Page 16 of A Dance of Shadows

Marc sits up straighter, easing away from my touch. “He’s recovering his footing after his confusion over your pregnancy. Once he’s back at full confidence, there’s no telling what he’ll do. He certainly hasn’t been solidifying any alliances within our court. And some of the things he’s said recently…”

A chill tickles over my skin. “Has he complained about me?”

“Not like that. I’m not sure what he’s up to, but he’s been plotting something that clearly amuses him. And that he knows I’ll disapprove of if he tells me.”

“Then I hope you’ll advocate for me as my husband if I should need it. I take the vows I make seriously. Whatever happens, we’ll face it as a team—with due consideration for every part of that team.”

Marc lets out a short chuckle that doesn’t hold much humor. “I can’t say your dedication isn’t admirable. I only hope it doesn’t hurt you in the long run.”

I rest one hand on my belly with a twinge of defiant protectiveness at the thought of the fledgling life inside me.

My voice drops even lower. “You don’t think he’d do anything that could jeopardize the baby, do you?”

Surely both of the twins would draw the line there. I’ve convinced them the child is Marc’s—an heir of the imperial line.

But when Marc turns to meet my gaze, his gray eyes have darkened. “A year or two ago, I’d have said no. Now? I can’t promise you anything at all.”

Chapter Seven

Aurelia

My first glimpse of Rione takes my breath away. Across the undulating turquoise waters of the sea, the buildings of the capital city of Santia stand out, smooth and white, amid lush green trees and crags of rock a yellowish hue nearly as vibrant as gold.

The city is sprawled across a hillside. The royal palace stands near the peak, a gleaming white structure of domes and turrets. The smaller buildings of businesses and homes—interspersed with the jutting towers of temples here and there—ripple down the slope beneath it.

The bright city flows all the way to the docks at the water’s edge. To the right stand other huge, elegant ships like the one that’s conveying my husband and I and half of our traveling court across the water. They’re neighbored by a swarm of smaller craft, which Lorenzo told me serve a variety of purposes from fishing to pleasure boating.

How much pleasurearethe people of Rione able to take out of their lives? I can’t stop thoughts of the recent brief but brutal rebellion from rising up in the back of my mind.

Seven years ago, a coalition of freedom seekers managed to assassinate the marchion who was the main imperial representative in the country. Many more common folk were inspired to arms against other Darium authorities and merchants in residence. Possibly one or more members of the royal family gave their illicit support, though that was never confirmed.

The rebellion raged for all of five days before Marclinus brought warships hurtling across the sea and splattered these shining streets with the blood of the “traitors.” The Darium forces hunted down every last rebel across the vast island. They hung corpses throughout Santia for weeks longer than the rebellion itself lasted.

That’s the most immediate legacy I come representing. That’s the most vivid memory most of these people will have of my husband and his family’s rule—including the royal family I’m going to need on my side if I’m to remake this empire into something that serves all of us instead of only Dariu.

Either there’s still a fair bit of curiosity about Darium power alongside the resentment and fear, or the people of Santia are afraid of the consequences if they fail to show enough enthusiasm. Hundreds of faces in a mottling of colors from pinkish pale to dusk dark watch our arrival from the streets along the docks and the strip of beige beach farther to the left, where the coast curves in on itself in an arc.

Banners in imperial purple wave in the air. As we reach the dock, I make out words in Darium amid the clamoring of eager voices: “The emperor!” “Welcome, welcome!”

A lot of the clamor is in Rione’s native tongue. Any commoner who doesn’t need to do business directly with Dariu’speople isn’t likely to pick up more than a few basic phrases of the imperial language. I know a little Rionian from my language studies growing up, but not enough to make much sense of dozens of voices melding together.

The dock staff swiftly moor the grand ship and prepare the ramp for us to disembark in the carriages that brought us this far. As I head back to mine, Bianca catches my eye on the way to hers. “Quite a quaint little spectacle, isn’t it?”

Only someone who’s lived most of their life in Vivencia could see this riot of color and sound as “quaint” or “little.” Her wide smile suggests she’s appreciating the change of scenery all the same, though.

I clamber into the carriage to join my husband, who’s already seated with his head tipped toward the window. He rubs his hands together in a gesture of anticipation that sends a flicker of alarm through me.

Under the guise of straightening his collar this morning, I managed to confirm the man next to me has the dab of darker pink I marked behind his ear. After his exuberant greetings to his friends while we breakfasted, it was no surprise to see I was dealing with Linus.

Marc’s warning from more than a week ago has lingered with me. Neither he nor his twin have given any sign of what the latter might be plotting, but I can almost taste my husband’s impatience to get on with it.

Linus aims one of his feral grins at me. “Look how the local royals turn themselves out for us, wife! Swarming here to greet us even though all we’ll do at this point is wave from the window.”

He guffaws to himself and then does just that, waving to the cluster of figures in opulent clothing waiting on a platform right at the base of the dock.

In the moment while we’re passing them, I identify Lorenzo’s mother and father: crowns atop their dark hair, the queen’s face such a dark brown it’s nearly black while the king’s is closer to Raul’s tawny shade. The older woman with the neat bun of white-and-gray hair standing just behind them must be Lorenzo’s grandmother. The carriage pulls onward before I can try to pick out the other figures the prince of Rione told me about.

The cheers and chatter follow us along the broad road that winds through the city streets up to the palace. We don’t draw to a halt outside the main building’s arching doorway but at another polished white structure across a strip of garden.

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