The Pretender's Crown

by C. E. Murphy

  Caught up in the exuberance of youth and his own drama, Javier spun around, cloak caught in one hand so it made a tremendous whirl, and on the screams of thousands, entered another king's home.

  The slightest modicum of good sense penetrated the thunderous noise that followed him, and he made a knee to the Caesar of Parna, giving that man all honour due to him. Anything else was dangerous in the extreme: Cordula's streets were filled with the faithful shouting Javier's name, and only a foolish king would not fear for his crown when a young and handsome monarch was so beloved in his city. Eyes lowered, voice soft and carefully emptied of amusement, Javier said, “Forgive me, my lord Caesar. A little madness has overtaken us all, and I have gone and made speeches on your doorstep without your leave.”

  Doors boomed shut behind him, cutting off the last of the sound from the streets: Javier had travelled through three halls to reach the Caesar's private audience chambers, and the noise had followed him all that way. Now silence rang in his ears, not just the choked-off shouts from beyond, but the profound silence of one king considering whether another had gone too far.

  In time, though, the Caesar sighed. “You had best be relieved that we are accustomed to sharing this city with the Pappas and his princes, and therefore accustomed to fervourous riots held in a name not our own. The Kaiser in Reussland would have your head as a warning to any with an eye on his crown.”

  “Then I am profoundly grateful to be in Parna, my lord Caesar.” Javier kept all trace of humour from his words: he had trespassed, and a man of lesser confidence or compassion could easily have taken offence. As much joy as Javier'd found in spilling through the streets and speaking fine words to eager ears, his apology was sincere. He would not have liked another king to do what he had done, and this once preferred to eat crow over risking argument.

  “As you should be. Well, rise, then, my lord king. We hear that you are crowned by the Pappas's hands, yet another audacity in our city.”

  Javier did rise, truly looking on the Caesar for the first time. Even seated, he was clearly not a tall man, and was given to both roundness and baldness, but his eyes were sharp and knowing. As all the kings of Parna had done for time immemorial, he wore a wreath of shining gold-leafed laurels on his head. He wore modern fashion, but garbed in robes he might easily have sat on his throne a thousand years earlier and looked at home there; such was the impression he left.

  Now on his feet, effectively the Caesar's equal, Javier spread his hands and turned to the same style of speech shared by royalty across Echon. “We hoped that the Lateran palace's unique position as the seat of Ecumenic power within the heart of Cordula might allow your majesty to overlook our boldness in asking that boon.”

  “You've all the answers, haven't you.” The Caesar eyed Javier a long moment, then pushed up from his throne and stumped down its stairs with all the grace of an old sailor left on land. He offered a hand that Javier grasped gladly, and slapped Javier's other shoulder with enough force that he was obliged to brace himself against being knocked aside. “Come,” he said with no further preamble, “you might as well see my daughters. There are eight of them, so you'll have your pick, and I shall call you Javier, and I shall be Gaspero to you forevermore.”

  Bemused, Javier said, “Gaspero. My honour,” and fell into step beside the older man, thence to meet his daughters.

  The boldest, if not the oldest, was a creature of seventeen with a wicked demure glance that made Javier glad he wasn't housed in the palace, else he feared he'd find himself bedded and then wedded with no say in the matter. He murmured politenesses over each of the girls, even the toothless five-year-old, and upon leaving their boudoir said with honesty, “They're beautiful, my lord Caesar. We heard of their mother's passing, of course. My deepest sympathies.”

  Creases appeared around the Caesar's mouth, aging him more than first glance gave truth to. “Thank you. And ours to you, of course. It is not easy. So which of them will you have?”

  Flustered, Javier let a few steps pass in what he hoped seemed thoughtful silence, then risked an aspect of truth in his answer. “The third daughter has a fire to her that struck me. But I am in an awkward position, Caesar, and I hope you will hear it through.” He waited on Gaspero's grunt, then went on, hoping he treaded carefully enough. “I can think of no alliance that would make me happier than to wed Gallin's house to yours. It would strengthen our church and our ties to one another—”

  “So the wedding will be tomorrow.”

