The difficult part involved navigating the near vertical tiled roof, inching down the other side in the mossy shade of a stack of chimneys, and then climbing a notched spine in the wall to reach a particular section of rooftop where multiple angles conjoined into a sort of bowl, which offered a perfectly framed view of the western mountains.
As Sebastian had suspected, his brother was seated there, barefoot, as Sebastian was, hugging his knees and staring out at the layered blue-green ridgeline. He turned his head when he heard Sebastian.
“What—” Trell’s his grey eyes widened beneath his shock of unruly dark hair, “how did you know I was here?”
A grin tugged at a corner of Sebastian’s mouth. “You think you’re the only one who ever found this spot?” He settled down beside his brother and mirrored Trell’s position, hugging his knees. “Something tells me you had a rough afternoon.”
“Word of my fine achievement has spread already?” Trell turned a bitter stare away from Sebastian with his thirteen-year-old jaw clenched tightly.
Sebastian considered him for a moment. “You know, Ysolde told me a story once.” His mother’s Companion, the Fire Princess Ysolde Remalkhen, was always telling them stories of her homeland of Avatar. Most of them seemed pretty farfetched, but something in the way she told them always made you wonder if they might be true. “She said the Fire Kings invented the Orations to keep fools from afflicting their court. If a man couldn’t memorize five hundred lines of verse in sequence with an equal number of conflicting hand gestures, he was too unintelligent to be bothered with.”
Trell cast him a grim look. “So I’m too unintelligent to be bothered with? Is that your meaning?”
“My meaning, little brother, is that the Orations aren’t easy even in your native tongue—much less your third language.” Sebastian gripped him on the shoulder. “But you can’t let one day’s failure set you spinning. This is hardly an appropriate attitude for one of His Majesty’s ambassadors.”
Trell’s grey eyes narrowed. “What’re you talking about?”
“Why do you think father wants you learning so many languages? He intends to make you his ambassador when you’re older—send you around the realm to negotiate treaties on behalf of the Eagle Throne.”
“You’re making that up.”
“I would never lie to you, little brother. Why do you think you’ve been betrothed to a Kandori princess practically since birth? That’s always been father’s plan for you—the learned middle son, skilled diplomat and world traveler—just like Grandpère arranged for Uncle Ryan.” Their father’s younger brother, Prince Ryan, had married one of the Empress of Agasan’s great nieces and had been Dannym’s Ambassador in Agasan since before any of the boys were born.
Trell still looked unconvinced. “Ean is learning all of the same languages. As did you.”
“Me, obviously, because I’m going to be king. And Ean…” Sebastian pointedly did not look at the muffin-top of tousled cinnamon curls and grey eyes hovering on the other side of the notched wall. “I’m not sure Ean will live long enough to find out father’s plan for him, the way he goes about things.”
A disgruntled puff preceded the rest of Sebastian’s youngest brother as Ean clambered over the wall. “You’re just saying that because you knew I was there.” He settled his nine-year-old body down between Sebastian and Trell, but slightly higher up on the roof.
Trell glowered at him. “You’re not supposed to be up here, Ean.”
“You’re up here.”
“I’m older than you.”
“But I’m a better climber.”
Trell angled him a fast stare. “No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Ean, I climbed to the top of Mieryn Bluff four minutes faster than you did.”
“Only because you have longer legs.”
“Which objectively makes me a better climber.”
Ean wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I don’t think that’s a fair comparison.”
“Ean…” Sebastian looked his littlest brother up and down. “Why do you smell so weird?”
Ean sniffed inside his tunic and hauled up a bare foot to sniff between his toes. Then he lifted grey eyes to Sebastian with youthful inquiry. “What do I smell like?”
Sebastian and Trell both answered together, the latter with a look of disgust, “Weird.”
While Ean tried to figure out what piece of clothing was emitting the unusual smell, Trell heaved a ponderous sigh and looked back to the view. “I never should’ve tried to present that Oration. Master di Falco encouraged me, but I knew I wasn’t ready.”
