Chapter 83
83
A ALIA WAITED FOR the morning’s third bell to finish ringing across X’or. The small gold bell in the steeple topping the emperor’s palacio made her teeth ache. When it finally ended, she sighed with relief.
“We’re running out of time,” she said, rolling to her side under a tangle of sheets. “I must be ready to receive the council in another bell.”
Tazar pushed up to an elbow, his hair rumpled, his lips slightly bruised. He reached to her breast and gently rolled a thumb around her nipple, urging it harder. “I can accomplish a lot in less than a bell.”
She pushed him away, stronger than she intended to, but anxiety kept her tense. He had snuck into her bedchamber last night, cloaked under a byor-ga robe. Not that any subterfuge was truly necessary. Aalia’s servants knew of his presence, as did most of the guards by now. No one could fault the Illuminated Rose for needing companionship, especially now. Often enough in the past, she had shared her bed with both men and women. While she had to preserve her maidenhood, which was examined regularly, she was left with abundant latitude for other explorations and enjoyments.
“I need to bathe and prepare,” Aalia said. “The council will fault even a hair out of place in an effort to deny my claim.”
Tazar slid a palm down her leg, settling his fingers in a manner meant to encourage her to relent. “There are some areas they won’t inspect.”
With a great deal of regret, she pushed his hand away. “I wouldn’t be so certain of that.”
He smiled in defeat and rolled away. He crossed to his pile of clothes, turning enough to show the firmness of his disappointment—which was prominent in its statement. He donned his robes, hiding the run of hard muscles and downy glisten of his skin.
She slid out of bed as he finished. She crossed to join him as he pulled the byor-ga headwear in place. She lifted to her toes and kissed him deeply, bruising those lips more, leaving her mark on him.
She settled back to her soles with a sigh. “If all goes well, I’ll see you in Kysalimri by the end of the day.”
“I will do my best to be ready by then.”
She reached down and grabbed him. “You seem ready enough to me.”
He groaned. “You’ll make for a wicked empress.”
She let him go and drew the coif of his headgear over his handsome features. “Do well in rousing the Shayn’ra, and I will show you how wicked I can be. But for now, go. Llyra is surely pacing a hole through the deck of the arrowsprite.”
“Very true.”
Once in Kysalimri, Tazar and Llyra had work of their own to do. The guildmaster would rouse the low army that she recruited from the city’s thieveries, taverns, and dark dens over the past year, while Tazar gathered his Shayn’ra into a larger, harder Fist.
Much depended on the days ahead.
Knowing this, Tazar turned and headed toward a balcony door. He gave a final glance back, then leaped over the rail outside and vanished. The drama of his exit was more artifice than stealth. One had to go through the motions of secrecy to maintain some semblance of decorum when it came to such dalliances.
But for what must be accomplished in the next bell, such feigned pretense would not suffice.
Aalia stared into the mirror leaning on a wall. Naked and unabashed, she straightened her shoulders and stood taller.
I must be the empress.
J UBAYR SETTLED WITH the others in the small dining hall in the emperor’s palacio. He had visited here often enough to tell the room had been prepared for this tense gathering.
The large table had been shifted to face the balcony that overlooked the villa’s grounds and out to the Bay of the Blessed. The Stone Gods stood tall, casting their august shadows across the water. Five seats had been positioned along one side, facing that view.
Clearly the staff had been alerted to the number of councillors who would be attending. There was also a sixth member. Chaaen Hrash. But the man was not officially a part of the imperial council, so he would remain standing. Still, Jubayr had asked Hrash to come with them. If anyone knew Emperor Makar the best, it was his father’s most adored and esteemed friend and adviser. If they were to evaluate the emperor’s temperament and fitness of mind, Hrash’s insight would be useful.
As they waited for Aalia, Jubayr did his best to judge the mood in the room.
Wing Draer and Mareesh, both of the aerial fleet, stood with arms crossed, wearing matching frowns. They seemed equally set against Aalia, refusing to even unbend those stubborn limbs to accept a dram of wine or a crumpet of brined eel on toast.
On the other side, Shield Angelon had his head bowed with Sail Garryn, in midargument with each other, weighing or dismissing the merits of such a radical course. Angelon leaned away and Garryn toward Aalia. Still, like any sail in a tempest, their positions tipped in all directions.
