But now the curtains are drawn. It’s dark, and the air is close despite the size of the room. The emperor is propped up in his massive bed. Charlie sent almost everyone away to allow us some privacy, so all that’s left are the medbots hovering in the shadows, silvery orbs carrying drugs and hypodermic needles. One monitors a respirator; the other massages my uncle’s legs with a pair of mitt-like appendages. They don’t really have eyes, exactly, but it still feels like they’re watching me as I approach his bedside.
Uncle Atar is barely recognizable. He’s a full-blooded hallüdraen—most of the Faroshti family are—and as a species, the hallüdrae are something to see. Tall, lithe, ridiculously angular, with hair in these deep jewel tones and the same color contouring their skin. Atar had been all of these things when I left, but now . . . His skin is papery and gray; his cheeks are hollow. He looks smaller somehow. Shriveled.
The only things unchanged are his eyes, as sharp and blue as ever, even under their hooded lids. Faroshti sapphires. I didn’t inherit those. I’ve got the high cheekbones and the Faroshti skin tone—fair with ombre blue shading along the angles and contours of my body. But my eyes are dark brown, and my hair is even darker, a short, choppy mess of layers that I usually keep pulled up off the back of my neck.
When Atar sees me, he smiles, and I feel my heart drop. All I’ve wanted to do is flee, but now that feeling vanishes. I take his hand and feel tears coming.
“Hey, Uncle Atar.”
“Birdie.” My chest squeezes at the sound of my old nickname. His little bird, he called me. Because I was always trying to fly away. His voice is thin and whispery, as if there’s barely any air in his lungs. “You came.”
Oof. That hurts. The way he says it all happy and surprised. Like I’m so bad of a niece that he really thought I might blow him off even on his deathbed.
“Hi,” I say again, stupidly. “Are you comfortable? Can I get you anything?”
He chuckles. “These medbots are taking good care of me. I call that one Pokey.” He nods to the far medbot, who’s preparing another syringe. “And this one giving me the massage is Helga.” He winces as the medbot rubs his legs. “She is indelicate.”
I laugh. A sense of humor is one thing my uncle and I have always shared.
I sense Charlie standing beside me, and suddenly we aren’t emperor, explorer, and envoy, but a weird little family. Charlie’s been Atar’s husband since before he sat on the throne, and I can’t believe how selfish I’ve been, forgetting how hard this must be for him. I can hear Charlie’s breathing, and it sounds feathery. He’s on the verge of tears too.
“It is so good to see you,” Atar says. “I was worried you wouldn’t make it.”
“How could I miss this? You know, the Society gives out rewards for observing rare phenomena. I’d say this qualifies.”
Beside me, Charlie sighs again. My jokes are a bit lost on him. But Atar laughs, then coughs into his shoulder.
I grip his fingers a little tighter. “I meant to come back sooner. I really did. I just—”
“Got lost up there.” His eyes drift up, like he can see the expanse of space through the ceiling. “I know. I remember what it was like. I followed the songs of the universe myself when I was young.”
I want to make another joke, tease him about being an old man, but I’m too aware of how young he really is. Especially for a hallüdraen.
It’s not fair. The words are right there on my tongue, but he speaks before I can say anything.
“Congratulations on your circumnavigation.” He squeezes my hand. “I want to hear all about it. Frankly, I could use a trip myself. I’m sick of this room.” He glances at Helga. “Not that you’re not great company.”
I laugh again. “Soon as you’re better, I’ll take you on a tour,” I say, even though we both know that’s never going to happen. “What is it?” I add, unable to keep myself from asking.
My uncle sighs. “Some kind of rare disorder affecting my blood. The physicians tried their best, but they’ve run out of ideas. All anyone can do now is make me comfortable.”
I lose it a little bit, and he reaches up with his free hand and pats my cheek.
“What’s this? Tears from a mighty explorer?”
I wipe at my eyes and my nose with the sleeve of my fancy coat. “Yeah, well, don’t tell anyone, okay?”
His eyes go serious. “Alyssa, I need you to listen to me.”
His use of my real name snaps me out of it.
“I waited as long as I could. Until we were sure all hope of recovery was lost. But it’s time now to start thinking about the future—”
I jerk my hand free. I don’t mean to, but there’s too much dread in me for what he’s about to say next.
“No, Uncle. Please. You can’t. You can’t name me empress.”
I’m surprised to hear him laugh. “No, Birdie. I can’t name you empress. I wish I could, but I swore—”
“Atar.” Charlie sits down on the edge of the bed, pressing a hand to Atar’s chest. He flicks his eyes around the room and shakes his head, barely perceptible. I watch my uncles have this whole silent conversation, and then Atar finally nods and looks back at me.
“We must maintain the peace, Alyssa. We need the prime families to accept the next heir to the throne unequivocally. We need the support of the quadrant.”
I sit frozen in my chair. I’m amazed I can hear anything over my own pulse pounding in my ears. “So, if not empress, what do you—?”
“Alyssa Faroshti, I name you crownchaser.”
And I stop breathing.
A crownchaser. Everyone in the empire knows what that is. Even though there hasn’t been a crownchase in—what? Almost seven hundred years? It’s got to be the only thing in the quadrant that’s got as many musty historical tomes dedicated to it as it does action figures.
It goes like this:
1) A ruler dies without naming an heir.
2) The royal seal—this piece of metal smaller than my hand—is hidden somewhere on the thousand and one planets that make up the empire.
3) The prime families each select their own crownchaser to hunt down the seal.
4) Whichever crownchaser finds the royal seal and returns with it to the kingship gets crowned.
Yeah. This shit really happened. But no one’s resorted to this tactic for centuries. And now . . .
Oh hell.
A crownchase would be dangerous and diabolically effective—the victor gains not only the support of the quadrant but the loyalty of the prime families. No one can contest the winner of a crownchase.
To win, you’d need to be cagey, fearless, a brilliant pilot. Speaking two dozen languages wouldn’t hurt. Neither would knowing the quadrant like the back of your hand or having friends in every dive, stall, and spaceport from here to the Outer Wastes.
To win the crownchase, basically, you’d have to be someone like me.
Uncle Atar takes my hand again. His bones feel so brittle underneath his skin. “Our family sacrificed everything to bring peace to the empire. But not everyone was glad for it. If a new family were to take the throne, one that thirsted for war . . .” I start to say something, to protest, but my uncle raises his scratchy voice. He can still sound pretty kingly, even on his deathbed. “I know this isn’t what you want, Birdie. I always knew it might come to this, but I thought . . . I thought we would both have more time. All I can do now is give you this—the crownchase—one last adventure before you must do your duty.”