“I was expecting your call,” Meredith said as she led him along the heavily guarded hallways. “Two hours ago.”

“I came as soon as I heard,” Adrian said, “but it was difficult due to the increased security.”

“Hm. Luckily for you East Borian rebels aren’t on the short list; all traffic has been frozen for Parthia, Nosu, and the northwest provinces. This way,” she nodded towards a side corridor, one that Adrian had not noticed on his previous stay.

The short corridor led, by way of another stairway, to the main offices. Instead of the soft buzz of work, there were pale-looking aides and frantic uniformed men trailing one another, needing more information, more control. They looked up as he and Meredith entered, and a few of those in the know exchanged looks.

“He’s at the back,” one of the uniformed men nodded at Meredith.

“Thanks.”

Adrian followed her to the private office, where a five or six men and women in smart suits sat debating with two young men, both wearing black. Kiethavar looked pre-eternally pale, but his eyes were hard and focused. No time to mourn, Adrian suddenly reflected, realizing the renewed responsibilities that would be heaped upon the young prince.

“Adrian!”

He looked down to see a black-clad body clinging to him, even as he automatically slid an arm round it in comfort. “I’ve come to see how you’re doing,” he said softly.

Darryl Serkin raised his head, the rims of his eyes reddened but there were no tears—the imperials were too hard for tears, Adrian had heard some of his old comrades sneer in the past, and true enough, except when Darryl was play-acting the part of a manic teenager, he had yet to see the younger prince lose control. It was chilling in many ways. “Thanks,” Darryl mumbled. “I’ve been hoping to see you,” he said.

Not caring what the rest of the inhabitants in the office thought, he leaned down and kissed Darryl on the lips, for a second, before walking with him towards the scatter of tables and chairs, and sitting the both of them down. He nodded at Kiethavar, who returned the greeting gravely, before turning to the suits. Adrian belatedly recognized the a couple ministers of state and a prim, middle-aged woman who was the minister of defence.

“Shall we continue, then?” Kiethavar said, and Adrian watched as the pairs of eyes that had focused on him turn back to him.

Darryl sat up as the discussion—on security reinforcements in the empire—progressed, leaning against Adrian for warmth. Sixteen years ago he had made medical history by being the smallest baby to be born, only seven months old and about the size of grown man’s fist, and while he had survived and grown up normally, he was still smaller in built than most teenagers his age, including his own brother (who was a full ten months older than he was). The size enabled Adrian to draw him close in a loose embrace, noting that his attention had already turned to the matters at hand.

“… the Siesalian governor is protesting the house-to-house searches by the imperial troops, and we will need more reinforcements…” One of them was saying. “No.” Darryl said, his voice firm. “The last you need to do is to stir up the Siesalian rebels by sending more troops.”

“Darryl…” Kiethevar started.

His brother looked at him. “Do you honestly think they are responsible in any way for it?”

Kiethevar shook his head. “No, you’re right. Still, we should take all possible measures. The Siesalians will understand… No, I’ll talk to Harvey Carr myself. Ari!” he called, and a casually-dressed, flustered-looking man poked his head in. “Get Harvey on the line in thirty minutes, I’ll need to talk to him.” ‘Ari’ nodded, and disappeared.

“I think we can consider lifting the state of emergency in Parthia, Showo, Belessan, and Ibra, by tomorrow,” Darryl said.

His brother nodded. “And Kasonia.” At Darryl’s nod, he continued, “Good.” He made a show of looking at the clock. “Let’s take a quick break, ladies and gentlemen; we’ll meet again at eight with the Emperor in the inner throne room. I want to see results by then. Thank you.”

Accepting the dismissal, the little group murmured agreement, and left the office. The rest of the secretaries and aides left too, closing the door behind him.

“Oh, damn,” Darryl moaned as soon as they had left, burying his face in Adrian’s chest. Only slightly surprised, he raised a hand to stroke the trembling body. To his left he watched Kiethevar slump slightly in his seat, his gaze brooding, before he noticed Adrian watching, and met his eyes. “How are you?” he asked.

