Embers of Empire

by Michaela Strauther

Julian examined the jar further, then nodded. “You’re right,” he said. He walked to his bag of weapons sitting on the floor right by Navier’s feet, and placed the jug carefully inside, surrounded by cloths and bags. “But we’re taking it with us.”

  He made his way to the door. Sathryn hurried behind him, grabbing a torch from the wall. Julian reached out, opened the door as quietly and as carefully as he could, and then, once the four of them were in the other room, he closed the door and locked its latch. By the light of the torch, Sathryn saw that Julian was right; there was a set of old, wooden stairs in the room, but nothing else.

  At the top of the stairs, there was a solid wooden door with an iron knocker and handle. Julian handed Navier his bag again, the jug of red still swishing around inside, then reached for the handle.

  It was locked.

  Julian cursed under his breath, turning back to them. “It’s locked,” he muttered. There was a chorus of sighs that rang along the narrow set of stairs, followed by a muffled string of curses. “We should’ve thought of this—I should’ve thought of this before . . .”

  But Sathryn shook her head. “That’s not an answer. We didn’t think of it, but that isn’t going to help us now. We can’t break it down—too loud—or burn it. We can’t go back outside . . .”

  Julian rolled his eyes. “We know that already—”

  “So now what?” Colette shouted. She made her way down the stairs and unsheathed her knives. “All this way and—” A knife lodged angrily into the door.

  Julian reached up, yanked off his guard hat, and threw it to the ground.

  His guard hat.

  “Check your pockets,” she suggested.

  Julian frowned, but shoved his hands throughout his pockets anyway. The two outer ones were empty, but then he unbuttoned his cloak and felt around inside. His face lit up seconds before he pulled out a large, brass key.

  He looked up at Sathryn and smiled, reaching over to wrap her in another hug. “Thank heaven you’re here,” he laughed. He flashed the key for everyone to see, then stuck it into the hole below the door handle. It slid through, and the door welcomed them inside.

  Julian turned to them one last time. He’d pulled the map from his pocket again, and it was now clutched in his shaking hands. “This is it.”

  The torch Sathryn held was no longer needed, as there was a faint light shining through the doorway, so Sathryn snuffed out the flame with the cone-shaped extinguisher dangling from the torch’s body.

  They filed through the doorway.

  Sutra

  here was an unnerving number of people in Sutra’s home right now.

  He couldn’t turn anywhere without bumping into a body, couldn’t look anywhere without catching a face—especially the faces of his brothers. Those sprouted up everywhere, unwarranted.

  And Sutra knew better than his brothers, knew better than to trust these people in their home. He could guess that at least a third of the people there didn’t really like the brothers, any of the brothers—they were just trying to get money or food or the luxury of staying in the kings’ household. People approached him now, men shaking his hand while their wives beamed up at him with sycophantic, wealth-wanting eyes. Did these men know that their wives would cheat them the minute they turned their backs to shake another king’s hand?

  Sutra sat in a grand sofa chair, adorned in red velvet and diamond studs, and refused the tall, olive-skinned woman trying to sit in his lap. He would kill for a glass of red wine, but the bottle and glasses sat in the center of the room, which was way too far a distance considering the many people he would have to push through. So he sat in the red-velvet chair and thought about something else—something better.

  The last spring party he had gone to and enjoyed.

  Anya had been there, alive and well, which meant it was a while ago—over a decade.

  Their relationship by then had bloomed into something Sutra had never had before. It was about a year after the time Sutra had choked her on the floor of the library, after she had begun helping him wean himself from his all-encompassing drug, after he’d dodged his brothers’ intrusive questions. The night of the party all those years ago had been a night he would never forget.

  Usually, maids and servants served during parties, but Sutra had found a way to get around that. His solution was simple—all Anya had to do was wear something other than a maid’s uniform. It wasn’t as if his brothers knew what all the servants looked like—there were too many to care. If she showed up at the party wearing a fancy dress with her hair styled, the brothers would just think she was another guest.

