by Ada Harper
Her message to CHARIS was brief: “Tell the empress she wins.”
Change was a delusion of the strong and the foolish. Olivia used to think she was neither. She was wrong.
* * *
Olivia was of the opinion when you were forced to make stupid life choices you got to sleep in the next day. Someone disagreed. CHARIS roused her a scant few hours later, informing her that an attendant was on her way to dress her and that the empress required her attendance at a morning session of the senate.
Olivia blearily complied, throwing herself into the shower to compile her thoughts. She had made her decision, but she shouldn’t leave things as they did last night. She could find Galen this morning, explain what she needed to do. He would be mad, furious, but she could explain that whatever Sabine might say, it was simply the most expedient way to protect Yoshi and Emeric and help improve things in her homeland. It was using the best tools at hand to help people. What could be more Galen-ish than that? Galen would understand, he would. She would make him understand.
It was possible that she was acting on too little sleep and too much desperate optimism.
Olivia was not accustomed to being dressed with supervision, but the attendant was insistent that her usual Syndicate wardrobe was not appropriate for whatever official event this was. She was eventually wrangled into a dress of the style she’d seen at the dinner: wide necked and cosseted in embroidery down to the knee-length hem.
She stepped into the empress’s throne room with an irritable feeling of being too exposed and too not like herself. It was her first time in the throne room proper. The Syndicate had no throne. To Olivia, throne rooms were things for ancient tales and holo plays, not sophisticated dealings of state. But like all things Imperial, the Quillian Empire’s throne both lived up to the fantasy and turned it to practical. Sabine sat on a silver-gilded chair, banked on either side with council tables full of her advisers. The senate floor behind her was an elevated tier of chairs and compartmented tables, almost a visual indicator of the shifting alliances of nobility.
But, in a stunning bit of staging, Sabine’s throne did not sit facing the senate like adversarial trial, it sat facing the reception area. With its back to the senate. Petitioning senators would need to leave their seats and venture to a speaker’s dais at the foot of the throne. Where they, or any supplicant entering the hall for the first time, would see the empress on her silver chair, with ranks of the Empire’s noble houses rising behind her like a shield of saints. Instead of feeling like an equal balance of power, the senate seemed to be the empress’s golden army.
But Olivia was not in the mood to be awed or humbled. The room hummed, low conversation and idle chatter that was the grease of politics, while she scanned the crowd, looking for familiar faces. Sabine was already seated, but she was the last person Olivia desired to speak to at the moment. She thought she spotted Galen at the center of a cluster of nobles in uniform. She began cutting her way through the hall until a touch at her shoulder turned her around.
“Alais.” Olivia immediately stiffened, taking a step back until her arm was free.
Alais’s smile was strained and sympathetic. “Olivia, I’d like a moment of your time.”
“I’m sure we’ve got nothing to discuss.”
“I got word from the crown this morning that we do,” Alais said slowly.
Olivia flinched. She’d been so caught up at the prospect of losing Galen that she’d almost forgotten another person was involved. Alais took in Olivia’s stiff stance and sighed, lowering her voice with a glance around. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t being coerced into anything.”
An acidic laugh escaped Olivia.
Alais’s brow wrinkled. “Well, yes. I understand her highness has...made certain offers. And I understand we are both in this predicament for a dozen reasons, none of them having to do with affection. However...” She paused long enough to make Olivia look up. Alais held her gaze. “If this is really not what you wish, I will refuse.”
Olivia blinked. “That can’t have good repercussions for your claim.”
“Her highness should be well used to me disappointing her by now.” Alais was dry and serious. “I’d rather bear political fallout than be a part of something distasteful.”
Distasteful. It was too late for that, Olivia thought privately, but she appreciated the gesture for what it was. She sighed. “I’ve made my own choices.”
Alais frowned before her eyes flicked over Olivia’s shoulder and she took a step back. Olivia turned to see Galen creating an easy part in the crowd to reach them.
