Chapter Seven

A loud noise awakened Elandra from sleep.

Groggy and confused, she sat bolt upright and brushed back her long heavy tangle of auburn hair from her face. She listened, even drawing back the velvet bed curtains, but all lay silent around her. Not even the palace servants were stirring yet.

It was that cold, still time just before daybreak, when the night reluctantly released its dark grip on the world. Elandra had been dreaming—strange, unpleasant dreams mingled with intense anxiety about some task she had to perform.

Sighing, she gripped her head in her hands. She felt tired. Sleep came fitfully these days, if at all. She could not stop worrying about the coronation and all it entailed. Since Kostimon had told her last month that she was not to be crowned consort but instead sovereign, she had suffered a sense of gnawing dread.

Everything had been changing so quickly since the announcement. She had already been moved from the women’s wing of the palace to new state chambers near the throne room. She had her own guards now, the members drawn from the elite Imperial Guard. All were strangers to her. They had been brought before her yesterday in a brief, private ceremony, wearing tunics emblazoned with her new coat of arms. One by one, each man had knelt before her and sworn to serve her with his life. Afterward, she had been informed that this ceremony of fealty would be repeated following her coronation. She was asked to choose a color for her guardsmen. One of the chancellors also muttered that a protector should be chosen. The protocol involved seemed unclear; there had been no empress sovereign since Fauvina some nine hundred years before. Many ancient tomes in rotting leather bindings were pulled down from the palace archives and consulted with much head-shaking and lip-pulling.

Even the coronation ceremony itself had to be conducted differently. There was some problem with the Vindi-cant priesthood over the matter of the wording. Elandra, beset with seamstresses fitting her for her coronation robes, had not yet learned the words of her own oaths because she kept getting revisions. Her political tutor, Miles Milgard, stamped in and out of her chambers regularly, trying to teach her history or inform her of the current state of alliances and trade agreements while she stood on a cushioned stool like a mannequin, with four seamstresses surrounding her, pinning and stitching as fast as they could.

Her gown was fashioned entirely from cloth of gold, its stiff heavy folds reaching to the floor and extending behind her in a train that pulled at her shoulders. Over it she would wear the robes, so heavily embroidered with gold thread and trimmed with rare white sable from Trau that they were too stiff for her to sit in. The robes and gown combined weighed almost as much as she. Every morning she had to don a bulky contraption fashion of thin plate metal and practice walking back and forth in it. It was crucial that she be able to move gracefully in her first and most important public appearance. She had to be able to curtsy in the robes without falling, and she would have to kneel and rise to her feet without assistance. Then there was the crown to manage as well, and she would be given a scepter to hold aloft—without wavering—as she recited her oath.

At night, too weary for restful sleep, she often dreamed that she was climbing a thousand steps with a tremendous burden on her back. She climbed and climbed forever, until her legs and back were aching, yet the steps never ended.

How amazing it was to think that just over a year ago, she was an insignificant girl in her father’s household, working as a menial in her half-sister’s service, assigned to run errands and do stitchery.

Even now, when she tried to think back to her wedding day, the memory was clouded in a haze. She had been so nervous she thought she would faint. Heavily veiled and richly gowned, she had gone into the temple on the arm of her beaming father. Vindicant priests had chanted over her and the emperor. She and Kostimon held hands, and the high priest tied a silk cord around their wrists. Then had come the blessing, and the drink of sacramental wine. Past that, she had only vague recollections of sitting for hours under the suffocating veil while the feasting went on. She’d been too terrified to eat or drink all day, but Kostimon had been kind to her.

He had come to her chamber and unveiled her. For a long time he had stood gazing at her, as though to drink in her beauty. He had been old and strange in his festive clothes of imperial purple, a tasseled cap on his head. His skin was creased and weathered, but not as much as she expected. He looked no older than a man of seventy, instead of nine hundred years more. His eyes were yellow and very wise. They twinkled at her before he smiled. Only then did she relax and begin to feel that she would survive.

