by Gwynn White
It made him cringe.
Screaming, he swung his bare foot around and kicked the glass. The mirror shattered, shooting silvery glass across the room. His eyes widened with horror at the dagger-like shards glinting in the sunlight through his window. Without boots, his feet would be shredded if he tried to move. As it was, the side of his foot bled from a long, thin cut.
It seemed apt. A fate befitting a man who willingly conceived a son with a woman who despised him. A son destined to destroy him. Hiccupping, Lukan sank back down onto the carpet, too terrified to move. To think. To plan. To imagine the hell he had created for himself.
His eyes darted around the room, unable to focus on anything. Finally, they settled on a pile of parchment notes on his bedside table.
His speech for his meeting with the High Council today.
He had written it out in ink mixed by his own hand because he loved the sense of connection—belonging to something older and better than his world—that came to him when he poured his heart out on parchment.
Hysterical laughter welled up, bursting into cackling bitterness.
What did that connection matter now? He could never claim a place in history as the man who, if not destroyed the empire, at least ruled with a degree of fairness and equity.
What was the point in telling the High Council he supported his brother’s desire to improve the lot of the low-born? The same low-born who would one day rise up, join his son’s army, and fight against him.
Four hundred years of rage would be unleashed—on him. They would slaughter him, probably torturing him first. Lukan’s skin writhed as if pierced by every splinter of glass mocking him on his floor. It would be like his childhood beatings again, only a million times more unendurable.
His fearful laughter rumbled into a savage roar of rage. “That will never happen! Not while I draw breath. Not with the might of the empire on my side. . .” His voice faltered.
There was no stopping Dmitri’s prophecy. The curse would run its course, and Lukan would be slain.
Pounding his fists against the carpet in impotent rage, Lukan screamed, “I never chose this! Where is my say? Dmitri! You bastard! You said you support human choice. When did I choose to born into a curse?”
He picked up the closest object— a glass shard—and flung it against a wall hanging.
The tapestry shimmered.
Lukan froze. He had seen that gleam before. “Show yourself!” he yelled.
A stocky man with salt-and-pepper-colored hair stepped through the cloth and thread. He wore a dark-blue robe bedazzled with silver stars, which Lukan recognized as the old Norin flag from before the invasion.
Arms folded, Dmitri studied Lukan with a stern face. “Finished with your tantrum?”
Lukan longed to tell Dmitri to go to hell and stay there, but he needed answers.
Dmitri must have considered that invitation enough, because he said, “I warned you if you took Lynx to wife, she would conceive a son ordained to destroy you. Congratulations. That has now happened.” The confirmation, together with the bitterness in Dmitri’s voice, was crushing.
Lukan writhed.
Dmitri’s voice drove on relentlessly. “In addition to the warning, I gave you an opportunity to be that prophesied son. All you had to do was tell the high-born their gemstones were fake. You failed, like twenty-two crown princes before you did when offered their chance to be the chosen one. Now the scepter of hope passes to your boy, Nicholas. That is the name I have asked every crown prince, including your own father, to call his firstborn son.” Dmitri’s dry voice turned to tinder. “You are called Lukan. He was named Mott. Need I go on?”
Twenty-two other crown princes could have changed the world? Yet, if Dmitri were to be believed, the book he had shown Lukan contained only three names: Lukan’s, Lynx’s, and Nicholas’s.
“Aye,” Dmitri said, clearly reading Lukan’s thoughts. “Lest your predecessors also accuse me of denying them their rights of choice, I gave them the same opportunity I gave you.” His voice saddened. “But, like I foresaw, they all squandered the gift. Just as you have.”
Lukan covered his head with his hands. “Enough! I get it. I failed. They failed. We all failed.” He stilled and slowly looked up. “What did you say? ‘Ordained’? Was that the word you used?”
It took a moment for Dmitri to reply. “I wondered when you’d catch that.”
The tiniest tendril of hope uncurled in Lukan’s heart. “So, he . . . my son . . . could fail, too?”
