Page 19 of Heir

His aunt’s eyebrows shot up. “Tas is a loyal servant of the Empire,” she said. “And I’m deeply appreciative of all that he’s sacrificed. As I said, we’ll ask the Shrike.”

So diplomatic. And cryptic. That was Aunt Hel, always implying something without saying it. It made Quil want to shout, but he bit back his discontent.

His aunt took his arm and they walked to two huge doors—carved with the falcon of Gens Aquilla—that led into the throne room. Aunt Helene stopped to take a breath, as she had the very first time he’d joined her at a public event. He’d been seven, solemn and poker stiff beside her, smoothing down his shirt over and over because he’d wanted to make her proud.

Do you mind if we wait a moment?she’d asked him.Sometimes I’m nervous before I go in. If I take a second to breathe, it helps.

“It’s a battle on the other side, you know,” she said now, voice soft. “But not the kind I spent my youth training for. Your mother was so much better at this.”

“You’re better at it than you think, Aunt Hel.”

She smiled faintly. “You’ll be better at it still. Ready?”

For a moment, the distance between them dropped away, and he smiled back, his lone dimple a mirror of hers.

“As I’ll ever be.” He gave the answer he always did. She nodded to the guards, and the doors swung open. Every head turned as a herald announced them.

“Empress Helene Aquilla, High Commander of the Martial Army, Imperator Invictus, and Overlord of the Realm, and her nephew and heir, Zacharias Marcus Livius Aquillus Farrar, Lieutenant Commander of the Imperial Army and Crown Prince of the Realm.”

“What a bleeding mouthful,” Aunt Hel muttered as the room bowed. She gave an imperious half nod in greeting, then gestured to the musicians, who promptly began to strum their instruments. Almost before she’d stepped into the room, she was surrounded, a dozen voices clamoring for her attention.

Quil stepped back and took in the party. Hundreds of colored Tribal lamps cast a soft light over the room. A groaning table was filled with Scholar delicacies like sugared nuts wrapped in paper-thin pastry, minced meat enrobed in spiced tea leaves. The musicians were Scholars too. Quil didn’t see much about the gathering that was Martial. The way the Plebeians kept to the edges of the crowd, perhaps. The way nearly every person was armed.

Distantly, through windows opened to keep the room temperate, Quil heard the drums echo, marking the change of the city guard.

“Greetings, crown prince.”

Quil bowed his head to the green-robed, white-haired woman who’d finished speaking with the Empress. The pear-shaped jewels edging her robe flashed in the lamplight.

“Ambassador Ifalu,” he greeted her. “You are to return home tomorrow, yes? We will miss you at court. My aunt especially.”

“I will miss the Empire—and the Empress. She has been a good friend to me in my years here.” The ambassador glanced at the Empress with affection. “But I long for Ankana. You have seen the beauty of our capital. My family is there. My parents and cousins. My duty to them calls me home.”

The ambassador was the only child of a high-ranking Ankanese family. They expected she would be named High Seer one day.

“Congratulations are in order, I hear,” the ambassador said. “Are you happy?”

A question Quil couldn’t answer honestly. “I am the heir,” he said.

“I see.” The ambassador’s brows dipped in sympathy. “You do not wear the mask, but you were trained as one.Duty first, unto death—is that not their motto? It always spoke to me, for I, too, am dutiful. Fear not, prince. You will do good for this world. Emifal Firdaant.” She offered the traditional Ankanese words of parting—May death claim me first—and faded into the crowd.

Moments later, a voice spoke up from behind Quil.

“Skies save me, Quil, but who tailored that tunic for you? The fall is all wrong.”

Quil smiled and turned to the tall, dark-haired man emerging from the crowd of partygoers. Musa of Adisa. To most here, he was the ambassador of Marinn, a seafaring kingdom east of the Empire. The Empress referred to Musa on some days as “beloved,” on others as “you jinn-touched demon of a man.” To Quil, he was simply a friend.

“Didn’t think you were coming,” Quil greeted Musa.

“Your aunt asked me.” Musa shrugged. “I am, as always, her humble servant. Unlike the castle clothier, who clearly has it in for you. I swear to the skies, that old man wouldn’t know fashion if it bit him on the arse. Here.” Musa loosened the top button of Quil’s tunic and draped his own scarf about the younger man’s neck. He caught Quil’s eye. “How are we feeling about today? Not planning anything reckless?”

Quil laughed, though it sounded hollow. “When have I ever been reckless?”

“Maybe that’s your problem.” Musa tracked Helene as she moved about the room. “You’re a model prince, Quil. She tells you to attend a party, you arrive early. She tells you to fight Karkauns, you seize their cities and expand the Empire in her name. She tells you you’re going to be Emperor…” He shrugged.

“I know my duty, Musa.”

“Yes, duty.” Musa snagged a deep-fried potato cutlet from a nearby server. “Your family makes much of duty. But you’re twenty, Quil. You shouldn’t be chained to the throne. Or to your aunt’s wishes. You can tell her I said that.” Musa winked and took a bite. “She and I are due for a good, long…argument.”

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