by Callie Bates
“But you don’t have a bride yet,” I say. “You have time, now, before you arrange marriage. Time to be with who you wish.”
“And then,” he says, “it would have to end.”
“Yes.” I swallow. “I suppose it would.” I reach out and squeeze his knee. It’s an inadequate gesture, but I think he knows I wish it could convey more. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.” He blinks and rubs at his eyes, but I’m not fooled by his insistence. Those are tears he blinked away. I wish this were something that I could change for him. Some law I or Pantoleon or Argyros could rewrite. He says, “If I had a child, when they’re old enough, I could abdicate to live as I wish. With a garden, and whoever I love.”
“Lees,” I begin, but I don’t know what to say. That would be more than twenty years away—more like thirty. Forty, even, if his sense of duty even allows him to step down. If he were anyone but the emperor of Paladis, he could live however he liked and no one would say a thing.
“It’s all right, Jahan.” He manages a smile. “I’ve made my peace with it.”
But he hasn’t. Who could make peace with decades of sacrificing one’s personal desires for the empire? For the good of the people?
There’s a noise at the door: Zollus, instructing one of the servants about the temperature of the broth they’ve brought for Leontius. Lees goes still, and despite everything there’s a kind of desperate hope about him.
“I’ll let you rest,” I say, and rise. Cramps run through my legs, the aftereffect of the magic leaving my body.
He leans forward, capturing my arm. “Thank you, Jahan. For everything.”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you back your hand.”
His eyebrows lift, surprised, as if the idea hadn’t even occurred to him. “I’m alive, aren’t I?” He frowns at his empty wrist, then nods. “There’s nothing to apologize for. You saved my life—so many lives. This is what I am now. And it will remind people every day—it will remind me every day—of what we fought for.”
My eyes sting. “You’ll make a fine emperor, you know.”
He goes quiet. “I hope so. But I’ve seen what happens when you rule.”
There’s little I can say to that, so I just squeeze his arm. I limp to the door just as Zollus comes in, carrying the tray of broth himself. I’ve never seen him do anything so solicitous. He pauses, out of politeness, to greet me, but his gaze keeps straying, concerned, to Leontius. Maybe he is worthy of my friend—or will be, given time.
I leave them to each other.
Out in the corridor, I feel almost dizzy with exhaustion. But Leontius’s words linger in my mind—his desire to commit fully to a person. His desire not to be like his father.
There’s something I need to do.
* * *
—
AN HOUR LATER, coming back in from the Grand Court, I find Pantoleon and Tullea coming down the grand stair, both of them smeared with plaster dust. Pantoleon thumps my shoulder, wordlessly, and Tullea clasps my hands. “We tried to get Argyros and Felix to wait,” she says, “but they’re down in the cellars looking for champagne. Everyone wants to get drunk and celebrate.”
And forget, I think. Everyone wants to forget the moment of terror when the entire ceiling lifted off the Hall of Glass, and Firmina Triciphes was ready to kill us all. I can’t really blame Felix and Argyros.
“They’re welcome to it,” I reply. My eyes are so gritty; I feel as if I could curl up on the parquet and fall asleep. “The Saranons have been stockpiling it just for this occasion, I’m sure.”
Pantoleon’s studying me. “You look like hell.”
I feel the side of my mouth crook up. “Better like hell than dead.” I pause, looking at Tullea. She’s thinking, I can tell, and probably not about me. “What happened to the ministers?”
She nods; this must have been her train of thought. “Some of the survivors ran off. Your aunt gave the others a talking-to before Felix and Argyros dragged them off.”
“Getting them drunk might make them more amenable to sorcery?” I wonder.
Tullea winces, and Pantoleon laughs. “They’re going to have to get a lot more amenable!” he says. “I’m going hunting for all the wells the old sorcerers covered up, once I find all the references in the texts. Soon all of Paladis will be fairly humming with magic.”
“But will they legalize it?” Tullea says. She’s looking at me.
