As Webster moved back toward the emperor’s bier, he felt the gaze of the Eternal Guardian follow him, burning into him. The Guardian, too, was patient. How else could he stand sentry over the emperor’s body day in and day out? Over centuries?
The door guard returned with a tray of bottles and glasses, casting nervous glances toward the emperor. “You can go,” Webster said, taking the tray and placing it on a table next to the emperor’s bier.
“I remember a particular year of fine Rhovan wine,” the emperor said in a dreamy voice. “You could almost taste the dew on the ripening grapes.” He licked his lips.
Rhovanny was no more, but slaves now worked the rows of grape vines and made the wine. Webster eyed the tray and there was a bottle from the lake country, a pleasant, fruity white that usually pleased the emperor. He poured some into a glass and held it ready.
The emperor’s slow awakening was usually over like the snap of fingers. This time was no different. The emperor inhaled sharply and sat straight up. “Lady Alger’s diamond necklace,” he announced.
“What about it, Your Eminence?”
“She was so delightful I forgot about it and left it behind on her dressing table. Could have bought back most of my estate with that one piece alone.”
“Of course, Your Eminence.” The emperor sometimes fancied he’d been an infamous thief at one time.
“Webster, is that you?” the emperor asked, as if only just realizing he was not alone. “What do you have there?”
“Some wine, Your Eminence. I’ve no doubt you are thirsty after your long sleep.”
“My long sleep . . .” The emperor took the glass absently and sipped. Then he spat a mouthful to the floor and tossed the glass across the room. It shattered near the Eternal Guardian’s feet. The Guardian did not flinch.
“I am sorry the wine did not please you,” Webster said.
“I forget where I am,” the emperor replied. “I forget how the years pass. That wine is nothing like the Rhovan. It gets worse every time. It tastes like soot.”
“I am sure we’ve older vintages you would find more palatable.”
“Don’t bother.” The emperor eyed the bottles, slowly sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bier. “Pour me some brandy.”
As Webster obeyed, the emperor stretched as though he’d taken only a nap. None of them—not Webster, the Adherents, the menders, or even the emperor himself—knew why there were these long sleep intervals, except to guess that they helped preserve the emperor’s body from the extreme powers it housed.
It also preserved, Webster reflected, the empire from its emperor.
He handed the emperor his drink, and this time, the first sip was met with a sigh of satisfaction.
“So, Webster, tell me what has passed in the last ten years since I fell asleep.”
“It has been only eight years this time, Your Eminence.”
The emperor scratched his head. “Eight years? The shadows were restless, gnawing at my dreams, their bright eyes burning into me. That’s what woke me.” Darkness clouded in his eyes, and Webster braced himself. “Something has changed in the fabric of the world.” He stood, set his glass aside, and paced, unweakened by his lengthy sleep. “Something is out of order. Something has interfered.” He sniffed the air. “I smell an old god. An old god prying into affairs where it has no business.”
“But you are god,” Webster said.
“I am.”
Webster could not bear holding the emperor’s gaze of blue-black edged with flame.
“There were other gods before I defeated all,” the emperor said. “This one smells of rotting corpses, and I hear its tattered wings whispering upon the currents of the heavens.”
Before the emperor’s rise, the Sacoridians had worshipped seemingly hundreds of gods. This one sounded like the death god. Webster’s son, Ezra, would know. Ezra was very keen on the history. To Webster, the old gods were superstitious nonsense.
The emperor paused in front of the Eternal Guardian and tapped on his breast plate. “How are you, my statue friend?”
The Guardian inclined his head in a bow, leather and steel creaking. If he spoke, Webster did not hear it. Just as the Guardian’s face remained hidden, so did his thoughts. He shared few words with others.
“Do you remember the old gods?” the emperor asked.
The Guardian tilted his head non-committedly.
The emperor slapped the Guardian’s breastplate in a careless, friendly way, the coal-fire gone from his eyes. “They don’t make warriors like they used to. A true warrior is more lively, more drunk, more merry, more lusty.” He barked a laugh.
Webster, accustomed to the emperor’s abrupt mood swings, asked, “Do you wish to hear the news of the past eight years, Your Eminence?”
“Bah. I guess not. It can wait. I’ve got appetites, my lad.” He grabbed a bottle off the tray and drank from it. Amber liquid dribbled down his chin and stained his silk sleeping shirt. After several gulps, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “You’ve got some female flesh for me?”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
Webster ordered the door guard to send the girls in, and when he saw the emperor happily occupied, he left the room closing the door behind him. In a matter of minutes, the emperor had gone from affable to dark, and from dark to coarse. He wondered if this last mood would persist, or if they’d be cleaning corpses out of the emperor’s chamber when he finished.