Dmitri’s stern face showed no concern at that possibility. “Like all of you, he will have his agency. He can choose any path he wants. That is the blessing and curse of life. No prophecy can remove that.” Dmitri sat on the edge of Lukan’s bed. “However, the consequences of our choices are not of our choosing.”
Lukan barely heard Dmitri’s caveat.
His traitorous son could fail! That meant Lukan could live out a long life, finally dying an old man in his bed.
Doing his best to hide his excitement, Lukan looked up at Dmitri. “If he fails, why are my name, Lynx’s, and his the only ones in your book?”
“Four hundred years is enough tyranny for even the longest suffering of souls. If your son squanders his chance, then war will destroy not only Chenaya but virtually every person on this planet.” Dmitri stood, gathering his robes around him. “Forget about dying in your bed, Lukan. Either way, you will live to see turmoil. Whether it be the overthrow of your empire by your son, or another Burning by the nations of the world, it matters not—change will come.” A rare smile from Dmitri. “You are ordained to live through interesting times. What you do with them is your choice.” He nodded, a clipped bow. “This will be the last you ever see of me. I bid you good day.”
Dmitri vanished.
There was so much to consider. So many options opened before him—
The palace clock chimed.
Eight thirty.
Lukan’s heart sank. That left him with just half an hour to dress for his pre-coronation meeting. No time at all, especially not when he still had to complete Lynx’s banishment. He swore.
There wouldn’t even be time to bathe. He lifted his arm and smelled his armpit. Lynx’s clean, fresh scent enveloped him. It filled him with familiar longing. He shook his head. No use thinking about that now. He rubbed his chin, grateful he had shaved before going to see her. That would save some time.
In a blur of movement, he stripped off his waistcoat and tossed it on the carpet. Gingerly, he clambered to his feet and stepped on it. Shuffling along across the glass, Lukan and his waistcoat made it to his dressing room. He didn’t bother calling his valet. He did a better job of dressing himself than his valet ever did.
“If war is the only surety in my future, then I have to work with that,” he muttered as he buttoned a fresh black-and-silver waistcoat. In one of those wars—the one started by his son—Lukan was cursed to die. But, in the other, Dmitri had made no comment on Lukan’s fate.
That tiny tendril hope put out a small shoot.
Living through a Burning would be horrendous, but people had survived the last one.
Could he?
“With the might of the empire on my side? Why not?”
Lynx’s face swam before his eyes. What would be the point of surviving anything without her in the world?
The same applied to Tao, the only other person on the planet he cared about, even if his brother had always leaned toward Axel. Frustration at his brother’s misplaced loyalty threatened to derail his dressing, so Lukan focused on aligning the fit of his waistcoat perfectly.
That didn’t stop his mind churning.
If the high-born ever discovered Lynx was pregnant with a child who could destroy their privileges, they would clamor for her death. Lukan would be considered treasonous to deny them. Axel would respond by flaying him.
Lukan’s gut clenched at all the complications that had now been added to his life, which made it even more imperative that
no ever learn about her pregnancy. Her banishment was now his top priority.
He glanced at his watch.
Twenty minutes before his meeting, the one he was now utterly unprepared for. What he would offer the High Council today, he couldn’t even begin to fathom.
He groaned. “I’ll have to improvise.” He hated improvising because that was when his deepest thoughts and fears—the truth he kept hidden from everyone—were most likely to be revealed.
Still, protecting Lynx, and by extension himself, from Axel and the High Council was more important than any speech.
If he hurried, with Morass’s help, he could have her hidden before the meeting with the Fifteen—Sixteen, he corrected—even started.
Once she was safe, he would give some thought to the technology he would embed into his son.
Either way, Lukan had a new goal for his reign, one he could never share with anyone: to ensure that his son failed, just like the twenty-three crown princes before him had.
Chapter 10
Lynx tightened the last ribbons on her corset before setting off to her tea with Tatiana and Malika. Unable to yet grasp that she was pregnant, her hand trailed to her stomach. But, of course, there was nothing there to discover.