I shrug, and then I find myself starting to laugh. “They will if their emperor is a sorcerer. And if we tell them the truth about the last grand inquisitor…that will be the end of the witch hunters.”
“Good,” Tullea says. She hesitates, then touches my arm. “I’d like to be involved.”
If we put the ministers in a room alone with Tullea, they’d be bowing down to her within five minutes, I think. But I just nod. “Of course. We’ll all work together. Perhaps Leontius will name you the minister of sorcery!”
She looks at me. “Or perhaps that’s what he’ll name you.”
This could be a problem, I suppose. “I’ll talk to him. But if anyone deserves the title, it’s you, Tullea. You’ve been fighting your whole life for this. I’ve only come to it lately.”
She smiles a little at that. “Will you come drink a toast with us, then?”
“Of course,” I say, even though my entire body aches. “But I need to find Elanna, first. And my aunt.”
Tullea points up the stairs. “They’re in the Salon of Meres. El’s drafting a treaty between Eren and Paladis.”
Still working, even after all this. I smile. “I’ll see you soon.”
They go off, but before I can open the door, the sound of running footsteps interrupts me. I turn to find Nestor charging down the hall.
“Jahan! I tracked them down—Augustus and Phaedra.”
I sigh. If I must pursue and confront them, it will just have to damned well wait. “Where?”
He grins. “Manasi!”
I stare at him. “What did they do, board a ship?”
“Yes, just before I got there.” He’s beaming now. “They’re gone, Jahan. They exiled themselves.”
“How convenient,” I say, but relief is spreading through me, softening my shoulders. It might be too convenient, but I’ll take it. “Good work, Nestor. Consider yourself promoted to Saranon-exiler-in-chief.”
He laughs and runs off to celebrate with the others. At last, I continue up the stairs.
In the long corridor, Aunt Cyra is just closing the filigreed doors of the Salon of Meres. She looks up as I approach. Her feathered plume is tattered, her gown splattered with blood and dirt, but she still looks as if she could sweep the entire palace into order with a flick of her wrist.
I run to her and gather her into a tight embrace. “I’m so sorry—so damned sorry—”
“Oh, Jahan.” She hugs me back, briefly, too dignified for such sentiment even after all this. “You did exceptionally well.”
Tears sting my eyes. “I left you in Firmina’s hands. I should have known. She might have done anything to you.”
To my astonishment, Aunt Cyra bursts out laughing. “Please, darling, give me more credit than that! Firmina wouldn’t harm one of her most useful supporters—at least until their usefulness ran out, which I suppose poor Bardas’s did in the end. I may not have sorcery at my disposal, but I know how to save my own skin. Besides, it was rather fun, being a revolutionary.” She sobers. “Though I may not have succeeded in saving all the ministers.”
“You helped her?” I’m shocked.
“Helping and harming were, in this case, two sides of the same coin. Why do you think Augustus and Phaedra escaped alive? And most of the ministers survived, in the end, not to mention your reformers? She could have simply killed them all. But she wanted
the appearance of legitimacy to her rule, and I encouraged that.” Seeing my look, she explains, “After you rescued Leontius, we went around Aexione gathering the ministers to support us. Some came willingly; some, Firmina…persuaded. But better that, I thought, than murdering them the way she did her husband. We suspected that Augustus and Phaedra would never hold out against you, and we were right. I tried to convince Firmina to negotiate with your reformers. But her idea of negotiation was a bit different than mine.”
I wince. “But she didn’t harm you?”
“No. She wouldn’t have succeeded with all the ministers without my help, not in time. She knew that.” Aunt Cyra smiles faintly. “I only hoped I could delay her long enough for you to arrive. And you did.”
I look at my aunt. She’s one of the bravest people I know—courageous enough to shelter a sorcerer, and fierce enough to try to stop one from destroying her people and her country. Quietly, I say, “Thank you.”
Her eyes soften. “Darling, thank you. You’re the one who stopped her, when it came down to it.”
