by Gwynn White
“Every third month we gather in person for these meetings, but we are yet to be graced with the presence of your two heirs.” Vasily cleared his throat. “Just last night, Count Raklus asked how they would learn to govern our great empire if they never attend the forums where discussions on government are held. We have yet to even hear their voices on the news feed.”
Lukan glowered at Raklus. Felix’s life-long friend, Raklus had been spared the death Mott had pronounced on him and had served for the last sixteen years as Lukan’s Lord of the Merchants. He was known for his straight-talking.
“Is this correct?” Lukan asked.
A glare at Vasily, and then Raklus creaked to his feet. He bowed.
“Sire.” The elderly man took a deep breath and then fixed Lukan with a watery eye. “Your sons look little better than our worst low-born rabble. If that is not bad enough, the sight of them instills fear in the hearts of your subjects. And to have them guarded like murderers, well, that is most unseemly.”
A coughing spasm had him doubling over. The same age as Felix and Vasily, Raklus looked—and sounded—much older. When he had his chest under control, he wheezed, “All of us die, sire. Not having proper heirs does not bode well for the future when Crown Prince Grigor will be required to take over your throne.”
He sank back into his seat.
Hiding all trace of his outrage at Raklus’s interference, Lukan scanned his councilmen’s expressions.
Agreement blazed there.
Sixteen years ago, Lukan would have thought nothing of using Morass to quell such dissidence, but Artyom Zarot’s death had taught him that an emperor’s life was simpler when he had good men in place to help him govern. A military failure, he could not bear the thought of being inept in the administration of the empire, too. That humiliation would be too much to bear. He now punished obliquely by targeting his High Councilmen’s families when the men stepped out of line. That worked even better to keep them working hard for him.
As much as it rankled, he asked, “What would you have me do, Count Raklus?”
Raklus gestured around the room. “I am not long for this world. They must decide.”
Like the cowards they were, Lukan’s councilmen found anything but Lukan to focus on. Lukan was about to leave when Stefan Zarot finally stood and bowed.
“Perhaps, sire, it would be appropriate if the boys diverted some of their time from fishing to exploring other activities typical of teenagers. For that, they would need to leave the lake and their apartment. Haircuts and a new wardrobe for each of them would help, too.” He pointed to their vacant seats. “And, of course, we would welcome their presence here, as I am sure the other high-born would welcome them in the great hall.”
Felix, who should have known better, had the temerity to nod. What was the man thinking?
Lukan stood. “I will consider your counsel.” To Felix, he said, “My office. Now.”
He strode down the aisle between the councilmen’s chairs. As he reached the end of the hall, Morass leaped to his feet and opened the door. Like a shadow, his Lord of the Rack followed him to his office.
Even aided by his cane, Felix scurried to keep up with Lukan’s long strides.
Morass opened the door, and Lukan sailed into the room to await Felix. His Lord of the Household was breathless when he slunk in. Morass shut the door behind him.
“By the Dragon! What were you thinking, springing that on me?” Lukan demanded.
Without waiting for permission, Felix crumpled onto a sofa. He dropped his cane on the coffee table between the sofas and pulled his snotty handkerchief from his pocket to mop his face. “I am not as young as I once was, sire. You would do well to remember that before expecting me to engage in high speed chases through the palace.”
“Answer my question.”
A sigh from Felix. “I fully grasp your reasons for keeping the princes locked up, but the High Council is agitated. Surely you can see how unwise it is to refuse to discuss the matter with them?”
“What I do with my heirs”—Lukan swallowed and corrected—“my sons, is my business.”
“With all due respect, sire, it is not. They belong not only to you and Princess Kestrel, but to the empire at large. We all have a stake in those boys.”
Lukan sat on the leather sofa across from Felix, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. He had often wondered just how much his uncle knew about the Dmitri Curse.
A lot more than he has ever let on.
Felix’s knowledge of the curse must have convinced him that Lukan would be the last emperor on the throne.
