Chapter Text
Cliopher's eyes opened on the great white and black doors to the Imperial Apartments.
Why was he here? There was a hush over the halls, and the wall sconces were dimmed, speaking to the lateness of the hour. He had been… he had come to…
He blinked, and the doors disappeared. No, they had opened. The guards flanking the doors saluted him, as if he had every right to be there, and he stepped through.
He felt almost as if he were floating, strangely detached from his own feet, as he passed through one set of doors after another, each opening before him silently and without challenge.
The final set of doors opened, and closed behind him as he stepped into his Radiancy's study. It was only dimly lit, the alabaster walls and floors glowing faintly, cavernously large in its emptiness. Cliopher had never noticed before how much his Radiancy filled the room with his presence.
He stopped in the petitioner's place, where he habitually knelt for his obeisances. Why was he here?
He looked down. His sandals were on the wrong feet, and poorly fastened. He was wearing his old and comfortable nightshirt, which Franzel had hinted on more than one occasion might be better suited for the ragpile, and a blue silk overrobe thrown hastily over top.
Had he been sleepwalking? Why was he here?
His feet were moving again, though he did not recall deciding to go anywhere. He crossed the room, past his desk, past the plinth with the asymmetrical vase, past the tapestry map and the golden nightingale in its cage. Past the terrace, where he had been pleased to break his fast with his Radiancy—only this morning? It felt a thousand years away.
He was standing before the ivory door to the inner apartments, which he had passed through only a handful of times before. His hand raised of its own accord, and the door fell open beneath it.
He became aware, with a creeping dread like tendrils up his throat, that something was terribly wrong.
He passed through the halls as silently as a ghost. There were not very many people about at this hour, but the Tower never truly slept, and he passed a few night attendants at their work, a smattering of guards posted at strategic locations. They noticed him—he was assuredly not a ghost—but let him pass without comment.
Something is wrong, he tried to say, but his mouth seemed to belong to someone else, and would not move. Can't you see that I shouldn't be here?
No one could see. No one heard him. His feet did not stop.
He became aware of an odd sensation in his sleeve. Something hard and smooth, nestled up against his inner wrist. For a moment he could not comprehend what it could possibly be. Then realization crashed over him like a wave, so powerful he surely should have stumbled. Should have dropped the knife which was hidden up his sleeve.
His feet did not stop.
He knew, of course, where he was going. There was no other option, really.
The inner apartments were a veritable warren of hallways, lined with parlors and dining rooms and workrooms and storerooms, and every other type of room which his Radiancy or his Radiancy's attendants might conceivably need. But even these corridors could not last forever. He was drawing nearer now. One left turn, an immediate right, and then he would see the great carved doors at the end of the hall.
He tried to stop. He did. He pulled with all his might, trying to turn, to stumble, even to throw himself on the spear of a guard as he passed. He might as well have been whispering into a typhoon, for all the good it did. Still, his feet did not stop.
Surely, at least, his Radiancy's inner guards would stop him. They would want to know what had brought him to disturb his Radiancy's rest at such an hour. Even if they did not see him for the threat he so clearly was, they must see that all was not right. They must.
They did not.
He could not even turn his head to look at them as he passed, and it was too dim to see more in his peripheral vision than their shadowy outlines. He did not know if it was Ludvic or Rhodin or some other guard who would have the duty of killing him.
He could only pray that, whoever it was, they would do it before it was too late.
His feet moved with the same steady calm as they crossed the bedchamber to the great canopied bed, which shone faintly like a white ghost in the dimness. He saw his own hand rise to grasp a fistful of the curtains—crushing days' worth of delicate foamwork beneath careless fingers—felt his other arm, carefully concealed from the guards behind the bulk of his body, gently shake the hilt of the knife into his palm, open the blade with a familiar flick.
It was his own penknife. He had a sudden, dizzying vision of himself in his sitting room, humming quietly as he shaved down an oboe reed, hoping the meditative task would quiet his mind enough to sleep at last. Then he blinked, and returned to the nightmare, the curtain under his hand, the hilt nestled like an old friend in his palm—
It was a very small blade, for an assassination. But against a sleeping man, one who trusted him implicitly, one who would not even realize he had been betrayed until it was far, far too late... against that man, it was more than large enough.
