Empire of Night

by Kelley Armstrong

  "Then you are correct. I have nothing to worry about, because he's never going to take that throne."

  "The point, Moria, is that we are stuck with this performance. We need to play our parts, and if we do not, we will be punished."

  He resumed pacing the floor. She'd noticed he hadn't even argued when she said his father wouldn't become emperor.

  "My father wishes . . ." More pacing. "He requires . . ." Gavril cleared his throat. "He insists that it must appear as more than a political alliance."

  "More . . . ? What--"

  "It must appear to be a love match," he said, spitting the words. "You must act as if you are . . ."

  "In love with you?" She stared at him. "Then you might as well escort me to the dungeon now, Kitsune, because there is not enough performing skill in the world for that."

  "It is not the dungeon he threatens you with."

  His words were almost too quiet to hear, but there was no way she could miss them. She stared at him.

  "He . . . He threatens me with . . . ? He threatens a Keeper with death?"

  "You know that I never would have brought you here. Yes, I tricked you. I betrayed you. I regret none of it. But I do not wish to see you dead, Moria."

  "Then help me escape."

  With a short laugh, he shook his head, pacing away again.

  "What?" she said. "That is the solution, is it not? To both our problems? You aren't telling me anything I haven't already realized. I know you don't care for me but--"

  "And you are correct. I do not. I never did. When I say I don't wish you dead, I accord you the courtesy of your position and the basic humanity I would feel for any other innocent party."

  "The basic humanity you would feel for any other innocent party . . ."

  He fixed her with a cold look, his gaze shuttered. "Yes, Moria. I know you don't like to hear that--"

  "Why? Because I still hold out hope that you're not a treacherous son of a whore? Do I flinch when you insult me? When you tell me I mean nothing to you? I do not. What I marvel at is any notion that you possess basic humanity. Was my father not an innocent party?"

  He'd been pacing again as she spoke. He had his back to her now, and it stiffened as he stopped. Then he stood there, facing the wall.

  "Do you want my help in pulling off this performance?" she said. "This is my price. Admit what you did. The role you played in the massacre of Edgewood. In my father's death."

  "I have already--"

  "You have not. I want to hear it from your lips. Exactly the role you played."

  He stayed there, his back to her. "As I said, I have done whatever you believe."

  "That's not what I'm asking for."

  She strode in front of him and stood there, looking up. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, his jaw tight.

  "Tell me exactly what you did," she said.

  "I have done whatever you believe."

  She grabbed for his dagger, but he caught her by the wrist, squeezing as he bent over her. Now his gaze did meet hers as he said exactly what he had on the night she confronted him.

  "I have done whatever you believe. I have deceived you. I have betrayed you."

  Remember that, he'd added that night. Whatever happens, remember that.

  She tried to shake off his hand, but he kept his grip tight as he leaned over her, so close his braids brushed her face.

  "This is not a matter for negotiation, Keeper. I do not expect you to walk into that reception and pretend you are in love with me. But you will not act as if you wish to put a dagger between my ribs. You will behave as though you are pleased with the engagement. If you can manage that, we will both escape this trap unscathed." He straightened. "Now, I will ask Rametta to return and help you freshen up. Your face powder is smeared. You must be quick, though. My father will not be kept waiting."

  If Gavril was in such a hurry, he ought to have told Rametta. By the time the old woman returned, Moria had stopped pacing and was sitting cross-legged on her sleeping pallet. Rametta shuffled into the room bearing touch-up powder and a folded towel with warm water. She fixed Moria's makeup and brushed her hair again. Then she motioned to the towel and water.

  "I'm to bathe now, after I'm dressed and groomed?" Moria said.

  Rametta made a show of washing under her arms, then sniffed, making a face.

  "If you're saying I stink of sweat, then I'd suggest you bring sweet pine perfume to cover it, because in this gown, I'll be sweating all evening."

  Rametta laid the towel in Moria's hands, then walked out. Moria tossed the towel to the floor. It hit with an odd clunk. She bent and unwrapped the towel to find . . .

