Daughter of Ashes (Rise of Aiqasal Book 1)

by Moira Katson

  She clasped her hands together to stop them from shaking. She was a warrior, nothing could change that. Dressing as a courtier did not make her soft. It would not steal her knowledge of how to hold a knife.

  “Have you ever been past the third wall?” Lord Baradun asked her kindly.

  “Yes.” She had rehearsed these answers; she could recite them in her sleep. “I accompanied my sister to her dedication at the temple.”

  “And you have truly never come inside the walls more than that?” He sounded intrigued. She thought could hear the incredulity in his voice: imagine, a whole life spent outside the city?

  In truth, she had been over the walls often. While the city beyond the second wall must seem harsh to the nobility, it was softer by far than life beyond the third. Fruit carts were not so well guarded, bread and pies were left to cool on windowsills, and there was always a merchant’s heir or two, keen to experience the city in the pathetic disguise of a dark cloak—and always with a poorly guarded purse. Almeric could say what he wanted about stealing; they’d survived more than a few short seasons on the coin she’d lifted gently from the men and women of the city.

  She would admit to none of that now. An Empress Consort did not steal. A Empress Consort did not dress in patched clothing, filch pears from the market, and make her day’s bread by unloading the merchants’ barges.

  So she must make the world outside the third wall into a fantasy at once believable and wholly unreal. “My Lord, the walls may once have contained all of the city, but now an entire world exists beyond them. Life is not so harsh there as you might think. It is not so fine as the palace, I am sure—” her smile invited a laugh “—but there is trade from the river, and temples for us to pray in. Many of the merchants even dine in the taverns and conduct business there.”

  “That’s to evade the council’s eye,” Baradun said wryly. “And the Regent.”

  Alleyne frowned, fighting the feeling that she was already wrong about the power structure of the court. “I thought the Regent had stepped down.”

  “He did. His proper title is Lord Cyrio of Andryn; he is, however, referred to still as the Regent.”

  Alleyne considered this. She knew some things; for her and Almeric, it had been prudent to know about the man who ruled Aiqasal in Darion’s name. Cyrio was seven years the junior of Remos, who had become Emperor. He had been the wilder brother by far in their youth, traveling around the known world, keeping mistresses in the city. If he had any heirs at all, no one knew of them. He and his brother had been close, by all accounts, despite the years between them. When Remos ascended the throne, Cyrio had reformed his ways. He was both an advisor and a confidante, and even when Remos’s wife bore Darion, and the lords advised the Emperor to marry Cyrio off for political alliance, Cyrio had remained. A good thing, many in the city said. Darion was too young to take the throne when his father died, and Cyrio had ruled with a light touch, continuing more policies than he changed. To all accounts, Cyrio had been a fine ruler.

  And yet, even in his regency, Darion had signed the order for the execution of the Alsebrun children. Cyrio had not stopped that, and so Alleyne and Almeric had been forced to hide, fearing the worst of him. Was Cyrio a man driven by vengeance, or a man who found it best to let his nephew’s mistake be forgotten? They could not afford to be wrong.

  They had stopped fearing him when he stepped down from the throne, but if he still held his title, nine years later …

  “I will tell him of you immediately when we return to the palace.” Baradun’s eyes held hers. The significance in his gaze was a test—and one that confirmed her suspicions.

  “My Lord—” Who rules? Who sits on the throne? No, too blunt. “I would be unwise to discount Lord Cyrio’s influence, is that correct?”

  Baradun relaxed slightly. “Very much so.” She saw him pick his words carefully; his shoulders were held taut, as if he could feel eyes on the back of his neck. “He learned much from watching his older brother rule; he was a natural choice for Regent. Many said, long ago, that if we had gone to war with Rasteghei, Lord Cyrio would have been placed in charge of the armies. His experience in governance is now offered to his nephew.”

  Offered. A strange word, and an unbalanced once. What did Darion do with such an offer? What did he think of it? Only when she knew the answers to those two questions would she know how best to spark the Emperor’s interest.

