That lonely thought made Zofiya abandon protocol momentarily. Despite the sweat and that they were, as ever, not alone, she grabbed Kaleva in a tight embrace. For that split second they were children again—the youngest, the most insignificant, yet still required to conform to the rules of their elders. Ignored by their mother and viewed as pawns by their father—no one could ever have expected them to be here now—the Emperor and the Grand Duchess of Arkaym.
Kaleva returned her hug for a moment but then pushed her back. “Sister, I fear you need to go easier on your guard, or they may request a transfer to the kitchens.”
“You don’t mind, do you, Hosh?” Zofiya shot the question over her shoulder.
The guard took off his helmet, revealing that his salt-and-pepper hair was wet with sweat, but he nonetheless sketched a very fine bow. “Not at all, Imperial Highness. It makes the rest of my day seem like a holiday by comparison.”
Laughing, Kaleva drew his sister aside—as far away as an Emperor could, anyway. As always there were his guards, his personal secretary, his current favorites and two members of the Privy Council waiting in the wings. Zofiya missed the privacy they had shared as children.
Over at the window looking down the hill that the palace occupied, they stood for a moment, with their backs to the rest of the people in the room. It was a beautiful city, seen from a distance. The changing light alternately lit up the lagoon and the channels, making them look like mirrors for a short instant, before the clouds once again took over, hiding them in shadow.
Zofiya waited for her brother to speak, untying her hair and trying not to get curious as to what brought him to find her. Finally, Kaleva took out of his pocket three miniatures of three ladies and laid them out on the table in the flickering sunlight.
“So these are the final choices, are they?”
Kaleva nodded curtly. Youngest son of the King of Delmaire, he’d never been expected to rule anything, and now he was learning that there was more to being Emperor than merely dealing with bureaucrats and bickering Princes. An unmarried ruler was not acceptable in any shape or form, and yet picking a bride was loaded with layers of meaning and consequence that could freeze even the most intelligent, commanding man in his place.
“Yes.” Her brother sighed, tucked his hands behind his back and looked down at the images. “One from Chioma, one from Seneqoth and one from Hatar—all beautiful, talented and from families deemed not strong enough to unbalance the Assembly of Princes.”
“Poor Brother”—Zofiya chuckled—“to have to pick from such beauties. It is truly a cruel life you live.” She kept her tone light, though she itched to fling away the images of the women from Seneqoth and Hatar, however she knew that doing so would draw unwanted attention from her brother. Always she had to take care not to remind him of her faith.
The Emperor pressed his lips together. “Perhaps I have been putting this off—but I am sure these ladies are not really pining for me.” He couldn’t help it—he looked over his shoulder. They were thre, in the shadows: Otril and Eilse.
He was a minor Earl from Delmaire, and she a quiet beauty with no aristocratic blood in her veins at all. Yet it was well-known that Kaleva loved them.
The Emperor had taken care not to give them too much power in Imperial affairs, knowing from their father’s Court that the influence of lovers could end with their death or that of the monarch. Yet their very closeness to him was beginning to spread more than a whisper in Vermillion.
Some talked of Otril and Eilse actively working against the Emperor marrying—though Zofiya was sure they were not that foolish.
No, she sighed, it was her brother. Other royals were comfortable with mistresses, affairs, concubines, but not Kaleva. To marry was to deny his feelings—and it was not like the Emperor of Arkaym could act as the Prince of Chioma did—keeping a large harem of lovers. Tradition had it there was one Emperor and one Empress.
Eilse could not be that woman. Her low birth would have been an insult to the role.
“Brother”—Zofiya laid her hand on his arm, dropping her voice to a whisper that would remain just between the two of them—“Father was wrong about many things, but he was right in that the prime responsibility of a monarch is to continue the bloodline. We have a tenuous fingerhold on this continent as it is.”
Kaleva turned his back to the magnificent view, leaned on the table and stared at his lovers. When he looked at his sister she saw him again: that little boy, the one she had perhaps read too many fairy tales to. Romanticism still clung to him miraculously, even after a war, assassination attempts and the machinations of a resentful Court.
Reaching behind him, he blindly picked one of the portraits; then, holding out his arm to Zofiya, he opened his hand.
Both of them looked down into the beautiful dark face of the Princess of Chioma.
Zofiya’s heart skipped a beat. “Random chance, Brother?” The Grand Duchess tilted her head and smiled at him. “Is that really how you will choose the next Empress for Arkaym?” She knew it was anything but random.
Kaleva shrugged. “They are all equally worthy, equally beautiful—if their portraits are to be believed. I think this lady is a good choice. Her father has never—”
The rest of her brother’s words faded from Zofiya’s hearing, because just then the clouds parted. For an instant her eye caught movement in the tower opposite the Long Gallery.
It was an older portion of the palace, made of rough stone and not the smooth marble of more recent additions. What this particular spire did have was a great round stained glass window, the type called a rose window.
When light filtered through this particular rose window, Zofiya caught a glimpse of the figure behind it.
“Protect the Emperor!” she screamed, shoving her brother off the table, sending him flying to the floor just as a shot shattered first the rose window and then the one they were standing right in front of. It hit one of the portraits, exploding it into a thousand porcelain shards. Then everything was a whirl of movement, as Imperial Guards rushed forward, and the small huddle of courtiers scattered like chaff.
Zofiya didn’t have time to notice any of that. Her brother was down, covered by those sworn to protect him, and now she had a job to do. The palace was a rabbit warren of rooms, passages and hidden entrances—the attacker could be away in an instant.
Zofiya flew down the Long Hall, skidding on the polished marble, but flinging open the latch in the wainscot in an instant. Down a set of stairs she ran, hearing the echo of the second shot dimly behind her. She made no effort to be quiet, but as she was wearing her practice slippers so as not to damage the floor of the Hall, she was considerably more silent than usual.
The Grand Duchess ran through the rough corridor, her arms pumping. In her mind’s eye, the castle opened before her—every corridor, every archway, every staircase. Through the pounding of her heart and her feet against the castle floor, her breath came easily enough. Both Zofiya and Kaleva were studious about not letting Imperial food send them to the way of fat, and now all those laps around the gardens proved very useful.
She burst out of the secret door and into the room at the top of the Maiden Tower with barely a break in stride. The would-be assassin was turning, the length of his rifle only just pulled away from the hole in the window. He was dressed in the red of the Imperial Guard—an insult that Zofiya could not let go unpunished.
However, there could not have been a worse time for the Grand Duchess to go into battle. She wore light linen breeches with a similar shirt and carried nothing of greater length than her ceremonial dagger of Hatipai.
Zofiya was, however, of the blood of kings and beloved of her goddess—she would triumph over some second-rate assassin naked from her bath if necessary.
She yelled, lunged and grabbed the barrel of the rifle with both hands. As the weapon came around, her forearms brushed against the barrel, pushing it up toward the ceiling. Once she felt the scalding metal sear her fingers, she pushed toward the assassin. Even over the sharp discharge of the weapon, she heard the crunch of the barrel slamming into the man’s nose. His scream was a strained, muffled sound as he suddenly found it difficult to breathe. It was most satisfactory when droplets of his blood splattered onto her face—this man had come the closest to killing Kaleva in all their years here.