Chapter Six
Breaking
The somber beat of my boots belongs to that of a dreary song as we make our way inside the cavernous dining hall.
I allow my expression to remain as grim as I feel, since His Majesty gives me no reason to feign otherwise, refusing to so much as acknowledge my entrance while showing far more interest in the thin line of wine left in his goblet.
Yet a sick sort of satisfaction deepens in my stomach as my presence extracts a different reaction from the Imperial Court leaders and their assigned Imperial witches. They all fall silent and still their movements as my Guards and I draw nearer to my place on the Emperor’s right.
Candlelight glints from the golden sigil above His Majesty’s crown, where the metal has been expertly crafted inside the dark wood of the throne.
He presides from the center of the U-shaped table laden with more pastries, fruits, and savory protein than all those in attendance could possibly eat in one sitting, while his own Guards take after him, looking anywhere other than at me and my own protectors.
Fray pulls my chair back from the table as I smooth my skirts to ease down onto the black velvet cushion, still ignored by the Emperor in favor of yet another impassioned exchange with Imperial Grand Philosopher Wyrth—the maker of false promises and creator of the greatest tragedy to befall my family.
I narrow my eyes at the way he seems to have put more effort into his appearance this morning, as his graying black strands are brushed back from his pale, wrinkled face for the first time in recent memory.
He’s the only other servant His Majesty has bestowed the ‘Grand’ title, with the privilege of choosing whether or not to attend certain meetings, or to arrive in an unkempt state without reproach, while the Imperial Guards and witch assigned to him are expected to be just as pristine as the rest of us.
But of course, a sorcerer in the highest echelon of power can subvert what the rest of us must abide—so assured in his own theories he has convinced the most astute of magical beings into believing his claims. Regardless of how many times his experiments result in the worst possible outcome, he maintains the Emperor’s faith with his indescribable charm.
The Emperor’s voice rises, alerting me to siphon enough irritation to keep him from flipping the table again. I pull in a deep breath and steal calm from the memory of Hendry’s kind words to me and imbue His Majesty with a sense of ease and solemnity.
He turns to me with his gaze raking up and down my form, abandoning his fork in a clamor of metal and porcelain as he reaches down to pat the side of my thigh in acknowledgement.
My throat burns when I swallow a scream brought on by the gesture. I stare down at my lap and strain to maintain the magical connection to gauge His Majesty’s mood when he snaps his fingers and an Imperial servant rushes over.
“Send the fastest, most reliable falcon to deliver this to my cousin—the newly crowned King of Draconea.” He thrusts the envelope before the servant while my brow furrows at his use of the description ‘newly crowned’, as it must have been two years since his second cousin was crowned following his father’s death.
It’s unclear if this is an inconsequential slip of the tongue or another sign his memory is otherwise affected.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the Imperial servant says, bowing before removing the missive from the Emperor’s shaky hands.
Our ruler coughs, and he doubles over, one hand held before his mouth in a tight fist while the other clumsily seeks his near-empty goblet. He smacks his flying Guard, Jesin’s, wrist when the Guard tries to aid him in moving the goblet closer to the Emperor’s shaking hand.
“Did I command you to do so?” His Majesty asks.
“No, Your Eminence,” Jesin says, stepping back.
“You are to only take action when I command it,” Emperor Aldritch sneers and snatches up the crystal stem.
“As I have advised, it would be wise to drink more water and forgo the wine, Your Majesty,” Wyrth chides, to which the Emperor simply huffs before catching his breath long enough to empty the vessel, gesturing in demand of a refill.
Light-blue tendrils coil from Wyrth’s Imperial witch, Imelda, staring at her charge with wide brown eyes made to appear larger from how tightly her shiny black hair has been secured.
“Say your offering of gratitude,” Emperor Aldritch chides me, and I nod.
“Glory to the Dragons, to whom we owe everything.” His Majesty releases a breath once I finish, apparently satisfied with my performance.
Quiet conversation floats from the Imperial Court leaders at the end of the table, and I focus to catch anything they might say that could distress the Emperor.
“I find it amusing how much disdain he holds for his second cousin now that he has ascended the Draconean throne. So utterly rankled by the fact King Culven is the newest to take his claim of being the youngest to have ruled in their family,” Imperial Marshall Bradick remarks.
