Duty-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book II ]

59

Mhera was restless. Although she was certain Aun's salves and potions were saving her from a great deal of pain and speeding her recovery, too, she was tired of being cooped up after just one conscious day in bed.

While Mhera could stand with Aun's help, her wound made it difficult to walk; aside from the problem of the pain, she did not wish to appear in public bent over, with a grimace on her face. She was not too proud to be weak before Aun or Matei, but it had taken a great deal of effort for her to cultivate a strong image as an empress, and she would not compromise it simply for the sake of being stubborn. So she stayed in her chambers, and Matei relented to her request that they divide their responsibilities. He handled their public work, permitting correspondence to be directed to Mhera.

It was late morning on the third day after her attack, and Mhera was resting against her pillows, sorting through the letters and missives stacked on the table near the bed. She did not anticipate any troubling surprises. Trade to Karelin had stabilized, and even the day-to-day operations of the government—the arms of justice, the gathering of taxes, the settling of disputes—were working well. Most of the drama of late had been confined to the council chamber, and poor Matei was having to deal with that all on his own.

Mhera skimmed through some notes on the palace accounts—income from taxes, expenses for wages, food, and materials. The government of the Holy City had been standing responsible for the costs of rebuilding the Arcborn Quarter of the city, which was heavy and expensive work, as she noted from the ledgers.

She moved on to the next item in the stack, a folded parchment hastily written in a hand she'd come to recognize as that of the chief architect, Master Dressic. He wrote that matters were progressing as well and as quickly as could be hoped, but a collapse of a scaffold had injured two men the previous day. One had a broken arm, and the other a head wound that might prove to be fatal. With a pang of sadness, Mhera made a note to inquire about their families. She knew, as she had not known as a young noblewoman, that a man's strong back in the Arcborn Quarter could mean the difference between comfort and starvation for his wife and his children.

As she reached for another letter, a knock sounded at the door. Mhera raised her head, laying the document aside. "Come in," she called, not without some hesitation. There were now two guards posted outside of her room, but she did not know if she would ever trust again that she was wholly safe.

It was Captain Alban. As he crossed the threshold, he made a reverent bow. "Your Grace."

"Captain," said Mhera with real pleasure. "It is so good to see your face."

As he straightened from his bow, Alban spared Mhera a genuine smile, but it slid from his face almost at once. "I am glad to see Your Grace resting; it pains me to intrude upon Your Grace's convalescence."

"You are not an intrusion. Will you sit?"

He inclined his head in gratitude, but then shook it. "Thank you, Your Grace, but I come simply to deliver a message; His Grace is in a private meeting with a councilor and I did not think it wise to wait."

Mhera's heart fell. "What is it?"

"As Your Grace is no doubt aware, we have reestablished communication networks with the armed forces loyal to the Crown in the far reaches of the empire. It has been challenging to connect with those who were stationed in Narr."

"Yes," Mhera said, "but I know you have been doing what you can, Captain."

"We received word from Narr this morning, Your Grace."

The expression on Captain Alban's face betrayed that the word had not been good. Mhera shifted on her pillow, knitting her brow. "Go on."

"The sellswords His—ah—Emperor Korvan employed in Narr are no longer loyal to the Crown; they have traded allegiances, and they said so in no uncertain terms."