Lukan ran a hand over his face and said as dryly as he could, “You know that is not the case. They will never take the throne.”
Felix clasped his heart with his maimed hand. “At last! We can finally speak openly on this.”
“So, you have known all these years?”
“Of course I have, sire. But my lips were sealed by your silence on the subject.”
Lukan couldn’t help wishing Felix were more forthcoming with his vast wealth of knowledge. It would be a shame if he went senile before Lukan had bled him of everything he knew.
“I cannot risk Tao telling them about Dmitri. Or, even more catastrophic, about Nicholas.”
“I am aware of the problem, sire, but you also cannot risk the high-born questioning why you effectively have no heirs. That is raising alarm bells, too. At this stage, we have their loyalty, but with Dmitri’s blasted curse threatening to unfold around us, we cannot alienate them by ignoring their legitimate concerns.”
Felix blew into his handkerchief, and Lukan knew his uncle had even more bad news to impart.
After a round of nose wiping, Felix said, “In their current state, Grigor and Meka are a disgrace to the Avanov name. And with the guardsmen shadowing them, they do look like young criminals, not heirs to the greatest throne in history.”
“It’s not that bad,” Lukan said defensively. “They are just a tad unkempt. If a haircut and a visit from a tailor helps, then I will set that in motion today. And as for the guards, well, you know why they are there.”
“It will take more than a dozen tailors to rectify their wrongs,” Felix said. “You need to get them out of that cage and tame them.”
“It is not a cage,” Lukan said stiffly. “It is merely an enclosed lake. How many times must I tell you that?”
“Say it as much as you want, nephew, it doesn’t change the facts. Your heirs have been cruelly neglected by both you and their mother.”
This was bold, even for Felix. His uncle must have felt strongly about the matter.
Lukan scoffed; it was typical of Felix to think he knew everything about raising children. Felix had been a doting father who had indulged his son—Look how well that had worked with the traitor, Axel—and his daughter.
Even his grandchildren, Malika and Stefan’s children, were spoiled rotten. Felix had agreed with Stefan Zarot that none of his children should be embedded with ice crystal gemstones at birth. In Lukan’s mind, that spoke to disloyalty. It was yet another reason Stefan hadn’t been offered a bed in the bunker. Lukan only tolerated Zarot’s continued presence in Treven because the High Council insisted on it.
“Don’t talk to me about parenting. Not when Axel is a product of your upbringing.”
Felix’s waxy face paled, and his lips twitched. “Axel is the exception to every rule.”
Lukan’s jab must have stung, because Felix scrambled to his feet.
“Sire, the lunch with the Sixteen will be starting soon. You like being there to greet them.”
That was true. Because of the distances in the empire, he only called the Sixteen together every three months, so the luncheon was an important event he used to gauge their moods and to learn things never raised in official meetings.
But that didn’t stop Lukan indulging in a smile—and a dig at Felix—at his little win. “So that’s it. A mention of Axel, and your objections to my parenting are blown away?”
Another glare from Felix. “Not at all, sire. Stefan is right. Grigor and Meka need to be brought into the circle of high-born.”
Lukan’s smile morphed into a frown. “So, parenting expert, how do you suggest I do that without Tao corrupting them?”
“Sire, nothing you can do will stop Tao if he sets his mind to speaking to them. And perhaps you should ask Kestrel for her views.”
Lukan looked at Felix incredulously. “What does she know about anything?”
“She is their mother. She did approach them after the killing,” Felix said. “And you are trying to keep her nose out of the chenna.” Felix surprised Lukan by grabbing his arm. “Like every parent, you have done what you consider best for your children. But part of parenting is adapting to change. Just like I had to cast off Axel when he betrayed us all those years ago, you have to adapt to the changing needs of your heirs.”
Lukan pulled away, not wanting to hear Felix’s implied criticism.
Felix spoke to his departing back. “Grigor and Meka are the only weapons we have in our arsenal to fight Dmitri. Let us not blunt them before we even get to use them.”