  Her dagger.

  She lifted it carefully, as if it were a mirage that might evaporate the moment she touched it. It didn't. She lifted it and turned it over in her hands. Her blade. It was truly her blade.

  Was it a trap? Perhaps Gavril had told the old woman to give it to Moria. He wanted her to try escaping so he could capture her. Prove to his father that this betrothal business was dangerous, that Moria was dangerous. Get her thrown back into the dungeon until he could negotiate terms for her release and be rid of her.

  I don't care. If that's his plan, I'll upend it on him. I'll escape, and he can deal with the consequences of that.

  She secured the blade deep within the sleeves of her voluminous gown. There, now she was properly dressed.

  FORTY-TWO

  Moria had never attended a grand reception, but she'd often read of them in books, particularly the type Ashyn liked to secret under her pillow while pretending to be enraptured by a tome on the social history of nomadic desert tribes. Receptions and balls featured prominently in many a romantic tale. This particular scenario seemed straight out of one. The awkward girl, transformed by silk and rice powder, walking into the party on the arm of a dashing warrior, as the gaping crowds part to let them through.

  In books, Moria always skipped that part. And so she did tonight, at least mentally. She walked in on Gavril's arm, and the assembled guests could have pulled faces and stuck out their tongues for all she noticed. She was too busy looking about for escape routes.

  If she did attract attention, it could be attributed to the fact that she was one of very few women at the reception. It mattered little anyway. When admiring glances lingered for more than a moment, they were scattered by a glower from Gavril. That was perhaps the most unfair part of all. She had to smile and twitter and act as if he was the most wonderful boy she'd ever met. He could be his usual cold and surly self, and if anything, it enhanced the performance, giving the appearance of a possessive and attentive fiance.

  She did have one source of petty pleasure, and it came from the fact that he seemed as uncomfortable in his dress attire as she felt in her gown. He'd been wearing it earlier. She'd not noticed, any more than he'd noticed her dress. It was only when she caught him pulling and tugging at it now that she took note. It was, like hers, formal wear. His trousers were loose and pleated. Over his tunic he wore a robe nearly as intricately embroidered and bejeweled as the top layer of her dress.

  As for how he looked in it, she did not allow that assessment to cross her mind. She knew him for what he truly was--a liar, a traitor, the young man who'd have let her rot in a dungeon--and that was all she saw when she looked at him. Which made it all the more difficult to feign those admiring glances.

  Fortunately, Moria had too much else on her mind to simmer over the outrage of this charade. Each time they passed an exit--there were three--she noted how well it was guarded. She mentally configured this room within the outside of the building, based on her walks about the grounds, determining which exit led to which door and which would provide the best escape route. The answer seemed simple--the northern exit, which would take her to the less guarded northern end of the compound. And tonight, the goddess truly did shine on her, because that exit also led to the toilet pits.

  Moria made sure to drink too much water and tea, ensuring she'd need to make se
veral trips to the toilets. When the need first arose, not long after they'd been in the reception, Gavril seemed happy for the excuse to leave the party. So happy that he didn't even insist on escorting her all the way, waiting instead in the first hall. That gave her time to explore.

  In between trips, Moria took careful note of who she met. The main guests were the two warlords. They were debating whether to join Alvar's forces, which Emperor Tatsu would be very interested in knowing. There were others, too--men of varying positions who either hadn't declared themselves for the Kitsunes yet or hadn't done so officially, acting as spies in the imperial court. All useful information.

  Moria and Gavril made their rounds of the guests. They ate and watched a poetry recital. Moria managed not to fall asleep during the recital, which would have pleased Ashyn. Gavril barely even feigned interest in it, looking about, paying her and the poet little heed.

  "I'll need to use the toilets again soon," she whispered as the primary poet left the stage, to be replaced by the secondary one.

  "It's the middle of a performance," Gavril said, shooting her a look of annoyance.

