Chapter 3
Josan jerked as the whip cut into his flesh again, but his bindings held him securely in place. Pain flared for a moment, as sharp as a knife cut, then faded into the dull agony that consumed him.
He could feel blood running down his legs—see it puddling on the floor beneath his feet. He was sickened by its stench and the sharper tang of his own fear.
It unnerved him that he could not see his tormentors, but the punishment frame prevented him from turning his head. He did not even know if Nizam was still present, though surely he must be.
“I am innocent,” he began, then hissed as the whip struck again. “Please, there is no need for this. I will tell you whatever you want to know.”
No one answered him. He had begun by trying to reason with Nizam and swiftly been reduced to begging. But neither Nizam nor his assistants acknowledged Josan with so much as a single word. There was only the whip, and a pain that was beyond anything he had imagined.
He had tried to count each blow but lost track after three dozen. The total might have been fifty. It might have been more.
Did they mean to kill him? Simply to whip him until he bled to death? He trembled as he wondered how much he could endure before he fell insensate.
There was no point in pride. There was no point in pretending to be anything other than the coward he knew himself to be.
He screamed as the whip cut into him again. Then, sobbing, he found enough voice left to beg. “Please, have mercy.”
There was no answer.
“Please,” he cried again, reduced to a single word, as the measured cadence continued. Four more blows struck, patterning him from his shoulders down to his thighs.
He braced himself for the next blow, but it did not land.
He waited as a minute passed. And then another. Josan did not move, did not say a word, unwilling to do anything that might jeopardize this reprieve. The only sounds to be heard were his harsh pants as he struggled to regain his breath.
He flinched as he felt something stroke the back of his neck. A gloved hand, or perhaps the handle of a whip.
Josan shivered as Nizam came into view. He strained to read his expression, but Nizam’s face was blank. He was as calm as if he were regarding a statue, rather than a man.
Josan tensed himself for a blow as Nizam raised his right hand, but Nizam simply stroked Josan’s face, which was damp with sweat and tears.
“I had nothing to do with Nerissa’s death,” Josan said. “She was my protector—I had no reason to wish her ill. You must see this.”
“I see that you are still keeping secrets from me,” Nizam said, fixing him with a pitiless stare.
Josan felt naked, exposed under that gaze, and his eyes dropped, without conscious decision. Hastily he wrenched his gaze back up, but it was too late.
“Your body betrays you,” Nizam said.
“Ask me anything. Whatever you wish, I will answer.”
Nizam had yet to ask any questions of his own. He had let Josan babble, proclaiming his innocence, recalling to mind each deed or conversation that would prove he had not violated Nerissa’s trust. Josan had told him everything he could think of.
But he had not mentioned his true name. Nor had he mentioned the spell that had placed the soul of a dying monk into the body of a prince. Did Nizam somehow sense these secrets? Or was Nizam simply a brute who received his pleasure from the torments of others? Did he care about the answers he received or was he more interested in seeing Josan bleed, savoring the sound of his screams?
If he offered up his secrets, would they be believed? Or would Nizam punish him for a truth that was so strange it seemed a lie?
The agony of his flesh made it impossible to think clearly. Reveal himself as the victim of sorcery and he would be condemned to death as an abomination. Keep silent, and risk the same fate.
The question was not if he would die, but rather which choice would earn him a swifter death.
“You held out longer than I thought,” Nizam said. “Two dozen lashes before you began begging.”
He supposed it was a compliment, of sorts. He had screamed almost from the first.
“But even a prince would have been whipped as a boy,” Nizam said.
Josan shook his head. Perhaps Lucius had endured canings from his tutors, but the monks did not beat the boys in their care. Discipline was enforced through fasts or time spent alone in contemplation of one’s mistakes. While he had worn his own flesh, no one had ever raised a hand against him. It was only after he was joined to Prince Lucius’s body that he had learned what violence was.
“Pride is the obstacle that must be overcome. Only when a man is stripped of his pride will he reveal the full truth.” Nizam’s tone was as even as if they were two acquaintances in polite debate. He had yet to show any signs of emotion.
“I have no pride,” Josan said.
“We will see.”
Josan could hear Nizam’s assistants moving behind him, and he trembled, wondering if they were about to resume the lash.
“Akil has never fucked a prince before,” Nizam said.
Josan drew in a sharp breath.
“I’ll bet you were pretty when you were a boy,” said a voice from behind him.
