Page 165 of A Dance of Shadows

I just didn’t expect to reach it in such a horrific way.

“Let’s not worry about the exact formalities just yet,” I say. “There will be plenty of time to sort that out once my husband has been laid to rest with his soul at peace.”

Even if I can’t imagine Linus being capable of peace no matter where his soul has departed to.

While I cleaned up, the staff must have sent word for a sedan chair. Four footmen hustle into view with a padded throne-like seat on two long posts.

As they set it down in front of me, embarrassment pricks at my cheeks. But the medic’s comment about straining myself lingers in my mind.

I’d rather get this duty over with than argue.

Resigning myself, I settle onto the chair. The footmen heft it up again carefully and set off through the halls at a steady march. My guards take the lead, with Marclinus’s falling into step on either side of me as if they feel I need a larger escort.

Which makes sense, considering their previous charge got murdered during their brief absence.

With the posts braced against the footmen’s shoulders, I’m well above the heads of everyone we pass. It’s a good thing the palace ceilings loom so high.

Servants and nobles alike bow at the sight of me. Most of the nobles look rather dazed, the news of their new emperor’s death still sinking in, but a few noticeably brighten as they watch me go by. No one appears disgruntled.

The glimmer of exhilaration expands through my chest. I’ve won over quite a few of these people in the past year. Enough that some will be happier seeing me rather than my husband on the throne.

At the doorway to the temple that’s attached to the palace, I’m allowed to make my way on my feet again. Beneath the traditional domed ceiling, the head cleric and several devouts cluster around a wide ceremonial plinth that’s been brought out and draped in imperial purple. Linus’s body sprawls across it.

It isn’t pretty at all. As carefully as they’ve laid his limbs straight, it’s clear several of his bones were broken. Bloody blotches stain his clothes, as well as his golden curls where the side of his head must have hit the ground. His skull has dented inward.

But even scratched and scarlet-speckled, his pale face is undeniably the emperor’s. His icy gray eyes stare at the ceilingwith his usual air of haughtiness. The old scar on his upper lip shows amid the more recent wounds.

I flick a glance toward Marc. His scar appears to have been swallowed by the smooth swath of gray that’s discolored the left side of his face.

Nothing remains that could distinguish him as the emperor, does it? Especially when the “real” Marclinus is lying here in front of us. How could anyone believe his story as anything but a crazed tale?

I suspect if he tried to tell it and no one supported his claim, he’d be tossed in jail and executed as a lunatic traitor.

Staring down at his no-longer-identical twin, Marc taps his fingers down his front in the gesture of the divinities. I echo the motion, with the princes following a moment later.

The cleric approaches us with a deep bow of his head and a roughness in his voice. “My immense condolences for your loss, Your Imperial Highness. Such a startling tragedy. May our emperor find peace in the arms of his godlen.”

His attention shifts to the mottled man in the burnt clothing at my right. “I understand you attempted to save Marclinus and prevented his wife and heir from meeting the same fate. Your devotion is admirable. What is your name?”

Fuck. My heart stutters at the question I wasn’t prepared to answer when I spun my story, but thankfully Marc has had time to do his own thinking.

He looks at me first, with an evaluating expression that sets me on guard. But perhaps it isn’t hard for him to guess how this scene would play out if he tries to stake his claim.

He knows I meant to take the empire from him. He knows he’d need my confirmation to take it back.

I might have saved his life, but I’m not going to save the throne for him.

Apparently that’s enough for him, at least for now.

He offers the cleric a slight bow of his own. “My name is Marc—chosen in honor of the imperial heir who was born shortly before me, though of course my parents used a humbler version. I only wish I could have served the empire even better.”

A note of truth rings through his last words.

I swallow thickly and stroke my fingers over Coraya’s head. “I suppose the rites will be the same as we offered Emperor Tarquin?”

The cleric nods. “We’ll prepare the body with all divine honors first, and then there will be a private familial ceremony tonight.”

As his gaze drifts over me and my daughter, his voice softens. “We’ll let you know when it’s time to return for the official service. I’m sure your husband would want you to take care of yourself for all that lies ahead of you and the empire, Your Imperial Highness.”

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