I utter a self-conscious laugh. “And brought sorcery back to the empire.”
“Well, without magic, life would be terrifically dull.” Her lips quirk. “I always rather hoped you’d do it. Now you have, and look at you. You’ve grown into who you were meant to be, Jahan. You’re not living the lie anymore. You’re yourself now. It’s good to see. So very good.”
My throat has swollen so tight I can’t speak.
Aunt Cyra gestures toward the door. “Not only that, but you’ve found a lovely, strong woman. I’ve been talking to Elanna. I like her.”
“I’m glad,” I manage, because I am. Aunt Cyra is the closest I have to a mother. It matters what she thinks of El.
She studies me, then takes my shoulders and plants a kiss on my forehead. “Go to her. She’s writing a treaty for you.”
“Thank you, Auntie. What you say means so much. I can’t—”
She waves a hand. “Enough sentiment! Go in there. In the meantime, I shall go find some of the champagne we’ve been promised.”
But she presses my shoulder before she leaves, the gesture holding all the warmth she can’t convey in words. I touch her hand. We both know how much we’ve sacrificed to get here. We both know how much it matters, both of us standing here.
Then she sweeps away. I draw in a breath, and open the door into the Salon of Meres.
Elanna sits at the long table, writing intently, her hair tumbling over one shoulder and her lip tucked under her teeth. She barely glances up at me. “I want to get this written,” she says. “Now, before anything else happens.”
I raise an eyebrow. “How much more do you have to do?”
“Not much.” She looks up, now, suspicious. “Why?”
I grin. “I have someone I want you to meet.”
“Oh, Jahan.” She groans, rubbing her hands over her face and flicking ink everywhere. “I don’t think I can talk to anyone else today. I’m so damned tired. I don’t want to make small talk, and explain what a Caveadear is, and…”
I reach across the table and pick the pen out of her hand, tucking it safely into its holder. She’s splattered the document she’s writing, too. “You won’t have to make small talk. I promise. You should come. I think you’ll like it.”
She narrows her eyes but, grumbling, gets up and lets me lead her from the chamber. We descend the grand staircase. As I guide her out into the Grand Court and toward the gates, she stares about in surprise. “Where are we going? I thought you were taking me to have a toast with everyone else.”
“Why don’t you guess?” I suggest, grinning.
“If I could guess your mind, I’d know everything.” As we emerge onto the Avenue of Oranges, its grand houses perfumed with climbing roses, a sigh unravels from her. “You brought me to see Aexione. It’s beautiful.”
“It is,” I acknowledge, “but this isn’t a sightseeing tour…”
Ahead, on our right, a gate stands open to the street. I’m relieved to see it’s open, though I don’t say so to El. I wasn’t sure he’d actually come here, despite my urging.
I gesture for El to go in.
She balks, staring at the exotic ferns, and the bees droning in flowers from all corners of the earth. “Jahan…”
“This,” I say, “is the Kepeios Basiliskos. The imperial botanical garden.”
El presses her fist to her mouth. She can’t seem to speak for a long moment, but at last she whispers, “I’ve been dreaming of this place for years. Since I was a girl.”
I smile at her. “I know. You almost forsook your entire rebellion for it.”
Without warning, she grabs me by the neck and pulls me in for a brief, burning kiss. “Thank you, Jahan.” She rests her forehead against mine.
Footsteps crunch in the garden, and a man clears his throat. “Jahan?”
We spring apart. A man stands watching us, hands on his hips. He’s tall and rangy and sun-browned, with a thatch of graying hair and spectacles swinging from a chain at his throat. He can’t seem bothered to tie his neckcloth properly, or attend to the tear in his otherwise fine coat. Dirt is packed beneath his fingernails.
“I got out the latest samples from the Occident,” he says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “The ones we got on our last expedition. You said it was urgent?”
“Yes,” I say, smiling. “It is. Elanna…”
I turn to her. She’s staring at the man, completely awestruck.
