Page 80 of Heir

When Quil was ten, Aunt Helene took him to the Black Guard barracks in Antium, the capital. He struggled to hide his excitement, for he’d been born in the barracks.

Aunt Helene had never mentioned that fact to him, of course. It was Laia who told him the story of his birth. Or some of it, anyway.

The Black Guard were mostly elite Masks, and their job was to root out dissidents. While Aunt Hel and the soldiers conferred, Quil slipped away, hoping to find the room where he was born.

He remembered exactly why he wanted to find it. He thought he would remember his mother. He’d seen paintings of her. Sculptures. It wasn’t enough. He wanted to recall her smell, her hands, her love.

The very center of the barracks, Laia had told him.Up a set of stairs. There was a linen closet two doors down…

The instructions should have been simple, but there were three sets of stairs. Quil got lost immediately. Eventually, he found himself in a nondescript passageway identical to a dozen others. Only this one had the seal of Gens Farrar emblazoned upon the wall. Two crossed hammers painted in black and edged in gold, about a foot and a half off the ground, and off-center.

Quil knelt by the symbol, perplexed. It would have looked better if it was bigger. Higher up. But then, maybe it was supposed to be overlooked. There were secret passages all over the royal palace in Antium. Could this be a passage too? Quil pressed his palm to the symbol, certain he’d hear the telltale grinding of rock that signified new adventures to be had.

Instead, he heard voices behind him, and turned to see his aunt heading toward him.

Quil opened his mouth to explain himself, which was when he noticed that Aunt Helene looked strange. Her face was silver—she wore a mask. Her braid, usually so neat, was askew. There was blood all over her.

It was pooled over the floor. The air smelled of smoke and death. Screams echoed. Where had all these dead soldiers come from?

“Shrike,” a voice called out softly.

Aunt Helene ignored Quil entirely and made for the wall where the symbol was. Only there was no symbol there now. Instead, there was an armored man, bleeding from a dozen wounds and pinioned to the wall with a scim through his belly. Quil scrambled back, terrified.

But his aunt was calm. She knelt beside the man, speaking rapidly. At first, Quil was too afraid to get closer. But after a few minutes, he quieted his quaking heart and crept forward.

“Do it, Shrike,” the man whispered, so softly that Quil barely heard him. “He waits for me.”

Aunt Helene’s hands shook—she was bleeding too. Quil opened his mouth to tell her but found he couldn’t speak.

“Please, Shrike,” the man whispered, and now Quil could see him. He was big and broad-shouldered, with dark hair, and brown skin that was lighter than Laia’s. He had a square jaw, thin lips, and a sharp nose.

And his eyes—his eyes were the pale yellow of fall leaves. Like Quil’s.

But that was impossible. Aunt Helene, Elias, even Laia had all told him his father had died in the battle of Antium, ten years ago. He died fighting, they said.

Not like this.

“The Emperor is dead,” Aunt Helene whispered, and when she spoke again, her voice was strong. Cold. “Long live the Emperor.”

Quil watched his aunt stab his father’s throat. Watched the blood drain from his father’s body. He closed his eyes to make the image go away, to forget, and when he opened them again, the world had shifted.The man was gone. The blood. The bodies. And Aunt Helene—maskless and immaculate—knelt beside him.

“Are you all right, Zacharias?” He flinched at the name. It had never felt right. “What are you doing up here?”

“What is that?” Quil backed away from the symbol, frightened that if he touched it again, he’d go back to that nightmare place.

Aunt Helene pulled him up, her lips pursed—which meant that she was searching for the right answer to his question instead of telling the truth.

“It’s a mark to remember the past, Zacharias,” she said.

“Aunt Hel,” Quil said. “How did my father die?”

Something passed across his aunt’s face, like a fell bird blocking out the sun, leaving an impression of darkness.

“In battle, Quil,” she said, and he knew she was lying because she only ever called him Quil when she felt guilty. “Don’t think on it anymore, little one. The past will distract you from the now. And it’s the now that matters.”

On the outskirts of a Devanese town thousands of miles from Antium, Quil tried to remember his aunt’s advice.It’s the now that matters.

More than a week had passed since Quil told Sirsha of Ilar’s death. Speaking of it had churned up so many memories that he wished he’d kept his damn mouth shut. Putting a blade to Ilar’s side when she’d first walked into the Saif encampment. Hearing her voice, low and musical. The way her skin glowed in the firelight. Her half smile, rare and swift as a falling star.

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