Inside the castle, Emmaris hurried down the halls to the main audience chamber. He paused at the door and waited for the servant to announce him, then was ushered in and greeted with his first few of his King in months.
Issavan looked thinner. He hadn’t thought it was possible, but the King had lost weight. It seemed not even he was immune to the famine. The Emperor’s face was lined and there were deep black circles under his eyes. His hair was tousled and he slumped in the throne, rubbing at his temples. When Emmaris had traversed the long carpet and knelt by the steps, Issavan straightened his bulk in the chair and demanded, “What took you so long, Emmaris?”
When Emmaris first entered, he had felt worry for his King, worry that seemed entirely natural. Back here, in clean court clothes, in this throne room, he had reverted back to his old self. His travels of the past weeks seemed distant, and now what mattered was serving his King. However, upon encountering that contemptuous tone, there was a brief flash of anger, somewhere distant, in the part of him that had learned to rebel. He forced it down and kept his tone even. Soon the mask felt as though it fit again. “Forgive, your Highness. I thought it most wise to wash away the dirt of the road before presenting myself to you. I had no wish to offend, only to honor you.”
Issavan nodded to himself. “I suppose, but you know I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
“I pray you can forgive me, your Majesty,” he murmured.
“Perhaps.” Issavan steepled his thick fingers, and Emmaris could see them twitch toward his face, almost as if he expected there to be a glass of wine between them. He looked odd without his usual golden cup that he kept handy to throw during upsetting meetings. “I was surprised to hear of your return,” he began softly. “It was supposed to end on the island.”
13-Jul-2008 03:40:37
