Chapter Nineteen
Most serious scholars will tell you that rumors of a missing Grand Duchess are the fodder of sensationalist columnists and gossip-hungry dilettantes.
That’s because they enjoy their elite positions and won’t risk them by telling the truth: there was a Grand Duchess named Isa who ruled over the lands we now call the Western Waste.
The fact that her former lands no longer exist tells you why the scholars are so afraid. Fortunately for you, I am not.
The Illicit Lives of the Imperial Court
Anonymous
(banned in the Empire)
Gwynira’s palace was . . . melting.
Large droplets of water pearled on the walls of the Great Hall, dripping down the gray stone—particularly beneath the windows.
Naia watched, biting her lip to hold back a laugh, as the huge jungle cat that had joined their fight on the beach swatted experimentally at one thin trickle, then licked the wall.
“It’s very rude of you, you know,” Gwynira observed from a sofa near the center of the cavernous room.
The crush of nobles that usually crowded the hall was conspicuously absent, and the Grand Duchess had ordered an entire seating arrangement to be brought into the room instead. “To melt my windows.”
Einar chuckled. “How can you be certain that Naia is to blame?”
Gwynira half turned to face him where he stood near one of the windows in question.
Hilja had already been able to outfit him with a set of new clothes that fit his larger frame.
The pants, embroidered coat, and fur-trimmed boots were of an older style—very similar to the way men dressed in his father’s time, Petya had told him.
It certainly looked like the casual garb of a king.
Still, Einar had been reluctant to leave their chamber this morning. He had been braced for the worst, for the others to fear or even scorn his appearance.
After all his fretting, Gwynira had not even seemed to notice. Isa had, though she had simply eyed Einar curiously without crossing the line into outright gawking. And Arktikos . . .
His reaction had surprised Naia the most, though perhaps it should not have. He had clasped Einar’s hand in his, then drawn him in for a half embrace that had ended with a silent nod.
One monster to another, Einar had murmured to Naia afterward, and she could tell the idea pleased him immensely.
Now, Gwynira eyed him indignantly, though a hint of amusement danced in her eyes. “The goddess of what was once a lush tropical island returns, and my palace begins to thaw? Whatever else could it be?”
Naia shifted on the plush rug that had been laid out in the center of the room. “Why, a reflection of your melting heart.”
Gwynira blushed.
Isa, from her spot beside her on the sofa, let out a rusty chuckle. “She has you there, Gwyn.”
“The island is warmer.” Aleksi reclined on the rug near Naia. Though he usually favored vests of heavy velvet or leather, today he wore just a thin linen shirt, open at the collar, and he fanned the fabric against his skin. “Noticeably warmer.”
“I’m still cold.” Inga shivered and huddled deeper into her fur-lined cloak. Then she turned her head and pinned Arktikos with an assessing look. “And you’re a bear.”
He stared back at her, nonplussed. “Yes, I am.”
“Could you be a bear, then,” she asked, “and warm me up?”
Her words had stunned him into finding none. Arktikos cast a desperate look around that finally landed on Einar. “Is she—?”
“No,” Einar replied. “Not flirting.”
“So she’s—?”
“Absolutely serious.”
“I . . . will bring more furs.” Arktikos practically fled, his footsteps already echoing down the back hall before the door entirely closed behind him.
Inga watched him go, and Aleksi patted her leg through the voluminous cloak. “Might have had better luck if you’d tried the flirting, love.”
She nodded gravely. “Noted.”
The big cat stared after Arktikos, balefully eyeing the door that had swung shut behind him. She hissed, baring huge, curving teeth, and Naia reached out to soothe her.
She sank her fingers deep into the cat’s thick fur and made a soft noise. “Hush, Omira. Settle down and behave yourself.”
Einar’s brow furrowed. “Omira?”
“It’s a name from the old tongue,” she explained as she stroked the cat’s side. “It means she has witnessed.”
“That’s beautiful,” Isa whispered.
“Yes. The priestess who was with me the longest was named Omira.” Memories washed over Naia, sharp and bittersweet. She could recall the girl’s eyes on her very first day, serious and studious, the same shade as a vibrant jungle vine.
And she could remember Omira’s last day, her gaze faded with age, no longer serious but smiling. Shining, until the light finally died.