“You are very lovely my dear,” he had said to her. “Exquisite, in an unusual way, and a little like someone I loved long, long ago. If the gods are kind to us, perhaps I will come to love you too. And perhaps you will love me. But we will not rush it. There is plenty of time to get acquainted first. You look exhausted. Your day has been long, and so has mine. We will talk again tomorrow.”

Approaching her, he gave her a gentle little kiss on the forehead, the way her father might have kissed her goodnight. “Sleep well, little one.”

And that was their beginning, a slowly evolving friendship based on courtesy and respect. She could not have been more grateful.

In this year, she understood she was on trial. She could make no public appearances. She had to keep to her own private quarters in the women’s wing, confined to a suite of rooms and her own small garden. This was chafing. Sometimes she thought she would go mad from all the restrictions. But her Penestrican training helped her.

She read all she could, and her request for tutoring was granted with amusement. Finally, Elandra could have the education she’d always wanted. She took to her studies with zest.

After a while the emperor began to drop by to talk to her. He would quiz her about her studies, and when he found her to be both intelligent and conversant, his visits became regular and longer. They played chess, and he taught her military strategy in the process. Sometimes he would conceal her behind a panel in his audience room while he conducted business. Then he would question her afterward for her reactions and judgments.

With his encouragement, she grew less timid and learned how to state her opinions and even defend them without growing uncertain or confused.

He acted more like a parent than a husband, and began to take pride in her. He showed her off to his chancellors. He deferred some decisions to her. He watched.

And last month he had come to her one afternoon when she was playing the lute in her garden. He dismissed her attendants and took her hand in his rough ones. His yellow eyes had never been so serious.

It frightened her suddenly. She found herself lost in his eyes, in their age, wisdom, and coldness. He was looking at her as though they were strangers, and her heart stopped beating.

Perhaps it was over, she told herself. He had tired of her. She was not feminine enough for him. He had never consummated their union. That alone should have warned her. Now he had come to tell her he was putting her aside. Perhaps she would go to the prisons, or perhaps her father would take her home to Gialta. Her very life depended on the whim of this man.

She tried to meet his gaze bravely, but she found herself trembling.

Kostimon bent over her and kissed her full on the lips, something he had never done before. As a caress it was exploratory and expert, but she felt no spark between them, nothing in him.

Straightening, he stroked her face with his fingers. “Our year is nearly over,” he said.

She struggled to hide her fear, to show nothing except attentiveness. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice not quite steady.

“I have had you all to myself. Now that is ending as the bridal year draws to a close.” He smiled briefly. “In a month you will be crowned.”

She started breathing again, with such a sudden gulp of air she found herself coughing. Reaching for a handkerchief, she pressed it to her lips.

“Forgive me,” she gasped, trying to stop the coughs without success. “I am not heeding you with much composure.”

He laughed at that and touched her hair. “So I see. Did you think I would cast you out?”

“I—” To her mortification, she felt her face burning. She tried to meet his eyes and couldn’t. “I have failed to be a —wife.”

He laughed again, while her embarrassment grew hotter. She longed to throw herself in the reflecting pool.

“Ela,” he said fondly, using his pet name for her. “You silly child, I have no need for a bed companion. There are plenty of those, disposable pretties with no thought in their heads.”

Still staring hard at her hands, Elandra frowned and began pulling her delicate handkerchief to pieces.

“You are so much more,” he said, pride evident in his voice. He put his knuckle under her chin and tilted up her head. “Look at me.”

Her gaze shifted away.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

She obeyed him, still upset although she wasn’t sure why. It took effort to meet his eyes, but she saw no anger or disappointment there. She bit her lip to stop it from trembling and tried to listen.

“You are spirited and courageous,” he said. “Better than that, you are pure of heart and true of conviction. I have been neither for centuries. You would go to the wall for what you believe in. Imperia needs that.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Let me give you sons,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “I have a son. I do not need more. They have always disappointed me.”

