The Empress

  Pasus had to know what Tyrus was pointing out: Elantra had killed Sidonia, and that was what led to me killing her. His jaw ticked, but then he smiled—or rather, bared his teeth like an angry animal. “I have just heard word of the unfortunate death of your brother-in-law.”

  Tyrus was granite-faced. “Have you.”

  “I offer my condolences. What a terrible tragedy that is. And your cousin, left without a husband . . .”

  “As she will be for a very long time,” Tyrus said.

  Something in me grew cold, for I didn’t like the way Pasus was smiling—as though he’d just spotted something he meant to have, and he would allow nothing to get in his way.

  “You must be very uneasy. How could your security bots have permitted a toxin so close to Your Supreme Reverence? And the heliosphere—why, repair bots are not what they once were, it seems. So coincidental, two separate systems failing on the same day.”

  Tyrus’s eyes narrowed a fraction. I realized it too: Pasus knew. He knew why Tyrus’s scepter was not working.

  “Then again, things happen.” Pasus’s smile was knowing. “Perhaps it was a one-off.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “But in the case it is not so temporary, Your Supreme Reverence is in a most awkward situation, are you not? You will require very powerful friends about you. And yet, your allies all appear to be new Senators, replacements for those killed along with Senator von Impyrean during your uncle’s reign. Novices.”

  I could feel Tyrus’s heart racing in his palm. His voice, though, came out perfectly controlled: “I am ever so grateful for your concern. I assure you, all is in hand.”

  “Hmm. Yes. Though if I were in your position, and forgive me for offering unsolicited advice, but I have known you since you were a young boy, dear Tyrus, so I feel compelled to suggest . . . I would look into restoring my favor with our Living Cosmos. And such favor cannot be won with the help of those you’ve gathered about you.” His eyes moved to my image. I knew that for sure, because raw hatred blazed over his face, though he had the same perfect mastery of voice Tyrus did. “I would look to longtime friends of your family. And the means by which you might win back what you’ve lost.”

  “I thank you for the advice, Senator. Do feel free to come and give me more in person.”

  Pasus just smiled, for he knew to come in person would be to fall into Tyrus’s power. “I am always glad to offer it. And if Your Supremacy wishes more, do but come to my territory—and seek it again.”

  Tyrus smiled too. That was not going to happen.

  But then after the transmission ended, he blew out his breath, pulled the scepter out of his waist sheath again, and gazed down at it with frustration.

  “He knows something. That’s what he was hinting about. And the gall . . . Salivar is freshly dead, and he’s already angling for my cousin’s hand.”

  “That can’t happen,” I said.

  Pasus was threat enough as it was, being the most powerful member of the Helionic faction of the Senate, and one of the wealthiest Grandes in the Empire. If he wed Tyrus’s heir, Devineé, then I wouldn’t give Tyrus a week before he’d meet an untimely death.

  “Of course it won’t happen,” Tyrus said, tightening his fist about the scepter.

  My eyes sought his, saw the stormy cast of his features, and I knew in my heart that a disaster loomed on our horizon. He shoved the scepter back into its sheath, where it might as well remain, for all the good it was doing him.

  “Tyrus.”

  He looked to me distractedly.

  “Perhaps it’s time.”

  “Time . . . for what?”

  “Let me kill those who pose a threat to you.” This. This was one thing I could do—one strength I could bring him that no one else could. I had no pity, and if they threatened him . . . I couldn’t lose him as I had Sidonia. “I’ll start with your cousin.”

  He strode over to me, took my cheeks in his hands. “Nemesis, no.”

  “But—”

  “You are not my Diabolic. I am never going to ask you to be my Diabolic again. This is a setback. I will figure this out.”

  He said that, but he didn’t know how. He did not.

  And so I waited until Tyrus had to surrender to that need to sleep, the one I had so little of, the one he needed far more than I did.

  Then I determined to go find the reasons for his weakness for myself. There was one man in this superstructure who had the answers. And he would give them to me.

