Empress Anastasia rules the uncontested Rasnaian Imperium, but her gilded cage threatens to become a tomb after her infant son and lord-husband die mysteriously in quick succession. Broken by grief, she turns the terrifying might of the Empire toward a singular goal: vengeance against the conspirators hidden within her treacherous court and the insidious forces lurking beneath.
Made regent of her late husband's twin heirs, Anastasia battles to build a relationship with her royal stepchildren, even as powerful courtiers seek to poison their minds against her. And with an old flame from a forbidden romance resurfacing, she finds her precarious hold on legitimacy dangerously close to annihilation. With every member of her regency council a suspect, Anastasia turns to unlikely allies outside the palace, including an aging shieldmaiden gladiatrix, a cunning smuggler prince, and a divine oracle of the Sacred Mysteries.
As her investigation pulls at the loose threads, she risks unraveling a dark mystery at the heart of the Rasnaian Imperium's ancient foundations—a secret so explosive it could shatter the Empire itself. To avenge her loved ones and secure her throne, Anastasia must confront the growing darkness before it consumes everything she has left—her people not least of all.
Empress Anastasia rules the uncontested Rasnaian Imperium, but her gilded cage threatens to become a tomb after her infant son and lord-husband die mysteriously in quick succession. Broken by grief, she turns the terrifying might of the Empire toward a singular goal: vengeance against the conspirators hidden within her treacherous court and the insidious forces lurking beneath.
Made regent of her late husband's twin heirs, Anastasia battles to build a relationship with her royal stepchildren, even as powerful courtiers seek to poison their minds against her. And with an old flame from a forbidden romance resurfacing, she finds her precarious hold on legitimacy dangerously close to annihilation. With every member of her regency council a suspect, Anastasia turns to unlikely allies outside the palace, including an aging shieldmaiden gladiatrix, a cunning smuggler prince, and a divine oracle of the Sacred Mysteries.
As her investigation pulls at the loose threads, she risks unraveling a dark mystery at the heart of the Rasnaian Imperium's ancient foundations—a secret so explosive it could shatter the Empire itself. To avenge her loved ones and secure her throne, Anastasia must confront the growing darkness before it consumes everything she has left—her people not least of all.
* * *
"Beneath a crown, the serpent's eye may hide,
Thine prince afflicted, whence hope yet resides.
An innocence bled may cleanse troubles past,
Yet Tyrant's shadow be ever long cast."
-Methodios
* * *
God’s vessel on earth was dead.
Golden sunrays poured down upon the high sovereign’s body, wrapped tightly in fine violet brocades save for what remained of his face, his solar father gazing lovingly upon his earthly vicar from the heavens above. His Imperial Lordship’s body lay in state on a marble slab atop the great dais of the Hieron of the Eternal at the Seat of Holy Wisdom, beneath the gold, silver, and electrum-speckled lens of its mighty domed oculus, known as the Eye of Atoum.
A boys’ choir sang gentle psalms from the upper gallery as deacons marched past the deceased with censers in the lower, filling the hall with the scent of frankincense and the sound of sombre music, smoke catching in rays of errant sunlight.
From every corner of the known world, mourners arrived at the Empire’s grand capital, eager to pay their respects to the dearly departed sovereign. The common folk’s viewing, with lines stretching for days across the archipelago’s many isles, had finally concluded earlier that morn. In this final hour, before the completion of His Majesty’s ceremonial embalming and interment, the Imperial elite would enjoy a private viewing for themselves.
But not all who arrived carried the weight of grief; some brought sharpened ambitions, others the air of disquiet, and some merely brought a watchful eye of their own.
One such mourner was Artemios Phokhas, Lord of Ephaisos and Doux of Ionaea. He was a man in his late twenties of impeccable noble stock, with an angular face and a finely chiselled jawline. Bearing an old bloodline built upon centuries of history, this young master embodied his family’s storied lineage, famed for their honeyed hair.
At court, it was said that only the Emperor himself could boast a near-comparable mane, with aged locks of gold turned platinum. Though now he mourned to see nearly all was singed away, His Majesty’s divine scalp burnt to horrid black, white, and red as it rested beneath a thin purple veil. A great rival vanquished.
“What a tragedy and bitter irony that such an august military prodigy should be brought down by his own war machines,” a familiar voice declared from behind. “Our enemies no doubt rejoice to see such an inauspicious turning.”
“My dear Lord Komnas,” the Phokhian duke greeted his elder statesman. “I know you would not sully such a sombre day by casting unfounded aspersions. Why, His Majesty’s esteemed guest mourns his passing as visibly as any other,” Phokhas said, nodding to the Kayanid Crown-Shahzada at the opposite side of the dais. The foreign ward was bowed before the Emperor’s body, quietly reciting a prayer in his mother tongue.
“Would that the Imperium’s foes remained limited to our eastern partners,” Komnas muttered into his fellow duke’s ear. “Perhaps you find it mere unfortunate coincidence, Your Grace, that His Majesty’s weapon, branded new, should turn so violently on its master.”
“Those infernal devices are by their nature volatile,” Phokhas said. “A power we should never have trifled with, much less encouraged our divine sovereign to wield. In any capacity.”
“Be that as it may, malfunctions have grown rare as the craft has improved.”
“Rare, perhaps. But should one occur, the consequences remain no less dire.”
“And if someone’s actions were to increase the likelihood of such an occurrence?” Komnas asked.
Phokhas briefly glanced to him. “Surely it is only incompetence you suggest, my lord. For none under the Empire’s holy banner would ever seek to harm our divine sovereign. Whoever could think to benefit from such a tragedy?”
“Yes. Ithi es cacni,” Komnas recited, his eyes darting. “Who, indeed?”
The two stood in taut silence as Phokhas scanned the atrium for every person of note. Many amidst the great gathering wished to offer condolences to their grieving Empress-Dowager, but her unusual absence lingered heavy in the air, a silence louder than any speech or song. In her stead, the Emperor’s elderly mother stood in the narthex to greet well-wishers as they entered. Rumours circulated that the young empress had departed the ceremony early and was abruptly escorted back to the Sacred Palace on business unknown.
And she was not the only one. The young duke noticed many prominent courtiers were absent today.
“Where is our esteemed master gunner now, hm?” Komnas asked. “I should think him most aggrieved. After all, ‘twas he who prepared His Majesty’s firearm. I would expect him, of all people, to be here, humbly begging forgiveness.”
“It seems he was aggrieved, most fatally,” Phokhas replied. “He took the noble path the very next evening, or hadn’t you heard?”
Komnas’ brow lifted. “Did he now? To think, he didn’t even invite me to the banquet? And here I thought Master Timon and I were such dear friends,” he said as Phokhas smirked. “Tell me, how did you enjoy the farewell feast?”
“I fear in poor Timon’s haste, it appears he forgot to invite me as well.”