“Then—”

“Hear me,” he said, putting his finger across his lips. “I believe in nothing anymore. I have lived too long. Seen too much. Been disillusioned too many times. But you have brought hope back into my heart. You, and you alone. I have tested you, and found you worthy. I have had discussions with your father. I have even talked to the Penestrican witches about you.”

She frowned at that, but before she could speak, he continued, “I am going to crown you sovereign empress, Ela.”

She looked at him, stunned.

He smiled. “Do you understand what that means?”

Her wits were scattered, yet this was no time to be undone. She struggled to find her voice. “I—you want me—I am to—”

“You will rule with me, as me, for me.”

She swallowed, choking a little, and had nothing to say. The magnitude of it overwhelmed her.

“I am getting old,” he said, then grimaced wryly at his own understatement. “Let me rephrase that. I am coming to the end of my time. I have cheated death a long, long while. But that is over. The augurs have cast no prophecy after me. There has been no one named who will follow me.”

She knew that. It made her feel slightly faint.

“Some say the world will end,” she said softly, and by sheer strength of will managed not to glance at the black cloud that had lain across the northern horizon for several days now. “Some say we are facing the end of time.”

“Some say that,” he agreed. “Fools. I do not believe such superstitions. I am emperor, but I remain a man. To the gods, I am not important enough for them to end the world they play with. But neither will I go peaceably; neither will I go without putting my stamp on who is to follow me.”

She was feeling stronger now. Her thoughts were more coherent. “Will it be the prince?”

“Probably. If he is man enough to seize control without destroying the empire in the process.” The emperor shrugged. “I do not worry about Tirhin. If it should be someone else, then that is for the gods to decide. But I want my final days to be easy. I am tired, Ela. I am bored at last with my power, and that tells me my time is near.”

“No—”

“Hush! Don’t start any foolishness now, not when I’ve decided to depend on you. Be strong. You are to rule in my final days, leaving me free to be as idle as I wish. Fauvina ruled at my side in the early part of my reign. She had a mind much like yours, tough and quick, resourceful and clever. She aided me much when we were forging the empire. You will aid me now in preserving it.”

For a moment he looked into the distance, very much lost in his thoughts.

Elandra dropped her ruined handkerchief on the ground and drew in several deep breaths. To rule ... to sit at council and make decisions ... excitement burst inside her, then she swiftly quelled it, afraid to believe it could be true. It was a monumental responsibility. No one had prepared her for this. Even the Penestricians, with their visions, had not foreseen such a turning. They had taught her to please, had taught her to be patient, had advised her to bear children quickly in order to secure her influence. She had realized months ago that the Penestricians—for all their wisdom— had no real understanding of what went on in the palace or how the mind of the emperor worked. How could they, when they had been banished from Imperia for centuries?

But to rule as empress ... what would her father say? Would he be proud, or would he be horrified? After all, who would accept her in such a role? Why, all the lords of the provinces would have to come and bow to her in fealty, even her own father. They wouldn’t do it. Not those men. They were warriors, and she was a woman.

“I understand,” she said quietly, lifting her chin. “I am to hold the empire together until Tirhin takes over. I am to make a stable transition of power.”

The emperor turned back to her with a look of approval. “Excellent! I knew you would grasp it without tedious explanation. But hear this: hold it for the boy, or hold it for yourself. I care not. I am done with it, if I can be left alone. If you want this empire for yourself, then hold it, girl! Hold it hard in your fist, and never let it go! Never stand back for another, do you hear? Not unless that is truly what you wish.”

He glared at her, clenching his square hands into fists that were still powerful. “If there is any tiny part of you that wants to keep the throne for yourself, then do what is necessary to hold it. Choose your own consort and found your own dynasty. Make it what you want. That is my gift to you ... this chance to shape the world to your liking.”

As quickly as it had come, his vehemence faded. He blinked his yellow eyes and tilted his head to one side to look at her quizzically. “Well, that’s enough for now. You’ll have time to chew it over, see if you like it. Tirhin has no more claim to the throne than you or anyone off the street. I earned my throne, and by the gods I do not relish handing it over to any young pup who thinks he can demand it by some ridiculous right of birth. Fight him, marry him, or depose him. I do not care. Just bring me peace in my final days. That is all I ask of you.”