“Well, no wonder you failed.”
Trell frowned up at him. “What do you mean?”
Sebastian turned his gaze west, towards the fiery line the falling sun was making of the mountains. “You have to know you’re going to accomplish something, even if you don’t yet know how you’re going to accomplish it.” He angled his brother a telling look. “No matter the obstacle, or how great the opposition, you have to know you can overcome it. Otherwise you’ve defeated yourself before you’ve even begun. Our greatest enemies lurk within our own decisions and thoughts, for success or failure always begins there.”
“He’s right, you know.”
All the boys turned with startled intakes of breath.
Their father was standing behind them on the steeply angled tiles, hands in his pockets, barefoot as they were, regarding them all with a hint of a smile and the royal eyebrow inching upwards as if to answer their surprise with, Did you boys really think I wouldn’t know about this spot?
Sebastian saw his father in the gilded light of the falling sun and felt such admiration for him. All of Gydryn val Lorian’s sons had inherited some of his physical structure—Trell and Sebastian had their father’s dark hair, Ean seemed to have his jaw, and all three of them had his nose and grey eyes—but Sebastian wanted so much to possess the other of their king father’s qualities: his deep understanding of the motivations of men, his calm assurance under pressure, his integrity and regal bearing…
“You can’t let a single failure dishearten you, Trell.” His father seated himself beside Ean, who shifted over to make room for him with wonder large in his eyes. “And you certainly shouldn’t take it personally.”
Trell glowered off into sunset’s fire-limned clouds. “How am I supposed to take it?”
Gydryn clasped hands around his bent knees and considered his middle son. “Let me tell you a story.” He cast Sebastian a pointed look, inviting his recollection. “Once upon a time, three princes set off to find their fortune. They took the road into the west, as the land of the setting sun in those days was wild and untamed, and the princes knew that Fortune waited there. After traveling the road for many days, they reached a dark, impassable wood, and a sign that read, ‘Beware: a jealous failure guards this way. Pass on and perish.’”
“I bet it was a trick,” Ean nodded sagaciously, “pirates or something.” Pirates were Ean’s current fascination.
Trell rolled his eyes. “They’re not going to run into pirates in the middle of the forest.”
“You never know. Pirates are tricky.”
Trell gave him an irritated look. “Just let Dad tell the story.”
“Now…the princes had heard about this wood,” their father continued, “for no one had ever passed beyond its borders.” He leaned towards Ean as though to share a secret with him and added, “At least, no one who’d returned to speak of it.”
Ean looked significantly to Trell and mouthed, pirates.
“But the princes, being princes, were possessed of a certain perseverance which took up more than its share of space in the coach of good sense, such that they’d had to leave reason and judgment behind at the last station. So they ignored the warning and headed into the wood anyway.”
Ean puffed a deprecating exhale. “Stories never end well when they head into the wood anyway.”
“Like you would’ve turned ba
ck.” Trell rolled his eyes again.
“’Cause I’m not a coward!” Indignation swelled Ean’s nine-year-old chest.
Sebastian nudged Trell lightly with his foot. “I think you’re both missing the point of the story.”
Trell continued glaring at Ean. “Maybe if Ean would quit adding his own subplots.”
“What’s a subplot?” Ean looked to his father. “Is it like punctuation? ’cause I still don’t get why people are so worked up about commas.”
Their father eyed his youngest son quietly. “Would you like to hear what happened to the princes, Ean?”
Ean nodded and settled into large-eyed silence.
“The princes continued into the forest, which grew shadowed and treacherous. The further they traveled the road, the less of a road it became. They encountered many dangers, but none so great as the one they faced when the road finally ran out.” Their father lowered his voice, setting a new tone for his tale. “There they stood before the vast unknown, with no path to guide them…and that is where an ominous darkness reared to block any further advance.”
Gydryn looked around at each of his sons. All of them were bathed now in the gilded glow of sunset. “Out of this darkness, a great and villainous voice spoke. ‘I am Failure,’ it said. ‘Choose the form I shall take and meet your end.’”
