Chapter 41
Several months later
Ivy
Acrowd of several dozen has gathered in the graveyard beyond the Laonek estate. As I stand next to Casimir, ready to give my eulogy, I can’t help eyeing the mourners warily.
“When we talked to Hanie during the rebellion, she said the Order of the Wild people had murdered most of the family’s staff,” I murmur to the courtesan.
He shrugs, beaming at the latest arrivals. “From what I’ve gathered, these are mostly people who knew Julita from her jaunts into town. And of course there’s the few school friends who made the trek all the way from Florian.” He tips his head toward a cluster of young noblewomen who are standing off to the side, apart from the more modest provincial folk.
I consider those four with even more skepticism. I only vaguely recognize them from my time at Sovereign College—certainly none of them took note that I’d said I was Julita’s friend and sought me out to ask what had happened to her. “They must be hoping that showing up will make them look good in the eyes of the queen now that Julita’s been named a national hero.”
Stavros comes up behind me with a teasing click of his tongue. “And our other national hero still has a few prejudices to work through.”
I aim a light jab backward of my elbow at him. “Well-earned prejudices, thank you very much.”
The abruptness of the small movement sends a brief jolt through my nerves. I go still, inhaling more deeply and focusing on my imagined vine holding my body together in the way that’s become automatic now.
Casimir notices the shift in my attitude in an instant. He touches my arm. “Are you all right? If this is a little too much for you—you were closer to Julita than anyone in the end.”
I shake my head carefully. No strange sounds blare in my ears; no frantic thoughts flit through my mind. “That’s why I need to speak for her at least a little. I’m fine.”
Fine, of course, is relative. I’m leagues more fine than I was in the first days after I collapsed in a fit of babbling and shudders after the godlen poured their magic through me.
My men sedated me before I could gather enough intent to do any significant harm, and I spent most of the next two months in a partly drugged daze at the Temple of Tranquil Skies, with Delfis and his devouts drawing on all their healing talents to soothe my nerves and restore my broken mind.
Some of the scourge sorcerers’ former sacrificial accomplices assisted as well. Many of those we’ve rescued are now stationed at temples across the country to amplify the magical work the clerics are overseeing. A few are on the royal staff.
As Poltus, one of those who’s stayed with the queen, told me the day of the trials, it’s the one way they’re most capable of contributing. For all their sacrifices, I can tell they’re happier with their new sense of purpose.
I’m not sure Delfis’s people could have mended my nerves without the boost those resilient souls provided.
Gradually I’ve recovered my wits and my self-control. The taint of madness hasn’t totally left me, but I’m sharp enough now to recognize the minor flickers of hallucinations and delusional ideas when they arise.
My body has odd reactions at times as well, like the jolt I just experienced. Since I’m no longer facing off against psychotic sorcerers or surviving through stealth, I can tolerate that side effect for as long as it lasts.
My soul is still cracked, presumably even more than it was before. My magic flows and churns through my torso, always niggling at me for more freedom. But I’ve taken up Sulla’s regimen of one small magical act per day, and that keeps it happy enough not to savage me.
And if I should ever need to defend queen and kingdom again, gods save me, I have all the power I need at my fingertips.
The cleric of the All-Giver from the main temple in Pima intones the standard blessing of the dead and then says a few words about Julita’s contributions to freeing the county of Nikodi from the Order of the Wild. No one except my closest companions knows the full story of how Julita took her stand, but it’s common knowledge now that she was the first to identify the scourge sorcery threat and that she lost her life taking down her brother, one of the leaders of their army.
When the cleric finishes, he motions for me to take his place in front of her marble monument. The figure it depicts was carved by a sculptor from Florian with input from Casimir, Stavros, and Alek’s memories of the living woman, but I used a few weeks of magical acts to carve a simple vine design along the base.
I give the etching a private smile, imagining how Julita would have responded to it, before I turn to face the crowd of mourners. My throat feels suddenly dry.
She can’t hear me right now the way she followed every moment of my life for the few months we shared my body. Her consciousness will have drifted away into the embrace of her godlen.
I want to do her justice all the same.
I swallow hard and gather myself. “Julita and I met under strange circumstances, two people who couldn’t be more different in position or temperament. But despite all those differences, she became the best friend I’d ever had. She could bolster my spirits when I had doubts and find something to laugh about in the darkest situations. Her fierce devotion to both Nikodi and Silana were awe-inspiring. Keeping all of us safe from the horrors she’d experienced firsthand mattered more to her than her own life.”
A murmur of appreciation flows through the crowd.
My voice catches for a second before I can go on. “The last thing Julita ever asked from me was for me to see that Nikodi came under good rulership once she was gone as the last of her family line. Even when she knew she didn’t have much time left in this world, she was thinking of the people she’d dreamed about taking care of someday. And her final act against the scourge sorcerers not only stopped the invasion of Regica but saved my life.”
With a shaky breath, I bow my head. “I will forever remember Julita and the many ways she touched my life and earned my admiration. I hope her soul moved swiftly into the embrace of her godlen, and that generations to come see this monument as a symbol of leadership and courage.”
I step back to a respectful smattering of applause. Rheave loops his arm around my back and tips his head close to mine. “That sounded very good to me.”
I lean into his embrace. “I think you might be a little biased, but thank you.”
