The Inadequate Heir, page 4
Cracked stone and boarded-up windows from prior attacks by Maridrina had gone unrepaired, the pale walls bore scorch marks and soot stains, and one of the towers stood in ruins. The interior was little better, the walls naked but for the pale shadows of where priceless artwork had once hung and the furniture either cheap or aged. Rooms that a hundred years ago had held parties and spectacles filled with the upper echelons of Valcottan society were now filled with rows of bunks and soldiers’ belongings, the massive chandelier that had once turned the dining room into a rainbow of color apparently at the bottom of the River Anriot, courtesy of a long-dead Maridrinian princeling.
The only consolation was that the Maridrinian palace on the north side of the river was in equal disrepair, neither side controlling the city, therefore neither side seeing much point in funding repairs.
“Take the heads down to the river and send them across,” she ordered. “Aim for their palace.”
“Disregard that order,” a familiar voice said, and Zarrah looked up to find Petra Anaphora, Empress of Valcotta, standing in the palace entrance.
Dropping her horse’s reins, Zarrah pressed her hand to her heart, lowering her head in deference. “Your Imperial Majesty. My apologies, I’d not been made aware of your arrival.”
“That’s because I wished it to be a surprise, General.” The Empress descended the steps, jeweled sandals making soft thuds on the stone, her silk garments fluttering on the breeze. Petra Anaphora retained the beauty she’d once been famed for, though now there were creases around her eyes, and her halo of hair was more silver than black. Courtesy of a militant dedication to training, her body was all lean, hard muscle, the stomach revealed by her short blouse as flat as Zarrah’s own.
She approached, her hands curving around Zarrah’s head as she kissed both her cheeks. “Beloved niece, we have been too long apart.”
A flood of warmth filled Zarrah’s veins, her aunt’s presence always a comfort. “To what do we owe the honor?”
“Necessity, I’m afraid.” Her aunt slid her arm through Zarrah’s, tugging her toward the entrance. “A change of strategy.” Her eyes flicked to the soldiers holding the bag of heads, Bermin standing next to them, hand pressed to his heart and expression unreadable. “Burn them.”
Zarrah blinked. “But that’s not—”
“What we do?” Her aunt gave a tight nod. “Trust me. No one wishes more than I to fling those murderous rats back across the Anriot to their fellows as a warning of what fate awaits those who attack Valcotta, but circumstance demands it.”
“What has changed?”
“The opportunity I predicted has finally been presented to us. But let us retreat to more comfortable quarters to discuss what must be done to capitalize upon it.”
They made their way to the royal apartments, ensconcing themselves on soft cushions while the servants her aunt traveled with presented them with wine and delicacies of a far higher caliber than was typically found within these walls.
Never one to waste her time on small talk, her aunt said, “Silas has bitten off more than he can chew with the bridge. As I anticipated, the Ithicanians are still fighting him at every turn, and will continue to do so. War is in their blood, even more than it is in ours. They won’t concede defeat.”
The events at Southwatch still caused a swell of sickness in Zarrah’s stomach, for she knew better than most what atrocities the Maridrinians were capable of. Already reports were filtering in of Ithicanian corpses dangling from their bridge, and she always forced herself to read the details. For while she’d not caused it, she’d also done nothing to prevent it. Yet she schooled herself to remain silent and listen to her aunt’s explanation of her motivations, because if Maridrina holding the bridge would see them made vulnerable to Valcottan blades, it was worth it.
It had to be.
“Silas is losing soldiers by the dozens,” her aunt continued. “Soon he’ll need more men in Ithicana or risk losing his hard-gained prize, and there is only one place he can source them.”
“Their garrison in Nerastis.”
Her aunt smiled. “Correct. And we will encourage this decision on his part by not giving him any reason to keep them here.”
Understanding flickered through Zarrah’s mind. “We wait until he’s depleted the ranks here and then move against those who remain, taking Nerastis back under control.”
“Even so.” Her aunt took a long mouthful of wine, her eyes gleaming. “He cannot hope to hold both prizes, which means he will have to choose. And holding the bridge has been his obsession for most of his life.”
