CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Heir to the Throne of Varin

Nekantor gripped the sides of his podium.

He was all pain—his fingers sore from gripping the podium, his hand sore from washing away the poison, his arm sore from punishing the Imbati, his chest and stomach sore from Tagaret throwing his crazy fit. With no more Benél to hold him together, every part of him screamed and squirmed and struggled to crawl away from every other part. Only one thing held him together under the lights, under the hungry eyes of the entire Pelismara Society.

The whore’s ring.

He’d found it with his fingers after the fists stopped hitting him, by crawling across the floor to his bedside table. It had reminded him he had power; it had taught him to stand, and to tell Tagaret his childish anger meant nothing.

Even when he was angry—even when he tried to fight—Tagaret was harmless.

Now the ring gleamed, beautiful and perfect in the lights of the Hall. His own piece of power, that he’d found all by himself. It had set his foot on the path to the center of this game. It was why he was here. It was why he had to win.

“Cabinet members, I ask for your vote,” Innis concluded. “Thank you.” Applause surged through the room, power thundering into every crack and corner, pounding into Nekantor’s lungs as he breathed. The pain diminished, and he breathed in more, more, as much as he could hold. Imagine if the applause were for him—imagine if he alone could stand at the center. Nothing else would matter at all.

But the applause fell away, disappearing into a tense silence. The room strung together again, and the pain returned, along with the wrongness and the squirming in his body. He watched the whore’s ring gleam under the lights, and kept breathing.

“Nekantor,” the Eminence said. “Your final statement?”

The eyes shifted to him, and the tension strung itself outward, tugging his nerves in every direction. How he wanted to count, to touch! But that would lose him the game. What was his final statement?

All at once he heard Father’s voice. “Don’t try to look better than Innis; he’s twice your age and he’ll make you look like a fool if you do. Let your youth protect you.” The memory tried to strangle him; he clenched the podium until his fingernails bent.

Father was dead. He was dead, because Sorn had come, and Sorn would only come if Father was dead. Sorn was going to come and deliver the vote, and bow, and receive the inquiry that he kept in his breast pocket. It was planned. Where was he?

He scanned the room, but the sight of the seething crowd made him sick. Sorn had been escorted out by Arissen; he’d seen that much, but the matter was resolved now. What was keeping him? Sorn had to come back—he had to, because it was planned!

“My father is dead,” he said aloud. The microphone magnified his voice into the far corners of the room. “Garr of the First Family is dead.”

Shocked murmurs wriggled in the crowd, crawling through it like desperate spiders.

The Eminence held up his hand for silence. “Young Nekantor, what are you saying?”

“His Sorn was here,” Nekantor said. He struggled to breathe, clinging to the sweet perfect gleam of platinum on his finger. “His Sorn would not have come if he were not dead. Where is Sorn now, Arissen? Why has he not come to me? He was supposed to come to me—my father is dead!”

Herin glanced over his shoulder at his manservant, who ran down the stage stairs into the cabinet area below. Yet another Imbati had appeared there—one who didn’t belong to the cabinet members, who hadn’t been there before. Wrong, wrong! Nekantor’s knees shook, and he held tighter until the steel bit his fingers.

The Eminence’s servant came climbing back up the stairs and whispered something in his Master’s ear.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Pelismara Society,” the Eminence announced, “I regret to inform you that young Nekantor is correct. We’ve just received news that our Speaker of the Cabinet, Garr of the First Family, has taken his place among the stars.”

The entire room swayed with a sigh.

Oh, gods, the floor was moving . . .

“Sorn was supposed to come to me,” Nekantor cried. “What happened to him? He was speaking to Aloran, and then the Arissen sent him out, but he has to come back. Where is he? Father promised he would come to me. He promised!”

“Nekantor—” said Herin.

“He was supposed to bring my father’s vote!” The words tumbled from his lips, and the reality fell upon him like the weight of the city itself. Sorn wasn’t here, and that meant Father’s vote wasn’t here, and he needed all the votes. “Gnash it, Father’s not here, and Sorn is missing, and that means the vote is missing, and the whole pattern is broken—”

He choked; his knees gave way and his hands slipped. He sat down hard in the shadow behind the podium.

“Sir,” said Arissen Karyas. “Sir.”

The room was shrinking down on him. Nekantor fumbled the ring from his finger and took it in his hand, rolled it across his palm, stroked its smooth surface. He clung to it, and it was his, perfect and smooth and his, and he tucked his mind inside it, into that place of power and perfection. Nothing here. No Pelismara Society, no cabinet, no candidates, no votes. Nothing but a platinum circle that gleamed and rolled and felt smooth in his fingers.

Voices spoke around him. The Eminence’s voice, loud and strong. The cabinet’s voices, small. An Arissen-sounding voice. They were asking what had happened to Sorn. He couldn’t stand to listen; couldn’t stand to look up or it would all come apart, every nerve would unravel, and he would scream until his body tore itself in pieces.

“Sir,” Karyas hissed in his ear. “Pull yourself together. You promised me, sir. We had a bet.”

“Karyas—” He risked a glance at her, looked down again. She was strong, like always. Perfect orange uniform, ambitious brown skin, hungry eyes. She believed in power—in his power. He looked at her again, and didn’t have to look back down.