“O? Curious. Come to think of it, I can’t name a soul who did attend,” Komnas said, surveying the chamber. “A noble suicide without a departing celebration? Why, I’ve not heard of such a thing. He must have been moved by some great force, indeed.”
Phokhas subtly nodded. “Grief moves men to do many a strange thing.”
“As does fear,” Komnas replied. A tense quiet briefly settled between them. “Well, I should hope his soul has found peace in His Radiance’s embrace.”
“Let us say a prayer for the departed, then,” Phokhas said. “For our dear sovereign and his hapless gunsmith.” Komnas nodded and folded his hands to lead a silent prayer before their emperor’s body.
As they finished, Phokhas studied the corpse of his erstwhile brother-in-law and the savage burns marring the exposed flesh of his face. Beneath the handsome layers of wax-impregnated silks and embellishments of silver and gold was likely an even sorrier sight. The aromatics stuffed into his royal cavities had almost proved adequate in masking the stench of embalming chemicals and charred flesh. Almost.
The doux was barely a man when last he attended a royal lying-in-state. Then he prayed before His Majesty’s first wife as she rested on this very dais. How things would have been different, he mused wistfully, if only his sister had lived. Why, they would likely not be here today at all.
His eyes were soon drawn to the Emperor’s right hand, conspicuously missing, said to be lost to his weapon’s malfunction. Truly a powerful explosion it must have been, a terrible accident none could have foreseen.
“I will have the truth,” his fellow duke whispered in his ear. “On my father’s bones.”
Beside him, the lord and master of all the Dardanaoi, Doux Xanthippos Komnas stood, watching not the departed emperor but the foreign princeling from across the dais. The elder duke bore a weathered and serious face, his pate long bald though a grey ribbon of hair remained, once ginger red, around his ears. His eyes held a raptor’s gaze, fixed upon their eastern rival’s heir-designate from afar, a hunt begun.
He leaned into the introspective Phokhas. “Watch close,” he said, stepping forward and clearing his throat.
“My good lords and ladies, hear how this rogue profanes His Radiance’s holy manse with utterances to his wretched sky god! And before the Emperor’s sacred vessel, no less,” Komnas grumbled, raising his voice to carry across much of the gallery. “Surely, it is some black curse the villain recites. He should be removed at once!”
The Kayanid royal subtly shook his head. “’Tis a prayer for forgiveness and a wish for eternal peace, my dear lord doux,” he replied, without looking up. “I pray the Lord of Wisdom’s holy fire grants his immortal soul a wide path across the Bridge of the Requiter, that he may be judged worthy of everlasting paradise.”
The elder duke stepped to the opposite side of the dais. “You’ve some gall to speak of fire on such a day as this, Kayanid prince. No doubt it pleases you to believe that Our Lordship’s death was your wicked god’s doing. Tell me, is that the 'wisdom' it imparts — to rejoice in the flames that consumed our emperor? Speak, boy!” Komnas clutched the prince’s wrist tight, leaning in. “Tell us what you’ve done. Tell us what your friends intend for us all.”
Across the hall, heads turned to hear the duke's rising voice cut through the solemn atmosphere.
“Peace, my good lord,” Shahzada Aryan said, smiling, as he gently covered the duke’s hand with his own, eyes still closed in prayer. “Your basileios was a man of valour and honour, and a gracious host to me these many years. At times it would please me to think of him also as my father. While I may not speak for the Ohrmazd above, I must imagine he recognises His Majesty Tarkhuin’s quality as well as any other.” He opened his eyes and closed his fingers around the duke’s hand. “Come, my lord, why don’t you join me in prayer?”
Komnas jerked the prince’s arm and pulled him close, a mere inches from his face. “It matters not how well your tongue feigns friendship, flatterer. I see your mind and your heart, and they are as black as your father’s. Know that if I uncover proof of the Great Shah’s involvement in our Lordship’s death, I shall have you praying you cross your bridge as quickly as possible. A mercy I shall not afford you.”
The Kayanid watched the duke with eyes unflinching. Phokhas remained unspoken, observing their exchange with keen interest.
“Lord Komnas,” a voice rang out as the hall fell silent. The duke turned to address the intercessor.
His animosity had caught the attention of the Hierophant of Nova Arkhaepolis, His Holiness the Patriarch Panagiotis himself. Many immediately fell to their knees in reverence at his approach.
“This is a solemn event meant only for reflection and remembrance,” this highest of pontiffs said, the grace of his bearing second only to his fallen secular counterpart. “I will abide no acrimony beneath the God’s Eye on this day of all days.”
He pointed upwards to the great oculus, the silent, unblinking witness to those gathered below. “The young prince has shown no disrespect, and his prayer is one well-known to practitioners of his faith. I can attest to its sincerity and beneficence.”
The Komnian duke scoffed, releasing the prince’s arm and affording the high pontiff only a perfunctory bow to his presence. “You would do well not to abide enemies of our God within His very halls, Your Holiness. Theirs is a way of only deception. Believe in their kind’s sincerity and goodness at your peril. I should think your friends from the House of Doukhas might have learnt that lesson well.”
“Yet here be the Shahzada, mourning our beloved sovereign whilst our esteemed Doukhainan friends do not,” Doux Phokhas interjected. He gave a knowing look to his fellow duke as he walked over to assume the elderly pontiff’s attention. “Enlighten us, if it please, Holiness, why do neither the Empress nor her father make themselves present today? Do they not mourn as the rest of the Empire’s loyal subjects do? Does our basilissa not find it proper to make a public display of respect and remembrance to her husband as her lofty station demands?”
“Hear, hear,” Komnas said. “My nephew deserves better from his wife.”
“No doubt the Emperor’s widow finds the events of these past days as difficult to bear as any,” Patriarch Panagiotis said, a brusque tone betraying annoyance. “Let us show some kindness and pity, and remember that our young consort has only recently left her maternity bed. Being a first-time mother to a newborn babe is a great trial in itself. To lose one’s husband and sovereign during that same time, well—” he sighed as he clasped his hands together around his rosary. “Indeed. Let us noble gentlemen afford our beloved empress some patience and understanding in this trying time.”
“Former empress,” Komnas sneered, looking towards the apse where the royal children were seated, receiving condolences from visitors. “Our young twin sovereigns shall now rule under the enlightened guidance of their wise grandmother. This Doukhainan tyranny is smothered in its crib.”
“My Lord Komnas, your sister is no doubt a wise and pious woman and would make a most serene regent for the young boys,” His Holiness said, waving to the esteemed stateswoman in the narthex. “But I daresay you presume overmuch. The Altha Zilathia have yet to decide on the matter concerning custody of the royal children, and the College of Pontiffs shall stand behind whomever they choose with our full blessing. Daily do I pray for divine wisdom in their decision.”