His Radiancy looked very small, in the midst of that enormous bed. He had thrown off half the covers, and twisted the sheets about his torso like a shroud. Even asleep, there was no peace in him. All Cliopher could think was that he looked terribly, desperately lonely.
The mattress was large, and his Radiancy lay in the middle, well over an arm's length away. Cliopher's body did not hesitate. One leg, then the other—careful, still, to keep the knife carefully tucked away out of the guards' line of sight—and then Cliopher was kneeling upon the Imperial bed.
The bed was enormously soft, hampering his movements. Surely now the guards must realize something was wrong, that he could have no legitimate reason for his actions. Any second now they would loom up behind him, immobilize him, capture the knife, take him away away away away—
His Radiancy was before him, the length of his throat bare, stark against the white silk sheets. The hand holding the knife rose; all Cliopher's desperate strength did not so much as cause it to tremor. He could not take his eyes from the blade as it rose into the air, the honed edge glimmering—it had returned from being sharpened just that morning—there must be something, anything he could do—
A hand rose from the coverlet, fast as blinking, and gripped him hard about the wrist. There was a feeling like elastic snapping, a smell in his nose like burnt hair, and Cliopher collapsed to the sheets, a marionette with its strings cut.
For a time, all was confusion. There were voices, loud and harsh, overlapping; they might as well have been speaking Renvoonran, for all he could comprehend. He could see a corner of the bed, mostly curtain with only a sliver of the room beyond. The bedchamber was well-lit now, and with what seemed like half the Palace crossing back and forth through it at a frenetic pace.
His wrist felt as if it were lassoed in fire. He could not feel the hand beyond it at all, could not tell if the knife was still there, but he thought it probably wasn't.
His body did not respond to his attempts to move any more than it had before, but at least—he thought—nothing else seemed to be moving it either. That was a comfort. If he could only know that his Radiancy was well, he would be content.
After some little time, hands grasped his shoulders, gentle and strong, to turn him onto his back and straighten his limbs. He felt eerily like a corpse being laid out.
Ludvic's face loomed into his window of view, which was otherwise now entirely occupied by the gathered top of the canopied bed. There was another comforting thought, to grasp with both (metaphorical) hands: Ludvic had not had to kill him after all. That task could fall now to the executioners; there was no possibility, after all, that a court could fail to convict him. Perhaps his Radiancy would be generous enough to pass judgment and save them all the burden of a trial.
The thought of his own death did not bother him as much as it might have; he felt strangely peaceful, after the gut-wrenching panic. He could not hurt anyone now. There was nothing to do; there was nothing he could do. He could only look at the curtains, and Ludvic's face, which was peering at him with focused intent. He pulled back one of Cliopher's eyelids, and waved a hand before his eyes.
"He is awake, I think," Ludvic said to someone Cliopher couldn't see. "Cliopher, can you hear me? His Radiancy is unharmed."
The last flutterings of worry in Cliopher's heart eased. Bless Ludvic, for knowing what was important, what Cliopher most needed to hear. He stopped listening for a little, as Ludvic's face disappeared from view, and studied the marvelous artistry of the foamwork canopy instead. Perhaps an ancestor of his had contributed some small section or another; that was a pleasant thought.
"—es, I think so," Ludvic's voice filtered back into his awareness, and then another voice which seized Cliopher's heart and all his wandering attention, and brought the world back into sharp, painful focus.
"The compulsion is entirely contained," his Radiancy was saying, impatience underlying the evenness of his tone. "It is perfectly safe." He did not wait for a response from whomever he was speaking to, but leaned into Cliopher's field of vision at once, his expression very grave. "It's all right, Cliopher. There was a very strong compulsion on the knife; I have immobilized it, but I have not yet determined the best way to break it. I'm afraid it may be some time."
That's quite all right, my lord, he tried to say, but of course his mouth would not move; he could not so much as twitch a finger in response. His Radiancy studied him for a moment longer, frowning faintly, and then disappeared from view again. Cliopher felt childishly, devastatingly bereft at the loss.
Outside the canopied bed, the furor continued. He found himself unable to recapture his drifting peace, the pleasant lassitude. Now he only felt useless, and helpless, and frustrated that he could not manage to follow any of the conversations which slid tantalizingly in and out of his earshot.