“Galen—” Olivia took his hand, only barely surviving the way his eyes softened at the small touch. “I need to talk to you.”
Galen’s shoulders eased, seeming to take her behavior as a reassurance after last night. He smiled. It only increased Olivia’s dread. There was a sick feeling of seeing the smile of one who placed total faith in you unearned. Galen nodded. “Of course, there will be scant time before we leave but after the session—”
The dread in her stomach told her later would be too late. “No, now.”
Galen gave her a look of concern before nodding. Olivia searched for a quiet portion of the hall before deciding the alcove near the staff entrance would do. They’d made it almost to the edge of the crowd before Sabine rose, senators inclined their heads, and the whole room stilled to turn toward the throne. Galen included. Olivia could only clench her hand tighter around his and do the same. She managed to keep her curses internal.
In a gold gown, Sabine was in her empress victorious mode. She heaped bold, pretty words on the bowed heads of the military retinue. Olivia kept her gaze locked on Galen. She was preoccupied with worry, worry about this supposedly guaranteed strike. All the fine, decorated uniforms in the room just brimming with confidence. She didn’t feel confidence from Galen, despite his smile. Just a quiet determination, intense but uneasy in a way she felt in her gut. He didn’t like this plan any more than she did, he’d said as much. She should convince him, convince him not to underestimate—
“It’s said to be good fortune to wed love with war,” Sabine started, and Olivia felt her head jerked around on a painful, invisible string. No. Not yet.
“So as our brave forces rally for the solemn task of bringing peace again to our Empire—”
No. Not here.
Olivia spun back to Galen, but he was at ease, gaze on Sabine as was appropriate for the head of those brave forces. He didn’t—she hadn’t had the chance—
“It is my pleasure to bless their efforts with good news.” Sabine unleashed a carefully considered smile and inclined her head. “Lady Alais of Vhehaden, please step forward.”
“So Alais finally fixed her problem,” Galen murmured.
No. Not yet. Olivia gripped Galen’s sleeve and pulled his attention. “Galen, listen, I have to—”
“Would Lady Shaw of the Syndicate approach?” Sabine had raised her voice, still pleasant, but with an edge of Imperial authority, freezing the words in Olivia’s own throat. Galen’s brow turned confused, and she had to turn away from what would come. The crowd had ebbed away, leaving a shoal of space that led to the throne. Sabine extended a hand. Pleasant smile, sharp-edged eyes.
For a moment, Olivia considered her options. What words she could blurt out, what could be said to ease this. She had one gloriously ridiculous vision of throwing Galen over her shoulder and jumping out the window. But the time for any of that was past. I’ve made my choice, she’d bitterly told Alais. She released her grip on Galen’s wrist, and it felt like falling again.
Alais had the kindness not to turn her head when Olivia joined her at the dais. She could feel murmurs begin to froth through the gathered nobles around them, speculations that would be confirmed in a moment. Olivia breathed in, hard and slow, and willed the nausea and hot, acid regret down in her stomach.
She didn�
�t use the moment to look back. She didn’t look at Galen.
“It is my pleasure to announce the intended union of Lady Alais of Vhehaden to the gentlelady Olivia Shaw, recently of the Syndicate.” Sabine raised her voice, speaking over the swell of voices. “May their union bless our endeavors and signal continued peace between our—”
“No.”
It wasn’t loud, when Galen spoke. His voice barely raised over the murmurs, but the broken edge caught and snagged. Olivia couldn’t look, but she did anyway. Galen charged like a storm front through the crowd, and no noble lingered in his path. Sabine allowed it.
Galen’s face was iced with tension, frozen in hard lines that buried thoughts deep. Except the eyes; Galen always forgot his eyes. The denial and panic there nearly broke her. He stopped within arm’s reach and his clenched fists fluttered, an aborted movement. “This is a mockery of everything. You can’t force this.”
Olivia felt like there wasn’t enough air in the room to breathe, let alone speak. But she tried anyway. “Galen, I—”
“You don’t agree to this? Tell me you didn’t agree to this, Olivia.”