The whole idea seemed unreal, far too much to comprehend, let alone plan for.
I guess that’s why I have nine months to get used to the idea. Needing space before joining the tea party, she took her fiddle to her balcony.
Soon she was lost in her music.
Lukan.
She started; she hadn’t seen him arrive. Although beautifully turned out in his usual black-and-silver garb, his face looked haunted.
A contingent of six guardsmen trailed him. A seventh man wasn’t in uniform but bore a guardsman’s jasper. He wore a green brocade waistcoat, brown velvet breeches, and shiny knee-high boots with obvious discomfort. But that didn’t mean he looked any less deadly than his comrades.
So, she and Tatiana had been wrong. Lukan had no intention of letting her live.
Lukan skittered away, making room for the soldiers in the tight space. Then he pointed at the strangely dressed guardsman. “Morass, take her.”
Morass? The man who had attempted to assassinate Axel?
Lukan left the balcony.
Lynx dropped her fiddle and plunged her fist into Morass’s solar plexus. Clearly not expecting resistance, the air oomphed out of him, and he buckled.
But even as she grunted with satisfaction at hitting Axel’s assassin, she knew her defense was pointless. Six other guardsmen waited to take his place.
She lashed at the closest man with the blunt edge of her hand. Too slow to beat the speed his ice crystal gave him.
A starburst of pain shot through her face.
Her head cracked back, and her feet lifted off the ground. The metal railing crushed into her kidneys, stopping her flight off the balcony. Tears smarted in her eyes as she struggled to breathe. Then her body jarred. She was slipping. Teetering over the edge of the balcony. Even in her dazed state, she saw the courtyard far below.
A killing fall.
She snatched at the railing just as one of the guardsmen grabbed a handful of her hair. He yanked her forward and tossed her onto the ground.
In the crush of boots, she caught a flash of her fiddle and bow butted up against the wall. Miraculously, they had survived. She shook the distraction away and fumbled to stand just as a boot crunched against her ribs.
The air exploded out of her lungs.
Coughing, she tried to breathe just as someone rammed a rag between her teeth. Then a sackcloth bag slipped over her head. It muffled everything but the scrape of boots on the tiled floor.
She grabbed the thumbs of the man holding her and wrenched them back. He swore, but before she could wriggle free, he tightened his grip. Then she remembered: ice-crystal-toting guardsmen didn’t feel pain like normal people.
Someone rattled a chain.
A manacle slipped around her wrists, clicking closed. She lashed out with her boot and connected with someone’s shin. The man grunted and grabbed her leg. Cold steel snapped shut around her ankle, and when she tried to move, chains clunked.
A second manacle followed on her other ankle. A rope snaked around her waist, pinning her chained arms to her stomach. It pulled tight, cutting into her flesh.
Her fight was over. But at least the bastards knew Norin raiders didn’t give up at the first punch.
“Bitch,” someone muttered. “Got me in the gut before I could block.” It had to be Morass. “Gurt, get the maid to bring in the basket.”
Someone left the balcony. A squeaky wheel groaned against the thick carpet in her apartment. One of the wicker baskets the servants used for collecting laundry?
It stopped at the entrance to the balcony. Hands hoisted her into the air and threw her down into a soft landing in a mass of fabric. A creak, and the lid thumped closed.
Claustrophobia hit Lynx harder than a fist.
Her chest closed, and her breathing stuttered. She wanted to scream, but no sound escaped her frozen windpipe.
Desperate to slough off the sack and gag, she tried to raise her arms. There was no give in the rope. In her panic, her fingers clawed at her skirt. By the time the laundry basket began to move, she had ripped through the cotton and gouged deep furrows in her thighs.
Deep in the recesses of her mind, she knew she should relax—that if she did, her breathing would return—but her brain wouldn’t cooperate. She was light-headed and faint when her lungs finally pulled in a huge gulp of air. The bag collapsed against her face from the pressure. Hysterical sobs racked her, and while painful, they did help her breathe.