She rose to her feet, gripping his rough hands in her slender ones. “You have my promise,” she said earnestly. “All I can do, I will.”

“I know,” he said with a smile, and left her.

From that day, the news had spread through the palace like wildfire. Peace became a laughable word, for it was not to be found. All was chaos and preparations. And now that the event was finally close at hand, there were endless feastings and celebrations that exhausted her and certainly must be exhausting the emperor.

She hadn’t spoken to him privately for nearly two weeks. Meanwhile, Tirhin sulked in his own house, complained to his friends, and declined all invitations from his father. He was acting like a spoiled child, which perhaps he was. Only he was too old for such behavior. He was making the emperor angry with his petty defiance, and Elandra had lost patience with him also.

Although she had met the prince publicly, in her veil, she had never really talked to him. After her coronation, however, she would be able to come and go as she pleased. She could attend public functions, and she could leave off her veil. She could do anything she liked, and that aspect as yet seemed like a dream. It was exciting, but frightening as well.

The world, after a year of living cloistered in her quarters, seemed to be growing too large too suddenly.

But she had no time to brood about it. Today she would go to the temple for fasting and the purification ceremony. Tomorrow she would be crowned. That meant this was her final day to be simply a woman. Tomorrow she would become something else. Would power corrupt her? What would she be expected to do first? Would the emperor truly relinquish the reins to her, an untried girl?

She drew up her knees and hugged them, rocking herself. Everything was unknown, yet she had faced other tests and survived them. She could survive this too.

As a child, she used to dream of living life boldly, of having adventures, of taking journeys, of gathering knowledge and ideas. She used to question why women should be shut away and cloistered from the world, ripened like conservatory fruit for the pleasure and disposal of men. She wanted to follow at her father’s heels when he inspected his troops. She loved to hear his stories of the battles when he came home after long absences, grown crude and harsh and louder than usual. His armor would have new dents in it. He would be restless and tense at first, then gradually he would soften and relax. Never would he tell her everything; his stories would have odd gaps in them, gaps that her imagination struggled to fill.

But dreams were easy for a girl without prospects. Illegitimate and hard-working, uncertain of her status in a household too busy, Elandra had never imagined she would find herself here in the imperial palace. Childhood dreams were not supposed to come true. That was what her cruel Aunt Hecati used to say. Elandra had never imagined she would find herself at the edge of a destiny such as this. She kept waiting for reality to bump her harshly from this fantasy. She kept waiting for Aunt Hecati to strike her with a switch and order her to get back to work. Sometimes she sat up in the night, breathless and choking, and believed she was back in the Penestrician stronghold, blind and imprisoned in her tiny stone cell while ancient chanting rose and fell in the distance.

Was that a rumble she heard?

For an instant she believed she felt the room tremble around her.

She leaned over the edge of the bed, but already the faint sensation had stopped. Perhaps it was only her imagination at work again. The night was a strange place, and dreams were not safe from intruders. She sometimes felt afraid here, as though the shadows held things unseen that watched her. If she could have had a jinja to guard her from magic, she would have slept deeply and peacefully, but the emperor did not like the useful little creatures and would not allow her to have one.

Moaning a little, Elandra threw herself back on her pillows. It was barely dawn. Her new room was dark and shadowy, the outlines of the furniture still unfamiliar to her. She needed more sleep, but she was too excited to drift off now that she was awake.

What had that noise been? She was certain now that she had heard a noise.

Loud and sharp, as though something had broken. Like the mortal snap of a large tree when loggers bring it down.

Sliding from her bed, she picked up the long hem of her silk nightgown and crossed the cold floor in her bare feet. One of her ladies in waiting snored gently on a cot by the door. Elandra slipped past her like a ghost.

In the anteroom, however, she could hear low voices talking outside her door. Her guards were alert and on duty. They did not usually talk, though. Something was amiss.

She opened the door a crack, only to find her way barred by a strong chest plated in armor.

