Chapter Text
Half of the new crop of pages use their authority to torment Cliopher; it’s fortunate that he became accustomed to far worse in Astandalas. The other half recognize that his misfortune could happen to any of them, and instead ply him with constant questions to advance their own careers.
Which is almost like friendship, Cliopher supposes. At least by the standards of the Palace. Sometimes he’s even invited to work with them at the library, although he feels a bit ridiculous, the one middle-aged man among a group of fresh-faced youths.
And ranked lowest of them all, at that.
Princess Indrogan warned Cliopher when he left that he’d lose all progress if he returned to the Service. He didn’t understand she meant it quite so literally, or that he’d be expected to start over again from the ranks of the pages who are still learning to navigate their duties.
Honestly, Cliopher wouldn’t mind the work itself. The job of a page is important. Their work is certainly more productive than some of the departments he served before the Fall.
The real problem is the festering knowledge that he’s a laughingstock. A naive commoner man starting from the bottom, in mid-thirties, will never be given positions of importance. He’ll be dismissed as incompetent or witless wherever he goes. Ten years in the Service, a page! He must be simple, they’ll say. And it’s not like Cliopher can convince anyone otherwise. No one ever listens to him here.
But a mulish, angry part of Cliopher still burns with stubbornness. And what else would he do – go home, yet again, and tell his family it was a mistake to ever leave? He’d be starting over there, too.
He stays.
“Have you seen him before?” one of the pages whispers. “The Emperor, I mean.”
Cliopher glances automatically at the Imperial guards stationed outside the study doors. They don’t twitch. Cliopher hasn’t often been assigned to the rotation of four pages that wait perpetually outside the Emperor’s study, but everyone says the guards don’t care about quiet chatter.
Probably helps them stay awake, Cliopher thinks. What dull work!
“Of course we have,” scoffs Saya Zvirbule. “Everyone has. Including you. You have to swear into his service, remember?”
“That doesn’t count,” Sayo Briedis argues. “I mean see him properly. He was so high up and glowing and everything, on that throne – and you’re not even allowed to look at him!” The Emperor doesn’t glow anymore, but maybe he means figuratively.
“What, do you want to get blinded?” asks Sayu Huynh. “Madon, you’ve been here forever, surely you’ve seen him?”
“Not properly,” says Cliopher, who gave up on correcting his name years ago. In fairness Sayu Huynh has a slight lisp, so it doesn’t seem worthwhile to try; it’s already given them problems when parroting messages. “I’ve attended a few meetings with him, but not in the sort of roles where I’m expected to speak – or stand very close,” Cliopher adds wryly. “Though of course I visited the bier.”
Saya Zvirbule shudders. “I’ve read about that, but it’s so hard to imagine. And morbid - all those visitors staring at his body!”
“Sounds like a security nightmare,” Sayo Briedis mutters.
Privately Cliopher agrees; he was always astonished by the crowds.
“But then you have seen him,” Sayu Huynh argues. “I mean, everything except his eyes, if you visited the bier.”
“But it wasn’t him, was it?” Cliopher insists. “That was just an empty body. It’s not the same as meeting the man.”
“The god,” Sayo Briedis insists. His mother is a priest in the Imperial Cult.
“If you prefer,” Cliopher concedes.
Sayo Briedis frowns, vaguely mutinous; perhaps it’s fortunate that the doors swing open before he can pursue the point.
The guards pound their spears against the floor. Two more guards flow out, and behind them -
Robes of gold; the flash of dark skin. Cliopher drops to his knees a heartbeat behind the other pages.
He doesn’t see the absent gesture to rise, but it must be given. He stands when the others do and keeps his gaze low. One guard goes ahead; the other waits to follow the Emperor.
Golden sandals come into view. Delicate stitching over woven raffia, studded with diamonds arranged like leaves. The foot is long, shapely, and black as ebony, soft skin shining like a finely-polished teak bowl. Cliopher vaguely smells roses. The bottom of the Emperor’s trailing robes are edged with white foamwork. He marvels that a human man could look so much like a piece of art.
