Forest of Ruin (27 page)

T
hey were going to war. Come dawn, Moria would set out with the emperor and Tyrus and Gavril. While they'd been off on their adventures, the emperor had been mobilizing his troops and sending spies to assess the situation. A target had been located—a camp a day's walk from the imperial city. The emperor knew better than to hurl his entire army at one camp, but he was no longer sitting and waiting for Alvar to make the first move.

Alvar knew his son had switched sides. The emperor would strike, at the head of a contingent of his men, with his sons at his side.

War. Moria would actually see war. Yes, she was going primarily as a figurehead. But while Emperor Tatsu refused to put her into battle until she was better trained, she would do as she had done outside Riverside—watch from the front lines and offer support in any way possible.

She'd left Tyrus speaking to his father and wandered into the gardens. Now she and Daigo sat beside the pond, watching the huge golden fish mouth the surface for the grass seeds she stripped and threw in.

“If you do not wish companionship, I will stay back here,” a familiar voice said. “But I do not think, even in the court grounds, that you ought to be alone, Keeper.”

She turned to find Gavril and managed a smile. “I was not, but I seem to have misplaced my guard.”

He shook his head, and she patted the ground next to her. He came over and sat at her side.

“So . . .” she said. “War.”

He nodded.

“I know a warrior is not supposed to admit fear . . .” she said.

“But I will. To you. I am not, however, as afraid as I was the last time I was in this garden with you. That is something.”

She looked around and realized this was indeed the garden where he'd begged her to run away with him, before she discovered who'd sent the letter to the emperor.

“Do you wish we'd done it?” she asked.

“Do I wish you'd been spared everything that came after? Yes. But do I wish I'd tricked you into life in exile? Never. You lost and you gained.”

“More gained than lost.”

“As did I. While I would wipe my mother's death from my mind if I could, she would still not have lived had I run. Whatever I've been through, I needed to endure it. To defy my father. To pledge myself to my empire. Even reconciling with
Tyrus, though that may seem a small thing . . .”

“Friendship is never a small thing.”

He dipped his chin. “I have begun to regain something I lost and mourned more than I realized. And I have begun to find myself, where I belong. I see a future. I never did that before.”

She leaned against his shoulder, carefully, half expecting him to pull away, but he only put his arm lightly around her waist.

“Now we just need to survive a war,” she said.

“Apparently.”

“In light of everything else we've survived, how hard can it be?”

“How hard indeed.”

She smiled and rested against him as they watched the fish in the pond and said nothing more.

It was night, and Moria was alone with Tyrus. Unfortunately, it wouldn't be for long. There would be no nights together for a while. Moria did long to spend private time with her sister, but she'd still hoped perhaps she could begin her evenings with one and end with the other. She quickly realized that would be neither seemly nor wise. On the road, they were adults, in charge of their days . . . and their nights. Here in court, they were little more than children again, surely not nearly responsible or mature enough to be trusted in such matters. If they shared a sleeping pallet, babies and scandal would be the inevitable result.

“We'll work something out,” Tyrus had said when they'd
shared their mutual disappointment. “I neither plan to forgo our nights nor to sneak about as if we are doing something wrong. We will not be in the city past tonight anyway.”

Gavril had retired for the evening. He was struggling, and Moria was learning when to go after him so he could talk and when he truly did just want to be alone with his thoughts. Tonight was the latter, so she stayed with Tyrus, walking through the darkened gardens, talking and finding shadows for embraces and kisses and lovers' whispers.

Daigo was with them, of course. Zuri was . . . somewhere. She was more like a pet falcon than a dog or a cat. She amused herself, exploring and such, returning now and then to reassure herself that her master had not left. And despite Tyrus's “gifting” her to his father, there was no doubt who her master was. Even Emperor Tatsu had already decreed that Zuri should stay with Tyrus . . . for training and such.

They were heading to see the children before bed. There'd been talk of commandeering a few city inns, but some of the older children had asked to stay in the palace grounds for a night or two.

“It is so beautiful here,” they'd said. “And so safe.”

It was the last part that had swayed the emperor. So the children were there, under the care of nursemaids.

