The future for all the people who had cheered upon her arrival would be as bright as the ancient scepter she would raise at her public Ascension.
It would be a grand ceremony, much like her father’s had been many years ago, long before her birth, that would live forever through the paintings and sculptures commissioned to document it.
And then all—whether they liked it or not—would have to worship and obey the first empress in mortal history.
Wearing purple robes, her hair arranged into a thick, neat bun at the back of her head, Neela waited for her in the grand, shining entryway to the Spear. The old woman reached her arms out toward her granddaughter. Guards lined the circumference of the palace’s ground floor.
Amara’s cane made a clicking sound on the green metallic floors as she closed the distance between them, then Amara allowed her grandmother to take her into a warm embrace.
“My beautiful dhosha has returned to me,” Neela said.
Amara’s throat tightened, and her eyes stung.
“I’ve missed you, madhosha,” she whispered.
“And I you.”
Amara couldn’t take her eyes off her grandmother. The old woman looked anything but old today. She was vibrant. Her skin glowed, her eyes sparkled. Even her steel-gray hair seemed shinier and fuller.
“You look wonderful, madhosha,” Amara told her. “Clearly, staving off a revolution does wonders for the skin.”
Neela laughed lightly, touching her own smooth, tanned cheeks. “That’s hardly to account for this. My apothecary created a special elixir for me, one that has certainly contributed to my renewed strength. During your stay in little Mytica, I knew I couldn’t allow my age and ailments to slow me down.”
The apothecary was a mysterious man who had worked secretly for the Cortas family for many years. Amara made note to meet him in person very soon. She knew he was also responsible for the magical potion that had brought her back to life as a mere baby, the same potion that had made Ashur’s resurrection possible.
This was a man she needed to know. A man she needed to control.
“I have so much to tell you,” Amara said.
“Perhaps not as much as you think. I have been kept fully apprised of all that has gone on in little Mytica, despite the rather short and cryptic messages I’ve received from you. Come, let’s speak in private, away from curious ears, shall we?”
Mildly surprised, Amara followed her grandmother through the long, narrow hallways of the Spear to the east wing, out into the rock garden in Amara’s private courtyard.
She gazed around at her favorite place in the palace—a place that her father had hated since he thought it ugly and uninspired. But Amara had acquired each of the tens of thousands of rocks—shiny, ugly, beautiful, all sizes and colors—over her lifetime and thought them each a treasure.
“I’ve missed this place,” she said.
“I’m sure you did.”
A servant brought them a tray of wine and a selection of exotic fruits unlike anything available in Mytica. Amara’s mouth watered at the sight of them.
Neela poured them both a goblet of wine, and Amara took a deep drink.
Paelsian wine.
The same wine she’d used to poison her family.
She swallowed it down, although her stomach churned at the memory.
“Ashur is still alive,” Neela said after she too drank from her goblet.
Amara froze mid-sip, then took a moment to compose herself. “He is. He acquired the resurrection potion from your apothecary.”
“I am also told that after you captured him, he managed to escape.”
Again, Amara exhaled slowly, evenly, before she replied. “He won’t be a problem.”
“Your Ascension isn’t for nearly a week. If your brother shows his face here, if he claims the right to the title of emperor—”
“He won’t.”
“How can you be sure of that?”
“I just am. My brother is . . . preoccupied with other issues in Mytica.”
“The young man he’s come to care for far too deeply for his own good. The one who is currently the vessel for the fire Kindred.”
Amara just stared at her now, stunned. “Who told you all this?”
Neela raised her brows, taking a plump red grape from the top of the platter, inspecting it carefully before popping it in her mouth and chewing slowly. “Do you deny any of it?”
Uneasiness spread through her. Her grandmother didn’t trust her. If she did, she would have felt no need for a spy.
A very well-informed spy, it would seem.
“I don’t deny it,” Amara said, pushing back against her uncertainty. “I’ve done what I felt I must. I tried to find a way to control the Kindred. It was impossible. And now . . . well, I’ve left quite a mess behind.” Amara’s voice was shaking. “Kyan could destroy the world, madhosha. And it would be all my fault.”
Neela shook her head, her expression serene. “I’ve learned in my lifetime to control only what is possible. When something is out of my hands, I let it be free. What is done is done. The problems in Mytica are Mytica’s problems, not ours. Do you think there is a chance these elemental gods will succeed against the sorceress?”
Amara’s grip tightened on her goblet. “I don’t know.”
“Is there anything you can do to be of assistance to her?”
“I could only make things worse, I think. It’s best that I’m here now.”
“Then it is done. And what will be will be.” Neela poured herself more wine. “You should know that King Gaius Damora is dead.”
“What?” Amara fell speechless for a moment. “He’s . . . dead? How?”
“An arrow to the heart. He was halted in the middle of a speech about how he meant to defeat you and take back his precious tiny kingdom.”
Amara allowed the shock of this incredible news to wash over her.
Gaius was dead.
