“A what?” I’m asking as I examine the emeralds on my cuffs. I like the square cut, but they seem too earthy for the swan feathers sewn around the cuffs of my jacket. I’d prefer a warmer tone to match the aubergine of the jacket.
I cough to hide my shock at his words, disguising surprise as a delicate temperament – as I often do. The best snake is the one hiding in the grass.
Behind me, out the open window of my apartments in the palace, the setting sun is already being murdered for one more night, sinking quickly. Soon it will be buried by the ocean horizon. On its way to death, it makes itself useful and lights my father’s cruel face with golden rays.
“A bastard. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard the term. When a man very much wants a woman,” my father paused, “or at least wants her more than the one he’s married to –”
I cut him off, clipping my words to show my distaste. “I know what a bastard is. My question is why you haven’t mentioned one until now.”
Beneath us, the orchestra starts to play. In moments, we’ll be expected below – my father, Le Majest of the Winged Empire, and me, the crown prince. I always enjoy attention. I am not enjoying it now. It irritates me that he has turned one of my favorite delicacies bitter.
“You’ve heard the term, ‘An heir and a spare?’” My father seems bored. Or possibly irritated. Well, he can kiss dust. I don’t want to be having this conversation either and it’s not me who couldn’t clean up my mistakes.
“And are there other ‘spares’ lurking around the edges?” I ask, keeping my tone sharp even while I run graceful fingers through the curls over my brow to arrange them just so in the mirror. I have a pretty face. Even for a young man as young as me – almost thirteen. I know I am pretty. It is a weapon I plan to use for the rest of my life.
“There are not,” my father said grimly. “I learned my lesson from this single bastard. Now, if I lie with a woman, I’m certain to have her murdered within the next six months. You’d do well to heed my example. There are plenty of uses for blood in the Winged Empire, but not many uses for bastards.”
I adjusted the spill of white lace at my neck. It didn’t do to look flustered, even though he’d just announced there was someone out there with an eye for what was mine. Someone who would need to be dispatched. Immediately.
“But you didn’t think to do that at the time and now there’s a child running around with my blood in his veins and a claim to my throne. How enlightening you’ve been this evening, father.”
I turn from the mirror, just managing to hide a flinch as he speaks.
“I see you’re not as stupid as your dear mother was.”
“You’ll find I surpass all my forebears,” I say, not managing to keep the curl from my lip.
He snorts. “Arrogance is armor. Wear it well. But don’t wear it with me.”
I’m not about to discuss strategy with the man currently ruining mine. “And who exactly is this bastard?”
“You’ll see tomorrow,” my father says, his mouth twisting sourly. “Tonight, we must put on a show for our people. Tomorrow, have your servants prepare for a four-day journey. It shouldn’t take longer than that.”
“You don’t mean that I should meet this rival, do you?”
“Would you rather fear every face you see, wondering if it is his?”
My eyes narrow. So, he knows that I am afraid. That is a weakness.
“I fear nothing,” I say coolly, hoping he won’t see that my palms are sweating. I don’t dare wipe them on my trousers. He will certainly take note of that.
“Perhaps you should.”
And that is how I find myself on the edge of civilization – on a ship heaving on the seas. The ship’s turbulent passage echoes my own heart with the prospect of meeting my bastard half-brother ahead of me.
I’m finishing up a sword exercise with my trainer. He says I’m getting quite good, but my father hasn’t looked in this direction even once – not even when I got a clever strike and drew blood from poor Striker.
Honestly, he should be better than that. He’s a Swan Claw for sky’s sake! They’re supposed to be the best of the best. His pretty blue coat has thick white swan feathers embroidered up the sleeves and a pair of swans kissing on the breast – as if he were actually from my house – House of Swans – instead of just a commoner offering his blood to defend us.
Well, I took a little of that blood today, for all the good it did me.