  Baradun saw her mind racing ahead. “The court can be dangerous,” he advised her. “It is best not to plan alliances until time has revealed all of the undercurrents.”

  She wanted to bridle at that, but the foremost rule was not to arouse the suspicion of those who might recognize her. She bowed her head and nodded. “It is only—well, my Lord … what does Lord Cyrio think of the Emperor’s edict?”

  “Ah, now we get to the heart of things.” Baradun sounded almost amused. “You know, I think you may do very well at court. To tell the truth, no one knows yet what he thinks. I thought him fond of—well, no matter. He has not spoken against it.”

  Would he, however? Or would he, like whoever she had heard in the bathhouse, plot to overturn it without showing his hand? She bit her lip.

  “I think he will be cautious,” Baradun said, after a moment. He hastened to avoid the semblance of impropriety: “It is wise to be cautious. I have every confidence in the Emperor. He seeks a common-born bride for the good of Aiqasal. And yet …” He considered, letting his breath out heavily. “To be Empress Consort is no small thing,” he said finally. “The imperial line rules, of course it is so, it has always been thus. But the Consort hears the petitions of the people, offers alms. Even a good policy, it is said, will leave some behind. That is the Consort’s role, to find such suffering and ease it.”

  For a moment, her heart leapt. What would it be like to sit in the consort’s throne room, her finger on the pulse of the entire nation? She would hear stories from every corner of Aiqasal. She would be the one who sent petitioners home with hope in their hearts and grain for their families. She would—

  That was not why she was here. She looked down at her lap and tried to heed Almeric’s words. The plan came first, always.

  Shouting outside heralded their arrival at the Gate of Zuaba, and Alleyne twitched the curtains aside to look before she remembered to stop herself. She jerked back, but Baradun swept them aside with a smile.

  “No, my dear. You may look.”

  His tone was so gentle, so kind to the little girl from the slums, the orphan, a daughter of ashes and rags, that her cheeks heated with shame and anger, both. She fought the urge to sit back in her seat with an icy glare.

  A moment later, she was glad of it. The Gate of Zuaba was massive, far grander than it seemed from her perch on the overlook. It stretched fifteen meters into the air at least, and its heavy doors—swung open at present—were more than a hand’s-breadth thick, banded with iron and studded with brass. The seals on the inner doors were brass as well, reliefs of life of Aiqasal’s first Empress Consort. Alleyne caught sight of a young woman with a bow, but saw no more, for the palanquin was carried quickly through the gate and into the first district. A look back showed her no more than the patchwork wall, a legacy of the rise and fall of each empire that had made its home here.

  Gone was the jumble of houses with their different roofs and faded signs. Gone, too, were the shouts of the vendors and the crush of people in the streets. Those who traveled these broad avenues did so in palanquins, so their feet did not even have to touch the clean white paving stones.

  There were exceptions, of course. Priests of Elius, robed in brilliant white, carried baskets of herbs from their gardens in this district. The City Guard and the Palace Guard both patrolled here, and a few servants could be seen bearing messages and packages, the crest of their employer’s house embroidered prominently on their robes. Even the servants here, Alleyne thought, had not a speck of dust on their clothing. Some wore their hair in elaborate braids, and a few sporte
d jewelry that would be the envy of some merchants.

  It was a different world, a pretty world that seemed almost a toy, a model of a city built for the pleasure of the rich. It was too quiet, music escaping onto the street only when the doors of the guildhalls opened briefly.

  The almost eerie stillness was all the more pronounced when the great Gate of Sin-namir swung open for Baradun’s palanquin and the chaos of the palace greeted them. It was a city unto itself. So some said, in any case. Alleyne had remembered only pieces of it, arched ceilings and green grass, pretty pleasure barges on the river, the sunlit room where she took her lessons. She had not been allowed to come near the gate, where goods arrived in massive carts and the stables threw off their distinctive smell.

  “This is the Peacock Court,” Baradun informed her.