“As do we all, Your Holiness,” Phokhas said as the Hierophant dipped his head with appreciation.
“With that, I shall bid you farewell, gentlemen,” His Holiness said. “There are many who yet require my guidance today. I fear my time is wasted on two souls who already have answers aplenty.”
The esteemed dukes bowed as the pontiff prepared to take his leave. The Kayanid prince politely mimicked the gesture and seized his moment to depart as well.
“Come, Your Highness,” His Holiness said. “I shall find you a place to pray undisturbed.” Komnas watched them both with contempt as they went.
“It would give me no greater pleasure than to send his pretty head back to his father in a sack,” he remarked once he and Phokhas were alone.
“The Kayanid or our beloved pontiff?”
“Whichever doesn’t have me join him immediately thereafter.”
“Until recently that would have been either.”
“No longer,” Komnas said. “The boy’s protector lies dead. We will finish what his father started. This ‘peace’ is merely a delay, and all know it.”
“The crossing-the-bridge bit was a nice touch,” Phokhas said, after a pause. “You nearly caused that saccharine veneer to crack.”
“I’ll have him under my blade one day, and he will do far more than crack. He’ll reveal all, and the Empire’s foes shall find themselves utterly naked.”
With mutual concern, the statesmen watched their late emperor’s fraternal twin sons, barely into their tenth years, with their elder sister from afar. One twin struck quiet and dour, the other appearing entirely unfazed and disinterested. Their sister, two years their senior, grieved bitterly whilst adorned in her brilliant sibyl vestments of white satin with gold filigree.
“You will be sure to invite me, won’t you?” Phokhas asked as Komnas looked to him in puzzlement. “If you should ever take the noble path, I mean.”
Komnas smirked. “Yours shall be the first invitation I write. I trust you’ll do the same?”
Phokhas nodded. “I think we understand one another perfectly.”
The two returned to viewing their royal niece and nephews.
“They are of our blood, not the Doukhai,” Komnas said, adopting a sombre tone. “Our enemies no doubt sense their vulnerability. It falls to us now to ensure their safety. I trust we are also of one mind in this.”
Phokhas turned from viewing his late sister’s children and towards his fellow duke as the two locked forearms.
“For God, Blood, and Empire, my friend,” he said.
“As sure the Sunrise,” his ally replied.
* * *
— CHAPTER I —
PURPLE BUNDLE, BLACK SHROUD
* * *
She bundled him in his swaddling clothes herself as habitually she would, the wet nurses and governesses standing idle, for none would dare interrupt.
The young mother wrapped her only child tightly and laid him to rest in his luxurious bassinet atop a soft feather pillow, sheets of damask, and an embracing of rich, warm cotton. Yet all merely cloaked a stillness no luxury could stir. He slept as peacefully as ever he had done, quiet as the grave, for this poor babe was dead.
Dispassionately she went through all the motions of preparing him for his bedtime routine whilst the room watched in respectful silence. She knew not any other action to take. Her heart lay full but her mind empty, too overwhelmed yet to confront the event. Normalcy would be her only comfort, and so she prepared her babe for his afternoon nap for the final time.
She ensured the curtains over the windows were drawn tightly to limit the light as one of the younger nurses sang to him a lullaby. The girl’s melodic voice was tender and sweet, but this child’s ears were long past hearing. Another waved a fan of soft, vibrant peacock plumes gently above the boy’s face, his lips blue and lifeless. The Tyrosian purple veil hanging from the mother’s diadem gently obscured her from view, but beneath lay a masque of cold stone.
The boy’s elder nursemaid wailed with grief in the next room as the mother gazed silently upon her son’s still face. She knew, but she couldn’t accept, as her own countenance lay frozen. ‘How?’ she wondered. He had already beaten the fever and had been doing so much better over these past few days. How could death take him now after such a recovery?
She had spent the last many days tending to her dying husband, and the long vigil had so robbed her of all her time and attention that she missed her son’s final moments on earth. Her emotions were spent, her grief exhausted. She could do naught but apologise to her poor child for not yet having the strength nor wits to mourn him as he deserved.
“I am so sorry, my love,” she whispered as she looked upon his sleeping face.
Hearing her domina speak for the first time since she entered the room encouraged the senior governess to finally approach.
“My dear sweet lady,” she spoke tenderly. “Allow us to care for him now. You must take rest.” The governess slowly led her away to the hall. As they approached, she could hear bellowing outside a voice she knew all too well.
“Where is the Empress?” he demanded as she emerged. Immediately the man approached her, gently caressing her arms and kissing her forehead. “My dear, I came as soon as I heard. O Ana, tell me it isn’t so.”
Beneath the words of comfort wafted the bitter air of politics, a stark contrast to the silent, heartbroken vigil within the room, and within her heart. As she looked upon her father, her nose tingled, her chin quivered, and her eyes welled. It was the closest she had heard anyone come to saying it outright. Even when the messenger came to inform her of the news, all he said was, “Déspoina, I fear you must come at once. It concerns the babe.” Just hearing her father speak of it made it feel too real already.
“Your grandson rests inside, Papa,” she replied with emotional void. She performed a desultory curtsey and departed for her chambers escorted by several consoling handmaidens. Her father turned towards the child’s bedchamber door and, after a deep breath, entered.
* * *
An eerie pall was cast over the room, heavy with the silence of a life barely begun. Andronikos Doukhas, First Secretary and Grand Chancellor of His Imperial Lordship’s government, brother of the Doux of Trapezion, and father to the Empress-Consort, looked upon his grandson, the newborn Prinkeps Arnza Tarkhuinal Zel-Rasnas tou Aurelianos, as he lay dead in his opulent bassinet. Observing the tiny bundle in his rich trappings, it was not a frown that stole across his face but a scowl.
Infant mortalities were no uncommon thing, even for royalty, he accepted. The boy had been born more than half a month early and was suffering from terrible bouts of fever during his first weeks of life. But for his daughter’s only child to pass so soon after her husband was far too convenient by half. His clan was vulnerable, his enemies many, and this tragedy was all too generous a gift to them to simply be His Radiance’s design, he surmised. Yet in the face of such weighty death, his mind reached only for advantage, his sole play to stave off the terrifying notion of losing grasp.
All around he felt the gaze of the many nurses and servants, governesses and stewards, handmaidens and attendants, watching all but speaking not. Were their eyes their own, he wondered? The mood of the babe’s chamber grew thick with unspoken fear, as if shadowed by unseen thoughts. He must act quickly, lest their latent designs devour him whole.
He snapped his fingers towards the nearby Palatina Guard officer, Kostas, bidding the man come forth. He did so with a dutiful bow. The chancellor would have for him but one question.
“Who knows?” Lord Doukhas asked, to the man’s subtle surprise.