  4

  THE PENUMBRA was a tiny vessel, a fixture of the Chrysanthemum, and intended to be a domain solely of the vicars who served the imperial family. It had been donated to the faith by a long-ago sovereign, the pious Empress Avarialle.

  I had no right to board it, but a threatening look toward those servants at the entrance stopped them from reaching out, from interfering. So I barged right into the vessel of holy sanctuary and found myself surrounded by clear walls that gazed upon the bright stars of the Cosmos, and tangled canopies of plants climbing over every surface.

  Through that corridor of starlight and nature I strode, until I came upon the great central garden, lovingly tended by hand, not service bot. Hedges were crafted to mimic the traditional shape of stars—like circles with pointed rays jutting out from them.

  And in the center of it all, the massive crystalline statue that gazed down upon it all. A depiction of a man, his bare feet so large that his ankles were at the same height as my hips. My gaze wandered up the crystal expanse and lingered on those features. A broad nose, heavy-lidded eyes. Flattened hair like a bowl over the head.

  A distinctly ordinary-looking man, for his towering size.

  Yet this was the same depiction I’d always seen of the Most Ascendant Interdict, the chief vicar of the Helionic faith. He was rumored to be immortal and dwelled in the Transaturnine System at a wondrous starlight realm called the Sacred City.

  Donia had recited the accounts to me when we were both little, at first with reverence. And then, as she grew slightly older, with a tentative hint of uncertainty.

  “Is it very bad of me if . . . if I doubt whether he really exists?” she’d asked me fearfully several times.

  Nothing Donia could do was bad. That had been my belief, so doubting whether there was an actual Interdict seemed like it had to be a fair and just thing to do.

  After all, no man was immortal.

  “I should have expected you would have no respect for this sanctuary,” spoke a voice behind me.

  Fustian nan Domitrian carried a jar of oil and a liquisilk rag past me, aiming for the statue.

  “This is a holy space, and you are an abomination. From what I’ve heard, your disrespect has already been rebuked once today by our Divine Cosmos.”

  “In fact, Vicar,” I said, watching him anoint those big toes with oil, “that’s what brought me here.”

  “I do hope our young Emperor is well?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Quite,” I said between my teeth. “In fact, he meant to speak to you. But I wished to see you first. Alone.”

  “And why would that be?” said Fustian, looking back at me contemptuously.

  I smiled broadly. “Because Tyrus is often kind. I am not.”

  Fustian’s hand stilled where he was anointing the toes. His gaze trailed past me, and I asked him, “Are you contemplating calling for help? Do you truly know anyone suicidal enough to protect you from me?” I shook my head. “No, no, Vicar. This is the time when I ask questions, and then I get answers. And if you will not talk at first, I will convince you in the myriad ways abominations are skilled at using.”

  The vicar was trembling. I could detect that, practically sense his terror, and there was a part of me deep down that exulted, gloried in it. I’d been fashioned for just this, and every predatory fiber of my being enjoyed causing sickening fear in this old man who’d made himself my foe.

  He’d abandoned the statue and now was on his feet, his back pressed against it as though the
unmoving crystalline Interdict could shelter him. “What happened was the judgment of the Living Cosmos. You may harm me if you wish, you monstrous thing, but it won’t change anything.”

  “I don’t think it was a coincidence that you were soon to be replaced as Vicar Primus,” I said quietly, “and suddenly a Great Heliosphere’s worth of people—including your replacement—end up scorched by a star. And I don’t believe that’s divine intervention.”

  He paled. “You believe I did that.”

  “I believe after I tear out every one of your fingernails and teeth, you will be able to tell me honestly.”

  With that, I feinted toward him, and he shrieked, cringed back.

  “It wasn’t me!” His hand flew up over his face. “The scepter. It was the scepter.”

  He did know. He knew.

  My blood raced with the need to lash out, to hurt. I circled him, keeping my aggression in check, and watched his shaking hand lower as he realized he wasn’t being physically tormented just yet.

  “Explain it all to me. Now.”