The only neutral party seemed to be Chaaen Hrash, who looked pensive and worried—not about the decision to be weighed this morning, but about an emperor whom he loved dearly.
Finally, a small horn sounded. The master of the palacio—a spindle of a man in an ankle-length gray shift and crimson belt—requested they all take their seats. As they did, a flurry of servants swept in and cleared the table of plates, platters, and other detritus of the small morning repast that had welcomed them. Every crumb and droplet of spilled wine was wiped away, leaving the table as pristine as it was priceless.
Its timber had been hewn from the rare fall of a dead branch from the Talniss groves of X’or. Its surface was as black as ebony and grained in bright silver. The wood was so dark that it looked like the table had been sculpted out of those shining filaments. Talniss wood was prized above all, valued a hundred times its weight in gold. The table alone would finance an entire warship.
Jubayr ran his palm over its surface as he crossed to his seat. Once there, he kept the imperial cloak clasped about his neck, but he tossed its length over the low back of his chair. The embroidered Haeshan Hawk with its diamond eyes and gold claws glinted brightly, as if trying to compete with the rich table.
The others settled to either side. The Wing and Mareesh to his left and the Shield and Sail to his right. Hrash stood behind Jubayr’s shoulder, ready to offer support. Still, seated at the table’s center, Jubayr felt the weight of this responsibility. His father had left him this cloak and the leadership of the imperium while he was gone. Jubayr would honor that blessing by not relinquishing it without cause.
The horn sounded again.
An expectant silence settled over the room.
Footsteps could be heard approaching down the marble hall. All eyes turned. As Aalia stepped into the room, a few gasps greeted her. One of them might have been from Jubayr, but he was too shocked to know for sure.
Aalia stepped into the room naked, her skin oiled to a dark ebony, nearly the same hue as the table. Enhancing this effect was the tracery of silver lines that wrapped her skin. Across her belly, they formed a shining hawk, the Haeshan crest. Her long hair had been unbraided and ironed into a fall of shadows.
In her hands, she carried a silver platter. Atop it rested the imperial circlet of dark iron. Its bright blue sapphires matched the waters of the bay behind her. As she crossed, the Stone Gods towered behind her shoulders.
Two princes flanked her, Rami on her left, Kanthe on her right. They stopped halfway and let Aalia continue forward on her own, bared to all. She kept her gaze forward, humble but unbowed.
She stepped to the table and placed the circlet and platter down before Jubayr.
“No hand has touched this since my father forced it upon me. I now lay it before you all.”
She retreated four steps, while the two princes came forward, flourishing a grand cloak between them. It was a silken gold on the inside and layered on the outside with petals of every hue of red. They placed it across her shoulders and drew it over her nakedness, transforming her in a sweep into the Illuminated Rose of the Imperium.
She took one step forward again, asserting her space. “I have no desire to be empress. I only come to repeat and share my father’s wishes before delirium fully consumed him. I leave it to you all to decide to set it aside or honor it.”
Jubayr realized he had been holding his breath. He let it out slowly, glancing to his right and left. No one had the wind to speak, still stunned. Mareesh barely noted Aalia. His gaze was fixed to the circlet. He looked ready to lunge over and grab it, and he might have, if not for the presence of Shield, Wing, and Sail. To ever hope to wear that crown, one would need the approval of all three.
Jubayr glanced to the circlet, too. Unlike Mareesh, he had hardly looked at it. If anything, he felt a trickle of fear at the sight of it—whether due to the hard man who once wore it or his own reluctance to ever carry its weight.
The first person to speak did not come from the table but from behind Jubayr’s shoulder. “And what of Emperor Makar?” Chaaen Hrash asked. “How does he fare?”
Aalia closed her eyes, her chin dropping. “See for yourself.”
Upon her words, another trio entered. This time, everyone truly did gasp.