“El,” I say, “this is Andras Markarades, the imperial botanist. Andras, may I introduce Elanna Valtai, the Caveadear of Eren and Caeris?”
El swallows and smooths back her hair, collecting herself. Her hands tremble slightly in the presence of her hero. “Sir, I am such a great admirer of your work. I can’t tell you how much I look forward to every edition of The Journal of Botanical Studies. Your last monograph on the Carica genus in the Occident—”
Markarades snaps his fingers. “You’re the one who woke the earth! The Caveadear!”
El blinks. “Yes? I mean, I am, but…”
“You speak to every plant! Rivers, and forests, and animals…” He draws in a breath, then looks meaningfully at us both. “Please come in. I have many questions for you.”
“Oh,” El says, “but I have so many questions for you…”
I let her go ahead of me, her eyes bright, her nerves already forgotten. The day is blue and brilliant and, despite my exhausted limbs, I feel a lightness lifting in my chest. Ahead, Markarades is saying, “We need to write a joint monograph, I feel, on the intersection of botanical study and sorcery,” and Elanna is eagerly agreeing.
I smile. There’s only one more thing I need to do.
* * *
—
AFTER THE MEETING with Markarades, and after we toast our victory at last with our friends, I take Elanna back to Aunt Cyra’s house. My aunt sent the servants to safety in the country or with family earlier, and the building sits unusually quiet. I leave El to settle in while I check on my brothers—both of them asleep at the other end of the long hall. Lathiel lies curled in a ball, hugging a pillow to his chest, his eyelids flickering with dreams. Rayka snores. They’re here. Safe.
Aunt Cyra rattles about below us, back now from the palace. I return down the hall to Elanna. In my absence, she’s lit a fire in the grate and settled into the canopied bed.
“There you are,” she says. “I thought I was going to have to send a search party.”
I climb over the coverlet, not bothering to undress or even kick my shoes off. El’s smiling, her hair a mess, the collar of her shirt open to reveal the notch in her collarbone. I’m so weary I think I might sleep on the spot, but there’s also a strange energy coursing through me, bright and warm, the remnant of the power from the grotto well. I take her hand. She smells of the gardens and
sunlight.
“Elanna Valtai,” I say, and she bursts out laughing. “What?”
“I’ve never heard you say my name so seriously,” she says, still quivering with laughter.
I grin. “Then perhaps you can guess what I’m going to say.”
“If I could predict that, I could predict anything.”
“Well…I don’t have a ring. And it’s difficult to kneel here…”
“Oh, I think you can manage,” she says mischievously, but then my meaning must dawn on her. Her eyes grow enormous. “Jahan—”
“Will you marry me?” I blurt out, as green as any boy.
She laughs, but her hand goes to her mouth. “No—you swore you would never marry. And I told you I didn’t mind.”
“I know,” I say, and I crack a grin. “All the gods, I didn’t practice this speech. But El—I want—I don’t know. I want something more permanent to hold us. I want—” I swallow hard. “—I want you to know, whatever happens, that I am yours. That my heart belongs to you.”
Her gaze grows tender and somehow terribly sad. “And mine belongs to you,” she says softly. “Even if we have to part again. If I have to…go home.”
I swallow. I feel as nervous as a boy asking a girl to dance with him. “Yes. But I think marriage is also a promise. Because you must go home—I understand that—but I’m going to follow you there, Elanna Valtai. It may take months, until the city is settled, and the empire. Even years. But I will come to Eren and Caeris. And I will marry you. That is,” I add, “if you want me to.”
“If I want you!” she exclaims. “Jahan Korakides…”
Then she grabs my collar and kisses me. I wrap my arms around her. She fishes herself out of the covers and pulls herself in closer, wrapping her legs around my waist. “Madam,” I murmur against her mouth, “you seem to have lost your trousers…or skirt…”
She gurgles a laugh. “And I finally found us a decent bed!”
“You didn’t like the rocks up on Solivetos Hill?”