All she managed to say was “I was . . . very fond of her.”
Aleksi laid a comforting hand over hers. Einar left the window to sit on the rug behind her, drawing her toward him until she was leaning against the solid wall of his chest.
Naia loved them both for their quiet support.
Inga lifted one hand and dragged her fingers through the air. Little sparkles of light glinted to life and floated in their wake. Omira stilled, then slowly began to stalk toward one hovering bit of light.
Then it shot across the room, and she pounced, giving chase.
Inga laughed at the cat’s antics, then beamed up at Arktikos as he handed her two heavy furs. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome.”
“I’m surprised that you’re not out today, Naia.” Gwynira accepted one of the furs that Arktikos had brought back and placed it carefully around Isa’s shoulders. “Walking amongst your people.”
“I’m not comfortable doing that. Not after what happened the other day.
” The thought of what had happened to her beach still made her shudder.
It was a violation of her memories, of a place she treasured, even after thousands of years.
“If someone were to be hurt—or worse—because of me? It would break my heart.”
“That’s fair.” Gwynira eyed them apologetically. “Arktikos has been combing through the harbormaster’s correspondence, trying to piece together some hint of who might have bribed or threatened the man into letting that mercenary ship dock.”
“And your seneschal knows nothing and cannot find the answer for you?” Skepticism colored Aleksi’s voice. “If that’s true, you should dismiss Sir Jaspar on grounds of incompetence.”
“Don’t think I haven’t considered it.”
A soft hiss filled the room. At first, Naia assumed it was Omira. But when she glanced over, she found the cat stretching through a lazy yawn.
Cold. Unfeeling.
The island. The voice vibrated through her core, a sound that wasn’t a sound at all, but a feeling of warning—and dread.
Not to be trusted.
“There’s precious little chance of that happening,” Naia muttered. She had not trusted Jaspar even before he had been so unpleasant—especially to Einar.
Aleksi dropped a kiss to Naia’s shoulder. “Did you say something, love?”
“Nothing, just . . .” She had to ask. “Why him, Gwynira? Why Jaspar?”
“Why is he my seneschal, you mean?” Gwynira sighed. “As unlikely as it may seem, he’s actually a very good administrator. The best I’ve had in hundreds of years.”
“So you trust him,” Naia pressed.
Arktikos snorted.
Gwynira shot him an exasperated look. “Trust is such a subjective thing. Can I trust Jaspar to oversee the daily running of this palace? Yes. On the other hand . . .” She gestured apologetically to Einar. “I clearly cannot trust him not to be an overbearing ass to guests.”
Aleksi raised both eyebrows as he toyed with Naia’s hair. “Come, Gwynira. You know the real question.”
She inclined her head. “While it is entirely possible that he has been fooled or subverted in some other way, I would be very surprised, indeed, to find him willingly working with Sorin.”
That seemed to surprise Einar. “You sound certain. Why is that?”
She actually considered the question, as if she did not have a ready, precise answer. “My court has always had a . . . complicated relationship with the Empire.”
“Complicated.” Arktikos shook his head as he started for the bottles that lined one end of the buffet table. “That is one way to describe it.”
“I have made little secret over the centuries that I find most Imperial nobles tedious at best,” Gwynira elaborated. “For some inexplicable reason, that has made them desperate for my approval.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Aleksi gratefully accepted a goblet of wine from Arktikos. “People always want what they cannot have.”
Gwynira made a disgusted noise. “In spite of my best efforts, over the years it became somewhat prestigious for a certain set—the vapid ones, mostly—to spend a few years here, soaking up the rustic atmosphere.”
“Charming,” Inga said flatly.
“I think Sorin encouraged it because he knew nothing would irritate me more.” Gwynira grimaced. “He would send the most intolerable people here himself.”
Einar frowned as he declined Arktikos’s offer of wine. “Klement told me that people were sometimes sent here as punishment.”
She rolled her eyes. “Guildmaster Klement is remarkably self-absorbed, as always. But he is not entirely wrong. Most of the people Sorin sent to the island were, indeed, intended to punish me. But some—like Klement—were banished here for their own transgressions. Or the transgressions of their families.”
Naia ventured a guess. “Jaspar?”
