level, however.
Wrath, as sovereign, could do fairly much what he wanted - provided the appropriate precedents were identified, recast, and recorded. After all, the king was the living, breathing law, a physical manifestation of the order necessary for a civilized society. The problem was, tradition didn't happen by accident; it was the result of generations upon generations living and making choices based on a certain set of rules that was accepted by the public. Progressive thinkers trying to lead entrenched, conservative societies in new directions tended to run into problems.
And this...further alteration of the way things were done? In the current political environment, where Wrath's leadership was already being challenged -
"You're deep in thought."
At the sound of Blay's voice, Saxton jumped and nearly lost his Montblanc over his shoulder.
Immediately, Blay reached forward as if to calm what had been ruffled. "Oh, I'm sorry - "
"No, it's all right, I - " Saxton frowned as he regarded the soldier's wet and bloodied clothing. "Dearest Virgin Scribe...what happened tonight?"
Evidently in lieu of answering, Blay headed over for the bar on the antique bombe chest in the corner. As he took his time choosing between the sherry and a Dubonnet, it was rather clear he was preparing a sequence of words in his head.
Which meant it had to do with Qhuinn.
In fact, Blay cared for neither sherry nor Dubonnet. And sure enough, he helped himself to a port.
Saxton eased back in his chair and looked upward at the chandelier that hung so far above the floor. The fixture was a stunning specimen from Baccarat, made in the middle nineteenth century, with all of the leaded-glass crystals and careful workmanship one would expect.
He recalled it swinging from side to side subtly, the rainbow refractions of light twinkling all around the room.
How many nights ago had that been? How long since Qhuinn had serviced that Chosen directly above this room?
Nothing had been the same since.
"A broken-down car." Blay took a long swallow. "Just mechanical issues."
Is that why your leathers are wet, and there is blood down the front of your shirt? Saxton wondered.
And yet he kept the demand to himself.
He had become used to keeping things to himself.
Silence.
Blay finished his port and poured another with the kind of alacrity typically reserved for drunkards. Which he was not. "And...you?" the male said. "How's your work?"
"I'm finished. Well, nearly so."
Blay's blue eyes shot over. "Really? I thought you were going to be at this forever."
Saxton traced that face he knew so well. That stare he'd looked into for what seemed like a lifetime. Those lips he had spent hours locked onto.
The crushing sense of sadness he felt was as undeniable as the attraction that had brought him to this house, his job, his new life.
"So did I," he said after a moment. "I, too...thought it would last far longer than it did."
Blay stared down into his glass. "It's been how long since you started?"
"I don't...I can't remember." Saxton put a hand up and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "It does not matter."
More silence. In which Saxton was willing to bet the very breath in his lungs that Blaylock's mind had retreated to the other male, the one he loved like nobody else, his other half.
"So what was it?" Blay asked.
"I'm sorry?"
"Your project. All of this work." Blay motioned his glass around elegantly. "These books you've been poring over. If you're finished, you can tell me what it was all about now, right?"
Saxton briefly considered telling the truth...that there had been other, equally pressing and important things that he had been quiet on. Things that he had thought he could live with, but which, over time, had proven too heavy a burden to carry.
"You shall find out soon enough."
Blay nodded, but it was with that vital distraction that he had had since the very beginning. Except then he said, "I'm glad you're here."
Saxton's brows rose. "Indeed...?"
"Wrath should have a really good lawyer at his side."
Ah.
Saxton pushed his chair back and got to his feet. "Yes. How true."
It was with a strange feeling of fragility that he gathered his reams of papers. It certainly seemed, in this tense, sad moment, as though they were all that sustained him, these flimsy, yet powerful sheets with their countless words, each handwritten and crafted with care, contained neatly in their lines of text.
He did not know what he would do without them on a night like this.
He cleared his throat. "What plans have you for what little remains of the