The Empress of Xytae Page 3

  “What happened?” asked Ioanna.

  “One of the Masimi commanders challenged him to single combat.” Enessa’s eyes grew cold. “He accepted.”

  “What?” Ioanna shook her head, incredulous. “Why would he agree to such a thing?”

  “As I said. Foolishness and pride.” Enessa glared at Netheia. “I suggest you not replicate his actions.”

  “But that means Ioanna is empress now,” said Iulia quietly. “Doesn’t it?”

  Netheia squared her shoulders. “We’ll see about that. Nobody wants an empress without Reygmadra’s blessing.”

  “Enough,” said Enessa. “The coronation will be at the end of the mourning period, in exactly one hundred days’ time.”

  “Mother!” objected Netheia.

  “I said enough! Or do I need to lock you in your room?”

  “But she’s going to ruin everything!” Netheia’s face burned crimson again. “This isn’t what he wanted! You know it! We all know it! He hated Ioanna! He wanted her to die! He was going to name me his heir! He promised me he would, after he returned from the south!”

  Perhaps this ought to have shocked Ioanna, but it did not. She did not feel anything at all. Netheia might as well have informed her the sky was blue. She could think of nothing to say except, “He shouldn’t have put it off, then.”

  Netheia screamed in rage, flying forward to collide with Ioanna’s shield again.

  “Netheia!” roared Enessa. But her words were lost as magic, rust-red in color, overtook Netheia’s body. Ioanna could not stifle a gasp. It appeared as though her sister had been set alight.

  “You want to be empress, but all you know how to do is hide!” screamed Netheia, punctuating each sentence with a blow to Ioanna’s golden shield. “You’re an embarrassment! You’re a mistake! Reygmadra didn’t bless you because she saw you’re weak!”

  Her fist shattered through Ioanna’s shield. Ioanna gasped as the magic splintered like broken porcelain. She’d never seen this from her sister before, nor anyone else. Had Netheia been hiding magic from her?

  Netheia lunged again, nothing stopping her as she collided with Ioanna. Her fist slammed into Ioanna’s jaw, and then her eye.

  Golden light exploded from Ioanna’s hands, blasting Netheia back and slamming her into the far wall. It would not hurt her badly, for Iolar’s light was meant to fight demons and chaos gods, not mortal women. And besides, Netheia barely felt pain when she was in a rage.

  Ioanna’s attack only slowed Netheia down for a moment before she was up and moving forward again. But this time, Enessa seized her by the back of the collar and hurled her in the direction of a chair. Netheia landed in it haphazardly, and the strange magical glow faded from her body.

  “Kill each other on your own time!” yelled Enessa. “Or I’ll tell the guards to lock both of you up! Neither of you is empress yet!”

  Ioanna expected Netheia to retort with something biting, but her sister was now staring down at her own hands. After a moment, Ioanna realized they were red—burned red. From the celestial fire? But that should have been impossible. Ordinary people could be injured by Iolar’s light if it was thrown with enough force, but the purifying burn was reserved for evil creatures.

  Netheia was many things, but she was not evil.

  “Are you all right?” asked Ioanna, moving forward to examine the burns. “How did—”

  But Netheia leapt back to her feet and jammed her hands in her pocket, obscuring them from view. Then before anyone could stop her, she pushed the door open with only her shoulder and stormed out of the room.

  Chapter Two

  VITALIYA

  Princess Vitaliya of Vesolda had been in Xytae for two weeks, but she was not sure how she felt about it yet. She was grateful it was not home, but at the same time, she could not see herself remaining here forever—regardless of the fact she’d made that exact claim to the Vesoldan court.

  But the world was bigger than just Vesolda and Xytae. Perhaps she would go somewhere else once she tired of the capital. She appreciated Xytan parties, for they were just the sort of loud and mindless indulgence she’d been seeking. But the Xytan courtiers were a little too… Vitaliya was not sure how to describe them. Intense? Forceful?

  Angry?

  Xytae clung to the title of empire even though all its subordinate territories had broken away long ago, one by one declaring independence and driving the soldiers out. Yellowing ruins still dotted the Vesoldan countryside, but most had been cleared away or built over in a deliberate rejection of Xytan imperialism.