  Javier coughed. “My lord, we have these things in common already; they are things upon which alliances can be built and armies forged. I fear I cannot yet bind myself to your house in marriage, not until I've assured myself and my people of Khazar's support in the war that comes against Aulun.”

  “Khazar.” Gaspero stopped in the middle of a marble hall, framed, as though he had chosen his stopping place deliberately, by tall butter-yellow columns that reflected warmth and light against the walls. It made him timeless once again, an emperor of any era. “Khazar shares neither religion nor a hint of family ties with Gallin.”

  “But it has an army of terrible and tremendous might,” Javier replied. “The Pappas supports me in asking Parna for troops, and Essandia and Gallin both will bring their armies and navies to bear. But Aulun will make treaties with Reussland and perhaps Prussia, and if the Norselands can be shaken from their icy ways, perhaps them as well. They have all turned from the Ecumenic church, and follow Reformation paths. Together, those armies are greater than the ones Cordula commands, my lord. We all of us need Khazar, and loathe though I may be to admit it, I am our best bargaining piece there. Irina has a daughter.”

  “She's fourteen.”

  “As was my mother when she was first wed,” Javier whispered, remembering too clearly playing the Caesar's role in the same conversation with Sandalia. He shook himself, putting away sorrow for politics, and passed a hand over his eyes in a moment of genuine weariness. “If we are swift with our divine mercy upon Aulun, I will never need marry the girl at all, and might turn my eyes to where my heart more closely lies. But until then, I must view myself as a game piece to be bartered, and for all our sakes, look to Khazan and the imperator's heir.” Agree, he whispered silently, and felt witch-power flex before he reined it back in a spurt of panic. Surely the Caesar would see sense; surely Javier had no need to coerce a fellow king, not with war on the horizon and a plain need for troops. Agree, he thought again, and wondered how many times unvoiced desire on his part had shaped the actions of his friends and others around him.

  Gaspero regarded him a long moment, then fell to walking again. “You are either very clever or very foolish, Javier of Gallin. I think all of Echon waits with interest to see which it is. I will give you my support and my troops for a single season without a marriage contract to bind it, and that because the Pappas and his Primes will hound me without mercy if I don't. Win the summer season and prove to me your alliances with Khazar are solid, and I'll give you a second year, but I'll have the contract in hand by your twenty-fifth birthday or Parna will leave you to your holy war, and return to its wine and women. Do we have a bargain?”

  “A very fair one, I think,” Javier said softly. Two years was time enough; in two years everything could change. Silver washed through him, too subtle for him to know if it had set the Caesar on the path Javier needed him to walk. But if it had, it was with God's blessing: Javier clung to that thought, trying to believe. The witch-power was a gift, welcomed by the Pappas and the church; if it influenced Gaspero, then that, too, was God's will. A hand knotted against his own uncertainty, Javier ducked his head and whispered, “You're generous, my lord.”

  “I am. Don't forget it, boy, or the cost will come out of your royal hide.”

  Welcome or not, witchpower flared more sharply, giving shape to an offence Javier was just wise enough not to voice. Instead he bowed, taking his leave and his temper from the Parnan Caesar before low-boiling witchpower tempted him too far.
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  He might have spent the night—might have spent weeks, for all of that—in Cordula's streets, admired by the people, drowning himself in drink and burying himself in women. It was a pretty thought, seductive, but harsh reality scratched at the insides of his mind, pulling him away from revelry and back toward the expensive inn he and his men were housed at. Once Tomas was convinced that Javier's magic was God-given, not the devil's tool, they would travel to Aria Magli and find Eliza.

  Guilt slid through Javier's belly, looking for a place to stick, but found nowhere and slipped out again, leaving nothing more than a cool space where it had been. Eliza, even more than Ivanova of Khazar, would bring him the people. Marius was right: she deserved better than to be a symbol, when she could be a queen. The marriage would have to take place quietly, to allow Javier room to negotiate with Khazar, but Parna had given him two years, and that was enough time to change the world. Before those long months were over, he would hold Aulun in his palm, would hold his wife's hand in the open, and would, with Rodrigo, turn his eyes to Reussland and Prussia and the far Khazarian empire. God was with him; Javier knew that now, and all his doubts were faded.

