To Steal a Throne

CHAPTER ONE

THRONE OF LIES

When we couldn’t afford wood for the hearth, my mother’s lies warmed our home.

She lied constantly, about everything: promised we had enough coin to survive the long, cruel dark seasons at the base of the mountain; swore to the stars we weren’t slowly starving to our deaths; insisted a better life awaited us, just around the corner . . .

My mother was a liar. Fortunately for me, so is everybody else.

In this tiny room, I keep one hand pressed to a wall of tshira.

It’s black like pitch, streaked with bands of red and bronze, and so maddeningly cold, it sets my teeth on edge.

My free hand curls around the sparrow-shaped tshira talisman dangling from my wrist. It emanates faint warmth into my hand—there’s a lie trapped inside.

At my coaxing, the heat of the lie flows from the trinket and into my palm. Magic hums through me.

I bask in the sensation, like one of those rare moments of sunlight we get in the dark season. The warm, buzzing feeling starts in my fingertips—where my skin touches the talisman—works its way up my arm, and pulses from my other hand, still pressed to the wall.

Magic smooths out a panel in the rough surface. It lightens to a translucent white, frosted over like a screen of ice that peers into the adjoining room, where two people sit on opposite ends of a long table. The window is one-way, so neither of them can see me, and only one of them knows I’m here.

“You haven’t answered my question, Ms. Harcot.

” Luc faces the door, arms folded to appear stern.

Even while sitting, he’s tall enough to look imposing.

He has thick, black coils of hair, skin dark like ochre, and deep-set brown eyes identical to my own.

“What is your relationship with Honorate Jasper Nox?”

His chair is high-backed and packed with royal-blue cushions that make it almost comfortable, if not for the spine.

It was hand selected (by me, of course) because it’s rigid like a steel rod.

Sure, it makes the chair a wreck on the back, but it also makes it impossible to slouch.

Lucien Kyler might be Praeceptor of the Republic of Virdei, but he has the posture of a dying blytheweed flower.

“I beg your pardon, sir.” Pelene Harcot sits on a three-legged stool at the other end of the table.

She’s tiny, and her voice is even smaller than she is.

Her skin is light like sand, eyes dark like tar, and hair thick and auburn hued like sagegrass.

“I’m not sure I understand the question. I used to work for him. That’s all.”

Heat.

Magic, fresh from its source, is hot. When it courses through me, its intensity is like a flare set alight in my belly. The flames of Pelene’s lie flood my veins, hot, sudden, and fervent.

“I see,” says Luc. “So, you claim you’re not having an affair with him?”

Panic flashes over Pelene’s narrow face. Seconds flit away as she scrambles for a believable answer.

Her silence grates my restless nerves.

I have many skills. Patience isn’t one of them. Especially not now, the day before the most important vote of my life.

Finally, she says, “No.” Her trembling voice gives her away, even before the heat of magic gathers in the pit of my stomach. “There’s no affair.”

Stars in hell, she’s an awful liar.

I shove the magic from Pelene’s poor attempt at deception out, to the torch over her shoulder.

It shudders and, for a flicker, glows brighter.

Luc glances at it, nods, and looks back to Pelene. “Ms. Harcot, do you think it’s wise to lie to your Praeceptor?” His words are firm, just as I taught him. But his tone is feather soft.

I make a mental note to scold him for it later.

Not that it matters. Luc’s tone must be convincing enough for Pelene, because her body wracks with shivers.

She strokes the glimmer of gold on the inside of her right wrist in the shape of a crescent moon.

A tattoo by name, brand by function. A bright and permanent warning to all that she’s not from here.

That she doesn’t belong, and she never will. “I-I’m not lying.”

More heat roars through me. I make the torch leap higher, nearly singeing the ceiling.

Luc’s eyes follow the flame. “Think carefully about your next words,” he says. “If they are untrue, swallow them and try again.”

“I—” Her throat bobs. “Yes. We had an affair. It was brief.”

The flame rises with the heat of more lies.

Luc sighs. “Ms. Harcot . . .”

Her sallow cheeks flush. “I’m sorry, sir. We’ve been seeing each other for the past four years.”

“His wife doesn’t know?”

“No, sir.”

There’s no heat this time. She’s telling the truth.

A slow smirk settles over my face. If Nox’s wife doesn’t know, then we have leverage.

Pelene’s shivering intensifies. Her dirty nails are chewed to the beds, and her clothes are dotted with patches.

Worse, they’re thin—practically a death sentence this high up in the mountains.

