She wasn’t from one of the powerful noble families. My mother was from a small village in the mountains on the northern border of Tyron. It’s a big part of the reason I’ve vowed to protect Tyron, although I seldom speak of it.
Father didn’t marry my mother for strategic reasons. On a visit to Tyron in his younger days, he’d caught sight of her… and become entranced by her beauty.
He’d made her, a simple villager, the Empress of Rahava.
Not just his consort.
The Empress.
It was unheard of. The court was in an uproar. But father quickly silenced any dissent.
I put my arm around Finley and pull her close to me. As I close my eyes and inhale her sweet scent, I tremble.
I kiss her forehead.
She leans into my kiss. “It’s all right, Corvan. Go and do what you have to. I’ll wait here.”
“Thank you.” I say, absorbing a fraction of her quiet strength.
Nothing more needs to be said. She reads the moment perfectly, offering to wait instead of forcing me to ask.
I leave her in the antechamber, seated between the statues of my mother and father, immortalized in their prime.
I suspect father always thought of himself as a god amongst ordinary men. He cared more about how his deeds and actions would be remembered, rather than how they’d affect the common folk.
And mother was truly a goddess, and she left this world too soon.
She’s with Hecoa now.
I walk forward, my body feeling heavy even though I move like a damn wraith. There are no guards here; no servants, no attendants.
There’s just the sound of my father’s heavy, rattling breathing.
Part of me doesn’t want to see him; not like this, not ever. I could simply refuse to see him; I could deprive him of my presence in his last dying moments.
Part of me wants to be so cruel.
But the boy in me that once yearned for his approval is still there, telling me I must speak with him one last time.
I need to know.
Why he sent Finley to me after all these years.
What really happened to her mother—and mine.
And why does he still want me to inherit this cursed throne? Even when I’m cursed by this mysterious magic; magic that he’s shunned and forbidden for as long as he’s ruled.
I walk forward, across carpets made of the finest golden silk. Into a chamber that smells of sickness and pungent herbal incense. It’s stuffy in here. A faint haze of medicinal smoke hangs in the air.
I see his bed; a large, imposing thing of gilded wood, with four posters rising to a silken canopy, the wood carved with the most intricate scrollwork.
The sheets are pure white silk. The covers are made of supremely rare slynkan fur.
Diamonds and jewels are woven into the fabric.
And in the center of it all lies the Emperor of Rahava.
Asleep.
I take a moment to study him.
He’s so very different to how I remember. His hair, once thick and dark, has become thin and grey. His skin is pale and papery, his cheeks sunken, his body frail.
Age and illness have transformed him.
This is what it’s like to be mortal.
I can no longer fathom it.
Eventually, he stirs. His eyes flutter open. He sees me, and for a moment, his eyes are clouded and confused; he doesn’t recognize me.
Then the haze clears, and his gaze becomes sharp once again.
That’s the father I remember. The ruthless, cunning bastard.
“My son,” he whispers. There’s something else in his voice, too.
Adoration.
It’s the closest he’ll ever come to showing me love.
His hand, papery and frail, emerges from beneath the covers. “Come closer, son. Let me look at you.”
A torrent of emotion rushes through me. I conceal it carefully behind an expressionless mask.
I step forward. Bend over just a little so he can see me better.
A ghost of a smile flickers across his thin lips. “My boy. You’ve come to me at last.”
I feel anger, sharp and cold. “How long were you planning to wait? You could have sent word.”
“But what I sent you was far better, don’t you think?”
Finley…
I always hated it when father proved to be right.
“How did you know… that she would be so right for me?”
He chuckles softly, and for a moment, the weight of illness lifts from his shoulders. The old arrogance returns. “I have known about you ever since you were born, my beautiful boy. About your true potential. And I know that there’s one thing in this world that’s as sweet as ambrosia for your kind.”
“My kind…”
“You know what you are by now. Or must I spell it out for you?”
“Go on, then,” I say softly, baring my fangs. “Spit it out.”
“You’re a direct descendant of the Goddess of Death. The old texts call your kind Vampyr, but that’s a term that’s become maligned by myth and superstition. In truth, you’re a descendant of a tribe, just like the Khaturians and we Rahavans… and the Batavans across the sea. And the Dryads. Being what they are, it stands to reason that dryads are completely irresistible to vampires.”
I stare at him in shock, half-tempted to wipe the smug expression off his mortal features. “Are you saying my transformation was predetermined? That this… state of mine is inherited?”
I hate appearing at a loss in front of my father, but my shock is too great. My thoughts are in flux—how is this possible?
“You got that from Helia.”
“From… my mother? But she’s human.”
Propped up on mountains of pillows, my father sits up with a groan. A hacking cough bursts from his lips. He covers his mouth with his hand. When he stops; when he pulls it away, there’s blood all over his palm.
“Take it easy,” I growl, leaning forward and putting my hand behind his back. Beneath his silk nightshirt, I feel the bony protrusions of his spine. He’s lost so much of his bulk and vitality. “What ails you, anyway?”
“It’s the consumption. Even I have to accept that my time has come. You can’t reverse it or cure it, so don’t even think about it. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
Of course you have, father.
There was a time when I truly believed my father would live forever.