and the city of Solaara alike, to the clear translucent blue of the skies stretching out to the dim horizons.
He contemplated larger reasons as he finished off his second slab of cake. This unexpected appetite was more of a symptom than a cause, but it added a rich curl of satisfaction to the morning. It overlaid the astonishing knowledge that he was no longer failing in his duty, or at least no longer doomed to fail—that he had, as of a week before, the sworn duty of every subsidiary ruler of every part of Zunidh to support the government of the world. From now on they would not raise up arms against one another; they would obey the laws agreed in his name; they would attend his council of princes and fence with words, not armies.
It was good that his magic had been able to release the heavy weight of the spells holding the fragile ends of time together in Solaara to enable the Littleridge conference. The past week had been spent in smaller but still essential acts of power: tying up the loose ends, ensuring that every lesson that could be learned had been learned, and settling any further tension in the fabric of the world. He had some confidence now that he could recreate the effect in a more substantial working, anchored to the life of Zunidh and anchoring Zunidh to herself.
Meaningful work, not just as a figurehead. A chance to repair some of the damage of the Fall. Enabled by and enabling the peace of Zunidh.
Attendants whisked away the empty plate and replaced it with a steaming mug of astringent tea. The Emperor clasped his hands around the delicate china and allowed himself to lean forward to breathe in the soft, bitter steam.
A week of minor sorcery had been exactly necessary to recover his balance from the whirl and pressure of the conference, but it had also been seven days spent either alone or in the company of the priest-wizards of the imperial cult. The priest-wizards seemed less inclined to torture or attempt to subdue their Emperor than had hitherto been the case, but they still could not be described as shining examples of bonhomie. He was most extremely ready to take refuge from the endless sombre chanting—as magically efficacious as it may be—in the flood tide of official activity that would be needed to create and coordinate the new mundial government.
And, of course, returning to the work of running the state meant time with—
A spear butt tapped lightly against the tiled floor. Not the stamp that announced a visitor, but the more gentle sound that gave him warning that his next appointment was approaching and that now might be the moment to recover his wandering thoughts.
He could move fast, despite the swirls of glittering fabric and dangling gems that made up even a workday outfit for the Sun-on-Earth. He was standing by his desk, waiting, when the door swung open at the third bell to admit Cliopher sayo Mdang.
It was treasonous presumption to look the Emperor in the eye. It was the height of improper arrogance to do so with a sly kindling smile, as though to acknowledge kinship against all the world beside. It would have made any of the priest-wizards gnaw through their divining rods to see a man return the Emperor's cheerful, "Good morning, Cliopher," with anything less than a full prostration and an oration of gratitude.
Cliopher sayo Mdang never failed to return an equally cheerful, "Good morning, my lord." The Emperor basked in it.
There was plenty of work to pick up together. There was a whole world to reshape. With Cliopher—and not just Cliopher, but all the clerks and auditors and economists and policy-makers that made up the bureaucracy in Solaara—with a machinery of government that he could trust, everything felt possible.
He allowed himself to stand there, the fingertips of his left hand pressed gently against the cool gleaming surface of his desk, and watch as his secretary's clever hands whisked papers, pens, and other writing paraphernalia out of his writing kit and into readiness before the last chime of the bell faded into ringing silence. Then, since no preamble was needed, since Cliopher always understood, always listened, was always ready with his pen or his counsel or his plans, the Emperor launched himself into pacing and dictating together.
He continued to watch out of the corner of his eyes as he set out the parameters of the magical situation and reviewed the welcome promise of the political one. Oh, there would certainly be challenges. His new princes were a contrary bunch, and the thread that drew them together was the legitimacy conferred by the legacy of Astandalas, which he strongly suspected Cliopher abhorred as much as he did. But...
"You have left us in a stronger position than we could have hoped for, Sayo Mdang." It was a treat to be able to share well-earned praise in the closest thing the Emperor could approach to a casual setting. It was an additional treat to watch the tip of the man's ears or the back of his neck turn pink at these acknowledgements.
The game was soured fairly soon by his sense that Cliopher was not fully attending to the conversation. Or perhaps better to say that he was more reticent than usual in his responses. The Emperor was unsure what to expect; it had been a long time since anybody had seemed so comfortable in his presence, and no other courtier or attendant would allow him to make such direct comments without feeling the need to fling themselves to the floor or declaim their gratitude in a lengthy and grandiloquent oration.
