Page 17 of Guardian of the Drowned Empire

And whose fault is that?I clutched my tunic tighter to me, blinking back the fresh batch of tears burning behind my eyes and threatening to fall. He’d given me an impossible task and at every turn was changing the rules and punishing me for the problems he’d caused.

“I am a patient man, your grace. And I am forgiving. Any soturion, whether they deserved these lashes or not, would be able to bear them without interruption to their daily lives and would not cry out. So if this is too much for you….” His hand reached forward, and I flinched. He gave me a victoriously wolfish grin, replacing his hand on the hilt of his sword. “If you want to be relieved of your bargain before we further waste the Emperor’s time on Valyati, say the words now.”

I swallowed back bile and spit but stood tall even as my back burned. Even as my limbs shook and fear weighed like a heavy shadow over my heart. I knew I was seconds away from toppling over, but I looked the Imperator square in the eyes. “Tell the Emperor when he’s here for Valyati, I hope he’ll save me a dance.”

The Imperator grinned, shaking his head. “Try to heal that black eye first. The Emperor will not want to dance with a marred face. Now, sit.”

I stood there, blood boiling, refusing to follow his commands like a dog. And yet…Gods. I was dizzy with pain. Stomach sinking, I stumbled back to the table.

Rhyan jumped to his feet, pulling my chair out for me and gently sliding it back in. I sat forward, aware of the blood dripping down my spine, the humiliation of having been exposed to the room, and the fact that my wounds were now fresh and vulnerable to pain and new infections—undoing all the work Rhyan had meticulously done and the care he’d given me. He’d wasted the rare sunleaves from Glemaria. Fury and rage boiled inside of me.

“Your grace,” said the Imperator, his hand pushing back on the hilt of his sword, the blade jutting forward, “I must say, your back looked like it was healing impeccably.”

“Looked that way,” Tani said. Her dark eyes glinted as they flicked between me and Rhyan. I remembered her accusation, clear as the Lumerian Ocean. She’d suspected the use of kashonim at the habibellum. She’d suspected something between me and Rhyan.

“Might we finally return back to the original proceedings?” said the Ready with a snarl.

“Of course,” said the Imperator. “I eagerly await your judgment.”

“Seeing as how the fight occurred during the Academy hours but off the Academy grounds….”

I already knew what had to be done. I knew what he had to say. It couldn’t be any other way. He could not punish her for fighting me outside the Katurium without also punishing me for leaving the Academy early. And I couldn’t allow Tani to be punished, not when she could say something about me and Rhyan. We were innocent—technically. No lines had been physically crossed. But when the Imperator was involved, truth was irrelevant—truth was what he made it to be, what suited him, what he fancied, and anyone who disagreed with that truth was damned. One accusation against us, even from someone like Tani, would be twisted and perverted by the Imperator’s logic until we were both tried for breaking our Oath.

“Arkturion,” I said before Aemon could proceed, before he could attempt to defend me any further. “Perhaps, Soturion Tani should be released without punishment. I’m no longer going to be leaving early or arriving late. I see the error of my ways. And I’m sure Soturion Tani will remember that next time she wants to practice fighting with me,” I held her gaze, “she will do so at the Katurium. It’s easy to see how the error in judgment occurred—on both our ends. I was in fact out of bounds, but we were well within the timeline for a fight, and many consider the Soturion Apartments an extension of the Academy itself. All should be forgiven—just a misunderstanding.”

Arianna’s eyes widened, but she nodded, a thoughtful expression on her face.

Control what they see, and you control what they think.

“All charges,” Aemon said pointedly, looking from Tani to me, “are dismissed. I expect everyone back in the Katurium immediately, and any time lost from being here today is to be made up for after hours. Am I clear?”

“Wise counsel indeed, Arkturion,” said the Imperator. He bowed his chin and turned back to me. “Do replace that tunic, your grace. Before you catch a chill. The temperature is expected to fall tonight. We must go now. I am to report to the capitol to update the Emperor on the latest goings on in Bamaria. He’ll be very eager for a review after this week’s...excitement. We’ll see you come winter.” The Imperator spun on his heels without another look at me, the double doors at the front of the room swinging open. “Oh, and, your grace, I’ll let him know about that dance.”

Several seconds passed before the Bastardmaker, after giving me one final lascivious look, stepped forward, his beady eyes flicking to the marble floor—to the spot where my blood had fallen. “Arkturion,” he said, “you’ll want to clean that up.” The head of the dead wolf attached to the pelt across his back bounced grotesquely as he followed his brother. The Soturi of Ka Kormac abruptly turned and marched behind their leaders.

“Leave us,” shouted the Ready at his soturi. “You all know what to do.”

The remaining soturi, those loyal to Ka Batavia, began to file out. Arianna gave me a sympathetic nod before escorting Tani, who was grinning stupidly with glee, through the doors. Arianna’s blue eyes narrowed, and there was a note of disgust in the way she pursed her lips together. She left the Emartis mask on the table, and its empty eyes stared back at me.

Then it was just Rhyan, me, and the Ready. Every door shut at once. Magic hummed around the walls as the war room wards sealed into place.

“What in fucking Moriel?” Aemon shouted.

I started to sit back, as if Aemon’s anger was a hurricane pushing me away, but I stopped before I hit the back of my chair. My wounds were exposed, bleeding.

“Your grace,” his voice was filled with a deadly rage, “Soturion Rhyan, not a word. Not a single fucking word. I’m going to have a sentry bring her a new bandage and a spare tunic. You two are to march back into the Katurium and stay in your training room until her grace’s clinic tonight. Eat dinner publicly in the dining hall—let everyone see you’re training—and I swear to the fucking Gods, not one more misstep.”

I swallowed. “Yes, Arkturion.”

Rhyan nodded, his jaw clenched tight. “You have my word, Arkturion,” he said through gritted teeth.

The wards were called back, and the humming stopped as the doors unlocked. We didn’t dare speak a word as the sentry appeared moments later with our supplies, nor when Rhyan methodically cleaned and redressed my wounds. We remained silent, a dangerous tension running in an undercurrent between us, as he dressed me again, not daring to talk, not daring to look at each other in the arkturion’s townhome. I sat forward before him, elbows on my knees, hands pressed over my eyes to keep from crying and from feeling shame wash over me again. The unbearable silence continued as Rhyan walked by my side the entire waterway back to the Katurium.

Only when we were behind the walls and closed door of our training room, only when we were alone again, did he lose control. A primal scream of frustration escaped from his lips, followed by a string of curses layered with his northern accent.

Rhyan pulled his arm back, his thumb crossed over his fingers, and without warning, he punched the wall. The room shook as a crack appeared in the panel. Shards of debris fell to his feet. His shoulders heaved as he stretched his neck side to side, his breaths rough and uneven.

“Rhyan?” I asked. “Are you—”

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