  He drew and released several breaths, gathering his courage. “This is not for you to know—”

  “But I will know,” I roared at him, “whether now or after I’ve hurt you.” Then I drew so close to him, he backed into the statue.

  I decided to test my theory. “Pasus betrayed you, you know.” It was a lie, but I meant to test him. “He told us you were the one to ask about the scepter. I know you are in communication.”

  His eyes flew open. “He dared to share my words?”

  So. So Pasus had been alluding to something this man knew. I just nodded, never blinking.

  His mouth dropped. Then, “I was only partially responsible. It wasn’t me.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “Do not hurt me.”

  “Tell me all you know, and I most likely will see no need.” I retreated a few centimeters, just to free him somewhat from the oppression of my physical presence.

  His shaking hand reached back, touching the bare foot of the statue, as though it could lend him strength. “These are all ancient vessels. They fall into disrepair on their own and require constant maintenance. I sabotaged nothing. And . . . and if today there was a tragedy, it was the will of the divine Cosmos and”—he added that part quickly, eyes wide, for I’d stepped toward him again—“and because the Imperial Scepter requires more than a Domitrian’s blood to key into that Emperor. It needs the consent of the faith.”

  “Your consent.”

  “Not just mine! Of the body of the faith. And . . . and . . .”

  At that moment, the stars outside must have shifted in just the right way, or perhaps the angle of the Chrysanthemum to the six-star system adjusted with gravity. . . . For the light struck the crystalline statue above us, and an eerie glow ignited from the top of that head, seeping down through the veins of crystal, striking out vibrant rainbows.

  And Fustian nan Domitrian whirled about to see. The brilliant display seemed to ignite some fire of courage in his heart, and his face lit with pure joy. He dropped to his knees in reverence, and I knew then that he’d overcome his terror of me.

  Yet as I, too, looked at the statue of the Interdict, a strangeness settled over me. My heart stilled, for there was something wondrous about how brilliantly it shone above me, like an apparition or a glimpse of another universe.

  A moment later the light blinked away, the subtle angle of the stars having shifted once more, and the spell was broken. Fustian wore a beatific smile, his eyes aglow with a fanatic’s blind belief.

  “How interesting it is, Nemesis dan Impyrean,” he said in a dreamy voice, “that so rare a moment—but a few occasions in a month—should happen while you were here. I think there is a portent in this. Perhaps the Living Cosmos is telling me I am at liberty to reveal this sacred mystery, even to the likes of you. Now I will do so: not out of fear, but out of duty.”

  Whatever you must tell yourself, Vicar, I thought darkly. “Go on.”

  My vision still was hazed by the light of the statue as Fustian straightened to his full height before me, smiling, transcendentally happy.

  “I have been honored to carry a diode of fealty.” He spread his palm between us. “It was implanted in my hand by an aged vicar, who was given it by an elderly vicar before him. Upon every Emperor’s ascendance, the ones with these diodes must speak the words of consent to the rule of the new Emperor. A majority of those chosen to bear this honor must do so.”

  I stared at his palm. “And how many of you are there?”

  “I don’t know. There may be hundreds, there may be thousands of us. . . . Who is to say? All of us will join our voices and agree to the ascendance of this current Emperor. But each one of our voices is a small droplet in a larger body of water. Will it spare me pain to demonstrate now?” Then Fustian pressed his hands together and spoke: “May infinite stars bestow their blessings upon our new Emperor.”

  I cast a gaze about, wondering if something more would happen. But the old man just looked at me, his eyes twinkling.

  “And there you have the consent of one voice. But you need so many more. Far more. And no one can tell you how many, or who they are. The only means of securing support from these vicars lies in removing their grounds for objection.” His gaze lingered on me, the “grounds for objection.” “Now I ask you, Nemesis dan Impyrean, how many vicars do you think will approve of a union between an Emperor and a creature who does not even carry the divine spark of our Living Cosmos? An Emperor who, moreover, has openly spoken of his desire to propagate heresies. . . . How many voices will rise in consent?”

  Few. None. I wished to strangle him, but there was no use in it now.