Above us, a spirit albatross cries. His nearly translucent wings are stretched wide as he beats them hard to help drive the ship forward. It’s a cheap use of magic, but it’s not like we’re short on those who will offer theirs to us at any price. My eyes flick over to the Wing controlling the bird. He stands at the bow of the ship, hands held up as if he somehow thinks he’s the one doing the flying. I want to mock him for the gesture, but instead, my face grows hot. I have not Hatched. I will not be one of the Wings as he is, controlling a great bird with the power to send a ship fast over the waves or rip it apart with a single motion. I will not command my armies from the back of a great swan as my ancestor Fael Le Majest once did, or even walk always to birdsong as even a lesser Wing can manage.
My inability to manifest magic is one of the great disappointments of my father’s heart. As if he is the one who should be disappointed and not me. But there are other forms of power. I shall hold the lives of men in my hands one day and if I choose to make fists, they shall be crushed in my grasp. There’s comfort in that thought.
And if I’m being honest, I’ve never felt at home with birds. My interests lie elsewhere.
I stop the training with a slash of my sword. I’m done daydreaming and flowing through the sword forms. We’re almost there and I need to ready myself. Sheathing my sword and catching my breath, I snatch my jacket up from the bench, throw it around my shoulders, and hurry to the ship rail. It’s been a quick sprint from Kestral City. We left at dawn and it’s barely past midday. My father looks pleased.
“House Osprey,” he says with a pleased smile. “I always enjoy visiting here.”
I frown. Why is he smiling for the bastard’s home but not for me? I shrug my jacket on and carefully arrange my curls with a finger. Perhaps I’ll plunge the sword into the flesh of this bastard as I plunged it into Striker. But this time, I won’t hit his shoulder, I’ll go right for the throat.
It’s a solid plan and it makes me happy. The moment I see his face will be the perfect time to execute it, when no one is expecting the strike. Whatever woman my father took will likely cry at the death of her son, but she can hardly be important enough to cause me more than the barest inconvenience.
We are met by boats from the shore. Serious, dark-eyed men who bow very low to my father and talk about the great honor of serving the Winged Empire greet us. I barely manage to suppress a yawn. I have never liked House Osprey. General Petren is the head of their House and he is forever looking at me with censure in his eyes. I wonder which woman in his keep my father got with child. The General can’t be happy about it.
I finally manage a smile as I see him on the shore, waiting for us. This will be uncomfortable for him, I’m sure. Doubly so if I kill the little changeling.
Which I will.
I take from my pocket a small silver whistle – my house gift for House Osprey. It’s tradition to offer a small item as a gift when visiting. Some servant thrust it into my hand. It’s barely worth the effort of passing on.
We get in the boats and I watch Petren of House Osprey bob nearer and nearer. He looks ill, his face more drawn than I am used to, but he makes the sign of the bird – a clawed finger to each shoulder and then the forehead – and bows low. Whatever troubles him has not affected his loyalty. Yet.
I don’t bother listening to the introductions and well wishes when we arrive on the shore. I am already sick of this place and my feet have only just touched the rocks of the shore. There isn’t even a proper port or dock here – just his brutish, looming castle on the side of the rocky coast and then rocks, rocks, and more rocks and the occasional osprey dipping into the grey sea. A little red blood in all this grey might brighten the place up.
On second thought, perhaps I like grey here – it helps to mark it as a proper prison to keep bastards in. He will find it difficult to harm me from here. I feel a sudden burst of relief, and then Petren bows lower and someone is brought out from his crowd of dark-clad followers and servants.
It’s a boy my age, skin dark, hair black, but eyes downcast. I have not seen his face yet. He is chewing nervously on a slender sliver of wood.
I feel my jaw clench and as I reach for my knife, I realize I’m not ready.
“May I present my son?” Petren says. “Vasyklo has just Hatched.”
An osprey appears on the boy’s shoulder – like magic. Because it is magic.
I grind my teeth as it spreads its wings. Its a purplish-white and already the size of a real osprey. It will only grow larger with time. Sour jealousy churns in my belly. My grip tightens on the little silver whistle in one hand and the hilt of my knife in the other.