Cliopher sayo Mdang was, thankfully, not given to either as a habit. But when he was moved—and those quiet flushes suggested that he was moved—he did generally show more interest than this.
The Emperor retreated in confusion, as far as seemed safe. For a man whose authority was nominally absolute and whose powerful cult was free with their interpretation of his wishes, that was never very far. In this case it was merely a turn away from an overview of the situation and any attempt to provoke conversation or invite advice, and towards the dictation of a string of rote letters and announcements that would be needed that day.
He watched Cliopher with greater attention, doing his best to disguise his interest. His secretary—his Hands—had the rich golden colouring of a Wide Sea Islander, a shade or two lighter than it might have been had he spent more time outdoors.
The Emperor did not think it was his imagination that it seemed paler than usual. And the man often had shadows under his eyes, but surely they were not usually this pronounced?
There was no form of words that would allow the Sun-on-Earth to ask delicately whether he had embarrassed his Hands. He paced, and dictated a proclamation, and considered and discarded one approach after another. He could ask if Cliopher was well, but if the answer was 'yes', then what?
He had increasing confidence in his guard, and that went further with Ludvic and Sergei who happened to be present, and yet there was always the risk that an attendant would enter, or something would slip out by accident. It would be a risk to say anything that implied a question about Sayo Mdang's abilities, doubly and triply so now that he had been seen by all those paying attention as the chief architect of Artorin Damara's peace.
"—given in our hand, on this date, et cetera, et cetera."
"Et cetera, as you say my lord." Cliopher's brush skimmed lightly over the last double curve of the shorthand denoting the standard greetings. It was one of the few patterns the Emperor reliably recognised, since it recurred so often at a moment when he had fallen quiet to wait the last few seconds for his secretary's swift hand to reach the end of the thought.
The Imperial Service had been given a week's holiday. The Emperor had been glad of it, and had done his best to encourage Cliopher to take the time too. The One Above knew there were few enough opportunities. Perhaps this hint of fragility today was a sign that he had taken his holiday with as much enthusiasm as he routinely tackled everything else that came his way, from a faltering government department to a wayward prince?
That was an altogether more enjoyable line of speculation and kept the Emperor happily occupied for another three ducal letters. There were so many ways that a determined man with a rich vein of half-hidden humour could enjoy making mischief in Solaara. Cliopher worked ferociously hard. It would no doubt be very good for him to occasionally drink and eat too much, or find other forms of relaxation.
Whatever the reason, there was no need to put any pressure on him today. Getting through all these official notices and follow-up formalities was a fair use of the time and a good way to ease back in gently. And if there had been any spectacular hijinks over the past week, there was a strong chance that the Emperor would hear about them soon from his Groom of the Chamber.
Cliopher rose and made his obeisance with a practised grace, despite his pallor. The Emperor had no papers to pull together, or at least nothing that he was expected to carry himself; copies of all the reports would be carefully kept and produced again should he want to review them. He left slowly, therefore, still thinking wistfully of the freedom that his secretary had to wander out into Solaara and spend his time as he wished. The appointment as Hands of the Emperor must have done away with Cliopher's anonymity in the Palace, and his frantic activity these past months must have made it harder to avoid scrutiny, but beyond the rarified world of the Starry Court he would be able to pass unnoticed. Particularly if he shed his uniform and wore—well, wore something else that was in line with current street fashion. Whatever that was.
There was something about these sessions with his secretary that left the Emperor feeling the lack of anything to do with his hands. He clasped them behind his back, where he could twine his fingers together and know that they were safe from harming anybody else.
The ivory door to the inner apartments was swinging open, as all doors in the Palace would for him, when the commotion started. He stopped, turned round, twisted his hands into one another to prevent himself from reaching out physically, and flung a thin cast of magic towards—
On the other side of his study, in the first anteroom. The sound of shouting, of feet running, of—
"If it please you to continue, Glorious One?" Sergei phrased it as a question, but he was tense with worry.
Anxiety in those around him always set the Emperor's heart beating faster in sympathy, his fingers growing clammy where they pressed together. He could not react for fear of making it worse. He must not react, or terrible things might happen. He dug the nails of one hand into the palm of the other, forcing the lurch of fear out of his expression and his bearing, trapping and pinning it behind his back.
