“I would help you, Askia.” His voice was so gentle I almost screamed. “If it were up to me, I would give you the men today. But my father—”
“Your father sent you here. I’m not asking you to champion my cause. All I’m asking you to do is take me to Bet Naqar so I can petition your father myself.”
“There’s no point in taking you if my father’s going to say no.”
Something inside me cracked. “You know this? He said this to you?”
Iskander shifted. “No, but Lord Ishaq says so.”
“Lord Ishaq is not the emperor.”
“But Ishaq is one of my father’s chief advisers and a vizier on the council. What he says matters a great deal.” Iskander took a deep breath. “Ishaq says there’s a simple way for you to make peace with Roven.”
“Oh?” I clenched the railing to keep myself from hitting him.
“Marry Radovan.”
“What?”
“The emperor has made you an offer of marriage—the Roven emissary in Bet Naqar said as much before we left. If you accept the offer on the condition of Seravesh’s freedom, the war will be over. Your cousin will be ousted.”
My mouth snapped shut. Could anyone really be this naïve? A prince of Vishir too. Is this why his brother hadn’t bothered killing him yet—was it not worth the effort?
“I understand it may be distasteful to you to marry in this way, but it’s the reality for people in our position,” he said in a maddeningly superior tone. “If it means the end of your people’s suffering, then—”
“The Roven emissary says it, so it must be true? Iskander,” I exclaimed, looking away from his poor, gullible face.
“What do you mean? He lied?” Iskander clasped my shoulder. “Help me understand, Askia.”
I looked up, searching the stars for a way to make him see why marriage wasn’t an option. At length, I asked, “How many wives does your father have?”
“Seventeen.” He shrugged at my delicately raised eyebrow. “He likes to collect.” There was something darkly amused in Iskander’s voice, like he knew all about the lusty ballads northerners sang about his father’s wives and was laughing at our ignorance.
“Emperor Radovan of Roven has had only six wives. He takes them from the lands he conquers. I guess he likes to collect too.”
I turned back to the mountains, speaking to the sky. “They say the Tower of Roshkot in the capital of Roven is the highest building in the world. They say it’s beautiful, a wonder of creation. He keeps his wives there, but it’s nothing like your father’s menagerie. Radovan doesn’t lavish his wives with gold and gifts. No. He takes them to the deepest, darkest places of Roshkot, places of forgetting, and tortures them. After a month, he brings them to the top of the tower. He brands them with his prayers and throws them off. The Two-Faced God, he says, always answers his prayers.”
I turned to Iskander, pinning him with my eyes. “If I thought for one second marrying Radovan would free my people, I’d do it. I’d gladly step to the very edge of Roshkot and carry Radovan’s prayers into the abyss.”
I grabbed his forearm. “It doesn’t stop him, Iskander. Six women married him to ensure the transfer of power was peaceful, and it was. Until they died. Who now remembers the people of Polzi or Khezhar or Nivlaand? No one. Because they don’t exist. Everything that made them different and unique is gone. Radovan won’t spare Seravesh. Not for me. The only thing he responds to is might, and I intend to match his. If only you give me a chance.”
Iskander didn’t reply, but that was all right. I could see his mind working. He wanted to help me, I knew he did. But would he? Bringing me to Vishir would be a declaration Iskander was on my side, that he would stand for me. Was he strong enough to stand alone?
He licked his lips, and I was suddenly aware of how very close he was standing. He reached out to touch me, but brought himself up short. Flushed.
I gave him a tired smile, “Good night, Iskander.”
I walked to the door with heavy steps, but I could feel his eyes on my back.
“Askia?”
A smile curved my lips. I turned. Iskander opened his mouth . . . and froze. His expression flashed from hopeful to shocked to something I couldn’t identify. He lunged.
The world slowed. I tensed a second before his body flattened mine, crushing the air from my lungs. My head smacked the floor. The world went black.
Sight returned after a few seconds. Iskander was still on top of me, but he was looking over his shoulder. I felt movement around me, saw a hundred panicked faces, but I couldn’t make sense of it. Iskander had called my name and then tackled me. Why?
I remembered the look on his face. The shock and fear. Then I saw it. Embedded into the oak door, right where I had been standing.
A dagger.
Sound returned in a cacophony of shouts and bellowed yells. I turned my head and groaned as pain lanced through my skull.
“Easy. Not too fast.” Iskander helped me sit up. His body was still angled against the crowd. “Are you all right?”
I probed my scalp with ginger fingers. There was no blood, just the beginning of a giant knot. I tried to nod, but pain made me wince. “I’m all right. Help me up?”
Iskander half lifted me to my feet, bracing me while the world righted itself. General Arkady pushed his way through the crowd, silence rippling around him. My hands tightened on Iskander’s arms. I knew that expression. That awful combination of rage and sorrow. It was the same expression Arkady wore when he told me I had to flee my home.
“Who?” I asked.
Arkady stepped aside. Behind him, four of my guards dragged up a limp form. Limp not because he was injured or dead, but because he wasn’t fighting. My would-be assassin had never intended to survive. His face was laden with guilt, with grief.
For the second time in as many minutes, my breath hitched. My legs threatened to buckle. The world faded at the edges of my vision.
“Vitaly.”
4
Stone-faced soldiers from Vishir and Idun closed ranks and whisked Iskander and me out of the Great Hall. They deposited us in a dimly lit sitting room, leaving guards posted at the door and windows. I took a seat by the fire, back erect, hands folded. Watching. Waiting as rage slowly devoured me.
Iskander paced the length of the rectangular room. His footsteps echoed through me, rapping out an uneven beat that demanded answers. Why? Why did Vitaly do this? He was my friend.
A queen has subjects. Not friends. A few weeks before his death, my grandfather had called me to his office and issued that warning. About Vitaly, specifically. Friendships were liabilities. Weaknesses.
I hadn’t believed him. But here I sat, frigid beside the fire, counting down the hours of Vitaly’s wasted life.
The door creaked open, and Governor Erol slid into the room. His boots were wet and crusted over with mud. There was blood on his right sleeve. “My lady,” he whispered. “General Arkady requests your presence below.”
“What news is there?” Prince Iskander pressed.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? But it’s been hours. If we were in Vishir—”
“We are not in Vishir,” Erol said. “One of the princess’s men, a man called Illya, has been running the interrogation. Believe me when I say he knows his business.”