Daughter of Ashes (Rise of Aiqasal Book 1)

by Moira Katson

  “Just be careful,” Almeric said worriedly.

  “What do you think I’m going to do, just blurt out the truth?”

  “Be careful,” he repeated. “We’re neither of us used to this game, and the court is full of people who play it well. And we’re alone.”

  “Not alone.” Alleyne squeezed his fingers. “We have each other, and you have the guards, and I have Margery. She’ll help me.”

  “Don’t trust her,” Almeric said instantly.

  “Don’t be like that. You don’t even know her. She doesn’t want to be his consort, either—”

  “You told her you didn’t want to be Empress Consort?”

  Her cheeks flamed. “I just said I wasn’t sure. Servants can tell lies, you know that, and they hate people who pretend they’re better and put on airs.” He said nothing, and she hastened to reassure him. “Margery is on my side.”

  “No one is on your side,” Almeric said brutally. He took her by the shoulders. “We’re the only ones on each other’s side. The court is full of cowards and thieves and we’re planning treason, Alleyne. Treason. Promise me you’ll tell no one.”

  “I won’t tell! I’d never tell that.” But her shoulders were hunched. She felt every inch the little sister. “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t—I’m terrified for you.” Almeric’s voice broke. “Ever since you left, I’ve thought you were right the first time, and this was a terrible mistake. You’ve always been so trusting, and—what? What is it? Don’t cry.”

  “He told me about Maman and Papa.” Alleyne wiped at her eyes. “Lord Baradun. He said that with the ambassador coming, I had to know these things. I didn’t even remember that that’s what they were doing, going to broker peace. He … didn’t want to tell it all.”

  “What did he say?” Almeric’s voice was tight.

  She paused to steady herself. “That Maman and Papa were plotting to overthrow the throne.”

  “They would never do that,” Almeric said instantly.

  “I know that. He said a lot of the court didn’t believe it, and some of them didn’t even believe it after the confession.”

  “Maman and Papa did a very bad thing.” Her mother’s face was streaked with tears. Her hands pressed at the side of Alleyne’s face, ice cold against the tears. Alleyne could still feel that cold, years later. “A very bad thing, Alleyne. We have to go away for a long time, my heart. But we will love you forever. Trust the Emperor, child. He is merciful and just.” Her voice had broken on the words.

  She forced the memory away. “He said they didn’t believe the rumors that we survived, and he thought they only said they did because … “

  “Because?”

  “Because they were ashamed they didn’t speak for us.”

  There was a silence.

  “Alleyne.”

  “Yes?”

  “That is the court.” Almeric’s face was so still it might be a mask; only his eyes betrayed his anguish. “People who wouldn’t say a word to save children. Remember, no matter how prettily they smile: that is who they are.”

  “I will.” Though how could she, when she didn’t want to believe it in the first place? “I have to go.”

  “If you need to find me, leave a message at these stables, for—”

  “Michel. I know.” His false name tasted strange on her tongue.

  “And Alleyne.”

  “Yes?”

  “Remember … ” His eyes traced over the gown, her hair, everything strange and new. “Remember who you are,” he said finally.

  “Always.” She knew he could hear the surprise in her voice. “Almeric, I’ll be safe, I promise. It will all be well.”

  “I know,” he said instantly.

  But the fear in his voice was unmistakable, and it clung to her as she made her way back across the courtyard and into the maze of the palace. She could hear the words whispering in time with her stride: remember who you are.

  Chapter Fifteen

  She hurried through the kitchens, skirts held up and away from the dirt on the floor. It took effort to ignore the instincts of the outer city; she wanted to take as much food as she could carry, and run. But she did not need food any longer. It had been a long time since she and Almeric went hungry, and here in the palace she had as much as she wanted to eat at every meal.

  She was halfway back, creeping through the great pantry, when she saw a door begin to open on the other side of the room. Alleyne whirled and ran for the shelter of the shelves, nearly tipping a stool and a basket of oranges. She lost precious moments steadying it, and only barely made it behind a set of shelves in time.