Her enemy. Her husband. The man who’d married her for the chance to align with her father. The man she’d briefly believed might be an asset to her reign until he betrayed her at the first opportunity.
She knew she should be pleased by this news. Had she not feared Lucia’s wrath, she would have had him executed herself.
Still, it seemed so strange that a man as powerful and as ruthless as Gaius Damora could be taken from the world by a mere arrow.
“Unbelievable,” she whispered.
“I chose the assassin well, dhosha,” Neela said.
Amara glanced up from her goblet, shocked by her grandmother’s words. “It was your doing?”
Neela nodded, her gaze steady. “King Gaius presented a potential obstacle to your future. Now you are a widow, ready to marry anyone of your choosing.”
Amara shook her head. Perhaps her grandmother expected gratitude, rather than shock, for taking this extreme step.
Could she have made such a choice?
Gaius was most definitely a problem, but one—like everything else she’d left behind—that she’d decided to deal with after her Ascension, when her power was absolute and unshakable.
“Of course, you were right to have made this choice,” Amara finally said. “However, I do wish you’d consulted me first.”
“The result would have been the same, only delayed. Some problems require immediate attention.”
Amara limped a few paces away, her grip on her cane painfully tight. “I’m curious who it is in my compound that has been sending you so many detailed messages.”
A small smile touched Neela’s lips. “Someone who will be arriving soon with a very special gift I have acquired for you.”
“Intriguing. Care to share more?”
“Not just yet. But I believe this gift will be incredibly useful to us both for many years to come. I will say no more si
nce I want it to be a surprise.”
Amara forced herself to relax. Despite the jarring news of Gaius’s assassination, she knew she needed to give thanks for her grandmother’s intelligence, strength, and foresight, rather than question it.
“The Jewel is beautiful and calm again,” Amara said after a peaceful silence fell between them. She had strolled around her garden, touching her favorite rocks and remembering the very place she’d put the aquamarine orb when it had briefly been in her possession.
“It is,” Neela agreed. “Most of the rebels were put to death immediately upon arrest, but we have their leader here in the palace awaiting execution. Since he was previously a servant here, I thought it would be fitting for him to meet his death publicly at your Ascension ceremony. Symbolic, really.” She raised her chin. “A symbol that we shall survive despite any threats to our rightful power.”
Amara picked up a sun-warmed piece of jagged obsidian, its shiny black edges reflecting the sunlight. “A servant, you say? Anyone I may have known?”
“Yes, indeed. Mikah Kasro.”
Amara’s grip on the stone tightened painfully.
Mikah was a favored guard who’d been at the palace since the two of them were children.
“Mikah Kasro is the leader of the revolution?” she repeated, certain she’d heard wrong.
Neela nodded. “The leader of the local faction, anyway. He was responsible for the prison break, which killed nearly two hundred guards, after your departure for Mytica.” Her expression flashed with disgust. “Shortly after that, he made a direct attempt on my life here at the palace. But he failed.”
“And I’m so very grateful he did fail.”
“As am I.”
“I want to speak with him.” It was out before Amara even realized what she was asking.
Neela’s brows raised. “Why would you want such a thing?”
Amara tried to think it through. To visit a prisoner, especially one whose goal was to overthrow her rule, seemed ludicrous, even to her. “I remember Mikah was so loyal, so kind, so honest—or at least I thought he was. I don’t understand this.”
He liked me and I liked him, she wanted to add. But she didn’t.
It seemed that spending so much time in Mytica, with its deceptive and passive-aggressive people, had stolen her gift for the absolute bluntness Kraeshians prided themselves on.
Her grandmother now frowned deeply, regarding her with curiosity. “I suppose it can be arranged. If you insist.”
Amara needed this. Needed to speak with Mikah and understand what he wanted, understand why he would choose to rise up and try to destroy the Cortas family—even now that her hateful father and all but one of his male heirs were dead.
Amara glanced at her grandmother. “Yes, I insist.”
Amara had threatened the guard at the Paelsian compound, the one who had shifted his loyalties to Lord Kurtis, with turning his cell into a forgetting room.
Mikah Kasro had been locked in such a room in the Emerald Spear for several weeks.
Amara leaned on her cane as she entered the empty, windowless room, flanked by guards, to see that Mikah’s hands and feet were shackled. He wore only ragged black trousers and had several weeks’ growth of beard on his face.
There were deep cuts on his chest and arms, and his left eye was bruised and swollen shut. His shoulder-length long black hair was matted and greasy, and his cheeks were gaunt.
But his eyes . . .
Mikah’s eyes burned like coals. He was only a couple of years older than Amara, yet his eyes were wise and steady and filled with bottomless strength, despite everything he had endured.
“She returns,” Mikah said, his voice not much more than a low growl. “And she blesses me with her luminous presence.”
He sounded so much like Felix that she had to wince.
“You will speak to the empress with respect,” one of the guards snapped.