  Indeed, the paving stones were a mosaic resembling the sweep of a hundred, a thousand peacocks’ tails, little eyes winking at her from the ground, green and blue so vivid that her eyes seemed almost assaulted by it. It seemed a shame to have the beautiful ground strewn with hay and dirt and horse dung.

  But that was the palace: inconceivable luxury thrown away merely for the chance to impress.

  Alleyne let the curtain drop. Her heart lifted with the rising storm in her breast. She was here at last. She was home.

  It would all be over very, very soon.

  A bowing servant in imperial livery opened the door of the palanquin and helped her out, and she stared up at the golden domes of the palace. Temples, throne rooms, libraries …

  “Come.” Baradun held out his arm, as a lord would do to a lady. His smile was genuine and warm. “I will introduce you to my household here in the city, such as it is, and then we will call the seamstress to make sure you are properly attired.”

  “Thank you, my Lord.” Alleyne took his arm and pushed away the sudden, sharp twist of guilt in her gut at his smile. It did not matter how much she lied, she reminded herself. It did not matter what pretenses she put on.

  Cruelty was inventive; justice must be even more so.

  Chapter Nine

  “Is something wrong, miss?”

  “No, nothing.” Alleyne leaned forward in the elegant metal tub and tried to relax. Her braids were twisted and caught up with pins of polished teak capped with glass, her nails had been buffed to a shine and rubbed with oil, and a pleasant breeze flowed through the carved screens on the windows, carrying the scent of the gardens beyond. The room was large, pleasant and filled with light during the days—and it was hers, just hers, an enclave off the main set of rooms Baradun held in the palace. Whenever she wished, Alleyne would be able to retreat here, to sleep on a fluffy featherbed with the scents of myrtle and roses and jasmine, or call for tea, or read one of the wealth of books on the shelves by the desk. Everything was perfect, more perfect than she had dreamed it could be. There was no reason for her to be this uncomfortable.

  Except, of course, that she was used to washing hastily from a bucket of water in the corner of a single shared room, not in the palace, in a full tub of hot water—nor was she used to a servant lathering scented soap across her skin. She was used to the scents of the river and the food sold by street vendors, not the singular scent of flowers. And, as night fell, she even wished to be scrambling up the overlook to see out across the city. In the palace, it was as if the city itself did not even exist.

  It was a different world in every way. A seamstress had taken her measurements—more measurements than Alleyne had known she had—and whisked away with a few murmured words to Lord Baradun about jewel tones and the quality of the silk to be used. Alleyne had lingered to hear his response: only the best. He was determined, plainly, that she should be attired as well as any court lady, despite her common blood.

  He was in for a rude shock.

  She reminded herself that it was not her fault that Lord Baradun was pinning his hopes on her, a woman he had never met before. It was really a terrible risk on his part. Surely he should know that such a chance could go horribly wrong.

  He had been very kind, though, and he would almost certainly be executed when she killed the Emperor. She swallowed and pressed a hand over the sudden twist of guilt deep in her stomach.

  “Are you certain you’re well?” The servant had noticed the gesture. Her eyes were bright with interest.

  She would be looking for gossip, Alleyne realized. This woman would be wondering if Alleyne was one of the commoners brought for the Emperor … or if she was nothing more than a new mistress for the lord.

  It was none of this woman’s business, but Alleyne must take care not to speak sharply. She knew all too well how easily servants could make life hell for someone who disrespected them. She’d heard the stories: herbs slipped into tea, gowns poorly stitched, funds missing from the coffer. Alleyne must make the lord’s servants her allies, or she would be lost.

  She forced herself to smile. “I’m nervous. His lordship has been so kind, but I haven’t the first idea what will happen now.”

  The servant assessed her for a silent moment. She had pretty blue eyes and hair the color of flax, and her manners suggested that she’d been born to the palace. Alleyne sorted back through the whirl of memories from her arrival. What had Baradun said the woman’s name was? Margery? She looked at Alleyne’s hand, still pressed against her stomach, and those blue eyes narrowed. “Are you … ?” She gestured delicately.