It takes Cliopher a moment to realize those sandals have halted. A deep voice murmurs, “You are very old for a page. Has the office started assigned secretaries here, too?”
Heat rises to Cliopher’s face. He bows more deeply. The Emperor’s toenails are also painted gold, with tiny perfect bees over each nail. He wonders how long that took. “No, my lord. I am a page.”
“What motivated you to join the Service so late, Sayo…?”
“Cliopher Mdang, my lord. I have been in the Service nearly ten years. This is a – recent demotion.”
“Oh?” There’s little interest in the Emperor’s voice, which is as smooth and unbothered as Cliopher’s always heard. “Did you deserve it?”
Anger flashes through Cliopher.
He can’t tell if it’s mockery or not. “No,” he bites. “Not on the grounds of incompetence, at least. But after the Fall, no news came from my home. After you woke, Glorious One, I decided to leave the Service and investigate myself when none of my appeals were heard.”
“There were many priorities after the Fall, I’m afraid.”
That’s what everyone told him. “Well, the Vangavaye-ve was never going to be a priority,” Cliopher bites. Sayo Briedis inhales sharply. “But I don’t regret it. And I know as a commoner I’ll never be wanted here, but I’m not going to be chased away.”
That’s more than he should have said. Cliopher braces himself for the usual responses. Perhaps – since everyone insists the Emperor is serene and gracious – he will just hum and move on. Or maybe, though it would break Cliopher’s heart, his Radiancy will sigh. Oh, Sayo Mdang, won’t you just give up already?
Instead the Emperor cries, “Oh, good for you,” and Cliopher is so startled
he looks up.
He cries out. A sharp burn pierces through his whole body, darting in a flash from his eyes, down his spine, straight through his toes.
It only lasts an instant. Cliopher glimpses wide, beautiful golden eyes, and falls to his knees as his own start to water. “My apologies, my lord,” he manages. And then, because Cliopher is a fool, he raises his head and keeps staring.
It’s not like there’s any point pretending he didn’t blaspheme, Cliopher thinks. If he’s going to die he might as well get to appreciate the lion-eyes a few seconds more.
He wishes the Emperor looked less horrified.
The Emperor slashes his hand in a signal Cliopher doesn’t recognize; one of the guards salutes. Then – there is no better word – the Emperor spins around and flees right back to the Imperial study. The two members of the inner guard hurry after him.
The door closes. The guards outside the study resume their places. Nothing but a tight grip on their spears and slightly pinched expressions betray that anything unusual happened.
The pages all watch the door of the Imperial study. The guards don’t even look at them. No activity stirs.
Cliopher has a hard time paying attention; strange blooms of light and color blur his vision. His head hurts. He would be concerned about his vision if it mattered. “Well, I’m probably going to get executed,” he says eventually. “If I give you some letters, will you arrange to have them sent to my family once I’m killed?”
It turns out that Zvirbule cares about him after all. Or that’s what Cliopher concludes, anyway, when she throws herself at his neck and bursts into tears.
Cliopher finishes his workday as usual. The other pages leave pale and anxious; Saya Zvirbule looks ready to cry again.
Cliopher just feels – resigned. He always expected he’d be executed in Astandalas. This is longer than he expected to last, really.
Cliopher still has the same set of rooms he used before the Fall. They’re small, but at least in that regard he fares better than the new pages, who sleep bundled into barracks despite the many empty rooms in the Palace of Stars. Today it gives him the privacy to sort his efela, write letters, and pack his things for the convenience of those who will clean out the place once he’s dead.
That last is not a hard task; Cliopher doesn’t own much. The letters take considerably longer.
Cliopher writes steadily, well into the night. He prepares messages for his mother and sister, his niece and nephew, Lazo, Tovo. He writes to his favorite cousins first, then moves onto alphabetic order once all the priorities are done. He leaves messages for Bertie and Ghilly and Toucan and Cora, and Mardo Walea, and even the kindly museum director in Solaara who might wonder why Cliopher no longer shows up to chat on cold muggy mornings.