“There is no need for this,” he said. He searched Nizam’s face, but there was no trace of sympathy—no recognition that Prince Lucius was anything more than an object to be broken. “Just tell me what you want me to say.”
He would confess to murdering Nerissa with his own two hands, if that was what they wanted.
“Of course a prince is bound to be tight,” Akil said. “But we’ll loosen you up.”
He felt something press at his most private entrance, and his mind rebelled. Desperately he tried to flee, to banish himself into oblivion, but he could not do it. Only Prince Lucius’s spirit had the power to dispossess him, and Prince Lucius had vanished months before.
Josan closed his eyes, unable to bear Nizam’s gaze. He held his breath as a blunt object was brutally shoved inside him, tearing the delicate flesh. Tears rolled down his face—tears of shame mixed with those of pain. Akil rocked the object back and forth, opening him up for what was to come.
His eyes flew open as he felt Nizam’s hand cup his balls, a thumb stroking his prick. It was a parody of intimacy that revolted rather than aroused.
He could not have been more humiliated if he were indeed the sheltered Prince Lucius, who had never known the touch of another man.
The hand around his balls tightened suddenly.
“What would you do to keep these?” Nizam asked. “What if I were to cut them off?”
Josan could not reply. His gorge rose. This, this was not happening. At any moment he would awaken, and discover this was a nightmare.
But the pain was all too real.
The object was removed. Two hands held his hips, and he felt something nudge against his backside.
He looked directly at Nizam. “I killed her. It is my fault, all of it. Tell Zuberi that I confessed.”
Nizam shook his head. “You are still lying to me,” he said. With a final pat he released Josan’s prick.
At the same time, Akil begin to force himself inside Josan. It felt as if he were being fucked by a horse. The wounds on his back burned as Akil pressed against him.
Josan whimpered, his breath coming in short pants. His head swam, and for a moment he hoped that he was about to faint. But there was no such respite, as Akil began to pound into him, over and over again, long past the endurance of an ordinary man.
Josan must have had lovers in the past, though they were lost in the fog that hung over his years with the Learned Brethren. He supposed it was because they had not been important enough to be remembered, not the way that his studies had been. The monks understood that men needed the physical release of sex, and thus relations between them were allowed. As long as such relations were transitory, and the monk’s primary focus remained his duty to the order.
But it was forbidden for a monk to lie with one not of the order. The penalty for taking an outside lover was castration, and banishment from the order, which was seen as the far harsher of the two. In the years of his exile, there had been opportunities for Josan to stray, but not once had he been tempted.
He did not know whether his inexperience made this easier or harder to endure. Perhaps if he had pleasant memories to contrast this with, it would not have felt so much like a violation.
Or perhaps it would have felt even worse.
Nizam’s eyes glittered darkly, missing no detail of Josan’s humiliation. This rape was more than a rape of his body. It was a rape of his soul. Nizam would not be content until he had utterly degraded Josan. In this moment he hated Nizam, more than he had ever hated any other. If it had been within his power, he would have held his tongue, to deny Nizam his victory.
Yet it was not within his power. As much as he hated Nizam, he feared the pain even more.
“Pretty, pretty princeling,” Akil said. “You take my prick as well as any low city whore.”
Josan ignored the taunting words, his attention focused on Nizam. He knew where the true power lay in this room. And as he watched, he saw Nizam’s focus move to those who stood behind Josan. Nizam nodded slightly, apparently giving permission for what was to come next.
“He’ll take more than that before we’re done with him,” an unseen man said. “You’ve stretched him long enough. Now let him feel a real man.”
Akil thrust a few more times before pulling out. Josan felt liquid running down his thighs, a mixture of blood, semen, and filth.
His gorge rose. Nizam stepped back, just as Josan spit bile in his direction.
“Be done with this,” Josan said. “Whatever you want, I will do. I will say anything.”
“I want the truth,” Nizam said.
“I have told you the truth.”
“I do not believe you.”
Josan despaired as he realized that it did not matter what he said. He could not reason with his captor. Truth, lies, it was all the same to Nizam. He was as impervious to logic as he was to Josan’s suffering.
This was not about truth. It was about breaking him, until there was nothing left of the man he had once been.
Akil’s companion took his place, and the rape began again. Josan endured, his mind narrowing its focus until the room faded from his consciousness. There was room for nothing but the sensation of pain, and the small, stubborn part of himself that refused to die.