Put like that, as much as Lukan hated to admit it, Felix had a point. He paused at the door. “I will speak with Kestrel after the luncheon is over.”
Chapter 30
One handed, Meka tugged his jacket tighter around him. In his other hand, he held the replacement fishing rod for the one he had broken on the wolf’s face. The willows drooping into the lake sprinkled their last few leaves like gold dust on the water as the cold wind blew. Soon it would be too cold to fish comfortably, but at least the incessant rain that had ruined summer and all of autumn had finally stopped.
Not that the weather had ever been a deterrent to imprisonment in the cage. From winters past, Meka knew the guardsmen would merely add an ice pick to his fishing gear and a fur coat to his back before escorting him to the cage.
The prospect filled Meka with despair.
And anger. Mostly anger.
He glanced over his left shoulder at the guardsman standing a few feet behind him. Another waited on his right. He went nowhere without them now. Not even to the crapper on the other side of the old Ferris wheel.
As if I would jump down the sluice with all the other turds.
At least he hadn’t grown tired of stalking big fish. The need to conquer the biggest prey would forever be with him.
He just raged internally that he was at the lake. In the cage. With guardsmen breathing down his neck. It all just added a layer of fury to the tedium of his life.
He knew every fish in the lake, had caught, named, and then caught them all again a thousand times over. He could almost see them rolling their eyes when they realized it was him on the other end of the hook. But then they’d heave a sigh of relief because they knew he would never hurt them. It wasn’t in his nature to hurt things—other than Grigor.
But even hurting Grigor no longer filled the void of his empty existence. He shot a look filled with sadness and regret at his brother. Grigor fished on the opposite bank of the lake. Two guardsmen stood to attention behind him, too.
The reflection from the sun on the water made Meka’s eyes water. But not as much as the breakdown in their relationship did.
They had hardly spoken to each other in months. Not since Morass murdered the guardsmen.
At first, the silence had been his fault. How could he ever talk to anyone again when all he could think of—dream of—was that bloody eyeball lying on the carpet in Lukan’s office? An eyeball he had been responsible for exploding out of the man’s face.
Grigor had tried to help. He honestly had. After the double killing, Grigor had half-carried, half-dragged him back to their apartment, showing a gentle strength Meka hadn’t known his brother possessed. That hadn’t stopped Meka yelling at Grigor when that witch Kestrel had shown up. As the days turned into weeks, Grigor had offered a listening ear, had done all of Meka’s homework, had even insisted the guards bring Meka his favorite foods.
But the guilt had been too much. Meka had crept into himself. Like tangled fishing line, he needed time and space to unravel the knots of that day. Who was really to blame? He? He had sneaked out against all the rules.
But Lukan most certainly should not have ordered the axing of those men.
By the time Meka had sorted through his feelings, apportioning blame where it belonged, Grigor had shut down. He didn’t speak to Meka unless he had to.
Meka understood. He had rejected his brother’s help. His brother’s love. Grigor was now hurting as much as he was. Meka looked away and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. A long sigh followed.
There had been no bites on his hook all afternoon. It was time to move. His fishing reel clacked his frustration.
Tao hadn’t been back, either. One more miserable thing in an already meaningless life.
It didn’t help when he pulled his hook over for a closer look. No wonder he’d caught nothing; his bait was gone. How he hadn’t noticed was a mystery. Or maybe he just had too much on his mind today.
He dug his fingers into the mix of egg and bread in his bait bag—Lukan had confiscated all their flies—and pulled out a blob. Practiced fingers rolled it into a ball before spearing the hook through it.
Tao had said he and Grigor needed to learn obedience. Maybe he should not have followed Tao that day. Was that why Tao had vanished?
Not that it mattered anymore. He and Grigor were now so controlled it was impossible to be anything but obedient.
But even as he thought that, he knew it wasn’t true. Tao had always managed to slip them past the guardsmen. Meka didn’t doubt Tao could do it again if he had wanted to.