Eventually the midnight bell rolls.
Cliopher wonders why he isn’t dead yet.
His head still pounds, but he can see almost normally again. There’s still a strange haze to his vision – but it’s no different than he often experiences with migraines. It feels like that, too, will eventually recede. Cliopher is perplexed.
It seems… anticlimactic. Cliopher always heard that the Taboos were so powerful that anyone who looked at the Emperor for an instant would be irrevocably blinded.
But… many of the Taboos were weakened after the Fall, people whisper.
Could the consequences, too, have decreased?
There must be some sort of reprisal for looking at the Emperor. It’s still forbidden; people don’t do it. And Cliopher remembers the stricken horror on his Radiancy’s face, the wide golden eyes.
But no one comes. So Cliopher tucks away his supplies, washes his hands, and decides to go to bed.
“What are you doing here, Madon?” The Master of Offices snaps when Cliopher enters the next morning. “You’re on duty outside the Tower again.”
“Sir? The schedule says - “
“It’s a permanent posting,” the Master interrupts. “Until further notice. By request.”
Cliopher frowns. “But why - “
“Hurry up, Madon. You’ll be late!”
The Master seems in an even worse mood than usual; Cliopher bows and bolts.
On the way up to the Tower, he analyzes every second of that interaction again and again. Posted – not sent to the guards? – and surely the guards would have just fetched Cliopher themselves -
It doesn’t sound like Cliopher’s going to be executed. But why would anyone request him for the Tower?
Cliopher is further unnerved when he arrives and the guards actually turn to assess him. They usually don’t acknowledge the pages without a message. Cliopher decides to pretend they haven’t done so today, and joins the cluster of pages waiting by the wall.
The one he’s replacing shoots Cliopher a dark scowl before she stalks away; he is, indeed, late.
But the other pages perk up. A very young woman with a half-shaved head and golden bangles on her arms leans closer. Judging by the ostentatious jewelry and deeply black skin, streaked with glittering silver tattoos, Cliopher takes her for a noble. This is the sort of person who shouldn’t be interested in him. Her old-Court accent confirms it: “Did you really talk to the Glorious One yesterday, Sayo Midon?”
Cliopher is so used to the usual errors that he almost corrects her with ‘Madon.’ “It’s Mdang. Only for a moment,” Cliopher evades, hoping she hasn’t heard any other rumors about the previous day.
It turns out she has. “Some people said you were blinded!”
“I’m honored by your concern,” Cliopher deadpans. She purses her lips. “Fortunately that wasn’t the case.”
One of the guards glances over, so maybe that came out harsher than he meant. The page mumbles something along the lines of ohgood and settles back against the wall, brow creased.
Fortunately, the others follow this cue and don’t speak to Cliopher again. He couldn’t bear if they kept questioning him; he already feels like he’s going to vomit.
The guards glance over at him again, again, again throughout the long shift. Have they always done that? Or is it just that Cliopher is paying too much attention?
Despite the previous day, Cliopher’s still taken by surprise when the door opens and the Emperor steps out.
The guards salute; all the pages drop to their knees. Cliopher’s mind whirls. He’s been assigned to the Tower before – albeit rarely – and yesterday was the first time he saw the Emperor so close. What are the odds?
Again the golden sandals pause in front of Cliopher. “Sayo Mdang, was it?” the Emperor asks. Cliopher is too startled to respond. “We hope you were not affected by yesterday’s events.”
Cliopher flushes. He bows further and contemplates one of the formal bows of apology. But the first-degree might be ridiculously groveling – and anything lesser might be an insult to the Emperor, since Cliopher technically committed treason – after a moment of floundering he decides against it. “I am well, your Radiancy, thank you.” He’s astonished the Emperor even asked. “I apologize for my error.”
There is no need to mention the headache that pulses through him even now. Cliopher gets a lot of headaches, and the Sun-on-Earth wouldn’t care.
But the Emperor doesn’t move on. “You said you have worked in the Service for many years. In which Departments did you serve?”