The shock of cold water roused him to wakefulness. His body ached from head to toe, and he stared at the blood-soaked floor with a distant fascination. That was his blood, he realized, his life’s essence that spread in an ever-widening pool toward Nizam’s boots.
It was impossible for a man to lose that much blood and live. His light-headedness was the precursor of the death that he longed for.
“What do you know of Empress Nerissa’s murder?” Nizam asked. He stood so close that his breath wafted across Josan’s cheeks.
“Nothing,” Josan whispered. “I know nothing.”
“And what are you hiding from me?”
“How much I hate you.”
He tensed, expecting a blow, but at this Nizam smiled.
“I knew you would be my favorite,” he said. “And you know why?”
Josan refused to respond.
“Because you can heal yourself,” he said. “So we can do this again, and again, until I am satisfied.”
“No!” It was not possible. No man could survive this. Josan’s terror rose, even as the darkness of unconsciousness beckoned. He prayed that he might never awake—even as he feared that Nizam was telling the truth.
“I am confident that Lucius had no knowledge of the plan to murder the empress. Nor was he in contact with others who might have plotted this on his behalf,” Nizam concluded.
Proconsul Zuberi scowled, the fingers of his left hand tapping impatiently against his desk. His expression had grown increasingly grim as Nizam related the results of his investigations and his repeated interrogations of his royal prisoner.
Brother Nikos was surprised to be included in this meeting. In the past he and the proconsul had often been at odds, and Nerissa had relied upon their differing perspectives to inform her own opinion. But since Nerissa’s death, Zuberi no longer held himself aloof, and indeed seemed to welcome Nikos’s counsel.
Of course, Nikos already knew that Lucius was innocent, but that did not mean that there weren’t other damning secrets that Lucius might have revealed during his agonies. But so far, at least, Nizam was convinced that the prince was innocent, much to Zuberi’s apparent frustration. It was clear that the proconsul would prefer an easy answer, and an obvious villain.
“He may not have planned the murders, but if his followers committed the crimes, then he is still guilty,” Zuberi argued.
Nizam inclined his head in agreement. “That is for you to judge. I can only tell you the facts. Make of them what you will.”
“And he has told you everything?” Zuberi asked.
“About this matter, yes. But he has other secrets, which I have not yet explored.”
“What are you waiting for?” Zuberi demanded.
“I need your permission before I destroy him. Once I am done, the prince will be a witless shell, fit for nothing except killing.”
“Do it.”
“No,” Nikos interrupted.
“No?” Zuberi’s voice rose in anger, and Nikos knew that he trod on dangerous ground. One did not lightly cross a future emperor.
“I would speak with you privately,” Nikos said.
As Zuberi’s gaze locked with his, Nikos could feel his palms sweat and his heart begin to race. But he kept his face calm, reflecting none of his inner turmoil. After a long moment, Zuberi gestured, and with a half bow Nizam left the room.
“Why do you care what happens to the prince? Nerissa’s funeral is tomorrow morning. We do not need him sane, nor whole, in order to play his part. A madman screams just as loud as any other.”
This was not about whether Lucius died on the morrow. As far as Brother Nikos was concerned, it would be better if Lucius were killed and took his secrets to the grave. Lucius knew too many of Nikos’s own secrets for his comfort. In fact, Nikos had spent the past few days preparing his own explanations for anything that Lucius might reveal. Though so far it seemed that his former pupil had kept his silence long after an ordinary man would have confessed all in the hopes of earning an easy death.
But there was more at stake than Nikos’s own misdeeds. The stability of the empire demanded that they find and punish those who had conspired in Nerissa’s death. And if the search for the conspirators took attention away from whatever secrets Prince Lucius still held, well, then, it was for the good of the empire, after all. And no one would suspect him of protecting the prince.
“You heard Nizam. And Farris, who commanded the guards assigned to watch the prince, also concluded that Lucius could not have planned this,” he pointed out.
In fact, Farris had called Lucius a half monk, scornfully dismissing a man who spent hours each day absorbed in his studies.
“Even your own clerk, Ferenc, saw no sign of treachery,” Nikos continued.
“Why do you defend him?”
“I care not what happens to the prince. But I do care about finding those who murdered Nerissa and her family. Allowing Lucius to shoulder the blame gains us nothing.”
