No. She would not be the last of the Alisters. She would not.
Lyss walked out onto the terrace and looked down at the ocean below. The marble wall of the palace above and below the terrace was smooth, seamless, impossible to climb. Even if she had a rope, the only place she could possibly go was into the water. The familiar tide of panic rose in her, threatening to drown her before she ever got wet. The empress couldn’t have chosen a better barrier to prevent her escape.
She should have spent more time with her father and Cat Tyburn, learning how to get in and out of tight places. But who knew she would end up a princess held captive in a marble tower?
There came a soft knock on the door. “Come!” she said, and Breon sloped in, his face a thundercloud. He wore new clothes, as well—only his were velvet and satin, sparkling with jewels. His narrow breeches and fitted jacket showed off the fact that he was filling in nicely. His hair was the color of rich caramel. It had been cut, but the single gold streak had been left longer than the rest. It was braided, and it glittered in the sunlight that streamed in from the terrace. He would have been beautiful, all on his own, even with a scowl on his face. In this garb, he was dazzling.
They looked at each other—Lyss in her uniform, and Breon in his finery.
“Well,” Lyss said, “it looks to me like the empress has very different roles in mind for the two of us. She must be intending to keep us alive a little longer.”
“She brought four sets in different colors—each finer than the last one.” Breon brushed at the velvet, his fingers leaving little tracks. “This is the plainest of the lot.”
Lyss tried to think of something to say. “You look spectacular, Breon,” she said. “Those suit you—you’re someone who makes the most of them.”
She’d thought she was giving him a compliment, but he didn’t take it that way. “I an’t a fancy,” Breon muttered. He stripped off the jacket, wadded it up, and threw it in the corner. “Everybody keeps trying to make me into something I’m not, just because I’m pretty.” He pressed his fingers against his face as if he might somehow rearrange it.
“So . . . you’re thinking that the empress means to . . . ?” Lyss swallowed, sorry that she had gotten into the middle of that question without planning how to end it.
“Why else would she give me these clothes? Your clothes aren’t like that. Put a curved blade at your belt and sling a bow over your shoulder, and you’d be a Carthian horselord.”
Lyss looked down at her breeches and overshirt. Then looked up at Breon. “Listen,” she said, “I have no way of knowing what the empress is thinking. I don’t know what she has planned for me. But there are people in this world who wear clothes like yours every single day, and they’re not fancies. The nobility, for instance.”
“Not where I come from,” Breon growled. “This reminds me of the night you and I met—when Whacks gave me some pretty new clothes so I could do something I’ve been sorry for ever since. I don’t want to go down that road again. I’d rather wear rags. If she doesn’t mean me to be a fancy, maybe she wants to use me to lure people into trouble.”
“My father always told me to try not to worry about things I can’t do anything about,” Lyss said.
“Easier said than done. Every plan begins with worry.”
They came for Breon first. A brace of imperial guards showed up and ordered him to come with them, saying that the empress wanted to see him. He looked fragile next to the bulky guards, his face pale, his eyes wide with fright.
“Wait!” Lyss commanded. To her surprise, they stopped, and turned back toward her. She embraced Breon, murmuring, “See you soon,” in his ear.
But she did not see him soon. Hours passed, and dinner came and went, and he did not return. Finally, she crossed through their common area and knocked on his door. No answer. She pushed the door open. “Breon?”
The room was empty. All of his belongings were gone, as if he had never existed.
36
AUDIENCE WITH THE EMPRESS
Lyss slept little that night, wondering and worrying about Breon. So she was in a particularly foul mood the next morning when a handful of the empress’s guards came to call. She was feeling reckless, itching for a fight, even one she could not win.
Her visitors included the usual imperial guards, but also a man whose garb resembled her own, the difference being that he was wearing a king’s ransom in gold around his neck and at his wrists. His belt was embedded with jewels, the buckle a dragon fashioned in gold.
“Captain Gray, I believe?” he said in accented Common.
“That’s right,” she said.
The stranger looked her up and down with the kind of arrogant ownership that, in her present state of mind, might lead to bloodshed. His blood. Alternatively, she might take his gold chains and strangle him with them.
“I’m Captain Samara,” he said, jerking his head toward the door. “Let’s go. The empress has granted you an audience.”
I didn’t grant her an audience, Lyss wanted to say. But good sense prevailed, and she didn’t.
Samara led Lyss out of the rear of the palace and through what once must have been a lovely garden. The leafless skeletons of trees remained, some of them braced against the ocean winds. The beds were empty of flowers, though metal markers still displayed the names of those that had once grown there. Arbors and pergolas were still threaded with the stems of vines, and stone statues and sculptures were everywhere, as if trying to compensate for the lack of vegetation. A leathery-skinned servant swept twigs and debris from the walkways.
“What happened to the garden?” she asked, finally.
“The only way a garden thrives this far north is through magic. When the magic died, so did the garden. The empress has other priorities right now.”
Like conquering the Realms? Or hunting down the magemarked?
Speaking of. “Where’s Breon?” she said, as they neared the far gate.
“Breon?”
“My friend. We came here together. You took him away yesterday, and he hasn’t returned.”
“Ah,” Samara said, “you are speaking of the empress’s brother.”
Lyss’s stampeding thoughts plunged over a cliff, tumbling until they hit bottom. “Her brother?” She gaped at Samara. “Breon is her brother?”
“Of course,” Samara said, with the smug assurance of someone on the inside. “Why do you think she has been so eager to find him? Her family has been scattered far and wide, and she is working to bring them all together.” He opened the gate and stood aside so that Lyss could pass through. “Now, we must hurry. The empress does not like to be kept waiting.”
As they walked, Lyss tried to wrap her mind around what the shiplord had said. Breon was Celestine’s brother? That was hard to believe. They were both breathtakingly beautiful, and they both had metallic streaks in their hair—gold for Breon, and red and blue for the empress. There the resemblance ended. Breon was charming, self-deprecating, nonjudgmental, and instinctively kind. Celestine could be charming—until she wasn’t. Otherwise, she was ruthless, cruel, arrogant, and selfish.
If they were siblings, how had they become separated? And why was it all such a secret? Why didn’t Breon know about it himself—unless he’d lied about that, too?
Why wouldn’t the empress simply invite her siblings to a reunion, instead of hunting them across two continents? Of course, there are many reasons a monarch might want to track down siblings. Gerard Montaigne was one example that came to mind—he’d murdered his brothers on his way to the throne.
But why not simply hire an assassin if that was the goal? Celestine had made it plain that she wanted Breon alive and unhurt.