Percepliquis (The Riyria Revelations #6)

The door guard lifted the latch and gave a push. The door swung inward, revealing the darkness of the imperial bedroom. Amilia said nothing. She was breathing faster than normal, her fists clenched at her sides. Hadrian entered first, with Arista behind, both followed by Amilia and Gerald.

It was cold in the bedroom. The fireplace was dark and the only light came in through the open window in the far wall. To either side, sheer white curtains billowed inward, dancing in the faint moonlight like a pair of ghosts. Dressed in only her nightgown, Empress Modina rested on the floor, looking out at the stars. She sat on her knees, hands in her lap, her shoulders drawn up against the cold. Bare toes poked out from within the pool of white linen that gathered around her. Blonde hair fell down her back in tangles. She appeared much like the girl Hadrian had seen under the Tradesmen’s Arch in Colnora so long ago.

“They arrested Royce,” Hadrian told her. “They’ve locked him in a cell in the tower.”

“I know.”

“You know?” he said incredulously. “How long have—”

“I ordered it.”

Hadrian stared at her, stunned. “Thrace—I mean, Modina,” he said softly. “You don’t understand. He never meant to harm you. He only did what he had to. He was trying to save the person he loved most in the world. How could you do this to him?”

At last she turned. “Have you ever lost the one person in the world that meant everything to you? Did you watch them die, knowing it was your fault?”

Hadrian said nothing.

“When my father was killed,” she continued, looking back out the window, “I remember I found it almost too painful to breathe. I had not just lost my father; it was as if the whole world had died, but somehow I was left behind—alone. I just wanted it to end. I was tired. I wanted the pain to stop. If I had the chance—if they hadn’t taken me away, if they hadn’t locked me up, I would have thrown myself into the falls.” She turned and looked at Hadrian once more. “Believe me. He is well cared for—at least, as much as he will allow. Ibis makes him good meals that he doesn’t eat. Can you think of a better place for Royce right now?”

Hadrian’s shoulders slumped; his arms fell loose at his sides. “Can I at least see him?”

Modina thought a moment. “Yes, but only you. In his present state, he is a danger to anyone else. Still, I’m not sure he will hear you. You can visit him in the morning.” She leaned over so she could see Amilia. “Can you see to it that he has access?”

“Yes, Your Eminence.”

“Good,” the empress said, then looked at Arista. “Now what is it that you have that can’t wait until morning?”

The Princess of Melengar stood shifting her feet, folding and refolding her hands before her, the robe a tranquil dark blue. She looked at the empress, then at Hadrian, Amilia, and even Gerald, who stood stiffly just inside the door. When her eyes once more returned to Modina, she said, “I think I know how to stop the elves.”



Hadrian had just descended to the third floor, where several people were returning to their rooms now that all the shouting had died down. He caught a glimpse of Degan Gaunt. The ex-leader of the Nationalists stood in his nightshirt, peering up the steps, both curious and irritated. This was the first time Hadrian had seen the man since the two of them had been released from the dungeon. His neck and nose were narrow, and his lips were so thin they were almost nonexistent. There were creases across his brow and lines about his eyes that spoke of a hard life. Hadrian could tell by the way he carried his weight, and the motions of his body, that he felt awkward, lost in his own skin. He had a faraway look in his eyes, two days’ growth of beard, and a plume of hair that hung out of place. If he had to guess, Hadrian might have pegged him as a poor poet. He seemed nothing like the descendant of emperors.

“What’s going on up there?” Gaunt asked a passing servant.

“Someone looking to see the empress, sir. It’s over now.”

Gaunt appeared dubious.

This was not how Hadrian had planned on meeting Gaunt. Hadrian had waited, giving them both time to fully heal. After that, he hesitated out of nerves. He wanted their meeting to go well, to be perfect. This was not perfect, but now that they stood face to face he could hardly walk away.

“Hello, Mr. Gaunt, I am Hadrian Blackwater,” he said, introducing himself with a bow.

Degan Gaunt greeted him with his nose crinkled up as if he smelled something bad. He critically observed Hadrian, then frowned. “I thought you’d be taller.”

“I’m sorry,” Hadrian apologized.

“You’re supposed to be my servant, right?” Gaunt asked. He began walking around Hadrian, orbiting him in slow, lazy circles, carrying a frown around with him.

“Actually, I’m your bodyguard.”

“How much am I expected to pay for this privilege?”

“I’m not asking for money.”

“No? What is it, then? You want me to make you a duke or something? Is that why you’re here? Boy, people come out of the woodwork when you’ve got money and power, I guess. I mean, I don’t even know you and here you come begging for privileges before I’m even crowned emperor.”

“It’s not like that. You’re the Heir of Novron; I am the defender of the heir, just like my father before me. It’s a… tradition.”

“Uh-huh.” Gaunt stood slouching, sucking on his teeth for a moment before jamming his pinky finger into his mouth to struggle with something caught between them. After a few minutes, he gave up.

“Okay, here’s what I don’t get. I’m the heir. That makes me head of the empire, and head of the church. I’m even part god, if I get that right—great-great-grandson of Maribor or some kind of which or whether. So if I’m gonna be emperor and have a whole castle of guards and an army to protect me, what do I need you for?”

Hadrian didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what he could say. Gaunt was right. His role as bodyguard was only important so long as the heir was in hiding.

“Well, guarding you is sort of a family tradition that I would hate to break,” he finally told Gaunt. The words sounded silly even to him.

“You any good with a sword?”

“Pretty good.”

Gaunt scratched his stubbly chin. “Well, since you aren’t charging anything, I guess I’d be stupid not to take you on. Okay, you can be my servant.”

“Bodyguard.”

“Whatever.” Gaunt waved at him as if shooing away a pesky fly. “I’m going back to bed. You can wait outside my door and do your guard thing if you like.”

Gaunt returned to his room and Hadrian waited outside, feeling decidedly foolish. That had not gone as well as he had hoped. He failed to impress Gaunt, and he had to admit, Gaunt did nothing to impress him. He did not know what exactly he had expected. Maybe he thought Gaunt would be the embodiment of the noble poor. A man of staggering integrity, a beacon of enlightenment, who had grown out of the earth’s salt and struggled to the pinnacle. Sure, his standards were high, but after all, Degan was supposed to be part god. Instead, just being near him made Hadrian want to go bathe.