The kentarch looked about for the many watching eyes and open ears. “Surely few beyond the closest caretakers and physicians,” he answered. “But Eparch Bessarion has sent riders to inform the Basilika, Senate, and High Praetors of a royal passing as is protocol.”
“You will apprehend them all at once,” Doukhas ordered. Kostas looked to him in astonishment.
“My Lord Chancellor,” he said delicately. “You know I cannot supersede my commander’s orders.”
Doukhas closed distance. “Whom do you serve, Kentarch?”
“The Imperator,” he replied. There was a pause. “And his closest of kin, my lord.”
“The Imperator is dead. It is his empress’ wish that news of their son’s tragedy remains a private matter until she’s had proper time to grieve. Any who are at risk of defying the Empress’ wishes must be taken into protective custody. I will inform the commander of his error as well. Is that understood?”
Kostas nervously nodded his head.
“Good. Now, off with you,” Doukhas said. “And should any ear outside these walls hear word of this before I deign to inform them, it will be your head.”
The kentarch was immediately off with his fellow Palatina sergeants to intercept his commander’s messengers. Armsmen belonging to the House of Doukhas poured into the bedchamber of the eternally sleeping prince thereafter. The nurses and stewards watched them with trepidation.
“Arrest them all,” the chancellor ordered.
* * *
The pillars of the ancient temple held their secrets close, the weight of centuries pressing down in the hush. Rhamza Tarkhuinia Zel-Rasnas tis Aureliana prayed in solitude before the grand altar in the apse of the Hieron of the Eternal, her royal father’s viewing long completed. A procession of many of the Empire’s most prominent citizens, led by the Doukes Komnas and Phokhas, delivered him to the bowels of the ancient temple. There, his embalming would be completed according to ancient tradition before being interred deep in the royal necropolis with his ancestors for all time. The great gallery was quiet and emptied as the hour grew late, sombre as if the stones themselves mourned in silent reverence.
Tears fell from her delicate maiden cheeks, yet raw from hours of grief, her lament a whispered song. A great bronze statue of His Divine Radiance, the ascended mortal Atoum, was before her, with the brilliant Banner of the Twenty-One-Pointed Sun arrayed behind Him. Hundreds of white candles illuminated the altar, bathing the effigy of her empire’s god in golden light. Yet even the many candles’ glow paled beneath the light of His Eye above, lingering long past day’s end. It seemed today, even His Radiance was reluctant to rest.
It was to Him she prayed, her God and her ancestor, as it was His holy blood that ran through her veins. Of all things, it was a prayer for forgiveness, for her heart ached with more than simple loss.
“I know those tears,” a matronly voice spoke, approaching from behind. “They are tears of guilt, not grief. I know them well, for I have borne them many times myself.” She came to a halt just behind the girl. “And by now they have all run dry, for they are but lies, my dear. In time, you will understand.”
“But how am I to feel anything but guilt?” the princess asked.
“Stand and face me when you speak, child,” the woman commanded.
The Prinkipassa wiped her eyes as she turned to address Matriarch Laraniia-Araziia Zel-Rasnas, Hierophantissaof the enigmatic Cloister of Oracles, mistress and keeper of the Sacred Mysteries.
This blind seeress wore temple vestments as brilliant white as she, but with silver embroidery to match her long hair as it radiated against the low golden sunbeams bathing the temple. Over her head, she wore a veil of plain-woven violet silk with a linen blindfold of deep crimson over her eyes. Her voice was erudite and regal, as truly a sister of an emperor should be, though not to the recently deceased, but rather his father. She walked without assistance, ever sure-footed of her path and purpose as her bare feet glided over the immaculate marble floor, barely touching.
“Yes, Your Reverence,” Rhamza said, rising from her knees to offer a deferent curtsey. The elder presbytera approached her young acolyte, delicately brushing her locks of deep chestnut behind her ear as the girl looked to the floor.
“You only feel so because you still cling to the illusion of will,” Matriarch Laraniia-Araziia said. “We are but instruments of destiny, child, spokes on a great wheel. Everything we have done and will do has been preordained by movers far greater than ourselves.”
“By the gods, Your Reverence?”
The Matriarch heartily laughed before looking about to see if any other temple primates were within earshot. “No, child,” she said, leaning closer. “Something much greater, and They have gifted you brief glimpses of Their grand designs. Not so you may intervene, but rather to gain a bit of wisdom from Their example. For to see any more than a glimpse would render any mortal mind mad.”
“Yes, Your Reverence,” Rhamza said.
The Matriarch smiled. “Release yourself of your cares, child. You belong to the Temple now. Let go of your attachments and look beyond this earth for your purpose. You’ve seen much horror already and you know well there is more to come. Much more. Liberate yourself now, before the coming of sorrows.”
“Yes, Your Reverence. I shall try.”
The Matriarch sighed. “You feign understanding, but you have not. I see your heart, child. You still believe your gift will allow you to prevent what comes. Your agency is but a myth, girl. Try, if it please, but none can alter destiny. Even should one change the route, the destination ever remains the same.”
Young Rhamza nodded to the blind woman, who grinned in reply.
“Run along now, child. To your bed, the hour is late,” the Matriarch said as the princess bowed her head and turned to depart.
“Think on what I say when you take vespers, girl. Any mortal attempt to alter the Path is hubris, a grave error. And all such errors are corrected in time,” she said, gazing upon the statue of His Radiance, the once-mortal God-King Atoum. Long did she hold His gaze.
“Their time.”
* * *
The captain of the Doukhas household guard fumbled clumsily about the Empress’ bedchamber, exchanging the linens on the bed, folding and hanging clothes in the adjacent wardrobe. He had all the finesse of a three-legged mongrel, the Dowager-Empress Anastasia thought, as she stood watching him inscrutably. Her bedsheets were wrinkled, the linens were folded against the seams, and not a single garment was dabbed with even a bit of the scents before being hung up.
“All wrong,” she said as sweat dripped from his nervous brow. “Is it your pleasure to make your empress’ domicile unliveable?” He turned immediately to acknowledge her and dipped his head low.
“Apologies, Déspoina,” he said. “I am afraid my wife and her maids handle such matters at home. I’ve never been adequately trained for such domestic tasks.”
She glowered at him unmoved. “You lot might have considered that before you carted my poor ladies-in-waiting off to the Aranthas. Young Daphne has a deathly aversion to mould and dust. Eugenia is terrified of enclosed spaces. For Nicoleta, it is the dark. What justification do you offer for subjecting fine, virtuous women to such discomfort, good Ioannis? The least you could do is fulfil their duties whilst they’re gone. The least I could do is let you know how you compare.”
“I am merely following your father’s command, Déspoina,” he replied. “’Tis not my place to ask justifications.”
“He is your master, but I am his,” she said. “I could order them all released at once, and for you to take their place. I am still your and my father’s empress, am I not?”
