Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Aurelia
I thought spring in Dariu was uncomfortably warm, but this afternoon is giving me my first taste of how sweltering the summer might become. The sun blazes down over the garden from the cloudless sky. Even in my airy Darium-style dress, sweat forms on my back after a few minutes under its rays.
The gentlemen and ladies of the court have resorted to gathering around the flowering trees and taller hedges where they can take shelter in the shade. The heat turns the usual floral aroma even more cloying. Many of the ladies have spread out embroidered sheets to sit on, far too fine to be used for picnicking, while most of the men insist on stoically standing.
I meander between the patches of shadow, always on the edges of the conversations. Several of the maids have come out with us to attend to their mistresses with beverages and fanning, but I made myself ask for Melisse to join me today so I don’t appear to overly favor Rochelle. I couldn’t have talked freely with the former lady in front of the court anyway.
How ridiculous is it that I find myself wishing someone would call us to a lawn game? We’d all melt from perspiration, but at least we’d have something to do other than chatter.
I pause beneath the arch of a vine-draped arbor, sipping the sweet but watery juice that Darium society apparently turns to on hotter days. Part of me is relieved not to have to face another trial just yet. Part of me wishes we could get the rest of them over with.
A twinge runs up my leg from my foot still recovering from yesterday’s beating. I glance down—and my pulse lurches.
A black stain is spreading across my pale blue bodice, creeping even faster in the instant after it arrests my gaze. It looks as if I’ve been stabbed in the heart but the blood’s coming out dark as tar.
My body stiffens, but I manage to clamp down on the shriek that hitches up my throat. Remain calm, stay centered, take stock?—
A glimpse of flame-red hair at the edge of my vision douses my panic. I turn my head just enough to confirm that Fausta is sitting nearly out of view around the side of a nearby hedge sculpture, surrounded by her friends.
While I study her from the corner of my eye, her head ticks toward me as if she’s surreptitiously checking my reaction.
The next time I glance down at my dress, the stain has vanished. The fabric beams as starkly white as ever.
She projected another illusion at me. A much briefer one than before, but she wouldn’t risk exhausting herself on a gamble when we have no idea when the next trial might begin.
She must have been hoping I’d make a fool of myself in front of the court—and Their Imperial Eminences, who are strolling the gardens too. Maybe even end up looking outright mad.
So sorry to disappoint her.
I doubt her gift is strong enough for her to want to extend it much more than she already has today, but I meander onward in the opposite direction. I’d rather not linger in hostile territory.
A slightly cooler breeze drifts over me from the largest of the garden’s fountains. I head toward the marble fixture with its statue of Sabrelle the warrior godlen striking down a helmed man, and slow when I realize that the emperor has naturally picked the most refreshing spot in the garden for himself.
He’s standing by a shaded bench with one of his chief advisors and a few other high-ranking members of his court. They appear deep in discussion—I catch enough words to gather a new iron mine has been established in Lavira.
Maybe they’ll move on to a subject more useful to my purposes. I spot Giralda sitting with a few other ladies a little closer by and settle onto the edge of their sheet as if I have every right to be there. Which I suppose I do, although Giralda makes a quick grimace as if she’s bitten into something sour.
Their murmured conversation continues next to me. I feel no need to insert myself into the debate on the merits of various types of belt fastenings.
Emperor Tarquin is saying something about the route the metals will be conveyed along to reach the sites where they’re needed. “How many of the appropriate cargo ships do we have available for the lake crossing?”
His advisor dips her head. “I believe there are only a few not already assigned, but we could adjust the allotments as you see fit.”
The emperor hums. “I want as much as possible moved before the summer storms.”
A familiar terse tenor speaks up from a bench farther around the curve of the fountain. “You’d be able to move it more efficiently with a land-based route through Cotea.”
Both my and the emperor’s gazes jerk to the slim, auburn-haired figure whose head is still bent over the book open on his lap. Emperor Tarquin’s eyes narrow just slightly.
“What was that, Your Highness?” he asks with a sharp undercurrent of warning.
I’m not sure Prince Bastien fully thought through his remark rather than responding to the topic automatically. His head comes up, and he blinks at the emperor as if he hadn’t quite realized who he was talking to. Whose planned strategy he was criticizing openly in front of members of the court.
