by Gwynn White
They walked together to the stairs.
Grigor stopped at the top. Sweat broke out on his neck. “Where the heck is the High Council chamber?”
Meka swore. “I thought you knew.”
“No.”
Meka waved his arms around in frustration. “Pity the valets, ushers, and servants who fuss around us didn’t figure that a map of the palace would be useful.”
Grigor sighed. This was yet another graphic demonstration of the fact that he wasn’t a crown prince. If he were, he would have known where the High Council met. “We’ll have to ask someone.”
He let Meka go ahead of him and took each treacherous step carefully.
“Ah! Crown Prince, here you and your brother are,” a low, icy voice drawled from the bottom landing.
Grigor’s head shot up, and he looked into the agate-colored eyes of the Lord of the Household, Count Felix.
The count bobbed a bow. “It struck me that neither of you will know how to find the council room.” He tucked his cane under his arm and took Grigor and Meka’s elbows. “I am here to escort you.”
As they walked, Grigor glanced over at Meka; his brother looked as suspicious as he felt. Felix was the second most powerful man in the empire. Escorting people around the palace wouldn’t have been part of his duties.
Strangely, since their release from bondage, Felix had taken to sitting with them at breakfast. Lukan had insisted they eat all their meals with the other high-born. As breakfast was served in the great hall, eating with Felix was unavoidable. The count invariably tried engaging them in conversation, but Grigor certainly didn’t have anything to say to Lukan’s creepy advisor. Meka was only interested in shoveling his food back as quickly as possible so he could escape to the forest. Conversation had thus been limited and stilted.
“Um, thank you, Count Felix,” Grigor mumbled.
“Think nothing of it, Highness. It is the least I can do for my nephews on their big day. And allow me to wish you both a very happy birthday.”
“Nephews?” Meka demanded. “Since when?”
Grigor suppressed a smile. Freedom hadn’t softened Meka’s bluntness.
“Since you were born, I would imagine, Prince Meka.” Felix chortled. “You forget that your father was my nephew, too. And nothing is more important than family.”
A lazy smile from Meka. “Really. Our father? Which one?”
Felix narrowed his eyes at Meka. “Quaint. But I suggest you keep those questions to a minimum, Highness. Especially today.”
Meka opened his mouth to comment, but Felix waved him to silence. “I assure you, nephew, you will soon have more answers than even you have questions for.”
That sounded ominous.
Grigor and Meka exchanged troubled looks.
“Stick together,” Meka mouthed at him.
Grigor nodded.
Felix seemed not to notice. “Has anyone explained the events of today to you, Crown Prince?”
“Just that we are meeting the Sixteen and then the inauguration thing.”
“The inauguration thing? My dear Crown Prince, this is one of the most important days of your life. Just as well I am here to advise you, so you can make the best impression.”
A ball of bile threatened to swim up Grigor’s throat. He swallowed. “What do I have to do?”
Felix slowed his pace. “The council meeting is by far the most important occasion. You will be expected to give a short speech to—”
“Speech!” Grigor blurted. “I—I don’t do speeches.”
Felix patted Grigor on the shoulder. “Do not fret, dear nephew. All that is required are a few simple words. You are an eloquent young man and will manage it all with consummate ease. After opening those doors, you will find the palace at your feet.”
“What do you call ‘simple words’?” Grigor wailed.
Felix stopped walking. “Well, if I were to advise, I would suggest you look each councilman in the eye and then thank them for the confidence they have placed in you as Crown Prince of All Chenaya and the Conquered Territories. Assure them that you will take every opportunity to learn from them while you are in this training role. Knowing you are teachable will be very well received by all. Also . . .”
Felix steepled his fingers, and Grigor couldn’t help noticing that he was missing a couple. He wondered idly about that while Felix droned on about the ‘simple words’ Grigor should sprout. Mindless as his thoughts were, it beat listening to Felix briefing him on how to lie to the most powerful men in the world.
“There,” Felix concluded. “You tell them that, and your presentation will be a roaring success.”
Grigor managed to nod. “Thanks. I—I will try that.” He licked his lips, suddenly bone dry.