And then he looks up and his icy blue eyes meet mine. It’s like I’ve been slapped.
Those are my eyes.
My father’s eyes.
The eyes of House Swan here in the face of this Osprey.
But I can’t stab him now – not when he is the son of General Petren.
The silver whistle crumples in my fist.
I am quiet for the conversation, quiet for the journey to the cold stone castle, quiet as we eat a light dinner together, and quiet when I’m ushered up to my room to sleep.
By the time I find myself alone, I am exhausted from trying to keep my fury off my face. Dispatching the bastard will not be easy. Not when he’s the son of the General – though clearly he is not or this wouldn’t be a problem. But Petren sees him as a son.
I have learned that he was born the same year I was – though several months before me. The thought of that makes my stomach twist inside me. Older than me. Not by much, but by enough that it could be a problem.
I have also learned that his mother was killed in the traditional way – to make it possible for his blood to be condensed enough to Hatch. The thought of that makes me furious. His blood was made purer while mine was made thinner. I should kill him now and quickly, but I saw the look in my father’s eye when we met, and I know it will not be simple. There was pride there. The pride of a man looking at his son. A pride I rarely see. This is going to be a problem.
My sleep that night is fitful, and in the morning, even a hot bath is not enough to make me feel whole again.
I lean on my window ledge, looking out, as I put the finishing jewels on my outfit and finish curling my hair between my fingers.
And that’s when I see him in the training yard below. He’s sparring with another boy. Training swords. They’re laughing together. He’s very good. Better than me, I realize with a sinking heart. But then again, his father is a general – a man of war and death – and mine shines at parties. Perhaps, if I stretch myself, I can still best him.
I decided to find out.
I take the steps down to the courtyard two at a time. I can’t wait to show him what I can do. I can’t wait to show everyone that I am the heir and that there’s a reason why I am.
I’m taking big strides. I’m enjoying the rush of air around me and the strange energy of this home on the cliffs. There are an awful lot of children here. I frown at them as I make my way into the sparring grounds.
I find a place along the rail at the edge of the ring, still frowning. It’s why I don’t notice Petren until he’s looking down at me.
“Juste Le Majest,” he acknowledges, making the sign of the bird. And in his eyes, I finally see the acknowledgment that I’ve been waiting for all my life. This man sees I am a predator. He sees that I am a threat to something he loves. I can’t help the slight smile that paints my face.
“You’ve come to watch my son spar?” He weighs the word son like it’s true.
“Perhaps,” I say lightly. “There are many children here.”
Petren grunts. He’s holding something, inspecting it, turning it over and over. Perhaps I should be horrified when I realize it’s a snake, but I am not. I’m enthralled.
“I brought them back with me from Canaht,” he says, still studying the snake. “We quelled the rebellion here and stole their children away. They’ll think twice before they rise against your House, Le Majest. If they so much as whisper rebellion we’ll start sending them small pine boxes.”
“And the snake?” I ask. I don’t care what he does with the children, though I do like the twisted mind it takes to make plans like that. I respect it. One day, people will hear of my deeds and respect them the same way.
“The snake is also from Canaht,” he says, twisting it so I can see the wedge-shaped face. The snake’s tongue flicks in and out of its mouth, a pale pink sliver against mud-brown skin. I’m utterly taken with it. “The rebels tried to slip it in my bed. A clever choice. This asp is smart. It bides its time. It strikes at just the right point.”
“And yet you live.” I’m careful not to put any emotion behind the word. I’m twelve, not stupid. I know not to make an enemy of General Petren – yet. Growing up is all about learning to bide your time. Just like the snake.
“The snake did not count on me being faster. It did not guess I was more violent and sure than it could ever be.”
Bold words. And yet here he was, watching a son that was not his fight on land that was not theirs. For this was the Winged Empire and every inch of it belonged to the crown.
“I must attend your glorious father,” General Petren says with a low bow.
