The Goblin Emperor by Katherine Addison

Varenechibel IV, Nemolis Drazhar, Nazhira Drazhar, Ciris Drazhar, survived by the Emperor Edrehasivar the Seventh.” Blinking back a sudden prickle of tears, Maia bowed to the prelate over his clasped hands as each of the other mourners had done in turn, and cared nothing for the stiff, shocked disapproval of Beshelar at his elbow.
    With the service concluded, it was clear to Maia that the prelate and congregation would only be shamed and embarrassed at the spectacle of their emperor picking his way through the tall yellowing grass to the twelve new graves. And there was no difficulty in extricating himself; he simply quit fighting Beshelar for the reins of the situation, and Beshelar with grand pomposity did the rest. Maia smiled at the prelate and the prelate smiled back. Beshelar all but physically strong-armed the emperor into the carriage, crowding Cala and himself in behind. The coachman clucked to the horses and they rattled off.
    For ten minutes, no one said anything. Beshelar looked like he was reinventing most of Setheris’s favorite epithets—with “moon-witted hobgoblin” at the top of the list—although of course his sense of propriety was too great to allow him to utter them. Cala stared dreamily out the window, as he had on the way to the Ulimeire, and Maia himself clasped his hands in his lap and contemplated their darkness and ugly, lumpish knuckles.
    Then Cala turned and said, “Serenity, why did you wish to attend the service?”
    He sounded genuinely curious. Maia said, “I don’t know.” He did know—he knew all too well—but he did not want to discuss his father with his nohecharei, with anyone. Let that truth be buried with him, he thought. It profits no one for Edrehasivar VII to speak of his hatred for Varenechibel IV. And the worst of it was that he did not even hate his father; he could not hate anyone of whom he knew so little. The thought of Beshelar’s shock and disgust was exhausting, like the thought of carrying a massive boulder on his shoulders for the rest of his life.
    Then he realized he had forgotten to use the formal first, and Beshelar would be shocked and disgusted anyway. He looked at Cala to avoid looking at Beshelar, and found the vague blue eyes unexpectedly sympathetic. “Nothing can make death easier,” Cala said, “but silence can make it harder.”
    “Speaking helps not,” Maia said.
    Cala drew back a little, like a cat tapped on the nose, and silence—whether hard or easy—filled the carriage, unbroken until they reached the Untheileneise Court.

5
    The Emperor’s Household
    By the end of dinner that night, Maia was so exhausted he could no longer keep his eyes focused. He had asked Beshelar to see that the grilles of the Alcethmeret were closed as soon as they returned from the Ulimeire and had steadfastly refused to grant an audience to anyone for the rest of the afternoon.
    Which did not mean—although he wished it could—that he was either alone or idle. Esaran was lying in wait for him. She refused to allow him to return to the Tortoise Room, insisting that it was not suitable to his dignity and dragging him up the next circumference of the stairs to the Rose Room, which was large enough to get lost in and decorated in an oppressive scheme of black and cherry. The wallpaper was an elaborate Porcharneise floral pattern, roses of all shades from deep purple to orange-red, the edges of the petals picked out in gilt.
    Esaran had a seemingly endless list of questions he had to answer and decisions he had to make, and just when he thought she might be done, she rounded on him with the reminder that among the victims in the crash of the Wisdom of Choharo had been the emperor’s edocharei, his gentlemen of the chamber. Her tone indicated without any need of his asking that he would not be allowed to continue to take care of himself as he always had at Edonomee. She added that since Clemis Atterezh was waiting eagerly to fit the emperor for his new wardrobe,