“Get up, sir,” she said. “They’ll forgive you for grief. But get in your chair at least.”

He gulped air, hissed it out. “Hhh—help. Karyas, help me.”

“Yes, sir.” She lifted him under the arms.

Nekantor got his feet onto the wooden floor. Slid into his chair. He still had the ring; it was still perfect and could hold his eyes. But the vote . . . “The vote,” he whispered. “Karyas, they’re missing my father’s vote.”

“Gnash it, sir, you don’t need all the votes. Just enough.”

Just enough: suddenly it wasn’t Karyas’ voice speaking, it was Benél’s. What had she done? He sobbed, and burning tears cut down his cheeks.

“One more minute, sir. Just one more.”

Nekantor struggled in a breath and glanced up. The Eminence Herin was gazing at him with sympathy. His manservant was no longer visible by his shoulder, but moved instead among the cabinet members below the stage. Gods, they were voting already! And he’d said nothing, given no speech at all . . . Panic climbed his nerves, but he turned the ring in his fingers, and forced air into his lungs. The panic slowed, and breath by aching breath, the room began to open again.

It would not open completely. Feel the tension all around? It webbed across the audience, the cabinet members, the guards, the servants. He and Innis were at the center, bound to one another and to all of them at once.

What must he look like to them? Weak and broken—yet thoroughly unlike Innis, who watched everything down his nose with his head held high.

Gnash Innis. That confidence meant nothing—no one could see the whole game at once.

Even the Eminence showed curiosity now, though he sat perfectly straight in a suit of gold, the white-and-gold drape gleaming around his shoulders, fastened with its shining pin. At last his servant flickered up the stage stairs like a black shadow and spoke into his ear.

Herin stood up, smiling.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Pelismara Society,” he said into his microphone, “thank you all for giving us the best of your blood. Thank you for risking your own future in the name of the future of Varin. I know the last weeks have been difficult, but your long wait is over. We have our Heir—and he wins by a single vote.

“Nekantor of the First Family, can you come and stand by me?”

Nekantor?

His name?

Every web was slashed at once. Vibrations of power struck him, ringing through him like a bell. The crowd surged to its feet and burst into shouts and applause.

“Sir!” Karyas burst out. She grinned, showing her white teeth. “Sir, it’s you! We won!”

“I—I heard.” Nekantor found his feet. They shook, so he stood up slowly. How he wanted to look at Innis, to see him miserable in defeat! But it was too dangerous. He might not make it to Herin. Instead, he kept his eyes on Karyas. “You were right, Karyas,” he whispered. “We won, and now I can repay you. I can make sure that the Eminence’s Cohort fulfills its true potential. It may take some time, but if you work with me . . .”

“Gladly, sir.”

They walked forward, one step, another, another. Ahead, the Eminence Herin stood with his hand extended in welcome. Nekantor reached out and took it. It drew him forward, into the humming circle of power. He stood with the Eminence, with the Eminence’s hand on his shoulder. Herin’s fingerprints were different: see the power rub off on the boy from the First Family, now that he stood at the center? A wave of triumph flooded outward from Nekantor’s heart, knitting the last of his nerves back together. He looked out at the assembled crowd and smiled.

“Congratulations, Nekantor,” Herin said into the microphone. “I believe the spirit of your father was with us here tonight.”

Nekantor remembered to temper his smile with sadness. “This has been a difficult time for me,” he said. “I’m grateful for your indulgence and understanding. I give thanks to the Eminence, to the cabinet, especially Fedron and Lady Selemei, and of course to my father, without whom I would not be here. My job as Heir will be to learn from all of you.”

Herin waved his hand. “I invite you to join me in the ballroom for a celebration.”

Danger—the crowd would break—Nekantor quickly turned his eyes to the Eminence’s handsome face, so easy on the eyes.

Herin gave him a smile. “Do you want to know why I changed my mind about you?”

Oh, he knew why: because Herin was far more afraid of Innis than an inexperienced boy. But an inexperienced boy would not already know why; he would ask for his superior’s advice.

“Why?” Nekantor asked. “Because I forswore my earlier indiscretion?”

Herin chuckled. “Did you, now? Very good. No, really, I was thinking about our future. Innis is too old. We can’t have Heir Selections coming along too often; they’re not good for the Race.”

Nekantor nodded. “That’s true.”

Herin squeezed his shoulder. The power made his bones hum. The Eminence meant what he’d said—he had changed his mind, and that meant that the Third Family’s two votes had both come to the First Family. Of course, with a margin of victory of only eight to seven, that meant some people—people he should have been able to count on—had betrayed him.

Nekantor glanced back over his shoulder. The cabinet members followed behind them through the arch, nothing but relief and jubilation showing on their faces. Lady Selemei held Fedron’s arm—Amyel and Boros were laughing, Arith looking gleeful, and even Caredes smiled.

They could smile all they liked. He knew the truth: some of them were playing secret games. Somehow, he’d figure out who had fooled him. He had plenty of time ahead. And when he knew beyond a doubt, then he’d teach them a lesson.

He could play games as well as anyone.