“My mother wishes you to dine with her,” Tyrus said as they headed through the gate into the palace grounds. “For tea before we leave.”

Moria said nothing. Daigo bumped against her, sensing her anxiety. When Tyrus looked over, she said, “Of course. If that is what she wishes, I will be . . . delighted?”

The last word rose as if in question, and Tyrus squeezed her hand.

“You will survive the encounter,” he said. “My mother is not Dalain's. She won't devour you.”

“I know. I . . .” Moria took a deep breath. “If she feels some obligation to host me, please assure her that I do not expect—”

“She wants to.” He tugged her hand, steering her toward the children's quarters. “She is very anxious to meet the young woman her son has fallen madly in love with.”

That was exactly what Moria feared.

“I—I will be honored to take tea with . . .” She trailed off, losing the words.

Tyrus turned her back against the guesthouse and put his hands on her hips. “What is the matter, Moria?”

“Nothing. I'm simply unsettled tonight and—” She paused and then blurted the words. “I fear I will not be what she expects. What she wants for her son. I fear I am not a proper consort for an imperial prince.”

“Ah. Let's see. Could she find you not intelligent enough?” He met her gaze. “Impossible. Not strong enough? Impossible. Not pretty enough? That won't be one of her concerns, but again, I assure you, impossible. There are exactly two things my mother cares about: whether you make me happy and whether you are good to me. There is no question of either. You make me ecstatically happy, Moria. More than that, you make me a better person, a stronger person, a more decisive leader. I watch you with others, and I wish to emulate that.”

“I, umm, don't think everyone would agree with my particular course of action . . .”

He grinned. “Too bad. My father did earlier today. I stood up to him, against all convention, because it was the honorable thing to do. Because I was following your lead. You make me a better person, Moria. And as for being good to me?” He leaned in, kissing her. “No one could be better. You know when I need comfort and when I need a kick in the arse. You care for me and you respect me, and I could ask for nothing more.”

“And I love you.”

His grin broadened, eyes sparkling in the moonlight. “Except perhaps that.” He leaned down to kiss her. As he did, something thumped against the wall behind her, and he stopped short. Another thump from inside. Then a yelp and a hiss of pain. The sound of hand striking flesh and a child's voice saying, “Stop that!”

Tyrus sighed. “Seems the children may be safe from others here, but they are not safe from one another.”

“They're restless and anxious,” Moria said. “We'd best get in there before the fighting spreads.”

T
he children were being kept in several guesthouses, each with a guard and two servants. As Moria and Tyrus approached the front door of the nearest one, Tyrus was nearly knocked flying by the exiting guard. The man barreled past without pause and headed into the darkness of the palace grounds.

As Moria watched the guard, her gut twisted with anxiety. She'd been on edge ever since they'd been escorted through the imperial gate, as if unable to believe it had gone so well, expecting dagger-wielding assassins behind every post. It would pass, and she'd accept their good fortune, but it did not take much for her to feel that worry again.

“Perhaps he did not recognize you,” Moria said.

“No,” Tyrus said grimly. “Not everyone will accept my father's word on my situation. They will still wonder if I am a traitor. I will expect that but not tolerate it. I'll speak to the man tomorrow.”

They entered the guesthouse. All was silent and dark. The hair on Moria's neck rose. Daigo growled. Tyrus frowned as he looked about.

“Hello?” he said.

A head popped from around the doorway. An Edgewood girl named Chera. She rubbed her eyes, sleepily, then saw who it was and ran out, saying, “Moria!” and threw herself—not at Moria, but at Daigo, who huffed in alarm. Tyrus laughed as the girl buried her face in Daigo's fur. Moria reached over and patted her head.

“Everything is well, Chera?”

The girl looked up. “No, it is not.”

Moria bent beside the girl. “What's wrong?”

“They made us go to bed early.”

Behind Moria, Tyrus laughed, and Moria relaxed.

“Ah,” she said. “That is a tragedy.”

“Yes,” the girl said. “We told them you had promised to come. Ashyn visited earlier, with Sabre, who said some of us could try her sling, and he made them leave.”

Tyrus frowned. “The guard made them leave?”

“No, Hogan did.” It took Moria a moment to place the name. It was one of the oldest boys from Fairview.