  Sutra had been in his room when she knocked on the door. “It’s open!”

  He hadn’t been expecting her, mainly because once he told her his plan, told her that she should come to the party if she wanted, she had refused and insisted it was too risky. If Anya weren’t there, Sutra wouldn’t go. If the brothers asked, he’d say he was tired and didn’t feel like partying.

  She’d changed her mind.

  Anya had walked through his room’s door, and when Sutra saw her, everything stopped and pointed to her. The book he’d been reading fell from his hands, his eyes no longer giving it much attention. She wore a long, deep-red, silk dress with white, ruffled trim. The bodice fit snug against her while the bottom fanned out like a bell wrapped about her hips, and her long, kinky-curly hair was plaited into multiple braids and then twisted down one shoulder.

  She looked so . . . beautiful. And Sutra didn’t even have the words to tell her.

  “My husband wanted to know where I was going,” she said with a small laugh. Every time she mentioned her husband, it jerked Sutra down a step. He always forgot that she was married. Worse, he had put her in a dishonorable situation by being with her, because, legally, she was tied to someone else. But she convinced him otherwise. She no longer loved her husband—had fallen out of her infatuation with him—and if she could, she would be with Sutra instead. She couldn’t be with him, of course, not if Iryse stayed the vile ruler he was and his brothers stayed the loyal followers. But their relationship then was enough.

  “And what did you tell him?” Sutra’s voice wavered.

  “I told him that the servants were required to attend the annual Servant Awards.”

  Sutra laughed, as there would never be such a thing. “And he believed you?”

  She nodded and walked farther into the room. “You aren’t dressed.”

  “I didn’t know you were going to be in such a dress.”

  “Do you like it? It was my mother’s.”

  “I love it. It’s beautiful.”

  He got dressed in the closest thing he could get to match her dress: a long-sleeved, tan doublet with red lining. He planted a kiss on her lips, then led Anya from his room, on his arm.

  The party then had been just like the party now—music from an ensemble onstage echoed through the main room. Red, gold, and silver drapes hung along the ceiling and filtered the sunlight trying to sneak through the windows. Torches and chandeliers blared their warm light; guests and servants bustled about the room. Sutra, who had not been seen since the start of the party, had walked into the main room, Anya by his side, and the guests took immediate notice. Those around him quieted, and the silence fanned throughout the rest of the room like wildfire. Perhaps they were all surprised to see Sutra. Perhaps they were surprised to see Sutra in his best clothing. Perhaps they were surprised to see a woman at his side, for none of the kings ever had just one woman trailing behind them. For whatever the reason, the attention had been drawn to him and Anya, and Anya was nervous. Her hand clutched his arm harder.

  Tyru had been first to approach him. “Look at you, brother,” he said. Only Iryse had ever referred to his other brothers as something other than their names. “A lady by your side. What made you wish to join us?”

  Sutra couldn’t answer, for Tyru was staring at Anya as if she were something he wanted to buy in a store. “What is your name, darling?” he
asked her. “Whose family are you from?”

  Sutra panicked for a second, but Anya made good cover. “The Veneriks. I’m Salvia Venerik.”

  Tyru had grabbed her hand and kissed it. “I don’t know of them,” he said, “but if they’re all as beautiful as you, I’d be pleased to meet them.”

  Anya smiled, but she was slowly yanking her hand from Tyru’s grasp. She curtsied, bowing her head. “Pleased to meet you, King Tyru.”

  From behind Tyru emerged an all-too-familiar body. Iryse, dressed in a long, puffed, white robe and a golden crown atop his head, approached Sutra and Anya with a look of surprise and slight annoyance.

  “I assumed you did not want to attend the party,” Iryse said.

  “I changed my mind.”

  “And who is this, brother?” He peered over at Anya and smiled at her as a fox would his prey just before he snapped. All around him, the guests turned their prying eyes toward the scene, and it made Sutra uncomfortable. “I swear, she looks familiar.”

