Oaths of Legacy

by Emily Skrutskie

  And with that, I doomed him.

  I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

  “Save yourself,” I whispered to her. “Don’t get dragged down with me.”

  At that, she smiled, and I caught the glint of the pick in her teeth.

  The next time I saw her was on Ettian’s heels as he burst through the doors of the court for the first time. It was a different kind of heartbreak I felt then, couched in the larger betrayal of Ettian’s identity. Wen had done as I told her. One second she was there, and the next her cuffs were whipping into the head of the guard next to her, knocking open the formation just enough for her to bolt through. She didn’t look back once. She saved her ass and left me to my fate.

  Then she ran headlong into the chaos of Trost’s turnover and found Ettian. She told him exactly how to get to me. She tried to come back for me, tried to fix this mess that she felt responsible for, tried to do right by both of us. In a way, she saved my life.

  But in the same act, she tied herself irrevocably, unforgivably to Ettian’s side. She, as I understand it, was the first he revealed his true identity to. Not me, the only other person in the galaxy who might understand his plight, the person he’s so in love with that he would throw himself in the sights of my mother’s wrath. No, Ettian emp-Archon first pulled out that ring in front of a Corinthian gutter rat he’d known for a month. He gave her a choice, and she chose to follow him.

  I still don’t fully understand the bond that snapped into place between them barely a day after they’d met. Given that she nearly blew him up ten minutes after they first laid eyes on each other, it seems improbable. The Ettian I knew—or thought I knew—was always slow to trust. I slept in a bunk above him for two years and even though I knew him better than anyone, I also knew there was a vast ocean he kept walled away. I assumed it was because of the hell he’d lived through after the War of Expansion, the two years he spent surviving on the streets of Trost. And I didn’t prod or pry at that barrier, because I was a good goddamn friend.

  But Wen didn’t either—she just swam in from the other side. She’d fought through her own hell, taken in and then cast out by the mobsters who killed her mother, burnt and scarred and unstoppable. And just by virtue of being herself, a connection sparked between them that I can’t hold a candle to. I’m born to inherit the ruttin’ galaxy, but I pale in the shadow of Wen Iffan.

  With her guarding me, my chances of escaping have been all but crushed. She’s ten times more savvy than any of the people Ettian has posted outside my door so far, and unlike most of them, she actually gives a damn about me—even if it’s only for Ettian’s sake.

  But there’s an interesting thought. My focus flicks back and forth between them, gauging Ettian’s lifted chin against the way Wen’s weight carries on the balls of her feet. She holds herself on guard like she’s about to spring into action at any second. Or like she’s about to run. Wen’s whole body is a balancing act, and suddenly I find myself extremely interested in tipping it over.

  Because if I know anything about revealing your imperial identity to someone, I know that it breaks something badly between you. I remember the fight Ettian and I boiled into after our escape from the academy, the things he accused me of. Those words and the fears they carried lodged in me like daggers—that I had been selfish in cultivating a friendship with him, that I’d used him as my ticket out of there, that nothing between us was genuine. And then there were all the things he didn’t voice but I knew all the same. That my bloodline had been responsible for the conquest that had turned Trost into his personal hell. That he was scarred and traumatized and it was all for an empire I’d one day inherit. That he wasn’t even sure if I was the person I’d promised to be or if I was secretly more like my mother than he could ever know.

  I peer more intently at Wen, as if doing so will unearth the cracks in her armor. She’s never explicitly expressed the kind of resentments Ettian did back when I first told him who I really was. But then, she’s never really talked to me about anything of consequence. She was always Ettian’s first.

  Her gaze slides over to mine, and against my better judgment, I smirk at her.

  Maybe it’s time we do something about that.

  CHAPTER 4

  Above all, being a political hostage is boring.

  The assassination attempt put a decent dent in the monotony, so much so that I contemplate trying to send the guy a formal thank-you. Otherwise, my days are mostly spent staring out windows, fantasizing about breaking everything around me. Once, a guard had the presence of mind to ask if I was okay after she noticed me staring too hard at a houseplant. I’d been contemplating the most effective way of shredding it, but she didn’t need to know that.

  Now that the excitement’s gone down, I’m back in my old routine, pacing my quarters, chewing the tough, starchy Archon food that an aide delivers to my rooms every morning and evening, and aimlessly plotting bloody revenge.

  More exciting things are happening elsewhere in the galaxy, or so I hear whispered through the palace. Ettian currently holds Rana, the former capital planet of the Archon Empire. In the wake of his victory, fringe rebellions have boiled up all over the territories, though not all of them are in communication with Ettian’s usurper regime. This entire region of the galaxy is teetering on a sliding scale between unrest and outright war.

  Meanwhile, Berr sys-Tosa, the former governor—and the man who betrayed my identity and got me taken hostage in the first place—has holed up at the core of the Tosa System on the inner world of Imre, amassing his forces. No assault has hit Archon-held Rana in over a month, which is causing all sorts of nervous speculation. There are some who insist the delay is because Iva emp-Umber has hauled Tosa to the Umber Citadel to make an example of him, but I know better. Even if he sold me out, Berr sys-Tosa and his intimate knowledge of the system remain an asset—one my mother won’t waste in this war. She’ll keep him alive long enough to milk his strategic value for all it’s worth.