“What is it?” she asked, squinting against the lamplight in the passageway.

“A noise, Majesty,” the guard replied. “In the throne room. Men have gone to investigate.”

Her puzzlement grew. “The throne room? Is it the emperor?”

“Nay, Majesty. Wait within until the investigation is complete.”

The guard shut the door firmly against her. Elandra stepped back, but she was more alarmed than reassured. If something was wrong, she did not intend to sit here in the darkness like a mouse.

Some ladies might say that courting servants’ gossip was common, but Elandra had survived her difficult childhood by gleaning every rumor, report, and speculation from her father’s servants that she could. Since coming to the palace, she had tried to build a discreet network, and with her new status, information was easier to acquire.

Thus, she knew why Tirhin was flaunting his father’s wishes. She knew Tirhin was furious with her. He resented her. He felt betrayed by his father. He had been laying plots and sounding out men’s loyalties. Kostimon chose to overlook his son’s activities, but she could not afford to be so generous. Tirhin was rapidly becoming her enemy, and perhaps a coup was being struck right now.

With her heart beating fast, she hurried back to her bedchamber. She was grateful now that she had taken certain precautions. Pulling on a heavy robe and fur-lined slippers, she opened a box of ebony and took out a dagger. It was a large knife, heavy and curved near the tip. A man’s weapon, not a dainty, feminine stiletto. It filled her hand, and her fingers closed around it gratefully. She felt marginally safer now.

Gripping it, she went to the wall and ran her fingers impatiently along its shadowy surface. Finally she touched a narrow crack. She found the depression and pressed it, and a section of the wall sprang silently open. She slipped through, taking care to close it quietly after her, and felt along a small table just inside the dark passage. She lit a lamp, and its yellow light drove back the darkness, showing her a cramped, crude passage filled with dust and cobwebs. It smelled of age and damp, but she did not care. It was her own private passage to the throne room, and she hurried along it with the lamp in one hand and her dagger in the other.

Years ago, when she was a young child, she had listened to her father talking about another warlord who had lost his life and his property to the hands of a rival. The warlord had just hired a new contingent of warriors to replenish his army. He felt secure from his enemies. But the new soldiers felt no loyalty to their lord and were bribed into turning against him. They let the enemy into the palace, and the warlord was slaughtered in his own chamber.

Elandra thought of the new guards who had sworn an oath to her with their lips but not yet with their hearts. She thought of her stepson, who was her enemy, and as yet an unknown quantity. She thought of what lay at stake in this affair.

She had no intention of being a fool. Better to be over-prepared than taken unawares.

Reaching the door that would open behind the curtains at the rear of Kostimon’s ruby throne, Elandra paused a moment, holding her breath as she listened. She decided then and there that she would choose her own protector following the coronation. If she had to, she would ask her father to provide her with a Gialtan candidate of unimpeachable loyalty.

Voices echoed in the throne room, rising in consternation. She heard no sounds of battle, no shouts, no evidence of danger. Only a hysterical babble.

Frowning, she opened the door and emerged cautiously behind the curtains. From their concealment, she could recognize not only the voice of some of her guardsmen but also that of Chancellor Wilst.

“What is to be done?” he moaned, wringing his hands. “What a terrible omen. It is the end of the world. We are finished. The gods have struck us a mortal blow. They mean for all men to die.”

Suddenly impatient, Elandra emerged from her hiding place, still holding lamp and dagger, her auburn hair spilling unbound down her back.

“Cease this commotion at once!” she cried. Her voice rang out over the others, and everyone grew silent.

As one they turned to stare at her, their eyes wide with fear.

Her frown deepened. “What in the name of the gods is the matter?”