Felix set off again at a brisk pace that belied his ancientness.
Grigor and Meka trailed behind.
“What do I do?” Grigor mouthed to Meka.
“Even councilmen have to take a dump, Grigs. Just picture them on the crapper,” Meka mouthed back.
Grigor smiled. Only Meka could come up with something so crazy, so workable.
Long before Grigor was ready, they arrived at a set of golden doors. Felix swung them open, revealing a high-ceilinged room filled with lavishly dressed men. A quick head count told him it was fifteen of the sixteen councilmen. Morass was missing.
They all bowed to Grigor and Meka.
Grigor stood ramrod straight and stared at them, not knowing if he should speak or not. He itched to clench and unclench his fists to release his tension, but decided that could be misread.
Felix ignored the councilmen and said to Grigor, “Welcome to the anteroom, Highness. It is from here that we summon the emperor.” He pointed to a set of double doors. “Through there is the chamber where the council meets. It is there you will find the Chenayan throne.” Felix turned to a middle-aged man with a hooked nose and a weak jaw. Grigor had seen him at their welcome dinner, but had no idea who he was. “Count Taras, summon the emperor.”
Before Grigor knew what was happening, Felix dragged him and Meka to stand at the head of an archway of councilmen. A trumpet blared, and Lukan and Morass appeared through a door Grigor hadn’t noticed.
Count Taras bowed low. “Welcome, sire.”
Felix spoke to the guardsmen manning the doors to the council room. “Allow the emperor to enter.”
The door swung open, and Lukan strode into the hall.
Before Grigor had even glanced into the room, Felix leaned over and whispered, “An age-old tradition, Highness. The emperor can only mount his throne with the permission of the council. I am the most senior member of the council, so I give the command to swing open the door. Remember that when you take Emperor Lukan’s place.”
Why was Felix telling him all this? Was Lukan sick? About to die? And what about Nicholas? Did Felix even know of the existence of the true crown prince? Grigor knew he’d never get the answers.
Felix’s expectant air suggested he awaited a reply.
Grigor managed a nod and a sick smile.
Felix waved him into the council room, and the rest of the men followed.
Grigor tried not to gape as Felix led him and Meka to two throne-like, ebony chairs inlaid with gold dragons. Lukan’s throne, a monstrous golden thing, stood on a dais above his and Meka’s chairs. All three thrones overlooked the room.
Grigor sat and watched the High Councilmen take their places in two rows of high-backed chairs lining the walls.
Meka nudged him and gestured at the roof. “History comes alive.”
The vaulted ceiling was hung with thirty or more flags Grigor recognized from Arkady’s endless history lessons. Each represented a topic of an essay he had written on the emperors who had conquered two-thirds of the world.
It did nothing to calm Grigor’s near panic.
Count Taras bowed three times, first to Lukan, then to him, and finally to Meka. “By authority granted me by His Imperial Majesty, the Magnificent Emperor L
ukan Avanov, I declare this meeting open.”
“Excessive much?” Meka whispered to Grigor.
Grigor swallowed.
“My Lords,” Count Taras said, “the primary business of the day is to welcome His Imperial Highness, Crown Prince Grigor, and his brother, His Highness Prince Meka, to our ranks.” Taras bowed again, prompting every man in the room, excepting Lukan, to dip their heads. “But before we do that, the emperor has one other item of interest to the council.” Another bow at Lukan. “I give you our beloved Emperor Lukan.” Taras moved to his chair and sat.
Grigor craned his head to see Lukan above him.
From his throne, Lukan said, “To better assist Crown Prince Grigor in his duties, it is my will that my young heir, Prince Meka, take a short tour of the empire. He will leave today.”
Meka’s breath hitched. But not nearly as sharply as Grigor’s. Both he and his brother leaned out even farther to see Lukan’s face.
It was bland, as if Lukan were discussing the weather.
“Prince Meka’s first stop will be Zakar Province, where he will stay as a guest in Count Vasily’s home.”