His Radiancy's voice was clearest, the familiar warm baritone, saying, "—don't know if—" and "—keyed to length of contact, not—" and "—may be unable to sever—"
Conju's voice, sharp and high, as it only was when he was very upset or very tired: "—more comfortable if—" and "—determine the best—"
Oddly, Franzel's voice drifted out of the mélange once, noticeably distraught: "—asked his excellency if—"
Domina Audry's voice, growing clearer as she evidently approached the bed: "—outside my expertise, but I can certainly try, my lord."
There followed a lengthy examination, which consisted largely of small bright lights flashed in his eyes, needlepricks to various parts of his body, and his unresponding limbs picked up and manipulated in various ways. She spoke to him as she worked, her voice calm and professional, saying things like, "Now, Lord Mdang, I am going to lift your left hand," or, "If I may, your excellency, I would now like to test the dilation of your pupils."
"He is certainly awake and aware," she said to someone else as she turned away. "Involuntary actions such as spinal reflexes and, thankfully, breathing, do not appear to be affected, but there is no—" Cliopher lost her voice again in the throng, and could have cried in frustration. The canopy above him seemed to waver and blur, and he realized after a startled moment that he was crying, fat tears welling up and rolling hotly down to his ears.
"Oh, my dear," came Conju's voice, very close by, and he felt a handkerchief dabbed gently at his eyes and cheeks, catching the worst of the shed tears. He wondered suddenly if the involuntary actions which Domina Audry had mentioned included swallowing, or whether he was about to choke to death on his own tears and snot.
There was a minor commotion outside the canopy, his Radiancy's voice very sharp. "Is he all right?"
"He is crying, my lord."
"Oh dear," said his Radiancy faintly.
Cliopher did not appear to be dying by his own snot, but he thought he might die instead from sheer shock and mortification at the unmistakable feeling of his Radiancy settling down on the mattress beside him.
"I must apologize, Kip," he murmured, leaning into Cliopher's view. His face was set; it might have been carved from stone, save for the crease between his brows. "In our haste to see you well we have quite been neglecting you, haven't we? You must be very frightened."
I am not frightened, my lord, Cliopher wanted to say, but of course he could not.
"There is no further danger, I promise you," his Radiancy continued soothingly. "Rhodin is following a few promising leads about the source of the knife, and until he returns victorious or more information is forthcoming, we will both remain here in the Imperial Apartments, which I can attest are exceedingly well-guarded."
Not well-guarded enough, he thought to himself.
As if his Radiancy could sense his thoughts, he said, "The crux of the matter lies in whether our conspirator, or conspirators, were aware of the standing order to permit you access to my person at any time, or if they were simply relying on the frequency with which you are in my presence."
What standing order? Cliopher tried to say, surprised enough to forget for a moment that his mouth would not move.
"The latter case would merely be an assassination attempt that nearly succeeded through sheer luck. The former, of course, would be much less pleasant." His Radiancy grimaced. "No one comes out the better for an internal investigation."
His Radiancy watched Cliopher's face for a moment, and sighed. "I hope you are not too uncomfortable. I might have been able to come up with a better solution, if I had had more time, but in the moment all I could do was confine the compulsion to the hand holding the knife."
He gestured to Cliopher's right hand, which Cliopher could not see, it being tucked by his side well out of his field of vision. His Radiancy seemed to realize this, for he moved to one side to permit Conju to approach and gingerly lift Cliopher's arm into view.
Cliopher had nearly grown used to the feeling like a burning manacle clapped about his wrist, and the complete absence of any sensation at all beyond it. Now he felt it all anew, a searing brand, a thick smear of molten gold bright against his skin. It was just the color of his Radiancy's eyes.
"The gold is my doing, I'm afraid," said his Radiancy apologetically. "I believe it may be some strange commingling of my own magic, the compulsion, and the taboos. Regardless, it is acting as a tourniquet, of sorts, keeping the compulsion safely separated from the rest of you."
A tourniquet. Cliopher knew very well what a tourniquet kept applied for too long could do. Was it applicable here, or was that an overextension of his Radiancy’s simile?