  Fustian’s smile widened. “If you love the young Emperor, you will urge him to see reason. To right his ways. And then you will walk away from him and let him rule in peace. Otherwise, this tragedy today is the first of a great many to come.”

  “Tyrus is clever. He can rule without that scepter.”

  “Tyrus is a Domitrian, and the only strength of a Domitrian lies in the command of the Imperial Scepter—and all the machines it will control in his name. Without it? He is no Emperor. He is merely a boy in love with the wrong girl.”

  5

  IN THE TWO WEEKS since the coronation, Tyrus had been busy.

  For so long he had passed by, shifting with the wind, hiding his true beliefs behind a show of madness or whatever facade he required to evade death, that he seemed to explode with frantic activity upon reaching this destination.

  He had become the Emperor of this galaxy, and he couldn’t move fast enough.

  However late he’d been up the evening before, he was always awake by 0600. He no longer had two hours to exercise, so he threw himself into an hour of intense exertion, whenever he could snatch it. Then he attacked some other task over a hasty breakfast—listening to transmissions he’d received, sending off instructions to distant provinces, setting up meetings for the day. He read over reports from advisers as machines prepped and polished him for appearing in court, or recorded propaganda broadcasts to reassure the farthest domains of the Empire that their new Emperor was not, in fact, the madman of rumor.

  Then, hours of wrangling with Grandiloquy, all vying for something from him, with the Luminar allies who’d aided him, all aiming to secure favors for their planet immediately, not content to wait. He fit in those social occasions undertaken less for pleasure than for practical reasons: events that meant to be entertaining, but were really more episodes of maneuvering relationships within his new court.

  He partook of every narcotic offered rather than insulting those gifting them with refusals, and if necessary, he subtly extended his arm to a med bot to clear them from his system—without the giver’s knowledge. His watchful eyes always fixed upon those he spoke to, silently gauging their sentiments, their knowledge, their loyalty, all while wearing a disarming smile as though he were but a foppish young Grande enjoying the decadence about him.


  Favor seekers dogged him everywhere. Grandiloquy sent messages and invitations, hundreds each day, always seeking a meeting, a discussion, following up on promises they claimed his predecessor had made, or referring to debts Randevald had incurred on behalf of all Domitrians.

  Soon, even Tyrus’s single hour of exercise could not be done in peace. As exertion-averse as the Grandiloquy were, preferring to fashion muscles using bots rather than through actual physical use, a great flock of them suddenly took to adoring exertion. Steroids and amphetamines became the favored narcotics at court for these, and each Grande or Grandeé scrambled to create the best high-gravity exercise chamber for his or her ship. There was also a thriving trade in gravity reduction bands, rather defeating the purpose of these exertion chambers.

  I was thankful Tyrus had given me the Hera, so I might avoid so much of the bewildering and chaotic activity, and yet it had effectively separated us at a time when we were on uncertain terms. The fleeting minutes we could snatch were devoid of the old familiarity and intimacy, almost as though we were strangers joined in a cause, and I could see from the frustration on his face that he was as much at a loss over it as I was. . . . But he had too much to occupy him to apply his mind to this scepter dilemma.

  Now I ran with him through the wooded track spanning the lower deck of the Valor Novus during that scant hour of exercise in the morning. Usually he alternated between sprinting and jogging, but today the crowds in pursuit had driven him to favor sprinting. Even those Grandiloquy abusing steroids couldn’t keep up with us, not yet, so it was a rare moment of privacy . . . though the pace left Tyrus too breathless to speak much.

  Me? It was quite easy. So I told him everything Fustian had told me.

  Tyrus digested it with no words, just ragged breaths, that damnable scepter now in a cross-sheath over his back. An Emperor’s first year in power meant it accompanied him everywhere; even here. Even useless as it was.

  His sprint lagged, and Senator von Locklaite appeared behind us, in sight. Tyrus clenched his jaw and launched forward at full speed once more. I matched him effortlessly, and we kept our distance from Locklaite.