  Despite this, Vitaliya felt no resentment toward Xytae or her people, only a mild curiosity. Vesolda’s oppression had taken place centuries ago. It was ancient history. She could hardly care less about it.

  The architecture of the Imperial Palace was truly stunning, all high ceilings and elegant pillars, plinths, and endless gardens. But maybe the empress needed to hire more servants because Vitaliya frequently saw dust gathered in corners or on steps, and garden pathways were strewn with dead leaves or fallen branches. Some of the exterior walls were beginning to discolor to a nasty greenish-black color as though nobody had scrubbed them in a very long time. Vases held long-dead flowers, and dishes were frequently cracked and chipped.

  When Vitaliya emerged from her room, feeling much better than she had when Ioanna found her, it was nearly noon. As she walked down the halls, she passed groups of servants whispering to one another in low voices. But when she slowed down to eavesdrop, the conversations immediately halted. She pursed her lips together, offended by this exclusion.

  Luckily, she soon found a familiar face—Decima. Decima was one of Princess Netheia’s closest friends, as far as Vitaliya could tell. A failed acolyte of the Temple of Reygmadra, she’d been cast out for her inability to take orders. Decima claimed this was fine by her since she’d rather fight with her own hands anyway, not bless soldiers. But she’d yet to enlist in the army, for her friendship with Netheia protected her from having to fulfill her civic obligations.

  “Decima,” said Vitaliya. “What’s going on? Did someone die?”

  Vitaliya had meant it as a joke, mostly, but the other girl blanched.

  “You haven’t heard yet?” she asked. “Come with me. Emperor Ionnes is dead.”

  “What?” Vitaliya shook her head. “That can’t be true!”

  “I heard the empress say it with my own ears,” insisted Decima. “All three of the princesses went off with her, and I haven’t seen them since. The rumors say he was killed in a duel with one of the Masimi leaders.”

  “Why would he be dueling anyone?”

  Decima shook her head. “I don’t know!”

  “Isn’t that what his entire army is for?”

  “I’m just telling you what they’re saying.” Decima huffed. “In any case, if he really is dead, that means we’ll have a new empress. Enessa’s only the consort. She can’t rule on her own.”

  “So, Ioanna, then?”

  “Maybe,” said Decima. “Maybe not.”

  Vitaliya chewed the inside of her cheek. “I don’t think she’d be so bad.” Maybe that was silly—she’d only spoken with her for a few minutes. But the crown princess had seemed kind. At least, kind enough to not deserve what Netheia so obviously wanted to do to her.

  “If that’s how you feel, maybe you should stay out of it,” said Decima. “The Xytan people don’t want someone like Ioanna. Our empress should be a warrior.”

  “It was just a thought!” Vitaliya protested. “Is that really so important to you?”

  “She’s got Iolar’s magic. Don’t you know what his followers are like?”

  “Well—”

  “They try to force everyone to do things their way, no matter what. They think there’s only one right way to live. And if you try to argue, they accuse you of being corrupted by evil!”

  That was a rather extreme view of things, and certainly did not fit with Vitaliya’s experiences at home, where the Temple of Iolar
was just as influential as any other. But she did not argue. She’d learned fights at the imperial court were hardly ever settled with words, and she knew she had no chance of holding her own against Decima.

  If it came down to it…if Ioanna and Netheia decided to fight for the throne, and it turned into a civil war, staying in Xytae probably wouldn’t be a very good idea.

  But what were her alternatives? Return home to Vesolda, and have everyone think she’d forgiven her father? No. Better to go to Ieflaria, or maybe Ibaia. Vitaliya considered this. She’d been to Ieflaria several times before, but she’d never seen Ibaia.

  Ibaia was a strange sort of place where they had no kings, queens, regents, or even ranking nobility. They selected their rulers by majority, which seemed like a good way to guarantee one’s rulers would be beautiful and nothing else. Still, it might be interesting to visit and pass judgment. The journey to Ibaia would be long, but she was not in any hurry.