Komes Ioannis looked to the floor as though trying to find the appropriate words for a delicate response. “That we do not yet know, I fear, Basilissa. The Altha Zilathia have yet to make their ruling. Believe me, as soon as we receive word that you are imperatrix, I shall follow your commands to the letter over any other. I mean you no distress.”
“Why do you insist on torturing my poor guard captain, Ana dear?” a voice enjoined from the doorway. Anastasia turned to address her father.
“Because I’ve been calling on you for hours with no answer,” she said. “How better to summon you than to deprive you of your chief enforcer?” She returned to the count. “Ioannis, your role is now fulfilled. You are dismissed. Leave everything right where it is. I shall have to redo all of it myself anyway.”
“Yes, Déspoina. Apologies, Déspoina,” Ioannis said as he dutifully bowed to both lord and lady and took his leave.
“You are upset,” Andronikos Doukhas said as the door closed behind the guardsman. “And you have every reason to be, but matters must be addressed delicately or we risk finding ourselves even greater trouble.”
“The capital has been nothing but trouble for us since we arrived,” she replied, stripping the bed of its linens to remake it. “This is His Radiance’s way of telling us we never should have come. Let us take his signs to heart for once and return home. Allow Empress-Mother Velthuria the regency. She at least has some blood relation to the boys. I know I desire it not.”
He approached her.
“I am afraid that is not an option,” he said, taking her hands to stop her work. “We have a duty to stay and protect our interests — to protect ourselves, rather. Look at me, darling.” She reluctantly lifted her head to meet her father’s eyes. “We are in danger, Ana, and fleeing home to Trapezion will not save us. Our house remains weak, and our rivals shall continue to devour us piece by piece if it remains so for much longer.” He released her hands and turned away. “Alas, I suspect they may have already made their first strike.”
Her blood ran cold, her eyes and mouth lay frozen wide as she recoiled, struggling to comprehend his implication.
“You can’t mean it, Father.”
Pensively he scratched at his bearded chin and began to pace. “Forgive me. I do not mean to burden you with an old man’s suspicions. What has happened is a terrible tragedy none could have foreseen. Now two such tragedies unforeseen, just when we were making great progress in earning the Emperor’s forgiveness. I fear we shall forfeit everything we’ve worked for if we vacate the capital now.”
She shook her head. “I should think you and Uncle Nikephoros far beyond earning my husband’s forgiveness now.” Speaking of His Majesty’s death threatened to make her think of their little one and her composure began to waver.
Her father looked around the room instinctively, as if compulsively making sure there were no other ears present before answering. Yet even the gods below could do little about the ears within the walls themselves.
“But perhaps we need it no longer,” he whispered, drawing closer. “For when you are declared regent of the twins, all the powers of state shall be yours. This is our moment. You are the key to our house’s revival, Ana. And our very survival, I fear." He leaned away to look on her with pity. "I wish it were not so. I wish it did not have to fall on you, especially at such a trying time as this. But alas, we must all do our duty to the house, no matter how unpleasant.”
He sighed and took her hands in his. “Your uncle and I have made mistakes. I admit that. But I do not believe they are so egregious as to merit the end of us. We will not be the generation that presides over our house’s destruction. We must not be. Your uncle does his part in Trapezion, as does your Aunt Kassandra in far Czerniygrad, and I, here. And you — you must do your part here as well.”
“My son is dead, Papa,” she finally admitted as her father looked down and grasped her fingers tightly.
“Yes, Ana, he is. And devastating as that is, he was our best argument for securing custody of the boys.” She frowned and averted her eyes as he continued. “I hope you can understand my reasons for ensuring word of our tragedy doesn’t spread beyond these walls too soon. Everyone we’ve confined to the Aranthas will be right as rain soon after tomorrow’s ruling is made. I am sorry to ask this deception of you, but it will lead to happier days for all of us. This I promise. And should all this prove more than a terrible happenstance—”
He paused to muster a deep sigh. “Then my wrath will be without end. His Radiance’s destruction of the old Pantheon will pale in comparison to the reckoning I shall unleash. This also do I promise you.”
She remained silent as she listened. Talk of more death and suffering was not the comfort her papa believed it to be.
“But you needn’t hear such things,” he continued. “It would be best for you to find time to grieve in the meantime. Your testimony will likely be required tomorrow before a verdict can be decided, and a clear mind will do much to prove your fitness for the regency. You might even find a moment to mourn the Emperor’s passing with your stepsons. A good rapport with them will be most necessary going forward, but you must tell them nothing of the babe.”
“I am a perfect stranger to them, Papa,” she said.
“All the more reason to make the effort now. Grief can be a powerful tool to bring people together, and already I fear the claws the Phokhades and Komnai have dug into them. We need the boys as close to us as possible, and no other. Please tell me you are willing to do what needs to be done. I must know I can count on you.”
She failed to answer, quietly distressed by her father’s preoccupation with his designs on such a day as today. It was to be expected, she accepted. Her father was who he was.
“Ana,” he pressed.
Finally, she nodded. “Yes, Papa. But first you must release Iatrós Lazaros from confinement. He alone has what I need to grieve properly. I shall take responsibility for him.”
“Out of the question, I am afraid,” he said with a shake of his head. “You must be in a proper state of mind to give adequate testimony tomorrow, and I need him to preserve the boy for burial whilst we still have him in custody. I will release the good iatrós along with everyone else once a decision is made. He may medicate you at that time. Within moderation, of course.”
She received the news with grim despondence, saying nothing but dutifully accepting.
“I shall send the chaplain along shortly to lead you in your evening vespers. Once he has finished reciting departures for the child’s soul, that is. I have much work to do now, my dear, but I shall see you again later. We will rehearse all night if needs be.”
With that, Andronikos Doukhas bowed and took his leave. Anastasia returned to making her bed when she spied the pile of clothes the all-thumbs officer had fumbled about with. Next to it were a pair of crocodile leather shoes, a babe’s size, not yet worn. Upon seeing them, Anastasia collapsed to the floor and grievously wept.
* * *
— CHAPTER II —
A FAIR TESTAMENT
* * *
Anastasia emptied her stomach into her chamber pot. There wasn’t much to empty, truths be told, for she hadn’t eaten much over the past days. A new babe on the way, she half wondered, perhaps even half hoped?
Nay, she and His Majesty had not lain together since early into her pregnancy with Arnza. It was late in the morn but could have been mistaken for any other time of day, as their equatorial capital enjoyed twenty-four hours of daylight nearabouts the equinoxes. Alas, it made no difference. She had slept not.