One of the kitchen staff who survived the Order’s massacre goes up to say a little about Julita’s early life living on the estate, and Stavros comments on her commitment as a student and dedication to her classmates. Then we all stand in silence while the cleric offers the final blessing.
When the mourners move away from the grave at the end of the burial ceremony, I spot Voleska standing at the outskirts of the cemetery. As I head over to her, she offers a sympathetic smile that pulls at the scar on her cheek.
“I thought I should pay my respects to the woman who was meant to be in my position,” she says. “They’re big shoes to fill. I wish I’d had the chance to actually meet her rather than simply knowing of her family.”
She doesn’t realize that in a way she did meet Julita, while I was harboring the other woman’s soul. I’d bet my ghostly friend would have approved of my choice of countess. Throughout the uprising, Voleska proved herself just as devoted to her country and this county as Julita was, with leadership skills to spare.
I give her arm a quick squeeze. “From what I hear, you and Emor are already doing a fantastic job.” Her former co-leader has joined her as her chief of staff, without any resentment about the main title going to her.
“She can wear the fancy clothes and do the public appearances,” he said with a laugh when he first heard about the appointment. “I’m happiest behind the scenes anyway.”
Proving my point, Voleska leads the whole gathering back to the estate to enjoy refreshments and music in Julita’s honor—exactly the way I’d expect my noblewoman passenger would have wanted it.
As the wine flows, more stories emerge about Julita’s escapades around town and at the college, with all her usual spirited charm. By the time we call it a night, I feel as if I know her even better than while she was sharing my head.
There, I can almost hear her say. Now everything’s as it should be.
It”s a long trek back to the capital, but at least it’s more comfortable now that we’re traveling as respected members of Queen Petra’s inner circle rather than fugitives. Our two carriages with their softly cushioned benches rattle along the roads with an escort of half a dozen guards around us.
Some people still have hostile feelings toward the riven, unsurprising when the hatred was so entrenched. Technically I could topple any foe faster than those guards if I needed to, but Petra has made it clear that she never wants to put me in a situation where I feel I have to defend myself or the people I care about with magic, not again.
As we approach Florian, Rheave leans out the window for a gulp of fresh autumn air and to grin at the guard riding next to us, who’s one of his fellow captured daimon. “It’s an interesting thing, being perched up on an animal, isn’t it?”
The guard chuckles in return. “Not like anything I knew before. I’m glad I listened to you and stayed to find out more about this side of the world.”
Only about half of the daimon whose animated clay bodies survived the various battles decided to hold on to those bodies rather than returning to their former existence as purely spiritual creatures. As far as we can tell so far, the magically animated bodies are aging the same way regular ones do, so they can have close to normal lives for as long as any regular human being.
Quite a few of the daimon who remained opted to serve the new queen. Rheave has become a sort of captain of the guard for that specific segment.
He’s still delighting in every aspect of his new physical existence, from the breeze to the sway of the carriage to the butterfly that swoops through the window and lands on his sleeve. Rheave laughs and holds it up to show me before it flits off across the fields again.
At the moment, my other companion in this carriage is Alek. The scholar has managed to open a map, a textbook, and a pad of notes on his lap all at once while also consulting a language reference he’s spread out on the bench beside him.
The tension on his face echoes the worry coiled in my gut. I grimace around the question. “Do you think there’s any chance the Darium delegation has good intentions?”
Alek snorts in a not particularly Alek-like way, which only highlights how absurd the idea is. “If there is, it’s so small you couldn’t make it out with a magnifying glass. I’m sure this trip is mainly about the emperor’s people feeling out Petra—with an eye to identifying weaknesses they could exploit to drag Silana back under his control.”
The idea of that ever happening makes me guffaw. “I expect they’ll be sorely disappointed then. I wish we could tell them to stuff their delegation up Emperor Tarquin’s ass.”
“So do I,” Alek says dryly. “But Petra can’t simply throw the offer of negotiating a peace accord in their faces when so many people would benefit from an end to the constant conflict with Dariu. I suppose it’ll give her a chance to feel out the emperor’s representatives too.”
Rheave hums. “Casimir will be able to sense what they’re really after quickly enough.”
Technically the courtesan has been appointed Petra’s arts and entertainments advisor, but she often ensures he’s on hand for any particularly uncertain meetings so he can make use of his gift on her behalf.
I clasp my hands together on my lap. “They’ll be wondering about her entire cabinet of advisors. Do you think word has spread about my magic?”
Alek hesitates, his gaze softening with compassion. “I think it’s unlikely that not a single spy has brought back word of the divine spectacle at the end of the trials. But they’ll also be reporting that Silana has ended capital punishment for the riven and started a new habilitation and training program for any who are identified. And Petra will be introducing you as one of her magic advisors, after all—it’ll be obvious she stands with you.”
So they might think nasty things in their heads, but they’ll probably refrain from saying them out loud. I guess that’s a small comfort.
I’ll have all of my men by my side as well. Petra appointed Stavros her lead military advisor and put Alek in charge of overseeing royal scholarship while he finishes his own studies. Rheave will tag along in the guise of a regular guard for additional protection.
I sigh and slump back in my seat. “Well, we’ve got until tomorrow before we really have to worry about it.”
A small, sly smile touches Alek’s lips. “The only part I’m looking forward to is seeing the emperor’s representatives come face to face with our new Signy. They don’t know what they’re up against.”