More than once it had crossed his mind that Zuberi, as the emperor presumptive, had the most to gain from Nerissa’s death. But Zuberi was not acting as a man pleased to be thrust into prominence, nor was he seizing the reins of imperial authority. He was either innocent or a master at dissembling.
And if not Zuberi, then who? The treacherous Lady Ysobel had fled home to the Seddonian Federation once her role in the aborted insurrection had been revealed, but was it possible that the bitch’s schemes were still being carried out in her absence? Or was there a new adversary, one who had yet to reveal himself?
Zuberi frowned. “Even if Lucius did not conspire with the assassins, he is far from innocent. He rebelled against the empress not once but twice, and his example may have inspired others. For this alone he deserves to die.”
“The next emperor will have to work hard to secure the peace and support of his people,” Nikos pointed out, continuing the pretense that the identity of the next emperor was still to be determined. “If Prince Lucius is executed, and later we arrest another for Nerissa’s murder, it will breed resentment among the old Ikarians.”
“So what do you advise?”
“Do nothing in haste. Let Nizam keep Lucius, but tell him not to damage Lucius irrevocably. For our part, we will be wary, and watch who seeks to profit from Nerissa’s death. The traitor will reveal himself; it is just a matter of time.”
Nikos waited patiently as Zuberi mulled over his words, his right hand absently rubbing his belly. Nikos’s own belly ached with hunger as well. The proconsul might be accustomed to working long hours without considering the needs of his body, but Nikos was used to a more civilized existence.
“I will do as you suggest,” Zuberi said. “The prince will live, for at least another day. You will see that a suitable sacrifice is found to take his place?”
“Of course.”
Fittingly, the moon was high over Karystos as the Daughters of the Moon arrived to prepare the empress and her family for their final journey. The preservers had done marvels, and what could not be concealed by their arts was hidden by the carefully draped garments of imperial purple silk. But not even the preservers’ art could stave off decay forever, and a faint smell of rot hung in the air, until it was banished by the perfumes and ointments that the priestesses applied.
Brother Nikos inspected the priestesses’ work, then retired to an antechamber to don his vestments. Underneath he wore an alb of unbleached linen as a sign of humility, and over this an open cloak of red, brocaded silk. Red was traditionally worn by the brethren for both naming ceremonies and funerals since it signified both birth and death. Here it was doubly fitting since both birth and death had visited the imperial family within a few short hours.
As the first rays of dawn broke over the city, Brother Nikos stood by as the bodies were loaded onto biers, and then placed on carriages draped with black silk. Nearly five hundred official mourners filled the courtyard, and he could hear raised shouts as the functionaries cajoled them into the proper order.
Brother Nikos’s impatience grew, until finally Brother Giuliano reported that all was in readiness. As he took his place, Brother Nikos gave the signal to start.
The procession began with slaves of the imperial household waving palm branches, which occasionally dipped as they paused to remove spectators who crowded the way. Flute players followed, and behind them were young officers bearing standards that proclaimed Nerissa’s military triumphs. The two tallest of his acolytes had been chosen to play the parts of Nerissa’s father and grandfather, and they wore masks of beaten gold as they stood in a chariot, pulled by three matched horses.
Behind them, Brother Nikos walked alone, followed by the heads of the lesser religious orders. The streets were lined with people, some wearing black shawls of mourning, while others had only been able to find dark-colored ribbons to tie on their arms. Flowers crunched under his feet, as mourners cast blossoms in their path, the mingled scents rising in a sickening miasma. The excited murmuring of the crowds gave way to cries of grief as the bodies came into view, interspersed with chants of Nerissa’s name.
The official mourners followed the funeral carriages, led by Proconsul Zuberi and Count Hector. Those nobles who could walk did so, even those who ordinarily would summon a chair to bring them from one end of the imperial complex to the other.
It took over two hours for the slow-moving procession to reach the outer walls, and the sacred grove outside the city where imperial funerals were held. The commoners who tried to follow were held back by the honor guard—only the select would be allowed to witness the funeral ceremonies.
Nikos wondered if there would be violence, as there had been when Aitor I had been buried. It was said that a thousand citizens had forced their way into the grove, crying out their grief. But today’s followers, after some objections, allowed themselves to be turned aside.
The depth of their grief was surprising. Nerissa had not been a beloved figure. Indeed, twice in her reign she had been on the verge of being overthrown. But it seemed the manner of her death had bound together in outrage those who ordinarily would have rejoiced over her passing.
