He listens, waiting for the screams of his mother to echo again through the palace halls, as they have been for hours.
But this time, he hears nothing.
He presses his ear against the door a little longer, then puts his face against the slit in the ajar door again.
One of the midwives carries bundles of cloth soaked in blood.
His eyes settle on the shape lying on the bed. His mother. All he can see is her outline, her hand being held by the hand of a richly dressed noblewoman. He can’t hear her voice.
“What are we going to tell the Premier?” one of the midwives says.
The other shakes her head. “Fetch him right away.”
Constantine’s hands start to tremble. Somehow, he knows the worst has happened.
“Santine?” the young Caitoman says, doing his best to pronounce his brother’s name, then shuffles up to Constantine and peers curiously into the room.
Constantine puts a hand on his little brother’s shoulder and guides him away. “It’s nothing,” he tells the smaller child. “Come on. Let’s go to the east wing.”
As they turn the corner, they bump into their father, headed down the hall from where they’d just come. Constantine jumps back—Caitoman lets out a small squeak.
The Premier gives Constantine a stern glare, then glances briefly at Caitoman. The glare turns into a sneer.
“Get this thing out of my halls,” he mutters at Constantine as he brushes past the boys. “I told you not to bring him into the palace.”
It takes me another second to realize that he meant Caitoman. Caitoman was thethingto be rid of. A glimmer of realization hits me. Did Caitoman not grow up in the palace with Constantine?
The memory shifts. I see young Constantine again, this time dressed in somber blacks, going up to his father at night as the man leans back in his chair. The boy’s eyes look pink, as if he’s been crying. A fire crackles at one end of the meeting room.
“Look,” his father says to him, without looking at him at all. Instead, he points the wineglass at a tapestry on the wall.
Constantine obeys and looks. On the tapestry, Karensa had not yet conquered the northernmost and southernmost states. The Federation’s borders extend like a gash through the center of the continent, bleeding ever wider.
When Constantine looks up at the man, he sees the face of someone dissatisfied with how slowly his campaign is moving. A ruler who wants more. Someone with something missing. Someone… disgusted.
The young Constantine swallows and looks at his father. “Do you miss Mother?” he asks.
The Premier takes a sip from his glass before he shakes his head. “Why?” he mutters. “The dead are useless.”
The memory ends. I return to the room as it is now, with Constantine the Premier leaning against the table, disheveled, the sleeves of hisrobe pushed up and wrinkled, my hand near the keys. If he is uncomfortable with me having seen a glimpse of his past, he doesn’t show it. Perhaps the wine has dampened how much he cares.
Did your mother die in childbirth?I ask him.
Yes. I was meant to have a third brother.Constantine lets out a scornful chuckle.My father’s hopes and dreams.
When I don’t respond, he continues.The older my father got, the more he realized he wouldn’t live to see Karensa’s borders stretch from sea to sea. He wouldn’t finish what he started. Worst of all, he thought I—his poor, fragile firstborn—didn’t have the ability to carry on his legacy.
Another memory sears through our bond, and suddenly I glimpse a young Constantine pounding on the door of a small closet, screaming to be let out, while his father snaps at him from the other side. About some failed lesson. Some poor performance on horseback. Some weakness. I see Constantine curled on the floor of the closet as the light under the slit changes, until finally Caitoman lets him out. I see Constantine facing another boy in a courtyard. The old Premier kneels beside Constantine, telling him how to strike the other boy. Constantine ends up bloodied and bruised and the loser. The Premier leaves in disgust.
And what about your brother?I ask.
Constantine glances at me.Caitoman is my half brother.
Caitoman is a bastard.
Of course he is. He and Constantine look so little alike; the old Premier had reacted to the young Caitoman with such dismissive disgust.
Who is his mother?I ask.
