Theirs was a wreckage tallied in years. In split knuckles and broken bones, in venomous words and exile plots. In their mother’s absence, and their father’s shadow, in everything Alucard was and Berras wasn’t.
And yet, despite it all, he had still expected Berras to come, if for no other reason than to make a scene. If he closed his eyes, he could see his older brother, dark hair swept back and head held high, wearing the family colors with a pride that Alucard had never been allowed to feel. He could see Berras’s eyes, a blue so dark it read as black when he was mad. Could hear the scrape of his voice as he took in the chalice and sun at Alucard’s throat and said, “Well, at least he put a collar on his bitch.”
Alucard clutched the sigil until the silver bit into his palm. His vision blurred and he closed his eyes against the sudden threat of tears. Sound wafted up from the hall below, and yet, somehow, he still heard the priest’s white robes whisper toward him on the balcony. Felt his presence before he turned and saw the tendrils of the Aven Essen’s magic, pale threads dancing in the air.
“Master Emery,” Tieren said gently. He still stood straight, but in the last year, his cheeks had begun to hollow, his skin drooping on his frame, as if being pulled slowly back to the earth. Even the threads of his magic had begun to dim.
Alucard eyed the glass of wine in the older man’s hand. “Is that allowed?”
The Aven Essen raised a white brow. “I am a priest, not a saint. Besides, it is a question of balance.” He took a long sip, and closed his eyes, as if savoring. “All good things in quiet measure.”
“I don’t know,” said Alucard, draining his glass. “I prefer my vices loud.”
Tieren’s eyes drifted open. They were pale, a winter-morning blue, and they studied him, seemed to peel away the varnish and the pride. “Alucard,” he began softly.
Alucard felt his throat tighten. He turned away from the priest, leaned his elbows on the balcony. His gaze fell like a stone over the crowd. It could have landed anywhere, but of course, it landed on Rhy. The king smiled, that dazzling smile, and flung his arm wide, gesturing at the hall, or perhaps telling a story. Alucard wondered which, wished that he could read his lips from here. He should have been there, at Rhy’s side. Instead, there was the queen, one hand resting on his shoulder, as if laying claim, as if the crown shining in her dark hair wasn’t enough, as if anyone needed reminding that he was hers.
“It had to be done,” said Tieren, and that was the worst part. Alucard knew the priest was right. He had sworn not only to love the king, but to protect him, and when it came to keeping the throne, a child was stronger than any sword or shield.
It was the one thing Alucard alone could not give Rhy.
And the one thing he needed to remain king.
The mandate of magic stated that a ruling king or queen could have only one heir—to keep their family from growing too vast, too strong—but if they had none, it was taken as a sign that their time to rule was at an end. The throne would pass to one of the other royal families—Rosec, Nasaro, Loreni, Emery. All of them had ruled before, and all would be too happy to rule again, if given the chance.
No, the Maresh had held the throne for three hundred years.
Alucard would not be the reason they lost it.
“It had to be done,” he said, lifting the glass to his lips, only to find it empty.
Below, the new queen had left Rhy’s side, and the king stood alone. He turned in a slow, searching circle, and Alucard told himself that Rhy was looking for him, until he saw that shock of crimson hair, and knew that it was Kell who held the king’s attention.
Alucard gritted his teeth. He had promised he wouldn’t rile the Antari prince, not today, but his resolve was weakening with every drink. He had just decided to go down and amuse himself, perhaps find Lila Bard, wherever she might be, when someone cleared their throat.
He turned, hoping it was his favorite captain.
It wasn’t.
The first thing he saw was the crown, the twin of Rhy’s own, which sat nestled in her black hair.
“Well,” Alucard had said when Nadiya Loreni first came to court, “at least I’m still the pretty one.” It was, of course, a joke—Nadiya was stunning. Most nobles could drape themselves in enough finery to seem attractive, but the oldest of the Loreni heirs was simply, undeniably beautiful. Her face was heart-shaped and her body curved with a softness that belied the cutting sharpness of her mind. Like her mother, and grandfather, and so many Loreni before, she was an inventor as well as a noble.
And now, she was also a queen.
Alucard looked around for the Aven Essen, but the priest had retreated, leaving him alone to face Rhy’s bride. Traitor, he thought, as the queen drew near.
“Alucard,” she said, and he resented her anew for the way she said his name, as if they were allies, or old friends.
“My queen,” he said, bowing deeply. He thought he saw her roll her eyes.
He hadn’t noticed that her hands were hidden behind her skirts until she produced them, revealing an open bottle of wine.
“You have no glass,” he said as she filled his.
“No.” She shrugged. “I suppose we’ll have to share.”
He downed the contents of the glass, and thrust it back, then turned from her, to the safety of the gallery’s view. “Surely you should be down there, greeting your guests?”
“Somehow I think they’ll survive my absence.” She filled the glass, and sipping it, said, “And what about you?”
“What about me?” he asked, arching a brow.
“You are the king’s shadow. Should you not be at his side?”
“Today I am the pet bird,” he said dryly, “and so I prefer to perch.”
Nadiya joined him at the marble rail. “I know for a fact you are his heart.”
“Who told you that?”
“He did. The day we met. And every day since.” Alucard’s gaze slid toward her, and Nadiya surprised him, for the first of many times, by laughing. “Honestly, you think I don’t know that I’m wedding you both?”
“Do you resent me?” he asked, bit the question off before he added as I do you.
“Why should I?” She downed the contents of the glass and studied it, as if it were a problem, a puzzle. “I have never understood why one person must be all things. I want to be a mother, not a wife.”
“Then why be queen?”
“Power,” she said, without hesitation, and Alucard must have failed to hide his reaction, because she went on. “Oh, not as you think it. I do not mean the power to command citizens or start wars. I simply mean the power to do as I please. To think and work and live as I like, with no one in my way.” Her eyes shone as she spoke with a hungry kind of light.
“So you do not love him, then?”
“Am I meant to?” she teased, but seeing the shadow in his face, she sobered. “I am quite fond of our king.” And Alucard liked the way she said our instead of my, and liked it even more when she added, “But I will never love him as you do, Master Emery. And that, I think, is fine with you. As it is fine with me.”
The queen looked down over the rail at the celebration below, as Rhy held court in the center of it all.
“We will each love him,” she said, “in our own way. I will give him what you cannot. And you will give him what I cannot. And together, we shall be a better kind of family.”
His chest tightened, but for the first time that day, it was not in anger, or envy, or grief. It was hope.
“Now come down from your perch,” said Nadiya, striding away, “and help me survive this party.”
Alucard straightened, and said, with a ghost of a smile, “If you insist, my queen.”
VIII
NOW
Nadiya set her tools aside and straightened, massaging her neck, and Alucard knew it was safe to speak again.