“Ithicana’s loss is our gain.”
Such was the cost of war; Zarrah knew that as well as anyone. Knew that sacrifices had to be made to achieve victory and that she should be looking forward with anticipation to how Valcotta could use the opportunity to strike a blow. Yet every time she blinked, Zarrah found her mind’s eye filled with children’s corpses hanging from the bridge.
Silence stretched between them, then her aunt said, “You don’t agree with our passivity in the Ithicanian conflict.”
A statement, not a question, so Zarrah didn’t bother denying it. “We may not have been allies, but neither is Ithicana our enemy. Whereas Maridrina is. To allow the rats to triumph over those who have been our friends for the sake of our own gain sits poorly with me, regardless that it provides us an advantage.”
“As it does with me, but Aren Kertell left us little recourse.” Motioning for a servant to refill their cups, her aunt ate a chocolate, her eyes distant as she considered her next words. “I know you desire to save everyone, my darling, but it’s not always possible. Sometimes one must choose, and when one is in power, the sacrifices are a hundredfold harder. If we’d intervened to warn Southwatch, Maridrina would have blamed us for the failed invasion and turned their might south upon us. And instead of Ithicanian corpses soaking blood into the earth, it would have been Valcottans.”
There was logic to her aunt’s words, but they did not ease the sourness in Zarrah’s gut. “That doesn’t mean we need to make it easy for them. If we attacked, it might allow Ithicana a chance to regroup.”
“And their gain would be our loss.” Her aunt’s voice was flat. “This is the first opportunity we’ve had in decades to retake what is rightfully ours without catastrophic losses, and you’d throw it away?”
“I …” Zarrah swallowed, emotions warring between her loyalty to her aunt and her sense of what was right. “Silas shows no sign of reducing his numbers in Nerastis. The latest princeling arrived with three hundred new men, and they’ve been aggressive in their raiding. Don’t we risk them seeing our passivity as a weakness they should exploit?”
Another wave of the hand. “Silas has to put in a good showing for the heir. Once this one dies, which, if what the rumors say is true, is inevitable, Silas will take back those men. And then we will strike.”
“But how many civilians do we risk losing in the meantime?” Frustration slipped into Zarrah’s voice despite her best efforts. “How many Valcottans will die because the Maridrinians believe we won’t retaliate in response to their murders?”
“Courtesy of your fine defense strategies, hopefully not many. But as it is, I dislike your tone, General. Remember whom you speak to.”
Zarrah lowered her eyes, staring at the large silken cushion on which her aunt sat. “Apologies, Empress. I find my emotions running high with a Veliant in Nerastis.”
And not just any Veliant, but Crown Prince Keris. The latest of Silas’s sons to command in Nerastis, the king’s bloodthirsty progeny as vicious in their raiding as their monster of a father. Yrina had reported yesterday that the spies had finally caught sight of the Rat King’s heir. Pretty enough to be a girl and, of course, with eyes of Veliant blue.
“You are not alone in your desire to see all the Veliants dead,” the Empress said. “His presence boils the blood of every Valcottan in Nerastis. But we must nurture our rage. Must temper it into a weapon that we will use against the Maridrinians when the time to attack is right. And your rage, dear one”—she reached across the space between them to cup Zarrah’s cheek—“will be the sharpest blade of them all. I have no doubt in my heart that it will be you who removes the princeling’s head.”
“It would be an honor.”
“You’re already proving to be a fine general. And, eventually, an even finer empress.”
Empress. Though for years rumors had swirled that Empress Petra favored her niece over her own son as heir to the Empire, this was the first time she’d voiced her intent to Zarrah’s face. “You honor me, Auntie. Truly.”
“You are as a daughter to me, dear one.” The Empress leaned forward to kiss Zarrah’s forehead. “As alike to me in mind and spirit as if you’d been born of my body, and it will be you who carries on my vision for Valcotta when I am gone.” A smirk lit her aunt’s dark-brown eyes. “Although if God is good, he will grant me many more years to guide you to your full potential.”
