“It was then we realized that Petra would never give up the crown of her free will, and we made the decision to falsify my death so that I could begin work gaining supporters,” he said. “I was young and idealistic, so I thought that support would come easily. Except Petra dedicated the early years of her rule to winning the love of the people, and though there were those who disliked her
warmongering, finding those who felt strongly enough to oppose her was … difficult. One year became two. Then five. Though I was able to meet with your mother, we didn’t dare allow you to see me for fear you might say something to the wrong person.
“At that point, Petra was beginning to show some of her true colors in ways she hadn’t since right after Ephraim’s death. Excessive punishment for anyone who spoke against her, unfair trials, disappearances, and murders in the night, all while her masters of propaganda tricked everyone into believing her the benevolent ruler, beloved by all. I started making headway, recruiting resistance in Arakis, and we began disseminating the truth about her activities. Rumors that she had stolen the crown. I …” He trailed off, eyes distant. “In hindsight, that may have been when Petra realized that Aryana was not on her side, not her supporter at all. When she decided to kill her.”
Zarrah took a steadying breath. All of this had been happening right beneath her nose as a child, and she hadn’t even known it. Had been blissfully unaware, convinced that all was as it should be as she lived her life as a pampered princess in her aunt’s palace. So certain that all was well in her world, the pain of her father’s loss a distant memory.
“You saw me once a year before your mother was murdered,” he softly said. “She introduced me as a dear friend, and I remember clear as day how you looked at me like a stranger.”
A jolt struck Zarrah as the memory was brought forth. “At a handball match in the stadium at Meritt.
I remember. Mother loved to watch the matches, but after her death, Petra closed all the stadiums.
Something about illegal betting.” Or, more likely, because once she’d turned on Zarrah’s mother, she’d turned on everything Aryana loved.
Except for Zarrah; instead, Petra made her her own.
Her father rose, going to a map cabinet and removing several rolled canvases, which he unfurled on the table before her. They were paintings of Zarrah. Six of them, all at different ages, the latest from when she must have been near twenty. All beautiful work rendered with such precise detail that he must have watched her closely over the years.
strange for her spies to pass off rumor as fact. She had convinced herself that Keris had turned on me,
“You were always watched. By me, or those close to me,” he said. “Only too late did I realize the cost of leaving you in her care. How she changed you, made you into her likeness, her heir in every possible way. Those were dark days, but you found your way out.”
“Keris helped me find my way out.”
“For which he has my gratitude,” her father said. “I know his presence cannot be replaced, but as never take the blame for anything. And she was a master of finding ways to make others believe that ithe travels north, I hope you’ll accept me at your side.”
Zarrah stared at the paintings of herself over the years, watched as her face hardened under the influence of her aunt, her smile fading. Her aunt had convinced her that to prove her strength, she needed to stand alone. That she couldn’t rely on anyone other than herself. Couldn’t trust anyone but herself.
And in believing her, Zarrah realized just how weak she’d become.
Pushing back her stool, she rose. “I would be honored to have you walk by my side, Commander.
But before we press forward, there is something I need to do.”
“You saw me once a year before your mother was murdered,” he softly said. “She introduced me as A jolt struck Zarrah as the memory was brought forth. “At a handball match in the stadium at Meritt.
Something about illegal betting.” Or, more likely, because once she’d turned on Zarrah’s mother, she’d turned on everything Aryana loved.
Except for Zarrah; instead, Petra made her her own.
Her father rose, going to a map cabinet and removing several rolled canvases, which he unfurled on the table before her. They were paintings of Zarrah. Six of them, all at different ages, the latest from when she must have been near twenty. All beautiful work rendered with such precise detail that he must have watched her closely over the years.
“You were always watched. By me, or those close to me,” he said. “Only too late did I realize the cost of leaving you in her care. How she changed you, made you into her likeness, her heir in every possible way. Those were dark days, but you found your way out.”
“Keris helped me find my way out.”
“For which he has my gratitude,” her father said. “I know his presence cannot be replaced, but as he travels north, I hope you’ll accept me at your side.”
Zarrah stared at the paintings of herself over the years, watched as her face hardened under the influence of her aunt, her smile fading. Her aunt had convinced her that to prove her strength, she needed to stand alone. That she couldn’t rely on anyone other than herself. Couldn’t trust anyone but herself.
And in believing her, Zarrah realized just how weak she’d become.
Pushing back her stool, she rose. “I would be honored to have you walk by my side, Commander.
But before we press forward, there is something I need to do.”
SNOWFLAKES FLOATED AROUND Zarrah as she exited the caves and climbed a ladder onto the cliff top. Darkness had fallen, the sky black with cloud cover, but instinct drew her eyes to the rebel on watch duty, the man nothing more than a shadow against the white snow.
“Did you notice which way he went?” Zarrah asked. Light of any form was forbidden, one of the many measures the rebels took to ensure their hideout wasn’t discovered.
The shape rose, arm moving to press hand to heart. “Imperial Majesty. His Grace went that way.”
The man’s hand moved to gesture deeper into the canyon. “You should have an escort. It’s treacherous ground.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “Thank you.”
Wrapping her cloak more tightly around her body, Zarrah started in the direction he’d pointed, keeping away from the yawning black space to her right as she followed the faintly visible footprints.
The snow seemed to reflect what ambient light filtered through the clouds, making it brighter than it would otherwise be. “Keris?” she called softly. “It’s Zarrah.”
No answer.
Unease pooled in her stomach. He planned to travel north, but it wasn’t like him to just leave without saying goodbye, never mind that he had no supplies. No coin. But she also remembered the grim resignation in his eyes when he’d left her alone with her father. Maybe he’d thought it better to avoid the awkward parting conversation. Maybe he’d thought she would prefer he just disappear north to do his part in the war to come.
“I am going to kill you if you just left,” she muttered before calling out, “Keris!”
The only sound was the gusting wind.
What if something had happened to him? Saam had said he’d left with a bottle of whiskey in hand.
What if he’d gotten himself drunk and fallen off the bloody cliff? “Keris!”
No response.
Unease turned to fear, and Zarrah stopped in her tracks, wondering if she should return for help.
And then she saw him.
About two dozen paces away, a rocky outcropping protruded from the cliff face, and Keris stood on the very edge of it.
Heart hammering, she broke into a run. “Keris!”
His shadow turned, but he didn’t step back from the edge. The outline of a bottle was visible in one hand.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, edging out onto the outcropping, which was slick with snow.