Empire of Night (20 page)

I
t was almost exactly a day later when Gavril stormed into Moria's cell again.

“Did I warn you not to bother Rametta with this walk nonsense?” he said.

“I didn't say a word.”

He skewered her with a look.

She straightened. “I know you won't believe me, but I did not, Lord Gavril.”

His eyes narrowed. “Do not call me that.”

“It's your new title, is it not? If I don't use it, I'm failing to pay the proper respect.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice so the guard couldn't hear. “Don't mock me, Keeper.”

Moria sighed and, once again, lowered herself to the floor. “I cannot win, can I? If I called you Gavril or, worse, Kitsune, you would accuse me of showing disrespect—”

“Enough.”

She looked up at him but didn't rise. She refused to give him the satisfaction of a fight, and that only made him fume all the more. He backed up and crossed his arms.

“I told you—” he began.

“—not to woo Rametta to my cause. I did not. In fact, I said I had changed my mind, and I no longer desired the walks, as the very request had angered you, and I could not afford to anger you. I'm out of that dungeon cell, and I'd not like to be thrown back in.”

“I never threatened—”

“I told her that while a walk would be enjoyable, the cost of pursuing the matter was too high.” She looked up at him. “I know my place now.”

She swore she heard him grinding his teeth.

“Don't play the submissive, Keeper. You do it poorly.”

“If you'd like me to apologize—”

“Ancestors forbid,” he muttered.

She lifted her gaze to his. “I was going to say that I'll do that. Happily. I sincerely apologize for any misunderstanding with Rametta. If there is anything else you'd like me to apologize for, Lord Gavril, you need only to ask. If it would help to issue a blanket apology, for all past, present, and future grievances and insults, real or imagined—”

“By the ancestors, stop,” he said through gritted teeth. “Just stop talking.”

“I'm trying to figure out what I need to do”—she looked him in the eye again—“to make you leave my cell.”

His cheek twitched, and his folded arms tightened. “I am
not here on a social visit, Keeper. I came to inform you that you'll have your walks. Twice daily. You'll be accompanied by two guards. I asked for four, but my father thinks it sends the wrong message to suggest a girl requires so many warriors. He seems to believe there is no danger of your escape.”

“He is correct, because the compound is far too secure for such a thing. You needn't worry about me, Lord Gavril. I'll not even glance at the walls.”

He snorted under his breath and muttered, “I've warned him. That's all I can do.” With that, he turned on his heel and marched out.

And so, Moria got her walks. Twice a day she was escorted by Orbec's nephew, Brom, and a second guard. Brom was a pleasant companion, a not-quite-handsome young man who enjoyed the attentions of a young woman. Moria would do nothing to cause him trouble, but if he found their discussions pleasant and her attention flattering, she was hardly going to discourage him . . . or warn him when he spoke too openly of the compound. The other guard saw no harm in it, though admittedly, he did seem less than intellectually alert. So Brom and Moria walked and talked, and Moria soon knew the layout of the entire compound, where each sentry was posted, and the schedules and routes of the patrolling guards.

Gavril was right. The northern portion of the sprawling camp was indeed underutilized and under-guarded. The compound was as big as the village of Edgewood. Moria had no idea where it was located—she could not see far enough beyond the walls to identify the landscape and, truly, Ashyn was better
suited to such things. Moria focused on what she could see and how to escape it.

During her walks, she also looked for any sign that the children were here, but found none, and discreet questions to her guards were met with confusion. Disappointing but not surprising—if Alvar was trying to convince his men that he was no monster, he'd hardly be holding children captive here.

For six days, Moria lived in her new cell and walked the grounds and gathered intelligence. She'd catch sight of Gavril on her walks, but he'd pretend not to notice her and she'd do the same, and they were both happier for it. Sadly, it was not an arrangement that could last forever. On her eleventh day of captivity, Gavril walked into her cell, holding a bundle of fabric at arm's length, as if it was plague-cursed. Rametta accompanied him.

Gavril held the bunched fabric out to Moria, not saying a word. When she only stared at him, he tossed it onto her sleeping pallet. Rametta
tut-tutted
and scurried over to lift it up, jabbering at him in her own language. Gavril replied in the same tongue. His words were harsh and abrupt, the language only making them more so. Moria expected the old woman to take affront. But she smiled, and when she looked at him, her smile was indulgent, pleased. No, not pleased. Proud.