Kiethevar leant back, barely restraining a sigh, Adrian could tell. “I keep expecting him to be here,” he said after a while. “A crisis of this proportion, he’d be everywhere, putting control back into the chaos, making it all better. And…” He shook his head. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” he told Adrian.

“That soon?”

“We must.” Kiethevar rubbed his eyes. “Right now everyone’s in too much of a panic to question my and Darryl’s taking over… but a constitutional crisis must not occur. Grandfather agrees with us,” he indicated Darryl with his chin. “And I cannot be Heir unless Dad is declared dead legally.”

“And what? Darryl will be the Heir Prince?”

Kiethevar nodded. “It is lucky he is not yet seventeen—there would be even more complications if he is of legal age,” he said, no doubt thinking, Adrian realized, of the birthday he’d celebrated a month ago.

“How about you?” he asked.

The soon-to-be Heir shrugged. “I was prepared to deal with complications,” he said, trying to smile, “just… not this soon.”

“Where is… you should have someone with you.”

“I have Darryl,” Kiethevar said.

“Yes, but…”

Kiethevar smiled suddenly. “You’re too nice to be an ex-terrorist, you know that?” he remarked. “Don’t worry. There’s Simon, and Uncle Francis. And Grandfather, and Acanthus. Uncle Ariel too, though he in Delgor right now, turning the place upside-down,” his voice cracked slightly on the word ‘Delgor,’ before he continued, “Even Mother came.”

The last sentence made Adrian blink in surprise. “Your mother,” he said.

“We have one, you know,” Darryl murmured, raising his head and scrubbing his eyes roughly. “Contrary to expectation, the spawn of the evil empire don’t crawl out from under a rock, you know,” he said.

“I thought she’d abandoned you all. The reports…”

“Well, what else could the fairytale princess say, after discovering that her prince was in fact from the dark side, didn’t love her, and had a harem to boot?” Darryl asked, his voice hoarse but there was a little smile on his lips. “It was a messy divorce, no matter what Mother said. Kieth and I stayed with her during school holidays when we were younger, though.”

******

He was shown to the suite reserved for him—though Adrian refused to think of it as ‘his suite’—and he decided to take a shower to wash off the grime of travel. After dressing in the clothes he had left there previously, Adrian spent some time reading through news reports of the assassination on the Internet, more news on measures being taken around the empire, and alternately watching the updates on television. He took some time to leave a message on Joyce’s machine about his ‘sudden family emergency’ and the need to take leave, before delving into the news again. The truly classified reports were not open to him, but Sam, one of the secretaries, was quite willing to let him read some of the raw reports coming in. After three hours, however, the pursuit had grown tiresome—“the news is that there is no news,” he thought sourly—and turning it off, he marked the time, and decided to go looking for Darryl. He had been to the inner throne room only a few times before, but he was reasonably sure of the way and the guards discreetly posted throughout the palace didn’t blink at his progress down the main wing. Just outside the heavily guarded doors, though…

“Adrian? Thought you would be coming along.” A man stood up from the bench he was sitting on, which was placed just outside the throne room, meant for use by supplicants.

He nodded at Simon Parker, six years younger than him, third son of the governor the second largest province in the empire, and a rising artist, with his usual reserve. “Hello, Simon. Are they done yet?” he asked, glancing at the doors.

Simon shrugged. “Soon, I wager. I interrupted fifteen minutes ago, and nearly had my head bitten off for the effort, but I caught his majesty’s look. They’ll be finishing in a while. Have a seat?” he invited, sitting down again. Adrian accepted the invitation, and rested beside him. The guards gave them curious glances, but Adrian didn’t feel up to confronting them. Granted, there were all kinds of etiquette that were expected in the palace, especially in the presence of the Concubine of the Heir Prince (soon-to-be Heir), but despite appearances to the contrary, the imperial family had never been keen on following etiquette to the letter. Besides, they were just sitting. “So, the last I heard, citizens from East Borian and the northeast provinces were celebrating in the streets and setting off fireworks?” Simon asked after a few seconds.

