A Dance of Shadows (The Royal Spares #3)

Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Raul

A looming guard tower marks the border between Dariu and Cotea. There isn’t a single road between the countries that the blasted imperial army doesn’t watch over.

Marclinus insists on calling the convoy to a halt so he can greet the border soldiers—supposedly to express his gratitude for their service, but really I suspect so he can enjoy them fawning over their emperor.

At least it gives the rest of us a chance to stretch our legs. We’ve been on the road for more than a week since we left Rione.

Aurelia has slipped out of her carriage behind Marclinus. She hangs back but smiles in acknowledgment to the soldiers who shout her praise. I notice Marclinus’s grin tightens every time that happens.

The prick doesn’t like sharing the attention one bit.

Which is why Aurelia is wise and doesn’t push for more. She stands by the carriage, stretching her arms. Her hand flits over her belly.

The movement sends a pang of protective longing through my chest. Marclinus might claim the kid she’ll birth as his heir, but he or she will be part of our family, not his.

I haven’t been able to talk freely with her for more than a few hasty murmurs in days. The distance gnaws at me.

If I could march over there, cut off her asshole husband’s head, and declare her ruler of the empire right now…

Sure, and die before I even grazed the wretch’s jacket while a dozen guards run me through. That’d help her cause so incredibly fucking much.

Instead, I clench my hands at my sides imagining I’m gripping my sword and amble back and forth beside my own carriage. As soon as I get back in, I’ll have to endure more pawing—and pretending to enjoy the pawing—of Vicerine Prisca, who specifically requested to ride in the same carriage as me.

Kosmel give me the wits to dodge her attempt at seduction without looking like I’m dodging it.

While Marclinus relates a joke that’s probably not actually funny but gets all the soldiers roaring with laughter, Lorenzo wanders into view. He pauses in the shade of one of the scattered trees along the road and glances toward our emperor—and our empress.

The downward tick of his mouth tells me he’s feeling the weight of our separation at least as much as I am. Well, I can talk to him without anyone thinking it’s odd.

I saunter over and tip my head to my foster brother. Lorenzo jerks his gaze to me with a vaguely guilty expression.

“I don’t think anyone noticed,” I say quietly. “Half the world is looking over that way right now.”

He exhales in a rush. We’re far enough away from Marclinus and his magic-sensing guards that Lorenzo conjures his illusion of a voice for my ears only.

“I keep going through my conversations with my family, trying to see what I could have said differently to convince them that she isn’t like him. But I think the real problem is convincing them that I’m not a pathetic simpleton who’s only worthy of pity rather than respect.”

I grimace in sympathy and bump my shoulder against his. “They don’t have the full picture. And they don’t really know you after all this time. We realized every part of this plan was going to be a slow process.”

“I wish I felt like I’d made any progress at all.”

“Hey, we got her out of there in one piece and knowing how much we’re still with her. That’s the most important thing.”

Lorenzo rubs his hand over his short black hair. “She deserves so much more than that.”

“And so do you. We’ll get there. Your family will come around.”

I say that, but my gut twists at the same time. I haven’t wanted to dwell on what Aurelia’s first meeting with my family will be like.

I can talk to them much more directly than Lorenzo can, but that doesn’t mean they’ll listen to me. In their eyes, I’m the hotheaded boy who’d rather punch someone than debate with them. Why should they trust my judgment in the most delicate matter of politics possible?

They’ll be analyzing her for weaknesses and points of leverage the second she steps into their view. That’s just how they are.

Aurelia can handle the scrutiny. I know she can. But I’m not going to enjoy watching it.

My gaze drifts down the line of the convoy and pauses on Neven’s pale-haired form. He tosses back a gulp from a bottle of liquor and leans toward the court musician he’s been mooning over for the past few months. A hint of a flush colors his tan cheeks. The other man touches Neven’s arm as he speaks, drawing him even closer.

“Looks like the kid’s making some progress in his conquest,” I remark. Bastien hasn’t been pleased about Neven’s choice in potential lover, but I can’t see any harm in it. The harpist has always seemed amiable enough, and I can imagine the visual appeal if I swung that way.

As long as the kid keeps his head and doesn’t spill any secrets that aren’t really his to share, especially when his lips are loosened with alcohol. Thank the gods we didn’t mention the wildest one we’ve stumbled on.

Lorenzo nods. “At least someone’s having fun on the trip. He should get a chance to enjoy his own dalliances. He’s barely even a kid anymore.”

It’s true. I still think of him as one, the image of his seven-year-old self arriving in the palace audience room lingering at the back of my head, but he’s almost eighteen now.