“Must you?” I mutter, smiling slightly at the tightening of his mouth.
I should not make an enemy of him, but it didn’t hurt to twist the knives already in his belly. He must serve my father – even knowing his brat was not his own, and that his wife had also served my father. Perhaps by reminding him of that, I could see him side with me over the bastard he thought of as a son. Or perhaps not. It made no difference to me.
He leaves and I studied the figures battling on the training ground. Vasyklo is fast. He is taller than I, with a long reach. Fast and strong. I feel the sweat forming on my brow. He will be very hard to beat. But everyone has a weakness.
I watch intently as he dances around the other boy. His leg kicks out and the boy sprawls back at the same moment that Vasyklo’s training sword smacks his sword away. The boy sprawls in the dust and here it is – the chance to show him who is the winner. My instructor would be urging me to strike.
Vasyklo leans down and helps the other boy up.
And that is the weakness I’ve been looking for. Compassion. A deadly weakness and one I’ve rarely encountered, but there will be room to use it.
I launch myself over the rail and begin to unbutton my jacket.
“A worthy match, but I think I can best you,” I say, smiling winningly. People can rarely resist a smile from me. It’s the large eyes, I think, and the ability to make a fake smile look real by squinting just a little to simulate the lines around the eyes that real smiles usually produce.
“I’m not worthy of the honor, Le Majest,” my bastard brother says, looking away from me.
“Come, don’t play strange with me, House Osprey. I have traveled all this way to know you – blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh – and what better way to know a man than in the combat ring?”
Even a practice sword can slip. And dull blows can also kill. If he agrees, I may find a crack, a single moment bent just my way, perfect for placing the weight of my will on the right spot and with it to twist the future to my bidding.
“We’re neither of us men just yet,” he says softly, trying to walk past me.
And now I’m furious. But I know better than to antagonize House Osprey and General Petren. I know better than to antagonize my father. So, I grab the boy trailing him instead. He’s tall. Taller than the bastard. Taller than me. But he makes a satisfying squeak when I reach up and seize his throat.
“If not him, then perhaps you,” I say to him. “Spar with me in this ring.”
Maybe now isn’t the right time to kill the bastard, anyway. Maybe now is a good time to take from him. This boy looks over at him, as if asking for help or guidance. That trust, that friendship – no one has ever given it to me. That’s something I could take. Why should a bastard have it when I never have?
“He doesn’t want to spar with you,” the bastard says, still not looking at me.
“Doesn’t he speak for himself?” I ask. “What gives you the right to choose for him?”
My half-brother’s bright blue eyes finally meet mine and I see he has some of me in that dark face – some of my sharp cheekbones and pointed chin. His hair curls, too, though it’s cropped so close to the scalp you can hardly tell. His nose is long and straight – just like mine. I hate any part of him that looks like me. I should cut it all off.
“The children in this keep are under my care,” he says quietly.
“Your care?” I’m incredulous. “All of them?”
“Yes.”
“Are you their nursemaid?” I can barely keep the derision from my voice. I don’t know why I bother.
His face has gone still as if it isn’t worth it to answer me. No one treats me that way. I snatch my knife from my belt and put it to the common boy’s throat.
“Spar with me or you will have one less charge, nursemaid.”
The bastard’s eyes are fire and fury. He throws a practice blade at me and I let go of the boy’s throat to catch it.
“As you say, Le Majest,” he says and while the words are proper, there is disrespect in his tone. I hate him for it. I will smash him apart.
I return my knife to my belt and assume the start position – the back of one hand placed at the flat of my lower back, the other hand out, sword tipped toward my opponent. I watch him with careful eyes. A bout of swordplay is part physical and part mental. I am better than him mentally. He will see why in a moment.
I don’t care for his starting position. He seems utterly relaxed, arms at his sides. Sword tip down. It looks lazy.
I try a testing strike and my blade teases toward him. He barely seems to move, and his blade is up, smacking mine away.
Not bad. I try another feint.
Again, he bats it aside.