Cliopher blinks at the floor. He wishes he could look at the Emperor’s face. He could, technically; yesterday proved that. But a second accident might not be forgiven. “Agriculture, Intermundial Trade, Health, Censorship, Civic Waterways, Education, and the Heritage Department. My lord.”
“Not Fisheries or Marine Transport? You did say you came from an island province; do you know anything about ships?”
“A great deal, my lord. I think that’s why I was excluded from those.”
“Oh?”
“When I suggested it, it was conveyed to me that Vangavayen traditions are too ‘primitive.’” That still annoys Cliopher, and it creeps into his tone.
His Radiancy doesn’t comment. “Which department was your favorite?”
Cliopher isn’t sure what’s happening, but at least it’s an easy question. He answers honestly, “The Treasury, my lord.”
“Why is that?”
“I enjoy math; I almost became an accountant. And.” Cliopher hesitates, since this veers nearly into criticism of other departments: “I found that the director was genuinely dedicated to his duties, and strict but competent.”
“Were you in the Treasury before you went to the Vangavaye-ve?”
“No, my lord. I reported directly to Princess Indrogan.”
“Then why did you leave the Treasury?”
Cliopher shifts. He can’t answer that honestly without criticism. “I reported a Minister for embezzling,” he admits. “And then the evidence I’d claimed… disappeared. Not at the fault of the Director,” Cliopher adds vaguely. “But he had to move me.”
“I see,” says his Radiancy, in a tone that implies he does. Cliopher is heavily aware of the pages’ sidelong glances.
Cliopher wishes he’d understood more about Palace culture when he worked in the Treasury. If he’d known then how useless it would be to report the problem – or even if he’d approached the Director of the Treasury with discretion, so they could carefully approach the corruption together…
He would have been happy enough working for the Treasury; but Cliopher has never been good at keeping his mouth shut. So maybe there wasn’t any chance of that.
“Well. I hope you find more satisfaction in your career soon,” says his Radiancy. Cliopher snorts despite himself. Then the Emperor finally moves on; the guards file behind.
When the antechamber door closes the pages stare at Cliopher. “I can’t believe you spoke to him,” says Saya Laporte, dreamy. “Do you think he’ll speak to me one day?”
Cliopher shrugs, bewildered.
“Why are you asking me?” the Master of Offices demands when Cliopher tries to get his new assignment. Before Cliopher can find a polite way to explain that it is, in fact, the man’s job to give postings, he adds, “I already told you, you’re stationed at the Tower. Hurry up!”
So Cliopher rushes off to the Tower so he isn’t late, too bewildered to ask the questions in his head.
Surely he can’t be permanently assigned to the Tower? Pages are rarely on permanent assignment at all; it usually only happens when a noble suggests that a kinsman or favored friend be kept close. And the Tower is a prime posting. Why would anyone put Cliopher there?
Maybe they’re trying to get him killed. He’s already broken the Taboos once!
Cliopher manages to arrive on time, barely. The other pages and guards hardly pay attention, which makes Cliopher feel better. A minute later one of the other pages gets relieved, which is much more exciting, because Saya Zvirbule slams into Cliopher and starts sniffling. “I thought you were going to die!” she cries.
The page she’s relieving wavers. Squints. Then he shrugs and goes, apparently deciding this isn’t his problem. The wealthy page from before, Saya Kamau, pointedly pinches her lips as though she must signify disapproval of their blatant emotions.
Cliopher gingerly pats Zvirbule on the back. He sags with relief when she steps away. Not that he minds hugs; but in Astandalas every touch was treated like a proposition, which either made him an evil brute or signified unending consent that could never be revoked. He’s wary when Saya Zvirbule pats his arm.
But she just beams. “I’m so glad you’re alright, Sayo Mdang! I heard the Emperor talked to you again?”
Cliopher flushes. He shouldn’t be surprised people are gossiping. It’s the Emperor, after all. “He was very kind to check in. He asked if my eyes were still affected. I can see fine,” he adds.