Zarrah forced herself to smile, though the thought of losing the woman who’d raised her since she was fourteen made her stomach clench, old panic rising in her chest. “I pray for this also, Auntie. Would wish for your immortality, if such a thing were possible.”
The Empress laughed, then pulled Zarrah into her arms, holding her close. Squeezing her eyes shut, Zarrah listened to her aunt’s heart the way she had as a child, her unease receding.
“I know your pain better than anyone, my love,” her aunt murmured. “Your grief is my own. And together, I promise we will have revenge on Silas Veliant.”
A promise that had kept Zarrah going in the dark days after her mother’s murder. She’d been fourteen and had gone with her mother, the Empress’s younger sister, to visit the estate of a friend, not an hour’s ride south of Nerastis. Just before dawn, Maridrinian raiders had struck, slaughtering the guards and estate workers alike. And then they’d turned on the villa.
Like it was yesterday, Zarrah could remember her mother begging she be spared. That she’d do anything if only they’d allow her daughter to live. And Zarrah’s dreams were haunted by the laughter of King Silas Veliant himself as he agreed. As he hacked off her mother’s beautiful head, his men fixing her body to a cross in the middle of the gardens while Zarrah screamed.
But he’d kept his word.
They’d tied Zarrah to the base of the cross with her mother’s head in her lap. For two days, she’d wept and screamed and struggled against her binds as blood and worse dripped onto her, as the hot sun had turned her mother’s body to rot.
And then the Empress had come.
Galloping into the villa with her war party, she’d been the one to cut Zarrah loose. To clean the filth from her body and hold her close night after night as the terrors took hold. Who, after witnessing weeks of weeping, had put a staff in Zarrah’s hand and said, “Tears will not bring your mother back. Put all your sorrow and all your rage and all your passion into becoming a weapon, and fight to prevent this fate from ever befalling another Valcottan child. I promise you, we will make Silas Veliant bleed for what he has done.”
Zarrah had never put the staff down, her desire to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves fueling her day after day. Had struggled and trained under the best arms men in the Empire, become a warrior few would pit themselves against. Ruthless and dangerous, hundreds of Maridrinian raiders dying at her hands. And yet for all of that, more nights than not, she still woke with the echoing sensation of blood dripping on her face, and of Silas Veliant, azure eyes cold as a reptile’s, laughing while she screamed.
A knock sounded at the door, and a moment later, her aunt’s bodyguard, Welran, entered. “Empress.” He bowed low. “Your entourage is ready to depart.”
“Our time together is always too brief, dear one.” The Empress stood, the gold bangles on her arms jingling as she straightened her voluminous lamé trousers. “But if I abandon Pyrinat for too long, the nobility will cease their quarrels with one another and turn to conspiring against me until they receive a reminder of who rules. Which is why I have several villas to visit on my journey back—best they remember I know where their families live.”
“You are beloved by the people, Auntie.” Zarrah rose to her feet. “They’d not dare move against you.”
“The nobility are not the people.” Her aunt tapped Zarrah’s nose. “And love means little in politics.”
Together, they strode through the corridors of the palace, a large honor guard waiting for them in the courtyard. Her cousin, Bermin, stood waiting with them.
“Mother.” He pressed his hand to his heart. “I came to bid you farewell and safe travels.”
“Our parting will be brief if I hear you aren’t abiding your cousin’s orders, Bermin,” the Empress snapped. “She is my chosen, and when you dishonor her, you dishonor me. Am I clear?”
Zarrah winced internally, but Bermin only inclined his head. “As you say, Mother, so shall it be.”
“Good.” The Empress paused next to her waiting horse. “Much goes into victory, dear one, but timing might well be the most critical piece of all. You will keep our forces to this side of the Anriot, no matter what provocation.” Then she leaned closer, breath hot against Zarrah’s ear. “And when the princeling gets himself killed and his men return north to fight Ithicana, we will strike.”
Zarrah pressed her hand to her chest. “Yes, Empress. Safe travels.”
Her aunt mounted in one swift motion, and without another word, led her escort out into the city.
Only to be passed by a rider galloping in.
A scout.