Jubayr stood up, choking himself with his cloak. “Father…”
Emperor Makar hobbled in, leaning heavily on the arm of the Augury of Qazen. At his father’s other side came Abbess Shayr, governess of X’or and one of the most esteemed healers of the Klashe. The emperor was dressed as resplendently as always in a stark white gerygoud habiliment, complete with polished snakeskin boots and gold cap. Only the rich attire seemed to mock the man wearing it. His father looked everywhere and nowhere. Spittle flecked his lips. His right cheek twitched with every step.
Chaaen Hrash rushed around the table. “Makar,” he blurted out, shocked into forgetting any proper title or honorific. Only when he reached the emperor’s side did he finally collect himself. “Your Illustriousness, it is I… Chaaen Hrash.”
Makar looked at his closest friend, but clearly there was no recollection. Still, the emperor tried, as if Hrash’s heartbreak more than his words had worn past the haze that overtook the emperor’s senses. A single tear rolled down his father’s face.
Jubayr noted Rami wringing his hands as he watched this greeting, his face furious and frustrated.
I feel the same, dear brother.
“What has caused this affliction?” Hrash asked.
The Augury nodded to the abbess to answer.
“As well as we can discern, from the muscular tics and waves of lucidity, we suspect a poison of Quelch Bonnet. A venom from an asp that resides in the Shrouds of Dalal ?e a.”
“In other words,” Shield Angelon sneered out, casting Prince Kanthe an accusatory glare, “from the highlands of Hálendii.”
K ANTHE FOUGHT TO keep his face stoic as guilt etched through him. What afflicted the emperor wasn’t a Hálendiian poison, but Kanthe and the others were still to blame.
Aalia spoke up in his defense. “If it wasn’t for a plot uncovered by Prince Kanthe, a most loyal friend, Prince Rami and I would not have been able to save my father. I wish we had only known sooner and whom to trust. We still remain leery and don’t know fully whom we can depend upon.” She turned to the figure on her right. “Except for the Augury, who pulled my father from the brink of death and who offered us great counsel throughout our ensuing ordeal.”
“If I may speak?” Tykhan asked with a bow of his head.
Jubayr sank back to his seat and waved permission.
“While the state of His Illustriousness may look distressing, there is hope. He does have moments of clarity. Like when he urged for his daughter to accept the heavy mantle of the imperium.”
Kanthe noted he directed his words at Prince Jubayr, who fingered the clasp at his neck.
“In truth, I was not surprised by this offer. I have often had visions of the imperial throne with a woman sitting atop it. But she was much older, wiser, and greatly revered by her children and the imperium at large. It was only upon Emperor Makar’s supplication to his daughter that I realized who that revered woman was.” He motioned to Aalia. “There she stands.”
Murmurs spread across the table.
Mareesh spoke up sharply, with a slightly mocking tone. “So you say, Augury. But it remains your word and my sister’s. Perhaps you both have much to gain by such assertions. Like the imperium itself.”
Wing Draer muttered a half-hearted agreement.
Tykhan touched his lips, feigning deep consideration of these words. “As I said before, Emperor Makar does have moments of lucidity. He seems especially roused by the circlet itself. Perhaps due to some property of the meteoric iron or simply how adamant he is about who should wear it. We’ve kept it from his sight, as it does agitate him and afterward sets him back for a spell. But if you wish, you may see how he reacts. Somewhere deep inside, he likely does recognize everyone here. I saw the tear on the emperor’s cheek when Chaaen Hrash approached in such a heartfelt manner.”
Jubayr gave a small nod.
“So with all of his dearest councillors and advisers present, perhaps we can elicit some lucidity and guidance from Emperor Makar. If Prince Jubayr could bring the circlet forward, then—”
Mareesh reached over and snatched it from the tray. “I’ll do it.”
He stood and stalked around the table, carrying the circlet as if it were a child’s toy. He approached his father. Only when he was a few steps away did his confidence falter. Kanthe had no doubt Makar ruled his sons with a hard hand. Mareesh slowed, his shoulders bowing slightly. He held forth the circlet with more reverence now, recognizing the prominence of the one who once wore it.
“Father,” he asked softly, “what would you have us do?”
Tykhan urged the emperor forward, gently brushing the back of the man’s head as he let him go. Makar stumbled, arms out. He took the circlet from his son’s hands and tilted it right and left, the sapphires glinting in the light. He then held it out, as if offering it to Mareesh. His son reached to accept it, but Makar stumbled past him, shouldering the prince aside. He crossed to Aalia, toppled to his knees, and held the circlet up toward her.