  Three times: three times now he had denied the witchpower in coercing a man. First Rodrigo, then Tomas this morning, and now Gaspero. He was the master of his magic, and needed only to convince Tomas to hold his tongue.

  Marius was in the common room, gambling; he, unlike the others at his table, rose when Javier came in, his eye more for the door than the game. He dug for coins to pay off his bet, but Javier waved a hand, stopping him, and hurried up to their room.

  It stood empty. Javier turned a curious eyebrow to the guard at the door, who shrugged: he was paid to watch over the prince, not the priest. Annoyed, Javier returned to the common room and slipped up to Marius's side. “Tomas?”

  Marius shrugged as well, but more helpfully. “I think he's gone to pray. Here, lend me a bit of coin, Jav, I'm losing.”

  “All the more reason why I shouldn't,” Javier said, but dropped a handful of coppers into Marius's palm before slapping his shoulder and turning for the door.

  There were churches a-plenty in Cordula, the nearest a surprisingly modest thing at the foot of their street. The kind of place the poor went, Javier imagined, and took himself in on the thought that Tomas might well wish for simple surroundings in which to wrestle with his conscience.

  Indeed, he was there, knelt at the altar with others, some of whom recognised Javier and sent a whisper stirring about the church. He spread his fingers, palms down, to silence them, and made some show of crossing himself so that they might see he was as they were, devout and in search of answers. Unlike the worshippers, though, his answers could come from mortal lips, and he knelt at Tomas's side, whispering, “Have you in your heart condemned me, then?”

  Tomas shot him a glance full of daggers and turned his attention back to the bleeding Son before them all. Javier counselled himself with patience and lowered his gaze to the mosaic floor, tracing its patterns and idly impressed at the artwork in even this poor church. Then again, so close to the palace, perhaps it was only modest, and not so poor at all.

  His knees were bruised and the witchpower rolling with impatience when Tomas finally rose from his devotions. Javier scrambled to his feet as well, more than half certain if he hadn't joined him, that the priest would have been on his knees all night, seeking guidance. When Tomas turned toward the doors, Javier caught his arm, full of hope. “Come, let us whisper amongst ourselves here, my friend. Surely I cannot foreswear myself in God's house. Please, Tomas,” he added at the other man's surly expression. “Can we not discuss this?”

  “There is nothing to discuss. The devil may quote scripture to his own ends, Javier. How am I to know you haven't bent the Pappas's mind as you did mine?” Despite the refusal, Tomas went with Javier as he tugged him toward a side chapel.

  Determined to speak in privacy, Javier willed the smaller room empty, and was caught between delight and alarm when two older men and a beautiful girl exited it as they approached. Subtle influence: that much, he could live with, though a dagger of guilt found a home in him and lanced back to a night in Lutetia. His curiosity about Beatrice Irvine had driven his friends to make excuses and stay away from what had been meant as a night at the opera for them all. He could shape the world, and so must learn to take care to do it only with intent, and for the best of reasons.

  Tomas watched the three leave and turned an accusing gaze on Javier, who lifted his hands in admission and apology. “I am trying, Tomas. I truly am. It's a part of me, and I rarely mean to push people into doing my bidding with it.” He gestured after the trio, then caught Tomas's hands, surprised at how cool they were. His own felt hot, as though the magic within him had turned his blood molten. “I need guidance on this path, that I do not overstep my boundaries.”

  “As you already have done with me.” Tomas kept his voice to a murmur, but the words were sharp. “I must go to the Pappas with this. He's wiser than I, and will lay my concerns to rest.”

  “Or take up your banner,” Javier said with low intensity. The back of his skull began to throb, every heartbeat pulsing incandescent light through it, molten blood turning to silver fire. He clenched his jaw, struggling to use reason over power. “Tomas, you trusted me this morning. I beg that you do so now.”

  “You've become easier with begging, when it's your soul you fear for. Had you pled in Isidro instead of commanded, we might not be here now. I am sorry,” the priest said firmly. “I will visit with the Pappas in the morning.”