Then her gaze took in the throne. It had always been a marvel to her since the first time she had seen it. Carved of a single gigantic ruby, it sparkled and glowed as though alive in the torchlight. No one knew how it had been fashioned. Its origins were a mystery. Where such a tremendous gemstone could have been mined was impossible to guess. Kostimon claimed it was given to him by the tribes of Choven, famous throughout the empire for their spell-forged metals. The throne had to have been spell-carved. According to legend, shortly after Kostimon proclaimed himself emperor, the Choven had entered the crude beginnings of his city. They bore the throne, swathed in cloths, upon the shoulders of ten bearers. Chanting in their eerie tongue, they had come before the emperor and unveiled their gift of tribute. The throne had caught the sunlight and turned to fire, dazzling the eyes of all who beheld it.

It was the seal of Kostimon’s reign, the very symbol of his power.

And now, within the vaulted throne room at the center of the palace, the ruby throne lay broken in half.

Elandra stared, her mouth dropping open before she recovered herself. Unable to tear her eyes away from the sight, she walked forward, right up to the shattered ruins. Her slippers crunched lightly over some of the tiniest fragments, and she stopped in her tracks.

She could see where it had cracked cleanly down the center, the fissure marks bold on either half.

“What does it mean?” someone asked. “What is to become of us?”

Was the emperor dead? The thought nearly stopped Elandra’s heart. She looked up wildly. “The emperor! Quickly, someone go to him and see if he is well—”

“I am well,” Kostimon’s deep voice replied from the other side of the room.

Elandra saw him coming, robed in crimson and wearing a tasseled cap. His protector Hovet, looking old and grim in plain steel armor, stalked along behind him with a drawn sword.

People scattered out of the emperor’s way until only Elandra stood there by the ruined throne.

Hovet snarled something, and with a start she realized she was holding a drawn weapon in the emperor’s presence. Hastily she bent and placed her dagger on the floor, then retreated respectfully with her eyes lowered.

Kostimon’s face might have been carved from granite, but as he reached the throne, his shoulders sagged. He touched the polished side of one half, and it was as though he physically shrank. Suddenly he looked old and defeated.

Pitying him, Elandra would have given anything to see that look erased from his eyes.

He sighed. “Then it is finished,” he whispered. “All is over. The gods have spoken—”

She moved before she realized what she was doing, rushing up to stand between him and the ruined throne. Fiercely she glared at him. “It is not finished!” she said, keeping her voice low, but letting all her anger show. “You are not finished. Not yet. Oh yes, Majesty, it was a rare work of art, a thing of surpassing beauty. But you were not born with it. It came to you, to serve you. Had it been otherwise, you would be dead now, at the same time as its breaking.”

Kostimon’s expression did not change. He shrugged. “I am tired, little one. Let it rest.”

“No!” she said, daring to defy him for the first time. “I will not let it rest.”

Anger stirred in his eyes. He glared at her. “Keep your place. This has nothing to do with you.”

All the breath seemed to leave her body. It was as she feared. In one second he had forgotten all his promises to her. Everything was swept aside, and she might as well be one of his empty-headed concubines. Fear filled her, but she knew that if she backed down now she was truly lost.

“I am keeping my place,” she said fiercely. “And this has everything to do with me. Have you not charged me with new responsibilities?”

A shuffle from the people nearby caught the corner of her eye. Without waiting for the emperor’s reply, she turned her head to glare at them.

“Leave us!” she commanded. Her voice rang out across the room. “All of you. And you, Hovet,” she said, turning on the protector who glowered at her, “go with them to see that they wait in a group outside. I will not have anyone running off to spread the word about this. Guard them!”

Hovet did not move. Nor did anyone else. In dismay, she saw she had no authority at all. It was all a sham. An empty promise.

Then Kostimon gave the protector an all but imperceptible nod. Hovet wheeled around and brandished his sword at the others, even the guards.

“You heard the Lady Elandra,” he said, still stubbornly using her old title.

They obeyed, although her guards looked outraged at being put outside. Elandra did not care. Alone with Kostimon, she prayed for the strength of her father and the iron will of her mother. The emperor was a capricious man. She had seen him turn on others with little provocation. Right now, in his present mood, he could have her destroyed without a moment’s hesitation. But if she gave way, if she backed down now and sought to save herself, she would lose everything, possibly even her life. She saw that clearly, although what she has to do terrified her.

