Michael Sullivan: The emerald storm

"You make us sound like squirrels."

"Yes, exactly! A family of squirrels tucked in our cozy nest in some tree trunk while the troubles of the world pass us by." Her lower lip quivered.

Royce pulled her close and held her tight as she buried her face in his shoulder. He stroked her head feeling her hair linger on his fingertips. For all Gwen's strength and courage, he was forever amazed at how fragile she could be. He had never known anyone like her, and he considered telling Hadrian he had changed his mind.

"Don't even think it," she told him. "We can't build a new life until you're done with the old one. Hadrian needs you, and I won't be blamed for his death."

"I could never blame you."

"I couldn't bear it if I felt you hated me, Royce. I'd rather be dead than let that happen. Promise me you'll go. Promise me you'll take care of Hadrian. Promise me you won't despair, and that you'll set things right."

Royce let his head lower until it rested on hers. He stood there, smelling the familiar scent of her hair as his own breathing tightened. "All right, but you have to agree to go to the abbey if things get bad like they did before."

"I will," she said. Her arms tightened around him. "I'm so scared," she whispered.

Surprised, Royce said, "You've always told me you were never frightened when I left on missions."

She looked up at him with tears in her eyes and a guilty expression on her face. "I lied."

The Courier Hadrian stood in the anteroom, waiting in line to deliver the dispatch. The clerk was a short, plump, balding man with ink-stained fingers and a spare quill behind each ear. He sat behind a formidable desk, scribbling on documents and muttering to himself, unconcerned with the growing line of people.

They had ridden to Aquesta, and Hadrian had volunteered to deliver the dispatch while Royce waited at a rendezvous with horses at the ready. Although he had performed jobs for many of the nobility, few here would know him by sight. Riyria had always conducted business anonymously, working through third parties such as the Viscount Albert Winslow, who fronted the organization and preserved their anonymity. He doubted that Saldur would recognize him, but Luis Guy certainly would. As a result, Hadrian kept a clear map of the nearest exit in his head and a count of the imperial guards between him and freedom.

The seat of the New Imperial Empire was busy and members of the palace staff hurried by, entering and exiting through the many doors around him. They ran or walked as briskly as need, or dignity, demanded. Some turned his way, but only briefly. As he knew from experience, the degree of attention people paid was inversely proportionate to his or her status. The lord chamberlain and high chancellor passed without a glance, while the serving steward ventured a long look and a young page stared curiously for nearly a full minute. While Hadrian was invisible to those at the highest levels, he was becoming uncomfortable.

This is taking too long.

Two dispatch riders reached the front of the line, quickly dropped off their satchels, and left. A city merchant was next and came to file a complaint. This took some time, as the clerk asked numerous questions and meticulously recorded each answer.

Next, came the young, plain-looking woman directly ahead of Hadrian. "Tell the chamberlain I wish an audience," she said, stepping forward. She wore no makeup, leaving her face dull. Her hair, pulled back and drawn up in a net, did nothing to accentuate her appearance. She was pear-shaped, a feature made even more evident by her gown, which flared at the waist into a great hoop.

"The lord chamberlain is in a meeting with the regents and cannot be disturbed, Your Ladyship."

The words were proper, but the tone was cold. Exhibiting more than a mere professional indifference, the words sounded contemptuous. The inflection on Ladyship sounded particularly sarcastic. The woman either did not notice or chose to ignore it.

"He's been ducking me for over a week," the woman accused. "Something must be done. I need material for the empress's new dress."

"My records indicate that quite a large sum was spent on a gown for Modina recently. We are at war and have more important appropriations to make."

"That was for her presentation on the balcony. She can't walk around in that. I'm talking about a day dress."

"It was very expensive nonetheless. You don't want to take food from our soldiers' mouths just so the empress can have another pretty outfit, do you?"

"Another? She has two worn hand-me-downs!"

"Which is more than many of her subjects, isn't it?"

"The empire has spent a fortune remodeling this palace. Surely it won't break the imperial economy to buy a bit of cloth. She doesn't need silk. Linen will do. I'll have the seamstress-"

"I am quite certain that if the lord chamberlain thought the empress needed another dress he would provide one. Since he has not, she doesn't need it. Now, Amilia," he said brazenly, "if you don't mind, I have work to do."

The woman's shoulders slumped in defeat.

Footsteps echoed from behind them, and the small man's smug expression faltered as he looked past Amilia. Hadrian turned and saw the farm girl he once knew as Thrace walking up, flanked by an armed guard. Her dress was faded and frayed just as Amilia had said, but the young woman stood tall, straight, and unabashed. She motioned to the guard to wait, as she moved to the front of the line to face the clerk.

"The Lady Amilia speaks with my authority. Please do as she has requested," Thrace said.

The clerk looked confused. His bright eyes flickered nervously back and forth between the two.

Thrace continued, "I am sure you do not wish to refuse an order from your empress, do you?"

The scribe lowered his voice, but his irritation still carried as he addressed Amilia. "If you think I am going to kneel before your trained dog, you're mistaken. She's as insane as rumored. I am not as ignorant as the castle staff, and I'm not going to be toyed with by common trash. Get out of here, both of you. I don't have time for foolishness this morning."

Amilia cringed openly, but Thrace did not waver. "Tell me, Quail, do you think the palace guards share your opinions of me?" She looked back at the soldier. "If I were to call him over and accuse you of…let's see…being a traitor, and then…let me think…order him to execute you right here, what do you think he would do?"

The clerk looked suspiciously at Thrace, as if trying to see behind a mask. "You wouldn't dare," he hissed, his eyes shifting between the two women.

"No? Why not?" Thrace replied. "You just said yourself that I'm insane. There's no telling what I might do, or why. From now on, you will treat the Lady Amilia with respect and obey her orders as if they come from the highest authority. Do you understand?"

The clerk nodded slowly.

As Thrace turned to leave, she caught sight of Hadrian and stopped as if she had run into an invisible wall. Her eyes locked on his, and she staggered a step and stood wavering.

Amilia reached out to support her. "Modina, what's wrong?"

Thrace said nothing, and continued to stare at him, shocked. Her eyes filled with tears and her lips trembled.

The door to the main office opened.

"I don't want to hear another word about it!" Ethelred thundered as he, Saldur, and Archibald Ballentyne entered the anteroom together. Hadrian looked toward the hall window, estimating the number of steps it would take to reach it, but did not move when none of them took notice of him.

The old cleric focused on Thrace. "What's going on here?"

"I'm taking Her Eminence back to her room," Amilia replied. "I don't think she's feeling well."

"They were requesting material for a new dress," the clerk announced with an accusing tone.