Was it her grief that kept her to thought, or her gnawing desire for her next puff of relief? She had been without for several days now. Her father had insisted she be in prime form for her husband’s funeral. Now he needed her in prime form for the day’s critical testimony. She had been too long without succour, and she feared her father’s intentions were having the opposite effect. Her hands shaked, her stomach quaked, and every muscle and joint sorely ached. She was irritable and anxious as sweat beaded on her brow and the room spun about her. And all just in time to prove to the esteemed Altha Zilathia that she was fit to wield the mantle of empire.
Right when she most needed comfort and support from those around her, they were locked away in the dungeons of the Aranthas. How did her discomfort compare to theirs, she wondered. Even her father had not yet visited to console her this morning. Was he punishing her for her lack of moderation with Lazaros’ prescriptions?
How it tempted her to punish him in return by sabotaging her own testimony today. But she knew it would be her entire family who would suffer from such a defeat, and how little they could afford to do so.
Nay, her father was far too absorbed with his own interests to notice her distress, she decided. In the Octagon’s gilded silence, her torment would shrink against the state’s ceaseless grind. No matter how distasteful, she would have to prove herself a ruler today, though little she could do would convince herself.
She rolled from her bed and dragged herself over to the washbasin, pulling herself up and into the chair of her vanity. The visage in the mirror hid nothing. She looked a decayed shipwreck, like those she could see rotting beneath her window in the Radiant Straits, and near as green. Like the many long-dead wrecks, her face was flushed, and her eyes, normally vibrant emeralds, dark and sunken.
The bright light pervading the opened curtains proved unbearable. Her head pounded and her ears rang, all as tears dripped from her eyes, but not from weeping. She washed her face and prepared to hide her wretched condition as well as she could by applying her own cosmetics. It hadn’t been so long since she had last done it herself; she could do it. Her world narrowed so completely to the mirror's reflection, she did not even hear the approaching footsteps.
A sudden knock on the door startled her, smearing a jagged line of kohl eyepaint across her face.
“Déspoina,” her sentry spoke from the other side. “The Empress-Mother visits thee, if it please.”
With surprise, Anastasia rose from her vanity instinctively and made a cursory examination of the state of her nightgown as she bade her erstwhile mother-in-law entry.
The grand, bronze-plated ironwood door creaked open as the Empress-Mother and former consort Astraia Velthuria Zel-Rasnas tis Aureliana, née Komnene, entered. She was an elegant and regal creature, truly the epitome of stately grace. So much so, in fact, that since the time of her late royal husband’s incapacity and Tarkhuin’s minority, she had been addressed by her lord-husband’s name rather than her own given name.
Doubtless she grieved deeply to lose her only son, yet still she carried herself with an iron resolve, a strength Anastasia had not yet learned. Truly, she must have seemed a pathetic pygmy against this towering radiant eagless. Empress bowed head to empress as Ana afforded her elder stateswoman a respectful curtsey.
“Basilissa,” she said sheepishly as the wise crone remained silent, scrutinising the young woman with her keen, grave eyes.
“Leave us,” Velthuria said. Anastasia near-believed it was to her she spoke, and was half ready to obey, before the sentry bowed and closed the door behind himself.
“As you were, dear,” the elder royal said, returning a polite curtsey of her own.
She pointed to the vanity and bade her son’s second wife to sit. Anastasia did so, facing the mirror and looking warily over her shoulder as the Empress-Mother — or was it now Grandmother? — approached from behind. She released Anastasia’s sleeping bun and allowed her grand mahogany hair to fall to her lower back, her one feature unblemished by the morning’s affliction.
“My, what beauty, even through such grief and misery,” the Empress-Mother said, wiping away the errant eyepaint as she admired the young lady in the mirror’s reflection. Ana averted her eyes to avoid their meeting.
“I can understand why my son risked so much to take you to wife. There was no political advantage in it, that is certain. Nay, surely it must have been for love. A wonderfully romantic thing for a man to risk all for, but a terribly foolish motivation for one with responsibilities of state. Alas, I suspect you had no more say in it than I, but here we find ourselves.”
Anastasia said nothing but politely listened as her mother-in-law fluffed her hair.
“How fares my grandson?” she asked as Ana’s heart skipped a beat.
The young Empress-Dowager closed her eyes and mustered a series of deep breaths as she contemplated her answer.
“He is without fever now,” she said.
Velthuria stopped briefly to watch her daughter-in-law’s agitated behaviour through the mirror. Then she quickly returned to addressing the girl’s hair.
“Then my prayers have been answered,” the Empress-Mother replied as Anastasia finally exhaled. “’Tis his own mother’s milk that has made the difference, no doubt. I admire that you feed him yourself, despite what folk may say. At times I wished I had nursed Tarkhuin. Some bonds must be forged early, lest we risk them not being forged properly at all,” she mused.
“You should tell that to my father,” Ana said with a nervous smile. “He chastises me about it no end. Says it is crude and unbecoming, but he’ll never understand. What it means to have someone watch you, touch you, need you, appreciate you. But alas, I admit finding time for even one feeding per day was a challenge — is a challenge.”
Velthuria paused briefly. “Handsome little thing,” she said with a slight smile of her own. “As handsome as the twins were when they were born. A bit darker in the skin, but I suppose that’s to be expected. The royal line has lacked Pontikaean blood for many generations. Don’t tell anyone, dear, but I’ve always admired the lovely colour of the fields your family has maintained,” she said as she caressed Ana’s cheek. “I know I’ve seen enough porcelain faces to last me a lifetime.”
“My house finds no shame in it,” Anastasia replied, touching the hand. “’Tis merely a kiss from His Radiance for long hours of honest work beneath His gaze.”
“Be careful to whom you say such things, dear. Some might think you mean to say His Radiance kisses the Kayanids more oft than his own. And we certainly don’t need any more talk about kissing Kayanids, now do we?”
Anastasia turned from her.
“Hmph.” Velthuria looked about the empty bedchamber. “I must say, the Octagon is rather lacking for servants of late,” she remarked as she began to skilfully braid the young empress’ hair. “No matter, these hands still remember.”
“I fear there’s been a terrible spell of miasmata making rounds about the tower,” Ana replied. “Evil energies borne of His Majesty’s passing, no doubt. I’ve not even been spared its wrath, as perhaps you’ve noticed. We’ve quarantined many of the nonessential staff to their quarters. For the babe’s health, you understand. He has not been well of late. My handmaidens I’ve granted leave to mourn His Majesty. They loved him so, you see.”
Velthuria continued her work. After many moments of awkward silence, she spoke again. “I am not interrogating you, child,” she said to Ana’s alarm. “Though if ever I should, I see now you’ll sing me a full ballad.”
“Forgive me, Petherá. I am simply nervous for today’s deposition.”
“As you should be,” Velthuria replied. “’Tis a most grave matter of state. The annals will record what you say for all time. It will likely prove the most consequential decision you ever make.”