"The enchantment is very simple, but very powerful. It was meant to compel you to come directly to me and attempt to kill me by any practicable means. Your effects are swept for magical interference as a matter of routine security, of course—" Cliopher had not, in fact, known this "—but this practitioner seems to have been particularly clever, or perhaps had insight into your household's usual security procedures." He frowned slightly. "Another angle we must consider. In any case, the compulsion was keyed not to your personal signature, which would certainly have been detected, but designed to activate only upon prolonged contact."
Cliopher thought again of that odd distorted memory of himself in his own chambers, blithely shaping oboe reeds, waiting for sleep to come. It seemed something else had come instead.
"Yes," said his Radiancy, studying his face carefully. "Your majordomo says that he sent your penknife to be sharpened with the rest of the household knives. Any number of people may have touched it between the conspirator's hand and yours, but none for long enough."
Cliopher felt chilled to the bone. This unseen enemy had taken hold of his penknife, something so small and everyday that he hardly thought of it, and turned it to terrible purpose. We must take thought to the common and ordinary goods, Cliopher thought, and might have been struck with an inappropriate burst of hysterical laughter if he could have been. His nose itched.
"As I said, the compulsion was very simple. It disengaged the connection between your mind and your body, and insinuated itself in the gap. Thus, though it is no longer directly impeding your control, the gap remains."
That explained his inability to move, at least. But would the so-called gap remain even when the compulsion was removed? He did not want to be carried to his execution as limp as a rag doll. He wanted at least to be able to make his good-byes.
His Radiancy's gaze flickered away to something outside the canopy, and he murmured, "Ah, I believe those may be the texts I was waiting for. Conju, will you sit with him?"
"Of course, my lord." Conju's tone was exceptionally prim, in a way that Cliopher recognized meant he felt he had made an error, and wished he would not be reminded of it.
The mattress shifted again as his Radiancy rose, but he leaned into Cliopher's view one last time before he left. "I will fix this, Cliopher," he said, low and fierce, his eyes like kindling aflame. "I swear to you."
And then he was gone. Conju took his place, and kept Cliopher entertained for a time with Palace gossip. His voice fell nearly at once into his usual easy patter, eliding smoothly over the gaps in the conversation where Cliopher should have spoken. It was easy to lie back and follow the thread of his voice, if not the content, and carefully avoid thinking about the burning manacle on his wrist, the deadly spell trapped in his hand.
After a while Ludvic came, and told Cliopher a story he had never heard before, a long and rambling tale about a boy and a dog and a mountain, and which, after the fifth time the boy was sent on a new errand in exchange for the thing he sought, Cliopher began to suspect Ludvic was improvising on the spot.
Franzel sat with him too, after Ludvic was called away for some duty or another, and told him a few amusing anecdotes from early in his career in service. Franzel's voice was thready, plainly distraught; did he think he would be held accountable for the hole in Cliopher's security? If he could—if he was ever able to do anything ever again—he would do his best to ensure that Franzel was not blamed or charged. His Radiancy would do that much for him, surely.
All the while, he stared at that patch of foamwork canopy. He thought that by now he would be able to draw every ornate whorl of it with his eyes closed.
He might have slept for a while; it was difficult to tell, drifting in and out as he was. He next became aware of Conju carefully dribbling water into his parched mouth. How long had he been lying here, immobile? Hours, certainly, but he did not think it could have been as long as a day. He wondered what was happening outside the alabaster walls of the Tower, what announcements had been made. His thoughts were sluggish; he could not bring the correct protocol to mind.
He became aware by degrees that Conju's careful ministrations were not what had woken him. Something was twitching against his outer thigh, minutely at first, but it was growing more urgent, the brand on his wrist growing hotter with every twitch.
My hand, he thought, wishing someone, anyone could hear him. The compulsion.
As if in answer, Ludvic's voice cut sharply across the room, unignorable as a blade. "My lord!" Out of the corner of Cliopher's eye, he saw a hand grasp Conju's shoulder and draw him quickly away.
Good, Cliopher thought. If the compulsion was returning, no one should be near him, least of all—
His Radiancy appeared overhead, his face drawn with fatigue and concern. Get back, Cliopher thought at him, as urgently as he could. He should not be anywhere near Cliopher; he should not even be in the same room.