“The throne can be bolted back together,” she began, trying to keep desperation from her voice. “It can be mended.”

Contempt crossed his face. He turned away from her. “Ah, the mind of a woman. Always mending.”

“What, then?” she shouted at his back. “Would you throw it away? Will you let this tiny flicker of adversity defeat you? Have you ceased to be a man?”

He swung around, livid now, and raised clenched fists. “I shall have your tongue cut out for that. You impertinent little hellcat—”

“Yes, I am impertinent, because I speak to you tonight as your equal. Is that not what you wanted from me? Is that not what you assigned me?”

“Not yet!” he roared. “Not until tomorrow—”

She chopped across this impatiently. “What do these niceties matter in a crisis? Only a few days past you spoke to me of holding the empire together. If you panic, what choice do the people have?”

“How dare you?” he whispered, his yellow eyes blazing. “How dare you accuse me of panicking?”

“Haven’t you?”

They glared at each other in tense silence. It was the emperor who dropped his gaze first.

“I have never panicked in my life. I see how greedy you are for power, how swiftly you grab for it at the first opportunity—”

“You threw it at me!” she shouted, truly furious now. He was unfair, stupidly unfair. She had liked him, believed in him, but in reality he was just a wicked old man who would turn on even the people who loved him. “Did I caress you and whisper to you, begging to be crowned a sovereign? Did I? Did I ever ask for it? Did I ever scheme for it? No! If nothing else, at least admit the truth!”

“I make my own truth!”

“Then it is good your throne has broken! Has the weight of your own caprice and injustice shattered it? How can you think only of yourself at such a time? How can you be so selfish?”

“I am the only one who matters,” he told her. “I am the center of the world. Everything revolves around me. You were a fool to forget that. Hovet!”

The door opened, and the protector entered. He saw in a glance their flushed, angry faces. He drew his sword, advancing slowly.

She was too angry at this shortsighted, arrogant man to care about the danger she was in.

“If you were not so conceited and vain,” she said sharply, “you would understand that I agree with you! Of course you are the center of our world, the center of the empire. It does depend on you. It needs you to stand firm and calm, to look unconcerned by this omen. It needs you to mend the throne so that the people need not know what has happened. It needs you to sit on it and to dispense your justice as you have always done. Sweet Gault, man, send to the Choven to come and repair it, or ask them to make you another, but do not crumple before your own servants and say you are finished. If you believe it, they will also. Then the empire will begin to die. And it will be your fault.”

By the end of her speech, Hovet had reached her. Grimly, he held his sword ready, awaiting the order to strike her down.

Breathing hard, spent from her emotions, Elandra raised her chin and glared at the emperor like a true Albain. Inside, her heart was hammering, but she was glad to die in a fight, glad to die with her blood hot and her last words the truth. Kostimon would not see her quail, she assured herself, trying to maintain her courage. He would not see her back down.

The emperor raised his hand, only to let his fingers curl weakly. Lowering his hand, he shook his head at Hovet, who looked almost disappointed. The emperor snapped his fingers in dismissal, and Hovet trudged out again, sheathing his sword as he did so.

Elandra thought she might faint with relief. Barely she held herself together and went on standing there, proud and straight, her chin still high.

“By the gods,” the emperor said quietly. He still looked angry, but he was calmer now. Reason had returned to his eyes. “It is true, my assessment. I said you would go to the wall for what you believe in, and you have.”

Her anger came back, a flash of white heat in her face. “Was this another test?”

“No.” He gestured at his broken throne. “Even I would not go to these lengths to test you.”

She turned her back on him, filled with disappointment so sharp it was like a pain through her ribs. “I believed you,” she whispered. “I thought you meant all the things you said. But it was only a cloud, fluffy and bright, meant to amuse us, nothing more.”

He did not pretend to misunderstand her. “Yes, I talked to you about ruling for me. I have trained you, raised your expectations. I admit that.” He sighed. “But when you seized the reins just now, I—” He broke off and frowned. “I did not like it.”

