“Wait. Is something the matter?” Arnold, ever persistent, clung to Sebestyén like a shadow tailing him to his chambers. “You look…miserable.”
Of course, he looked miserable. He was a cripple. The future of his reign was in doubt. He couldn’t find the woman he needed to see, either. And even if he located her, he had no idea what he was supposed to say to her. And his father…God alone knew what the emperor was up to, what new plot he’d hatched to expand his kingdom.
“Nothing’s the matter with me,” Sebestyén snapped. “But something must be the matter with you if you’re concerning yourself over me instead of merriment and partying.”
Arnold shrugged. “The party isn’t going anywhere.” For what seemed like a long time, he bit his lip, hesitating to speak. “It’s tragic, what happened to your leg.”
“I coveted power and paid the price for it.”
“You sound like father.”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. Except you both are nothing alike. Before the war…you were more yourself. Like you were living for more than power and honor.”
“I do not know what you speak of, brother. But I should take my leave now. I don’t want to be reprimanded by father twice in the same day,” Sebestyén said slamming the door to his chambers on Arnold’s face.
But Arnold’s shadow stayed put lingering outside his room until he’d finished his bath.
The instant Sebestyén spotted Count Asboth in the yellow parlor, chatting merrily with his father, he felt his body tense like a string on a violin. The older man whose hair was peppered with gray wore grander clothes than he did for most council meetings.
“Archduke Sebestyén.” The servant outside the doors announced his presence to those within the room.
Both heads turned. A sly smile graced the count’s face. Sebestyén couldn’t quite put a finger on it, but the count’s presence had an unnerving eagerness to it.
“What a surprise,” he said. “And here I thought I’d gotten off giving my report to the council.”
“The count isn’t here to discuss council matters.” Crooking a finger, the emperor beckoned him to join the group.
It was a humiliating trek across the plush carpet, to say the least, limping those ten or so steps that separated him and the older men. Throughout, the count witnessed his struggle with pity.
“You have sacrificed much to bring us this victory,” said the older man. “And so, your father and I have come to an agreement that it’s time you took a quieter role in the administration of the country.”
Sebestyén traded glances with his father. “Am I understanding correctly? You want me to join the council?”
“Ahem.” The emperor cleared his throat but didn’t speak. His jaw was set in such a hard square that Sebestyén wondered if he’d misspoken. “Well…”
“Your highness?” the count prompted.
“You see, Sebestyén, Count Asboth has graciously offered his daughter Zsófia’s hand in marriage to you. He has made an irresistible offer for her dowry, too. After much thought, I’ve come to the conclusion that this alliance will be of great benefit to the future of the kingdom.”
“The wedding will take place in the winter,” the count added quickly. “I assure you that it’ll be an affair the kingdom never forgets.”
Marriage. To Zsófia. The thought ripped through his calm mind like a bolt of lightning. He’d never even met the chit, not that it’d have meant anything even if he had. Most meetings with noble ladies involved them smiling at him and him smiling back at them. Words were hardly exchanged. Masks never came off. Personalities were seldom revealed. Besides, Sebestyén had always prepared for the possibility of marrying a nobleman’s daughter.
Many heirs married princesses from other kingdoms, but Sebestyén shared his father’s opinion that it was best to choose someone from within the court. A local girl was less likely to have poisonous intentions and a bitter history with the kingdom. Less likely to stab him in the back in a bid to secure power while he lay asleep.
“This news is…rather sudden.” Sebestyén clasped his hands. “I’d hoped to spend more time recovering. Wait until my leg is better.”
Frankly, he had no idea why he was stalling. Why he was trying to buy time and delay the inevitable when years ago, he’d have given an arm and leg to be in this position. What was this shadowy resistance in his mind that whispered at him to reconsider?
A nervous snicker escaped the count’s mouth. “Rest easy. My Zsófia is not picky. She wouldn’t hold a bad leg against you.”
“I believe my boy’s too overjoyed to find the right words.” With a cutting stare, the emperor silenced any remaining protests Sebestyén might have had. “He didn’t expect to become the emperor at such a young age.”
“The emperor?” Sebestyén jaw dropped.
“Yes. Once you’re married, I’ll step down from the throne. I’m much too old to rule effectively anymore, and you’ve proven your mettle in battle. I believe it’s time for you to assume the responsibilities of ruling the kingdom. That’s what I meant by a ‘quieter role’.”
The words detonated in his ears like bombs. Sebestyén swallowed, but his spit felt thick, like he was trying to gulp down a landslide. Things were happening too fast. Marriage. The crown. Next, there’d be talk of heirs. Or a bloody succession war. It was what he’d been born to do. It was what he’d been bred to expect. But he felt unprepared. Like he was a tiny child being given a heavy weight he was too young to bear.
“With your vigor and strength lost, you can no longer battle,” the count said. “But your birthright is still your birthright. The entire council believes it’s time for you to succeed your father.”
“I cannot express how humbled I am by your kind words. It’s a great honor.” Hands shaking, stomach trembling violently, Sebestyén barely managed to squeeze out the requisite syllables from his throat. “I will try to do your legacy justice, your highness.”
Whether he’d actually be able to make good on his promise was another matter entirely. His system was still in shock, his mind still occupied by thoughts of his leg, Rea, and the girl.
“Well then, why don’t we celebrate the good news by joining the rest of the kingdom in their revelries?” The emperor sauntered out of the parlor, the count following behind him.
“Of course. I’ll join you shortly,” said Sebestyén.
“We have the entire night,” said the count. “Take all the time you need.”
But as Sebestyén blazed out of the parlor, he had no intention of following his father to the dining hall. For one, he’d promised his soldiers during the war that he’d join them in their dances and feasts in the town once they were out of Mesinia. And for another, he needed time away from the cloying confines of the palace to process his newfound status.
Sebestyén inched his way past the guards on the first floor, striding awkwardly to his chambers, frustrated at his left leg’s inability to maintain a clipped pace. If he planned to enter town, he would have to dress appropriately—which meant donning a disguise, so no one recognized him.