  “Did you hear that?” The voice was male, young. “We should go.”

  “Because of a rat?” Another young voice, familiar, but she could not place it. How many bored, drawling noblemen had she overheard from Baradun’s receiving room? How many had she met today alone? He laughed, now, unpleasantly. “No. We went to trouble to have this place emptied. Speak.”

  Another passageway loomed to one side of the room, shadowed, the sort of place spiders might live and children might tease one another about, and she tried to ignore the prickle on the back of her neck as she made her way toward it quietly. This was no time for childish superstitions.

  If she was caught here …

  “It might not have been a rat,” the other voice insisted. “We should at least look.”

  Alleyne tried to force herself not to run. They would hear that.

  “Do you doubt the competence of my men?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Their loyalty, then.” The threat was not subtle in the least.

  “No!”

  “Then speak.” There was an annoyed sigh. “Quickly.”

  There was a pause.

  “Well?” Impatience.

  “He’s committed.” There was almost defiance in the first voice now. “As I told you.”

  Alleyne bit back a sigh as she crept along. Another noble conspiring to stop the Emperor’s marriage. The pantries and kitchens had been emptied for this? She bit her lip; Margery’s face would be a picture when Alleyne told her.

  On the other hand, where would she say she overheard it?

  “The treaty is nearly complete,” the first voice continued. “He speaks of it constantly.”

  A treaty? Nearly at the mouth of the passageway, Alleyne paused. She turned her head to the sound of the voices.

  The owner of the second voice was clearly not interested. “I don’t care about that. It’s of no matter to us.”

  “Surely you’ll find it more difficult to start a war with a treaty in place,” the first voice snapped.

  Alleyne froze, holding her breath.

  “And it would have been best if you could put his intentions in doubt beforehand,” the second voice retorted. “But since you couldn’t seem to manage it, we’ve had to make do.”

  “If she couldn’t accomplish it, how could I?”

  “Watch your tongue,” the second voice snapped. “Others may be convinced of your usefulness, but I’m not so sure. You were only of use as long as you guided him, and you haven’t been doing that very well, have you?”

  Her instincts screamed to run, but curiosity drove her back, creeping between the shelves with her skirts clutched in her hands. She had a knife, she told herself, and she had the element of surprise. If someone meant to start a war, wasn’t it her duty to learn more?

  “It’s not as if you even need to do very much, is it?” the second voice continued, unpleasantly. “You’re not moving armies. You’re not assassinating him, are you? All you needed to do was this one, simple thing.”

  A pause, and Alleyne tried to calm the racing in her heart. An assassination, and a treaty. They could only possibly be talking about the ambassador’s visit, but who was to be assassinated? The ambassador?

  … Or Darion?

  “Who will do it?” There was genuine grief in the first voice now.

  “Do you car
e for him so much?” There was almost surprise there, and, a moment later, suspicion: “Why do you join us, if you have any love for him?”

  “I have my reasons.” The first voice was hard now. “Who will do it, then?”

  “Not our business. I’m told there’s an agent in the palace.”

  “Already?” There was a sigh. “You’re right, it matters not.”

  There was a long pause.

  “You swear you are with us?” The second voice was testing; Alleyne could almost see the eyes narrowed, watching closely.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “All that you said before.”

  “Say it again, then.”

  “Darion must die for a new Aiqasal to rise from the ashes.” The words were wooden, a recitation that had long since lost all meaning for the man who spoke. “For the empire to become what it was always meant to be. I know that.”

  “You don’t believe it.”

  “I said I had my reasons! They are my own. For now, yours will suffice.”

  “They had better.” Alleyne heard a single step. “We can make you rue the day you were born, truthspeaker.”