Grigor looked out at the councilmen, hoping to spot this unknown count. An enormous man, dressed in opulent silks crusted with jewels, beamed at Meka. It had to be Vasily.
“From there,” Lukan continued, “he will travel to Maegkin to spend a week with our Lord of the Conquest, Count Zarot.”
Maegkin was in Treven, wasn’t it? Grigor tried to recall the map of the empire in their classroom. He was sure it was colored red, signifying a current war zone.
Fear gripped him.
What was Lukan planning? To have Meka killed in a so-called enemy incursion? Despite the fancy watch birthday present, Lukan seemed to despise Meka, so it wasn’t hard to imagine such an outcome.
“Who’s Count Zarot?” Meka whispered urgently, as if he, too, suspected the worst.
Grigor looked over the crowd, but none of the hard-faced counts acknowledged his probing eyes. Count Zarot had to be among them, as with Morass’s arrival, all sixteen members of the council were present.
It sent his fear spiraling.
How was he supposed to give up his twin to a total stranger who didn’t even have the decency to nod, let alone smile?
But before he could even rustle up a scowl for the sixteen men, Taras was on his feet. He waved to Grigor. “My lords, I give you Crown Prince Grigor Avanov.”
Grigor turned to rock—if rocks had writhing stomachs, of course.
After what seemed a lifetime, Meka pinched his thigh. “Lectern. Crapper. Go.”
Grigor lumbered up and stumbled on trembling feet to the lectern. Once there, he made the mistake of looking at one of the counts—a youngish man with surprisingly gray hair.
The count stared back at him with dark, unfathomable eyes.
Grigor swallowed, doing his best to imagine this pitiless man with his trousers around his ankles, sitting on the crapper.
It was impossible.
This brick wall of a man probably never had the urge. Not the way Grigor’s insides now turned to water. He would love to be on the crapper . . .
None of this is helping, he snapped at himself.
He glanced up, spotting for the first time a name tag on the wall above the count’s chair: Count Zarot, Lord of the Conquest.
So, he’s the bastard taking Meka away. Grigor glared at Zarot with open hatred.
It made no difference. The brick wall just stared straight back.
Lukan cleared his throat. “Crown Prince, my councilmen like their lunch served at lunchtime.”
A few of the counts sniggered.
Grigor’s face burned as red as Treven on the map up in the turret. He coughed. “Of course, sire. Sorry. I—” What had Felix said he should say? “Um, thanks for the confidence in me. I’m a pretty quick learner, so I suppose I will get the hang of this as I go along.”
Felix shook his head and looked down at his hands folded in his lap.
Okay, Grigor admitted, it hadn’t been the most eloquent speech, but it was the best he could offer right now. Borrowing from Meka, he shrugged and then returned to his seat.
Meka leaned in and whispered, “If that doesn’t leave them gagging for more, nothing will.” An amused smile. “You really are an idiot, you know that, don’t you?”
Grigor groaned. “That bad, huh?”
“That bad.”
Lukan stood. All around the chamber, men shuffled to their feet to bow. Grigor and Meka followed suit.
Lukan fixed cold, dark eyes on Grigor. “Well, Crown Prince, we will all watch your progress ‘as you get the hang of it’ with interest. Hopefully, receiving the crown prince’s emblem and sash today will accelerate that process.”
Looking as regal as an emperor should, he glided down the stairs and sailed the length of the room.
Grigor winced; no matter how hard Lukan pushed to make him a crown prince, never in a million years would he ever look so poised.
Morass sprang over to open the door for Lukan.
As a parting word, Lukan added, “We will now convene in the great hall for the inauguration.”
And then he was gone.
Grigor and Meka straightened, but it took Grigor a few seconds to realize that no one else had moved. Then Count Felix cleared his throat. He looked over at his decrepit uncle.
“Leave. Both of you,” Felix mouthed, gesturing to the door.
So everyone was trapped until he and Meka left the room? The insanity of it had Grigor shaking his head. But he wasted no time in bolting out of the hall. As soon as he was through the door, he grabbed Meka. “They can’t send you away.”
“What choice do I have?” Meka tugged on his hair. “Unless . . . unless I head for the forest.”
