Chapter Thirty-Two #2
“Maybe you can still make use of it,” I hedge, even as my stomach climbs into my throat. But he doesn’t answer me, rummaging through some drawers, almost as if to see if the contents remain intact.
I approach from behind, then put a hand over his, there on the knob. Then I tug it open myself, running my fingers along the silk within. Vests, tunics, all exquisitely embroidered. “I admit I’m jealous of your wardrobe.”
“I’d happily share.”
I grin, but then I hear the crinkle of paper underneath fabric. “May I?” I ask.
“Be my guest. You’ve already been privy to my embarrassment.”
I rifle through and find a stack of letters, each one addressed to Princess Ademi. Their correspondence, I realize. He kept it.
“Bring them,” he says. “We can toss them into the Sands.”
“Never,” I say. “Anton, these are a reflection of who you were. You wrote your heart out, and that makes me…”
It makes me love you all the more.
I sigh, then cup his cheek. “It makes me wish you would call in my debt.”
The kiss I owe.
He looks at me, and it feels charged. I put my hands on his chest, steeling myself for what I’m about to say. “Would it be so terrible to—”
But he grips my wrists, interrupting me. “Come. There’s a tunnel entrance from my closet.”
Fear, I think. Had he sensed what I was about to ask?
The Palace of Ansa, I soon learn, is not one building but several, connected by walkways and bridges similar to Anell. The only way back to the ruins of Mercy’s chapel is through the Central Hall—dedicated to the throne room and surrounding courtrooms—then into the eastern wing of the palace.
We take a hidden stairwell that leads us into a tunnel back on the lower floor.
From it, we can see into the Central Hall itself.
It’s seemingly miles high and all clear, granulated glass, the light shimmering about as if it’s suspended in the clouds.
It would be peaceful, serene—if it weren’t for the commotion inside.
Crowds of courtiers amble past, and there’s both shouting and frantic flits of conversation. Something is wrong.
Around another bend, and then we’re looking straight into Anton’s throne room.
All the doors at the far end are shut, barring the crowds, the inside seemingly quiet.
For a moment, I take stock of its extravagance.
It’s as if the Hall of Thrones on the Isle of Anell was merely a prelude.
The back wall, climbing as high as the palace itself, is a mosaic of mosaics.
Twenty—no thirty—large glass spheres each display a different scene: tales of Fates, of history, the War of Rites, and more.
Each is rimmed by painted plasterwork and stone, and at the very bottom, the largest one actually curves around the throne.
The scene here is of a great and dawning star above a vast seascape, the throne set into the crest of a wave that protrudes from the wall itself.
Then a door near the throne itself opens and Gustav walks inside, followed by a handful of what I assume are advisers. I feel Anton freeze beside me.
Gustav wears no crown save for a humble silver circlet set above his brow.
A moment later, guards open the doors, allowing the courtiers inside.
At first, it’s orderly. He speaks with a few of them—some of whom I recognize from the Gathering.
But it quickly grows rowdy, more piling in.
I try to catch bits of conversation, but it’s difficult to make out.
But they aren’t lining up before the throne. Instead they shuffle toward either side of the walkway.
No, not shuffling, but backing away. Clearing the carpeted walkway that leads to the throne. To Gustav. Stepping over one another to do so.
Frantic whispers scurry about. Our line of sight is cluttered, and Anton tries to pull me away. Through a gap in the crowd, I see that the guards have formed a line before Gustav, who stands bravely despite whatever threat is about to come his way.
I resist Anton’s next tug, shrug away from him, and stand on the tips of my toes until finally a gap between two courtiers affords me a better view.
A view I wish I hadn’t seen.
A crown bobs above the line of nobles just before us. Thick, spiked steel, ringed with opals and sapphires.
It can be no other than the new Brisendali king.
My father marches toward Gustav with the air of an emperor rather than a king, and I’d wager that’s what he wants in the end: to conquer and retain as many nations as possible.
To Gustav’s credit, he does not shrink back, not even an inch.
“General,” he says, “the Syndicate does not gather here until tomorrow, and I don’t believe you were invited to my court.”
General, not king.
Gustav’s refusal to acknowledge my father’s position does not go unnoticed. Not by my father, and certainly not by his men.
I bite back a grin, proud at his boldness. Beside me, Anton scoffs. But I notice he’s stopped trying to get me to leave. He wants to know what’s about to happen.
“Your court? Laughable,” says my father, “considering so many have asked you to step down.”
“Have you come here to sling insults, Maksim? Childish, even for you. My guards will escort you out at once. A shame you traveled all this way.”
“It’s only an insult if you take offense to it, Regent. I speak only the truth.”
“State the reason for your presence or see yourself out.”
“It would be my pleasure,” my father announces loudly, gesturing broadly to the room. “I have come as an act of mercy. A gesture of goodwill. I have for you an offer that might spare your lands from further discord.”
“We will not entertain an offer that puts Miridran in debt to Brisendale.”
“Ah, but my offer is not for you, Regent.” Before Gustav can interject, he adds, “I know your true king is not here. In fact, I have it on very good authority that Anton Orvere is dead.”
Because of what Sundar had told him.
“In addition, I am told you have my daughter, Vastianna Stova, in your custody; my men spotted her here in Ansa just yesterday.”
My heart stutters. Had someone seen me? Or is that a lie, too?
“You had her kidnapped from Brisendale—right from beneath my nose!”
My father turns from Gustav, addresses the court.
“Force your lying regent to step down. Denounce Miridran’s alliance with Razam.
If you do, I will not punish the people of Miridran for acting in league with those who killed our king.
” He swings his gaze back to Gustav, dismissively, then pivots on his heel.
“Choose wisely,” he tosses back over this shoulder.
“Tomorrow, when your king fails to appear, your doom will be sealed.”
The blood drains from my face. He came to instigate a civil war—or force Gustav into surrendering to those who might ally with him—one day ahead of the Syndicate deadline.
Worse, if Miridran abandons Razam, Razam has no chance against a Brisendali invasion.
I swing my gaze toward Anton. Did he hear all of that? I suppose he would have, when it doesn’t contradict what he believes—that Gustav and Sadira are allied. That they stole his crown. Yet his expression is unreadable.
Then the shouting begins. I turn just in time to see my father exit, furious courtiers pushing toward Gustav, his guards rushing forward to keep them back. Of course my father wouldn’t need to stay; he knew his plan would work.
Whether Gustav steps down, or his court splits into a civil war, it doesn’t matter. My father achieved what he came to do. He came to sow discord. To cleave his enemy’s court in half. Divide the people and make his war easier.
“You had His Majesty killed! I knew it!”
“Just as we suspected!”
The cries of outrage only multiply.
“We refuse to shed Miridranian blood on Razam’s behalf!”
“Imprison the regent!” someone else shouts.
“No,” a lord says, his voice booming above the others. “We should have his head!”