  Truthspeaker. She could not afford to be caught, not now, not after what she’d heard—Almeric was better than she was after only four years of sword training, how much better would a lordling be after training for his whole life? More than that, who knew what magics a truthspeaker could command?

  But she must know. Alleyne crouched down, trembling, willing her muscles not to give out, and shifted the edge of a burlap sack to peer through the opening.

  There: a flash of green, and a gold belt. It was the Emperor’s truthspeaker, no less, who was in on the plot to assassinate Darion and overset Aiqasal, beginning a war with … well, surely, it could only be Rasteghai.

  But Mercen would stand with Rasteghai, as would Illesand, and Aiqasal would have to appeal to the goodwill of the mountain nations: Kivor, Lecrise, perhaps even far north, to Hessed. Aiqasal had once been poised to rule the earth, but those days were long gone.

  War would destroy them. Alleyne leaned her head against the shelf and, to her shock, felt tears in her eyes. This was all wrong, all of it.

  “Go.” The first voice was defeated. “I will follow.”

  “No, no.” The other voice sounded amused. He whistled, and there was the tramp of feet. “I will set your mind at ease before I go.” He pitched his voice to carry. “The Truthspeaker thinks he heard a little spy in the pantry. Check it for me.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Panic seized her. Alleyne crept backward, nearly tripping and almost upsetting a shelf of jars as she steadied herself.

  “And if we find anyone, my lord?”

  The voice was definitely annoyed now. “Bring them to me.”

  “Not to—”

  “To me.”

  A pause.

  “Of course, my lord.”

  Her heart was making a fair bid to beat its way out of her chest; it was incredible to her that they had not heard it. But now was not the time for sloppiness or fear. Was she a scared little girl, or was she an assassin? She heard the soldiers fan out, calling to one another, and knew she did not have much time. As soon as the shadows of the hallway closed around her, Alleyne slipped her sandals off, whirled, and ran into the yawning darkness.

  Chapter Sixteen

  She ran until the breath was coming harsh in her throat. Voices called to one another at the mouth of the tunnel, but she was too panicked to hear what they were saying, and she didn’t look back—someone who wanted to stay alive never took the time to look back. She had learned to run quietly, and despite all of Margery’s attentions, her feet were still hard with calluses. She stumbled once or twice, but bit back her cry of pain as she hit the floor. Each time she lay, holding herself still, listening for pursuit.

  But no one came. The guards, like the lord, did not think anyone had been listening. They were searching for form’s sake, and form alone.

  Her fear did not know that, and so she ran until she felt the heavy pulse of it begin to fade. The passageway was sloping up quickly now. She walked as quickly as she could, one hand out to brush the rough, earthen walls. She still stopped sometimes to listen, but there was still no noise behind her.

  It did not make her feel better.

  Her mind was racing: an assassination, and peace with Rasteghai upset for a second time, her parents’ work still undone. She swallowed hard. She might remember very little of them, but she remembered their honor and their kindness—if they had been sent to make peace, they had believed in their mission.

  And that peace was about to be wiped away: Darion assassinated and the nation at war.

  She stopped dead. If they could be assured of war, they had to know that they would be in power when chaos erupted, and that could only mean one person, surely: the Regent. Anything is worth it to keep Aiqasal out of the hands of some baseborn populist. A populist, for instance, who might guide Darion away from war? A populist who might be pregnant with the Emperor’s child? She pressed a hand over her mouth. Had Darion signed his own death warrant with this edict?

  He had signed his death warrant long ago, and she had to think clearly, not get lost in horror—she had to think. She clenched her hands, pressed the palms of her heels against her eyes. She had to think clearly, and quickly. If the Truthspeaker’s plan went forward, her nation would be consumed by war, and the Regent would be poised to act at any time, wouldn’t he?