A moment for the whip of magic to skate across the anteroom and find...
Alarm, but not terror. Sayo Mdang present and alive and... Not well, he was... But the direction of whatever was happening was not inimical to him.
That was enough for reassurance to loosen the Emperor's feet from the floor and his tongue from the roof of his mouth. He stepped through the door so that his guards could close it behind them. (His guards, whose entire duty was to preserve the life of a man who could burn them with a touch, break them with a word, or crush them with a thought).
He did not go any further. He waited, standing in the hallway watching the door, that thin curl of magic stretched back across his study.
Cliopher wasn't moving.
In a different life his magic had spilled freely out of him, giving life and shape to his emotions in a joyous cacophony. Now, in this life, wild magic and emotions were dangerous things for him to have. The Emperor kept a tight leash on both of them at all times, but no amount of resolve could have prevented him from reaching further, and wrapping a thin blanket of his magical senses around his secretary's terrifyingly still form.
(His stomach churned with the wrongness of it. Cliopher Mdang was a man of action, and motion, who had crossed half a world to forge peace on the front lines of a battlefield. There was always a sense of momentum about him; and even when he spent his mornings hunched over his secretarial desk, he sent the world spinning with each stroke of his pen on paper. He could not possibly be so still.)
The Lion Eyes closed as he let a strand of magic curl around a wrist—Cliopher's writing hand, the thought came distantly—to feel it throbbing with a too-quick pulse. Another strand pressed gently over Cliopher's chest, and rose with the frantic rhythm of his shallow breaths.
The Emperor laid a trembling hand over his own heart and forced himself to exhale slowly, as if by quelling his own rising panic, he could convince his Hands' body from overexerting itself.
Unless he let himself sink into a deep trance, his magic would not let him see what was happening, and with two sets of doors between them, he could no longer hear the shouts of his guards. He could, however, allow his perception to broaden, and register more details. Three guards were crowding around his secretary, who was curled in on himself on the floor of the first anteroom. A fourth was leaving the room in a hurry—to fetch a physician?—and kneeling by Cliopher's side was—
The wave of terror abated slightly when the presence resolved itself into a familiar, slender shape. His faithful Cavalier was there.
The guards waited silently, standing between him and the door out of the apartments. Twice, attendants started into the other end of the corridor and stopped at the sight of him. One had the presence of mind to back away softly when he didn't speak, form excruciatingly correct. The other gaped in surprise, then prostrated herself.
The Emperor was not supposed to be standing in a hallway. He was expected to be eating, perhaps reviewing his schedule for the afternoon. He was usually obedient to the schedule Conju developed with Cliopher's help—
Conju, who was kneeling beside Cliopher, furious with worry. No, not kneeling any more. They were moving, Cliopher was moving, they were taking him away—
The outer layer of his robes today was figured with a style of broderie that had once been considered rakish and alluring in the City of Roses. The Emperor's fingers had found a series of its delicate holes and were twisting through them. The tight loop of fabric was the closest thing to discomfort he had felt since... Since he worked magic in the gardens without alerting Conju first, and suffered that sunburn on his scalp.
Conju had looked after him. Conju would look after his Hands, too.
And it would not be tyrannical to send for word now, would it? He had waited long enough. So had the attendant who had thrown herself to the floor in such alarm.
Chagrinned, he tugged his hands out of the fabric of his robes and gestured her up. "Our Hands has been taken ill. Ensure that the Cavalier an Vilius has everything he needs, and do not disturb him with any other concern. When there is news—" he hesitated, but the thin curl of power told him that both Cliopher and Conju had stopped moving, the distance and direction suggesting that they were in the Groom of the Chamber's rooms. "We will be taking lunch."
The woman rose, bowed again, and fled.
There was nothing else he could do but alarm his household further. He drew back into himself.
The fine thread of his power was a narrow conduit, stretched painfully thin. Perhaps if he hadn't spent so much magic that past week it would be easier to maintain.
It assured him that Cliopher sayo Mdang lived. It carried the echo of pain, and concern surrounding him, and nothing more. The Emperor moved his food slowly around his plate, wishing he could eat it and comfort his chefs, wishing that he could ask for news without risking—
A page entered. He didn't look up; it was so frustrating when people dropped to their knees to avoid his gaze.
