Chapter 12
XII.
Kerasea
I toss and turn on the massive four-poster bed in my room, trying to quiet my thoughts and get some rest, but it’s no use.
The senators were so glib at dinner despite Verhardt’s murder.
No wonder they unanimously voted to move forward with the conclave—they aren’t concerned about anything beyond their own ambitions.
But was one of them bold enough to eliminate the Senate Leader?
I have to get out of voting.
I fluff the goose-down pillow, but my eyes are open as the night clock chimes two in the morning. It’s the worst feeling to know your sleeping hours are dwindling and yet you’re nowhere near slumber.
With a groan, I give up and get out of bed. My body aches with exhaustion, but I’m wide awake. It’s useless to pretend otherwise. Breakfast will be served in six hours, but I decide to go to the kitchens to make myself a warm glass of cardamom milk. It might not help, but it won’t hurt.
Wrapping myself in my silk robe, I grab a candleholder and leave my room on slippered feet.
I pass the Praetorian’s bedroom, still unsure why he gave me that tour. But I do know he had nothing to do with the arrest of the murderer. In fact, he thinks the man is innocent. His face was an open book when the senators congratulated him.
The only reason to set up an innocent man would be so that no one looks further into the crime, but why wasn’t the Praetorian involved?
I reach the main staircase, and I no longer need my candle. The massive chandelier still burns brightly overhead. I’m not sure how they keep it lit all night, since it’s not an eternal flame, but the old king had a reputation for demanding miracles.
Once I get to the base of the stairs, I turn to the western hall. I didn’t notice any kitchens in the eastern hall earlier.
Oil lamps light the space, but this late at night, the flames cast sinister shadows. I pull my robe tighter, the silent corridor looming ahead. My candle shakes slightly as I pass darkened drawing rooms and the abandoned ballroom. It’s almost like I can hear the music that once played.
I need a heavier robe.
Eventually, I reach the end of the hall and discover the kitchens. I swing through the door and nearly collide with a body in the shadows. I let out a brief scream, and he does the same. We both lift our candles.
I take in the man’s small frame and crooked glasses.
“Antinous?” I ask, my mouth dry and my heart pounding. “Underworld, you scared me.”
Senate Clerk Antinous adjusts his glasses while also grabbing at his chest, then he issues me a clumsy bow. “I’m so sorry, Excellency. My humblest apologies.”
“I didn’t think anyone else would be here.” I try to stop my hands from shaking. I knew the Senate Clerk would be in attendance at the conclave, but I hadn’t seen him this evening, so he slipped my mind.
It’s pitch black aside from our candlelight, but the other side of the kitchen is lit by two candelabras.
The staff left food on ice from dinner—cold meat, pastas, and vegetables all under glass cloches.
I assume that’s why he’s here. But he’s also gotten into the brandy.
Antinous reeks of spirits, and I’ve never known him to drink much.
“You weren’t at dinner,” I say.
No one remarked on his absence, but he should have been seated next to the Praetorian. I’d noticed his place card.
Antinous shakes his head. Between his receding hairline and glasses, it’s hard to tell how old he is.
He looks more weathered and exhausted than I’ve ever seen him, and it’s not the lighting.
I thought he was in his mid-forties like Senator Foreau, but now I think he’s well into his fifties, maybe sixty.
“I couldn’t stand to sit there like nothing happened,” he explains.
I nod. None of the senators were grieving, and Antinous worked closely with Verhardt. They were longtime friends and allies. Some insinuated they were lovers, but rumored affairs are just a cheap way to diminish someone’s importance.
“Are you here for dinner?” Antinous sneaks a look at the leftover food.
I shake my head. “No, please, you go ahead.”
He walks over and starts piling food on his plate. I consider returning to my room, but his eyes keep darting over to me. I know that expression—he needs someone to talk to. I see it before the start of every true confession.
I pull a stool up to the counter as he begins to eat.
“I am very sorry for your loss,” I say.
“Thank you. You’re one of the few.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his narrow nose and rips off another piece of cold chicken.
I try to find a compliment for the former Senate Leader, but calling Verhardt a great man or esteemed leader would be a lie. He was ruthless and feared far more than adored. But it was Verhardt’s idea to overthrow the king and create a republic, and that takes no small amount of genius and gall.
“He was a visionary,” I say.
Antinous sighs. “He was a flawed man, especially once he held great power, but he wasn’t always the person he became. Absolute power corrupts even the strongest hearts. And even at his worst, he didn’t deserve to be butchered like an animal.”