  Anya’s hands clutched even tighter on Sutra’s arm, her nails digging into his muscle. “My name is—”

  “Did I ask you? I was speaking to my brother.” His brown eyes flicked to Sutra. “Control your woman. Women should only respond if they are spoken to or given permission.”

  Sutra clenched his fist. “Her name is Salvia Venerik.”

  “I’ve never heard that name in my life.”

  For a second, Sutra imagined what it would be like if Iryse found out that Salvia Venerik was rather Anya Ajasek in a beautiful dress and enough makeup to hide some of her features. Sutra hadn’t expected his brothers to approach him and make a scene out of his entrance. But that was the glory of his brothers—sometimes, they were just unpredictable.

  If Iryse figured out who she was, he could do many different things, being the unpredictable person he was—it depended on his mood. If he were feeling gracious, he would cut her income for a while or suspend her for a few weeks without pay. If he were feeling explosive, he would throw her in prison or make her the first contender in his Phoenix Arena. And of course, he could burn her at the stake now, but then he wouldn’t have any sickening fun for later.

  It was a good thing Iryse couldn’t tell, not with her headpiece shading part of her face and her makeup painting her features different.

  “Well then.” Iryse rolled his eyes and pushing his way back into the crowd. “Carry on.”

  The crowd’s noise built up again, the minstrels played their instruments, and Anya released a sigh. “I was terrified,” she whispered into Sutra’s arm. She was shorter than he was, the top of her head only reaching his shoulders.

  “I know,” he murmured back. “I know.”

  Now, Sutra smiled at the memory. The rest of that night, they’d danced like everyone else, listened to the spring melodies like everyone else, and eaten from gold-lined ceramic plates and drunk from glass goblets, just like everyone else. Anya had been nervous the whole time, yet she had fun anyway. Sutra, even, had had fun then. The jesters were more amusing when Anya was beside him; the musicians played better if Anya was holding his hand; the red wine was richer whenever Anya drank it with him.

  And after the party, she had spent the night with him, which had never happened before.

  He wished he had her now.

  Sathryn

  he servants’ quarters were much less disappointing than the cellar, but Sathryn had a feeling that it would have to get better if she was going to believe all of what she had heard about the kings and their money. In the section Sathryn, Julian, Colette, and Navier stood in—a secluded, narrow hallway just outside the main area that led off into the servants’ rooms—the walls were smoother and cleaner and the floor was carpeted, but hardly anything was on the walls—no golden swords or elaborate weavings. There were doors lined along the wall, but they were bare as well.

  No one else cared.

  “My father’s room should be labeled KH4,” Colette whispered. They were all too far tucked into the dark of the hall to be noticed by anyone who walked by.

  “Should be?” Sathryn muttered, intending to be heard only by herself. “Shouldn’t you be sure about it?”

  Colette shot her a glare but said nothing else. Julian was peering down at his map using what little light he was receiving from the windows of the servants’ quarters. “KH4 should be right there.” His finger pointed to a hall right across from where they stood.

  “How are we supposed to get there? We can’t just walk out in the open.”

  But Julian was already resolved, as he was standing by one of the doors. “It says on my glorious late mother’s map that behind this door, there is a corridor that leads through all the servant halls.”

  Navier grinned. “Thank you, Mother Ajasek.”

  Julian nodded and opened the door.

  Once they had reached Hall KH, it was easy to find room KH4, as it was the fourth one from the front. It had been so simple thus far to snoop around the castle—shouldn’t it have been more difficult than this? Where were all the servants?

  She voiced this aloud.

  Julian was digging his key into the lock of KH4 while Navier and Colette looked around for other people. “I don’t know,” said Julian.

  “Doesn’t that seem suspicious to you?”

  The door swung open and they slipped into an empty room. There were two beds dressed in groomed blankets and dark-wood frames, and two dressers in either corner of the room. Another door was cracked open, leading to a bathtub and two basins mounted on the wall.

  Julian shrugged and peeled off his guard’s cloak, slipping the key into the pocket of his pants. The house was warmer than the musty cellar, so Sathryn pulled off her thick coat as well and set her small bag on a bed.

