“If we could get a look at their transports—”

  “Good luck,” Quil said. “They only talk to the Ankanese. Any time the Mariners have sent a ship down there, it disappears. They’re worse than the bleeding Karkauns.”

  The smile dropped off Reli’s face. “No one is worse than the Karkauns.” Like most Martials, her hatred of the Empire’s southern neighbors ran bone-deep—a savage occupation would do that to a populace. “Your aunt would agree—which reminds me. She’s looking for you. What did you do to irritate her?”

  “I’m sure she’ll tell me,” Quil muttered.

  “You should apologize. Rumor is that she had a report from the Ankanese ambassador, warning her about Kegari unrest. Scant on details, but it put her in a foul mood. And a Jaduna Raan-Ruku arrived this morning, so she’s antsy, too.”

  Arelia shuddered at the mention of the Jaduna, a group of magic-users so powerful, so shrouded in mystery that even Aunt Helene treated them with caution.

  Quil frowned. The Raanis—the six women who ruled the Jaduna people—did not usually leave their lands. Instead, they sent their Raan-Ruku—Wolves of the Mother—as emissaries. Strong in magic, Aunt Hel told him years ago. Never to be crossed. You will know them by the shape of their coins, triangles flanking a circle.

  But they didn’t visit the Empire often. Usually only in times of emergency.

  Quil and Arelia both turned at the tinkle of metal behind them. The prince’s blood went cold at the sight of a blond Jaduna, wearing a heavily embroidered robe with bell sleeves and a golden headdress. It was decorated with triangle coins and a single circle, in the center.

  She fixed her kohl-lined eyes on Quil as if she wished to bore into his brain. Sweat trickled down his back. He’d once read an old folktale about a substance that suppressed magic. He wished the stories were true, wished he could wrap himself in it so the Jaduna sorceress wouldn’t know what lived inside him.

  Now it was too late. The Jaduna must be aware of his magic. She’d have told Aunt Hel. And he’d be forced to train with them—

  But she merely inclined her head and walked on. Quil bolted for his room, glancing back to make sure the Jaduna hadn’t followed. Arelia kept pace, as keen to escape the Jaduna as he was. Magic perplexed her, as she couldn’t take it apart.

  “Oh.” Arelia pulled a small book out of her coveralls. Recollections by Rajin of Serra. “Stole this from you a few days ago. I knew it would take you another three years to finish.”

  Quil winced as they turned into the passageway that led to his quarters. “I only got it from the library a week ago.” He nodded a greeting to the Masks guarding the hall.

  “If you spent less time bashing shields with that scim-happy friend of yours—”

  “His name is Sufiyan, as you well know, and he’s more healer than fighter—”

  “Then maybe”—Arelia pushed open the door to Quil’s room and offered him the book—“you’d have finished it faster. Too much ancient lore and navel-gazing for me, but I did find the drawings of his war machines enlightening.”

  BOOM. A door slammed distantly and footsteps thunked down the hall.

  “Right,” Arelia said. “I’ll take my leave.”

  “Coward!” he called as she slipped away. A minute later, Aunt Helene strode through his door, kicking it shut behind her.

  “Aunt,” he said. “I saw a Jaduna Raan-Ruku—”

  “Routine visit. Sit.” She pointed at a posh settee. “Now.”

  She spoke with the toneless frigidity of a Mask—something she reverted to when she was giving orders or tamping down her anger. Quil’s own frustration rose. He wasn’t in the mood for another lecture.

  Still, he sat, watching Aunt Hel pace. To the distress of the court clothiers, Empress Helene mostly wore plain black fatigues, with a scim strapped across her back. The only indication of her rank was a silver circlet pinned to her crown braid—one that Quil had seen flung to the side of a training field, tossed in with the laundry, and once, most strangely, sitting atop the head of a particularly ugly gargoyle on the roof of the palace in Antium.

  They’d laughed when he’d found it up there, but the Empress was the furthest thing from laughter now. She crossed her arms and pinned him with her pale blue gaze.

  “You were overheard in the market today,” she said. “Speaking with Sufiyan about abdication.”

  “Were you spying—”

  “I didn’t have to spy on you. Half the city heard you. Including the Paters of Gens Candela, Duria, and Visselia.”

  “We were only talking, Aunt Hel. I didn’t mean—”

  “Those men rule their Gens with iron fists. Their heirs don’t so much as sneeze without their permission. Yet here I am, Empress and Mater of my own bleeding family, and I can’t get my nephew to show decorum in public. You cannot act like some ranting revolutionary plotting to bring down the government!”