  She hoped things would end well for Ioanna, but there was nothing she could really do to help. Even if there was, she wouldn’t ever want to claim to represent Vesolda in a conflict. She was angry at her father, not at their citizens. And especially not at any soldiers who might be sent to fight if Xytae decided to take offense to Vitaliya’s interference.

  No, it would be best to leave immediately.

  “I’ve got to go,” said Vitaliya. “I haven’t eaten since last night, I need—”

  But Decima wasn’t listening. She pushed past Vitaliya, eyes locked on something up ahead. Vitaliya rose up on her toes to peer over Decima’s shoulder. Princess Netheia was storming down the hallway. She looked furious—and like she’d been in a fight, with a long tear in the collar of her dress and her hair in disarray.

  Vitaliya decided it was time to be somewhere else. She turned away and darted around the nearest corner. Luckily, Netheia had barely noticed her.

  “I can’t believe her!” Netheia cried loudly enough that Vitaliya could still hear her. “She’s just going to—to stand back and let this happen!”

  “Who?” asked Decima.

  “My mother! Of course!”

  Decima gave a sigh and lowered her voice. “What did she say?”

  “She said Ioanna was going to be empress, and I needed to shut up and go die somewhere.”

  “What did she actually say?”

  Netheia huffed. “She said the coronation’s in a hundred days.”

  “Whose coronation?”

  “Ioanna’s, obviously…” Netheia’s voice trailed off. “She didn’t specify.”

  “And what else did she say?” Decima pressed.

  “To kill each other on our own time.” Netheia’s thoughtful tone twisted into something sinister.

  “We don’t need one hundred days. We could have this done in an hour,” whispered Decima eagerly. “Enessa’s not supporting Ioanna; she’s just being clever. She wants to be able to claim she supported the winner all along.”

  “I know I can get the guards on my side,” Netheia whispered back. “It would be so easy…”

  Vitaliya hurried away in the direction of her room, not daring to turn around and glance back over her shoulder. Her suspicions had been correct. She needed to leave Xytae immediately, before the swords and torches came out.

  As she rummaged in her pockets for her key, she remembered Crown Princess Ioanna. It really was too bad she was probably going to die. But that was the way of things in Xytae, or so Vitaliya had always been told. The parties were marvelous, wasteful and extravagant, and they very nearly made up for the backstabbing and poisonings and sinister plots.

  Vitaliya went into her room and began to collect her dresses from where she’d strewn them about over the course of the last few days.

  I should warn her.

  Vitaliya paused.

  No. Stay out of it. Keep Vesolda out of it.

  But warning Ioanna wasn’t really interfering, was it? It was just stating a fact. And besides, who would ever know? Nobody would find out. Even if Netheia suspected someone had said something to Ioanna, there’d be no proving Vitaliya’s guilt—and no real reason to suspect her. She’d only met Ioanna once, for a few minutes.

  But Ioanna did not deserve to die.

  Vitaliya allowed the dresses she’d gathered up to fall back to the ground. She would sneak out and warn Ioanna, just to assuage her conscience. Then she’d throw all her things into a carriage headed for Ibaia and forget all about it.

  That was enough. That was more than enough.

  Vitaliya opened her door cautiously and glanced down the hallway in both directions. People were around, but nobody paid any attention to her, and she doubted they would when the gossip was this good.

  It wasn’t far to Ioanna’s room—nor was there any mistaking it for someone else’s, given the size of the doors and the ornamentation around them. Vitaliya gave one of the doors a tentative knock. A small part of her hoped there would be no response.

  “Who is it?” called a gentle voice from within.

  “It’s Vitaliya.” Why hadn’t she used her title? “I, I must speak with you.”

  There was a long pause, and Vitaliya feared Ioanna would order her away. And really, who could blame her? Ioanna was surely mourning the death of her father. The last thing she needed was some foreign, barely sober stranger in her private rooms.

  But then the door opened, and Ioanna stood before her. Vitaliya was struck by her resemblance to Netheia and marveled at the fact she’d been so drunk she hadn’t immediately identified her this morning. The princesses’ faces were so similar, and their dark curls were practically identical. But while Netheia’s body might have been carved from marble, Ioanna was made of glass.