I scoff, but a warm glow spreads through my chest at the same time.
Maybe, just maybe, I’ve truly earned that comparison now.
Immediately outside the city, the recently constructed stone mansion where Sulla is taking in riven pupils comes into view near the bank of the river. Seeing it gives me another whiff of relief despite my worries about tomorrow.
My mentor had nearly as long a recovery time as I did after the violence at the kingship trials, though her injuries were mostly physical. But she’s nearly as hale as she was before, simply needing a cane to reduce the strain on her weakened legs if she’s on her feet for long stretches.
I’ve stopped by at least once a week to help however I can with the training. So far she only has two students—a girl of eight whose magic only just showed itself, and a boy of fifteen who traveled all the way from Icar after hearing of Silana’s new policies.
I’m not sure how many other riven who’ve escaped execution there are in the world, other than us. But if any are hiding in the shadows like I once did, I hope they find the faith to give a real life a chance.
Within the main city walls, all signs of the Order’s presence have been eliminated. Banners with the Melchiorek family crest stream from flag poles, and we travel through a square where a new statue of Queen Petra has just been erected—perched on a throne at the top of a tower alongside the three helpers she managed to pull up with her, as she did during her final trial for Creaden.
I’m glad most people remember that moment of cooperation and camaraderie more than the chaos that followed.
The royal army Petra has reconstructed has spent a significant part of the past several months rounding up the remaining scourge sorcerers and vocal Order members. The former don’t pose much of a threat without their accomplices to draw power from.
Quite a few of even the true believers of their cause swore themselves over to Petra’s service after witnessing the message of amity and peace the godlen projected through me. The Order’s pockets of influence have quickly dissolved.
Those whose destructive behavior couldn’t be easily pardoned have been assigned to various types of enforced labor to the true betterment of the country. I believe a certain chief of staff who once worked for Baron Cyris has been sent to the mining camps near the Icarian border—far from my beloved courtesan, who she’ll never get another chance to blackmail.
I can gaze out the window without fear of setting eyes on two other incredibly unwelcome faces. After I returned from my convalescence, Petra offered to extend a similar punishment to my parents for contributing to Lothar’s campaign against me. She told me I could even confront them myself along with the arresting officers.
But presented with the opportunity, I found that more than anything I wanted to never again have to see the people who scarred me in so many ways.
So our queen came up with a suitable reprisal of her own. My mother and father have been ordered to travel from town to town with an escort of royal guards, sharing their shame for failing their riven daughter and counselling all of Silana to avoid their mistakes—to help rather than harm any children who show signs of the wildest of magic.
Thinking of it brings a bittersweet smile to my lips. May their story save at least one child from the same misery they inflicted on me.
At the edge of the middle wards, we pass several workers pulling apart the remains of the old city walls that so starkly divided the elite from the rest of the city. Petra has been working on expanding the throughways and hiring outer-ward citizens for various building and clean-up projects around the city’s fringes, and the atmosphere across the city has already become brighter.
When we disembark from our carriages in front of the restored Capital Palace, the queen herself comes out onto the front steps to meet us.
“It’s good to have you back,” she says in her brisk but warm way. “Now let’s finalize our plans for handling the Darium delegation.”
Simply standing in the audience room with the members of the delegation feels like a subtle dance no one’s taught me all the moves of.
How many guards can Petra employ, to match those our long-time enemies have brought for their own protection but not come across as overly threatening? How close should we position ourselves; how loudly should we talk?
Which subjects will we address, and which will we tiptoe around as if the empire hasn’t been trying to crush Silana back into submission for the past eighty or so years?
Thankfully, I’ve got a lot of practice at adapting on the spot.
Petra is doing most of the talking anyway, with Tinom—who’s serving as her main overall advisor while she’s settling into her new royal role—occasionally interjecting. The old magic advisor’s attitude toward me has taken quite a shift since he watched the godlen he worships channel their divine power through me. To my shock, I returned from the Temple of Tranquil Skies to find him outright respectful. He apologized so fervently I couldn’t see the use in staying angry.
Both he and our queen are taking a polite but cautious approach with the head of the delegation, a sturdy-looking man with a soldier’s bearing but the ornate clothes of a nobleman, fitted and heavily trimmed in the Darium fashion. Since we’re meeting in Silana, Admiral Varus has conceded to speaking in the local tongue. But while he’s said a lot of fancy words about how our countries might eventually cooperate, he hasn’t produced anything remotely concrete.
I think he’s paying more attention to Petra’s movements and her interactions with the rest of us than to what she’s saying. So far he hasn’t shown any signs of casting magic toward her, though.
Possibly word has also gotten out that Petra’s loyal riven sorcerer has a knack for sensing supernatural power. I can protect her simply by existing.
It does make for a welcome change.
Since Petra and Tinom are already focusing on him, I let my gaze wander over the rest of the delegation. As well as his four guards, Admiral Varus brought along a young man he calls his assistant, a woman who’s a devout of Creaden, and one of the princes of Cotea.
The delegation leader only gave a brief explanation for the latter’s presence, but from what I understand, Prince Bastien has some role in Emperor Tarquin’s court. He came with the delegation to speak to how any agreements made will be reflected in the actions of our nearest neighbor among the empire’s conquered countries.