"Cliopher, the compulsion seems to have engaged some sort of failsafe," he said, his voice clipped in haste. "I do not believe my binding will hold much longer, not without considerable harm to you. I wanted to ensure I could detangle the spell entirely before I removed it, but it seems we have run out of time." His eyes were very bleak. Cliopher wanted to hold his hand and tell him everything would be all right. His wrist burned. "I don't know what will happen when I break it. I'm sorry."
He disappeared from sight again, and Cliopher felt the brand on his wrist grow hotter still, until he thought perhaps his very bones had become molten lava. It was probably a good thing he couldn't see to check.
Hotter and hotter, until he would have screamed if he could, until the whole of the Imperial bed should have surely burst into flames around him. He tried to recite the Lays, a rope to cling to in the storm, but the words slipped from his grasp; he could not hold them.
He thought of the glimpse he had had of the golden smear upon his wrist, just the color of his Radiancy's eyes. This was his lord's fire, holding him, burning him, cleansing him. He was Cliopher Mdang of Tahivoa. He held the fire; he did not run from its burn. He would hold. He could hold. He held.
Then, between one breath and the next, it snapped.
His body jerked once, a spasmodic tremor from his head to his toes, and then before he even knew he was doing it he was scrambling to the edge of the bed, on limbs which shook and did not seem to want to hold him. He made it, only just, so that the contents of his stomach ended up mainly on the floor, and not the bed.
The retching seemed to go on for a small eternity, but when at last he was done, careful hands helped him to sit up, dabbed a handkerchief at the corners of his mouth.
"There you are now, sir," said Franzel bravely, pressing a glass of water into his hand. "Small sips, that's it."
His hand was shaking too badly to hold the glass—the other did not seem to want to respond at all—so Franzel had to help guide it to his lips. But it did help.
"How do you feel, Cliopher?" said his Radiancy's voice, drawing him back to himself. His lord had asked him a question, and thus required an answer. He closed his eyes—permitted himself a moment of pleasure that he could do so, that he could look anywhere he pleased or nowhere at all—to turn his attention inward, for his thoughts seemed to scatter away from him as quick and slippery as a shoal of tiny fish, darting away as he reached.
His heart pounded in his ears, his breath likewise harsh and rapid, but easing now that the initial panic had passed. His throat was raw and his stomach knotted; no surprises there. His limbs felt clumsy and slow, exhausted as he had only been after days of holding the Tui-tanata steady through a typhoon. His wrist no longer burned, only seemed tender where the brand had seized him—where his Radiancy's hand had held him. The hand beyond it was pins and needles, only responding to his efforts to move it with the barest twitches. But it was his—all of his body was his.
"I am myself, my lord," he said at last, for surely that was what his Radiancy most wished to know. His voice came unexpectedly slurred, his tongue clumsy in his mouth.
"I am relieved to hear it," said his Radiancy, and Cliopher opened his eyes to look at him. He was standing at a safe distance, his hands clasped behind his back, his face shadowed with weariness.
Cliopher said suddenly, "I have taken your bed."
His Radiancy seemed startled for a moment, and then laughed once, a humorless sound, and passed a hand across his face. "I would hardly have gotten any use out of it, under the circumstances."
Cliopher swallowed and looked down at the golden smear around his wrist, folding his good hand carefully around it. It was smooth to the touch, and slightly warmer than the surrounding flesh. "Is it entirely gone, my lord?"
"Yes," said his Radiancy firmly, and Cliopher exhaled, worry easing. "I am afraid the knife did not survive."
Cliopher blinked. "Did you need it?"
"It might have helped to trace the magical signature of the caster, I suppose, but that was a long shot in any event. No matter. I will get you another, if you wish it, or a dozen."
Cliopher was plainly missing something, but he was too exhausted to ask. "I hardly think I will need them, my lord."
His Radiancy began, "Cliopher, I—" but broke off at once, for he had taken an earnest step forward, and Cliopher, seeing in a terrible flash his own hand raised with the knife, threw himself back across the bed in a scrambling panic of limbs, as clumsy as a newborn kid. But he knew, he knew that his Radiancy should not come near him, even with the compulsion supposedly gone, he was— he should not.