But he obviously didn’t.
The bait crumbled on his hook. Who am I kidding? I can’t fish today. He tossed his rod down and focused again on Grigor. His brother sat on the grass, his rod limp in his hand. Was he ready to patch things up?
Only one way to find out. Meka pushed past his guards and trotted along the path circling the water. Hesitant, he stopped behind Grigor.
His brother stiffened.
Meka fought to ignore his treacherous mind screaming at him that this was a pointless waste of time.
“Grigor.” The word sounded cracked. Nervous.
Grigor glanced up at Meka before his eyes slid away to the guardsmen—now four of them—gathered around. His brother looked back at the lake.
Meka was just as aware of the men. He grimaced, embarrassed to be exposing himself in front of them, but it had to be done. “I’m sorry, Grigor. For everything.”
Grigor shrugged, but his face burned. Embarrassment? Indignation? A desire to fix things?
Meka had no idea, but he intended to find out. He elbowed the closest guardsman in the ribs to shift the bastard out the way—it helped, a bit—and knelt down so he could be at eye level with his brother. “C’mon, Grigs. It’s you and me. There’s no one else. I’ve never figured out the reason for that, but—”
“You have a very irritating habit of allowing yourself to get sidetracked while you grovel.”
Meka clenched his fist. Then he noticed a ghost of a smile on Grigor’s face.
When Meka smiled back, Grigor’s expression widened into a grin. It was the best thing Meka had seen in months.
Even better, Grigor dropped his rod and tossed his arm around Meka’s shoulders.
Meka hugged him hack. “Dragon’s bits, this feels good,” he whispered.
Grigor leaned in close. “Now that we’re talking, I’ve got something to show you. Tonight. When we get out of here.”
The whispered excitement in Grigor’s voice sent a thrill through Meka. He pulled Grigor to his feet and, without a word to their guards, ran with his brother to the cage gate. The four men trailed them.
“How are we getting out?” Grigor whispered.
“Let’s find out what the words ‘crown prince’ and ‘prince’ really mean.” Meka turned what he hoped was an imperi
ous eye on the closest guardsman. “The crown prince and I wish to return to our apartment. Open the gate.”
He waited to see if the man would obey.
The guardsman seemed to be taking too long to decide, so Meka snapped. “Unless you wish me to report your insolence to my father, you will do as I command.” He braced himself and added, “You know what my father does to soldiers who offend him.”
The man astonished him by opening the gate. Meka forced his startled face to maintain its imperious air. Not a comfortable pose. He couldn’t resist sneaking a look at Grigor.
Disdainful and aloof, his dark-haired twin managed imperiousness far better than Meka ever would. Like the crown prince he was, Grigor swept out the gate and sailed up the path to the palace.
Only someone who knew Grigor as well as he did would notice the tendons standing taunt in Grigor’s knotted hands.
Meka shook his head in wonder. Who knew Grigor had that kind of control?
As they had for the last few months, he and Grigor walked in silence to the palace, except this time it was companionable. They were together again. Two brothers on a mission.
He smiled at the sheer joy of it.
As usual, the crowds of high-born, servants, and soldiers crowding the halls and passages of the palace parted in fear-filled silence as he and Grigor strode past. These people had not forgotten the penalty for speaking to him and his brother. Their caution must have been reinforced when word of the two dead guardsmen spread. Worse, Meka’s name was linked to the rumors as being the cause of their deaths. Being a pariah had never hurt so much.
A very pretty girl about his age, with long dark curls and the biggest, brownest eyes Meka had ever seen scurried past him. Like all high-born women, she wore a sapphire next to her right eye.
Meka’s pulse spiked, and he stopped to watch her.
Head averted, the beauty refused to even glance his way when he smiled at her, despite her flicker of recognition.
It reminded him that he should not have acknowledged her—not unless he wanted another death on his conscience—but she was too lovely to be ignored.
