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.
He leaned against the wall outside the door, looking up and down the quiet hallway.
This is ridiculous. What am I doing?
The answer was obvious-nothing. But there was nothing to do. He had missed his opportunity and was now useless.
From somewhere inside, he heard Gaunt begin to snore.
The next morning Hadrian found Royce sitting on the floor of the cell, his back resting against the wall, one knee up, cocked like a tent pole. His right arm rested on it, his hand hanging limp. He wore only his black tunic and pants. His belt and boots were missing, his feet bare, the soles blackened with dirt. He hung his head back, tilted upward resting against the wall and revealing a week’s worth of dark stubble that covered his chin, cheeks, and neck. Lengths of straw littered his hair and clothing, but on his lap lay a neatly folded, meticulously clean scarf.
He did not look up when Hadrian entered the cell. He was not sleeping-no one could get this close to Royce without his waking, but more obviously, his eyes were open. He stared at the ceiling, not seeing it.
“Hey, buddy,” Hadrian said, entering the cell.
The guard closed the door behind him. He heard the lock slide in place. “Call me when you want out,” he told Hadrian.
The cell had a small window near the ceiling, which cast a square of light where the wall and floor met. Through its shaft, he could see straw dust lingering in the air. A cup of water, a glass of wine, and a plate of potato and carrot stew sat beside the door. All untouched, the stew having dried into a solid brick.
“Am I interrupting breakfast?”
“That was dinner,” Royce said.
“That bad, huh?” Hadrian sat across from him on the bed. It had a thick mattress, a half dozen warm blankets, three soft pillows, and fine linen sheets. It had not been slept in. “Not too bad in here,” he said, making a show of looking around. “We’ve been in much worse, but you know, this was pretty much the last place I was thinking you’d be. I sort of thought the idea was for you to disappear and give me time to explain why you kidnapped the empress. What happened?”
“I turned myself in.”
Hadrian smirked. “Obviously.”
“Why are you here?” Royce replied, his eyes dull and empty.
“Well, now that I know you’re here, I thought you could use some company. You know, someone to talk to, someone who can smuggle you fig pudding and the occasional drumstick. I could bring up a deck of cards. You know how much you love beating me at… Well, you just like beating me.”
Royce made an expression that was almost like a smile. He reached out with his left hand and grabbed up a handful of straw. He crushed it in his fist letting the bits fall through his fingers and watching them in the shaft of light. When the last of it fell, he opened his hand palm-up, stared at it, turning it over and back as if he had never really seen it before.
“I want to thank you, Hadrian,” he said, still looking at his hand, his voice soft, lingering, disconnected.
“Awfully formal, aren’t you? It’s just a card game,” Hadrian said, and smiled.