From the highest to the lowest, all felt the void left by Nerissa’s death. There would be no security until the next emperor was named and Nerissa’s killer caught and executed. As the mourners slowly filed into the grove, he could see the uncertainty in their faces and watched the careful maneuverings as old friends sought each other out and others purposefully distanced themselves from their former allies.
In the center of the grove were three funeral pyres, constructed of carefully arranged stacks of oil-soaked timbers capped with level planks of cedar. Under Brother Giuliano’s direction, the imperial functionaries placed the bodies of Prince Nestor and Princess Jacinta side by side on the first pyre. Prince Anthor’s body was placed on his own pyre, and finally, Empress Nerissa’s body was placed on the tallest pyre, flanked to either side by the bodies of her sons.
The dignitaries formed a loose circle around the pyres as the religious lined up to offer their final blessings.
The Daughters of the Moon were the first to pass by the pyres, bowing their heads in respect as their leader sang in prayer. The priest Fadil followed, chanting the praises of the three gods so beloved of the old Ikarians. Other religious orders followed, in increasing order of importance, until at last it was Brother Nikos’s turn.
The acolytes wearing the masks of Aitor the Great and his son Aitor II flanked him as he approached the pyre where Anthor’s body lay. Bowing deeply, Nikos commended the young prince’s soul to the care of his noble ancestors. Next he moved to Nestor’s pyre. Here, too, he offered prayers that Nestor be allowed to join his noble ancestors. Princess Jacinta, being merely his wife, was not mentioned. As one of his possessions, it was understood that she would share whatever afterlife he had earned.
Finally, Nikos stood in front of the pyre that bore the body of Empress Nerissa. Brother Giuliano held the scroll as Nikos read out the blessings for the dead. While he proclaimed Nerissa’s accomplishments, the acolytes playing the role of her ancestors stood on either side, their arms outstretched, signaling their willingness to carry her spirit up into the next realm.
As Brother Nikos and the acolytes stepped back, Proconsul Zuberi stepped forward to give the first oration. The crowd grew silent, ready to hear the words of the man that most assumed would be their next emperor.
Zuberi’s speech revealed his mastery of politics. All the anger and frustration that he had expressed over these past nine days were put aside, as he spoke of Nerissa’s life and triumphs. Zuberi reminded his listeners that Nerissa had brought peace to her realm through her victory over the empire of Vidrun. Victory was perhaps too strong a word for what had been merely a negotiated truce, but none of his listeners were ready to challenge him. The empress was praised for her fairness, and for her mercilessness toward the enemies of Ikaria. Here Zuberi paused, and the crowd shifted uneasily at the reminder that there was at least one enemy who had yet to be uncovered.
Zuberi concluded his speech by promising that Nerissa’s noble legacy would be carried on and that the Ikarian Empire would emerge strengthened from this tragedy. He promised that Nerissa would join her noble ancestors in watching over her empire and guiding the next emperor along the paths of wisdom and justice.
In a show of humility, Zuberi did not name himself that next emperor. Today was a day for mourning, and the shadow of Nerissa still loomed large. Once her funeral was over, it would be time to name her successor. Nikos knew it would not be long before the imperial councilors demanded that Zuberi take the throne and put an end to this dangerous interregnum.
Minister Atreides was next to speak, and the elderly councilor’s voice shook as he recalled the woman he had known since her birth. In recent years, Atreides had been the leader of the conservative courtiers who had been encouraging Nerissa to resign in favor of her eldest son. Now such differences were forgotten, and the old man wept at her passing. His rehearsed speech forgotten, Atreides rambled incoherently. When he could no longer speak through his tears, Nikos signaled to Brother Giuliano, who moved forward to escort the old man back to a place among the mourners.
Seven others spoke, carefully selected from among the ranks of the nobility to ensure that no faction was slighted. They, at least, managed to stick to their prepared speeches, though their careful words of praise for the late empress were not always enough to disguise their own worries over what the future would bring. Anything that Nerissa had accomplished could be undone by the next emperor, and those who were in power now could swiftly find themselves cast out.
Finally, it was Count Hector’s turn. His booming voice, suited to barking out commands at sea, now served him well; his words carried to every corner of the grove. As he lauded the two princes, he shed tears of grief—though, unlike Atreides, Hector’s tears did not interfere with his speech. Hector finished by reminding his listeners that Prince Anthor had survived long enough to kill his assassin, and only later succumbed to his mortal wounds.