  "Which is why I said soon. After it's over."

  When it finished, he was the one to remind her, saying this would be a good time, before the acrobatic performance began.

  He was escorting her toward the exit when they were stopped by Lord Kuro Tanuki and his son. They'd met both earlier--a short and formal conversation. That was when the two men were sober, which they no longer were. In fact, they were clearly, exceedingly, not sober.

  Lord Tanuki stumbled into their path and thumped a meaty hand on Gavril's shoulder.

  "You've grown up well," Tanuki said. "Very well indeed. The last time we met, you were just a skinny boy, running around court with the emperor's bastard. A useful friendship, as it turned out."

  He winked at Gavril, then did the same to Moria. He seemed to expect some response from her, but she was struggling to think of a way to word her own question. You speak of Tyrus. Does he live? Tell me he lives.

  There was no way to ask without betraying herself, so she held her tongue and prayed he'd give some sign that he did not speak of the prince in the past tense.

  "Yes, you've grown up well," Tanuki said. "Strong and sturdy, like your father. But you take after your mother in looks, which is particularly fortuitous." He laughed at his own joke, then thumped his son for comment, but his son was too busy staring at Moria to notice.

  "They do make a striking couple, don't they?" Tanuki said. "They'll have very handsome children."

  "I've never bedded a Northern girl," his son blurted.

  Even his father sputtered at that. The son seemed too drunk to realize his impropriety and kept staring at Moria.

  "Her hair is like golden fire," the son said. "Is it the same color down--?"

  His father cut him off with a thump to the back of the head hard enough for the son to stumble. Lord Tanuki laughed, too loudly, as if he could drown out any more indiscreet comments. "We'll need to find you a Northern girl to check for yourself. Another Northern girl. This one is taken, and from the looks young Gavril is giving you, if you continue speculating in that fashion, we'll all be witnessing a sword fight instead of an acrobatic performance."

  "My apologies, Lord Tanuki," Gavril said stiffly, sounding not apologetic at all. "I am unaccustomed to being betrothed."

  "And my son is unaccustomed to your father's rice wine. It is good to see you so taken with your bride. As a man who has been married nearly three decades, I can assure you that it helps a great deal. You will be very happy together. Not that there was any doubt of your mutual affection, given what the young Keeper did for you."

  Before he could continue, one of his men came to tell him that Alvar wished to speak to him. Lord Tanuki said he'd be right there and then turned to Moria. "That was quite a feat, my lady. A difficult one, I'm sure, leaving your sister and your wildcat behind. The empire may not hold you in very high regard now, but once Alvar Kitsune triumphs, people will understand the sacrifice you made."

  "Sacrifice?" Moria said, but Tanuki was already walking away, following his man to Alvar. Moria turned to Gavril. "What is he talking about?"

  For a moment, Gavril seemed not to hear her. He stared after Tanuki and there was an odd look in his eyes, as if a horrible thought had just dawned on him.

  "Kitsune," she hissed, tugging his arm. "What is he talking about?"

  "I--I don't know." He turned to face her, but his gaze didn't meet hers. He appeared genuinely confused, and more than a little concerned. "Wait here. I must have a word with my father."

  "But--"

  He strode off. As he did, Moria glanced around. She was at the party, alone. Completely alone, as people returned to watch the acrobatic performance.

  She peered toward the hall leading to the toilet pits. A few guests still streamed out, rushing back to the main room as the performance began.

  Moria gave one last look around. Her gaze settled on Gavril, now across the reception hall, speaking to his father and completely preoccupied.

  She hurried for the hall.

  Moria knew exactly where she needed to go. Getting there was somewhat more complicated. Not least because she was stuck wearing the blasted dress for as long as she could reasonably expect to bump into someone. And until then, she was as inconspicuous as a peacock.

  She took the circuitous route she'd noticed earlier and managed to avoid two guards. Then, as she was creeping down the final corridor, a voice whispered by her ear, Wait. She paused.

  Not yet, child, the spirit whispered.