  Her mind caught on a new possibility, dark and glimmering. She’d been wrong, they didn’t need the Regent to be a part of their plan at all. All they needed was to make sure that their story would be believed beyond a shadow of a doubt—and how better to do that than with the Emperor’s truthspeaker, himself? The Truthspeaker would swear that Rasteghai was responsible for the death—it had to be that, didn’t it?—and he would be believed. The Regent, grieving, would be bound to act.

  It might be the Regent who was a part of this plan. It might not; after all, the lord who spoke surely had not been the Regent. But who, then? Who would it be? They had spoken of a woman: if she couldn’t manage it, how could I? Was that Nerea?

  She was aware, suddenly, of how little she knew of the court. There were dozens of lords and ladies; she couldn’t figure this out on her own. She needed to find Almeric, and that meant getting out of here. She bit her lip and looked around herself. She could not go back the way she had come, for fear that the Truthspeaker might still be there—or, worse, the soldiers of whoever had ordered the kitchens cleared.

  Margery would help her find that out, she decided, and Almeric would help her figure out what to do. She could warn Baradun, perhaps.

  She started moving again toward a square of light along the passage, the outline of a door. The palaces were large, she would simply say she was lost and trying to find her way back to Baradun. Better that than to risk being caught by those with plans of war—they would kill more readily than the Palace Guard, surely.

  She listened at the door, but heard nothing. Carefully, she eased it open and slipped out to shut it behind herself. It was painted elaborately to match the frescoes on the wall, and cunningly hidden so that the eye would pass over it. The painting, a depiction of the priests of Elius helping the poor and sick, would be well suited to any temple, but the inlaid floors beneath her feet gave lie to that. She looked up and around herself in awe. The ceiling showed Elius in his chariot, with the seal of the imperial house, a crown and a scroll, picked out in gold at regular intervals. Magelights glowed on the walls and—

  She did not hear the soft footfalls behind her until it was too late, and she whirled around to find the point of a knife at her throat.

  “I’m quite sure,” said a rich, deep voice, “that you’re not supposed to be here.”

  Alleyne looked up, and met the eyes of the Emperor.

  She forgot how to breathe. The artist’s depiction might have made a good statue, but it did nothing to ca
pture the look in those eyes—or the unexpectedly wry twist in his mouth. He was close enough for her to feel the warmth of his body, clad informally in loose pants and a tunic, the sort of clothing one might wear for sleep, or practicing in the training yards.

  Do it. Now. Her knife was at her ankle, and his was at her throat. She swallowed hard. She had to charm him, make him step away long enough for her to draw up the hem of her skirts and snatch the dagger from its sheath.

  “Who are you?” Darion asked her.

  I am Alleyne, daughter to— “Melisande, my lord.” Her cheeks flamed. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty. I didn’t mean …”

  “The commoner.” His voice changed, and something flickered behind his eyes. “You’re the commoner.”

  She didn’t know what to make of that. “Your Majesty, I am one of many.”

  “You are the only one my uncle has recommended to me,” he observed. The knife did not waver from its place below her chin, but there was a smile on his lips as he bent his head to examine her. His eyes narrowed slightly. “You remind me of someone.” He saw the fear flare in her eyes. “Why are you frightened?” It was a command.

  For once, however, she had an answer at the ready. “You have a knife at my throat, Your Majesty.”

  He laughed at that, truly laughed. The knife withdrew, and he stepped back to give an elegant bow. “You are correct, of course. How rude of me, to hold the woman who might be my Empress Consort at knifepoint.”

  Despite herself, Alleyne smiled. His laughter was infectious.

  Until she remembered who he was—and who she was. Her smile died. Do it now. She had trained for this every day. She could have the knife out of its sheath and in his chest in a moment. There was no one here to hear him, and she would be able to run, make for the river and disappear into the night. She took a deep breath.

  “Why are you here?” he asked her.

  To kill you. I am the daughter of an innocent man and woman, dead by your edict. I have spent the past thirteen years planning your death. She had practiced those words. She would say her parents’ names as she twisted the knife in his chest, and her face would be the last thing he saw as he died.