He’s fast.
I’m starting to get nervous.
I try a series of quick strikes meant to end on a dramatic flourish, but suddenly he’s moving. He dances out of the way and swipes me on the backhand. I dodge quickly, but the follow-up strikes he sends my way are intense.
They knock me back.
And then back again.
Like a flash of lightning, his bird appears behind him – not attacking, but just hanging there like a second sun in the sky. It’s enough to distract me and I’m down, kissing the dust.
I let out a harsh curse of frustration.
He offers me his hand. It’s all I can do not to hit it with my practice sword. Instead, I ignore it and pull myself to my feet, glowering.
He’s bested me sparring. And he has that bird – the power of magic in a world where that means everything.
He makes the sign of the bird respectfully and then leaves – as if I’m just any other opponent – but as he exits the ring, the other children gather around giggling and laughing and offering him praise for the bout.
I can’t help the hate that wells up in me. And I wouldn’t stop it even if I could.
I dust off my fine clothes and look up at the window above me. Someone is looking down. My father, perhaps. Seeing my humiliation and how poorly I stack up against his bastard son. I can’t help but wonder what kind of a trap this is? I’ve never encountered one like it before. This trap has a beating heart.
I am quiet for the rest of the day. But this time it is not the quiet of suppressed emotion. This quiet is the quiet of someone trying to think through a difficult puzzle.
Why had my father brought me here? He’d told me it was time to meet my bastard brother. He’d told me I should be afraid. He’d mentioned an heir and a spare.
I am walking down the rocky shoreline as I toss it around in my head. This beach is as inhospitable and chaotic as the whole situation. I want to kick the grey rocks and smash them into the grey sea, but I must concentrate on the problem at hand.
Royal siblings are never allowed to live after Le Majest is crowned. My own father slit his sister’s and brother’s throats when he ascended the throne. So, why encourage a sibling now?
Unless he wants this to be a competition. Unless he wants to see which of us has what it takes to rule. A chill goes through me and I throw a rock into the sea. If this is a competition, then it is weighted against me. I have not Hatched. I do not have a mighty bird made of magic to come as I call and tear as I demand. I am not better in the sparring ring.
So, what do I have? I have my father’s ear. I have time in court. But those things can easily be snatched away.
If I want to survive, I need a plan and it’s a plan that involves either killing my bastard brother here and now – which will be harder than I’d expected – or ascending to the throne and killing him later with the law backing me.
Either way, the only livable outcome is his death.
I am not displeased by this.
But I am also not one to leave anything to chance.
I must have a plan to ascend and that means I need the odds to favor me more than they do. Right now, the great lady luck is not my benefactor. She shines her favor on my rival.
The wind is whipping my curls into a tangled frenzy when I return to the castle and my spirits are in even more turmoil. Who would have thought I would still have a heart that could break?
A servant finds me, frantic, telling me that my father has been asking for me. Which means the time has come. He’s about to reveal why he has come to this hollow castle to deliver this gut-wrenching blow. And I must be ready. How I react now – what I say – what I ask for – this will determine my fate. I must be clever. I must ask for exactly the right things but not for too much. It will be a delicate balance. I am delicate, so I am the perfect person to get this right.
I follow the servant and find them gathered around a hearth beside a raging fire. General Petren has brought out his finest tiger-skin rug and a chair so ornamental it almost looks like a throne. My father is ensconced in the chair.
I love the imagery of the fire. Really well done, Petren. We are all of us raging hot inside, I can see it. And so, apparently, can he.
My father sits closest to the fire, resplendent in finery, his eyes blazing as I enter. He is not angry. No, I can see the blaze in his eyes is cunning and expectation. He almost seems to be entertained by what is about to happen – or possibly hopeful. With him, ambition always leads, and this encounter can only help him achieve whatever ends he has planned with this excursion.