All noise and activity in the room had briefly ceased, and Cliopher's awareness broadened to encompass all the many people here with them: Franzel still clutching the water glass, Conju with a tray, Domina Audry, Ludvic, two other attendants, four on-duty guards tensed in reaction to Cliopher's panic. His Radiancy was safe, of course; of course they would not let Cliopher harm him. He put his head in his hands and tried to breathe, feeling as raw as an exposed nerve ending before so many pairs of eyes.
There was a brief murmuring, too low to hear over his hard and panting breath, and hands—Ludvic, he thought—solid and grounding on his shoulders as he mastered himself. When he looked up again, his Radiancy and two of the guards were gone.
Domina Audry cleared her throat, drawing his attention. "The Glorious One has asked me to examine you, Lord Mdang, if you will permit it."
"O—of course," he said, swallowing. She approached him slowly and cautiously, as if he were a feral and skittish housecat likely to flee at sudden movements. He felt very foolish.
This examination was much the same as her first, with the major difference being that he was expected to pay attention and follow her instructions. She was brisk and thorough, and her expression did not waver from its neutral professionalism, even when she put her hands to his and asked him to press against them, and he very plainly failed. He could walk only with Ludvic's assistance, for his legs seemed liable to go any direction they pleased at the most inconvenient times.
When she was finished she said, "Your body has undergone a great deal of stress, your excellency. Some of the effects may only be a temporary reaction to your recent ordeal; others may linger. I will be able to make a more accurate prediction as to which are which if I examine you again after you have rested."
She seemed to be expecting a response from him. He, who wielded words for a living, could not muster more than a dull, "Oh." He looked down at his right hand, which still did little more than twitch.
"Do you have any questions, your excellency?"
Another response was needed. "No,” he said.
She frowned at him faintly, but said, "Very well. I will return again after you have rested." Then she said again, as if he might have missed it, "Rest, your excellency."
After she had left he permitted himself to be led out of the Imperial bedchamber. Ludvic did not offer to carry him, which he would have disdained, but let him hobble along on his own two feet, slow and unsteady a pace though it was. He thought perhaps he was regaining some little control, or perhaps he was only growing accustomed to the recalcitrance of his limbs. Regardless, leaning on Ludvic’s arm, he did not fall.
He did not understand where Franzel had led him at first, for the guards had followed behind them and he had expected to be taken to some sort of cell, but he found himself instead in the vast and echoing chamber which held the Imperial bath.
Thankfully, Franzel did not expect him to swim—execution by drowning seemed an unappealing choice, and not at all his Radiancy's style—but only stripped him of his outer robe and nightclothes, which were soaked through with sweat and sick, and sat him down in an area with a wooden chair and a drain set in the stone floor. Franzel washed him quickly and efficiently, using a moveable tap which Cliopher would have been fascinated by if he were not so unutterably exhausted. The water was pleasantly warm on most of his skin, and just the wrong side of too hot on the golden brand. He let his eyes follow the beautiful mosaics across the walls and floors, here a line of peacock blue, there a pattern of black and gold, with the quiet enjoyment of looking where he wished, when he wished.
Afterwards he was dressed in one of his own nightshirts and then led again, this time to a suite with a bedchamber, much smaller than his Radiancy's but still luxurious, decorated in pinks and lavenders and blues like walking into a sunset. He looked at the bed, a canopied four-poster with falls of shimmering lilac silk, and stumbled, panic rising inexplicably in his chest.
"Thank you, Franzel," he said, his voice high and thready even to his own ears. "That will be all."
"Sir—" began Franzel, but broke off his protest at a signal from Ludvic, which Cliopher could not see. "As you say, sir. I'm only a bell-pull away if you need anything."
Cliopher nodded, and waited until the door had closed behind him. The guards had remained outside, and so it was only himself and Ludvic, whose arm he still leaned on for support.
"Domina Audry said you need rest," Ludvic said neutrally.
"Yes," said Cliopher, but still could not take another step towards the bed. He swallowed and looked around, his gaze falling upon an armchair upholstered in pink shading to purple. He detangled himself from Ludvic's arm and made his own unsteady way to it, plopping himself into it with some relief. It was not terribly comfortable, but it would do.
