‘Yes, Your Imperial Majesty.’

Indeed, they have taught her well, he thought. First Rience, and then Stella. They’ve taught her the roles and lines well, no doubt threatening her with torture and death for a slip or mistake. They warned her she would have to perform before a cruel audience, unforgiving of errors. Before the awe-inspiring Emhyr var Emreis, Emperor of Nilfgaard.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked abruptly.

‘Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon.’

‘Your real name.’

‘Cirilla Fiona—’

‘Do not try my patience. Your name!’

‘Cirilla…’ The girl’s voice broke like a twig. ‘Fiona…’

‘That will do, by the Great Sun,’ he said between clenched teeth. ‘That will do!’

She sniffed loudly. Contrary to protocol. Her mouth trembled, but protocol did not forbid that.

‘Calm yourself,’ he commanded, but in a soft and almost gentle voice. ‘What do you fear? Are you ashamed of your own name? Are you afraid to disclose it? If I ask, it is only because I’d like to address you by your rightful name. But I have to know what it sounds like.’

‘It sounds dull,’ she answered, and her huge eyes suddenly gleamed like emeralds lit by a flame. ‘For it is a dull name, Your Imperial Majesty. A name just right for somebody who’s a nobody. As long as I am Cirilla Fiona I mean something… As long as…’

Her voice stuck in her throat so abruptly that she involuntarily brought her hands up to her neck as though what was around it was not a necklace but a garrotte. Emhyr continued to measure her with his gaze, still full of appreciation for Stella Congreve. At the same time, he felt anger. Unjustified anger. Unjustified and therefore very infuriating.

What do I want from this child? he thought, feeling the anger rising in him, seething in him, frothing up like soup in a pot. What do I want from a child, whom…?

‘Know that I had nothing to do with your abduction, girl,’ he said sharply. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with your kidnapping. I didn’t issue any such orders. I was deceived…’

He was furious with himself, aware he was making a mistake. He ought to have ended the conversation much earlier, ended it haughtily, arrogantly, menacingly, as befitted an emperor. He ought to have forgotten about this girl with the green eyes. This girl that did not exist. She was a double. An imitation. She didn’t even have a name. She was nobody. The emperor does not ask for forgiveness, does not demean himself before someone who…

‘Forgive me,’ he said, and the words were unfamiliar, clung unpleasantly to his lips. ‘I committed an error. Yes, it’s true, I’m guilty of what happened to you. I was at fault. But I give you my word that you are in no danger. Nothing ill will befall you. No harm, no discredit, no woe. You needn’t be afraid.’