Chapter 15 #3
Romanus waited, while Oliver clutched his arm with one hand, and the marble balcony railing with the other. He laughed until his lungs burned, and the tears streamed down his cheeks, and when he finally dragged in his first deep breath, he wanted very much to cry.
He risked letting go of the rail and mopped at his wet face with his sleeve. “Gods,” he said again, voice a croak. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Hm. You’re easily amused, then.”
“No.” Oliver wiped a last tear off his jaw and tried to regulate his breathing. “Only cracked in the head after…” He gestured to the view. “Everything.”
“Oliver,” Romanus said, voice growing somehow more serious. “I understand that you have doubts, because you’ve grown accustomed to your weak Northern king.”
That dried Oliver’s laughter right up.
They’d developed a delicate balance over the course of their interactions.
Romanus permitted him to speak far more freely than Oliver ever would have expected, but he knew the man had limits, and so he tiptoed his way carefully through every conversation, never showing too much cheek.
He wouldn’t tolerate slander against Erik, though.
“There’s nothing weak about Erik,” he said. “For instance, he doesn’t have to kidnap whores for his own amusement.”
Afraid he’d gone too far, he braced for anger. A shout, or a slap, maybe.
But Romanus remained patient. He said, “Let’s sit down.”
“No,” Oliver protested, just to be difficult.
“I don’t want to.” But he didn’t have the strength to resist when Romanus towed him back inside the solarium and pressed him down into his usual chair.
Somehow, its contours cupped his body, as though used to him, despite never having sat in it in his corporeal form.
Romanus took the chair across from him, like always, and poured a glass of wine. He tilted the decanter in offering, and Oliver shook his head. He had a brief span of clear thinking, and he didn’t intend to muddy it with wine.
The emperor sipped from his glass and sat back in his chair. Kicked his foot up onto his knee. At his leisure. “I admire your spirit. It’s one of the reasons I know you’ll serve well once on the throne.” Before Oliver could protest again, he continued, “My sons possess no magic.”
The abrupt change of subject halted Oliver’s building argument in its tracks. “I’m sorry?”
“I have taken three wives in my lifetime. My sisters.”
Oliver shuddered inwardly, but was careful to hold himself still.
“The first two died in childbirth, and the last died of a wasting sickness, ten years ago.”
If he was expecting condolences, he would be waiting a long time.
“Three marriages, and only three children. One daughter, and two sons. My heirs.” He frowned, troubled, as he gazed down into his wine. “They’re powerless. Intelligent, and well-trained. Loyal.” His gaze flicked up, pointed. “But they haven’t one drop of magic.”
Oliver gripped the arms of his chair. “Did you ever consider that it wasn’t the best practice to have children with your sisters?”
Again, he expected anger. But Romanus ignored his question.
“You can imagine my…disappointment.” His gaze fell again, and he looked down at his hand where it lay on the arm of the chair.
Slowly, he opened it, and then closed it, flexing his long, pale fingers, knuckles cracking.
“All this power. All the time I’ve spent learning how to use it, honing it.
And I didn’t pass any of it to my sons.”
“What of your daughter? Does she not count?”
“She’s not one of my heirs,” Romanus said. He lifted his head, his gaze direct. Unsettling. “As a bastard, you should know better than to ask such a thing.”
“I’m not a bastard anymore. I’m a Drake.”
“Only because your king calls you such. Your father didn’t give you his name.
” His lip curled, a rare show of visible disgust. But then he smoothed his face and continued, “My daughter cannot—could not—inherit, but she did possess magic. A great deal, in fact. But she betrayed her country. Her home. She betrayed me.” The anger flared, finally, an iron edge to his voice.
His hand balled into a fist and stayed that way.
He shook his head. “But that doesn’t matter. She’s dead, now.”
Good, Oliver thought. Better to die than be your child.
He said, “Is that why you’ve chosen, me, then? To rule Aquitainia. Because of my magic? Why not choose Náli? Or one of my cousins?”
“Your cousins I intend to wed to my sons. The old Drake blood comes from Seles, originally. My line crossed with the obvious magic of the Drakes should produce offspring capable of inheriting my power.”
Inheriting. Was his magic a token that could be given to someone else?
“If Marcellus and Amelia can produce a capable boy, I shall pass over my sons and name my grandchild heir.”
“This is assuming Amelia willingly couples with your son.”
“Willingness isn’t the issue,” Romanus said with a one-shouldered shrug. “It will happen. I must then pray for magic.
“With regard to my daughter,” he continued, locking gazes with Oliver, pushing something through the air between them.
Oliver felt the atmosphere shift, a cold prickling across his skin.
Felt as though a hand touched his breastbone, under his robe.
“Before her death, she gave birth to a son. One whom inherited her power.”
“You should find him, then. Install him as king,” Oliver said, sourly.
“I intend to,” Romanus said.
But that…oh, that would mean…
“My daughter,” Romanus said, as the blood drained from Oliver’s face, “fled Seles for Aquitainia. Where she died her white hair gold, and pretended to be a servant, seeking succor with an undeserving Southern noble.”
“No,” Oliver said, quietly.
“The child was born with his father’s red hair, but both bloodlines possessed the ability to commune with dragons.”
“No. No, no, no—”
“I call you a whore because you are one, just like your mother. Debasing yourself every time you fuck someone of a lesser station. Of a lesser heritage. You take pride in King Erik naming you a Drake. You shouldn’t. You’re of greater importance than that.”
Oliver shut his eyes when the room started to spin. He welcomed the oncoming swoon. Couldn’t wait for it, actually.
But before it arrived, he heard Romanus say, voice ringing with authority off the walls of the solarium, “My daughter laid with the duke of Drakewell’s brother, and bore his child. Bore you. You’re my grandson, Oliver, and it’s past time you started living as such.”