Page 4 of A Reign of Embers

Raul growls. “You have about as much?—”

I raise my hand to stop his protest. “Marc’s right. But he’ll be keeping plenty of distance, over by the door, as we agreed.”

My husband’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t argue.

Raul draws himself even taller. “Fine. Then I’m staying too—right here in your bed, in casehemakes any attempt. Bastien and Lorenzo don’t need me to find out plenty.”

“Fine!” I wave at them all to get on with their various duties before another debate breaks out. “I will be well-protected and well-supplied with information. Thank you all.” I pause, and more emotion colors my voice. “For everything.”

I aim a smile full of affection at Bastien and bob up to kiss Lorenzo’s cheek. The prince of Rione guides me around the side of the bed and waits until I’m tucked under the covers.

Marc takes his post by the pallet at the door. Sprite curls up next to my belly, and Raul props himself at my other side, sitting on top of the blankets with his back against the headboard. He rests a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

I watch Bastien and Lorenzo slip away through the hidden panel. It’s only just closing behind them when the deepest fatigue I’ve ever known drags me under.

Chapter Two

Bastien

It’s never been difficult for me to listen in on chatter around the palace. As far as both the nobles and staff are concerned, I’m of secondary importance compared to the Darium natives. I may have been called the emperor’s foster brother, but everyone knows I’m a hostage—a powerless symbol of the empire’s domination.

If they had any idea how much power I’ve wielded behind the scenes… But it’s better that they don’t, because I can still amble through the halls, pausing where I can overhear the conversations of the guards without any of them giving me a second glance.

There aren’t a whole lot of those conversations to listen to. The imperial soldiers are a disciplined bunch. But I overhear a commanding officer reminding a couple of underlings to be particularly thorough in their patrol of theouter walls, and a few guards heading off-duty grumbling that the “traitor tribune” hasn’t been apprehended yet.

No one makes any indication that they doubt Aurelia’s claim to the throne, at least as a guardian figure until the imperial heir is old enough to rule. It sounds as though all of the palace soldiers see Tribune Valerisse as a criminal rather than a justified dissenter.

So far. If Aurelia understood her correctly and the godlen of war herself has some hand in recent events, Great God only knows how this internal rebellion will play out.

My niggling uneasiness takes me back into the palace’s hidden passages. I thought to poke around in Aurelia’s ruined bedroom for anything enlightening, but the repair staff are still at work. The smoky scent seeps through the walls to itch at my nose.

I linger by the closed panel for several minutes, listening to the workers, but they all sound horrified by the attempts on their empress’s life too.

Finally, I tramp down to the old servant room where we held Marc last night.

There’s little to inspect in that dim space. The lantern reveals the broken pieces of the chair we tied him to, lying in disarray across the floor. Nothing else looks any different than usual.

Except for something we left behind that Ishouldsee but don’t.

As I peer at the settee where Raul tossed the gold wedding band he cut from Marc’s wrist, my pulse stutters. I’d swear the severed band was lying here on the cushions, gleaming in the lanternlight, right before we left when Aurelia went into labor. Nothing remains but worn linen.

I drag my fingers along the edges of the cushions and peer beneath the furniture, but no gold band presents itself. Frowning, I straighten up again.

The broken bangle couldn’t have simply disappeared. Did one of my foster brothers come back and pocket it?

If Marc took it when he escaped… will he use it to try to reclaim the throne? To prove Aurelia’s crimes against him?

The oddly scarred man who’s one half of our former emperor made an emphatic show of devotion when he appealed to Aurelia this morning, but I don’t trust the prick farther than I could kick him.

Is it possible someone else found their way down here? Could Sabrelle have guided one of her dedicats that thoroughly?

I’m not finding any answers just staring at the space.

I return to the regular palace halls to the wafting scents of dinner. A subdued atmosphere hangs over the nobles gathering in the dining room—any spurt of laughter is quickly snuffed out. We’ve all donned the dark mourning clothes that last came out a year ago for Emperor Tarquin’s departure.

The staff have seated all four of us foster princes together. Lorenzo nods to me with a quick gesture to say he’s seen no reason for immediate worry either. Neven, who we spoke to briefly before taking up our separate investigations, fiddles with his knife.

“Everyone’s acting sosadthat Marclinus is dead,” he mutters. “And they don’t know— I can’t believe she?—”

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