Stormcaster (Shattered Realms #3)(90)

The room was empty. All of his belongings were gone, as if he had never existed.





36


AUDIENCE WITH THE EMPRESS


Lyss slept little that night, wondering and worrying about Breon. So she was in a particularly foul mood the next morning when a handful of the empress’s guards came to call. She was feeling reckless, itching for a fight, even one she could not win.

Her visitors included the usual imperial guards, but also a man whose garb resembled her own, the difference being that he was wearing a king’s ransom in gold around his neck and at his wrists. His belt was embedded with jewels, the buckle a dragon fashioned in gold.

“Captain Gray, I believe?” he said in accented Common.

“That’s right,” she said.

The stranger looked her up and down with the kind of arrogant ownership that, in her present state of mind, might lead to bloodshed. His blood. Alternatively, she might take his gold chains and strangle him with them.

“I’m Captain Samara,” he said, jerking his head toward the door. “Let’s go. The empress has granted you an audience.”

I didn’t grant her an audience, Lyss wanted to say. But good sense prevailed, and she didn’t.

Samara led Lyss out of the rear of the palace and through what once must have been a lovely garden. The leafless skeletons of trees remained, some of them braced against the ocean winds. The beds were empty of flowers, though metal markers still displayed the names of those that had once grown there. Arbors and pergolas were still threaded with the stems of vines, and stone statues and sculptures were everywhere, as if trying to compensate for the lack of vegetation. A leathery-skinned servant swept twigs and debris from the walkways.

“What happened to the garden?” she asked, finally.

“The only way a garden thrives this far north is through magic. When the magic died, so did the garden. The empress has other priorities right now.”

Like conquering the Realms? Or hunting down the magemarked?

Speaking of. “Where’s Breon?” she said, as they neared the far gate.

“Breon?”

“My friend. We came here together. You took him away yesterday, and he hasn’t returned.”

“Ah,” Samara said, “you are speaking of the empress’s brother.”

Lyss’s stampeding thoughts plunged over a cliff, tumbling until they hit bottom. “Her brother?” She gaped at Samara. “Breon is her brother?”

“Of course,” Samara said, with the smug assurance of someone on the inside. “Why do you think she has been so eager to find him? Her family has been scattered far and wide, and she is working to bring them all together.” He opened the gate and stood aside so that Lyss could pass through. “Now, we must hurry. The empress does not like to be kept waiting.”

As they walked, Lyss tried to wrap her mind around what the shiplord had said. Breon was Celestine’s brother? That was hard to believe. They were both breathtakingly beautiful, and they both had metallic streaks in their hair—gold for Breon, and red and blue for the empress. There the resemblance ended. Breon was charming, self-deprecating, nonjudgmental, and instinctively kind. Celestine could be charming—until she wasn’t. Otherwise, she was ruthless, cruel, arrogant, and selfish.

If they were siblings, how had they become separated? And why was it all such a secret? Why didn’t Breon know about it himself—unless he’d lied about that, too?

Why wouldn’t the empress simply invite her siblings to a reunion, instead of hunting them across two continents? Of course, there are many reasons a monarch might want to track down siblings. Gerard Montaigne was one example that came to mind—he’d murdered his brothers on his way to the throne.

But why not simply hire an assassin if that was the goal? Celestine had made it plain that she wanted Breon alive and unhurt.

One bit of good news—Breon might be glad to know that he was dressed like a prince because he was one.

The empress was waiting in a small, circular pergola overlooking the sea. She was dressed more simply now, draped in layers of fabric secured by a wide belt, a cowl pulled up over her head. The cowl was the only bit of fancywork—it was elaborately beaded and embroidered. A jeweled, curved blade was jammed into the belt.

Samara bowed to the empress. “Here is Captain Gray, as you commanded, Empress.”

Celestine looked her up and down approvingly. “You look like a capable soldier, Captain,” she said. “I trust the fit is good?”

“Yes,” Lyss said cautiously. “I wondered whether—”

That was when Lyss noticed the chaise parked beside the wall, where its occupant could look out to sea. A familiar mop of hair peeked over the top of it.

“Breon!” Lyss knelt beside him, looking anxiously into his face. He was wrapped in furs, eyes half open but unfocused. He returned a vague smile and absently patted her hand.

“What are you doing out here?”

“He likes to watch the ships,” Celestine said, though the only ships in view were moored at the dock.

Lyss stayed focused on Breon’s face. “Is that true? I was worried about you. I didn’t know what—”

Breon tapped his fingers against his throat and shook his head.

Lyss swung around to face the empress. “What’s the matter with him?”