Rametta may have been Alvar's nursemaid, but it was obvious she was fond of Gavril, and Moria was grateful that she'd not spoken against him.

Moria rose from her cushions and set her book aside. “Lord Gavril, to what do I owe . . .”

She trailed off as Rametta lifted the bundle of fabric,
straightening and smoothing. It was a dress. Not a simple dress, but the many layers of a formal gown.

When Moria saw it, ice trickled down the back of her neck. She found her voice and said, “That's a truly lovely dress, Lord Gavril, and while I cannot say that I appreciate gowns as much as I ought, I
do
appreciate the gesture. However, I'm not sure it goes with my cell. Perhaps something in a shade of blue?”

“There is a reception tonight,” Gavril said. “My father is entertaining several warlords who are considering joining us. Two of them are particularly pious men, and I made the mistake of suggesting we not mention that we've taken a Keeper hostage. My father pointed out that they've likely heard the rumor. My strategy was to deny it. My father wishes to embrace it.”

“Embrace . . . ?”

“To let them know that we have the Keeper of Edgewood, and that she has joined our cause.”

Moria laughed—a long, sputtering laugh that nearly toppled her to the floor. “Lord Gavril, I did not realize you had a sense of humor. And such a sharp one. I am truly impressed by your many hidden qualities—”

“Enough.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice, though Rametta and the guard could clearly hear. “We have a predicament here, Keeper, and mocking me is not going to solve it. My father's idea is preposterous. And dangerous. But he insists. You will join the reception as my guest.”

She wanted to laugh again. It was indeed preposterous. And yet . . .

She was to be allowed out of her cell. At night, with Gavril,
who would be preoccupied with his hosting duties. A reception meant music and feasting and drinking—in a word, chaos. Lots of happy, drunken chaos.

“If your father insists . . .” she said.

Gavril gave her a hard look. “If you do not behave, you'll be returned to the dungeon. Behaving includes ‘not attempting to escape.' I should also warn you that the dungeon guards are comrades of Halmond. He is doing poorly. His friends are not pleased with you.”

“I understand. I have no intention of attempting—”

He cut her short with a look. “If you are sent back there, I'll not help you, Keeper. I'll not.”

Now her look was dead serious as she met his gaze. “I have no doubt of that, my lord.”

“Good. Now, I will leave you to bathe and dress under Rametta's care. Then I will return to explain your role for the evening.”

E
scorted by two guards, Rametta took Moria clear across to the next building, where she had a proper bath with a proper hair washing, followed by a thorough scrubbing, waxing, and plucking. Or . . . not completely thorough, at least not when it came to the waxing and plucking. Moria knew that was the custom in the imperial court, but even with the language barrier she was able to tell Rametta that there was no need for her body to be
completely
without hair.

While Alvar Kitsune was not empire-born, he was adhering to the customs and practices of the empire. Moria supposed that made sense. To do otherwise would only remind people that his heritage lay elsewhere. He intended to rule the empire, not conquer it.

The reception, then, would be court style, one that hearkened back a decade. A message that said that the empire's
golden age had passed with Alvar Kitsune's exile.

While the current custom was for ornate, upswept hair styles, the previous one called for long, straight hair on women. The longer the better. In both cases, extensions were often employed, but Moria—who as Keeper was not permitted to do more than trim her nearly waist-length hair—needed none. Nor, she would argue, should she need to apply rice powder paste to whiten her face. Rametta agreed, after trying it and frowning at the effect, and settled for a dusting of powder instead.

Next came the makeup. Charcoal for her eyes and brows. Red dye to make a “rosebud” of her lips with honey glaze to add shine—a small pot of which was to be tucked into her dress to reapply after eating and drinking, though Rametta seemed wise enough to realize the chance of Moria actually doing this was about equal to the chance of the sun consuming the earth.

Finally the dress. First the under-robe. Then the split skirt, with a short train. Then silk, silk, and more silk. Ten layers in all, each brightly colored or brocaded. Finally the most ornate layer of all, in the finest silk, covered in gemstones and iron. A warrior's heaviest leather scale armor did not weigh nearly so much. Moria wondered why Gavril had bothered to warn her against escape—her outfit would hold her as fast as metal shackles.