“Decision? There is but one decision, dear Mother,” Ana said. “By His Radiance’s Divine Law, I am bound to speak only the truth, and so I shall.” Velthuria briefly paused her twisting of braids. She looked up to meet her daughter-in-law’s eyes in the mirror without success before resuming.
“And the truth is you are not their mother,” the elder empress said. “Perhaps by law but not by blood.”
“And you the opposite, Petherá,” Ana said. “I understand, but what we discuss today is a matter of law.”
“God, Blood, and Empire,” Velthuria recited. “Nary is law even mentioned, for God’s Blood makes Empire, and Empire makes law.”
“I may not be bound by blood to the new emperors, but I am bound by blood to their only heir,” Ana said, looking away.
“As am I,” Velthuria replied.
“But I am bound by blood and law to him, and he is as much divine as they.”
“Your son is only heir until one of them produces a son of his own.”
“And by the time they are old enough to do so, they’ll not have need for any regent be it you or me. And my son shall remain in line regardless.”
Velthuria smirked. “Your father has prepared you thoroughly for today, I see. You wear his bridle well, but what is it you want, dear? Surely it isn’t the burdens of state, for ours is not some quaint border marque, but the world’s very beating heart. All roads, be they land or sea, lead here.” Ana was silent and pensive as she looked to her lap.
Her mother-in-law continued. “Let me tell you what I want, Daughter. Those boys and their sister are my whole world, the legacy of my only son. I have been more a mother to them than any other. I will do anything to protect them. I must be allowed to protect them. I but humbly ask that you give me the chance.”
“I want only for my family’s health and safety too,” Anastasia said as her eyes welled again. “And I fear for all those who would suffer should we fail to keep the Empire at peace.”
She tried not to think of the babe as anything other than a legal fiction today as her father had trained her. Her fragile condition would not be able to endure thinking of him any other way. His delicate little hands grasping hers. His soft lips on her breast. Things she would never see nor feel again. His smile, his giggle, his voice. Things lost to her forever. No! Stop, she thought. Not now. Not before Petherá.
Her troubled state did not go unnoticed.
“I will guarantee it,” Velthuria declared. “As sure as your son is family, so too do I swear you and yours are as well. As Empress-Regent I will protect House Doukhas, and in time, when circumstance allows, I vow to restore your ancient house to its full glory. I am more capable than you in making this a reality. In your heart you know it true. And you need not fear my brother Xanthippos. I shall have no trouble keeping his warmongering ambitions in check. But I can only do so with the full power of state behind me.”
Their eyes finally met in the mirror as Anastasia found herself on the verge of tears.
“It is all too much for you, gentle creature,” her mother-in-law said, delicately brushing the backs of her fingers against her face. “You need not subject yourself to any more pain. Return to Trapezion and live a free and joyous life for all your days as our beloved basilissa. You need only speak the words today. Tell the Altha Zilathia how you really feel. None will fault a grieving widow so young for stepping away. Tell the truth.”
Anastasia held Velthuria’s gaze in the mirror’s reflection, thinking long on her words but saying nothing.
* * *
The air thrummed with unspoken expectations, the weight of the coming decision settling like a second shroud. The Empress-Dowager marched through the halls of the octagonal Palátion toú Porfyrogennítou, or the Palace of Those Born Purple, royal residence of the Imperial Family. She was flanked on her left by armsmen in Doukhainan employ, led by Komes Ioannis. On her right marched Kentarch Kostas with a cadre of elite soldiers from the Scholai Palatinai, novel bodyguard to the Rasnaian royalty after Tarkhuin’s dismissal of the long-instituted Varangian Guard of northern mercenaries.
Behind her marched twelve lictors each bearing one of her fasces, the traditional symbols of Imperial authority. A consort of the sovereign was afforded twelve. Only time would tell if this number would be raised to twenty-four. Her large procession made haste to depart the Palace Complex and attend the adjacent House of Zilaths, where the Empire’s most pressing matter was to be decided.
Upon exiting the residence and entering the luxurious semi-open Hall of Twenty-One Couches, the Empress-Dowager found her procession halted by a most unexpectedly pleasant interruption. Her escort bowed in reverence as Prinkipassa Rhamza Tarkhuinia stood before her, though there were certainly happier occasions for the two to reunite. Anastasia hadn’t seen her princess much since the royal wedding, as the girl no longer resided at the Palace, being the newest sibyl neophyte of the reclusive Cloister of Oracles.
It seemed only yesterday that Ana had been a lowly handmaiden to the royal youth. What a difference one year had made, she thought, as she viewed the sweet girl beginning to blossom now into a young lady. Though she quietly chagrined that her charm and beauty would be wasted for all time as an eternal virgin dedicated to the Temple.
Defying etiquette, and without saying a word, the two embraced. Tears welled in the younger royal’s eyes. Truths be told, it was the first real comfort Ana had felt all morning. As the two released, the Empress gently wiped the prinkipassa’s tears away with her thumbs.
“No tears, sweet girl,” she said. “We must hold our heads high and persevere. The Empire expects as such.”
The girl nodded. “I just came to tell you how sorry I am, Ana. For all that’s happened.” She lowered her brow with purpose. “All that’s happened.”
Anastasia watched closely the girl’s eyes and knew it was to a very recent tragedy she alluded — one to which she was not yet privy. The princess had recently developed a talent for learning things she couldn’t know. Ana had been with her when she had her first such episode in her royal bedchamber — the very chamber her son would later inhabit. It was how she first became acquainted with her royal father, in fact. Not long after the visions began, the girl was sent to study under her cloistered royal grand-aunt, and Ana began wearing the empress’ diadem.
“Thank you, darling. And I offer my sympathies for your loss as well,” Ana said, kissing the girl’s hands. “But we shall speak more about it after today. I will bid you farewell now.” Rhamza nodded with understanding, fumbling nervously with her fingers as the Empress curtsied and continued her procession. As she passed, the girl reached out and grabbed Ana’s wrist, pulling her in close with uncanny strength.
“No one else will build the world you wish to see. You must pursue the resolution you seek.”
The message was delivered with Rhamza’s voice, but it was as if the words had been chosen by someone else entirely. Anastasia looked to the girl confounded as the princess suddenly remembered herself and released her empress’ hand.
“Apologies, Your Majesty,” Rhamza said, bowing low before taking her leave. Ana’s gaze followed her as she departed, hanging well on her words.
“Shall we proceed, Déspoina?” Ioannis asked. She cautiously nodded.
* * *
After crossing the Hall of Twenty-One Couches, passing between the Palaces of Placidia and Boukoleon, Anastasia and her entourage turned south to descend the Alumnatheian Way towards the seat of the High Justices of Rasnaian Imperial Law. There she would find waiting the elite of Imperial society, from His Holiness and the very highest of doukes, lords, and praetors to the lowest of quaestors, all to bear witness to the arguments that would decide the question of regency. Crowds gathered in the far distance to curse, jeer, and praise their empress in equal measure.