When Galen turned his gaze on her, it wasn’t cold. It was hot, begging, bleeding. She compressed her lips until her jaw hurt, like if she stopped breathing it would all disappear. It didn’t. “It was my choice.”
It landed against that hard tension but didn’t break it. She saw the words in a tremor of his jaw, a flutter of emotion under the skin of his throat. Galen stared at her, uncomprehending. The silence was worse than words. The quiet wounded, enough that Olivia was almost thankful when Sabine spoke.
“As you know, unions are a sacred right of every Imperial citizen. It’s our duty to honor Lady Shaw’s choices in this matter—”
Galen reanimated, inhaling so fast it was a hiss. “Don’t insult me with this game, Sabine. I know you manipulated this. This theater has the Liar’s fingerprints all over it.” Something shifted in Galen, walls coming up, realigning to place Olivia outside of them. Again, as she had been before. His eyes cut to her only once, brief and dry with disappointment. “I just thought the one I loved would be smart enough to be no one’s pawn.”
Words shriveled under Olivia’s tongue. Lyre spoke instead. “You are drawing attention, kids.”
The errant conversation around the chamber had fallen quiet, sharp-eyed nobles realizing a change in the script of ceremony. Sabine sat back, Alais cleared her throat and offered a formal arm for Olivia to take. Olivia had her eyes on Galen as she did, which meant she witnessed the worst kind of transformation.
He stepped back into position, stripping away his expression as he did so. The hurt left his eyes, but also the softness. Weakness left his lips, but also the kindness. A gulf of distance was created in a single step. By the time he turned to bow to the empress again, the Red Wolf had eclipsed him. “I take my leave, highness.”
“Our prayers go with you,” Sabine said, softer than she should have.
Galen didn’t look at Olivia again. He straightened and strode through the doors, an entourage of uniformed altusii at his heels. The room blurred around the edges. Olivia didn’t realize she’d taken a step until Alais’s hand tightened on her shoulder. She tugged her into her side, a mimic of a lover’s fondness as she leaned into her ear. Soothing where Olivia simply wanted to scream.
“You did your part. Now we let him go.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Red Wolf rode out of Ameranthe with half a dozen aetheric wings behind him. He sat heavy in his seat, barely noticing the ozone prickle as the shuttle cleared the estate shield. It was his habit to stand at the bay door, watching his home until it vanished, reminding him what his duty was to protect. Galen had wanted more, wanted something to fill the hollow where his heart should be behind the shield. It was Galen that had thought there was room in his life for multitudes. The Red Wolf held no such illusions.
The Red Wolf didn’t need to grieve, to feel the hot edges of the pull in his gut that he’d come to associate with Olivia. The pull of the bond strained at him, anxiety ratcheting up with each passing hour and drumming a low insistent demand in his brain that he needed to go back. Back, back to her, to where you should be. If there’d been a knife sharp enough he’d have cut the bond out, trade an invisible wound for a physical one. Carve out every last impression she’d made on him. But that would only come with time and distance.
Wanting had been foolish. Wanting had been a thing with claws, digging deep into his skin, between his breaths, between organs. Removing it would mean a slow evisceration. He wasn’t sure which was worse.
Galen kept his thoughts at a steady arm’s length for the first couple hours of the flight. Then a shadow fell across his vision. “I’ve confirmed the rendezvous outside of Meteore. General Hutton will meet us with Ambrose’s full complement of men.” Lyre propped one shoulder against the bulkhead, unbothered by the dip and sway of a shuttle in flight. “You gonna do that for the full six hours?”
Galen dragged his head up with effort. “Do what?”
“Glare like you’re going to strangle someone with your own intestines. Don’t get me wrong, it’s an inspiring look, but you’re disturbing the newbies.”
In absence of the energy to deal with Lyre’s words, Galen shifted his eyes back to the grating at his feet. “Did you need something, Liar?”
Lyre’s shrug was nearly audible. “Lots of things. More intelligence, more time, leadership with balls and focus.”