At least there were a few beauty customs that had disappeared from fashion long enough ago that Alvar didn't see fit to resurrect them. Foot binding had gone out of style in the last age. More recently, but before Emperor Tatsu's reign, there'd been the custom of teeth-blackening. One problem with
whitening women's faces was that it made their teeth appear yellow. The solution, back then, had been to black them out altogether, leaving a dark hole of a mouth, which Moria was sure had been a lovely sight.

Once Moria had the dress on, the serving girl returned heaving a large looking glass, which Rametta made her prop in the corner.

Moria walked over, glanced at her reflection, grunted, and stepped away. Rametta scolded Moria like a chattering squirrel. Moria sighed. She stood in front of the looking glass. Then she glanced through it at Rametta, beaming behind her.

“I know you put a lot of work into this,” Moria said. “So I will refrain from pointing out that I look—and feel—like an overstuffed cushion.”

She watched Rametta narrow her eyes. The woman understood far too much of the common language.

Moria sighed again. “All right. Given that this is the customary attire for such an occasion, I look perfectly serviceable in it.”

“Serviceable?” The serving girl stared at Moria, her eyes round. “You are beautiful, my lady. Your hair shines like gold. Your eyes are like sapphires. And that gown? I have never even dreamed of something so . . .”

She couldn't finish, her face filled with such longing that Moria felt a stab of shame. For a girl like this, such a gown wouldn't be possible even on her wedding day. While Moria may have looked in the glass and seen an awkward girl stuffed into an equally awkward outfit, the girl saw a fantasy come to life.

“I'm sorry,” Moria said. “I'm in an ill temper today. Thank you very much for the compliments. It is a lovely gown. I am blessed to wear it.”

“But you
should
be blessed. You are the Keeper.” The girl moved behind her and fingered the silk before Rametta's throat-clearing made her stop. “You look lovely, my lady. And on the arm of Lord Gavril . . .” She sighed. “He is so handsome. You are blessed to have him favor you.”

“He doesn't favor me,” Moria said as gently as she could. “He's escorting me because his father demands it.”

“But he is still escorting you, and he will see you in this gown and . . .”

As much as Moria tried to hide any reaction, she must have failed, because the girl looked alarmed.

“You don't find him handsome, my lady?”

At one time, Moria would have readily admitted she'd not seen a young man more pleasing in face and form. But that young man had locked her in a dungeon. Deprived her of any comfort. Refused even to tell her if her bond-beast lived. There was no way she could look at Gavril now and find him handsome.

But when Moria said nothing, she felt the weight of not only the girl's stare but Rametta's. Refusing to flatter Gavril risked insulting the healer worse than refusing to enthuse over her new dress and makeup. She opened her mouth to lie, but nothing came out, and panic ignited in her gut.

Just say yes. It's one word.

She could not. She absolutely could not.

Rametta chittered at the girl, waving her hands, telling her
to be silent. The girl apologized, but Rametta chased her out of the room.

Moria looked in the glass again. She no longer saw an awkward girl in an awkward dress. She saw half a girl. No wildcat at her side. No twin sister either. The loneliness rose up and washed over her, and she wanted to cry. Fall to the floor in her silly dress and sob.

When she felt a hand stroking her hair, she saw Rametta beside her. She tried to straighten, to suck back her loneliness and despair, but the blasted dress seemed to drag her down—shoulders slumped, chin lowered, even her gaze barely able to reach up to the looking glass. Rametta stroked her hair and then pressed something into Moria's hand. The figurine. Moria didn't even need to look down—she knew it by touch. She wrapped her fingers around it, and she thought of Ashyn and of Daigo, and she made her decision.

She would not merely look about for a chance to escape tonight. She would
make
that chance. If she failed and Gavril cast her back into the dungeon, then that would be the risk she took for trying. Because she would try. She had to.

“This isn't going to work,” Gavril said, pacing Moria's cell. “It's a preposterous plan and it will fail, and when it does, we'll pay the price.”

He'd come in a few moments ago. Rametta had heard him approaching and made Moria stand in the middle of the room, where she'd be the first thing he'd see when he walked in. Then the old woman had waited beside the door, beaming like she was presenting a bridegroom with his bride. Gavril had
stalked in, cursing and snarling, his gaze passing over Moria as if she were a piece of furniture . . . much to her relief. Anything else would have been unbearably awkward.

