“But not all love him back,” Cade prompted.
She bit her lip. The question came so close to—other things. “No.” She had to force herself to speak. “Not Second Empire, nor those who desire no king at all, and there are those who bridle at peace and live just for war. They do not get it under King Zachary.”
“The responsibility cannot be easy. Do you know him personally? You must have some contact . . .”
Karigan didn’t answer immediately. She wanted to get up, pace, pour a glass of water. Anything but talk about this. But if she did not answer his innocent questions about King Zachary, what would he think? “Yes. Occasionally a Rider will receive messages directly from him, or report immediately to him following an errand, depending on the nature of the message.”
Cade must have heard something in her voice, or maybe felt her tense beside him, because, much to her relief, he started asking about the Weapons.
“I really don’t know too much of their ways,” Karigan said. “They are secretive. They receive most of their training at a place called the Forge—it’s a keep on an island that is kind of the home of the Black Shields.” Then she frowned thinking that if Cade pursued being a Weapon in her time, he’d probably be sent off to the Forge to train and prove himself. How long of a separation would that be? The idea of any time apart disturbed her.
When did this happen, she wondered, that she could not imagine her life without Cade? She had done all right on her own for so long. She’d been independent.
But yes, lonely.
Cade, she did not think, was the sort of man to stifle her, to demand she give up her independent ways. He certainly would have no say over her duties as a Green Rider. It was odd to realize, however, that returning home without him was a bleak picture she did not wish to contemplate. Even if it meant the occasional separation as they pursued their individual duties.
Yes, she thought, resting her head on his shoulder, there might be periodic lapses of loneliness, but better that than not having him at all.
AWAKENING
Webster Silk, attired in a long coat of mink, stood attentively in the icy chamber, his breaths fogging the air before him. On the bier lay the emperor, his head upon a pillow, a red velvet cover drawn up to his chest. He looked like one of the kings of old upon a sarcophagus with his pale marble face. But the emperor was not dead, and was in fact on the verge of awakening after only eight years of rest. The change in routine was disturbing, and there was no telling what state the emperor would be in when he woke.
In fact, they never knew. Sometimes he was confused but affable, sometimes demanding, often violent. They kept his chamber cold so he would not burn from rage, and several slave girls, bred for comeliness, stood ready in a nearby chamber should he need to slake any thirsts upon rising, carnal or cruel.
The only other allowed into the chamber was the emperor’s own Eternal Guardian, brought with him from the old days and armored in blood-red steel and leather, his face masked by a helm. Copper tubing protruded from the helm’s bevor and snaked back to a breathing apparatus, a pump, and the pair of cylinders he wore on his back. It hissed and sighed as air was pumped into his lungs. In some ways, his appearance reminded Webster of a sea creature with a carapace, or a segmented insect, inhuman and dangerous. Few had seen the Guardian’s true visage.
He was a tall, silent, and forbidding presence, and he carried only a longsword—no firearms. He had been made immortal by the emperor, just as Webster Silk had been, but the Guardian had been by the emperor’s side from the beginning, before Webster had even been born. As much as the Guardian watched the emperor, Webster watched the Guardian.
The awakening was imminent. Webster could tell by the subtly warmer hue in the emperor’s cheeks. Webster’s own body was taut in anticipation. Did the emperor’s shortened sleep period mean he’d be awake an extra two years? Did it mean a permanent alteration in the cycle, or would all go back to normal after this one time? These were important things to know, for the emperor’s periods of awakening sometimes turned bloody and caused turmoil across the empire.
The awakenings, of course, interfered with Webster’s own workings. It was he who had shaped the empire, solidified its power. It was he who put laws and policies in place. What better way to fulfill his existence than by steering the fortunes of a great empire? It was not so easy to occupy one’s time when one had all of eternity.
He rarely took credit for his successes, and few knew the true extent of his authority. He did all he did in the emperor’s name, but took great pleasure in being the true strength behind the throne. His work was not a complete secret, of course. The Adherents knew.
It was a fine thing to deploy the governing power of the emperor, yet not have the responsibility of being the emperor.
The emperor’s lips moved as though he tried to speak. His eyelids parted to slits and revealed the whites of his eyes. Not long now.
Eternal life had also brought Webster a stillness. Where once he would have lost patience and been annoyed with waiting, it now bothered him little. He had time. Few could afford patience the way he could, and it was just another way in which he wielded power over others.
“Mead,” the emperor murmured, eyes still not quite open. “No, a good burning whisky.”
If the emperor was awakening thinking of libations, it might not go so badly this time. Webster went to the door to tell the guard on duty to fetch a variety of liquors for the emperor to choose from. Sometimes the emperor would argue with himself at length over such choices.