The slim, almost gaunt fellow looks a year or two younger than me. He stands straight but lets his shaggy auburn hair fall forward to shadow his eyes, his mouth set in a tight line.
He’s trying to hide it, but I don’t think he wants to be here at all.
He’s definitely the most intriguing member of the party. And infinitely more so after Petra cuts off the aimless blathering to suggest we walk along the palace’s upper parapet for some fresh air.
It’s two floors up from the audience room. At the base of the first staircase, a couple of the Darium guards prod Prince Bastien.
“Let’s see you really march for once, huh?” one says, and the other laughs.
The prince’s lips flatten even more, but he strides up the stairs at the same pace as the apparent jokesters. By halfway up the second flight, his legs have started to wobble and his breath comes out of him in a wheeze.
The first of the guards shakes his head. “Shouldn’t have given up that lung if you couldn’t keep up without it.”
He uses a teasing tone, but I pick up on an edge of a jeer. How harshly would he speak if he didn’t have an audience?
Then what he said sinks in. I stare at Prince Bastien for a second before jerking my gaze away, not wanting my interest to be obvious.
He sacrificed an entire lung to his godlen? What kind of gift would you get for that?
Or, like Lothar, did he reach for too much out of the wrong reasons and get nothing at all?
I can’t tell from the guards’ heckling. The prince hasn’t shown any signs of magic since he arrived, but then, Admiral Varus could have cautioned him against it. At least while I’m around.
As we amble along the front parapet overlooking the sprawl of the city, the rooftops gleam under the bright afternoon sun. I contrive to place myself next to Prince Bastien. I have to constrain my pace, because his own strides are still a little unsteady from the climb.
Petra, Varus, and the others pull ahead of us, Stavros shooting a quick glance back at me with a subtle tip of his head in approval. When they stop to resume their conversation near the corner of the walkway, I come to a halt several paces away.
I set my hands on the ridges of stone as if I simply want to sightsee, blocking the prince from strolling straight onward too.
He pauses beside me rather than walking around. I wouldn’t be surprised if he appreciates the break.
“It’s a long way from Cotea’s capital to Darium,” I remark. “Do you see your family often?”
Bastien’s voice comes out terse. “No.”
I turn to lean against the wall sideways and decide to take a gamble. “Do you really think your emperor’s soldiers are going to set down their arms and walk away?”
I manage to startle him with my bluntness. He blinks at me, a flash of emotion crossing his face and vanishing before I can decipher it. Then he turns to glower at the rest of Florian.
His answer sounds rehearsed. “That’s not for me to say. I’m sure if negotiations proceed that way, my family will respect the empire’s treaties.”
“I wouldn’t imply otherwise. It’s only that Dariu has been awfully stubborn, emperor after emperor, for rather a lot of decades.”
I think my wry tone earns me a twitch of his lips, though it’s so brief I might have imagined it. For a moment, his eyes darken. “Everything changes, and nothing lasts forever. It just takes the right moment.”
He could be talking about a moment of peace-making and negotiation, but his expression suggests otherwise. And right then, I catch the tiniest quiver of magic, as if his gift tried to flex itself and he yanked it back.
Oh, he has magic all right. And surely it’s a lot with a sacrifice like that.
What kind of immense gift would the Darium emperor allow right under his own roof?
Before I can figure out how to wheedle that information out of Bastien, Varus clears his throat and makes a beckoning gesture. “Come on, young prince. You’re meant to be part of this discussion as well.”
Schooling his face into perfect blankness, the prince stalks over to join his colleagues.
Late that night, I only manage to make it until just after the doors have closed behind the delegates before my mouth gapes in a jaw-creaking yawn. I swipe my hand across my mouth and glance over at Petra. “Did you get anywhere at all with that puffed up lout?”
The queen lets out a low chuckle. “He talked in a lot of circles, certainly. I told him I’d like to see a formal proposal in writing, and he promised to speak to Emperor Tarquin to decide on their required terms, but I suspect we won’t be seeing that.”
Stavros drains the last of his wine from the cup he’s carried with him to the front hall. “He got what he wanted, which was to examine the new ruler of Silana.”
Tinom lets out a huff. “And now the emperor will know she’s no one to be trifled with and that she’s got the full strength of her people supporting her.”
Casimir offers a crooked smile. “It’d have made him very happy if I’d informed him of the few minor points of emotional pressure I’m aware would affect you. He was definitely searching for weaknesses.”
“Darium will keep trying us regardless,” Stavros says, and then adds in a more optimistic tone, “but perhaps they’ll spend a little less time on it now that we’ve got riven magic on our side along with everything else.”
He aims his familiar cocky grin at me, and my heart skips a beat even after all this time.
“The Cotean prince,” I begin, feeling it’s important to mention. “I think he could be a weakness to the empire. If they ever let him get involved with anything important.”
Petra tilts her head to the side. “I’m not sure how that could come into play in protecting our borders, but it’s best to consider every angle.”
I stifle another yawn, and Rheave comes over to slip his hand around my elbow. “I think our favorite riven sorcerer needs her sleep now.”
I mutter some sort of argument, but Petra laughs and waves us off. “I should fill in my siblings on today’s minor results.”
All four of my men draw in around me as we head through the halls to the quarters we’ve been assigned at the back of the palace.