  The rumor I buy is that he’s holding back, hoping for reinforcements from the empress and her Imperial Fleet. A force of that size and skill takes longer to mobilize, but the results when they raze their way through this haphazard uprising will be glorious to behold. Even more glorious will be the reckoning coming for Tosa once I’m free to get my hands on him.

  The main body of the rebel fleet is focused on rooting the system governor out of his exile, led by the Umber dreadnoughts that the Archon resistance managed to commandeer in their first strike. General Maxo Iral, the war hero once known as the Shield of Archon and thought to have been crucified before my parents at the Imperial Seat, leads the resistance forces.

  A crop of interesting rumors has begun to sprout about the general’s command, echoing through the halls with increasing frequency. Before Ettian marched into the court and demanded his bloodright, Iral was the clear leader of this rebellion. He was a figure with a storied history—the general who continued to fight for two entire years after the Archon imperials were beheaded. Calling the Archon people to his side was supposed to win hearts and minds so easily that taking back the empire would happen in a snap.

  And then along came Ettian emp-Archon, whose very existence destroyed a plan half a decade in the making. While most of the Archon populace were overjoyed to see the legacy of Marc and Henrietta emp-Archon risen from the ashes, Ettian himself remains an unknown quantity to them. They know that he looks like their beloved imperials, but then there’s the fact that he was schooled at an Umber military academy. The fact that he only saw fit to reveal himself when Archon had reclaimed ground for the first time since the War of Expansion.

  And the fact that he was—and by all accounts appears to still be—in love with the Umber heir.

  Our relationship wasn’t a secret when we first joined up with the resistance on Delos—even though at that point, it was a ruse we maintained to give us a reas
on to constantly be off on our own, plotting and scheming and whispering in each other’s ears. It served us well in that capacity, and then even better when Ettian decided to finally act on the feelings he’d resolved to bottle away for the sake of our mission.

  Now that choice is biting him in the ass. Not in any way he can face—it’s creeping through insidious back channels, building through gossip, eroding the foundations of his young rule. Wouldn’t it be better with Iral in charge? the people whisper. Isn’t that how it was meant to be from the start? Shouldn’t this fragile hope hang on the shoulders of a seasoned veteran, not on an eighteen-year-old whose heart’s been corrupted by Umber rule?

  But gossip isn’t enough to actually do anything right now. Which is part of the reason I’ve asked my newly appointed guard to see if she can’t set up a moment alone between me and her emperor.

  The other part is that I really, really need a break in the monotony that doesn’t involve someone trying to kill me.

  Wen was all too happy to facilitate, which is a nice change of pace from my old guards. I mentioned it to her as she swept in with breakfast this morning, and by lunch she told me to expect an afternoon coffee with the emperor. I spend the hours between fussing with my hair and clothes as if I’m genuinely preparing for a date, a fact that’s not lost on Wen when she enters to escort me.

  I decide the way she smirks as she looks me up and down means I’m doing something right.

  She leads me to an observation deck in the palace’s upper levels. It offers a sweeping view of downtown Trost, the early summer sun glimmering off the skyscrapers that surround us. I take a moment to absorb the strangeness of the city skyline as I’ve never seen it before. While the construction of the newer buildings is unquestionably Umber, the layout is far more cramped than any imperial city planner would ever allow. The testament to the city’s Archon foundations chafes in an uncanny way. Maybe it’s the product of captivity, maybe the fault of a lifetime of various confinements, but something about the sight leaves a yawning hole in my chest for all the places in the galaxy I’ve never gotten a chance to see.

  A thick sheet of duroglass shields the open space from the outside world, and I’m fairly certain that light’s only permitted to penetrate it in a single direction. Ettian awaits at a table in the center of the room, painted in the slightly orange glow that filters through the duroglass’s tint. He watches as I approach, but makes no move to greet me—only passes a signal to Wen with a tip of his hand when I reach the chair at the other end of the table. Her bootsteps pause, then retreat after a moment of hesitation.

  Leaving us completely alone.

  I read it for the insult it is. Barely a week ago, I beat a man bloody, but now I’m meeting with the emperor in private as if I pose no threat at all. As if I don’t toss and turn at night, consumed by fantasies of his throat collapsing under my hands. There’s a part of me that desperately wants to prove I’m worth their caution, but I came to this meeting with higher goals—goals that get frustratingly difficult to remember with the usurper’s eyes locked on mine.

  “You wanted to speak to me?” Ettian’s tone is laced with obvious disbelief. I’ve maintained both my silence and my utter disinterest in him steadfastly since he took me prisoner, and the fact that I’ve sought him out now is—while obviously welcome—suspicious as all hell.

  “There are a lot of things I want to do to you,” I reply, and he lets out a soft choking noise as his expression pinches. Not for the first time, I wonder how the blood of an imperial line managed to produce an heir as guileless as Ettian emp-Archon. Every day under his leadership is further justification for the fall of the Archon Empire and further evidence that his rebellion is doomed to fail. It wouldn’t bother me so much if I weren’t squarely within the blast radius of that failure.