“It’s fine,” Amara said. “Mikah can speak to me however he likes today. I’m strong enough to take it. Hold nothing back, my old friend. I don’t mind at all.”
“Old friend,” Mikah repeated, snorting softly. “How funny. I once thought that might be possible—that a mere servant and a princess could be friends. You were kind to me, so much kinder than your father. And much kinder than Dastan and Elan combined. When I heard you killed them, I celebrated.”
Amara pressed her lips together.
“What? You think it’s still a secret?” Mikah asked, raising a dark eyebrow at her.
“It’s nothing but a poisonous lie,” she said.
“You are a murderer, just like your father, and one day you will answer for your crimes.”
Before Amara could say a word, the guard kicked Mikah in the chest. He landed flat on his back, coughing and wheezing.
“Speak with respect to the empress, or I will cut out your tongue,” the guard snarled.
Amara looked at the guard. “Leave us.”
“He was disrespectful to you.”
“I agree. But that’s not what I asked of you. Leave me to talk with Mikah in private. That is a command.”
With obvious reluctance, the guards did as she said. When they left, closing the door behind them, Amara turned toward Mikah again. He’d sat up, cradling his injured ribs with his thin arms.
“You’re right,” she said. “I did kill my father and brothers. I killed them because they stood in the way of progress—the progress that both of us want.”
“Oh, I doubt that very much,” Mikah replied.
She was used to servants doing as she said without question, but Mikah had always been argumentative and challenging. Over the years, she’d come to expect it. And, at times, she enjoyed their banter.
“I thought you liked me,” she said, then regretted it, since it came out sounding needy. “I will make a good empress, one who puts the needs of her subjects before her own, unlike my father.”
“Your father was cruel, hateful, selfish, and vain. He conquered others to amuse himself.”
“I’m not like that.”
Mikah laughed, a dark and hollow sound in his chest. “Who are you trying to convince—me or yourself? It’s a simple question, really. Will you follow in your father’s footsteps and continue to conquer lands that don’t belong to Kraeshia?”
She frowned. “Of course. One day soon, the world will belong to Kraeshia. We will be as one, and my rule will be absolute.”
Mikah shook his head. “There is no need to rule the entire world. No need to possess every weapon, every treasure, every piece of magic one can get their hands on. Freedom is what counts. Freedom for everyone—be they rich or poor. The freedom to choose our own lives, our own paths, without an absolute ruler telling us what we can and cannot do. That is what I fight for.”
Amara didn’t understand. The world he proposed would be one of chaos.
“There is a difference between those who are weak and those who are strong,” she began carefully. “The weak perish, the strong survive—and they rule and make the choices that help everything run smoothly. I know I will be a good leader. My people will love me.”
“And if they don’t?” he countered. “If they rise up and try to change what has been thrust upon them through no choice of their own, will you have them put to death?” Amara shifted uncomfortably on her feet. Mikah raised his eyebrows. “Think about this before your Ascension, because it’s very important.”
Amara tried to swallow the lump in her throat. She needed to block out what he said—to pretend that it didn’t resonate with her.
“Let me ask you one thing, Mikah,” she began. “Had you been successful in your siege of the palace—had you killed my grandmother and then been faced with me—what would you have done? Would you have let me live?”
His gaze remained steady, burning with the intelligen
ce and intensity that made her unable to disregard everything he said as nonsense.
“No, I would have killed you,” he said.
Amara stiffened at his blunt admission, surprised he hadn’t taken the opportunity to lie. “Then you are no better than me.”
“I never said I was. However, you’re too dangerous right now, too intoxicated by your own power. But power is like a rug beneath your feet: It can be pulled away without warning.”
She shook her head. “You’re wrong.”
“Be careful with your grandmother, princess. She has her hands upon that rug beneath you. She always has.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s in control here,” he said. “You think yourself so smart to have achieved so much in such a short time. Never doubt that everything that’s happened, everything including your Ascension, is according to her plan, not yours.”
Amara’s heart pounded at his words.
“How dare you speak that way about my grandmother!” she hissed. “She is the only one who’s ever believed in me.”
“Your grandmother only believes in her own desire for power.”
It had been a mistake to come here. What had she expected? Apologies from someone she once liked and trusted? For Mikah to prostrate himself before her and beg for forgiveness?
Mikah thought she wasn’t worthy of ruling the empire. That she was as flawed and myopic as her father had been.
He was wrong.
“The next time I see you will be at my Ascension,” Amara said evenly, “where you will be publicly executed for your crimes. All gathered will witness what happens to those who stand against the future of Kraeshia. Your blood will mark the beginning of a true revolution. My revolution.”
CHAPTER 19
LUCIA
PAELSIA
She’d departed the palace with nothing but the dark gray gown on her back and a small purse of Auranian centimos. She’d left everything else behind, including the fire, earth, and air Kindred orbs that were locked away in a large iron box in her chambers.
She’d traveled far enough from the City of Gold that the original rush of panic and fear and confusion had dissipated, and now intelligent thought returned.
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