Adrian snorted a little. “Only as much as the citizens of the Halsor were wearing sackcloth and ashes and refusing all food and drink,” he said, while Simon gave a weak chuckle. “Mind you, when I left they were still arguing if they should lower the flags to half-mast only in the provincial government offices, or in all offices and schools, but that’s only to be expected, given how touchy we are on the boundaries of imperial jurisdiction.”

Simon made a grimace of sympathy, and after a while, he said, “We were having lunch when they heard, you know. With some of the council members, informally. One moment they were arguing like children about… whatever, trying to pelt each other with the carrots, and the next moment Jorish came in unannounced, his face so pale that he looked like he was going to faint any minute. And you know what’s freaky? I think they both knew, the moment they saw him. Darryl went white, himself, and Kieth dropped the fork he was holding, and it sounded like a bomb went off… but there was no change in his expression. Their expressions. Darryl just asked, ‘Who else was killed?’ and Kieth asked, ‘Did they find the assailant?’ It was cold.” He rubbed his upper arms, as if to warm himself.

“I think… they didn’t have a choice,” Adrian said.

“Imperial reserve?” Simon asked, not lightly, before nodding. “You’re right, they didn’t have a choice. It was no time for panic, or even for grieving. But at that moment… I think I could see…” he frowned into memory, or perhaps into the future, for he went on, “the Emperor of Celestia, standing right there.” His artist's eyes darkened with anxiety.

It was perhaps fortunate that the doors opened at that moment, and Simon sprang up, nervous with relief, as the inhabitants of the throne room walked out. It was cold, as Simon said, Adrian thought as he saw Kiethavar glance at his Concubine before giving a curt nod, giving no sign as to his reaction at seeing him at all. He walked on down the hallway, and Simon followed on his heels. Darryl, on the other hand, didn’t bother to control his emotions when he saw Adrian. His face lightened, and the frown on his face smoothed away as he approached, saying nothing but holding out his hands.

Standing up, Adrian took them, warmed them between his, before sliding an arm around his waist. He looked up to see the Emperor watching them. He stared back in challenge: it might be foolhardy, but he had never willingly pledged allegiance to the Emperor Tatellus, and he wasn’t about to start just because he was dating the man’s grandson.

Emperor Tatellus merely inclined his head a fraction, in greeting, which Adrian unbent enough to return, before his companion—the Dancer Acanthus—led him away. Darryl chuckled as he pulled Adrian along in the other direction. “I think you amuse Grandfather,” he said. “Do you know that you can be charged with lese majesty just for glaring at him like that?” he asked, as they entered his place—a sprawling three-storey apartment complete with terrace, indoor garden, and a two-storey water-fountain.

The princes’ sixteenth birthday present had been an entire wing of the palace complex that allowed each brother his privacy while not separating them. A veritable army of security personnel and servants ran the place. Adrian was customarily placed in the outer wing, rather than the inner, which was reserved for the princes’ concubines. Adrian appreciated the thought. “It’s late, you better rest,” was all he said when they came to the bedroom.

“Nuh,” Darryl said, stifling a yawn, shrugging out of his shirt and pants as he stumbled towards the bed. After a second he turned. “I think I’ll take a shower first,” he said, and headed for the bathroom instead.

Adrian used the phone to call for someone to bring some warmed milk—no servants hovered in the wing unless they were specifically ordered to do so—and waited. Despite the size of the bathroom, his sharp ears caught the muffled cries, but before he could go to Darryl, the prince had come back in, wrapped in a fluffy white robe. He didn’t say anything as Adrian helped him pull on his favourite sleepwear: an oversized shirt that used to belong to Adrian, and loose sweatpants. He grimaced at the milk, which had been delivered while he was dressing. “You know I hate warm milk,” he said.

“It’ll help you sleep,” he said.

Darryl settled into his lap. “You can help me sleep,” he said.

The usual wicked glint in his eyes was muted, and Adrian shook his head briefly, nodding towards the milk.