Jilana

Jilana and Vrath watched Adri and Shvate playing from the terrace of the palace.

It was some weeks after Adri’s naming day. Ever since that day, Shvate and Adri had become inseparable. Even now, Shvate was teaching Adri how to wield a sword in the courtyard. They were using wooden practice swords, and Shvate never let his swings connect with his brother’s body, but Adri could not help striking Shvate occasionally. Vrath saw Shvate wince when the side of Adri’s sword caught him on his collarbone. But Shvate did not lose his temper or admonish his brother. Instead, he congratulated him on a “kill strike.”

“They love each other very much,” Jilana said.

“Yes.”

Jilana glanced at Vrath. He was her stepson by marriage, but he was, after all, a demigod. It lent their relationship a curious edge. Nominally, Vrath deferred to his stepmother, and by law, she was the dowager empress of the Burnt Empire. But Vrath, as the eldest living Krushan male and son of Emperor Sha’ant, was prince regent. And because he ruled and governed the empire, controlled and oversaw every aspect of its administration—and of course kept it safe and prosperous—he was regarded with the same respect as she. Somehow, the balance of power worked. They had never been seen to argue or heard to disagree. The mother-son bond between them thwarted any political attempt to divide and conquer. They were a perfect pair, and together they ran Hastinaga and the empire as smoothly as a pair of charioteers ran a sixteen-horse team.

But they were nothing alike.

The young princes, though, despite their physical differences, were, in their hearts, very alike, and when Jilana watched the growing bond between them, it made her feel good. She had been so disheartened when the sons of the princesses Ember and Umber had been born blind and albino. Shvate had found ways to overcome his disability, by dressing to protect his sensitive skin and eyes in sunlight, and training twice as hard to overcome any questions of his talents as a prince. The boy had a big heart.

But while Adri was stout of heart as well, his disability was harder to overcome for the role he wished to play. With his heightened hearing and other senses, he could function well enough to live comfortably the rest of his life, even perform certain princely tasks that only required listening and delivering judgment. But how could he be expected to ride into battle, to go to war, to confront enemies or suppress rebellions, survive assassinations—all the warring and marauding that was an integral part of being an heir to the most coveted throne in the world?

It did not help that Adri’s mother had turned her face away from him. Since the day he was born, she had not demonstrated any affection or concern for his well-being. In a sense, it was as if, when it came to her own son’s existence, it was she that was blind.

Shvate’s mother was only a little better; she, too, clearly resented the way she had been impregnated. Her head understood that it was necessary for the kingdom and the lineage; her heart rebelled. Jilana had seen her look at Shvate with a clear expression of distaste for his pale, colorless features, his white hair and white eyebrows, his inability to endure bright light or sunlight. But there was still some affection there underneath the distaste. Umber did not hate Shvate the way Ember hated Adri. She, at the very least, tolerated her son, though Jilana knew that this was more than partly because Umber understood that with Adri’s disability, it would most certainly be Shvate who eventually ascended to the Krushan throne, despite the public proclamation of a joint rule. That conviction itself made her albino son appear tolerable in her eyes. Vain woman, Jilana thought, but then sighed, for was she not herself vain as well? Would she have reacted so differently had she been in Umber’s place? It was easy to judge from afar.

Vrath was watching the two boys now with a strange expression; his striking grey eyes were directed at them, but his gaze was so distant he might have been looking at the horizon.

“The talk among the citizenry concerns you?” Jilana said.

He turned that thousand-yojana stare upon her, and Jilana had to force herself to meet it without flinching. One did not easily match stares with Vrath. She could not even imagine what it must be like to meet this giant of a man on the battlefield, with his enormous strength, knowledge, and ability to defeat seemingly any opponent. The sight of him alone was known to send warriors fleeing—and those that did had good reason.

“The citizenry always talk. It is what they do,” he replied.

She sighed. “Nevertheless, it concerns me. Because there is some truth in their talk.”

He kept his eyes locked with hers. “If it is true, then it cannot be helped. Let the people talk.”

“This kind of talk could lead to trouble. Even an uprising.”

“Uprisings can be quelled.”

“It would better if we do not have to kill our own people.” She thought for a moment, then amended her statement: “Any more than we absolutely must.”

Vrath did not seem perturbed. “I can find out who seeks to foment rebellion. Root them out in their nests, wipe out any uprising before it raises its hood and slithers out to attack us.”

Vrath said the words as if he were speaking of the extermination of pests—and that was how he differed from other men: it was not that he was cruel or cold, but that he simply saw things as they were, harsh and dangerous, saw no need for any euphemistic softening of the jagged edges.

Jilana, meanwhile, had never been able to regard crises with such dispassion. She felt strongly, intensely, and did not hesitate to express herself in like fashion. Her mother had been a hot-blooded fisher princess whose clashes with Jilana’s father had been legendary. She had not been born of a glacial river as Vrath had, but she knew when to fight and when to fight.

“I do not doubt your ability to maintain order, son of Sha’ant. But if we acted against every king, noble, and warrior who spoke against Hastinaga, we would soon have no one left to govern.” She shook her head. “No. Violence will not resolve this problem. We must do more than simply crush the poison tongues. We must silence them.”

Vrath said nothing for a moment before responding. “I do not comprehend your meaning, Mother. Do you wish me to use violence to quell the unruly or not?”

Jilana thought before answering. “I wish you to do nothing at all,” she said. “It is elsewhere that I seek the resolution to this dilemma.”

She gestured with a small raising of her chin, pointing to the two boys in the courtyard below. “It is to the future generation that we must look to silence their own detractors. They are the cause of the gossip and unrest. They must answer their critics by their own actions.”

Vrath regarded the boys below. His expression did not change, but his words betrayed an uncharacteristic lack of conviction. “And you believe they can do this? Bear the weight of the Burnt Empire and my father’s legacy on their slender shoulders?” A blind boy and an albino was what he left unsaid.

“They are Krushan,” she said simply.

He had no answer to that.

They watched the two boys continue their swordplay long past their mealtime. By the end, she observed, Adri was actually able to parry and counter Shvate’s strikes at least a third of the time. She watched thoughtfully. Vrath was right about one thing: the fate of the empire would rest on these young shoulders, whether she liked it or not. For better or worse, they were Krushan princes. She decided then that she would not make the mistake that so many others had: she would not prejudge them. At least let them be blooded and then we will see.

“Perhaps,” Jilana said, “it is time to take them to Guru Kaylin.”