General Petren sits opposite him, stark and brutal beside my peacock of a father. He – I can see – is raging inside. A simple emotion and one easy to ignore. He can only lose, no matter what comes next. I don’t envy him, but I also don’t care. He has no power right now. He can only wait for his fate. He fixes me with a hot glare. I make a note of it so that I may punish it when one day I rule his fate.
I save looking at the bastard until the end and what I see there pleases me most of all. Defiance. Judgment. He burns with hatred for us. Nothing could please me more. Hate blinds the eyes and a rebellious spirit is easily deceived. I do not smile – but not because I don’t want to. I must balance carefully to get this just right. I must not tip my hand.
“My son,” my father says as I make the sign of the bird. “Your tardiness has almost cost you something of value.”
“Not your favor, I hope,” I say, my words careful.
His eyes narrow, catching my choice of words and his head tilts slightly to the side. He is not displeased. The more I scheme the more he can see all his hopes and ambitions may one day be fulfilled in me.
He does not ask us to sit and Vasyklo looks as if he could stand there all day in his military-like pose. I do not ask for a seat. I do not wish to look weak beside him.
“You all may have wondered,” my father began, “why I brought my son here to meet you. You may have wondered why it was now and not later. Why it had to happen at all.”
I can see in General Petren’s eyes that he has certainly wondered this.
“The Winged Empire is our mother and our one great love,” my father continues. He always starts with this call to adoration of nation before he says something that I will particularly dislike. “It is in her service that we meet today, for the succession of the Empire is of absolute priority. The skies have given me a fine son, and yet accidents happen. Ambitions take hold. Fates hang in the balance.”
Vasyklo’s brow is furrowed like he doesn’t realize he’s being told he could be emperor someday. Little dust-kisser.
“And so, it is incumbent on me,” my father says, “to provide my nation both an heir and another who may fill his shoes were he to fall.”
An awkwardness fills the room – and no wonder. Does he really think General Petren forgives him for taking his wife now that he’s been given these flimsy reasons? Does he think I forgive him for that? I keep my face smooth and placid. If Petren stands up and knifes my father in the heart, that can only benefit me. I must not show that I share his fury.
We are the only ones here. The Claws who guard my father stand outside the door. He must have great faith in the self-control of his general.
Beside me, the bastard shifts nervously. I would enjoy his discomfiture more if it wasn’t a sign that he was also intelligent. My father has crafted for me the worst of enemies and now he draws that enemy to his bosom.
“I have arranged this meeting so that you may be bound before me by a Sky Binder.”
Wait.
“It is essential that neither of you takes the other’s life prematurely.”
I should have struck yesterday. Skies take it! I should have struck and risked the General’s wrath. My heart is racing. I can feel the blood draining from my face. I have lost my chance.
“For if you do, you shall not ascend to the crown.”
I look frantically from face to face. Now that he’s said those words, I can’t just strike. Not unless I can kill all three of them before I’m subdued. I try to weigh the odds. I do not think I am fast enough. I already know the bastard is faster than me. And the General is renowned for his prowess in battle. Even now – a broken man inside – he is wide and powerful.
I swallow down fury, forcing it back into its cage as my father rings a bell and the door opens. I don’t even look at the woman who glides forth in silky white robes. Panic surges through me, momentarily blinding me to her serene face and the spirit eagle hovering over her. She will bind us to this oath. She will bind me to damnation.
I take a deep breath and try to force the panic down. I need to turn this. Quickly. And for that, I need a clear head.
“She will bind you so that neither of you may kill the other or directly harm him. If one is hurt, the other will feel the pain along with him. If one dies, the other will gain what is his – both power and inheritance. When one of you is raised to the throne, the other will die immediately. But you will be bound to avenge that death, so do not seek it.”
