“We might need to change inns,” Erich said by way of greeting. Living with the constant fear of attack was normal for Erich. Watching another person’s back was unfamiliar. If it weren’t for Fritz, he wouldn’t have gone back at all.
“Getting into trouble already?” Fritz asked.
“It finds me. Or rather, it found me today, on my way back from the docks.”
“That is trouble. I told you to stay away from her until we’ve formulated a plan.”
Erich grunted in acknowledgment as guilt gnawed at him. He trusted Fritz’s intuition, but he trusted his gut too, and he was glad he’d been there.
“You don’t have to stay. I can get her out and bring her to you,” Erich said, though he already knew what Fritz’s answer would be.
“Trying to get rid of me again?” Fritz said with a single raised eyebrow.
“Better we break apart than get caught together.”
“This only works if we do it together,” Fritz said, pinching his brow. He looked skinnier and paler than when Erich had first met him.
Erich leaned forward to whisper. “Did you see something?”
“No. There are too many possible outcomes, a thousand tangled threads.” He sighed and leaned back to slump in his chair.
“Well, you keep trying, and I’ll do what I’m best at.” Erich stood and grasped Fritz’s shoulder.
Fritz looked up at Erich with a quizzical stare. “And what’s that exactly?”
“Find information. I’ll search for a way into the temple.”
“You make it sound so simple. Do you really think you can simply carry her out of the temple?”
“I’ll do whatever is necessary,” Erich said, with a nonchalant shrug. But on the inside, his gut was churning.
3
There were no rules for how a widow-princess might dress if her husband died a traitor, but Aristea had chosen to wear a black veil. In Neolyra, widows wore a sheer black veil for a year and a day to mourn the passing of their husbands. It was an ancient tradition that was thought to have originated with the first Empress Consort, whose devotion to her husband had been unparalleled. After her husband had died, she’d slept inside his tomb in the catacombs for a full year. Thankfully, the tradition of lying next to the corpse of one’s husband had ended half a century ago. The thought of lying beside her husband’s mangled corpse for a year made Aristea’s skin crawl. It’d been hard enough sleeping next to him when he was alive.
Heinrich’s plot to overthrow the empire through cultivating an army of stardust-enhanced soldiers had failed, and he’d paid the price. But apart from a few minor officials, his co-conspirators remained at large, though officially, the case was considered closed.
Aristea felt as if she were poised on a dagger’s edge. She hadn’t put on the veil out of love for Heinrich, but rather wore it like armor. Her ill-fated marriage had been the ribbon that’d tied up the loose ends of a civil war that had begun before she was born, but whose threads were woven into the tapestry of the current court’s political climate.
Heinrich had been fourth in line to the throne before he died, and the figurehead of a rebellion that had attempted to steal the throne from Aristea’s mother. Because of that, Aristea had been destined to marry Heinrich before she’d taken her first breath. A faction of dukes didn’t want an empress at all, and then her mother had made the audacious choice to name her eldest daughter heir even after a healthy son had grown to maturity.
If Aristea and Heinrich had produced a son, their two factions would’ve been united. But after years of marriage, Aristea hadn’t borne a son, nor any children. Her womb had never quickened. Each month, her courses came, and hope withered in her chest. Now, at nearly thirty and a widow, her position as future empress seemed shakier than ever. By Aristea’s age, Mother had had two children and had squashed a rebellion.
What did Aristea have? A veil to hide behind and a desperate scheme to keep her husband’s followers loyal to her by pretending to be a grieving widow. On melancholy days like this, she wandered the cold rooms of her and Heinrich’s apartment and was reminded of the times when he’d been sweet. When he’d kiss her gently on the brow or lay his head against her stomach and wish for a son. She’d tried loving him, she really had. But then he’d turn cruel and bitter. He’d stumble in, stinking of alcohol and another woman’s perfume. Aristea would get angry and shout, and he’d find some way to twist her anger into being about her mistakes. If only she’d given him a son, if only she’d been better, sweeter, more pliable.
His study was dark, but she didn’t bother lighting a candle or opening the curtains. She hadn’t gone in there since he’d died. She stood in the center of the room, her arms wrapped around her waist in a protective stance. Her gaze flicked over to the drawer with the false bottom. The same one where he’d kept the letters she’d written to him when they’d been engaged, when she’d been a teenager desperate to make their marriage work, and his responses had been sweet and flattering. She’d been hopeful, if not in love, and convinced their marriage could heal the empire. Could protect her mother’s legacy and her right to the throne. It had been romantic to the girl she’d been that he’d been the prince in exile, waiting for their wedding day to return to court, ready to make amends for his father’s sins. Then once they had been married, he’d used those same words against her. She walked over to the drawer, pried open the false bottom, and grasped hold of the letters.
“But now you’re dead and I’ll be empress,” she said to the empty room.
She turned her back on the study and returned to the sitting room, where she’d asked her lady’s maids to build up the fire. It burned bright and hot, warming her cheeks and flushing her face. She tossed those letters into the flames and watched them curl and burn.
She hated herself for having trusted him, having listened to the lies, the excuses. He’d been plotting to kill her and usurp her mother, and she’d suspected but said nothing. But she wasn’t going to stand idly by anymore.
She’d win over Heinrich’s allies, unify the dukes’ council, and spearhead an attack on the elves before they could strike at the empire again, ending the threat and solidifying her rule. No one would question her ability again.
The letters turned to ash, but Aristea wasn’t satisfied. Her lady’s maid Yvette entered the room with a black gown draped over her arm. As was her usual routine, Aristea dressed and prepared for her morning walk around the gardens. After which, she would have to meet with Duke Mattison from Sundland, a notable, wealthy bachelor whom Mother was angling to pair with Aristea.
It was another reason Aristea had taken the veil. While she was in mourning, she wouldn’t have to entertain suitors. But Mother had found a loophole. As he was an important royal dignitary, it was natural that they’d have lunch together.
