A barrage of arrows flies at me. I duck and deflect. Suffused with the blood of the soldier, I feel invincible again. When one of the crossbow bolts penetrates my armor, I simply yank it out, and my body heals.
I’d really prefer not to kill these men.
They know not what they do.
I stop.
The men hesitate, the tips of their swords wavering.
I see a gap; man-sized, leading toward a wide set of doors, through which I can see another corridor.
I know what I’ll do.
Why should I fight them?
“When I become emperor,” I say softly, seizing the last moment of their hesitation, “just remember that I could have killed you, and I didn’t.”
Then I move through the spaces between them, faster than the eye can see, disappearing before their very eyes.
They can’t catch me. I don’t want them to catch me, either.
I reach a vast hall, lined with polished parquetry floors, the ornate ceilings inlaid with gilt. My boots leave a trail of filthy footprints across the pristine floor.
Another set of doors greets me—carved with motifs of vines and flowers and scrollwork, their entire surface painted in gold.
If I remember correctly, this passage leads to Deignar Castle’s great hall and throne room.
And there are people inside. Presences; at least three of them. I can hear their slow, steady breathing, and the rapid thud of their heartbeats.
A soft sigh escapes my lips. Is this what they wanted? To throw the full force of a necromancer’s powers at me before I reached them?
Did they think all that would weaken me?
If anything, it just strengthens my resolve.
What comes next is going to be difficult, but if what I think I know about Finley’s mother proves to be right, this could all be over very quickly.
Knowledge is the key to power in this empire, and I don’t think the Talavarras truly understand what they’re dealing with.
59
CORVAN
As I approach, the doors silently swing open before I even touch them.
I walk through without hesitation.
What point is there in being cautious, when I already know they’re expecting me?
Besides, I want to see my little brother. It’s been so long since I’ve spoken with him.
I want to see how he’s grown; what he’s become.
Whether he’s salvageable.
This is indeed the Great Hall of Deignar Castle, also known as the throne room, where the duke sits when he attends to his official business. It’s smaller than the great hall in my own castle, but the decor and furnishings are much more elaborate; all gilt and velvet and polished floors and ornate carvings.
Silence hangs over the room, thick and oppressive. But I can hear the presences within it. They shift and move in their silks. They breathe and tense.
I can smell them. Human traces. Things I know so very well. Sweat and cloying fragrance.
Woodsmoke. Ash. Incense.
Decay. Old, dried blood.
I can hear their pulses. Steady, predictable. Mortal.
I can smell their blood as it percolates through their arteries and veins. I know exactly how to get it.
They can’t escape my attention.
They’re like prey.
There’s a raised platform at the far end, upon which sits an imposing throne, with armrests and legs carved into a lion’s paws. Atop the backrest sits a likeness of a lion’s head, teeth bared in a vicious snarl.
I know this, because I’ve seen that throne before. I can see it now, silhouetted through a gauzy curtain that obscures the figure sitting upon it, turning them into a dark shadow.
Why hide?
How ridiculous.
I walk right up to the dais and rip the curtain away, revealing the figure within.
Ansar stares back at me.
For a moment, we’re both quiet.
My brother has… changed.
Ansar Talavarra-Duthriss is as tall as I am. He’s filled out—no longer the slender, delicate looking youth I remember.
He has a lean, powerful physique. His complexion is deeply tanned—he’s obviously been spending time outdoors. His hair—as dark as his mother’s—has grown long, curling over his shoulders.
He’s pierced his ears in the fashion of Padra—with priceless jewels befitting a son of House Talavarra.
Set in gold, a perfectly symmetrical obsidian pearl hangs from each earlobe, its surface gleaming with iridescence. The pearls are perfectly tear-shaped and almost identical.
Incredibly rare. Unfathomably precious. Such a pair could buy a minor lord’s castle.
And curiously, his eyes, once deep brown, now exude a faint emerald-hued glow.
I can feel his magical aura, the same way I feel magical energy when Finley’s power is activated, only where she feels warm and bright, his is suffused with iciness and anger; it seethes and flickers, prickly like static.
But that isn’t the most startling thing about him.
Ansar wears a sumptuous robe of dark green—so dark it’s almost black. The fabric shimmers in the dim light. A deep v-shaped opening reveals his bare chest—and thousands of intricate glyphs tattooed into his skin, rising all the way to his neck, ending just below his jawline.
I recognize the characters, even if I don’t understand them. It’s an ancient language from across the ocean—from the lands beyond Batava.
Ancient Perigian is what we call it. I’m sure it has another name, but I don’t know much about the world beyond the vast deserts of Homana.
Ansar has changed indeed.
Clearly, a lot has happened since I left.
What has driven him to become like this? Father and Tarron’s information was correct.
My little brother is the one raising the dead.
I stand before him, my danger-sense prickling, my fingers itching with the urge to grab my sword and impale him through the heart before he has a chance to open his mouth and utter the spells that would defy the very laws of the gods themselves.
I would kill my very own brother in a heartbeat.
But I can’t.
Not until I find out where Aralya is.
Maybe he senses the intent behind my thoughts, for a hint of a smile curves his mouth, breaking his expressionless mask.
For we both know that there is no physical barrier that could prevent me from killing him now—or the ones standing behind him, hiding their faces behind yet another curtain that hangs across the rear section of the dais. Deep blue silk, contrasting with the golden ceiling, hiding their faces.
What’s with all the bloody smoke and mirrors here?
I temper my urge to kill them all.
Soon.
They know they can’t defeat me.
So what’s their ploy?
“Why?” I say at last, breaking the silence.
Ansar sits there on his lion-shaped throne, deceptively calm. He rests his chin against one hand and shrugs. “You see why. A son of Duthriss has been given such power. Everyone knows you were never just going to sit in Tyron and tend to your lands in peace.”
“I was, until you provoked me.” It occurs to me that Ansar was behind the attempt to steal Finley away from me—before she ever arrived.
Anger fills me again, and this time it’s glacial.