Ludvic was watching him, as bland and unquestioning as ever he was on duty. Cliopher said, his voice trembling only a little. "I find I have had entirely enough of lying down for one day."
"Ah," said Ludvic, in a tone of enlightenment. "Would you like the coverlet from the bed?"
"Yes, please," said Cliopher, who had not been relishing the prospect of going to fetch it. As Ludvic gathered the coverlet and helped to drape it loosely over and around him, Cliopher plucked up the courage to add, "And will you—stay? In case I... go walking again."
Ludvic regarded him with eyes which understood, and did not judge. "Of course, Cliopher."
He slept fitfully, too fatigued to stay awake, and too uneasy to stay asleep. When he finally awoke it was with the bleary feeling that it was for good this time, and the reminder that he was no longer a young man with the ability to sleep sitting upright without feeling the consequences.
Ludvic was gone, but Rhodin had taken his place, his booted feet propped up on a purple footstool and crossed at the ankles.
"Ludvic had to go take care of a few things, so he asked me to sit in," he said in answer to Cliopher's unspoken question. "Sounds like you've had quite the time of it lately." He rose to his feet as lithe and graceful as a panther, and crossed to the bellpull and then to Cliopher. "How are you feeling?"
Cliopher thought this over, from his pounding head and crick in his neck to his protesting hips and knees, and finally summed it up with an eloquent, "Hmm."
Rhodin laughed, an astoundingly cheerful sound that brightened Cliopher's mood considerably. "I thought as much."
Franzel entered, looking fractionally less upset and more put-together than when Cliopher had last seen him. Rhodin murmured something to him and he cast a wide-eyed glance at Cliopher, seeming relieved to find him conscious and in one piece, and disappeared again.
Cliopher squinted at Rhodin, casting back through all the confusion and muddled fear. Hadn't his Radiancy said something... "Are you done investigating, then?" he said. "Did you figure out who it was?"
"Alas, no," said Rhodin. "There comes a point in many investigations where you have kneaded the dough all it will stand, and you must set it aside to let it proof." He tapped his temple knowingly, and then extended a hand to Cliopher. "Up you come, Cliopher, you'll feel better for walking around."
His legs did feel steadier for the rest, if creakier. Rhodin helped him cross to the privy and then a ewer of warm water, where he washed his face left-handed and tried not to think too heavily about his right, hanging uselessly at his side.
"I don't understand," Cliopher said, limping his own unsteady way back to his chair, and standing braced against the high back. Franzel had returned with a tray and Cliopher's warmest dressing gown, which he helped Cliopher into, guiding the right hand with especial care. When he had left again, Rhodin took up the steaming pot and poured two cups. It was not coffee, as Cliopher had expected, but fragrant cocoa. A lump rose in his throat at the unexpected kindnesses, tailored to his own comforts. He turned his mind back to his interrupted train of thought. "I don't understand why they—whoever they are—didn't enchant one of the Tower attendants instead. Surely they would have been easier to access, and had better access to his Radiancy in turn."
"Oh!" said Rhodin, and laughed again. "Drink your chocolate, Cliopher, it's good. No, I'm afraid you've entirely misunderstood—not that I blame you, after the day you've had—no, Cliopher, it could not be more patently obvious that the target of the plot was you."
Cliopher sank shakily into the chair, and spread the lavender coverlet across his lap, with his left hand atop and his right tucked out of sight below. "Me?"
"Oh, yes. That isn't to say that they likely wouldn't have been pleased enough if you had succeeded—" Cliopher shivered at the thought, clenching his hand in the coverlet "—but the primary goal seems to have been to remove you from favor. To have you incontrovertibly caught in the act of high treason—the real kind, which ends with piles of once-lofty heads in baskets, not your usual sort." He pointedly handed Cliopher the second cup of cocoa.
Cliopher managed to get it to his lips without spilling it, which he counted as a victory. It was creamy and hot and just a touch bitter, exactly as he liked it, and it warmed and steadied him considerably.