Rametta had not been nearly so pleased. As Gavril paced and fumed, she kept trying to draw his attention to Moria until, finally, she planted her tiny body in front of him, jabbed a finger at Moria, and admonished him in her native tongue.

Gavril cast a quick glance Moria's way. “Yes, yes, I see. She's all ready for the reception, which is a relief, considering that's where I need to take her.”

Rametta waved at Moria, talking fast, her words laced with annoyance.

“All right. All right.” He turned to Moria. “I'm looking. I have no idea what I'm supposed to be looking at. All I see is the Keeper in face paint and a rather ridiculous dress.”

Moria bit her tongue to keep from laughing. Rametta looked ready to smack him. From the doorway, Brom stepped forward quickly, his face lighting with alarm.

“I don't think it's ridiculous at all.” Brom turned to Moria. “You look beautiful, my lady.”

“I'm sure you think so,” Gavril said dryly. “However, if you knew Moria, you'd know you did not need to jump in with compliments. She's hardly insulted by the lack of them. Now, if we failed to notice her prowess with a blade, that would be another story.”

Brom cleared his throat. “It would still seem only polite, my lord. She does look beautiful.”

“Then perhaps
you
ought to take her to the reception. That would solve all of our problems.”

“You could take ill,” Moria said.

Gavril looked at her as if the furniture had spoken.

“I believe you appear slightly queasy,” she said. “Something you ate earlier might not have agreed with your stomach. You could, with deepest regrets, bow out of the reception, and Brom could escort me.”

“And would you like me to drop my dagger as I leave?”

“Please.” She plucked at the sides of her gown. “I could probably even hide your sword under here, if you chose to leave that behind as well.”

“You could not wield my sword, Keeper.”

“True. I should probably try it out to be sure. If you could give it to me and stand right there . . .”

A snort of a laugh, and he glanced at the other two. “You wonder why I don't shower her with compliments.”

Rametta replied, her words still sharp, but with an overtone of sympathy. The latter was wasted on Gavril, who only snapped back something in her language, any trace of good humor falling away. The healer sighed and shook her head.

“What's wrong, Lord Gavril?” Moria asked.

His shoulders tensed at the title, but she wasn't mocking him now. That was what she would be expected to call him, out there at the reception, and she couldn't afford to make a mistake.

“You're upset about tonight,” she said. “What's happened?”

“Nothing . . . except that I'm to escort you to a reception, without a guard, and expect you to neither attempt escape nor humiliate us in any way. The chances of you doing neither are nearly equal to the chances that Rametta will stop scolding me
for every infelicity she imagines I make.”

“True,” Moria said. “But you knew all that earlier, which does not explain your current cursing and fuming. What else has happened?”

His cheek twitched, but he said nothing.

“Kitsune,” she murmured, before she could stop herself.

He looked over and it was as if they were back in the Wastes. On the road, just the two of them, bickering and goading each other.

“My father has asked . . .” He inhaled sharply. “No, my father requires . . .”

“He requires . . . ?” she prompted.

Gavril wheeled on Rametta and spoke in her language, rapid-fire and furious, striking his palm for emphasis as he spoke. The healer shook her head and said something back, quiet, meant to soothe, but he only pointed at Moria and shook his head as he spoke. Rametta continued trying to calm him, but he resumed pacing.

“Gavril . . .” Moria said. “What's going on?”

Rametta said something else, pleading now, but he kept walking, briskly, as if growing only more agitated.

Moria stepped in front of him. “Gavril . . .”

Before he could answer—or refuse—the door opened. Alvar and his guards walked in.

“Ah, good, you're already here,” Alvar said to his son. “You've told her the news, I presume.”

“I—” Gavril began. “I was . . .”

“He was working up to it,” Moria said. “Slowly.” A pointed look at Gavril. “Very slowly.”

“Well, we haven't time for that. As the guests of honor, you're expected to make your grand entrance before the attendants can open the rice wine. And our visitors will not want to wait a moment longer than necessary to drink it.”

“Guests of honor?” Moria said.

“Of course.” Alvar smiled at her, his teeth glinting. His eyes glinted, too, like Daigo's when he caught a particularly elusive bird. “It's your betrothal party. Tonight I announce that you'll be marrying my son.”