And Rhy let out a mirthless laugh. “I promise you, there is no one less in danger.”
The servant hesitated, then bowed deeper and withdrew. Rhy closed his eyes, felt himself sway. He kept walking, legs carrying him across the palace to the throne room.
He had spent most of the day here, in the Rose Hall, listening to a constant stream of citizens and supplicants, layering their suffering on top of his own, but now the massive room lay silent and empty. The bolts of red and gold between the pillars hung still. He made his way up the chamber, the marble cold beneath his bare feet.
He reached the base of the dais and stared up at the twin thrones. One of them was draped in black, the sigil of sun and chalice stitched in gold. Two crowns sat together on the shrouded seat. When it was time, they would be fused and melted, reforged into a new crown. It would sit twice as heavy on his head.
Rhy climbed the stone steps and sank onto the empty throne. He brought his hand to rest on the arm of the chair, felt the slight grooves made by Maxim Maresh’s palm. Rhy wasn’t a small man, by any measure, but his father had been a giant. Or at least, he’d always seemed that way, to his son.
The bottle slipped from Rhy’s fingers. It hit the ground but did not break, only rolled impotently across the floor, leaving a trail of dark wine like drops of blood on the pale marble. Rhy stared at it until his vision swam with tears.
He heard the sigh of the throne room doors, and looked up, expecting to find the servant.
Instead, he saw the Aven Essen.
Tieren Serense, head priest of the London Sanctuary, advisor first to Nokil Maresh, and then to his son Maxim. And now, to Rhy, the only Maresh left.
“You’re not my horse,” he said dryly.
“No,” answered the priest. “I’m not.”
Tieren made his way up the hall, his white robes whispering over the marble.
There was no need to ask who had sent for him. “How did you get here so fast?”
“I have a room in the eastern wing.”
“Is that allowed?”
Tieren raised a white brow. “We do not cease to be priests if we sleep outside the Sanctuary walls.”
“Well,” said Rhy, “I hope the room is sufficiently sparse. I wouldn’t want to offend your modest sensibilities.”
“Oh yes,” assured Tieren. “Hardly any gold at all.”
The Aven Essen stopped at the foot of the dais. He looked old, but then again, Rhy couldn’t remember a time when the priest had not. Wrinkles ran like deep cracks across Tieren’s face, but his back was still straight, his blue eyes bright.
“Master Rhy,” he said gently, “how long has it been since you slept?”
“I no longer care for sleep,” answered Rhy. “When I sleep—” He swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. He pressed on. “When I sleep, I dream.”
He did not go on, did not say that most nights he woke screaming. That the first few times, the guards came rushing in, blades drawn, sure that he had been attacked. But that it happened so often now that they knew better, simply held their ground, and looked away, and somehow that was worse.
Rhy did not say any of those things. Instead, he folded forward, running his hands up his face, raking his fingers through his hair. They snagged on the mourning crown and he tore it off, flung the cursed thing away, the sound of it ringing as it struck the marble. Bounced. Rolled. Fetched up against a pillar.
He slouched back into the throne, let his gaze escape to the ceiling far above. “You know,” he mused, “if the king and queen had been allowed to have a second heir, then we could have fought over the crown. I could have lost, and lived my days out as a vain, indulgent prince.” Rhy closed his eyes. “Instead, I am alone.”
Tieren’s voice, when he spoke, was closer. “You will never be alone.”
Rhy forced his attention down, and found the priest at his shoulder. He rubbed his eyes. When he spoke, the words came out a whisper. “I don’t know how to rule.”
The old man simply shrugged. “No one ever does.” He looked out at the throne room. “Your mother, Emira, came to the palace when she was twenty-three. She was the second daughter of a noble house, with no real desire to be queen. Maxim had been banished to the Blood Coast for being a reckless youth. He returned a soldier prince and hero, and yet, when it came time for him to rule, your father sat exactly as you do now, on this very throne, and said to me, ‘I know how to lead men to war. How can I lead them to peace?’ No one is born knowing how to lead.”
Rhy felt small and scared. “How do they do it, then?”
“They learn. They err. They try again. They fail. The worst rulers see their country as a game of Rasch, the men and women only pieces on their board. But you—” His hand came to rest on Rhy’s shoulder. “—you will love them. You will bleed with them. You will hurt with them. A piece of you will die with them. The rest of you will live. I do not know if you will be a great king, Rhy Maresh. Only time will tell. But I believe with all my heart that you will be a good one.”
Tieren’s hand fell away.
“We all don clothes that do not fit, and hope we will grow into them. Or at least, grow used to them.”
Rhy studied the Aven Essen. “Even you?”
Tieren surprised him with a smile. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t born a priest.”
He paused, seemed about to say more, when the throne room doors came crashing open. They both turned as Alucard Emery strode across the hall, his boots muddy and his shoulders damp. Something in Rhy loosened at the sight of him. The fingers of gold in his brown hair, the tracery of silver on his skin.
“My king,” he said cheerfully, and in his mouth, the word felt less like a hammer, and more like a kiss. If Alucard read the meaning of Tieren’s presence at this hour, or saw the strain in Rhy’s face, he made no mention of it, simply swept up the mourning circlet as he approached the dais.
“My heart,” answered Rhy, rising to his feet. His limbs felt leaden. His body longed for sleep. His pulse thrummed in fear of it, but then Alucard was there, one hand on his arm to steady him. Rhy leaned into the weight.
“Tell me,” said Alucard, “is it too late to request an audience?” His blue eyes danced with mischief. “I have favors to ask of the crown.”
Rhy managed the ghost of a smile. The grief lifted, like a curtain.
He turned to tell Tieren he could retire, but there was no need.
The priest was already gone.
III
NOW
Steel rang against steel on the palace grounds.
Alucard leaned his elbows on the courtyard wall and watched as two dozen new recruits squared off below, swords ringing as they moved through the motions of combat. As if combat could be reduced to rules, refined to order. Someone dropped their sword. Someone made a sloppy swing, and their opponent swore.
He groaned inwardly. “Where did you find this batch?”
Isra stood beside him, her arms crossed, her short silver hair glinting in the late-day sun. She had served with Maxim Maresh at Verose, had returned to be the captain of his guard, and now, of Rhy’s. “It wasn’t the bottom of the barrel,” she said, “but it was close.”
She didn’t have to say what Alucard already knew. For years, Arnesians had clamored to join the royal guard. But ever since Rhy Maresh had taken the throne, the numbers had begun to dwindle. The Hand’s rumors didn’t help.
“Well,” mused Alucard. “If anyone can do it, you can.”
He meant it, but Isra only rolled her eyes. “Flattery will get you nowhere. As for this lot—”
As if on cue, a fight broke out below. A shoving match that quickly escalated, threatened to tumble from disorder into revolt until Isra stepped to the wall and spoke, voice booming over the training ground, amplified by the wind magic that traced the air over her skin. “Tarso!”
Order.