The anteroom was filling with councilmen. Grigor dropped his voice. “How does that help? They’ll just find you and bring you back. Remember the dead guardsmen. If you run, that could be your fate.”
Before Meka could answer, Felix was at their sides. A proprietary hand settled on Grigor’s shoulder.
“Come, my dear Crown Prince. You do not wish to leave the court waiting.” Felix started to walk.
Grigor dug in his heels. “My brother . . . why does he have to go?”
Felix stopped and peered, first at Meka, and then at Grigor. “The emperor wills it.”
“But I don’t want him to leave.” Grigor knew that sounded childish, but it was the truth.
“Ah, such are the affairs of princes,” Felix said in a patronizing tone. “Being an Avanov prince is both a great honor and a great trial. As princes, you belong to the Dragon and the empire. Your lives should be devoted to serving them.”
“Why can’t I serve them from here?” Meka’s arms, folded across his chest, matched his brutal expression.
Felix chortled. “My, you really do like prodding the bear, don’t you, Prince Meka?”
“I’m not prodding anyone. I just want to know why Lukan is sending me to a war zone.”
So Meka had figured that out, too.
Felix’s eyes hooded. “I think you mean Emperor Lukan, my young prince. Let’s not do or say anything overt to antagonize. There is time enough for all that.”
“Whatever. Are you gonna answer my question?”
Felix pulled his vile green cloak tighter around his shoulders. “As it happens, Highness, I am not. At least, not right now. Your brother needs to be in the great hall, and you need to be there to support him.”
Felix grabbed both their elbows and started walking.
Meka shrugged at Grigor, and they both allowed themselves to be dragged along.
Not even the sight of Natalia, smiling at him from her seat, could quell Grigor’s terror as he stepped into the great hall. Row upon row of seats, packed with high-born, filled the enormous room. Grigor tried to smile back at her, but was certain his smile looked as sick as his speech had sounded.
Unconcerned by the crowds, Felix led him and
Meka to double, throne-like chairs just below the dais at the end of the hall—almost an exact replica of the furnishings in the council room. Lukan already occupied his throne on a dais above them. Felix mounted some stairs and took his place just below the emperor and above Grigor and Meka on a smaller chair, the only notable difference from the set up in the council room.
An elderly woman with a silvery-blue stone next to her eye bowed to Grigor. Dressed in white from head to toe, he recognized her as Mother Saskia, the Great High Priestess of All Chenaya and the Conquered Territories.
An expectant silence descended on the crowd.
Grigor closed his eyes and braced himself for the new hell that awaited him, one he’d have to face alone, torn away from his brother.
Chapter 45
Meka writhed in his hard, wooden mini-throne. He knew he should be sending out positive thoughts to bolster his twin, but he couldn’t seem to focus on anything Mother Saskia said to Grigor.
With his back to the crowd, his brother knelt on a red cushion in front of the priestess. In one, age-spotted hand, the priestess held up a hideous palm-sized gold brooch, shaped like a dragon with lurid red eyes. In her other hand, a black-and-red sash for Grigor to wrap around himself.
Why Grigor would want to wear a sash, Meka couldn’t fathom.
But not even all that was enough to hold his attention.
The only thought swimming through his head was the image of the obese Count Vasily grinning at him during the council meeting. If going to stay in Vasily’s house in Zakar Province—at the other end of the empire—wasn’t bad enough, he also had to handle Count Zarot.
That had to be even worse.
Face like rock, Zarot had stared at him all through the council meeting. As much as Meka had stared back, he had gleaned nothing from the man. That didn’t mean the experience had been a mutual failure. Meka was convinced Zarot had seen right into his soul—and found him wanting.
As with everything these days, none of it made sense. How would him leaving for a tour of the empire help Grigor? He glowered up at Lukan, wishing he understood what was behind all his maneuvering.
Lukan turned his head; he must have sensed Meka’s attention. He fixed Meka with a disdainful eye, making him squirm. If ever he had doubted that Lukan hated him—he hadn’t—those doubts were swept away by that one look.
