Safi’s eyebrows lifted.
“My nephew will be an even better emperor than I, and as I have told you before, I have no interest in replacing him. He, however, will need an heir. As it currently stands, he is the last in the Cartorran line.”
“And you … want me to produce that heir?” Safi could not believe she was having this conversation. While she’d known Henrick had no desire to produce children with her, she hadn’t guessed he’d want her to have them with Leopold.
It was strange. It was uncomfortable.
Henrick opened his hands. They trembled in time to the carriage’s bumps and sways. “When I am gone, you will marry Leopold. You love each other, do you not? We are not all so lucky, you know, so why wait to produce his heir?”
Gooseflesh pricked down Safi’s arms. Why, indeed? When Henrick had first claimed her as his betrothed at the Truce Summit ball in Veñaza City, Safi had assumed it was because—like everyone else in the Witchlands—he wanted her Truthwitchery. Even when his soldiers had hunted her, even when his Hell-Bards had eventually caught up to her, Safi had believed Henrick wanted her magic.
Then he had erased her magic two weeks ago, making it clear that her Truthwitchery mattered none.
And now he was making it clear that he wanted her to remain on the throne even after he was gone. He wanted her as Leopold’s wife and the mother of imperial heirs.
“Why,” she asked softly, “did you marry me, my Emperor?”
Henrick scratched again at his jaw. Outside, the city turned to beige-and-pink stone. They had crossed into the wealthier merchants’ district. It would not be long before the carriage reached the imperial palace.
“If,” Safi pressed, “you want me to make heirs with Leopold, then I need to understand why. If you expect me to marry him after you are gone, then I need to understand why.”
Still, Henrick said nothing—and now Safi could see the first towers of the palace spiring above the city. They would arrive in minutes.
“My magic marked me the day I was born,” she rushed on. “I have spent my whole life running, and for what? In the end, I was caught and I was used. Yet you took me with no intention of claiming my magic. I want to know why. Why me.”
Henrick offered no external reaction, but he was clearly listening. So Safi powered on with her impulsive plea. “I have learned in the last few days that there is freedom in a life without magic—and in freedom, my Emperor, there is power.”
“It is power you seek then?”
“I am certainly tired of being powerless.” She lifted her chin; it was not a lie. “You married me in chains, but if you want me to rule beside you—and continue to rule with Leopold after you are gone—then I need to know why. If it is not my magic you desire, then what is it?”
He wet his lips, leaving them shiny, and drew in a breath as if to speak. Even his throat wobbled, the words clearly building. But then came the groan of iron and the shuttering of light. They had entered the palace gatehouse; their drive was at its end.
Henrick’s breath exhaled, his throat stilled, and Safi knew immediately that her moment had passed. Her chance to learn more was squandered.
The carriage rolled to a stop. The door opened. A footman rushed a stepping-box into place.
“Get cleaned up,” Henrick drawled as he squeezed his body outside. “We are late for dinner, and your near death does not excuse you from attending tonight’s celebrations.”
“Yes, my Emperor,” Safi said while inwardly she shrieked and raged. So close, she’d been so thrice-damned close, and who knew if another chance would come.
And though she knew that spies might be watching—and that Hell-Bards certainly were—she didn’t fight the glare folding over her face as the Emperor strode away. Curse him, curse him, curse him.
Fourteen Days After the Earth Well Healed
Safi never thought she would get married.
And she certainly never thought she would become an empress.
Only ten years ago, she had hidden behind her uncle in this very room and prayed that no Hell-Bard would notice her. That the Emperor would be satisfied with her uncle Eron’s tithes so she could leave right away.
Now she stands beside that emperor and wonders how he does not get a headache with his crown so tight.
Her gown is too thin for this weather and this stone wing of the palace. The blue silk clings uncomfortably thanks to the wool cloak that Henrick had told her to remove. She had obeyed; sparks had flown.
Somewhere to her left in the room’s darkest corner, Iseult watches. She stands alone save for four Hell-Bards, hoping the rest of the court does not notice her. But they notice her—they always notice her. She is Nomatsi in a world of Cartorrans.
And she is half of the Cahr Awen.
Safi rests her hand over her Threadstone. “Are you all right?” she whispers, too soft for anyone to hear. But the words reach Iseult across their rubies.
And Iseult replies: Yes. A word that blooms in Safi’s mind even though no truth hums in her lungs. Are you all right?
I don’t want to do this, Safi admits, still whispering silently.
Then don’t.
Uncle will die if I don’t, Iz. Besides, I doubt Henrick will let me leave now, twenty paces from our wedding.
Iseult seems to wince, a tightening of grief across their bond. I’m sorry. I should have come up with a better plan.
Hush. Don’t make me come over there and smack you. Safi glares toward the corner, and though she can’t see Iseult, she senses a smile.
I’ll be here the entire time, Safi.
And Safi nods. I know, Iz. You always are.
Before she can say anything more, Henrick hooks his arm into hers. “Smile,” he commands, and Safi smiles. Her hand falls from her collarbone. Her spine straightens.
Henrick is shorter than she. Wider too, and despite wearing a color other than brown for once, he still looks like a toad at midsummer. Green, it would seem, is no more flattering on his frame.
Each of his steps waddles, and Safi does her best to match his stride. She has only ever attended one wedding, when she was much younger, and it had not been between nobility, but between farmers on the Hasstrel estate.
Strange. She had forgotten that memory until now. It was so long ago. Back when Uncle Eron had still smiled …
Strange. She had forgotten that Uncle Eron ever smiled.
It is Eron who had brought her here. And it is Eron she will find before this day ends, if everything goes as planned—and if the plot is as well mapped as she thinks it is.
Like the farmers of all those years ago, the crowd in the room parts to let Safi and Henrick pass. Instead of an inn’s common room, though, it is the Emperor’s throne room. And instead of lively music lilting out, there is only silence. A heavy silence weighted by breaths and winter fabric and eyes, eyes everywhere.
They reach a dais at the room’s end upon which two thrones stand. One is newly added today, its crimson fabric brighter, fresher. After ascending the short steps, Henrick turns to face the crowd, towing Safi with him.
And then, like the farmers, he says the words that will bind Safi to him. “I, Henrick the Third, Emperor of Cartorra, take you, Safiya fon Hasstrel, as my spouse. By law and by land, we are tied. What I possess, you receive. What you possess, I claim. Until our days are done and our bodies dust, we are bound.”