  Or maybe I’m the only thing shielding the Archon resistance from that blast. The thought has occurred to me, and I’m not entirely sure how that weight sits on my shoulders. If my mother rallies just right, if she successfully unites her system governors and all of their resources and rides in to save Berr sys-Tosa from his mess, she could wipe this system from the star charts. Every time I look to the skies, I hope to see an Umber dreadnought bearing down on Trost, but of course it’s far too early for her to make a move like that when the war is just beginning to unfurl across the Archon territories.

  After all, my mother unexpectedly lost track of an imperial heir the first time she bombed Trost. She’s not about to do it again, not when this time, the heir in question is her own goddamn son. In a funny way, the only reason Ettian’s rebellion is succeeding is because of me. My capture is forcing her to be more strategic, and as long as I’m tied to Ettian’s side, she’ll have to be a little more creative about getting him out of the way.

  Which means I’ve got a bit of work to do myself.

  “I have some unsolicited advice,” I start, throwing myself down in the chair opposite Ettian. Without asking, I snatch a mug and pour myself a healthy dose of whatever’s in the steaming carafe in front of him. I take a whiff of it and wrinkle my nose. “Ruttin’ hell, you poor Archon bastards—where do you get these terrible beans?” Not waiting for a response, I grab a fistful of sugar from the pot and throw it into the drink, then brush my hands off, sending a spray of granules skittering over the table.

  “Why are you like this?” Ettian asks, staring down at the mess I’ve made.

  I clink my mug against the platinum cuffing my wrist, shrug, and then throw back a hefty swallow of my drink. My time in the Archon territories has acquainted me with the taste of their bitter coffee, but we’ve never been good friends and that certainly hasn’t changed. I let out a foul cough. “Anyway, advice.”

  “I have advisers.”

  “None of whom want to see you in power, if the rumors are true.”

  He scoffs. “And so, what? I’m supposed to listen to you? I think apart from your mother, there’s no one in the galaxy who wants me in power even less than you.”

  “And if you were smart, you’d see that for the advantage it is,” I counter. “But you’re not all that smart, so it seems my offer’s wasted.”

  I take way too much pleasure in watching the barb land—so much so that it’s a struggle to keep my own expression nonchalant. I’m missing six months of the education I was supposed to have before I was unveiled to the galaxy. Ettian is missing eight years. The way his lips twist in displeasure tells me that he’s all too aware of this flaw—and fully aware that I meant this as a strike. I do have an actual objective here, and if I’m going to accomplish it, I need to stop insulting him and get to my point.

  But it’s just so fun.

  I gather myself, closing my eyes and drawing a deep breath through my nostrils. I used to be known for being able to talk anyone into anything back at the academy, though it was a title I had to fight hard to maintain against the wiles of cadets like Hanji Iwam. She and I were always tangled in one battle of wits or another—or at least that was how we saw it. Those outside our little struggles probably thought we were the two biggest dumbasses the academy ever let past its doors. Here’s hoping she prepared me enough for this conversation.

  “Look, I’ve got no illusions about my situation. It’s in my best interest that you stay in power. Iral would hang me on a crucifix the second he had clearance, and with the way you’re governing, that moment isn’t far off. Believe me when I say my advice serves both of us.”

  “I don’t, but go on,” Ettian says, taking a slow sip of his coffee. He’s probably enjoying it, the bastard—both the taste of that wretched blend and the sound of my voice after too long without it.

  That notion has me reluctant to give him any more than he’s getting, but I remind myself that there are greater stakes here. “I get the instinct. You’ve spent eight years just surviving, and it seems harder than ever now that the galaxy knows who you really are. I kno
w a little of what that’s like.”

  He nearly spits his coffee across the table on a laugh, but I press onward.

  “The very first thing you learn when you’re born into bloodright is that protecting yourself is always your priority. And so the first thing you did when you came to power was hole up in your palace. When’s the last time you went beyond its walls?”

  “That’s definitely above your security clearance,” Ettian scoffs.

  I shrug, flicking a grain of sugar across the table and smirking when it plunges into his lap. Ettian stiffens. “What I’m really saying,” I continue, “is that the people don’t know you. The most remarkable thing you’ve done so far is reveal yourself to the galaxy. Since then, all the great deeds I’ve been hearing about come from Maxo Iral.”

  Ettian’s expression grows surprisingly grim, and for a moment, I think I’ve hit the mark. I press on. “Just last week, I heard one of my guards bragging that her cousin pulled the trigger that struck the decisive blow in the Sparza maneuver Iral ordered that shattered Tosa’s most recent attempt to regain ground.”

  “Iral has been holding the front admirably,” Ettian says, his voice low and steady. “I’m glad his achievements are getting the praise they deserve. But the battles he’s winning are built on foundations I’ve been working myself to the bone to lay, which you might have some awareness of if you’d ever governed a day in your life.”

  I scowl—let him think his dig has landed squarely in my pride. “Maybe you’ve governed, but I learned from the woman who broke your empire over her knee, and I know for sure my mother would never stand for a military leader overstepping the scope of his narrative the way Iral has.”