  You used to be that revolutionary, Aunt. You and Mother and Laia and Elias. Twenty years ago, when a jinn known as the Nightbringer tried to wipe out humanity, Aunt Helene defied the powerful families of the Empire and took her troops into battle. Quil wanted to remind her. But that was as wise as flashing a scarlet centurion’s cloak in front of a cranky bull. He kept his mouth shut.

  “You are the crown prince. You’re to be Emperor, Zacharias.”

  The sound of that name was as pleasant as the shriek of an axe splintering wood. It reminded him of his demon of a father and the twin brother he’d murdered—and then named his son after.

  “How could you be so careless?” The Empress stopped pacing. “You know what this throne has cost. You’ll throw it away because you don’t want responsibility?”

  “It’s not about responsibility,” Quil said. I don’t want to be like my father. But if I tell you that, you’ll dismiss it because you hate talking about him. So, there’s no bleeding point. “Abdication isn’t unheard of. The crown princess of Sunn—”

  “Abdicated because Sunnese rebels threatened regicide,” Aunt Hel said. “They still killed her, and now the country is starving. They’ve been begging us for grain and could barely muster up a defense force when the Kegari raided them last year.”

  “The Ankanese—”

  “Have a representative government overseen by a single spiritual leader.”

  Though he was nearly a half foot taller than his aunt, Quil felt small suddenly. Cut down to a schoolchild who hasn’t remembered the day’s lesson. This was why he hadn’t spoken to her about abdication. He wanted to research. To come up with legitimate arguments and explanations. He wanted to make a case so effective she’d be forced to consider it.

  “I’ve managed to silence any word of your…misstep,” the Empress said. “But that brings me to another matter. Your guard captain said you first ordered him to leave you and then rushed toward an altercation.”

  Finally, an opening. “Something awful happened in the square—”

  “Yes. A dead child. Before you ask, I won’t discuss the details.”

  “Why?” Quil shot back. “Why, when other children have died and you’re doing nothing about it?”

  “This is exactly why you need guards,” Aunt Hel said.

  Her blatant evasion was so bleeding infuriating that he almost threw something at her head. But she’d only storm off and he’d never get any answers. Quil pitched his voice low, so as not to sound petulant.

  “I don’t need guards.”

  “Just because you’ve been trained to fight—”

  “By the greatest warrior in the Empire.”

  The Empress’s lips thinned. “I wouldn’t call him the greatest—”

  Quil snorted. “Every year you and Elias have that ridiculous duel and every year he beats you.”

  “I beat him three years ago! And stop changing the subject.” The Empress’s cheeks turned red, and the pale ghosts of two scars appeared on her face.

  They were the only remnant of her mask, the liquid metal that once covered her face and marked her as an elite soldier of the Empire—a Mask. Whenever Quil wanted to whine about his duties as heir, he’d remind himself that Aunt Hel trained and suffered for fourteen years at Blackcliff Academy. She’d revered the Holy Augurs who founded the school, and whose predictions had guided the Empire for centuries. She’d knelt as the Augurs had laid the handcrafted mask of living metal upon her face.

  Aunt Hel had trusted the Augurs even though they deceived her. Quil was glad he’d never have to meet them. They were dead now. But Blackcliff still trained its recruits rigorously, and the Masks lived on, their face coverings taken from soldiers who had fallen and refashioned for new troops every year.

  As Aunt Hel touched her scars, Quil knew she was fighting an urge to bellow at him, even as he suppressed his own glare. His aunt loved him, true. But some days it felt like it was because she had to, and not because she wanted to. Some days, Quil thought Aunt Hel would never stop seeing her dead sister in his face and his father in his eyes.

  Deep in Quil’s chest, a familiar sensation. An unfurling—warm, as if he’d taken a draught of hot, spiced cider amid a snowstorm. It was his magic responding to his frustration, eager to be used, to read Aunt Helene’s emotions, her memories, to sway her the way he wished.

  Quil shoved the unwanted inclination back into a box. Memories were private, meant to be offered—not taken. Emotions were meant to be experienced or shared—not stolen and manipulated. Quil couldn’t bring himself to sink into someone’s mind without permission. It felt like something his father would do if he had possessed magic. The violation was unconscionable.

  The Empress cracked her knuckles and walked to the window. Her gaze roved the balconies and parapets of the royal residence. She was always vigilant; it was a habit that would never die.

  “I’m sorry I got so angry,” she said after a minute, her voice almost subdued as she turned and sat beside him. “Listen. Please.”

  A chill rippled across Quil’s spine at the shift in her demeanor. Whatever she was going to say, she sensed he would hate it.

  “You are twenty,” she said. “Old enough to assume the throne. We are to have a fete in five days to mark Rathana. I plan to use the occasion to announce your coronation in the spring. You’re ready. And I…I am finished with this.” She gestured to her circlet, to the royal residence. “I’ve given up enough of my life for the Empire. Long ago, I swore to see you on the throne. It’s time to keep my promise.”