“And by what right did Hogan do such a thing?” Moria asked.

“No right at all,” the girl said, lifting her chin. “He's awful. He bosses everyone about. He told the nursemaids that we ought to go to bed early, and then when Ashyn and Sabre came, he told them we were sleeping, which we were not. He's mean, and I hate him.”

“Ah,” Moria said. “It sounds as if someone takes his
responsibility a little too seriously. We will speak to him.”

“Is he awake?” Tyrus asked.

“No,” Chera said. “He fell fast asleep. That's why he made us go to bed early. He was tired. It's not fair.”

“No, indeed it is not,” Tyrus said. “But as a prince, I overrule him, so you may stay up.” He leaned down and whispered, “And he will miss all the fun, because he is asleep. Now, where are your nursemaids and guard? I ought to speak to them before I steal you away to help me feed Zuri.”

At the mention of the dragon, the little girl squealed. A few more faces popped from doorways, and Tyrus motioned for them to come out quietly. Moria told him to take the children outside, so they would not wake the others. She'd speak to the guard and nursemaids.

Tyrus bustled the children out. Moria stood there, looking about the dark guesthouse. Daigo slunk around her legs, whipping them with his tail, the fur along his spine raised. Which could mean that she had reason for feeling as unsettled as Gavril. Or it could simply mean that her anxiety had spread to her wildcat, as her emotions often did.

“Let's do this and get back outside, where we may watch over Tyrus,” she whispered.

Her nerves settled a little as she began to search. There were only five rooms. The first held sleeping children, as did the second. The third, a washbasin and toilet pit. The fourth a small kitchen. The fifth . . .

“More children?” she whispered to Daigo as she opened the door. “Blast it, where are the servants?”

And the guard. Yes, they'd seen one walking out, but that
only meant he'd been relieved of his duty. Speaking of guards, what was the point of having one if he was so otherwise preoccupied that they could spirit off the children on his watch? Was he playing a game of capture-my-lord? Or another sort of game, with the young women assigned as nursemaids?

“He'd best not be,” Moria grumbled. But as she searched again, she knew she would not stumble over the guard with a servant. There
was
no guard here.

She imagined Gavril's voice at her ear,
You feel unsettled, Keeper.

I am simply worried—

You know that is not it.

I know nothing—

Yes, you do. You know exactly what is wrong. You fear saying so and being proven wrong. Being shown a fool. Will you feel better if you are right . . . and you told no one?

Moria raced outside. Tyrus was there, with Zuri, showing Chera how to feed the whelp without losing fingers.

As soon as he saw her expression, his grin fell away.

She motioned him aside and said, “That
was
the guard we saw leaving. The
only
guard. The servants are also gone.”

“What? They left the children—”

“I feel . . .” She took a deep breath. “I sensed something, when the guard passed. I may be wrong . . . I'm sure I am because there's no way . . .”

Tyrus laid his hands on her shoulders. “Tell me, Moria. Whatever it is.”

“I sensed shadow stalkers.”

A
shyn felt guilty about the children. She'd gone to see them with Sabre, and one of the oldest of the Fairview boys said they'd gone to bed early, and Ashyn had felt not disappointed but relieved. Hence the guilt.

While she did want to see the children, she'd wanted to see Ronan more. Not for a romantic interlude, but to hear what the emperor said about his situation. Ashyn herself had already met with the emperor, summoned to give her story. She ought not to have been surprised at that—who better to explain about Edwyn and the dragons? Yet earlier, when riding to the city gates, Ashyn had taken her place
behind
Moria, Tyrus, and Gavril. Taken it gladly, to her surprise.

Moria would be quick to say that she'd ridden with Tyrus and Gavril because she was their co-accused. Ashyn and the others had been charged with no wrongdoing, so they did not
need to face the emperor.

That was true. Yet there was more to it. Moria, Gavril, and Tyrus were the heroes of this story. That did not belittle Ashyn's own contribution. Nor Ronan's. But they were not warriors. They were not fodder for legends.

Moria had confessed her vision of Tyrus as emperor. Ashyn did not doubt it for a moment. No more than she doubted that this was simply the beginning for all three of them.