  “Vitaliya.” Ioanna’s dark eyes were warm, and she did not appear as though she had been crying. “I was not expecting to see you again, and so soon. Come in.”

  Ioanna turned, and Vitaliya followed her. The room was enormous, even by extravagant Xytan standards. She’d seen Netheia’s room, and while it had been large enough to host a party, it was only about half the size of Ioanna’s.

  Netheia’s room had been decorated with weapons, armor, and trophies, but Ioanna’s was mostly clear of any sort of decorations, except a few bookshelves. Still, it didn’t feel bare or impersonal because the architecture of the room was so impressive it hardly needed decoration at all. The floor was pale, gleaming tiles, and every surface had been intricately carved with designs of people, flowers, and patterns. Daylight streamed through every open window, giving the room a free, airy feeling.

  “I’m sorry,” said Vitaliya. “About your father, I mean.”

  To her surprise, Ioanna only shrugged. “It was inevitable,” she said in a very soft voice. “And really, I hardly knew him. And he hardly knew me.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Vitaliya again.

  “No, no, I am. What are you meant to say to that?” Ioanna smiled ruefully. “But I thank you for thinking of me.”

  “That’s not why I came, though,” said Vitaliya. “That is, I am sorry. But there is something else I must tell you. Your sister, Netheia…”

  The faint smile faded from Ioanna’s lips.

  “I think you need to leave the palace right now. You need to leave the city. She’s coming to kill you, and she’s getting guards and soldiers on her side.” Vitaliya swallowed, wishing she’d been more eloquent. Netheia was Ioanna’s sister, and who was she? Just some foreigner. She’d be lucky if Ioanna didn’t have her arrested for slandering the princess.

  But Ioanna nodded sadly. Then she sighed. “I should have expected this. Thank you for informing me.”

  “You believe me?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well…” Vitaliya had not expected convincing her would be so easy. “Do you have somewhere safe to go?”

  “Yes.”

  Vitaliya waited, but Ioanna said no more. But then, that was probably wise. Better that Vitaliya not know where the princess was going.

  �
�I should go, then,” said Vitaliya. “I need to pack my things.”

  “I am sorry this has been your first impression of Xytae,” Ioanna murmured. “I hope, in the future, we will be more worthy of such a guest.”

  Vitaliya grinned and shook her head. “Don’t let my title fool you. The only reason I haven’t run off to become a playactor is because my grandmother forced me to swear on her deathbed I wouldn’t.”

  Despite everything, Ioanna laughed. The sound was soft and short like she was afraid to be seen doing it. It disappeared as quickly as it had come.

  Vitaliya thought of all the things she’d heard about the crown princess—not just from Netheia, but from everyone. How she was the first member of the Isinthi family in living memory to not have Reygmadra’s war magic. Instead she was blessed by Iolar. Worse still, she was famous for hiding behind those celestial shields when it came to a fight—something the Xytan court could not respect.

  Vitaliya had never said so, but she didn’t think there was anything shameful about not wanting to be hit. That was just common sense, wasn’t it?

  Ioanna did not duel. She did not even spar. She did not attend parties. She could not throw a javelin or swing a hammer. She had never gone to Masim with the soldiers. She barely spoke to anyone, except her own mother. She stayed in her room and read dreadful boring books about theology and history. She attended Sunrise services. She thought she was better than the rest of the court.

  Vitaliya wasn’t certain she believed that last one. In Vesolda, Ioanna would be considered shy, at worst, and her silence would likely be viewed as an indicator of wisdom.

  Xytae was such a strange place.

  Vitaliya turned away from Ioanna and began to walk back toward the door. But just as she reached for it, it swung open from the outside.

  “Oh, hello,” said Netheia. In one hand, she held an unsheathed short sword. She released the handle to spin it as though it was a toy, then caught it before it fell. “Look, Decima. You were right. I’ll never doubt you again.”

  “Yes, you will,” drawled Decima. Vitaliya pulled her eyes away from the gleaming blade and looked up at the other young woman. She held some kind of polearm, leaning on it casually like a walking stick. And behind her, Vitaliya could see more people, some familiar, some not.