  Moria tilted her head, and as she did, she caught the grunt and sigh of a bored guard at his post ahead. She zipped around the corner.

  "You deign to help me now?" she muttered. "About time."

  A second spirit answered, Impatient child.

  Impertinent, a third spirit sniffed.

  Moria glowered. What good did it do to hear the dead if they would not even help when you were trapped in the enemy camp? Ashyn would point out that there hadn't been a way to help until now, but Moria was in no mood to be charitable.

  Shhh, child. It was the first spirit again. Heed me.

  Heed only me--that's what it meant. Moria focused on the first spirit and ignored the mutterings and mumblings of the other two.

  This way.

  Moria followed the first spirit's whispers back down the hall, then along another one. She ended up near where she'd been heading, but approaching from the opposite side. When she peeked around the corner, she could see a single warrior guard, shuffling and grunting with boredom. Wide-awake and alert, though. Looking for trouble. Hoping for it, to break the monotony.

  Blast it.

  The exit door was right there. Once through it, she'd be outside, on the north end of the compound. All she had to do was get past one guard.

  She fingered her dagger and peered out again. She could throw it from here and catch him in the neck.

  And raise a commotion that would bring every other guard running.

  Was that truly what stayed her hand? A fortnight ago, she'd never have considered hurting an innocent man, possibly killing him. Now . . . ? There was still hesitation, but how much of it was reluctance and how much was simple concern that the ploy would fail?

  It was only three paces to the door. If she could distract the guard . . .

  She reached under her gown. All she carried with her were the dagger and the wildcat figurine. There was little question of which she should use, but still she hesitated. She clutched the figurine. To lose it felt like losing Daigo himself again, and her chest seized at the thought.

  Yes, child, the spirit whispered. You must.

  She braced herself, then she took aim and pitched the figurine as far as she could down the hall, letting it bounce off the distant wall.

  The guard jumped. He looked around. Then he started toward the object on the floor, pulled by his boredom and curiosity. Moria slipped from her hidin
g place, crossed the three paces to the door, eased it open, and escaped.

  FORTY-THREE

  Moria made her way across the north end of the compound. It was not protected, but she'd been out here often enough to know that the guards had their routes and their favored stopping places. Avoid those and she was fine. Or she would be after she shucked the dress. She didn't strip all the way down to her shift. That was white, meaning she'd streak across the night like a comet. She went to the third last layer--a dark green silk. Then she took one of the dark, discarded layers and tore it into a long strip to wrap over her bright hair.

  Dagger in hand, she made her way toward the north wall. Scaling it wouldn't be an issue. According to Brom, the compound itself was an abandoned military training camp. They'd cleaned it up, but what it lacked was a proper fence. So far they'd encircled it with a makeshift barrier of wood, no taller than a man's head.

  She headed toward that wall, taking a circuitous route to avoid the guards. The ancestors continued to favor her, perhaps deciding she'd suffered quite enough punishment for any past offenses. Finally, she was close enough to see the wall. Then she heard a noise. Footsteps. Running. She froze and swung around, her back pressing against the nearest building. She'd barely gone still when a figure stepped between the buildings. A figure with dark braids and tattoos on his forearms.

  Gavril had his back to her as he moved from one building to the next. He did glance her way, but only briefly, as if he expected to see someone running in her dress, light hair flowing behind her, an easy target to spot. When he looked away again, she gripped her dagger and lifted it.

  She could throw it at his back. He wore no armor. She could injure him, badly. She might even be able to kill him.

  Instead, she pressed herself against the building and waited for him to pass. He stopped on the other side of the passage. Moria held her breath. He took one more careful look around before putting out his hand and saying something, and as he spoke, his fingers began to glow with an unearthly light.

  His fingers lit the passage as well as any lantern, and as he turned her way again, the light turned with him, and she knew it didn't matter how dark her dress was or how deep the shadows. His gaze lit upon her, and she clenched her dagger, ready for him to pull his blade and run at her.