  Colette snatched it off and tossed them to a chair. “Your coat is filthy.” She swiped the debris from her coat off the bed.

  Sathryn ignored her and turned back to Julian. “What are we doing? Her father isn’t even here.”

  “Her father knows we’re coming. He’ll see our stuff and know it’s us.”

  “What about his roommate?” Sathryn asked and gestured to the second bed.

  “He doesn’t have one anymore,” Colette mumbled. Anymore?

  Sathryn sheathed all her weapons and, as Julian advised, tucked small things into her pockets: a small vial of healing salve that Julian had brought, an orange, and a pair of the thin, black gloves Julian had used on his more lethal weapons.

  They wandered the hallways of the castle, moving quickly enough for good time, but slowly enough to consume the details, something Sathryn prided herself in being able to do even when Colette shoved her for being too slow. She wasn’t purposely being slow—wasn’t purposely being meticulous either—but curiosity made her want to look at the fine grains.

  The first floor, so far, wasn’t much—servant quarters and storage areas like the chamber they had been in before, except much cleaner and much less cluttered—but Sathryn wanted to look around anyway, insisting it may be of help to them later. And there were interesting items in many of the storage rooms—wooden toy boats, tarot cards, iron pots, stones, animal hides, paintings—they even came across a room full of sealed iron caskets, but left promptly afterward when Sathryn insisted she was going to throw up from the strange smells.

  One closet stored things from past kings—a portrait of an old man in a simple, golden crown and a violet-velvet robe sat in the corner of the room, and was labeled “His Majesty, King Ketru.” The portrait was surrounded by several other portraits—unlike Ketru’s, many of them were so severely faded and distorted that the faces were hardly recognizable, like the names beneath them. The items nearest King Ketru’s portrait were clean and polished, while the others surrounding his slumped beneath layers of dust thick enough to build a wall. But King Ketru’s items—his portrait, a few golden crowns, a pressed, silky robe, handfuls of golden trinkets, and a few statues of animals—had been thoroughly tended to.

 
; Except Ketru had not ruled in a while. “Four hundred years,” Julian said. “I think that’s how long it has been since Ketru ruled—if I remember correctly . . .”

  “Remember from what?” Colette’s hands ran along the small, wooden boxes of jewels, picking up a piece of jewelry—a ring or a crown—to slide over her finger or place atop her fiery-red hair.

  “My mother’s journals.”

  Colette grunted as she slipped on a plain black ring. “Why didn’t you bring those along, Lynk? Then you could be checking your source rather than just hoping you’re right.”

  “Do you know how many journals she wrote, Colette? A lot. Too many for me to take all of them with me.” He poked her. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. We can’t just spend all day looking at old, tarnished jewels from kings who ruled centuries ago.”

  Colette couldn’t seem to peel herself away from the gems. “They won’t notice if I take one little jewel . . .”

  “This side is obviously well taken care of.” Julian swiped his finger across the dust-free surface.

  His hand was resting against the door when the handle rattled.

  He froze, and the chill sent a wave back until Sathryn, still staring down at the old paintings and miscellaneous belongings, froze as well.

  There was a voice from behind the door, high pitched and hurried. “Is the party not satisfying you, Your Majesty?”

  Julian whipped his head around. He didn’t have to say anything; his wide eyes, shaking lips, and heavy breathing said just enough. Within seconds, the room thawed, and Colette and Navier threw themselves behind shelves and giant paintings. Sathryn leapt behind one of the dusty shelves as far back in the room as she could get. Julian stole in beside her, his feathered heels making no noise even in the silence.

  The door creaked open.

  Sathryn hoped that the window in the corner of the room, shining brilliant light from the spring sun outside, didn’t reveal where she crouched.

  In the doorframe stood a mousy little girl, many years younger than Sathryn (too young to be dressed in the obvious maid’s uniform she stood in), escorting behind her a tall, bulky man dressed in a black doublet and black pants. His skin was dark, as was his shoulder-length, curly hair topped by a golden crown.