She remained with her back to him, unable to face him now. It was impossible to keep her broken illusions from her face, and she did not want him to see how deeply he had hurt her. “Of course you did not like it,” she agreed softly.

Silence fell between them. She understood. He had clawed his way to power, then fought fiercely to maintain it. For a thousand years he had fended off every foe, and there had been many. He could not relinquish his throne now, not even to a regent. Not even to her. She had known it in her heart all along, had known it was too incredible to be true.

What she had not known, had not suspected, was how much she wanted it.

It was as though only in the loss did she see the truth of her own ambitions. She was shocked, and as angry at herself as at him.

“Will you have me moved back to the women’s wing, Majesty?” she asked finally to break the silence. She even forced herself to turn around as she said it. “Will you send me into exile?”

He frowned in instant scorn. “Don’t be stupid,” he said sharply. “There will be a coronation, even if it’s only to name you consort. The imperial family always moves forward. We never step back.” He eyed her long and hard, his mouth set in a thin line. “Go and get your rest. You have a long and arduous day ahead of you.”

Her mouth was equally set. Formally, she gave him a deep curtsy, then collected her lamp and dagger. Clinging to the tatters of her dignity, she stepped back behind the curtains and took her private passageway back to her chambers. Just before she went in, she left her weapon on the table and extinguished her lamp.

Inside her rooms, she found her ladies in waiting awake now and flustered in their nightrobes.

“My lady!” one of them cried. “What has come about? We could not find you. We have heard such terrible rumors. We were afraid and nearly sent the guardsmen to search for you.”

Elandra eyed them coldly. “I was with his Imperial Majesty,” she said in a voice like ice.

“Oh.”

Her attendants faltered. Some of them exchanged glances. She saw all of it in an instant, read their minds as clearly as though they spoke their thoughts aloud. A fresh sense of failure twisted in Elandra’s heart. If they wanted to think she had been in her husband’s bed, so be it. That would at least start other rumors that might distract them from the truth.

After dismissing her ladies, she did not return to bed. Instead, she paced back and forth in front of her window, shivering and clutching her robes around her. Visions of the shattered throne haunted her. It and the dark cloud on the horizon were clear omens. The gods had spoken plainly. The end was near. At least for Kostimon, if not for them all. Swallowing hard, she kept telling herself she should be grateful she wasn’t dead or cast out. But she wasn’t grateful. She found herself growing angrier with every step.

What was her place now? Kostimon had admitted that he could not support his own intentions. At the first crisis, his kindness had fallen away to reveal the true man beneath. A cruel, manipulative man, with a mind from the dark ages, who asked her to help him yet would not let her try. He had humiliated her, and believed to do so was his right.

There could be no apology from the emperor. Probably he believed that letting her live was amends enough.

Be grateful, she told herself.

But she could not be grateful. She would rather choke.

Be humble, she told herself.

Her pride was thundering out of control. Humility could not even be approached.

Go through with it and wait for another chance.

But that thought appalled her. She was no schemer. She was not like Tirhin, with his plots and intrigues.

She thought of her oaths to be spoken tomorrow. Hot tears sprang to her eyes. How could she go through with any of it? A vow had to be honest and heartfelt, if it was to mean anything. Her integrity would not let her mumble empty words, simply for personal gain.

She could defy him. She could refuse to proceed further. She could ruin her father, destroy the long-range plans of the Penestricians, walk away from an empire teetering on the edge of civil war and chaos. She could retreat to a Penestrican stronghold and live out her days in silence.

And wasn’t that what the Vindicants were praying for? Wouldn’t that hand everything to Tirhin on a platter?

She frowned, feeling more confused than ever. She did not know the prince, did not know if he was a good man or a bad one. He was handsome, certainly, but that did not mark a man’s worth. How could she judge his merits, or decide the course of his future? Who had given her the right to decide anything? She was alone, with no one to advise her. At least no one she trusted.

She went on pacing, feeling pinned under the direct scrutiny of the gods, and could not determine what she should do.