One word was forced through his lips. “P… P… Please…”
Kanthe suspected this plea had nothing to do with the circlet, and everything to do with the emperor begging to be released from his bridling. Aalia took it, her face stricken with a sadness that was not feigned. Tears welled. Rami could stand it no more and turned away.
Tykhan and the abbess collected Makar, who swooned and nearly fell. He could barely keep his legs now.
Tykhan looked apologetically toward the table. “As I warned, these mo ments of clarity are rare but also debilitating.” He turned to the abbess. “Would you take him back to his room to rest? I’ll check on him when we’re done.”
She nodded.
“And could you ask Novitiate Liss to bring in Sister Amis?” Tykhan added.
“Of course.”
As the abbess guided Makar out, Kanthe looked at Aalia and Rami, who appeared to be just as mystified as Kanthe about this next visitor.
Chaaen Hrash watched Makar depart the room. “How long will the emperor be afflicted?”
Tykhan sighed. “Years certainly, maybe longer, maybe forever.”
Sail Garryn spoke up into the silence that followed. “Considering this verdict, we must consider the good of the imperium. Word of the emperor’s affliction will surely spread. Both within our borders and without. The people will look to us for guidance. We must not look indecisive.”
Shield Angelon nodded. “I agree. During this time of strife, we must quickly shore up the people’s morale.” His next words were spoken begrudgingly. “To that end, no one is held in higher esteem than the emperor’s daughter. People will rally around her.”
Kanthe had expected such a judgement would wound Prince Jubayr, the eldest son, but the man simply ran a palm over the table’s surface, as if inspecting it for flaws. Next to him, Prince Mareesh had recovered enough to stare with narrowed eyes as the circlet was returned to the table.
Off to the side, footsteps approached the room. A young woman entered with an elderly sister on her arm. They were both dressed in gray, but the younger woman was darkly complected, clearly Klashean. The older one was nearly as gray as her robe, both her braided hair and her skin.
Everyone glanced around, waiting for an explanation.
Tykhan nodded to the pair, then turned to the table. “I told you of my vision of the imperium’s glorious future, with a beloved empress on the throne, but I held off mentioning who sat beside her, father to her children. He was older, too, but he was wearing a crown.”
Murmurs whispered in confusion.
Kanthe was not mystified at all.
“He was wearing a Hálendiian crown,” Tykhan explained, turning to Kanthe. “You all knew of Emperor Makar’s desire to have Prince Kanthe marry his daughter on the winter’s solstice.”
Kanthe tried not to groan.
I truly have come full circle.
Aalia looked no happier, but she did not appear surprised. Tykhan must have already informed her, possibly with the promise that this would be a marriage in name only.
But Tykhan was not done. “What the emperor did not share at large but what he has known for over a decade—” He pointed at Kanthe. “There stands the true heir to the Hálendiian crown—not his twin brother, the heinous executioner of our beloved Prince Paktan.”
Mareesh jerked to his feet. “What new trickery is this?”
Kanthe stammered, agreeing with the prince, “That’s… It’s preposterous.”
Mareesh waved at Kanthe as if to say, See, not even this miscreant agrees with you.
Shield Angelon looked just as dubious. “We’ve all heard the whispers and rumors. It happens with every twin birth.”
Tykhan turned to the old woman. “Sister Amis came to X’or fourteen years ago, after years of hiding, seeking refuge and finding it under the gentle wings of Abbess Shayr. She had another name prior to the one she has now.” He stared across the faces. “Fay hy Persha, royal Hálendiian midwife of the Massif clan.”
Mareesh sank down.
Kanthe’s stomach did the same.
“Please tell us what you told the abbess and what she shared with the emperor.”
The woman nodded, looking relieved and casting Kanthe a sad look. “On the night of the twins’ birth, amid the blood and panic, I was between the queen’s legs. I saw who first squalled at the world. It wasn’t a bright child with curled locks, but a quieter babe with shadowy hair and skin like warm toffye.”
Kanthe swallowed, his legs weakening.
