Finally, I laid my hand on Tyrus’s shoulder.
His hands fell to his sides.
He turned about, his pale gaze skipping over the survivors, lips moving as he silently counted them up.
“How did this . . .”
His face was smudged with ash. He raked his hand through his hair, setting it askew, smudging it.
A bot hummed over to him, and he started when its red beam flared out to treat him for the radiation exposure.
“You did all you could have done,” I told him.
He just seemed dumbstruck. “I don’t understand what happened.”
I counted up the survivors too. A mere eighteen. Hundreds still in the heliosphere. Mostly the dead were servants and employees of Grandiloquy. People held each other, others lay on the ground on their backs . . . or wherever they’d been deposited as they died. Burns had left ugly, blistered red skin. I gazed at a bot hovering over the head of a boy on his hands and knees, puking from the radiation exposure.
More med bots had been floated in with us, but the number—a mere dozen—was starkly low. And Tyrus had that Excess call for more. The med bots should have flocked here as soon as the system noticed a breach.
And the breach . . .
I turned to gaze back toward the Great Heliosphere, bewildered. It was as though the star reached straight through the Great Heliosphere and burned us. It was a catastrophic structural failure, the sort repair bots should have caught long before it took place.
Then a cold thought came to me: The Helionics will point to this. They will say it is a rebuke from the Living Cosmos.
Stars were the expression of the will of the divine Cosmos, and was there any show of displeasure more stark than this one? Even I felt a superstitious shiver at the thought.
I couldn’t say I knew for certain whether I believed in the Living Cosmos, but I knew that the Cosmos didn’t believe in me. Every vicar had told me as much.
When I turned to Tyrus, he’d withdrawn his Imperial Scepter and now just gazed at it.
“I think I did this,” he said, so quietly I barely made out the words.
“Tyrus . . .”
But we couldn’t speak. Already, there were political allies and foes who’d flocked to the Valor Novus at the first hint of tragedy, and there were dead bodies to be dealt with and families to be notified. I backed out of the way so servants could gather the dead, and my heel met something solid.
My gaze flew down.
A dead girl. Young, the skin of an arm riddled in ugly blisters, dark eyes open to the ceiling with that sludgy and fixed gaze of the dead. . . .
Sidonia.
I blinked and it wasn’t her. It was not.
Yet the specter of her seemed to rear up into my mind, reminding me that she would never exist in this universe again. Whenever I pondered this, all in this galaxy seemed dark and empty. I drew in a breath of the acrid air to force myself to stay in this moment. So I made out the words being told to Tyrus.
Another tragedy. One we’d missed.
“. . . think it was poison . . .”
My head swiveled toward them. Please . . .
“Salivar is dead?” Tyrus said.
No. No, no.
Devineé’s husband. He had drunk the wine.
She lived. She would threaten us still.
I’d missed my target.
• • •
For a month, I’d been trapped in solitary confinement, awaiting my impending death at Tyrus’s hands. I passed that month loathing myself for the longing I still felt for him, though I’d been certain—so certain—he’d been the agent of Sidonia’s death. He knew I believed that of him.
Though he’d overcome his grandmother, forced a confession from her about deceiving me, and though we’d kissed before the entirety of the most powerful in the Empire . . .
There was still a thread of uneasiness between us.
And I still had those treacherous doubts.
I’d both welcomed and dreaded the evening we’d planned to spend entirely alone together after the Ceremony of Pardon, for the duties of an Emperor had kept him so busy, it was our first time to ourselves.
Now, it would not happen.
Of the dead, most had perished from crushing or trampling injuries, not so much the burn of the star. Senator von Amador’s replacement vicar was dead.
And when Tyrus’s servants began to investigate, they discovered that one victim was my would-be assassin. They showed us the surveillance of the poisoning. Tyrus and I watched the images of the gathering of Grandiloquy before we’d departed. . . . I saw myself moving through the crowd, looking toward a stumbling Grande hanging off the shoulder of his wife . . . while a Grande from a minor offshoot of the Rothesays poured several droplets into my drink.
Then, that Rothesay watched me. He clearly hadn’t noticed my drink swap with Devineé, but he had followed me into the Great Heliosphere. The better to see me succumb to his poison.
“That certainly backfired on him,” I noted, recognizing his face from the corpses. I felt Tyrus’s gaze pinned upon me, and added, “I was totally unaware my drink was poisoned. To think, I unwittingly passed it along. . . .”
“Yes,” Tyrus said knowingly. “I am certain that is devastating knowledge.” To his servants, “Make it known this Grande poisoned Salivar. Leave Nemesis out of the account.” His gaze returned to that video, and he gestured for it to replay.
“What?” I said quietly.
“Question that man, too,” he said, jabbing his finger at the one who’d stumbled, who’d drawn my gaze while my drink was doctored. “Frighten him if you must. Make sure he wasn’t helping.”
“Good thinking,” I told Tyrus with a smile.
He didn’t return it. He was gazing down at the list of dead from the heliosphere once again.
• • •
Tyrus and I retreated to the Hera as planned, but there was no pleasure to be had in these stolen hours. He’d given me this magnificent asteroid starship crafted by his grandmother; it was an engagement present, a Domitrian starship for a future Domitrian.
Now we sat together in the great jade chamber Cygna had intended to turn into a shopping promenade, but never lived to do. So there was a gurgling fountain feeding a stream that meandered across the garden of bronze trees and plants.
Tyrus and I sat alone in the middle of that great, echoing promenade. He reached into the sheath attached to his waist, pulled out a rod of palladium. A flick of his fingers, and the end jutted into six pointed spikes.
The Imperial Scepter. I’d caught him staring at it with a strange intensity ever since his coronation. It appeared but a decorative rod, yet it was a powerful machine in its own right. It was the device that made the Domitrians the foremost family in the galaxy.
“What is it?” I finally asked him.
He dragged his gaze over to mine. “You know what this is, I presume?” At my nod, he said, “I received this as all other Emperors have. My uncle died. I ascended.” He raised a palm, hovered it over the six spikes. “These penetrated my skin to sample my blood. They registered me as a Domitrian, and this became my scepter. With possession of this scepter, I received possession of the Chrysanthemum. Every single machine fell into my control.”
It wasn’t just every machine in the Chrysanthemum. It was every single machine within several light-years and even some quite far across the Empire. The Emperor controlled them all. This was the reason the Domitrians were the imperial royals.