It’s hard to say when he’s already so pale, but I think even more color leaches from the prince’s face. His body tenses with his hesitation.
The safe thing to do would be to retract, apologize, and flee the emperor’s sight. But as I watch, Bastien’s narrow jaw firms.
He holds Emperor Tarquin’s gaze unflinching. “I said it’d be simpler to set a land-based route through Cotea, Your Imperial Majesty. Fewer concerns about the weight the boats can handle. Fewer delays from the storms. There’s a good road straight from?—”
The emperor cuts him off with a scoffing sound. “Your intention couldn’t be clearer. You’re simply hoping to earn more profits for your own kingdom by having them host the caravan. You’ll have to come up with a subtler gambit than that if you want to skew results to your benefit, young prince.”
Bastien’s mouth flattens. He doesn’t look disappointed or abashed, only irritated.
That’s all I need to convince me that it wasn’t a gambit at all. He was offering Tarquin solid advice based on his knowledge, and the emperor has thrown it away because he didn’t come up with the idea himself.
Perhaps because he already decided he’d rather take on more expense than see any economic benefit go to one of his conquered countries.
“My apologies for interrupting,” Bastien says, and turns back to his book.
He must know his brief offer of regret is unlikely to be enough. His shoulders stay rigid.
Indeed, it’s only a moment before Emperor Tarquin makes a thoughtful sound as if something has just occurred to him. “Since you’re keen on ‘educating’ those around you today, Prince Bastien, why don’t you put your familiarity with my library to some use. In the botanical section, there’s a volume by Plinta Iviserra on the native flora of Dariu. Fetch it for me.”
His tone makes it clear this is an order, not a request. Bastien accepts his punishment in silence, leaving his own book on the bench and setting off for the palace.
I expect that’ll be the end of it. The ladies I’m sitting with paused their conversation to watch the altercation but now go back to their own concerns. Melisse comes by with a fresh glass of juice, and I accept it with a grateful smile.
It takes several minutes for Bastien to reach the palace, get up to the second floor, locate the book, and return. He offers the massive text to the emperor, who motions for him to set it on the edge of one of the planters.
Tarquin sounds only bored now. “Never mind that. I wonder if the weather might shift—go to my chambers and have one of my staff retrieve my crested jacket for me so you can bring it back.”
The request is obviously absurd. I doubt it’ll be cool enough out here to warrant another layer of clothing even in the middle of the night.
Bastien’s eyes flash, but he heads off again.
This trip takes him a little longer. When he arrives with the requested jacket heaped in his arms, his face is taut with tension. His voice carries a hint of a rasp when he displays the thick garment with its ornate detailing. “Your jacket, Your Imperial Majesty.”
My throat constricts. Emperor Tarquin isn’t simply giving him busy work and humbling him by treating him like a servant. He’s purposefully pushing the prince’s physical limits.
The imperial chambers are on the third floor of the palace. The vast staircases and heavy cargo of the two trips close together might have left me out of breath. For a man who’s relying on only one lung…
The emperor flicks his hand, and one of his pages who could have carried out the errand in the first place collects the jacket.
“I have a mind to take a closer look at the birds nesting in our trees,” he says. “Retrieve the spyglass from the observatory room for me. In its case with its various lenses. Quickly, please.”
Bastien ducks his head and strides off again. My heart sinks .
The observatory room is on the third floor too, and gods only know how big this case is.
Is Tarquin going to keep at the prince until he outright collapses?
A flicker of anger guides my tongue. I lean closer to the other ladies, pitching my voice low as if sharing a confidence. “How unfortunate for the prince that His Imperial Majesty is so changeable in his desires. Of course, he must only be pretending to be so unfocused.”
No one could accuse me of insulting the emperor. At face value, I’m applauding his sly strategy.
But as the ladies around me glance toward Tarquin, their expressions turn a bit curious.
I’ve also sown the idea that he is acting oddly unfocused.
No one else in the garden cares much about what happens to Bastien, though. I’ve gathered that Neven spends quite a bit of his days with tutors, and I haven’t seen Raul or Lorenzo since breakfast either.