The harpist beckons Neven into his carriage. The prince of Goric follows with a shy grin and another swig from his bottle.

He’s hitting the drink harder than usual. Liquid courage, I guess.

Marclinus is just sauntering back to his own carriage, with a motion to Aurelia to get herself inside. Reining in the death glare I’d like to aim at him, I give Lorenzo a companionable knock of my elbow and head to my own vehicle.

The sun is already dipping toward the horizon. Thankfully I only have to endure a couple more hours of feigned flirtation with the vicerine before we stop at one of the Cotean wayhouses for the night.

The building is structured much like those within Dariu—with a large dining room, kitchen, stables, and common room on the lower floor and two levels of bedrooms above—but the lack of use shows. I suspect the local staff gave it a good cleaning when they heard we were coming, but the painted images of Jurnus’s sigil and patron animals have faded. A whiff of dust lingers in the air.

Marclinus’s high spirits from the fawning of his border soldiers appears to have faded too. He prowls through the doorway after a few dark glances toward the west, where the sun is just dipping out of view.

As everyone finds a seat in the dining room, our emperor remains standing by the central, throne-like chair at the head table. The chatter diminishes as the court notices his silent bid for attention.

He plants his hands on either side of his plate and glowers at all of us as if we’re part of some secret conspiracy. “We’re coming close to the Seafell Channel now. All those bastards who insult our empire are pissing around on the other side. Stay alert! They’re so afraid of us, they’ve started to welcome riven magic, of all the cursed things. And they should be afraid when I’m near!”

With that emphatic statement, he smacks his hand against the tabletop. Then he drops into his seat and motions for the wine as if he didn’t just spew out a paranoid rant. Aurelia shoots him a wary glance before accepting her own goblet.

The nobles around my table murmur noises of agreement, but their gazes look twitchier than usual to me. I catch one baron who’s often chattering with the emperor arching his eyebrow at his wife as if in response to Marclinus’s outburst.

Interesting. Is the emperor’s erratic behavior finally undermining his court’s dedication?

That seems like a useful attitude to encourage. The happier the nobles are to see Marclinus gone, the easier it’ll be for Aurelia to step into his shoes.

Maybe I can’t be sitting beside her, but I can help her cause in a way that might be much more useful in the long run. Let the noble pricks and the imperial asshole tear each other apart.

“Do you doubt the threat that wild magic can present, Baron Nonum?” I call out in a mocking tone. “You look as if you’re laughing at the idea of facing a riven sorcerer. I’d be curious to know how you’d fend one off.”

As the baron’s stance stiffens, Marclinus’s head jerks around. A sneer creeps into his voice. “Surely no one in my court is so idiotic to joke about riven magic?”

Nonum stammers his answer. “No—of course not—it’s only, well, we’re quite far from the eastern territories still.”

Marclinus snorts. “You’re an idiot then. A riven sorcerer could fly themselves across hundreds of miles in a blink if they took a mind to—and blast you to smithereens a moment later. That’s why we’ve routed them out of our empire so thoroughly. Be glad for that. Anyone else think their sick magic is a laughing matter?”

All the other nobles keep their mouths clamped shut.

“Good.”

As the emperor returns his attention to his meal, I notice a few more furtive glances exchanged between my dining companions. That’s what I’d call good.

I dig into my dinner with more enthusiasm than I might have mustered before my spark of inspiration, picturing the various ways I could expand on my gains tonight.

After dinner, Marclinus tosses a few exuberant remarks to the nobles around him and then hauls Aurelia off toward the bedrooms. My teeth set on edge, but I can’t be too vengeful when his disappearance suits my purposes.

She knows how to deal with him in private. It’s on me to sway public opinion.

I follow most of the court into the common room with its paltry selection of entertainments: a few decks of cards, a board game favored in Darium that I’ve never bothered to learn. No one pays me much mind as I seat myself near the wall off to the side of one cluster of card players.

I check that Marclinus’s personal guard is nowhere to be seen and dip my hand into the shadows beside my chair.

The latent energy in that patch of darkness tickles cool across my palm. I adjust my fingers, willing the shadows to shift into the shape I’m imagining.

A silhouette ripples across the wall—a tall, broad-shouldered man with a crown atop curls of hair.

The two nobles most directly facing the wall spot the image and go rigid. Their companions catch their expression and turn to look.

The moment I have the table’s attention, I flick my fingers. The shadowy figure of the emperor shudders and spasms as if having a fit. Then it disintegrates like a statue crumbling to dust.

Silence grips the nobles at the table for a few heavy seconds. They lean in to speak in nervous murmurs. I hold back my smile.

How many more “omens” can I conjure up before Marclinus loses all the adoration he so craves?