Page 18 of Heir

“I’m sorry I got so angry,” she said after a minute, her voice almost subdued as she turned and sat beside him. “Listen. Please.”

A chill rippled across Quil’s spine at the shift in her demeanor. Whatever she was going to say, she sensed he would hate it.

“You are twenty,” she said. “Old enough to assume the throne. We are to have a fete in five days to mark Rathana. I plan to use the occasion to announce your coronation in the spring. You’re ready. And I…I am finished with this.” She gestured to her circlet, to the royal residence. “I’ve given up enough of my life for the Empire. Long ago, I swore to see you on the throne. It’s time to keep my promise.”

Quil felt as if hands were dragging him down into a cold ocean, holding him deep beneath the surface. He couldn’t find words, only a well of denial choking the breath out of him.

“I know you don’t want this, nephew,” the Empress said. “Skies know I didn’t want it either. But it will be good for you. You hide it well, but you’ve walked with shadows these many months. You loved Ilar and Ruh. Their loss—”

Helene shook her head, and Quil knew she remembered her own lost love, dead twenty years now.

“I understand. Of all people in the world, I do. The business of ruling will give you purpose beyond grief. You were born to a Plebeian and an Illustrian. Brought into the world by a Scholar. Raised among the Tribes. You are the best of the Empire. And she needs you. Remember the words of your Gens.”Loyal to the end.

The Empress stood smoothly, shoulders thrown back, eyes burning like blue fire, as if she didn’t hold the weight of millions of souls upon her shoulders. Quil wondered if he’d carry the crown so effortlessly. If he’d move through the world with the knowledge that he was exactly where he should be.

Perhaps he would. Or perhaps his heart would turn cold, his facehard. Perhaps he would become resentful and bitter like his father—or any number of Martial emperors who were more monster than human.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Quil asked again when she was at the door. “About the dead children?”

His aunt paused, her back to him. “Grief is a strange beast. Some battle it, their souls scarred from its abuse. Some bury it, and live life waiting for it to reemerge. And some tread water, the grief a weight about their necks. Every reminder makes the weight heavier.” She turned halfway, her face in profile. “You and I tread water, nephew. And I would not see you drown.”

A moment later, the Empress was gone. Quil thought of the wide spaces in the Tribal Lands. Of racing across those long flat deserts, sleeping beneath that crystalline night sky. Since he was torturing himself anyway, he allowed his thoughts to stray to Ilar, the way she’d walk for hours at night and return to him, a half smile on her face, the scent of wind and roses in her hair.

He missed her. He missed that life. He wanted it so badly he could smell the heat and feel the stars between his fingers.

But it didn’t matter what he wanted.Remember the words of your Gens.The Empress had spoken.

And he was loyal. To the end.

Five days later, Quil found himself awaiting his aunt in a long stone hallway outside the palace’s throne room, searching for serenity and failing to find it.

He pulled at the collar of the tunic, which fit him about as well as an assassin’s garrote. At least it was blue and silver—Gens Aquilla colors. The imperial clothier tried to force Quil into a black-and-gold outfit—a nod to Gens Farrar and an unsubtle reminder of Quil’s Plebeian origins.

But Quil wasn’t stupid. This party was going to be bad enough without his foes muttering about his unworthiness as heir.

With his guards looking on, Quil paced back and forth. He’d brought Rajin of Serra’sRecollectionswith him—Arelia was pestering him to finish it—but he couldn’t focus, and eventually shoved it in his pocket.

Two winters ago, he’d spent Rathana with Tribe Saif in Nur. They celebrated midwinter with fire-throwers and acrobats and spit-roasted deer. Laia, the Tribe’s Kehanni and storyteller and history-keeper, told a dozen tales. Sufiyan’s little sisters won a dueling contest, and Sufiyan and his little brother cleared out the moon cake stall.

It was the happiest Rathana that Quil could remember.

Now he was here wearing ill-fitting clothing and with shadows beneath his eyes. His coronation would be announced tonight. His fate sealed.

The steady clip of boots was a blessed distraction, and he looked up as his aunt rounded the corner into the hall. She wore her ceremonial armor and dented coronet, her silver-blond hair tucked into a crown braid.

“Have you heard anything from Tas?” Quil asked before his aunt could speak. Better to find out now, before she got swept away by every member of court who wanted a piece of her.

“The Blood Shrike is to arrive tomorrow from Antium,” Aunt Helene said, speaking of her second-in-command. “We’ll ask her.”

Quil knew Aunt Hel well enough to sense she was dissembling. He’d overheard her fighting with Tas nearly six months ago, the day before Tas left on a mission he never returned from. Most of the court heard it, as it had happened in the bleeding throne room.

What the hells is the point of having an adviser if you never listen to the advice?Tas accused the Empress.

Say something worth hearing, you drunken lout, Aunt Helene snapped,and maybe I will.

Certainly, Tas was a libertine. He found whatever perks there were in espionage and enjoyed them to the fullest. But he’d spent years carrying out missions for Aunt Hel. And still, she kept him at arm’s distance.

“Tas is a brother to me and I’d like the truth,” Quil said. “Even if you two don’t always get along.”

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