“While I never expected him to pretend to be saddened by the death of his first cousin, he could have at least sent his congratulations to the son on his ascension. Yet all he’s done is raise the rates on our trade with them ever since it happened. ”
“His family power squabbles are none of our concern. What we need is for him to name an heir,” Imperial Chancellor Huber says, as concern prickles underneath my skin with this conversation having the potential to turn dangerous.
“There isn’t a citizen in Ampara Deicra who wants to see a land ruled by Dragons again. ”
A shudder runs through me from the very real fear of what sort of war and bloodshed we would endure were the majestic beasts we worship to become our rulers.
Then my stomach drops with the terror His Majesty might have seen in my reaction, and I shift my eyes to the side to learn one way or another, only to pull in a breath of relief when he simply carries on his conversation with Wyrth.
“I doubt any of us will live to see the day he caves and names an heir, so loyal to his precious Philosopher, who promises he will make sure the Emperor’s rule lasts forever, should he continue to believe these mysterious experiments will lead to the answer to immortality, after all.
” Imperial Marshall Bradick wipes his mouth on his napkin, and I send tendrils of fear out to each of the Court leaders’ hearts, hoping it is enough to keep this conversation from escalating much further.
The Marshall’s assigned witch widens her eyes as she maintains a tether on his emotions the moment my magic infiltrates his form. She fixes her gaze on the floor and refuses to meet my own, though something in her expression tells me she knows.
“He refuses to consider any of the contradictory evidence I have attempted to provide him.” Imperial Chronicler Enit shakes his head. “So thoroughly convinced he will be the first sorcerer to live forever in Continental history, despite it never having been documented as a possibility.”
“If his concern was leaving the citizens to survive the reign of the Dragons—” Imperial Chancellor Huber pauses to glance over at His Majesty and Wyrth, still deep in conversation.
“Then he would name an heir or marry. However, by doing so, he would place a target on his heart, since an heir is the only way to avoid a Dragon reign in his absence, and not even the other lands are willing to risk it.”
Imperial Steward Garth drops his fork. “If he spent half as much time preparing his own court for the future as he does in attempting to steal spells from other lands, all of this would be resolved.”
Imperial Marshall Bradick raises his brow as he looks from the Imperial Steward to the Emperor and back while His Majesty remains oblivious.
“While we’re at it, if we could please convince him to stop Wyrth from experimenting with his famous hybrids, it would make my soldiers’ jobs much easier,” Imperial Steward Garth says. “Gods know the forest can’t contain many more of his rejects—or escapees.”
My eyes widen at the casual confirmation of the long-held suspicion that the forest is filled with mysterious beasts of our own Philosopher’s making.
“Do you have a death wish?” Imperial Marshall Bradick chides.
“What?” Imperial Steward Garth asks.
“You know better than to use the term referring to deities from other lands,” Bradick says.
“Oh, please. Our parents invoked the term and lived,” Garth says.
“Our parents did not work within the Imperial Palace, nor did they say it in the same room as the ruler who forbids its usage.” Imperial Marshall Bradick shakes his head as I imbue the Imperial Steward with enough fear to shift his expression—throat bobbing as he takes a quick swig of wine, keeping his eyes fixed on the Emperor the whole time.
I release a breath once it’s clear the Emperor did not overhear, for if he had, he would have ordered me to kill the Steward over nothing more than naming those we denounced in favor of our benefactors.
Purple mist billows in my periphery as something cold and hard taps my cheek.
A single blackberry floats within Malin’s magic, hovering just an inch away from my face.
I narrow my eyes at him to indicate I do not appreciate his attempt at telekinetically feeding me.
Yet I take the offering and pluck the berry from his magic, exaggerating my chewing until I earn a small smile from him in return.
Emperor Aldritch snaps his fingers and gestures to one of the servants. “Where is the Thornberry jam?” he demands, tapping his finger where the bowl normally rests.
The servant with a meek temperament and cropped brown hair steps forward, his hands clasped tightly behind his back as he bows. “We are awaiting shipment, Your Majesty.”
All eyes fall closed around the table as the Emperor slams his fist down in a clatter of plates and cutlery. “They dare mock me.”