Surely this couldn’t be true. It had to be another ruse by the duplicitous Augury of Qazen, a man of a thousand faces. Kanthe stared around at the others, looking to them to refute this claim.
Aalia and Rami appeared equally stunned.
Tykhan gave the smallest nod toward the old sister. “Show him.”
With the novitiate’s help, Sister Amis crossed to Kanthe. From a pocket, the old woman removed a folded piece of silk. She unwrapped it to reveal a gold signet ring set with a crimson garnet. Inscribed into the gem was a winged horse, sigil of the House of Hyparia.
“It was your mother’s ring,” Sister Amis confirmed. “After learning that you were pushed aside as firstborn, the queen rightly feared your father would silence anyone who knew the truth. So she gave me her ring to buy passage away. But I could not part with it, as I loved your mother with all my heart. I kept the ring, hoping one day”—she took another step forward and offered it to Kanthe—“to hand it to the rightful heir.”
Kanthe accepted the ring, too stunned to do otherwise. He stared down at the garnet, at the symbol. He barely remembered his mother, just hazy glimpses, all full of warmth. He felt tears rising unbidden.
This is a piece of my mother.
“It has been authenticated,” Tykhan said. “While some may still dismiss it, we all here know the truth, as did Emperor Makar. Prince Kanthe, sworn to the Illuminated Rose, is indeed the true firstborn son of King Toranth.”
Kanthe found it harder to breathe, his world upended, both believing and disbelieving, both hoping and fearing. He shook his head. Rami came to him, hugged him, as if sensing his distress.
“I will be a truer brother than you’ve ever known,” he whispered in his ear. “This I swear.”
Kanthe hugged him back, hanging on him, rudderless for a moment.
A sharp clatter of boots rattled down the hall, drawing them all straighter. A shining Paladin burst into the room. He stared around at the assemblage, unsure of his footing or even where to look.
Aalia asserted her first dominance as future empress. “Out with it,” she snapped. “Why do you disturb us?”
While still breathless, he stiffened straighter at her command. “Word from Kysalimri,” he said, gulping twice more. “Hálendii is moving once again. Warships are being readied. Including their flagship.”
Kanthe knew of the Hyperium. Half a year ago, before he was deemed a traitor to the crown, the ship was still being finished. He remembered viewing its skeleton of beams and draft-iron. It was easily three times the size of a regular Hálendiian warship and twice that of the largest of the Klashean fleet.
Upon this announcement, chaos briefly broke out as everyone tried to speak at once. Aalia silenced it with a word. “Enough!”
All eyes turned to her.
She stared them down, unbending. “The imperium will not survive a thousand voices squabbling, nor even the five here. One must lead. Will you honor my father or dismiss him? I will abide by your decision but will not tolerate waffling. Either you all agree or none.”
Sail Garryn did not hesitate, responding to the firmness in her voice, looking relieved to hear it. He bowed his head, raising fist to forehead. “Empress.”
Shield Angelon waited a breath, looking briefly at Prince Jubayr. The hesitation he saw there bowed the Shield’s head and raised his fist.
The Wing followed suit, though it looked like he was bending iron to do it.
Jubayr stood and reached to undo the clasp of his cloak.
“No,” Aalia said, striding forward. She refastened the clasp in place. “Our father gave you his cloak. I will respect that. You have spent your life under his tutelage. I will always seek your counsel. You will forever be at my side.”
She turned to Mareesh. “I know you do not agree, dear brother. You were never one to hide your heart, and I’ve loved you for that passion.” She placed her hand atop the circlet. “In respect for your doubt, I will not don this. Not until the empire is safe. But for now, can you… will you be my warrior in the clouds until such a time comes?”
Mareesh stared at the circlet, then at his sister. The Wing put a hand on his shoulder. He nodded and placed his fist to his brow. “I agree. As you say, for now.”
“Thank you, Mareesh.”
She turned to the room. “I will head to Kysalimri with the council. Prince Kanthe, I’ll ask for you and your alchymist to remain here. Animosities toward Hálendiians are already running high. Best you stay here until these storm clouds clear.”
Kanthe bowed his head and placed a fist to his forehead. He clutched the signet ring in that same hand. He couldn’t argue with her.
It’s stormy enough right here.