“You raise him high and bring me low with the wave of your hand,” I say, interrupting him. His eyebrows raise, but he is not angry. I see a glimmer in his eye. He knows I am going to fight for my life, and he likes it. He always enjoys watching things die fighting – like in the tiger matches he arranges. “I can see how this benefits him. He has a chance to reign.” I nod to the bastard. He makes a quiet sound in his throat that sounds like denial. As if any of us cares about his opinion. “It benefits the general, because one day his son – raised by him even if born of cuckoldry – may rule the Empire.” I love the fury I’ve stirred in the eyes of the general. Oh yes, Petren, let’s not forget the crime that brought us all here. “And it benefits you, for the sport of this endeavor shall be the food of your soul for years to come.” My father smirks. I’m not wrong about him. “But it in no way benefits me. Why should I agree to such an arrangement?”
“You mistake me, son,” my father says, and his words remind me of General Petren’s snake. “I bear a risk in this, too, for if one of you dies the other will immediately ascend to the throne. The binding shall ensure it.”
I freeze, startled. It is unlike him to take on any kind of risk. My eyes narrow.
“No other emperor has made such arrangements.” I’m trying to dig for information. I feel as though I’ve been put on my back foot.
“My line shall be powerful. Only the strongest of my sons shall survive and rise to the throne. And if you are that strong, you deserve to have it over me.”
Now, Petren smiles. He is certain this means his heir shall reign. To my shock, it is the bastard who speaks.
“And if I wish to decline your generosity?”
My father’s face goes white and now I can’t help but smile. White means furious.
“Then I shall have my Claws skin you alive right now before your entire household and we shall hang your body on the wall – still living, but without its skin – and let the sea birds pick you apart. How many days do you think you shall live in such slow agony? And I will let my son watch you decay and think on how rebellious spawn are treated.”
Vasyklo – skies take him! – has the sense to shut his mouth. His only reaction is a shifting of his weight and an even stonier expression. Petren has taught him well.
A stab of fear strikes through me. He is too intelligent. Too self-controlled. If I am bound to him, I will lose.
“Father,” I say, and I try to weight the word with an affection I do not feel. My heart is pounding. This is my last chance. “Your goals are admirable, and they speak to your great selflessness.” Sure, they do. He’s the same sadist he’s always been. “But may I beg a boon? For after all, I am the son of your blood and also the son of the law – for my mother was your wedded wife and all of the Winged Empire expects that I shall ascend after you fall – may that time never occur.” I can make the evilest of lies sound pretty. “Does that not entitle me to one request?”
The color returns to his face. This is more what he was hoping for – scrambling, desperation, dancing to the game he has set. He smiles and I know he will at least listen. I’m grateful I spent the morning by the sea. If I had not thought this through in advance, I would be shipwrecked.
“Make your request,” my father says, motioning to the Sky Binder who is already arranging her tools on a small table beside him.
“As the natural heir to your throne, I think that I should be granted a small advantage. After all, you are asking me to fight for something that is already mine.”
I pause, letting the proposal settle over everyone. My father flicks a finger telling me to go on. I can barely hide the surge of hope that shoots through me. He is intrigued.
“Bind us as you wish – but bind me in the superior position. I know your heart and your will. This knowledge makes me yours in a way he is not. Bind us so that he may not refuse a command from me or disobey my will.”
The bastard’s eyes snap to me and his self control almost breaks.
“I may not kill him or harm him with my own hand, what harm could there be in giving me the chance to fulfill the duties of the crown prince while we both live? He may be my right hand and my help and in that way learn all that is necessary to one day rule – but he will serve as he learns – which is right and fitting for all your subjects.”
My father is considering it. “A bond like that one requires some kind of motivation. And I do not wish to see him physically harmed.”
I allow myself to smile. My father will like this final touch.
“He is quite taken, it would seem, with the fate of those child captives the loyal general has brought back from Canaht. Why not tie their lives to this bond? For every disobedience on his part, let one of their lives be taken.”
“No,” the bastard gasps. His dark skin is going grey.
The pride that shines in my father’s eyes is almost overwhelming. My heart soars, basking in what I have never before received.
“Truly you are my heir,” Le Majest says, and I feel as if I have already won. He turns to the Sky Binder. “Bind them exactly as he has said.”