As advisors of various sorts, we’re considered members of the court. Even Alek has his own private quarters, though he still spends many of his nights in his dorm at the college for ease of access to the library.
None of us can complain about the accommodations, but my room is my favorite. When I step past the door, the large window at the far side shows a view over the sprawling back grounds. This season’s crops poke from the soil in even rows where a section of the hunting woods has been cleared to make way for a garden Filip has been overseeing. Moonlight streams down over the treetops beyond.
The thick rug embraces my feet as I pull off my shoes. The built-in shelves that fill nearly all of one wall contain even books to keep me occupied in my less busy moments for many years to come.
And Petra, without comment, supplied me with an absolutely massive bed.
It’s very fine for sprawling out on my own, but the best nights are those when I share it. Now, through unspoken agreement, all four of my men follow me into the room.
I strip down to my underclothes and allow myself to crash into the middle of the mattress. Casimir laughs and tugs the covers out from under me. “Looks like we need to tuck our Kindness in.”
I make a disgruntled sound that peters into a happy sigh as the men clamber onto the immense bed around me. I’m too exhausted from the intense, hours-long parlay with the Darium delegation to be up for any of the other thrilling activities we’ve frequently enjoyed here, but it’s a special kind of delight just falling sleep with my lovers around me—all of us safe and sound.
Alek has sprawled out near my head. As I start to doze, he caresses his fingers over my hair.
“Ivy,” he says, sounding rather dreamy himself but maintaining his air of academic curiosity, “do you ever wish you’d taken Kosmel up on his offer? Floated around in total contentment for years on end?”
Once I was recovered enough from the trials to pull coherent sentences together, I told all of them about the moments after I opened myself to the gods’ magic and what Kosmel said to me. We’ve never discussed it in much detail, though.
I guess I thought the facts went without saying. I certainly don’t need to think for even a second before I answer, with total honesty.
“No. I couldn’t possibly have been as content as I am in this life I’ve built with you.”
Rheave lets out a rough sound of agreement and kisses my shoulder. Stavros loops his arm around my waist.
The five of us drift off together, ready to face whatever else the world throws at us as one.
* * *
Thank you for coming along with Ivy and her men through their entire epic journey! If you enjoyed your time in their realm, I have good news: there’s a new series in this world!
Were you intrigued by Prince Bastien, his immense sacrifice, and his role in the Darium empire? You can meet him, his fellow foster princes, and a princess they can’t decide whether to hate or love in the Royal Spares series...
Read about the first book, A Game of Veils, below:
A Game of Veils(The Royal Spares #1)
Play for a husband. Don”t fall for his enemies...
As the second-born princess of a kingdom conquered by a brutal empire, I”m nothing but a pawn. Little do I expect my parents to arrange my marriage to the most powerful bachelor of all: the son of the emperor himself.
But when I arrive at the imperial palace, I discover I must compete for my betrothed—vying with the court noblewomen in a series of humiliating trials to prove our devotion.
Those who fail will be executed.
For the sake of my country, I”ll risk my life to win my husband—this sadistic man who applauds the torment and flaunts his lovers.
Unfortunately, my scheming competitors aren”t my only enemies. The emperor”s royal wards—princes of other conquered domains, fostered to ensure their families” obedience—lurk in the shadows.
They see me as a traitor, prostrating myself for our tyrants” approval. The perfect target for their bottled rage. They”ll do whatever they can to distract me, unsettle me... ruin me.
I can”t help being drawn in by their seductive wiles. Behind their simmering fury, their pain and broken hopes call to me.
They might be just the allies I need to save my life and my kingdom. But only if I can conquer these wicked men before I lose my heart.
Get the book now!
Or read on for an excerpt…
A GAME OF VEILS
1
We’ve just crested the last low hill before the imperial capital when the warm spring breeze sours with the stink of rotting flesh.
Our carriage driver stifles a rough sound and clucks at the horses to pick up the pace. My stomach knots.
The sight beyond the window can only be disturbing, but I need to face everything that lies ahead of me.
As I reach for the curtain, Cici makes a soft noise of protest. Then she simply closes her eyes.
At first, there’s nothing to see beyond the road but scattered farmhouses amid golden fields beneath the expanse of the clear blue sky. Then the first post comes into view a few paces beyond the ditch.
A corpse dangles, limp feet hovering over the ground, a head of blood-caked hair sagging. What skin I can see is purpled and torn by the beaks and teeth of scavengers.
The largest gouge was clearly made by a sword. Someone carved open this man’s front from throat to groin to let his innards spill out in a gruesome display.
A reminder from Emperor Tarquin of what happens to those he thinks threaten his empire.
Whatever the man’s crimes, he wasn’t alone in them. Three more posts stand in a row next to his, holding bodies wrenched apart in the same way.
The one beside him wears the remains of a dress. His wife? Then another in trousers, and?—
A form barely half the height of the others, tiny hands with mangled fingers, a crimson-splattered ribbon unraveling from the pale hair.
I shut my own eyes then, clenching my hand against the urge to clamp it to my mouth. Willing down the surge of nausea roils in my gut.
Cici won’t judge me for my horror, but I’ll be surrounded by those who will soon enough.
