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The wisest course of action would have been to duck his head and show deference. A man who called himself the Immortal Emperor Unchallenged probably liked a good grovel.
But Oliver was choking on panic, and he’d always had a bad habit of falling back on snark and snap when he was most frightened.
He scowled, and said, “Who are you? What have you done to my drake?”
The Sel regarded him a long, silent moment, and then inclined his head the barest fraction, hair fluttering in a new direction as the breeze changed – as though that small movement had altered the flow of the wind, though Oliver knew that was merely coincidence. When he spoke, it was in Continental, but with a thick, lilting accent. “Yourdrake? You think he isyours?”
Games. King games, emperor games. The sorts of games even young lordlings had played back in Drakewell. You?You think we’d inviteyoualong on the hunt? You thinkI’mgoing to suckyouoff in this closet? No, no,bastard, I’m the important one.
The flush of old, remembered anger filled him with resolve. Where were those lordlings now? Dead or captured in the war. And here sat Oliver, a king’s consort, seated always at His Majesty’s side during important council meetings, dripping furs and jewels, valued, looked-to, with his very own bonded drake.
He puffed up in the saddle and said, “He certainly didn’t come withyou.” Gods, that felt good. “Yes, he’s mine. What have you done to him? What sort of magic is that?”
The Sel’s lips twitched in what might have been a smile – or merely a facial tic. He didn’t seem the smiling sort. “If he is yours,” he said, “then you should know what sort of magic it is.” Damn him, damn the games. He somehow grew more serious; something about the slant of his white brows, the tucked-in corner of his mouth. “You are the Drake.” A pause, and his voice deepened, roughened; his pupils expanded, when he added, “The red whore.”
The words hit him like a punch to the belly, though he’d already heard them from Náli, and had expected them. “I’m not wild aboutthat,” he said. “We’ve never met; you’ve no idea whether I’m a whore or not, which I’m not, by the way.”
The Sel’s top lip lifted in a nasty sneer. “You debase yourself with that Aeretollean.”
“Who, Erik? He’s a king, you know. There’s no debasement about it.”
The sneer got nastier. “He isnothing. A worm to be trampled, and yet you spread yourself for him, pant for him, like awhore.”
“Like aconsort, get it right, man, and it’s no concern of yours.” Inwardly, his panic swelled, filling up all his nooks and crannies. How could this man know any of that? Could he see Oliver, somehow? When he was going about his daily life? When he wasspreadingandpantingin Erik’s bed? Was he inside Oliver’s mind?
No. No, that wasn’t possible. He was simply hurling insults; he knew that Oliver was with Erik, that was all.
But how did he know that? All the Sels at Aeres had been killed. Had a message been sent before? From the Midwinter Festival perhaps?
Ragnar, he thought sourly. He’d sent word along, a falcon, or a rider, some spy to go whispering a word to his Selesee masters.
“I was out for a flight, that’s all,” Oliver said. “Minding my own business. What do you want?Romanus Tyrsbane.” He leaned hard on the name.Yes, I know who you are. No, I will not use your titles, you insulting fucking wanker.
Rather than expressing alarm, the Sel – the emperor – nodded, seeming satisfied. “You have heard of me. Your little necromancer told you of me.”
“Don’t say it like that. He’s notmylittle necromancer. He’s my friend. Do you have those where you come from? Friends?”
“I have subjects,” he said, without a shred of humor or irony. He was perfectly serious.
And ungodly strong, when he snatched Oliver’s ankle, and dragged him down off Percy’s back.
Too late, Oliver realized that he hadn’t dreamed himself a sword in this plane. And that he should have spent more time bracing for an attack, and less time mouthing-off. He made a grab at the saddle, tried to clamp his thighs tight, but he was caught off guard, and the emperor was strong, and he went tumbling right off.
He closed his eyes, ready for impact with the ground.
But strong hands caught him under the arms and set his feet gently down. He made an automatic grab, and his hands slapped down on armored forearms. He stared a too-long moment at the tableau of his bare fingers against the spotless, gold-plated greaves.
Time seemed to slide sideways, slippery and uncertain; the gray field faded to a smudge, inconsequential and insubstantial. The golden armor seemed to radiate its own light by contrast, the brightest thing on this plane – too bright. As were the emperor’s eyes, when Oliver dragged his head back and met his gaze. Eyes that were in fact lilac, neither blue nor purple, but the loveliest, most vivid shade somewhere between, like the first spring flowers on a hillside. Deep and clear enough to drown in.
No, a very small, easily ignored voice chimed in the back of Oliver’s mind. This wasn’t right. He shouldn’t be allowing this. He had no interest in swooning into the Selesee emperor’s arms…but here he was, an insect caught in amber, helpless and limp.
Magic. It had to be magic, something dastardly and insidious…but Oliver was so very tired. His head was so heavy.
When the emperor cupped the side of his face, he leaned into the touch, and let him hold the dragging weight of his skull.
No. No, no, no–
A low and vicious snarl ripped through the stillness.