It was a masterful performance, especially considering that Hector had never before shown any inclination for public oration. No doubt he was hoping to trade on the grief for his murdered nephews to secure his own position. And, indeed, Zuberi might well decide to leave Hector in his post as admiral of the navy. Replacing him would cause upheaval at a time when continuity was needed, and it was hardly a plum post. Zuberi’s clients would be maneuvering for far more important positions in the new government.
When Hector stepped back, two bullocks were led forward—one of deep black and the other the purest white. Their handlers forced the bullocks to kneel in front of Nerissa’s pyre, then Brother Giuliano slit their throats. Despite his care, blood sprayed, soaking Giuliano’s red vestments, and Nikos knew he had been wise to delegate this task to another.
More than two hours had passed since they had first entered the grove, but now, at last, an imperial functionary handed Nikos a lit torch. As he touched the torch to the base of Anthor’s pyre, the oil-soaked wood caught in an instant, and Nikos stepped back hastily to avoid setting his robes on fire.
Prince Nestor’s pyre was lit next, then finally Nerissa’s. The flames swiftly leapt up, obscuring her body. The fragrance of the cedar boughs that were laced into the pyres could not disguise the stench of burning flesh, and Nikos was relieved when he was able to step back.
One by one, the funeral guests lined up in strict order of precedence to pay their respects. From highest to lowest, they bowed before each of the pyres and cast their offerings upon the flames.
Once the ritual death offerings would have included slaves of the imperial household, as well as priceless objects such as favorite weapons and jeweled crowns. Now most of the offerings were miniature versions meant to show the giver’s regard, but even these tokens were of the finest quality. There were caskets of rare spices, porcelain dolls to take the place of servitors in the next life, and enameled jewelry in the shape of mythical beasts.
When Count Hector’s turn came, he was followed by an aide bearing a large chest. Ignoring protocol, Hector went first to Nerissa’s pyre, where his aide placed the chest on the ground and opened it. Reaching into the chest, he handed Hector a silk-wrapped object, which the count opened to reveal a splendid jeweled torc of rank, which he placed on Nerissa’s pyre.
Next Hector moved to Prince Nestor’s pyre, where he placed a necklace of moonstones—the traditional gift for a new mother—on the side occupied by Princess Jacinta. For Prince Nestor he offered a glass sculpture of the imperial city, so large it had to be held in two hands as he leaned forward to place it on the pyre. Swirling sparks fell on his arms, but Hector showed no sign of the pain he must be feeling. Within seconds, the priceless sculpture had begun to sag and melt.
It would have taken a master craftsman weeks to create such a work, and Nikos wondered where Hector had found it. It was, by far, the most expensive offering that had been made and would ensure that Hector’s largesse would be talked about for days.
Hector waited until the sculpture was devoured by the flames before moving to Prince Anthor’s pyre. There he bowed far more deeply than he had to the empress. His aide handed him a second glass sculpture, this one of a noble stallion since horses had been Anthor’s passion. Imploring the ancestors to take charge of the spirit of his beloved and most worthy nephew, Hector placed the sculpture on the pyre. Then he unbuckled the belt of his dress sword. Stabbing the sword into the heart of the pyre, he asked the War God to look after one of his own.
Nikos shivered, despite the blazing heat of the pyres. He knew that Hector’s every move had been calculated, first to remind his watchers of his family ties to the murdered princes, and then to remind them that Hector himself was a warrior, proven in battle.
Nikos looked to his left, where Proconsul Zuberi stood, and as their gazes met, he saw his own concerns reflected in Zuberi’s grim expression.
Hector’s offerings were not spur-of-the-moment gifts, gathered in the days since Hector had arrived in Karystos and learned of the imperial family’s tragic deaths. These had been planned well ahead of time. Were they merely the signs of a man who had prepared for all contingencies? Perhaps remnants from the time of the rebellion, when Nerissa’s hold on the throne had been in doubt?
Or had they been specifically made for this occasion? Had Hector somehow learned of the plot to assassinate the imperial family?
Whether willing conspirator or merely someone who had come into possession of another’s secrets, one thing was clear. Hector had come here prepared to stake his claim as the true heir of his nephews—and the next emperor of Ikaria.