“A pirate would’ve said ‘demise.’” Ean noted, earning another glare from Trell. “Pirates use big words to show they’re not stupid.”
Gydryn placed a hand on Ean’s shoulder, which quieted him. “Now, the first prince was secure in his youth and sure of his strength. He tossed his cloak back from his shoulders and told the darkness, ‘Come, old man. You shan’t find me a ready victim.’
“So the darkness funneled itself into an old man, white-haired and stooped. The prince drew his sword and charged Failure, and for a time, the young man held the upper hand. But time drew on, as time is wont to do, and eventually the prince’s limbs aged, his youth diminished. For all his stamina, still Failure blocked the road. Finally his strength abandoned him; whereupon Failure raised his stooped and aging head and cut the prince ruthlessly down.”
“I knew nothing good could come from going into the wood,” Ean announced.
“The darkness abandoned the form of the old man and hovered once again before the two remaining princes. ‘I am Failure,’ it said. ‘Choose the form I shall take and meet your end.’
“Now, the second prince was cunning and secure in his intelligence—”
“How smart could he be if he went into the wood?” Ean protested.
Trell clenched his teeth. “Father, please make him be silent.”
Their father placed his hand again on Ean’s shoulder. Ean crossed his arms and scowled at Trell.
King Gydryn continued, “Now, the second prince was cunning and secure in his intelligence. He told the darkness, ‘Come, fool, and be yourself claimed.’ So the darkness assumed the shape of a drooling fool. The second prince drew his sword and engaged him, but despite all his cunning and wit, he couldn’t best Failure. When the prince faltered, the fool cut him down.”
Ean grumbled, “This is a horrible story.”
“Finally, left all alone in the wood, the third prince faced the black wall of Failure. He knew strength wouldn’t save him, nor youth, nor intelligence, though each of these he also possessed. He was sure of only one thing: that he didn’t want to seek Fortune alone. So he held out his hand to Failure and said, ‘Come, friend. Let us pass on together.’ So Failure took the prince’s hand, and they walked side by side into the west.”
All three boys sat quietly, thinking on their father’s message. “So…the prince made a friend of failure?” Ean asked in a small voice. “Why?”
“Because failure always walks beside us,” Sebastian murmured.
“Because we elect our enemies, Ean.” His father nodded to Sebastian’s point. “We choose who to conceive of as opponents, and in so doing, we give them the power to become our downfall.”
*—*
Much later, after wearing out his arm on the archery yard, Sebastian sat at a banquet table beneath the stars, surrounded by a froth of princesses and princes, heirs, their children, cousins, brothers- and sisters-by-marriage, and Dareios and Ehsan’s father and mother, Jorin and Nîga Haxamanis.
The clan had descended on the Moon Palace to celebrate one of the nephews’ name days—Sebastian couldn’t say which nephew, or which sister, brother or cousin he belonged to; nor did he know how many name days the nephew had gained—and necessarily swept Dareios, Bahman and Sebastian into the celebration.
As he sat between Ehsan and Dareios, drinking his wine and listening to the hum of conversation buzzing around him, Sebastian marveled at the switchback turns in the course of his life. From prince to prisoner, slave to madman’s puppet, to this place of…
Freedom didn’t quite encapsulate it, yet freedom is what he felt when he looked to his future.
A hope which he’d vaguely sensed when battling Ean at Tyr’kharta, which he’d barely dared believe in upon waking at the Palace of Andorr, had now grown into a conviction of purpose, a path of purpose that no man—not even Dore Madden—could ever knock him from again.
He’d given his oath to Isabel, binding himself to her and her brother’s cause, yet Sebastian was finding more freedom in being bound to Björn’s game than he’d ever felt in any action he’d pursued as prince or emissary.
And despite all he’d gone through—N’ghorra’s efforts to break his will along with his body, and Dore’s most fervent attempts to degrade him—Sebastian had come through all of this to gain the love of a beautiful woman. He found this the most astonishing twist of all.