  “Oh! No.” Alleyne blushed. “No, it’s not like that.”

  “So you’re for the Emperor.” The girl gave a small smile, pleased to have solved the mystery.

  “That’s what his lordship says.” Alleyne swallowed. “To tell the truth, I’m not sure I should have come with him.”

  The maidservant sat back on her heels. Her eyes were clear now, and honest. “What d’you mean?”

  This, Alleyne reminded herself, was why one never spoke without thinking first. What she had meant was that she was uncomfortably aware of the damage she would do to this man’s household when she betrayed his trust, but she could hardly tell this woman that. She looked down at the rose petals floating on the surface of the bathwater and tried to marshal her thoughts.

  Then again … perhaps she had not miscalculated. The truth had won her the maidservant’s willingness to listen, truly listen—a servant could always hear honesty in someone’s voice. Her best bet was to speak as much of the truth as she could, and use lies only sparingly.

  “I fear the nobles,” she said quietly. “I know what happens to people who try to rise in the world. They fight amongst themselves, yes? Whomever the Emperor loves, they all hate. But even the hated ones have their family and their title. I won’t have that. The other women here for the Emperor will want to advance themselves, and the nobles will want none of us to advance.”

  “But you have a chance to be Empress Consort,” Margery suggested. Her voice was just a shade too smooth. She had spent a lifetime here; she had seen players rise and fall.

  “I don’t think that’s worth my life,” Alleyne said quietly.

  The maidservant paused before ladling water up to wash away the soap. “No,” she agreed, just as quietly. “Perhaps not.”

  “After all, you’re not putting yourself forward, are you?”

  It was a good guess. The maidservant smiled. “And be alone at the top of the court? No. It’s like you said—everyone hated Nerea except her family. He might be Emperor, but no man is worth that kind of spite.”

  “Nerea?” Alleyne looked over. This was the same name she had heard in the bathhouse.

  “His ….” Margery considered this. “She wasn’t his lover,” she said finally. “Plenty of the court thought she was, but I’d wager she wasn’t. ‘Course, I’d wager she had her eye set on the crown, too, just playing a long game, but she wasn’t his lover. She was just always with him, talkin’ and offerin’ advice.” She lifted her brows meaningfully. “Why the Regent stood for it, I don’t know—she’s from a good family, but he’s not one to suffer ri
vals lightly. So I’ll tell ye, watch out for him—and watch out for her, too. She won’t go quietly.” As Alleyne stood, dripping, the maid held out a linen sheet.

  A contender for the crown? This changed things. Alleyne bit her lip as she thought, rubbing the sheet over her arms to dry them. What if this was only a marriage of convenience for the Emperor? He would not easily give her an opening in that case. “He might take back up with her. He might not put her aside.”

  “He already has.” She woman leaned close to whisper. “He truly has, too. She hasn’t been seen in his company for days—licking her wounds, most like. The nobles think she’s being snuck into his chambers, but she’s not.”

  That information was likely to be worth a fortune to the nobles, and the woman had given it freely. Alleyne felt her heart skip slightly and she leaned in, interested despite herself. “If they weren’t lovers … did they have a falling out?”

  “No one knows! That’s just it. No one had any idea until the very day of the proclamation.” Margery drew one of Alleyne’s arms toward her and began to rub scented oil into her skin. She began to laugh. “You should have seen the nobles’ faces. All of a sudden, there they all were, hurrying back and forth to one another’s apartments, and then the Emperor would come and they would smile because they knew they had to, but they looked like they were trying to pass bricks.” Her eyes were dancing. She jerked her head at the wall of Lord Baradun’s study and receiving room. “His lordship took it well. He’s a practical man, that one. ‘Course, it helps that he doesn’t have a daughter of his own.”

  “Mmm.” Alleyne held out her other arm, and then lifted her hair out of the way so that the woman might smooth oil onto her back and her shoulders as well. Her mind kept circling around the maid’s words: no one had any idea. She might think that, but someone had known, Alleyne thought. Two someones at least, speaking quietly in a bathhouse past the third wall.