  Javier whispered, “I can't let you.”

  “If you stop me, then we'll both know that I'm right. That this power is the devil's, and that you're on a path to Hell.” Challenge lit Tomas's golden gaze. “Are you God's creature, king of Gallin, or are you the devil's spawn?”

  Javier seized Tomas's arms, a grip hard enough to make his own hands hurt; harder, it felt, than any mortal should be able to hold something. There would be bruises left at the least, warning to the bold priest that he should not stand in the face of a king's will, much less the witchpower tide that surged within Javier. He twisted Tomas toward the small chapel's altar, forcing him over to it; the priest bent like a reed, awkwardly arched beneath Javier's weight. His expression, though, was calm as he gazed upward, beyond Javier. Incensed, Javier glanced up as well, searching for whatever gave Tomas such serenity.

  The Madonna rose above them, babe in arms, her smile sweet and soft as she looked on her child and the light of all humanity's hope.

  A strangled noise erupted from Javier's throat all unbidden, cutting off his witchpower will. He staggered back and Tomas straightened easily, smoothed his robes, and then lifted his gaze to Javier's, unspoken sorrows written in it.

  Javier gasped, “Forgive me,” even knowing he deserved no forgiveness, and Tomas made the sign of the cross before leaving Javier to fall before the Madonna in prayer for his own soul.

  TOMAS DEL'ABBATE

  24 March 1588 † Cordula; the Lateran palace

  He has put this meeting off too long, has Tomas; has done so out of misplaced loyalty to the witchbreed prince. He ought to have come to the Pappas's palace the day they arrived in Cordula, rather than steal long days of relaxation with Javier. With Javier and Marius, but it's the fiery-haired prince—now king—whose company Tomas has coveted, as though the willpower Javier wreaked on his mind has left a channel of weakness, like some men have for wine. No longer: even if he might have, Javier's struggles with his devil's gift are growing too uncontrolled; it is twice now that he has barely stopped himself from rolling Tomas's will, and the second time was quite truthfully through the grace of God alone.

  An earnest-faced boy, younger by some years than Tomas, hurries toward him, and gestures eagerly when he sees he's gained the priest's attention. “The Pappas will see you. Please, come this way.”

  Tomas is brought not to the audience hall, but to more private chambers, still grandiose and
awe-inspiring, but less inclined to echo and carry voices. Tomas kisses the holy ring and is invited to sit, but worried energy keeps him on his feet. The Pappas himself does sit, and watches with beneficent amusement. When he's judged Tomas's fussing has gone on long enough, he says, “You have done well, in Essandia, my son. If this is your concern …”

  “No.” The abruptness of the word brings Tomas to a stop, and he kneels in horrified apology. “I mean, yes, of course it's to my shame that I was unable to convince Rodrigo to wed one of the Pappas's choices, but that isn't what has brought me here. It's Javier, holy father. The king of Gallin,” he corrects himself. “It is the—It is what we saw yesterday, that brilliant light.”

  “God's blessing,” the Pappas says with genial reverence. “We are fortunate to have a king so well loved by the Lord.”

  “I fear it was not God's blessing, your holiness.” The words scrape Tomas's throat and it takes all his nerve to peek up at the Pappas to see how the holy man takes to being corrected.

  He appears to take it with all the astonishment Tomas might expect, and not yet, at least, any of the offence. Tomas's explanation tumbles out, from Javier's impetuous arrival in Essandia to the overruling of Tomas's intention to bring the deadly power to the church's eyes; from the destruction Javier learned to wreak under Rodrigo's tutelage to what Tomas fears is the truth about Rodrigo's decision to marry: that Javier has stolen his will, too.

  Here, the Pappas raises a hand and leans forward, a question on his lips: “This compulsion you say Javier placed on you has faded, though. Would it not have done the same with Rodrigo before he set foot in church to be wed?”

  Miserable with uncertainty, Tomas replies, “I think my faith has protected me, Holy Father. I believe I may have been more difficult to convince to keep silent than he is accustomed to. I fear Rodrigo, who is his blood and bone, may not be as strong in his faith when it comes to family.”