“I’m not a bad person, sir. When I met Jasper, I was a servant in his home.

He was sweet to me. He promised me he’d leave his wife. But as time went on . . .”

“He didn’t,” Luc finishes for her, eyes soft with sympathy he should know by now to disguise.

Pelene looks sheepish. “I’m not proud of it, but I promise our relationship never affected his work, sir. Or his votes.”

No flare of magic accompanies her words.

It’s disappointing. A girl who seduces an Honorate to sway his power in her favor is clever. Rare. A girl who falls for a sleazy Honorate’s false promises is as starheaded as my mother. Worse, she’s common as snowfall.

The Republic of Virdei is ruled by a council of twenty men called the Honorate. Leading them and all of Virdei is the Praeceptor. Once his five-year reign ends, he’s meant to step down, making way for his successor, never allowed to try for the throne again.

At least, until tomorrow, when the Honorate cast their ballots to decide if the Praeceptor can vie for the throne as often as he pleases. I’ve secured nearly all the votes I need to ensure the end result is yes.

Luc will be Praeceptor again. I can’t afford any other outcome.

Luc pushes back his chair. “You’re free to leave, Ms. Harcot. Thank you for your time.”

Pelene stares at him in shock for a few moments before scooping up her jaw and scrambling to her feet. “Th-thank you, sir.” She starts for the door.

Perfect.

Close enough, anyway. Luc performed well. As always, I have a few notes for improvement, but overall—

“Pelene,” says Luc suddenly.

Stars in hell.

Pelene stops, looking petrified. “Sir?”

“He’s never going to leave his wife. You know that, don’t you?”

Her fear flees, and her shoulders sag. “Sometimes.”

The resignation in her tone makes my heart twitch. Her words are as familiar as they are unremarkable. Deluding herself just as my liar of a mother used to.

I shake myself, discarding the thought along with the flicker of sympathy that rears its head in my heart.

Well, I try. I’m not wholly successful. I never am when it comes to memories of my mother.

Pelene should leave now, but she wavers. “Sir? May I ask you something?”

Say no, I mentally chant. I know he won’t.

Luc nods. “Ask.”

“How did you learn of my relationship with Jasper?”

“The Shadow Queen.”

Pelene’s dark eyes widen. “We were discreet. How did she—” She swallows nervously. “You don’t think she’s going to write about this, do you?”

“I have no idea, Ms. Harcot. I don’t control the Shadow Queen. Nobody does. You know that.”

She shudders. “Of course. Thank you, sir.” She’s shaking harder than ever as she rushes from the room.

The Shadow Queen of Widow’s Hall is as infamous as she is legendary.

She lurks in the shadows, collecting secrets of the powerful men who rule Virdei.

Anyone curious about the lives of the elite can find the sordid details in her column.

For many, the Shadow Queen is a champion of virtue, holding the Honorate accountable.

She publicizes the wicked deceptions of those in power and exposes the truth, no matter how scandalous.

But those whose secrets she gathers like roses for a crown of thorns know the truth: the Shadow Queen does not work for the people. She does not care about justice or truth. She operates for herself. She is more than willing to keep anyone’s secrets out of the public eye—for a price.

No one knows who the Shadow Queen is. She first surfaced three years ago and swiftly rose to infamy.

Some believe she’s the bitter wife of an Honorate; others that she’s a scorned lover, hungry for revenge; still others believe she’s a servant in Widow’s Hall, spying on her employers.

They’re all wrong. The Shadow Queen is me, and I am none of the above.

Widow’s Hall is about as high up as you can climb without freezing your nose off. The view from up here, from the stone balcony hanging off Luc’s private study, is the most breathtaking in the Republic.

The top of the mountain is illuminated by three beacons—massive torches that rise from the roof of Widow’s Hall, magicked to burn year-round.

Below me are dense trees lining the stone roads paved into the ice of Mount Saidu.

It’s midday, but it’s the dark season, so the sky is the color of midnight and blanketed with thick gray clouds that drop snow lazily through the air.

I tilt my head back, enjoying the soothing sensation of snow melting against my cheeks, when the balcony door whines open behind me. Luc has joined me.

With a parting look over the mountain, I turn, half smiling—My movements falter.

It’s not Luc standing behind me. It’s a tall, stern-looking man and a short, smug-looking woman. Both familiar, both unwelcome.

My stomach drops into my feet. My eyes dart around, searching for an escape. Nothing. Not unless I want to take my chances and hurl myself over the side of the balcony.