I sit back on my hands and pretend to be enjoying the breeze passing by the fountain. My innards knot tighter with every passing minute.
Finally, trudging footsteps approach from the palace. A moment later, I make out breaths broken into ragged hitches.
Bastien composes himself as well as he must be able to before he comes around the hedges that circle the fountain, but his forehead shines with sweat and his skin has taken on a sickly cast. He inhales and exhales through parted lips with a trace of a wheeze he can’t suppress. His whole frame wobbles as he sets down the hefty wooden chest near the emperor.
Emperor Tarquin looks the prince up and down and clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Your health seems to be particularly weak today, Prince Bastien. If you’re in such a state, you’d better retire to your room.”
I’d imagine the pointed comment strings, but Bastien simply bobs his head and stalks away. He’s probably grateful to be released.
I have to hold my fingers back from clenching, willing my agitation not to touch my posture or my face. My mind whirls, the threads of my gift tingling through it.
No potion in the world could regrow a lung or expand the one remaining to match the full capacity of two. But there are ingredients that can soothe results of straining one’s body that way. I have most of them in my tea box.
I asked Bastien for his help. The least I can do is offer my own in return.
To be sure I’m not obvious, I wait for a few excruciating minutes before I get up from the sheet and walk around the other side of the fountain. I wander on through the gardens with no sense of urgency, just happening to end up by the rows of herbs outside the kitchen door.
No members of the court have ventured this far from the others. I pluck up a few leaves and then continue on to one of the proper back entrances.
On my way to my bedroom, I catch a maid in the halls and ask her to bring me a pot of hot water. By the time she arrives, I’ve already mingled the herbs that revealed themselves to my mind’s eye in the bottom of the teacup.
I pour the water over them and a brew for myself for focused calm before lifting the small tray. They’ll steep on the way over.
I face the slight conundrum that I don’t actually know where Prince Bastien’s bedroom is. But it seems likely the emperor will have his foster sons roomed close together. I head toward the hall where I know both Raul and Lorenzo have their chambers, my steps soft and my ears pricked.
I’m three doors down from Lorenzo’s room when I make out faint coughing filtering from the one next to me.
As soon as the fit has passed, I knock on the door. “Prince Bastien?”
There’s a pause and then a creak of the floor. He opens the door a few inches and peers out at me, his face still sallow, his slender body rigid with tension.
I point my chin toward the tray I’m carrying before he has to waste breath asking me why I’m here. “I made you some tea that should help soothe your throat and lung. If you’ll accept that kindness.”
Bastien’s jaw twitches. I don’t think he likes the idea of being pitied any more than Lorenzo did. But considering that he’s seen me laid low more than once, he must feel his pride can stand one turnabout.
He motions me inside with a jerk of his head.
Like Lorenzo’s, the room is only perhaps two thirds the size of mine. The curtains have been drawn back from both of the tall windows, the panes raised to let in the afternoon light and as much breeze as the late spring day offers.
Between them and on either side stand floor-to-ceiling bookcases packed with texts—whether ones Bastien borrowed from the imperial library or his own collection, I can’t tell. They stand in much more orderly fashion than Lorenzo’s haphazard collection.
A few more books and a sheaf of papers sit in neat stacks on the desk next to the doorway to the bathing room. Nearby, a narrow sofa faces a small, low table. Across from them, a four-poster bed fills the rest of the space.
The room is a little cramped, but the atmosphere is calm and orderly, as if everything has a place and could be found in an instant. From what I’ve gotten to know of the prince of Cotea, I’m not surprised.
I bring the tray over to the table and sink onto one end of the sofa. Bastien takes the other end, muffling a few more coughs with the back of his hand against his mouth, and contemplates the tea.
The corner of my mouth quirks upward. “If you’re concerned that I might have decided to repay you for your trick with the stew, I’ll happily take the first sip.”
His gaze darts to meet mine, accompanied by a swift grimace. “I wasn’t thinking that,” he says, a bit hoarsely. “I just wasn’t expecting you to go out of your way…”
I wave off his objection and pick up my own cup. “This is what my gift is for. I’d rather make use of it to see you feeling better than offer my talent to most of my other company in the palace.”