A brief whispered conversation. His hearing was keener than they knew, especially when the weight of his desire to know set his magic to extend his senses.
"—dangerous, but the healers say—"
"Will he come through?"
"He's outside, he didn't want to—"
That was forewarning enough that the Emperor was able to maintain composure when the guard formally stamped his spear and announced the Cavalier Conju an Vilius.
It was unusual for the Groom of the Chamber to be announced. It had only happened before when there was news that—
Conju was composed. Too composed, his face set and pale. The Emperor placed his eating sticks down with exquisite care, beside his untouched food, and made the gestures to rise and speak with a careful clarity.
"My lord, Cliopher sayo Mdang has earnestly implored me not to disturb your day with tidings of his health. He is certain that it would distress you to hear that he has been taken ill with bonebreak fever and, having believed himself recovered, today experienced a relapse."
Bonebreak fever. The Emperor's chest tightened, as though all the air in the room had thickened into jelly.
Conju, who often seemed to the Emperor to have an uncanny ability to read his moods, hurriedly added. "Of course if he were to have suffered a collapse, your household would care for him. And make sure he rested. And would send pages every bell to confirm his recovery."
At any other time the Emperor might have been charmed by this way of speaking about the problem, by this invitation to join in whatever gentle deception Conju was proposing.
He placed his hands flat on the table in front of him. No stray gestures would escape. "How is he?"
"Badly ill." Conju sighed, letting something sag almost imperceptible in his bearing. "Receiving the best of care. The healers say that this is the crisis, and that he is most likely past the worst of it already."
The Emperor knew, at once and with absolute certainty, that Conju had waited for that assurance before leaving Cliopher's side.
He breathed in. Held the breath. Breathed out. "He worked with me all morning." And yes, with hindsight he had been quieter than usual, but no less brilliant.
"Sayo Mdang is a determined man."
The truth of it startled an unguarded sound out of the Emperor; not quite a snort, but certainly not an imperial reaction.
Conju almost smiled, the twitch at the corner of his mouth more comforting than any words could be. The Emperor made himself breathe again, twice and then three times.
"How can we help?" The question was a foolishness. But he wished he could help, and now he had asked it.
Conju, naturally, showed no sign that he felt this was at all ridiculous. "There is the matter of your schedule, my lord."
"Our... schedule?"
"If my lord would be so good as to allow me to make changes, I believe we may find good reasons for you to avoid summoning Cliopher for work for several days."
"Of course. Feel free to clear as much time as Sayo Mdang needs to recuperate, even if it is measured in weeks instead of days." Unbidden, the memory of Cliopher rising from his obeisance sickly-pale and sunken-eyed flashed through his mind. "We would have him fully recovered before he is returned to us."
Surely the Emperor must have imagined the way Conju's eyes rose to the ceiling for a split second when he replied, "Would that Sayo Mdang himself also felt that way, my lord. Your secretary is a determined, unquenchable man." Their eyes met and something in his chest echoed with delight at the conspiratorial glint that suddenly sparked in his Groom's eyes. "But I think we can get away with three full days."
A small smile tugged at the Emperor's lips. "Very well," he said. "I shall leave my Hands in your very capable ones."
Conju bowed, almost but not quite managing to hide the way his cheeks flushed slightly at the unexpected praise. He was perfectly composed again when he straightened up, and his gaze darted to his lord's untouched plate. Chastised, the Lord of Rising Stars carefully picked up his eating sticks, and made a show of taking two whole bites, before setting them down again.
"Cliopher will be staying in my rooms for the duration of his recovery," Conju went on. "The healers have assured me that he will be sleeping for a while and won't be able to pay close attention to his surroundings." A short pause, before Conju spoke again, with uncharacteristic hesitation. "It is likely that he would not realise that you were there, should you, at any point, wish to see for yourself that your orders for him to remain abed were followed."
Should you wish to see for yourself that he is all right.
For the first time since Cliopher's collapse, the Emperor's heart clenched with gratitude.
He cleared his throat. "We would."
Conju nodded in acknowledgement and, as thanks, the Emperor picked up his eating sticks again, considered the array of dishes before him, and reached for a brightly-coloured pastry.