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He was mortified that the thought hadn’t even occurred to him before this moment. Eozena was right—Tadek was safe and comforting, and . . . And it wasn’t fair for Kadou to use him like that, just for his own benefit. So, therefore, he shouldn’t summon him. Heknewwhat the right thing to do was—he ought to meet Tadek quietly in some neutral space, and let him be angry if he was angry, and then offer him whatever he wanted to make up for what Kadou had done to him. Maybe that would help.
Or maybe that too was another opportunity to fail spectacularly. Another opportunity to upset everyone, or give them material to gossip about. Another opportunity to disappoint Zeliha and Eozena.
He put the summons back on his desk. Tomorrow, maybe. He needed to agonize about it first. “I’m quite tired,” he said. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”
Eozena nodded and got up. “You going to be all right?”
“Yes,” he lied. “Just fine.”
“And the investigation? Do you want me to come with you to the guild tomorrow?”
“Perhaps not tomorrow.” He was fully planning on staying in his chambers all day tomorrow, preferably with the sheets pulled over his head.
“I’ll have all the reports brought here, then,” she said.
“Oh—oh, no, you needn’t go to the trouble.”
“Kadou.” He stopped, looked at her. She looked steadily, calmly back at him. “I’m going to commandeer the reports and say you wanted me to fetch them for you. Then I’m going to take them back to my own rooms and read them. Then I’m going to bring them here. But I can’t do that middle bit without the first one. Do you mind terribly?”
The thought of even this little subterfuge being discovered sent another shockwave of nausea through him. But he trusted her better than he trusted himself, and so he said, “If you think it’s best.”
She looked askance, but nodded. “Send for me again if you need anything, all right? Day or night, you know that.”
“Of course,” he lied, again.
And then he was alone, with dinner and dusk still hours away, with a growing sense of unease pressing upon him—it felt very much like it had in the early months of Zeliha’s pregnancy, when he’d worried himself into fits of shuddering terror on a near-daily basis. Tadek had been here then. Tadek had been his primary.
The letter to grant Tadek access to the Gold Court lay on his desk, taking up a disproportionate amount of space in his mind for such a small and unassuming object.
He shut his eyes and turned sharply away from it, pacing through the room, shoving his hands into his hair to rub his aching head and banish some of the shattered-glass feeling he was developing along all his edges.
He couldn’t stay cooped up in his rooms. He’d worry himself to bits in here, or drive himself mad.
He whirled toward the wardrobe and yanked out the first kaftan his hands fell on—green linen, delicately embroidered along the bottom hem with an elegant, masculine profusion of flowers—and pulled it on, charging out the door a moment later, still doing up the buttons.
Evemer was sitting in a chair by the parlor door, cradling a half-full glass teacup in both hands. He looked up immediately and took in Kadou’s mismatched clothing. “Highness,” he said.
“I’m going for a walk in the garden.”
“Highness.” Evemer set aside his tea.
“You don’t need to come with me.”
Kadou turned away before he could see Evemer’s expression, whatever it was—and Evemer followed him anyway. Kadou strode forward as if he could outpace the fear-creature lurking around the edges of his brain, growling a low and throbbing snarl and waiting for the moment to pounce and devour him. He went aimlessly, not always keeping to the paths, ducking his way under branches and clambering over low walls while Evemer followed behind without a single grumble. Damn him. Did he have that sharp stare of judgment fixed on Kadou now? The moment he had the thought, he could almost feel the weight of Evemer’s eyes at his back.
He went until he was breathless, and then he found himself in front of one of the palace’s smaller shrines—it had twelve in total, including the Grand Temple, each dedicated to one of the two gods.
This one was for Usmim, the Lord of Trials. Of course his feet would lead him here, of all places. The building was no bigger than a large cottage or his own chambers, and inside it would be dim, cool, and quiet. Perhaps if he begged Usmim ardently enough, he would take pity and grant Kadou a moment’s peace from his own mind.
Her Majesty was a strong leader, someone Evemer was genuinely pleased and honored to be sworn to—the sort of liege he had thought of when he was a child: someone powerful, armed and armored and on a white horse, blazing in the sunlight, a banner snapping above, with eyes both stern and kind. Someone you could kneel to, swear your life to, and serve with honor, receiving equal honor in return. Someone you could die for, and not feel that your life or your death had been wasted.
His Highness, by comparison, was only affirming Evemer’s assessment of careless-flighty-negligent.
At this moment, Evemer was profoundly embarrassed to be seen out in public with him, inasmuch as the extremely secure enclosure of the Gold Court could be considered public. His Highness had re-dressed himself, which was both annoying and offensive. If it had been anyone else, Evemer might have thought they were hinting that his service was somehow unsatisfactory.
He knew that it wasn’t. His service was more than sufficient—the exams had proven so. Kadou was just . . .like that. Evemer hadn’t tried to stop him at the doors of his chambers, hadn’t tried to argue him into putting on something nicer than a linen kaftan that looked like it was more appropriate for a hunting excursion or a sweaty, dusty day at the training grounds than for hurling oneself aimlessly around the paths of the formal gardens. The skirts of the beautiful purple underlayer showed in vibrant flashes when-ever the prince turned, garish and odd next to the subdued green outer layer.
His Highness swerved toward a little shrine to Usmim, paused, started forward again, paused again, repeated this five or seven times until Evemer allowed himself a brief moment of speculation about whether he’d be convicted for treason if he were to strangle him.