A hint of a smile crosses the prince’s lips. He picks up the other cup without hesitation.
“It’s good to inhale the steam as well as drinking the liquid,” I tell him.
He takes a deep breath and a tentative swallow. Immediately, his shoulders come down. With his next sip, some of the rasp in his chest smooths out.
Bastien smiles at me a little wider, if crookedly. “It does feel as if it’s loosening things up. I shouldn’t have doubted after seeing you at work before.”
I shrug, absorbing the comforting scent of my own tea. “I’m glad I could help somehow.”
He looks down at his cup. “It was stupid, challenging him like that. But I’m so tired of keeping my mouth shut and kowtowing. Gods smite me, I’d have been making his goals easier and I was fine with that if he’d just listen to me.”
“He doesn’t give you much of anything to do, and you obviously have a sharp mind. I can only imagine how stifled you feel.”
Bastien rubs his temple. “I don’t really want to assist him in anything that strengthens the empire. So it was doubly stupid. But I suppose I got a very concrete reminder of why.”
Is this a glimpse into my future: always unheard, always ineffectual?
I squash down the flicker of despair. “How much longer do you have to remain here? I’ve gathered Emperor Tarquin doesn’t plan to keep fostering the four of you for your entire lives.”
“I believe the plan is that once our older siblings—the ones who inherited our kingdoms—have a second-born child of acceptable age, Tarquin will call them to court for fostering and send us home.” Bastien sighs and leans back in the sofa. “My younger nephew is four. So I have three more years? But it’s hard to look forward to leaving when it means him being dragged here in my place.”
My heart squeezes at the thought. “Of course. I don’t know what I’d do if he wanted the same from my sister.”
Bastien lifts an eyebrow. “If you get what you want, she shouldn’t have to worry about sending any of her children, should she? You won’t be going back.”
And I’ll be giving Marclinus children myself, very directly. The reminder makes me queasy.
I wet my lips. “I can try to speak against the fostering in general?—”
Bastien eases over to touch my arm. “You don’t need to make me any promises. I know how hard it is to budge the emperor. And you must have plenty of more personal concerns.”
He pauses, studying me for a moment. “For a long time, I was under the impression that the empire didn’t meddle all that much with affairs on Accasy because of the distance. I’ve come to suspect that impression was misguided.”
Ah. That explains some of the resentment the princes showed when I first arrived. I suppose it’s not an unexpected assumption.
My mouth twists. “The distance has its upsides and downsides.”
“How so?”
“Well… Because it’s harder for us to offer Dariu resources or service, Tarquin extracts everything he can in taxes. There’s little chance for any business or trade to flourish. The soldiers stationed within our borders are assigned to their posts for long stretches with fewer opportunities to visit home than I’ve heard is usual elsewhere, and they often take out their frustrations on our citizens. And…”
The memory wavers up of the men and women I’ve waved goodbye to, resisting the urge to wrench them from our overseers. My throat constricts.
I speak around the anguish. “To move the resources of ours that Emperor Tarquin wants brought to Dariu, it’s a long, dangerous trek. He prefers to leave that mainly to my people rather than his own. I can’t tell you how many I’ve seen conscribed to the transport missions who never return. That’s not to mention those he forces into soldier garb in his endless attempts to regain the western half of the continent.”
When I lapse into silence, Bastien winces. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize— There’s so much they never enter into the records.”
“I’m sure there’s plenty I don’t know about your own struggles. Accasy’s geography has left us a little isolated from the rest of the continent in general.” I hesitate, recalling one particular struggle Rochelle mentioned to me yesterday. “I heard about Neven’s older brother. Prince Pavel? You two must have been close.”
Bastien’s hand drops from my arm, the other clenching around his cup. He takes another drink before answering, his gaze veering away from me.
“He was the first of us to arrive, the only other foster here when I was brought. It’d have been a lot more difficult for me to adjust if I hadn’t had him to lean on. I don’t know how he managed those first several months alone… Maybe that’s part of why he ended up snapping.”
I swallow hard. “It must have been awful losing him.”
Bastien’s eyes stay distant. “I didn’t have any idea he was going to do it. Maybe he didn’t even know he was going to do it until that moment…”
I want to ask what exactly happened, but it seems cruel to pry into those painful memories.