Bards would sing of the girl whose blood woke a dragon. They would not sing of the one who'd
nearly
done so. Perhaps the tale would twist and the bards would sing that Moria had saved her fair sister from the blade. Moria would set them straight—at the point of her dagger if needed. Ashyn did not care. She had escaped on her own, and everyone who mattered knew that, and that was what would be important in her life—that those she loved truly valued the role she played. And she would continue playing it, working with them, whatever they needed of her. She was a hero . . . to those who mattered.

In speaking to the emperor, she'd also learned the fate of Simeon, the young scholar who'd tried to woo her and then later betrayed them all, accusing Tyrus of cowardice on the battlefield. Simeon had been taken from the city “for his own safety,” and then interrogated at a hidden location. Interrogated under torture, she presumed, though she tried not to think of that. He had, in the end, confessed to his lies. Now he was being held prisoner, while the emperor waited to see if he'd need him to provide a public statement.

She'd also asked after the court Keeper and Seeker, Thea and Ellyn. They'd been out in the empire, sent by Emperor
Tatsu to investigate reports of increased spirit activity, and had returned two nights ago, now resting their aged bones. That was all well and fine, but Ashyn had a hard time forgetting that they'd not lifted a finger earlier to help the girls who were supposed to be under their tutelage.

While she'd been in conference with the emperor, Ronan had been home with his siblings. He'd returned as soon as he knew Jorn and Aidra were well. Or he'd attempted to. There'd been some confusion at the palace gates, over the boy in the mended breeches and filthy shoes and dusty hair, demanding to speak to Prince Tyrus. It seemed Ashyn wasn't the only one overlooked. At least people noticed her. Ronan had entered the city without even that, all eyes on the prince and the Keeper and the Seeker and the Kitsune boy and the Okamis.

The guards at the gate had mocked him at first and then threatened him with the dungeons if he persisted in his charade. So Ronan had left. Then, when their interview with Emperor Tatsu ended, the four of them had gone to the gates, to see if anyone had spotted Ronan. That had been rather awkward.

Ronan had been recovered, and they'd all dined together. Then Ronan had been summoned to speak to the emperor. Now, with the children asleep, Ashyn was in her quarters with Tova, pretending to read a book while anxiously awaiting news of Ronan's meeting.

She'd finished the slim book—without processing a single word of it—when there came a rap at the door. A tentative rap, almost as if whoever was there hoped she'd not answer. It wasn't Ronan then.

She considered
not
answering. Several of the court ladies had stopped by earlier, leaving notes that said they hoped to take tea with the Keeper and Seeker. Moria had snorted that their true hope had been that they'd find Tyrus and Gavril there, and could take tea with all of them and regale the other court ladies with gossip.

Ashyn had no desire to entertain court ladies. And certainly no desire to suffer through a late-night visit with those who secretly hoped someone more interesting would stop by. So she ignored the knock. But when it came again, Tova moved to paw at her feet, whining and looking at her questioningly.

“Yes, it is my duty to answer,” she said. “But I have decided there is more to life than obedience. I avoided death at the hands of a mad dragon-cult leader. I will not perish of dishonor if I fail to answer a door.”

Tova growled.

Ashyn sighed. “All right. I will look. But if it is a social call, I will pretend I didn't hear the knock and trust the goddess will not smite me for my impudence.”

As she approached, another knock came, equally light, then a voice, whispering “Ash?”

Ashyn hurried over and opened the door to see Ronan standing there, wearing no cloak. No weapons either. He hadn't brought them into the palace grounds, of course—that was a crime. But she had hoped when he left his meeting with the emperor, he would be wearing the twin blades, rightfully, his caste returned to him.

He had his arms crossed, as if against the chill night air, and the first words that came to her lips were, somewhat
ridiculously, “Where's your cloak?”

He shrugged, and when he turned to her, all her hopes for him plummeted like stones in her stomach.

“Wh-what happened?” she said. “Surely the emperor—”

“Walk with me, Ash.”

She shook her head and stepped back. “Come inside.”

“It isn't proper.”

“I don't care. You're cold and—”

“I'm fine. Fetch your cloak and walk with me, Ash. Please.”