The warden looked out at the ruin his mother had perpetuated and sighed. “We’ll change the maps.”
When they left the southern border of the empire a day later, the screams coming from Rixham lingered in Vanya’s ears on the long train ride north back to Calhames.
News spread of the ruin his mother had enacted. Of course it did. There was no hiding a city of the dead, after all. She’d meant it as a warning to the other Houses who might think to attempt secession, and it landed the way the blade had in Iosiv’s heart—deep and cutting. When the Senate next convened, there were no representatives from the House of Laxsom on the floor and never would be again.
The blood feud, such as it was, had been ended with extreme prejudice.
The Daijal ambassador appeared unconcerned with the backdrop of shifting power amongst the Houses as he stood before the Imperial throne. Vanya sat where Iosiv once had, the seat smaller than the Imperial throne, watching sweat slide down the ambassador’s face. The finery he wore was too thick of a fabric for southern heat, but appearances were everything in the Imperial court, even for outsiders.
“There has been upheaval in the north,” the aide assigned to him by his mother whispered into Vanya’s ear as he watched the proceedings with keen eyes.
He tilted his head how he had seen Iosiv do many times before and said nothing. It wasn’t his place to speak, not when his mother commanded everyone’s attention.
“My king requests you acknowledge his claim to the Ashion throne,” the ambassador said.
“I’ve heard the Ashion throne burns with starfire by the will of the North Star,” Zakariya said.
The ambassador’s smile became tacked on. “It is a meaningless decree.”
“Is it? You need a Rourke.”
“We have one.”
“That does not mean you have the Ashion throne. Solaria will not align itself with a puppet or its master. Our border will remain open for trade, but your politics are not ours.”
The ambassador inclined his head. “Of course, Your Imperial Majesty. Daijal will remember your stance.”
That did not mean Daijal would abide by it. Countries were like Houses, but on a larger scale, as Vanya would come to learn. And as with Houses, loyalty could be bought, and it could be sold.
It would be many years before Vanya discovered the cracks in his House’s hold on the Imperial throne. But when he did, the deepest ones could be traced back to Rixham, where revenants clawed at the city walls, waiting to leave the grave his mother had put them in.
Nine
AARALYN
Helia was a Daijalan coastal city, carved into the white seaside cliffs facing west. A playground for the rich, it was a place where decadence was preferred, and the risks of attempting to climb the social ladder could be found in the bank numbers tattooed on the necks of debt slaves.
The railroads leading to Helia came from all over. Its port was as thriving as the capital city of the Tovan Isles, located far out in the Gulf of Helia. Tovanian ships came and went in all seasons, watched over by the Daijal navy, who could never hope to keep up with the other country’s ship-cities.
The lower tiers of the cliffside city catered to the poor and working-class, a place where the riffraff weren’t looked at twice and a gunslinger hailing from across the eastern border was ignored save for what their coin could buy. A person could find a drink just as easily as they could find a body in their search for a good time. For all its decadent notoriety, Helia was one of Aaralyn’s favorite places to relax.
Prayers tasted as good as the alcohol on her tongue where she sat drinking whiskey at a corner booth, the brim of her leather cap pulled low over her face. Her hard eyes and expression said she wasn’t there for any sort of company save the barmaid who kept refilling her glass with every auron handed to her.
Innes slid into the bench across from her anyway. He rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward, giving Aaralyn an icy smile over the cracked wood that had seen the points of far too many knives.
“I thought you were tired of playing the melodramatic god. Wasn’t it Farren’s turn to take on that ridiculous role this century?” Innes asked.
Aaralyn finished her whiskey with one long swallow, eyeing Innes over the rim of the chipped glass. After a moment, she licked her lips and set the now empty glass aside. “How long has it been since we last met? Five decades? Six? You’re still as arrogant as ever.”
Innes shrugged and stretched out one leg beneath the table, knocking his boot against hers. “I learned from the best.”
“And I have regretted immensely that you were such a good student.”
Innes’ smile tempered itself into something that was almost human. “I love you, too, my darling wife.”
“Husband.” Aaralyn offered her own smile, just a small twist of her lips, but it was the secrets in her eyes that she knew always stoked Innes’ anger. Her next question only served to sharpen his temper. “How fares the Daijal court?”
She knew all about his actions and his sins, the dirt on his boots that came from the forests of Daijal and the ashes he’d carried with him from the damage done in Ashion. They had the grit of the world ground into their skin like the poison in their veins that wouldn’t let them die.
