Aaralyn turned, hazel eyes burning gold in her face. “Oh, my child. That is what a revolution is for.”
Meleri stared at the star god, hands gone cold and clammy. Aaralyn came back around the desk to stand beside her chair. Warm fingers touched her jaw, turning Meleri’s head to face her.
“My lady?” Meleri whispered.
“You will put a Rourke on the throne. That is your road now.”
Meleri could see the pitfalls in that private, personal decree, like a bad path that led straight to the bogs in the poison fields.
Aaralyn’s fingers drifted up her cheek to press against her forehead, heat sliding through Meleri’s skin, warming her from the inside out.
“I will always hear your prayers,” Aaralyn said before leaving.
Meleri was well acquainted with how prayers could be answered. She’d seen the ruins of it mere hours ago.
It was no wonder, then, that it would be years before Meleri saw her guiding star again, years before she prayed.
Eight
VANYA
Blood feuds were the way of life for the Houses of Solaria. Loyalty was a commodity like anything else in the empire, easily bought and just as easily sold.
The Imperial throne was a prize all Houses coveted, and the House of Sa’Liandel had sat upon that apex of power for two centuries. Their continued rule had brought prosperity to the country against the backdrop of bloody politics at times. But as with any rising star in the night sky, there must come a fall.
Vanya Sa’Liandel of the House of Sa’Liandel had faced over a dozen assassination attempts by the time he turned eight and stood with his mother beyond the walls of Rixham, Solaria’s most southern city. He would face more going forward now that he was his mother’s heir.
This should not have been his road. Iosiv had been the Imperial crown prince for thirteen years before a poisoned blade finally found its mark. Assassins beholden to the House of Laxsom had succeeded where few others had over the decades.
The loss was still an ache Vanya carried, for he had loved his older brother. He remembered the way Iosiv’s face had looked—still and cold and painted white in death—before the shroud was wrapped around his body by the star priests.
His mother had been as dry-eyed then as she was now, staring at a dying city, Rixham a grave of its ruling House’s own making. The House of Laxsom had paid for his brother’s life and the misuse of revenants against the living in a desperate attempt to secede with the eradication of their entire House. The city they called home, and all those who resided inside its walls, were collateral.
Empress Zakariya Sa’Liandel was nothing if not thorough, a trait that had enabled her House to remain on the Imperial throne for so long. A trait Vanya, even at the age of eight, knew he would have to adhere to if he ever wanted to rule as his mother did.
He shifted on the sparse brittle grass, the sun beating down on his thin shoulders. A light breeze tugged at the hem of his white robe, the fabric twisting around his thighs and the loose trousers he wore. A gold medallion hung from his neck on a thin, flat chain, the metal warm. Stamped on its face was his House’s crest, the profile of a roaring lion.
Iosiv had worn the ranking medallion for as long as Vanya could remember. It was Vanya’s now, and the symbol of his new rank felt heavy around his throat.
Movement down the line of legionnaires standing at their back had Vanya peering curiously around his mother. He watched as a tall woman walked toward them, her outfit close-fitting, made up of dark fabric and leather. No Solarian would wear such clothes in desert heat, but she appeared unbothered.
Hanging off both her hips were brass-lined pistols, of a different make than the ones issued to the Legion. The minute gears around the triggers matched the design in the hilt of the blade that jutted over one shoulder, a clarion crystal embedded in the pommel.
“Warden,” his mother said coolly, never looking away from the smoke rising above Rixham.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” the warden said, coming to a stop several feet away.
She rested her hands on her thick leather belt, close to her pistols. Vanya noticed how nearby legionnaires belonging to thepraetorianever took their eyes off her. The wariness on the faces of the men and women who guarded the Imperial throne and the House that controlled it made him curious about the warden.
“Your aid will not be needed here today.”
“I find I must disagree. You’ve walled off an entire city and riddled it with spores.”
“Have I?” his mother asked archly, the tone Vanya recognized right before she went in for the political kill.
The warden’s lips pressed together in a hard, pale line. “Do you wish the Wastelands and its revenants to reclaim this area so badly? The swamps are enough of a breeding ground.”
Zakariya reached for him then, settling her fingers against the back of his head in a gentle touch. “Rixham is a dead city. There is nothing living in Rixham.”