“I believe Draconea’s intent may be to provoke us into further negotiations on our trade agreements, Your Majesty,” Imperial Marshall Bradick says, as the Emperor ignores him and turns to Wyrth, whispering in low tones I don’t bother trying to decipher.
Monotonous musings of the Imperial Court members meld together as my Guards close in, each of their fists tightening around the swords holstered to their hips.
Gooseflesh ripples up my skin, and I pause my eating to try to discern what threat my body detects. Then all breath halts with the buzzing of tiny wings, as my whole being screams for me to start running—the exact action the abomination soaring nearer was made to prevent me from doing.
“I hate that thing,” Imperial Steward Garth says.
“Why create a hybrid with its exact mix of attributes?” Imperial Treasurer Aldo adds.
“Can you name a creature small enough to fit under doors with the ability to see nearly three hundred and sixty degrees and a venom which causes paralysis from the neck down for a full six hours?” Wyrth’s eyes flash with mischief.
Imperial Treasurer Aldo pales. “N-no, I am unaware of any such creature.”
“Then you understand why a hybrid wyvern, mill fly, and Deicra hornet is necessary.”
“Y-yes, Imperial Grand Philosopher Wyrth,” our Imperial Treasurer stammers.
“How did you give it telepathy?” Imperial Steward Garth asks. “That is the most terrifying attribute, if you ask me.”
Wyrth’s sallow cheeks pull back in long linear dimples. “The wyvern mind, of course.”
The Emperor’s tiny spy soars past, and I narrow my eyes at the matte black scales made to absorb the light—a reminder of how difficult it would be to see at night.
A chill creeps up my spine, and I choke as the berry lodges in my throat.
His Majesty sneers as I cough and pound my fist in the center of my chest, heat rising in my cheeks just before I free the fragment, with Malin’s magic having been threatening to pry open the seam of my lips and retrieve it for me.
My fingers swipe the glass from the table with far too much aggression, sloshing water onto the surface.
The Emperor turns and glares in my direction while I carefully drink a few sips before setting the vessel down again, clinking it loudly over the wood and drawing the attention of the Imperial Court leaders.
My magic detects the Emperor’s resulting disgust rippling through his middle from my display of clumsiness.
I steal a sense of contentment from memory and send the light-blue tendril straight to his spinal column, replacing his feeling of annoyance until the tension in his jaw eases enough for me to retract it.
He smiles and raises his arm for Raki, his tiny spy, to land on. A chill rises, unsettling the hairs along the back of my neck when it sits on his shoulder and seems to stare with its bug eyes and venomous tail pointed in my direction.
I grab hold of my fork and prepare to take a bite of roasted vegetables when the fluttering of wings grows closer.
Every muscle in my body tenses when its tiny paws press into the fabric over my shoulder.
The Emperor’s magic surrounds me like a dark gray vapor, then tightens, binding my arms to my sides while forcing my spine to remain straight, giving the miniature spy a sturdy foundation from which to torment me.
Its razor-sharp talons dig into the flesh behind my neck, and all I can do is focus on breathing as tears well in my eyes without the ability to hide them.
I drag a false sense of complacency from where I store the emotions stolen from others and imbue myself, needing what little I have of my own magic to disguise my fear.
Not wanting the damned thing to detect any of the terror it conjures and sting me because of it—a natural reaction it maintained from its Deicra hornet ancestry.
His Majesty’s expression is painted with pride as he clicks his tongue. “Come, Raki.”
It lifts off, and I pull in a gasp as the talon on the edge of its wing slices the skin on the back of my neck. Blood stings along the seam of the cut as a light-blue fog rolls up my back, my healer’s magic tending the wound. I turn and catch Cirrin’s eyes and subtly nod in thanks.
“My little witch is jealous,” His Majesty drones, stroking the spines lining Raki’s back as its tiny mouth lined with razor-sharp teeth opens to let out a croak.
“You will be on your best behavior today,” the Emperor chides me with a withering look. “You have been far too distracted, and I will not tolerate any more of your insolence.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
He turns and stuffs a bite of sausage in his mouth. “You have acted far too entitled,” he adds as he chews. “Ungrateful for all I do, giving you anything you could ever want.”
I nod and guzzle the contents of the goblet past the constriction in my throat, wishing wine alone were capable of making this day more tolerable.