A Pact of Blood (The Royal Spares #2)
Chapter 1
Chapter One
Aurelia
I stand next to one monster, watching another laid out on a pyre.
In the sunlight that streaks down over the immense city square, Emperor Tarquin’s pale skin looks as if it could be made of wax. The devouts who prepared his body may even have rubbed a little into his flesh. I’ve heard that’s done here in Dariu, for public funerals where they want the deceased to look at his or her best.
His sharp features form a stern expression. It’s too easy to imagine him opening his eyes and aiming his piercing gray stare at me.
At his murderer.
None of the medics who’ve examined him or the guards who were protecting him have expressed any suspicion of foul play. Word has spread through court and presumably the common folk as well that his death was caused by a failure of his heart brought on by old age. Exactly as I intended the potion I concocted to make it appear.
It’s been nearly two full days: the first dedicated to inquiry and private rites, the second to this public spectacle of mourning. No one has aimed the slightest accusation at me.
My plan succeeded. As soon as Tarquin’s body burns, any remaining chance of uncovering evidence will go up in smoke.
I’ll go on unimprisoned for my crime, jailed only in the gilded torture chamber of my own making.
My chief tormentor, the man who’s now my husband, steps up to the podium on the broad steps overlooking the crowd. The black silk of Marclinus’s suit turns his already pale skin even sallower, but that doesn’t diminish the stark magnificence of his chiseled face. The imperial crown gleams a slightly richer gold than the wavy strands of his normally wayward hair, carefully coiffed for this solemn occasion.
A slimmer gold band hugs his right wrist, matching the marriage band fitted around my own. I doubt it feels as much like a manacle to him as it does to me.
He cuts an impressive picture of a new emperor. It’s a shame so much beneath that stunning facade is rotten.
He gazes out over the sea of citizens also clothed in black—the color that encompasses all other colors, representing the full host of gods the departed has gone to join. Thousands of civilians have swarmed from the capital city’s streets into its largest square to peer at the dead emperor and his grieving heir.
Marclinus has always enjoyed an audience.
The murmurs and sobs dwindle with the recognition that he’s about to give his first speech as emperor. He lifts his chin, his well-built frame drawn straight in a commanding posture—every inch his father’s son .
His voice rings out through the square, projected by the amplification charm embedded in the top of the podium. “Good citizens of Dariu, you honor me and my father by joining us today to mourn our country’s tremendous loss. The great Emperor Tarquin ruled over our empire for nearly thirty years, bringing prosperity and security all across our great realm.”
Prosperity and security for those born of Dariu, at least—brought in part by stealing the same from the conquered countries of the empire. How many of my own people back home in Accasy have endured boundless suffering or even given their lives for Emperor Tarquin’s grand ideals?
What do all these Darium citizens make of the Accasian princess in their midst, the woman who is now by marriage their empress?
This is the first time I’ve stood before them as Marclinus’s wife. My only previous public appearance was as a spectator of a bloody exhibition in the city’s arena, when I was only one of several ladies vying for the imperial heir’s hand.
As Marclinus continues heaping praise on his father’s shoulders, I let my gaze drift over the crowd. Their attention is mostly fixed on their new emperor, but here and there, eyes flick toward me.
It’s hard to read the reactions of the common folk when they’re already downcast with mourning. Did that woman’s mouth tighten into more of a scowl at the sight of me? Did that man’s forehead furrow in possible consternation?
This isn’t how I’d have wanted to introduce myself to the people I mean to rule over—however much Marclinus allows me to share in his rule.
Perhaps I can start to earn their good will and set a precedent for sharing this very afternoon.
Marclinus finishes his speech to a wave of applause. As he steps back to our spot in the middle of the gathered nobles and advisors, I touch his arm.
I pitch my voice low. “Do you think I should say a few words to show how committed I am to the empire and to you?”
From what I’ve seen of my husband over the past few weeks, there’s little he likes more than having everyone around him demonstrate their devotion. He never misses a chance to have his ego stroked.
“What a canny idea.” He prods me toward the podium with a nudge that manages to also be a subtle grope of my ass and raises his voice again. “My wife and your new empress would speak to you as well!”
I catch a brief mutter behind me as if a few of our noble companions disapprove of this move, but I’m already at the podium. The thousands of gazes settle directly on me.
Taking a measured breath, I gather my words. I don’t want to appear too grasping or self-important.
Keep it short, simple, and full of reverence for the man I despised.
I dip my head humbly. The empress serves her people at least as much as the other way around.
The amplification charm flings my voice out across the vast square. “I’m sorry to meet you all under such tragic circumstances. I only got to spend a few weeks in Emperor Tarquin’s incredible presence, but I grew up in awe of his leadership and the legacy he was building.”
In awe of how any man could contain so much callousness and cruelty. A legacy of subjecting the people of my home country to assaults and enforced labor.
I swallow those silent sentiments and go on. “I was met with the warmest of welcomes when I arrived at the palace. It was immediately obvious how much impact His Imperial Majesty had on all of his court. I have never?— ”
My gaze flicks to the noble retinue around us on the stairs—and jars on the faces I least need haunting me right now.
Since my wedding, I’ve been doing my best to avoid the four princes Emperor Tarquin was fostering. As later-born royals from the other conquered countries within the empire, more hostages than adoptive sons, their hatred for him and his empire burns even hotter than my own.