“I am focused,” Galen said automatically.
“Yes, your fist focused quite beautifully on the bulkhead when we boarded.” Galen glanced up and Lyre rapped her knuckles on the faint indent of metal next to her shoulder. “Want to talk about it?”
A hot feeling threatened to well up, outlining that wounded absence in his chest. “Absolutely not.”
“Good.” She shrugged and fell heavily on the seat next to him. Galen narrowed his eyes.
“What are you doing?”
“Sitting. Protecting innocent bulkheads from focused leadership.”
Her tone was light, foolish, which a distant part of Galen knew was Lyre at her most serious. He rubbed a hand over his face. “Suit yourself.”
The silence lasted all of five minutes. “You shouldn’t blame Sabine for this.”
“I know a power play when I see one. Her hands were all over this,” Galen bit out. “Yours, too.”
Lyre dipped her head, not refuting it. “Kitten made her own decisions. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
The truth hurt hard enough to make Galen’s hands clench on his fatigues. He turned to study his reflection in the darkened glass. “It was. I had believed... I had hoped she’d chosen me.”
The shuttle rocked, dipping twice in the span it took Lyre to answer. Her hum was low, strangely stripped of the edge it usually had. “Maybe she did.”
Galen turned. Lyre examined the rings of her aethercloak. “Whether you are aware of it or not, you’ve been so worried about protecting her, you’ve been whittling away at kitten’s independent streak since she got here. Espousing the strengths and protections of the Empire. So use that fancy brain of yours, say she has a problem and takes a foolish idea to actually listen to you for once. What’s a kitten do?”
“I thought she’d come to me, I thought—” He nearly strangled on the thought, remembering the night before. When she had come to him. He’d been so preoccupied with trying to reassure her, trying to keep her from running off into danger by herself again, that it had never occurred to him that she’d been asking for cooperation. The shuttle dipped again and he felt nauseous. “I didn’t—I didn’t think—”
“Yes,” Lyre hummed. “Something you have in common.”
Galen gaped at her. The horror crested and washed the ground out from under him. It felt like his stomach was plummeting.
Until the glass next to him shattered and he realized it wasn’t just his stomach. Galen gripped his belt. Lyre was already out of her seat, peering into the cockpit. A pained, shrieking sound started as the craft began to jolt into a steep climb, evasive maneuvers. It had to be an ambush, but they hadn’t thought the insurrection had the air support for a direct attack. “Firefight?”
Lyre ignored him. When she finally surfaced she shoved an emergency pack into his hands along with his rifle. “Not much of a fight, Your Grace.” And Galen’s adrenaline spiked, because the Liar only used honorifics when well and truly fucked. “It appears we’re about to be shot out of the sky.”
Galen barely had time to strap in and shout orders to his men before light bloomed out the window and the shuttle began to break apart.
* * *
Imperial architecture was nonsense. It was nonsense that created indefensible walls, festooned with climbable ornamentation. Nonsense that created alcoves and blind corners where anyone could hide. Nonsense that placed a wide bay window in a lowly storage room then framed it with thick framework and rafters just wide enough for Olivia to wedge herself in near the ceiling, unseen. Just wide enough to sink against the plaster, knees to her chest, and lose time staring at horizons that were no longer hers. This country had made her into brooding nonsense herself. She should get a cape. A gargoyle. Do it up right.
“You need to eat,” Alais’s voice intruded on her very important thoughts.
“I already ate.” Olivia didn’t look out of her hiding spot. She hunkered down into her scarf. “Unless you’re here to give me a shuttle to rescue Yoshi, leave me alone.”
“You did not eat. You pretended to eat and made some kitchen staff’s day when they found most of a sausage, three quarters of a varini loaf, and a whole custard tart in your napkin.” Alais’s voice came to a stop beneath her. “I know Imperial food has a reputation for blandness but—”
“You doglords wouldn’t know spice if it hit you in the face.”
“—but I can’t say Syn fare has impressed me all that much.”