Yes…he still saw his twisted leg and scarred face as flaws—he might always look upon them so—but he also saw in them evidence that his will could endure any and all attempts to dominate it. He felt strong in his growing ability as a wielder, and strong in his purpose, stronger than he ever could’ve foreseen while sitting on the roof with his father and brothers imaging what Fortune lay in store for them in the west.
Forty-four
“There is a certain cavalier attitude that sets in when all you can really do is inconvenience one another.”
–The zanthyr Leyd, on immortality
Felix di Sarcova shoved both hands into his hair and scratched furiously at a sudden itch at the back of his skull, right where the Literato N’abranaacht had struck him on the day he’d found Felix snooping in his apartments.
It was so odd, seeing the man lying there now, all still and silent, his dark hair swept back from that widow’s peak and his thin lips oddly slack, like an old woman’s. If you didn’t know him, you could almost think him peaceful. Felix noted that N’abranaacht’s long nose still flared in disdain, though. Even death couldn’t wipe away his supercilious air.
And he certainly looked dead.
Actually…thanks to all the preservation patterns layered across him, he hardly looked a day riper than when he’d been clawing Felix by the back of the neck like a disobedient pup.
Bleeding Sanctos on a sword, had that been a rat’s breakfast! Who knew what would’ve become of him if Tanis hadn’t been there to save his stupid arse!
Felix glowered down at the literato, who was laid out like a bloody prince awaiting a hero’s burial, all decked out in opalescent robes, with his long hair in a neat and shining braid across his broad chest. He wasn’t wearing that Palmer’s hood anymore—what need, now that half the Empire had seen him battling a demon?
And that was exactly the point, wasn’t it?
Bloody N’abranaacht. From looking at him now, it was hard to tell how the literato had died, though the rumor—now that Felix was free of the Tower to hear the rumors—was that it had been a spectacular battle and had provided far better entertainment than the Quai game…unless you were rooting for the Danes.
Lord and the Lady.
Two hundred Adepts missing, and all people could ta
lk about was the Literato N’abranaacht. Everywhere Felix had gone in Faroqhar that day, people had been talking about the literato’s battle with the demon, or his pattern, the one he’d claimed had Awakened him in the last hours of his life…the one that had allowed him to work the fifth in front of thousands of people.
They went on and on about how N’abranaacht had braved the wilds of Myacene—him, a na’turna with no Adept talent—to find the pattern amid the ruins of an ancient civilization and bring it back to the Sormitáge in the hopes it would help revive the Adept race. There was even talk that the Empress intended to give him a posthumous title for his service, though Felix knew that was hogwash.
In any event, by the time evening rolled around, Felix would’ve rather eaten a stew made from Belloth’s necrotic scrotum than listen to another gushingly enthusiastic account of the Literato N’abranaacht’s immense bravery.
Where’s the bloody bravery when the demon you’re killing is your own bloomin’ underling?
Oh, but he had to hand it to N’abranaacht. The man had orchestrated one of the worst attacks in Faroqhar’s history and then turned the tide of gossip and rumor solely to his own heroic shores. He was lying there dead and still had people fawning all over him.
Only…Felix was fairly sure that N’abranaacht wasn’t dead.
He lifted his gaze to the Palmer standing behind the marble slab where the literato’s body was laid out. She wore their order’s traditional white hood and flowing robes, only her eyes free to look upon the world—a custom which was supposed to be an inverse representation of having ‘blind faith in their path.’
The Palmers were a religious order that followed the writings and tenets of Epiphany’s Prophet—which usually made them a neutral voice in the religious disputes that often raged through the Sormitáge halls—yet Felix didn’t think he could ever trust a Palmer again, not after learning that N’abranaacht had been masquerading as one for the last however many bloody decades. Talk about living with a scorpion in your shoe!
As he looked to the Palmer, feminine eyes met Felix’s, and she nodded to him, kindly like, as if Felix was one of the hundreds standing in line to pay their respects to N’abranaacht because he actually respected the man.
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