And now they have every reason to hate me as well. I won the three older princes’ hearts, dallied with them as if I was giving my own over to them, and then rejected their offer of escape to marry Marclinus instead.
I wasn’t paying enough mind to where they’d placed themselves in our assembly, and now I’m faced with their searing gazes unprepared. I can’t say what’s the worst: Bastien’s cold, hard glower, Lorenzo’s anguished stare, or the way Raul cuts his fierce gaze away from me as if I’m not even worthy of his attention.
My words muddle on my tongue. I wrench my attention back to the larger mass of spectators in front of me.
What will they make of my stumble?
My chest hitches. I hastily swipe at my eyes as if I’m brushing away tears. Let them think I’m overcome with grief for the fallen emperor.
The emotion isn’t difficult to fake. The truth is that my heart does feel wrenched in two—because the princes standing just a few paces away captured it far more than I can afford to let on.
Because I don’t know how much they’ll prove to be my enemies all over again.
I’d swear Raul suspected that I had a hand in Tarquin’s death. The look he gave me right afterward…
None of them have spoken up about it, but that’s likely only because I know things about them they wouldn’t want coming out either. I have no idea how long they’ll hold their tongues or what might compel them to accuse me.
I can’t let those worries distract me in this moment. With a shaky inhalation that the amplification charm will project as well as it did my words, I allow a quaver to creep into my voice that has nothing to do with the man I’m talking about.
“I have never felt so blessed as I did getting the opportunity to be part of such a brilliant and accomplished family. It saddens me beyond words that I couldn’t serve Emperor Tarquin longer or benefit from his sage guidance. I will strive with all I am to see that his legacy continues while I stand with his son, your new emperor, and guide us into the future.”
A future filled with much less bloodshed and horror beyond this country’s borders, if I have anything to say about it.
I bow my head once more and retreat to Marclinus’s side. He rests his fingers briefly against my back with a hum I think is approving.
More than anyone, I need him to believe I whole-heartedly support him and his family’s vision for the empire. My only chance at swaying him onto a more peaceful, compassionate course will be if he thinks that course will benefit his own ends—and that my priorities are the same as his.
A couple of Tarquin’s chief advisors go forward to speak about the wonders of the late emperor’s rule, and the cleric from the imperial temple carries out the final rites. As the robed man prepares to light the pyre, Marclinus and I ease down the steps to come closer.
The soldiers guarding us pull tighter around us. I brace myself for the surge of heat.
The flames roar up over the heap of wood, swallowing Tarquin’s body.
Through the hiss of the fire, I just make out the low voice of one of the soldiers behind me. “Seems a bad omen, don’t you think, Galen? He dies like that the same night as His Imperial Highness’s wedding?”
“His Imperial Majesty to us now,” his companion grumbles, equally quiet. “Don’t let him hear you making that mistake.”
“I just mean—it could be a sign from the godlen that the marriage will bring more problems than good. That she is going to be a?—”
His voice cuts off with a faint oof as if he’s been elbowed and a curt response. “Hush.”
Even with the crackling heat coursing over my skin, a chill collects in my gut.
How many of the other imperial soldiers are thinking the same way about me? How many of the regular citizens of Dariu or the nobles of its court?
It doesn’t matter whether they believe Tarquin’s death came about through natural causes. They can still consider it a strike against me.
Should I have waited? My original plan was to settle in for a week or two after the marriage before I made my final move.
But it’d already been weeks by the time I was actually married. Tarquin had put me through so much already, I couldn’t be sure I’d get another chance.
It might not have made any difference anyway. A death two weeks after a marriage could still be seen as a bad omen by anyone looking for reasons to be wary of the relative stranger in their midst.
Who knows what other incidents they might blame on my presence once they have that idea in their head?
I need to prove I’ll be a force for good as quickly as I can.
The fire blazes on. A smoky flavor coats the inside of my mouth. Marclinus is standing even closer to the pyre than I am, the orange light dancing off his sharp features that echo his father’s.
I will tame this monster, whatever it takes, however long it takes. This marriage is the most important mission I could have been given. Even Elox—my patron godlen, the divinity who champions peace and healing—has urged me on this path.
I tap my fingers down my front in the gesture that recognizes all nine of our lesser gods with a more emphatic acknowledgment of the one I dedicated myself to. By the fire, Marclinus does the same.
When the blaze has dwindled to embers and nothing but a charred mass remains of the body and the pyre, my husband takes my elbow. We walk along the steps to the imperial carriage that led the funeral procession through the city to the square.
I’ve only taken a few steps when a dark mass whips through the air from somewhere in the crowd of commoners and splats against the skirt of my dress.
I jerk to the side, my hand instinctively dropping to the spot where I was struck. The blob that hit me has fallen to the stone steps.
The place where it smacked into the black silk is wet. When I lift my fingers, they come away smeared with the reddish-brown of old blood.
“Who threw that?” one of the guards is hollering, pushing toward the edge of the throng. Another flicks the tip of his sword against the projectile, and I see it’s some kind of animal organ—a liver, I think.
“Find the culprit and deal with them appropriately!” Marclinus barks, and tugs me onward. “Good thing black doesn’t show stains. Let’s be on our way before the commoners turn their mourning into a festival of entrails, shall we?”