One of the guards twitches; when Cliopher glances over, though, they’re standing straight and stoic. It must be hard to stand still all day.
“Everyone says he’s very gracious,” says Saya Zvirbule. She lowers her voice. “But, the priests haven’t spoken to you, have they?”
“No.” Cliopher frowns. “And they usually have to react within three days of a broken taboo, don’t they? Surely they’d have said something by now.”
The same guard abruptly steps away from his post and disappears into the Apartments. Cliopher wonders about the meaning of the signals the guards use. In the Vangavaye-ve his people have a complex language of signs; it’s very helpful underwater, and in storms. Buru Tovo uses a lot of signs these days, though fewer since his sight has started fading along with his hearing.
Cliopher is battered with questions over the next quarter-hours, and everyone declares that the Emperor is the kindest most perfect person ever (Cliopher thinks that’s a bit much, privately; but at least he seemed better than most nobles.)
One of pages tells him, “You’ll probably never talk to him again, but that’s something to write your family about, yeah?”
Eventually the interest dies down. Two of the pages start discussing optimal bribes for the Master of Offices; they’ll be advancing as proper secretaries soon. One worries that he might be planning to overspend; the proposed bribe is more than Cliopher would make in two years. But pages from noble families only need to worry about long-term finances, and the access granted by their work is the main purpose of pursuing politics. “You used to work under Indrogan, right?” one asks. “How much did you bribe her?”
“...I didn’t.”
They gape.
“I heard they needed everyone after the Fall,” the third offers. The others make sounds of understanding.
Cliopher sighs.
Three hours later, they all drop to their knees when the Apartment doors open.
Again? Surely not -
But it is.
The Emperor wears silver sandals today, and a silver robe. Cliopher wracks his brain trying to remember the significance.
That calm, smooth voice says, “Sayo Mdang.”
And Cliopher, being an idiot, looks up.
The Emperor flinches. But this time his golden eyes remain fixed on Cliopher. The guards shift, but otherwise don’t react.
Inexplicably, the Emperor smiles. “It does not hurt?”
“No, my lord.”
“Very good. We thank you for proving one taboo broken, Sayo Mdang. Though I would not suggest testing the others.”
“Did you miss looking at people? Or touching?” Cliopher asks. Saya Kamau makes a sound like a hissing cat. Cliopher adds, “My lord,” although he knows that’s not why she’s upset.
He shouldn’t be talking to the Emperor at all.
But the Sun-on-Earth does not seem to know that. His lips twitch in what might be a thin smile. “Sometimes,” he says, voice distant. “Though it does not much matter; I have no personal friends since my coronation.”
“...in fairness,” says Cliopher after an awkward pause, “the taboos would make it rather hard to get to know someone.”
“Very true. Good-day, Sayo Mdang.”
They all bow again and don’t rise until the Emperor leaves.
Saya Kamau jabs him hard in the ribs; Cliopher wheezes. “I cannot believe you,” she hisses. “Looking at him! And then saying the Glorious One has no friends!”
“He said that!” Cliopher protests.
“No wonder you were demoted,” she scorns. Heat rises to his face. The other pages don’t look at him.
They don’t talk until another rotation come to relieve them all, several hours later.
It takes nearly an hour to walk from the Tower to his tiny cell of a room. By the time he reaches the last hallway Cliopher’s ready to sit down and nap a bit before venturing out again to scrounge for food at the cafeteria. He turns a corner.
Cliopher falters.
There are four Imperial guards in the hallway. Two at either end. But no one important lives this far out; he barely ever sees guards here. He resumes walking, much slower.
The guards don’t look at him, though. Cliopher slips into his rooms and privately resolves not to step outside again until he leaves for work. He doesn’t want to become involved in whatever’s happening; food can wait.
And when he wakes halfway through the night, Cliopher curls his arms over his head to ignore the screams and crashes. Maybe a riot; maybe the Department of Internal Security is interrogating a group tonight. There's nothing he can do about it.
The next morning Saya Zvirbule hisses, “I heard the high priests were arrested last night!”