When I’m sure my arm won’t shake, I tap three fingers to my forehead, heart, and belly in acknowledgment of all nine of the lesser gods who watch over us. I finish the gesture of the divinities with a clasp of my hand over my sternum, where the skin beneath the bodice of my dress is branded with the sigil of the godlen I dedicated myself to.
Elox, I think in a silent prayer, may their souls be at rest and let me bring healing to this place.
Whatever that family did, I can’t believe a child deserved such a brutal punishment.
The godlen of medicine and peace doesn’t respond, but then, I’ve never met anyone the gods have spoken to directly. That isn’t how they work.
A tendril of calm unfurls inside me as if in a gentle caress. My shoulders straighten in response.
I will remain steady in my purpose.
When I open my eyes, the butchery beyond the window has passed behind us. The putrid stench is fading away.
Cici shoots me a tight smile. “His son could be different.”
I allow myself what might be my last fully honest comment before the imperial palace swallows me and my maid up. “Let’s hope so.”
I should be happy. I’ve spent twenty-one years standing on the sidelines, watching my country suffocate under the empire’s thumb. Knowing it’s my older sister who’ll rule after our parents—as much as anyone in our family rules with the limited authority our conquerors allow us to keep—and that my primary value is in the loyalties my marriage can strengthen.
For the first time, I’m contributing something to our kingdom, to my people. More than I ever could have dreamed possible.
Somehow my parents arranged a betrothal to the most powerful bachelor in the continent: the heir to the entire empire.
From Emperor Tarquin’s reputation, it was an entirely strategic move on his part. He’s tying my distant country more deeply into the empire. Enforcing my parents’ and my sister’s loyalty for decades to come.
Gods only know what other factors might have motivated him. This is a man who thinks hanging up mutilated children is a reasonable law enforcement tactic.
But his son, Marclinus, is a separate person. He isn’t the one enforcing the laws… yet.
I have to keep an open mind. Find the best in the situation I’ve found myself in.
If the imperial heir will listen to me, I could give every citizen of Accasy a happier future even while I’m hundreds of miles distant from my home.
I fold my hands together on my lap, my thumb sliding over the rippled gold of the ring on my right forefinger. The impression rises up of Mother squeezing my hands when we stood in the castle courtyard, just before I left.
You are wanted,she said. That is a kind of power. Don’t let them shake who you are. Trust in your gift.
When she hugged me, the tremor that ran through her slim frame contradicted the confidence in her words.
The halt of the carriage tells me we’ve reached one of the gates into Dariu’s massive capital city. When the driver produces his papers with their official seals and announces that he’s escorting Princess Aurelia of Accasy, the guards wave us onward.
One aims a leering glance through the window as the wheels rattle by. I pretend I’m too distracted by the looming buildings to notice.
I’ve heard that over a hundred thousand people reside within Vivencia’s walls. It’s hard to wrap my head around that number when Accasy’s largest city contains less than a third of that number.
Plenty of those citizens are going about their business on the stone-paved streets. They stroll past the tenement buildings, duck in and out of shops, and lean on their window ledges to bask in the mid-day sun.
Everyone I see looks contented enough. I suppose as long as their actions don’t clash with the emperor’s plans, he treats the people of his own country benevolently.
Why order them off into back-breaking labor or let his soldiers run wild among them when he can exploit those he’s conquered instead?
As we weave between the tall buildings, the breeze dwindles. The spring warmth turns to mugginess within the confines of the carriage.
I swipe at the long brown waves of my hair in an attempt to cool the perspiration beading on my neck. Cici tuts at me and leans over to tidy a few particularly errant strands.
Back home, I’d have had them pulled back in clips or braids to keep them out of my way. Why does a country with a significantly hotter climate make a fashion of unmarried women leaving their hair loose?
When I left Accasy, the air still held the crisp freshness that arrives with the first spring leaves. I could have walked into the dense woods beyond the castle if I was seeking a deeper cool relief.
The homesickness wells up inside me so abruptly I nearly choke on it.
It’s a long trek north. I can’t imagine my future husband will be all that enthusiastic about regular visits.
It doesn’t matter, I remind myself. I’m doing this to free my people from the worst of the tyranny, even if I’m not there to see it.
Cici peers outside with wide eyes. “It’s so big. I wonder how far it is to the palace?”
The maps I studied swim up through my memories. “It’s at the south end, by the river. We’ll have to pass through a lot of the city to get there.”
“Well, I guess that gives us some time to take a look at the place.” She offers me another smile, this one softer around the edges.
I return it with a pang of gratitude. We’re both venturing into unknown territory. At least I have a companion on the journey.
Cici came on as my maid just four years ago. She’s always kept a certain respectful distance, and I haven’t pushed, but she’s gamely aided when I’m working on a concoction and never grumbled about how many hours I spend outside like my childhood maid used to.
Maybe once we’re adrift in the imperial court together, we can become something more like friends.
The buildings on either side of the broad road grow taller and more sprawling. We pass an expansive park of grassy fields, flower beds, and fountains amid only a few stately trees. Men and women in flowing jackets and dresses meander along the paths or ride on horseback.
Then we draw to a stop at another gate.
It takes our driver longer to make his case for entry into the palace grounds. Finally, our horses draw us past elaborate hedges and a towering sculpture of Creaden, the godlen who presides over leadership and justice. It’s followed by several life-size carved figures of imposing men and women I assume are past emperors and empresses.