Rhodin nodded, satisfied and perhaps a little smug. He went on, "Mind you, I don't think this was their ideal scenario—in his bedchamber in the wee hours of the morning, my word, Cliopher!—I wonder, if you had been killed in the attempt, if there would have been any trace of the compulsion left... I shall have to ask his Radiancy about that. In the meantime, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?" He plated two pastries, the kind with cheese curds and icing which Cliopher particularly favored, and balanced the plate on Cliopher's knee.
"Of course you may," Cliopher said. His stomach gave a loud and unexpected growl, making him jump and slosh cocoa all over his hand and lap. Rhodin cheerfully exchanged the cup for a napkin. When had Cliopher last eaten? He realized he had not heard any bells, neither since he had awoken or in his fitful sleep.
"His Radiancy has had the bells muffled in this room so as not to disturb you," Rhodin said when he asked. "It's round about the fourth bell of the afternoon, I'd say—your curse was broken mid-morning, and you've been asleep since."
Coming up on a full day since he'd last eaten, then. He devoured the two pastries, and a third, as Rhodin expertly walked him through the last few days, focusing in particular on the circumstances which had surrounded sending the penknife to be sharpened, and its return.
"Once the knife was back in your possession, what did you do with it?" Rhodin said, handing him a fourth pastry, this one chocolate.
"I put it back in my writing kit, where I ordinarily keep it." Cliopher frowned thoughtfully at his plate, thinking back. "I don't think I used it at all that day, even briefly."
"Until..."
"Until... it must have been after midnight, or later perhaps." He winced, knowing how inane it would sound. "I was shaping oboe reeds."
"That's not a euphemism, I take it."
"A euphemism for what?" Cliopher asked blankly.
Rhodin made a helpful gesture.
"Oh!" Cliopher snorted. "No. I find a repetitive manual task helps me to sleep when I can't— it's still not a euphemism, Rhodin!"
Rhodin's mouth twitched. "No, certainly not. Is it something you do often?"
"Once a month, perhaps. Not on any sort of schedule."
"What else do you use your penknife for?" Rhodin asked.
Cliopher blinked. "Well—sharpening pens." Rhodin gestured for him to go on. "I have quills for certain formal documents, which need re-shaping frequently, and even my good metal nibs wear down and need to be sharpened from time to time. I try to sort through them every evening, as I finish my work—more often every other evening, now."
"Aha." Rhodin's eyes sharpened. "And if you happened to be finishing your work while his Radiancy was at evening court, and the compulsion took hold..."
Cliopher's heart seized in horror. "I would have gone down to the throne room and tried to—to—" he could not even say it "—in front of the entire court."
"Removing you quite effectively as a political player, no matter what his Radiancy might have to say about it." Rhodin's face had taken on an intense, inward look. "I think we have found our conspirator's ideal scenario." He focused again on Cliopher. "Would everyone in your household know of this evening ritual of yours?"
"I suppose so," said Cliopher, his heart sinking at the thought of any member of his household being so involved. "But it isn't new; I did the same thing when I had my desk in the Private Offices. Anyone might have seen me then and remembered."
"True." Rhodin frowned thoughtfully. "It doesn't narrow our suspect pool considerably, but it does narrow it. Thank you, Cliopher." He leapt to his feet and started towards the door, but paused and swung back. "Do you need anything else? Or I can call your man back."
"No, only—" Cliopher wavered, and then pushed on, "Do you know what will happen next?"
Rhodin blinked. "Not in a general sense, no." Then he said, "For you, I believe Domina Audry left instructions to summon her when you woke, so I imagine she is what will happen to you next. Then his Radiancy will wish to speak to you when he returns from his audiences—which he was not pleased about attending, I assure you, but no one wants to see the uproar that would result from the rumors that both of you have fallen ill—so, the audiences had to stay."
"Oh," said Cliopher, whose mind had hiccuped unexpectedly on the idea that the Palace outside the Imperial apartments continued to turn as usual. Of course, the great machinery of government could not grind to a halt merely because of the incapacity of one Cliopher Mdang; he himself had made doubly and triply sure of that.
"Would you like me to send Ingo in to sit with you?" Rhodin said, his hand on the door.
"I—no," said Cliopher vaguely. "I'm all right on my own. Thank you."
The door closed behind Rhodin with a soft little click, and Cliopher wrapped the lavender coverlet tightly around himself and sat back in his chair, thinking about consequences.