  Quil felt as if hands were dragging him down into a cold ocean, holding him deep beneath the surface. He couldn’t find words, only a well of denial choking the breath out of him.

  “I know you don’t want this, nephew,” the Empress said. “Skies know I didn’t want it either. But it will be good for you. You hide it well, but you’ve walked with shadows these many months. You loved Ilar and Ruh. Their loss—”

  Helene shook her head, and Quil knew she remembered her own lost love, dead twenty years now.

  “I understand. Of all people in the world, I do. The business of ruling will give you purpose beyond grief. You were born to a Plebeian and an Illustrian. Brought into the world by a Scholar. Raised among the Tribes. You are the best of the Empire. And she needs you. Remember the words of your Gens.” Loyal to the end.

  The Empress stood smoothly, shoulders thrown back, eyes burning like blue fire, as if she didn’t hold the weight of millions of souls upon her shoulders. Quil wondered if he’d carry the crown so effortlessly. If he’d move through the world with the knowledge that he was exactly where he should be.

  Perhaps he would. Or perhaps his heart would turn cold, his face hard. Perhaps he would become resentful and bitter like his father—or any number of Martial emperors who were more monster than human.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Quil asked again when she was at the door. “About the dead children?”

  His aunt paused, her back to him. “Grief is a strange beast. Some battle it, their souls scarred from its abuse. Some bury it, and live life waiting for it to reemerge. And some tread water, the grief a weight about their necks. Every reminder makes the weight heavier.” She turned halfway, her face in profile. “You and I tread water, nephew. And I would not see you drown.”

  A moment later, the Empress was gone. Quil thought of the wide spaces in the Tribal Lands. Of racing across those long flat deserts, sleeping beneath that crystalline night sky. Since he was torturing himself anyway, he allowed his thoughts to stray to Ilar, the way she’d walk for hours at night and return to him, a half smile on her face, the scent of wind and roses in her hair.

  He missed her. He missed that life. He wanted it so badly he could smell the heat and feel the stars between his fingers.

  But it didn’t matter what he wanted. Remember the words of your Gens. The Empress had spoken.

  And he was loyal. To the end.

  * * *

  Five days later, Quil found himself awaiting his aunt in a long stone hallway outside the palace’s throne room, searching for serenity and failing to find it.

  He pulled at the collar of the tunic, which fit him about as well as an assassin’s garrote. At least it was blue and silver—Gens Aquilla colors. The imperial clothier tried to force Quil into a black-and-gold outfit—a nod to Gens Farrar and an unsubtle reminder of Quil’s Plebeian origins.

  But Quil wasn’t stupid. This party was going to be bad enough without his foes muttering about his unworthiness as heir.

  With his guards looking on, Quil paced back and forth. He’d brought Rajin of Serra’s Recollections with him—Arelia was pestering him to finish it—but he couldn’t focus, and eventually shoved it in his pocket.

  Two winters ago, he’d spent Rathana with Tribe Saif in Nur. They celebrated midwinter with fire-throwers and acrobats and spit-roasted deer. Laia, the Tribe’s Kehanni and storyteller and history-keeper, told a dozen tales. Sufiyan’s little sisters won a dueling contest, and Sufiyan and his little brother cleared out the moon cake stall.

  It was the happiest Rathana that Quil could remember.

  Now he was here wearing ill-fitting clothing and with shadows beneath his eyes. His coronation would be announced tonight. His fate sealed.

  The steady clip of boots was a blessed distraction, and he looked up as his aunt rounded the corner into the hall. She wore her ceremonial armor and dented coronet, her silver-blond hair tucked into a crown braid.

  “Have you heard anything from Tas?” Quil asked before his aunt could speak. Better to find out now, before she got swept away by every member of court who wanted a piece of her.

  “The Blood Shrike is to arrive tomorrow from Antium,” Aunt Helene said, speaking of her second-in-command. “We’ll ask her.”

  Quil knew Aunt Hel well enough to sense she was dissembling. He’d overheard her fighting with Tas nearly six months ago, the day before Tas left on a mission he never returned from. Most of the court heard it, as it had happened in the bleeding throne room.

  What the hells is the point of having an adviser if you never listen to the advice? Tas accused the Empress.

  Say something worth hearing, you drunken lout, Aunt Helene snapped, and maybe I will.

  Certainly, Tas was a libertine. He found whatever perks there were in espionage and enjoyed them to the fullest. But he’d spent years carrying out missions for Aunt Hel. And still, she kept him at arm’s distance.

  “Tas is a brother to me and I’d like the truth,” Quil said. “Even if you two don’t always get along.”

  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.