The Emerald Storm by Michael J. Sullivan Page B

was certain it had only been one of her rare outbursts of coherency, Modina spoke again. “He never would have given in to you. You’re scared of him, and he knows it.”
    “And you aren’t?”
    Again, silence and Amilia waited.
    “I’m not afraid of anything anymore,” the empress finally replied, her voice distant and thin.
    “Maybe not afraid, but it would bother you if they took the window away.”
    “Yes,” Modina said simply.
    Amilia watched as the empress closed her eyes and turned her full face into the light of the sun.
    “If Saldur discovers your masquerade—if he thinks you’ve been just acting insane, and misleading the regents for over a year—it might frighten him into locking you up where you can’t do any harm. They could put you in a dark hole somewhere and leave you there.”
    “I know,” Modina said, her eyes still closed and head tilted upward. Immersed in the daylight she almost appeared to glow. “But I won’t let them hurt you.”
    The words took a moment to register with Amilia. She heard them clearly enough, but their meaning came so unexpectedly that she sat on the bed without realizing. Looking back it was obvious, but not until that moment did she see it. The speech was for Amilia’s benefit—to ensure that Ethelred and Saldur could not have her removed or killed. Few people had ever gone out of their way for Amilia. It was unimaginable for Modina—the crazy empress—to risk herself in this way. Such an event was as likely as the wind changing direction to suit her, or the sun asking her permission to shine.
    “Thank you,” was all she could think to say and for the first time she felt awkward in Modina’s presence. “I’m going to go now.”
    She headed for the door and as her hand touched the latch, Modina spoke again.
    “It isn’t completely an act, you know.”

***

    Waiting inside the regent’s office, Amilia realized she had not heard a word in her meeting or during the dedication that morning. Dumbfounded by her conversation with Modina—the mere fact that she even had a conversation with Modina—little else registered. Her distraction, however, vanished the instant Saldur arrived.
    The regent appeared imposing as always, in his elegant robe and cape of purple and black. His white hair and lined face lent him a grandfatherly appearance, but his eyes held no warmth.
    “Afternoon, Amilia,” he said, walking past her and taking a seat at his desk. The regent’s office was dramatically opulent. Five times larger than her office, it featured a more elegant decor. A fine patterned rug covered the polished hardwood, and numerous end-tables flanked couches and armchairs circling a table and chessboard. The fireplace was an impressively wide hearth of finely chiseled marble. There were decanters of spirits on the shelves, along with thick books. Religiously themed paintings lined the spaces between the bookcases and windows. One illustrated the familiar scene of Maribor anointing Novron. The immense desk, behind which Saldur sat, was a dark mahogany polished to a fine luster and adorned with a bouquet of fresh flowers. The entire office was perfumed with the heady scent of incense, the kind Amilia had only smelled once before in a cathedral.
    “Your Grace,” Amilia replied, respectfully.
    “Sit down, my dear,” Saldur said.
    Amilia found a chair and mechanically sat. Every muscle in her body was tense. Amilia wished Modina had not spoken to her that morning—at least then she could honestly plead innocence. Amilia was no good at lying, and had no idea how she should respond to Saldur’s interrogation in order to bring the least amount of punishment to her and the empress. She was still debating what she might say when Saldur spoke.
    “I have some news for you,” he said, folding his hands on the surface of the desk and leaning forward. “It will not be public for several weeks, but you need to know now so you can begin preparations. I want you to keep this