Perhaps Bastien must sense my curiosity regardless. He drags his gaze back to me. “He had a gift with fire. We were in a private meeting with the emperor, reporting on our progress in our studies—we’d do that once a week. Mostly Tarquin would pick at us and make us feel like idiots. He was just laying into Lorenzo about some minor inconsistency when Pavel suddenly threw himself forward with a blast of fire…”
The picture he’s drawn in my mind makes my pulse hiccup. “And Tarquin survived the attack?”
“The flames never even reached him. None of us realized it before then, but he always has at least a few guards around, even if they’re mostly out of sight, and they must have powerful gifts for sensing and repelling magic. They leapt in and deflected Pavel’s gift, and Tarquin didn’t have one hair on his head singed.”
I’ve realized the emperor always keeps guards on hand, but I hadn’t known they could protect him quite that thoroughly. He’d never need to worry about magical assassination with gifts like that surrounding him.
Bastien hasn’t returned to his original position on the sofa. I scoot even closer and take his hand in mine, remembering how he did the same when we spoke in the records room the other night. Imagining the man next to me at thirteen, watching his closest friend and confidante make a fatal mistake.
He considers our joined hands. His voice has turned rough again, but I don’t think it has anything to do with his lung this time. “I’ve always wondered if there was something I could have said to stop him, if only I’d noticed just how angry he was getting…”
“It couldn’t have been your fault. You were just a child still.”
“So was he, really. Children making childish decisions.”
Something about his tone makes me think there’s more he’s not saying.
Instead, he changes the subject, giving my hand a little squeeze. “None of it’s your fault either. I’ve been so focused on keeping us safe every way I can—I didn’t give you a chance to show me who you were before I’d already decided it. Every time you prove you’re not our enemy at all, I feel more ashamed of how I treated you. You’re… You’re a remarkable woman, Aurelia.”
A flutter passes through my chest, but I can’t help teasing him a little. “So I shouldn’t start shunning you to let you feel more justified after all?”
He shoots me a half-hearted glower and sets down his nearly empty teacup. “All I’m trying to say is that if I can make up for it, I will. ”
My smile softens. “Everything I’ve seen of you tells me you’ll keep that promise.”
Something in Bastien’s face shifts. He stares at me for just a moment, his dark green eyes lit with a hunger I don’t totally understand.
Then he cups my cheek and leans in to kiss me.
It’s not at all like last night’s fervid encounter with Lorenzo. Bastien’s mouth moves against mine with a tender intensity, as if he’s charting the texture of my lips, the hitch of my breath, the skip of my pulse—making a cartography of who I am and where I fit into his life.
And into his embrace. He lets go of my hand to slide that arm around my waist, tugging me closer.
Even as I kiss him back, guilt tickles through the heady rush of desire. I was just kissing Lorenzo last night. I let Raul kiss my neck the same afternoon.
What kind of wanton am I becoming?
It isn’t as if these men could believe our encounters will lead anywhere meaningful, though, is it? They’re not expecting any kind of commitment or exclusivity.
They all know why I’m here—they know the outcome of the trials. In the space of a week, I’ll either be dead or married to Marclinus.
It’s hard to think their interest is even all about me. I know how much they hate the imperial family. I’ve heard the way Raul compares what he can offer to Marclinus’s groping.
If I’m getting some kind of momentary escape from my fate with them, they’re getting the satisfaction of seducing their tormentor’s bride-to-be at the same time. We’re all pursuing something more than just attraction.
If they don’t feel guilty about it, why should I?
My uncertainty dwindles, but it doesn’t fade away completely. My heart is still at risk, aching more with every ardent caress.
I can’t tumble so far into this escape that I won’t find my way back out to accomplish what I’m here to do.
I must tense up a bit, because Bastien eases back to meet my gaze. As much as I know I need to extricate myself, the thought of outright rejecting him sends an even sharper twinge through my chest.
I touch his face. “We’ll just keep looking out for each other.”
His flicker of a smile accepts both my boundary and my statement. “Then I’d better let you get back to the gardens before Marclinus wonders where you’ve disappeared to.”