The carriage turns with an arc in the drive, and I find myself staring at a three-story building of silvery marble that could encompass my family’s castle ten times over.
My jaw goes slack before I can control my shock. In the first instant, I can only stare at the massive columns carved with leafy designs and the lofty windows reflecting the glare of the sun.
As the carriage rasps to a halt, a small entourage of men in the purple-and-gray imperial livery stride down the front steps outside the yawning palace entrance. A few move to the back of the carriage to retrieve my two trunks. Another places a step beside the carriage while his colleague opens the door.
Girding myself, I paste a smile on my face, gather my silk skirts, and ease out onto the tiles at the base of the stairs.
The stoutest of the staff, a jowly man who looks at least ten years older than his apparent underlings, is waiting there. He dips his head in a motion of deference that’s not quite a bow. “Princess Aurelia. It is a pleasure to welcome you to Dariu and His Imperial Majesty’s home. I hope your journey went smoothly.”
The image of the corpses hanging by the road flits through my mind. I hold my smile in place. “Quite, but I’m certainly glad to be at the end of it.”
“We’ll first be—” He cuts himself off, frowning at Cici who’s positioned herself beside me with her own bag by her feet. “Was there something you needed from your mistress before you return?”
Cici blinks. “Return? I’m Princess Aurelia’s maid, sir.” She dips into a brief curtsy.
“And I’m sure you’ve tended to her well during her travels,” the emperor’s man says evenly. “But His Imperial Majesty prefers to select all the staff who work within these walls. The princess will be assigned a very capable maid of our own.”
My stomach sinks. Cici darts a nervous look toward me.
If we argue rather than accepting the supposed generosity, will the emperor suspect some ulterior motive?
What are the chances he’ll bend his usual policy for a woman he barely knows, soon-to-be-bride of his son or not… and what are the chances he’ll string Cici up at the side of the road as punishment for our defiance?
I speak cautiously. “We weren’t informed. My parents assumed?—”
The stout man cuts in with a brusque tone. “She and your driver can inform them of the arrangements when they return. You should find nothing to complain about in our hospitality.”
The note of warning in his words sends a sliver of ice down my spine. I’d better not complain.
I don’t want to start off my time here on the wrong foot. Or see an innocent woman harmed simply because it wrenches at me to lose the comfort of her presence.
I touch Cici’s arm in reassurance. “It’s fine. Tell my parents that Emperor Tarquin is taking care of everything for me.”
Her expression stays worried. I dip my head in a slight nod, holding her gaze firmly. “Safe travels.”
I’ll be all right. I was born for this.
She gives my hand a quick squeeze, her eyes shimmering with sudden tears, and then one of the footmen is ushering her back into the carriage. I watch it pull away with a tearing sensation in my chest.
The man who greeted me clears his throat. “His Imperial Majesty is eager to welcome you personally and introduce you to his court.”
Including his son and my future husband. We had better get that over with.
My smile might be a little stiffer than it was before, but I follow my escort through the immense doorway obligingly.
I will not tremble. I will not falter.
I’m a joyful bride thrilled to have made such an incredible match.
And if a whiff of hysterical laughter bubbles inside me at that thought, I certainly won’t let it out.
Inside, the imperial palace is no less overwhelming. The central hallway sprawls as wide as my bedroom at home. The ceilings loom high above my head, painted with vines and flowers framing open sky as if to give them impression they aren’t ceilings at all.
I suppose the spaciousness makes sense given the difference in climate. Accasians prefer narrow halls and cozy rooms that are easy to keep warm during the frigid winters. These airy open spaces must be much cooler during the southern summer.
More marble gleams everywhere I look, alongside panes of etched gold and oil paintings of majestic landscapes. Flute music carries faintly from up ahead, mingling with distant laughter. Potted plants in crimson and fuchsia bloom give off a heady floral scent.
Our footsteps tap across the tiled floor until we reach a doorway framed with gold. My escort marches a few paces ahead of me and declares my arrival to the room at large: “Princess Aurelia of Accasy!”
Clearly my impending arrival was noted well in advance. The vast audience hall I step into holds dozens of people, all turning to watch my approach.
Most of my audience is gathered on either side of the violet rug that runs the length of the room. The men and women wear similar clothes to those I saw enjoying the nearby park: gauzy dresses and silky shirts. I wore my lightest gown in recognition of the warmer weather, but it seems to drag against my limbs as I make my way past their curious stares.
On the dais I’m heading toward, two gilded wooden thrones gleam, their backs pointed in elegant spires as if to mimic the crowns on their occupants’ heads.
In the larger throne in the middle of the dais sits a tall man with a sharp-edged face and a pale scalp nearly as shiny as his seat. I’ve heard Emperor Tarquin took to shaving off all his hair as soon as it started to thin. His eyebrows, just below the rim of his ornate golden crown, are such a light blond they blend into his skin, giving the eerie impression that he has none at all. A suit of black, gray, and deep purple adorns his sinewy frame.
As I force my legs to keep moving toward him, his steady gaze pierces straight through me.
I drag my attention away from the emperor’s ominous presence to the younger man in the throne at his right.
This has to be Marclinus. A matching if simpler crown adorns his hair, which is nearly the same shade of gold, and his angular features echo his father’s, if more appealing with some lingering softness of youth.