“Raiders,” the man gasped out, slipping off his lathered mount. “They hit a village.”
The Maridrinians never raided twice in one day. Zarrah’s stomach plummeted. “How did they get past our scouts?”
“We think they traveled south along the edge of the desert and then cut inland, returning by the same path. They were gone by the time our patrols arrived. Forty-three dead, all farmers and their families.”
Forty-three. “Children?”
The scout gave a grim nod, and Zarrah had to clench her teeth to keep from vomiting.
“Cowardly vermin,” Bermin snarled. “We must retaliate immediately. Attack their garrison and make them pay in blood.”
“No.” Zarrah swallowed the taste of bile. “The Empress was clear in her orders. We will not cross the Anriot for any reason.” She looked to Yrina. “Increase patrols.”
“Yes, Gen—”
“To do nothing makes us look weak,” Bermin interrupted. “It dishonors the dead.”
Frustration and guilt bit at her guts, but Zarrah only flattened her palms against her thighs, looking up at him with a measured expression. “And yet that is what the Empress has ordered me to do.”
“Forty-three dead, Zarrah! Many of them children! The Maridrinians are rats that deserve nothing more than extermination!”
The ferocity and passion in his voice were the reason soldiers loved to follow him into battle, but Bermin saw no farther than the length of his sword. “We will avenge them when the time is right, but that time is not now, cousin.”
He eyed her coldly, looming over her with his enormous bulk, his voice patronizing as he said, “Good little Zarrah. Perfect little Zarrah. Always listening to Auntie’s orders even when it means sacrificing her own honor.”
Zarrah exhaled a slow breath. Since he’d been removed from command, Bermin’s efforts to goad her into making mistakes had increased. But unlike him, she possessed a modicum of self-control. “Increase the eastern patrols. We might not be able to avenge the dead, but at least we can protect the living. If you catch them, show them no mercy.” She added, “Now if you’ll excuse me, the hour is late, and I’ve work yet to do.”
She heard Yrina give the orders, and then the sound of footfalls as her friend ran to catch up. They walked through the corraveidors together, and only when they were in Zarrah’s suite, the doors shut, did Yrina say, “I’d sooner believe you’re related to a lump of rock than that idiot. Did her Imperial Majesty drop him on his head when he was an infant? Perhaps more than once?”
Rubbing her temples, Zarrah said, “His bravery is unparalleled, and his soldiers would follow him into fire. That is no small thing.”
Yrina lifted up one hand. “Bravery.” Then she lifted the other. “Stupidity. They can follow him where they like—I wouldn’t follow him across a room.”
Not answering, Zarrah went to the expansive windows to look out at the growing night. The Valcottan palace was perched on a hill on the southern edge of Nerastis, giving her an unimpeded view of the massive city. At night, it was beautiful: a sea of colored lights and flickering flames, the river Anriot flowing through its center like a serpent. Yet the shadows concealed that most of the buildings were rubble, the streets reeked of waste, and the marshy edges of the Anriot were home to countless rotting corpses that had yet to be consumed by the river’s inhabitants.
“What reason did the Empress give for her orders?” Yrina asked. “It’s unlike her not to desire retaliation.”
Zarrah explained the Empress’s intent, but Yrina’s frown only deepened. “It’s a good strategy, but it’s going to cost us. If the Maridrinians don’t fear retaliation, their appetite for raiding is only going to increase, and we can’t stop them all. We could lose hundreds of civilians waiting for Silas to withdraw his men to reinforce his armies in Ithicana.”
“The Empress is wise.” Zarrah wasn’t sure if her words were for Yrina or herself. “And she knows how to fight Maridrina—she’s been doing so all her life.”
“But do you agree with this plan?”
“Of course I agree with it.” The words slipped from her tongue without hesitation because her aunt had never led her astray. And yet … Zarrah couldn’t push aside the sourness that came with knowing an entire nation had been sacrificed as a part of her aunt’s ambitions to strike a heavy blow against Maridrina. For all it was strategically brilliant, it felt … lacking in honor. “We just have to do more to protect our borders while the plan comes to fruition.”