“Yes.” Gwynira looked troubled. “He had just finished his schooling and was preparing to go to work in the family business—something related to shipping or transport—when his uncle irritated Sorin. Honestly, it seemed such a trifling matter to me, but Sorin had been growing more erratic over the past few decades. Jaspar’s uncle must have simply been in the wrong place at the very wrongest of times.
Anyway, Sorin stripped them of their estates, their guild ranks, everything.
Then he gathered the whole family, killed the elder members, and sent all the youngest off to various kingdoms.”
She said it matter-of-factly, as if it was the sort of thing Sorin would do often enough not to merit special notice. Nausea roiled in Naia’s gut, and she also refused more wine.
Gwynira went on. “Jaspar arrived here young and angry, with nothing to his name but whatever I gave him.”
“That’s . . . sad.” It was simply the truth. No one, not even someone as unpleasant as Jaspar, deserved such a thing.
Aleksi hummed. “On the face of it, that sounds very much like what Sorin did to Einar.”
Arktikos had claimed for himself the goblet that Einar and Naia had both refused, and he drained half of it before growling. “I would not compare their situations.”
Aleksi gestured for him to go on.
The man hesitated, then glanced at Einar. “If I may speak frankly, Captain?”
“By all means.”
Arktikos finished his wine, then set the empty goblet down with a solid thump.
“The former emperor may have killed both their families, but their reactions to those murders could not have been more different. The crown-prince swore vengeance, and the depth and sincerity of that vow has carried him across a dozen mortal lifetimes already. He will have blood. All Jaspar truly wants is to see himself restored in an empire that no longer exists.”
“Well said,” Isa told him.
But Gwynira only sighed. “Perhaps I could have guided him better. But, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, I am not exactly the nurturing type.”
“I did try to give him purpose,” Arktikos told them.
“He was not interested. I may be a—what is it you call it in the Sheltered Lands? A Dreamer? But I was not socially important enough for Jaspar to feel like he should listen to me. Besides,” he added with a slight smile, “I would have expected him to work his ass off, and you’ve all seen how fond he is of that. ”
It was so much to take in, and Naia hardly knew what to make of it. All it truly proved was that someone could have a tragic past and still be one of the worst people you had ever met.
“It is possible that Sorin could have bought him,” Gwynira mused. “A promise to restore his family estate and bring his family back might entice him to move past his hatred. But I have a hard time imagining Sorin making such an offer.”
“It would be the smartest thing to do,” Inga observed. “But to do it would imply, on some level, that Sorin had made a mistake. And that simply will not do.”
Gwynira looked at Inga with something akin to surprise. It was as if she was realizing, for the first time, that here was someone who also knew Sorin—and his true nature. “You understand.”
“Yes.” Inga shrugged beneath the furs. “We were never close, as he disdained my fascination with the Void to the point of disgust. So I have fewer good memories of him than some of the others. But, even at his worst, he never seemed so . . .”
“Brittle,” Naia supplied. From what she had gathered, he had once been smart and determined.
Convinced that he knew the best way forward, of course.
But the actions that Gwynira described were so strangely insecure and fearful.
Should not someone who held such power, who ruled an entire empire, have been less threatened by the defiance of those who could never hurt him, not more?
It was all so complicated, and for what?
What had Sorin gained by conquering this island?
He did not want it. He likely never did.
He certainly did not love Rahvekya’s people or admire their culture.
The only thing the Empire had ever really exported from its shores was tundra cotton.
Would it not have been easier, not to mention more humane, to simply negotiate a trade deal with Einar’s mother?
None of this had to happen.
She did not realize that she had breathed the words until Gwynira hummed in agreement. “Whatever you mean in this instance, when it comes to Sorin? You are most certainly correct.”
Naia swallowed a sob. “He didn’t have to take this island. He caused so much death and pain and loss, and for what? Nothing could be worth this.”
“Sorin does not calculate death, nor pain, nor loss.” Aleksi gave the words hesitantly, as if sorry he had to say them at all—especially in front of Einar. “Because he does not consider those things. They mean nothing to him.”
Einar’s breath hitched, and Naia shook her head reflexively. She did not understand how that could possibly be, unless . . .
Sorin truly was a monster.