Butchered?
An icy chill washes over me.
Despite my shock, I will my face to stay neutral. My father used to say that people innately want to be truthful. It’s fear of consequences, of judgment, that creates lies, therefore no matter what the confession, we cannot judge. I remain silent and nod.
Antinous sways as he eats, dropping crumbs on the counter. I’m not sure how much he’s had to drink, but it’s enough to loosen his tongue.
“No one deserves that,” I remark.
Agreement, my father used to preach. Agreement forms a bond between the confessor and the priest. Agreement builds a bridge where the liar can walk themselves to the light of truth.
Antinous sniffles. “It was bound to happen. He knew too much.” He pours himself a glass of red wine. “About them.”
It takes all of my reserve to appear emotionless. I dig my nails into my palm and clamp my teeth down on the tip of my tongue until it hurts.
“Surely, they…” I trail off because I’m not sure of anything. A pit of vipers can certainly go after their own. But why? Why now when he’d survived for more than twenty years? “What did he know?”
Antinous stares into the distance as if he didn’t hear me. “Every one of them lies and conspires.”
Underworld, is he just drunk or is he actually accusing the Senate of murder? It’s one thing for me to consider the possibility and another for Antinous to say it.
My head spins, and I try to right myself.
My father said to let the confessions slide off you and pool their shadows in your memory, that it is our job to act as temporary repositories for the truth.
So that is what I attempt to do—to dismiss it for now.
But this confession has barbs and burs that cling to me.
“You think they murdered Verhardt like the king?” I ask.
Medea, Terrance, and Suh were among the seven senators who mutilated the Elusian king with their own blades. They stabbed him a hundred times as he lay dying on the Senate floor. Is that what Antinous means?
He shakes his head. “No, they’re too clever. The people would not have accepted a public killing. They arranged for the murder.”
“By the man in jail?”
“No, the real killer walks free.”
He stops eating and stares into the distance. Suddenly, he looks ancient, haunted. Numbing fear spreads its tendrils across my chest. I’m about to ask if he’s all right when he speaks again.
“They’ll come for me, too, because I know. I know all their secrets, their schemes, and their shames.”
My mouth goes dry, and I swallow hard. I try to dismiss it, but Antinous does know everything as the Senate Clerk.
None of the senators ever confess to the temple of truth—they don’t risk even stepping on holy ground—but Antinous sees all of the messages, the ledgers, and the orders.
If he believes they are responsible for Verhardt’s murder, they are.
And now he fears for his life. I try to tell myself he’s just being paranoid.
That he’s perfectly safe at Jubilee. No one would dare commit murder in a locked palace with the Praetorian here.
I shake my head. “But the Praetorian…”
“No one could investigate the investigator for years.” He slurs his words, but his accusation is clear.
My breath catches. He thinks Torren carried out the murder of Senator Verhardt.
The thought is a thunderbolt. I grip my robe, my fingers icy. My father warned me he was a dangerous killer. But is this why the Praetorian is suddenly interested in me? Because he wants to confess, or is it something more sinister?
I pour myself some wine from the bottle in front of Antinous. I take a large gulp, but something doesn’t quite fit in what he said. A thought, an inconsistency needles at me. I’m about to ask him to clarify when there’s a movement by the door.
We’re not alone.
I gasp. Antinous grabs at a steak knife and nearly drops it trying to point the blade, but a few moments later, a household servant comes into the kitchens.
“Good evening,” the older woman says with a bow. “Do you have everything you need?”
“Yes, we do.” I run my hands over my long hair, ignoring how badly my fingers shake.
This conversation is over, but I will need to ask Antinous more questions once I can process everything.
“I should go back to my chambers,” Antinous says, although he looks sad to leave his plate. He moves too quickly and knocks over his glass. Red wine bleeds down the white counter. The servant woman quickly wipes it up, and I realize Antinous is also trembling.
I drain my glass. “I’ll walk with you. I’m going to the third floor as well.”
He shakes his head. “I’m staying elsewhere. Lock and bar your door, High Priestess. Keep danger at bay. You have a kind heart.”
“Thank you—” I begin.
“But a kind heart is nothing more than a meal to wolves.”
Antinous rests his hand on my shoulder and then leaves. I stare out through the small kitchen window at the dark night. A few snowflakes fall before I realize I forgot to give him a word of blessing.