Unlike his father, he sprawls in his throne as if he’s lounging at a tavern rather than conducting an official audience. His golden-blond curls drift carelessly across the tops of his ears and down to the nape of his neck.
When our eyes meet, he licks his lips.
That’show he greets his future wife?
At the emperor’s left stand a few pensive-looking, middle-aged figures I’d guess are advisors of some sort, one of them in a cleric’s robes. At his right, beyond the imperial heir’s throne, stand four men too young to have likely risen to such prominence. Three of them can’t be more than two or three years older than me, and the other looks to be in his teens.
Who are they? As far as I know Emperor Tarquin only has one son, and they don’t look anything like him besides.
The tallest fills out his silk shirt and vest with broad shoulders bulky with muscle. The cream-colored fabric sets off his tawny skin. His dark brown hair is slicked back from his face and pulled into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck.
His eyes, so light blue they’re noticeable even from a distance, sear into me along with his scowl.
The leaner but still well-built guy next to him has a rich brown complexion in starker contrast with the imperial men. His thick black hair looks rumpled even cropped close to his handsome face. His dark eyes follow me, his hands balling at his sides.
Their somewhat shorter companion looks as if he’s been denied a few meals. There’s a hint of gauntness to both his pale face and his frame. But his features are still striking, his reddish-brown hair and deep green eyes giving his expression a kick of intensity. He’s folded his slim arms tightly across his chest.
Even the teenager is glowering at me from beneath the fall of his white-blond hair. His gangly limbs make me thing of an overgrown puppy, but his fierce expression is all guard dog.
What about me has provoked all this hostility?
I jerk my attention back to the emperor and stop a couple of paces from the dais. Dropping into my lowest curtsy, I bow my head.
I need to stay focused on the man with the real power here.
“It’s an honor to be in your presence again, Your Imperial Majesty,” I say. I’ve only seen the emperor once before, a brief introduction when he toured his territories when I was six, but he’d expect me to remember that.
The emperor’s smile is as sharp as his face. “Welcome to my court, Princess Aurelia. Let me formally introduce you to my son, His Imperial Highness Marclinus.”
He sweeps his hand toward the lounging, golden-haired man, who sits up only a little straighter and gives me a jaunty wave. His eyes, the same gray as his father’s, slide down my figure as if he’s stripping off my gown with them.
The corner of his mouth quirks upward in what’s closer to a smirk. “I think I’ll enjoy making your acquaintance.”
Great God help me, this is the man I’m supposed to live out my days with?
Emperor Tarquin doesn’t appear fazed by his heir’s attitude. He motions to the figures at his left. “The key members of my cabinet and all of my court look forward to celebrating your arrival.” He tips his head toward the crowd around the room and pauses before glancing beyond his son as if he’d almost forgotten who else was present.
“Ah, and my foster sons: Prince Bastien, Prince Raul, Prince Lorenzo, and Prince Neven.”
Foster sons? All princes?
Before I can even start to puzzle out that statement and his dismissive tone, the emperor goes on. “I assume you’ve come willingly, Princess Aurelia.”
As if anyone could refuse his summons without paying for it. I bob my head again. “Of course, Your Imperial Majesty.”
“Refresh my memory and confirm what I was told. How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“And you’re where in line to the throne of Accasy?”
“I’m my parents’ second child, Your Imperial Majesty.” Does he really need to hear me rehash all this?
Emperor Tarquin lets out a low chuckle. “The full title can become a mouthful. I give you permission to simply call me ‘Emperor,’ at least for the duration of this conversation.”
“Thank you, Emperor.”
He lifts his chin toward me. “Which godlen have you dedicated do, and did you make a dedication sacrifice?”
I’m not sure how much detail he’s heard from the imperial representative who conducted the betrothal negotiations, but I have no reason to obscure my answer. It would be a shock if I hadn’t dedicated myself to one of our gods at twelve years old in the typical ceremony, and at least half of the people I’ve met, nobles and commoners alike, chose to make a sacrifice at the same time in exchange for a gift of magical talent.
“I dedicated to Elox,” I say. “I sacrificed my spleen for a gift for making healing potions and other cures.”
The emperor’s eyebrows rise. I can’t tell if he’s genuinely startled or putting on an act to try to loosen my tongue. “A medic princess. That might be a first.”
I give him the simplest honest explanation I can. “I wanted to be able to help people. But I can’t heal anyone directly, only concoct things that could.”
“And have you faced any adverse consequences from the loss of your organ?”
I think of the tiny scar on my stomach. “Nothing significant. Illnesses tend to hit me harder and take longer to recover from, so I’m careful to look after my own health as well. It hasn’t been a frequent problem.”
“Very wise.”
The back of my neck prickles with the sense that he’s subtly mocking me, but Emperor Tarquin leans back in his throne as if he’s satisfied. “You appear to be exactly who we were promised.”
I summon my brightest smile to cover my next lie. “I’m glad to have pleased you and look forward to my marriage with great joy.”
The emperor rubs his thumb along the point of his chin. Something in his expression sets the hairs on my arms on end before he even opens his mouth.
“If you marry. Let’s not be hasty.”
What horrors will the emperor put Aurelia through to confirm her betrothal—and why are his foster sons so angry with her?Find out in A Game of Veils - Grab your copy now!