Page 15 of Heir

Triarch Ghaz regarded the clerics, a wealth of protest behind his eyes. None of it reached his lips. “Witnessed and agreed,” he said.

Triarch Hiwa nodded to the guards. “Take them to the Tohr.”

5

Quil

Later in the evening, Quil bought Sufiyan a sketchbook and pencils for his yearfall—small enough that the gift wouldn’t feel like a burden. Suf said nothing of what happened in the market. He thanked Quil for the gift and disappeared into the arched hallways of Navium’s royal palace. To draw, Quil hoped. Or more likely to forget his sadness with whoever happened to be around.

For his part, Quil knew he should find his aunt and ask her about the deaths she’d kept from him. But he couldn’t come right out and say it because she’d dodge his questions. He’d have to be clever.

He walked through the imperial gardens, breathing in the cool sea air. Quil spent so many nights under the stars that most Martial palaces felt like prisons to him. But Navium’s was different.

Aunt Helene had insisted on extensive grounds with mosaic-tiled pools, flowers tumbling down high archways, and neat hedges that bloomed a fiery red in the autumn. She groused about the groundkeepers eating up the treasury. But when she passed through these manicured spaces, she always lingered—as Quil did now.

The prince slowed in the sculpture garden, where human warriors battled jinn—magical creatures carved to look like smokeless fire. In one corner, a Scholar man offered a Martial child a carved horse. In another, a falcon screamed in triumph, wings outstretched.

Someone had lit the lamps along a black stone path, and Quil followed it to three figures carved of pale gray marble. They stood with heads bowed and hands clasped, as if in supplication. His long dead maternal grandparents, and his Aunt Hannah. All had died at the hands of his father, Emperor Marcus Farrar.

The most hated man in Martial history.

His father had been cruel and murderous, as well as an inept ruler. He’d nearly lost the Empire when Karkaun barbarians invaded twenty years ago. Sometimes, Quil was certain that Marcus was the reason his aunt had sent him to the Tribal Lands, instead of allowing him to remain at her side. She didn’t want to look at anything that reminded her of the monster who’d slaughtered her family.

Most of what Quil had learned about his father had been stolen, overheard in conversation, or gleaned from history books before his aunt whisked them away.

The only person who had spoken openly to Quil about Marcus was his paternal grandmother. He’d sat in her kitchen as a boy eating almond cookies. He’d seen himself in her long lashes and gold skin, her dark waves and high cheekbones and the measured way she spoke.

Your father loved those too, she’d told him as he enjoyed the cookies.He and your Uncle Zak—they were beautiful boys. Good boys. Until Blackcliff, anyway.

So, this was what he knew of his father. The man’s disastrous, short reign, and the fact that he’d loved almond cookies. No paintings of Marcus existed. No busts or sculptures. Certainly not here in Navium.

There was, however, a statue of Quil’s mother, Livia Aquilla. He stopped before her, seeking a reminder, perhaps, that he wasn’t just his father’s son. Assurance, for he was sick to death of dreading his future.

“Is this my fate, then, Mother?” He took in the high forehead he’d inherited, the full upper lip. “To take the throne? To never be free of it?” His skin crawled at the thought. Not just because of the unending constraints of the crown—his aunt hardly had a minute to herself. But because he’d read enough history to know that power corrupted. His father, who ruled before Aunt Helene, was evidence of that.

“What if I end up exactly like him?”

Power doesn’t have to corrupt. Not if you’re wise about it, instead of thoughtless.

Tas’s words. Quil wished for his friend now, for Tas helped Quil untangle his thoughts. Tas, an orphan like Quil, was father and brother and blood in a way that few others were.

Years ago, after Elias and Laia married, Tribe Saif adopted Tas and he grew up with Quil. The prince’s first memory was lying on a woven mat next to Tas as the elder child pointed out constellations above.

That big bird-looking thing? That’s the falcon. Aquillus. That’s your family’s symbol.When Tas realized how much Quil hated his given name, he’d started calling him Aquillus—Quil—and refused to stop no matter what Aunt Hel said. Eventually, everyone else followed.

But Tas was gone, off on another mission for Aunt Helene.Going through half the treasury, his aunt had grumbled. Tas did have expensive taste. Charming, quick with a blade, and wickedly clever, he was the consummate spy, appearing not quite Scholar nor Martial, but a bit of both. Quil missed his irreverent humor, the stories of his adventures. He hadn’t heard from Tas in months.

In truth, Tas’s presence wouldn’t make a difference. Quil wouldn’t abdicate, no matter how much he wished to. Not after everything Aunt Helene had endured to secure the throne. Not after all she’d lost because of him.

“Cousin! I’ve been looking for you.”

Quil stepped away from the statue, though the speaker would not judge him for talking to it.

Throughout Quil’s life, Aunt Helene had tried to engender a closeness with Marcus’s many family members. One of them was the girl approaching with a mallet tucked under one arm and a miniature catapult in the other.

“Cousin Arelia.” He reached out a hand in greeting, but she rolledher eyes and gathered him in a hug, promptly dropping the mallet on his foot.

She wore dark blue engineers’ coveralls, the pockets filled with all manner of rattling objects; her loose, brown-blond curls were pulled back into a bun. Quil was taller and broader than his cousin, and her skin was warmer—closer to Sufiyan’s coloring. Quil tended toward contemplation and control, whereas Reli was forever muttering to herself and experimenting with dangerous ideas, chaos trailing. But they both had the hallmark strong jaw and pale hazel eyes of Gens Farrar.

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