She looks up with cool efficiency. She has three golden feathers in her hand. “The captive children will need to be brought so that their souls may also be bound in the oath.”
“No, please!” The bastard is pathetic. He didn’t come here with a plan like I did.
My father rings another bell. He’s speaking to his loyal Claws. Two of his Wings enter the room and the moment they do, their birds – an owl and a hawk – descend on the bastard, hovering over him. I know why they’re there. If he tries to use his bird, they will nullify its power. I always find magic fascinating, but it’s not the spirit birds that I’m watching, it’s the bastard.
I watch as panic seizes him, crawling up his spine and flushing his face until it’s too much for him. His bird manifests above him – purplish white and powerful. The spirit owl and spirit hawk attack at once, shredding his manifestation with shrieks and caws. It’s gone in moments.
“Please,” the bastard begs. “Please not the children. I will accept the other punishment. Hang me on the wall.”
He thinks he’s being brave. He’s a fool.
“Please!”
He’s frantic. Begging. Glassy-eyed. I don’t dare breathe a sigh of relief but I feel it filling me. I was right about the compassion. I found his one weakness and now I don’t look like the one who will fail.
It doesn’t take them long to round up the children, though there are even more than I thought. About two hundred, give or take. Some infants in the arms of servants. Others as old as the bastard and me. They come in every age in between. Most of them are crying and every one of them is looking at my rival. They will watch him betray them with their own eyes. They will know he is the one responsible when one of their number falls and never gets up again.
The ceremony begins and the Sky Binder starts her intonations.
I can barely contain my triumph. But I do. I have found a foothold and I will use it, and use it, and use it until I’ve broken him. Until I win. I don’t need to kill him or harm him with my own hand. He will harm himself. I will use his hands and his heart to break him.
“Remove your jackets and tunics,” the Sky Binder intones. I shed mine like a snake, but the General has to hold the bastard down and cut his from his unwilling body. I love the betrayal in that. Vasyklo must think of the man as his father and yet Petren is forcing him to the ground and ripping his protections from him just like my father is doing to me.
I’m surprised when my father removes his fine coat and even finer skysilk shirt.
I meet his eyes.
“I grant you your boon, Juste Montpetit,” he says to me over the weeping of the children and the furious curses of my bastard brother. “But do not think this costs me nothing. I am bound with you both – neither of you may harm me or kill me, but if one of you dies, I will die with that one, leaving the single remaining son my sole heir. And you both will be bound to obey me and answer to my every command.”
I don’t know whether to curse or feel triumph at this. I had meant to kill my father when the time was right. My hands feel tied by this new binding. On the other hand, if I can manage to manipulate the bastard into death, it will kill two birds with one stone. Two birds. I can barely keep the pun inside. Or the laughter.
“It seems like a fair ruling, father,” I say as the Sky Binder begins to sing and her eagle flares bright and hot – so bright that I’m temporarily blinded by it.
I shake in the hold of the magic, my teeth rattling as pain seizes me, ripping through my body. I want to scream. I want to claw my eyes out. I think I might be screaming. I know my father is. The bastard barely moans.
And then it’s over and when I look down at my chest, there is a bright feather glowing under the skin. It’s the magic bond tying my soul to our arrangement. The bastard and my father have their own feathers, identical to mine.
“I should mention, son,” my father says, gasping form the pain. “I added my own little stipulation in the bond – a secret rule – something to keep the power where it belongs, in my hands. But I think I’ll keep the details to myself. I wouldn’t want you to think you can take my throne prematurely.”
There’s steel in his eyes and I feel a burst of panic. I clamp down on it tightly. It’s too late to do anything about it and by the glimmer in his eye, I know my father won’t tell me.
He’s the one laughing now, not me.
I look at the bastard and for the first time our eyes meet in understanding and I have to fight the urge to feel a bond there – the sense that we really are in this together, despite the fact that we’ve been set up as rivals and pitted against each other like two tigers in a cage.
He was my trap all along – a living, breathing trap – but not in the way I’d expected.