Lord Aren emerged from the shadows. It was not his way to involve himself in affairs better handled by others, but there were so few in the palace he could trust absolutely. There were those he tolerated, even liked, among Shadovane’s elites, but trust was such a fickle thing. If he was discovered to be involved in this current task he would, at best, be court marshaled. But then, if this operation was successful, he needn’t worry overmuch about what those posh aristocrats and peacetime generals thought of him.

  He wondered what the Emperor would do were he to discover the Shadow Queen had been harboring Watchers.

  Certainly, whatever punishment he doled out would be handled in private. The common rabble would never know anything was amiss. Even those closest to her would only have conjecture to rely on. Sudden shifts in her affect, an occasional outburst maybe. She was not a long tempered woman.

  Would he have her executed? Quietly replaced with a loyal ally? Or would he satisfy himself with having her watched, lorded over by a hand selected sitter, to ensure she would engage in no more scheming without his express knowledge.

  It occurred to him that the emperor may even know of her plots, be they intended to mollify the nobility or to undermine him. This use of a Watcher’s talents was so frivolous. He could almost believe she was so small minded, so ignorant to the abstract potentials of these beings. Had it been Queen Anastasia or Mariah, he suspected they would have wielded the power of those captives openly against that ancient creature, would have carved a path across the empire as they carved a path into his mind, and forced him to his knees.

  But to do so in their time would have invited a greater discord. In this time as well.

  They would have doomed themselves, then. She would now, if she saw fit to rail so hard against him.

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  He held a grimoire in his hand, a book of black magic. The melodies and harmonies contained in that book would invite the subtlest expressions of death onto whomever fell victim to them. A servant would never dare to be found in possession of such a tome, and that was precisely why he had chosen it. Death rites were not the provenance of any outside the military. He supposed some of those more conniving nobles may have made a study of the rites, may even have gleaned some useful insights from them, but even they would be few. Politics in Shadovane was not the deadly game it had been some four hundred or so years back. Lady Christine, Daughter of Queen Anastasia, had not risen against her parents yet. Had not carved out her oasis, invited her mother’s jealousy.

  Danger and wrath, twin prongs of the tuning fork, had come from inside. There had been no great threat from outside the city in those days…so the histories said, anyway.

  He stood before a servant’s bed. The servant was sleeping, unaware of her visitor, and he made a point of keeping it that way. An almost lyrical sentence formed in his mind’s eye, and he spoke the words in that ancient language first taught to the stone people by the spirits, who commanded magic. The words, once spoken, drew power from the elements, suffused the air with them, a request of one spirit, whose dominion was dreams and sleep.

  “Bagani oman, Chara.” Spin your threads. Hold her in your embrace until I have departed.

  “She is not yours to hold.” The spirit answered.

  “She will not be harmed. Only used.” He whispered.

  “Still.”

  He traced embossed lettering against the grimoire’s leather face with his fingers.

  “Someone must draw their eyes.” He said. “She is one of those who poses little risk. And they will see in her…hope. Will you not embrace her, because I have asked.”

  “This once, He Who Remembers the Way. But tread lightly, lest I draw you into my embrace. Eternally.”

  He nodded. “Thank you, Spirit Chara. I will not forget.”

  Warmth bubbled forth from him as he pressed his thumb to the sleeping servant’s forehead, bled into her, bound her into what he hoped was a pleasant dream. He retracted his hand, and slipped the grimoire under her mattress.