“Shut her up.” Morass again.
The lid flew open, and something—a fist?—crashed down on her temple.
Chapter 11
Felix knew he looked haggard, or more so than usual, but that wasn’t the reason he kept his back to the men gathered outside the throne room for Lukan’s pre-coronation meeting. It was an opportunity for Prince Tao and the High Council to interrogate Lukan on his plans for his reign, and Felix wanted to assess their mood.
Prince Tao stood to one side, his face a picture of misery, leaving Felix to think that the young prince wished to be elsewhere. That boded well for the meeting. It had been his fondest hope that the Fifteen would condemn Lukan for Mott’s death. If so, not even Prince Tao or the Avanov name could have saved Lukan from the executioner’s blade. Lukan’s death would have been one step closer to getting Axel onto the throne.
But it wasn’t to be.
Last evening, Lukan had declared that anyone who failed to swear allegiance today would die. It was entirely within Lukan’s rights to do so—but only after the meeting with the Fifteen.
Felix scowled, refusing to even consider the sixteenth member.
In making that declaration, Lukan had broken with protocol, in effect making this meeting a white-washing session. Why was the cretin starting his reign on a course designed to infuriate the very men whose support he needed to rule effectively? It made no sense, and that troubled Felix even more than Lukan flouting four hundred years of tradition.
Unbeknown to the Fifteen, Felix could see their reflections in the tall glass window at the end of the antechamber. If he had been part of their huddled conversations, they may have been tempted to mask their expressions. This way, he could watch them unhindered.
Their quiet buzz of conversation reminded him of a distant hornets’ nest. More than one of them spoke with open hostility about the new count who, as yet, had failed to arrive for the meeting. But, while Lukan strutted and threatened, like the Fifteen, Felix had no choice but to endure Morass.
It was also not lost on Felix that he had a wife and daughter in the palace whom he loved dearly. If Lukan wanted to hurt him, all he had to do was threaten Katrina or Malika. As much as Felix hated to admit it, he would do anything Lukan wanted if it meant keeping his precious family safe. After all, Lukan kn
ew Felix had murdered his brother to protect Axel from Mott’s predations.
Sadly, Felix didn’t think he would get away with orchestrating the death of another emperor, despite how tempting the idea was.
Felix dipped his hand into his pocket to fondle his informa. As usual, it was knotted up with his handkerchief. The familiar feel of silk and ceramic gave him comfort, calming his pulse.
The only good thing to happen since Axel’s shooting was that Lukan had shown himself to be a fool—and fools were easily controlled. Did that dolt really think that after forty years of mastering stealth, Felix would be foolish enough not to encrypt his most secretive, most precious files?
Felix gave a derisive snort, a phlegmy sound that rattled his throat. Those files, including the ones detailing the implant of The Final Word in Lukan’s neck, had been hidden in plain sight amongst a thousand pages of correspondence between him and the Fifteen on the empire’s every mundane issue. Lukan’s spying hadn’t touched them.
Even so, thanks to Lukan’s snooping, he had deactivated Lukan’s ice crystal. Felix squeezed his handkerchief so hard his nails bit through the silk and dug into his flesh. The many benefits of reading Lukan’s mind did not outweigh the risk to Felix’s life if Lukan were to discover the truth.
The palace clock chimed.
Felix glanced up at it on the onion dome outside the window. Four minutes to nine. His eyes flickered over to a closed door across the passageway. He assumed Lukan waited inside that chamber for his summons.
Four hundred years of tradition dictated that the emperor or, in this case, the crown prince, wait for the High Council to invite him into this antechamber. From here, they would give him permission to enter the throne room. It had been Thurban’s way of convincing his councilors they had some control over affairs in Chenaya. Everyone knew it was window dressing, but the tradition was cherished by all as part of the rich fabric that made their empire great.
Count Artyom Zarot, Chenaya’s Lord of the Treasury and the most senior of the Fifteen, announced, “It is almost time. Prepare yourselves, and then I will summon the crown prince.”