The most provocative of the rabble was barricaded by the Athanatoi, the premier cohort, or droungos, of the Palatina Guard. Defence of the capital was maintained by the First Imperial Tágma, known as the prestigious Scholai, with their commander, the Domestikos ton Scholon and Eparch of the City, Lord Bessarion, presiding. In addition to commanding an elite bodyguard tourma of two and a half thousand, the vaunted praefect also commanded the Droungarios tes Vigiles and his twenty-five droungoi of Vigiles Urbani, or City Watch.
In total, the Imperial capital boasted a garrison of over twelve thousand highly-trained soldiers, all pledged directly to the Imperial Family. Yet beneath the surface of ordered ranks lay a complex web of loyalties, all watching the woman whose fate might unravel it. Palatina and Vigla alike watched their empress-dowager with suspicion as she passed. The sudden winds crackled with the energy of the combined mob, a volatile mix of hope, hatred, and morbid curiosity.
Anastasia’s face, chalk-white beneath Velthuria’s crimson rouge, stood stark against her mourning attire and violet shroud. Each stroke was a defiance, painted by an artisan well-versed in the craft of state, a curated masque against the raw edges of grief and the thousand eyes that would judge her.
Some would call her grasper, harlot, usurper, or even the vision of self-sacrifice and duty. Whatever she was to be declared today, she was still foremost a woman in mourning, both to a departed husband and, in secret, to a beloved baby boy. She wished that everyone witnessing this act of duty – from her father and mother-in-law to the most distant observer, and perhaps even, His Radiance Himself – would remember the bereavement she set aside for the sake of her beloved state. With heavy heart and a deep exhale, she climbed the steps to the Altha Zilathia.
* * *
“The law in this matter is irrefutably clear: should a husband predecease his wife, and should his lawful heirs not have reached their majority, then it is she who becomes sole fiduciary of his estate until they are deemed legally competent to administer it themselves,” Lord Andronikos Doukhas argued before the magistrates as the elite of the Empire listened from the gallery. His daughter was seated adjacent to him in a premier booth separate from the main gathering. Here she would listen as he made her case.
He would practice his best command of the Rasnal tongue in the proceedings today. Over centuries of shared history, the denizens of the Empire had overwhelmingly adopted the Koine, or Common, tongue in casual speech. Even courtiers of the Palace had long used the common speech in matters of casual conversation, despite Rasnal being the language of all official correspondence. Ages on, it was still their state’s ancient language in which all proceedings, whether legal, ecclesiastical, or courtly, would be conducted.
In disputes such as these, as much political as legal, it was not uncommon for the lords-plaintiff to represent their own cases before the high praetors — often under the careful advice and observation of professional counsel. It was an opportunity to demonstrate one’s oratory and rhetorical skills before the stately elite, to sway policy, and to establish a name for oneself — talents the Empress-Dowager’s father had long mastered.
“Therefore,” he continued, “the Empress-Dowager must assume responsibility for all rights and properties inherited equally by the minor children, Khaile and Rhaske Zel-Rasnas tou Aurelianos, until they come of age. That includes protectorship over the Empire. So is it writ in His Radiance’s Divine Law.”
A smattering of thumping canes and stomping feet emanated from the gallery, approval from Doukhainan supporters in the crowd. Phokhio-Komnian loyalists grumbled from across the aisle. Amongst the assembly, but sat elevated in his own secured box, was His Holiness, the Hierophant Panagiotis. His face was a study in impassive slate beneath his liturgical vestments, a silent embodiment of the Temple’s impartial judgement.
Arch Magistrate Theophanos Tzemiskes nodded along to Doukhas’ argumentation. Seated on high on the opulent judicial bench between his fellow Zilaths, his roukhon robes were white as falling snow and laced with golden embroidery and ancient motifs. Over his left shoulder was draped a crimson tabarion cloak with black trim that entirely obscured his left hand. His right hand bore a heavy gavel of dark ironwood and rested prominently on the desk before him.
“That appears to be sound, Your Excellency,” the magistrate said. “What say you to this, Doux Komnas?”
The elder duke cleared his throat as he approached the bench. “His Excellency, the Grand Chancellor speaks true in all matters relating to men, but we are gathered today to discuss the inheritances of a benefactor who was more than man, to beneficiaries who are also more than men. This matter pertains to the inheritance of an imperator, our divine head of state.
“As his estate includes all of us here gathered, we have a duty to ensure we are governed by those who possess the Heaven-ordained capacity for divine autocracy. House Doukhas’ disgraceful conduct in the recent war against the Kayanid menace proves their lack of fitness for rulership. As such, they cannot be allowed to assume dominion over the Empire. The God will surely damn us for such unwisdom.”
“Objection, Your Worthship!” Doukhas declared.
“Sustained,” Tzemiskes replied. “Her Majesty Anastasia Tarkhuinia Zel-Rasnas tis Aureliana joined His Majesty’s royal house upon her marriage, as all spouses must do. She no longer represents the House of Doukhas in matters personal or that of state, so your point is dismissed out of hand.”
“Then why do mine eyes see a scion of House Doukhas arguing her case for her?” Komnas asked. “Were such well-known paragons of fairness and impartiality such as Lords Palaiologios and Anghellos not willing to champion her cause today? What benefit does the Lord Chancellor expect to reap beyond the station he has already so unjustly seized?
“Honourable Magistrates, and good lords and citizens of the Empire, it must be understood that the Lady Doukhaina’s association with His Majesty’s royal house ended the moment he passed from this world. The regency should thus be recognised as belonging to his royal mother, a proven administrator of worth.”
“Objection!” Doukhas shouted. “You charge ambition and nepotism when all can plainly see it is you who seeks mastery over the state through your sister!”
“Silence, all of you!” the arch magistrate demanded. “The objection is sustained. Even in death, a spouse shall remain married. We do not discuss a Lady Doukhaina in our proceedings today, but a Lady Zel-Rasnas.”
“If that be the case, then is His Majesty not still married to Her Majesty Aeolia Tarkhuinia Zel-Rasnas, the dearly departed mother of the royal inheritors?” Komnas asked. “Perhaps we should hear from her closest surviving kin, the young Cae-Aesars’ uncle? For like myself, he shares a blood relation with the boys, unlike any from the opposition.”
“I confess it would do mine ears some good to listen to someone other than Your Grace for a time,” Tzemiskes agreed. “Doux Artemios Phokhas, please approach. I do hope your arguments prove more persuasive than those of your esteemed colleague. The matter at hand was the objectively legal, not subjectively sentimental, merits of your case.”
Anastasia watched as the Duke of Ephaisos claimed the litigant’s table and resumed arguments for his side. His famous honeyed-brown hair, long and neatly groomed, framed his noble bearing, but it was the demonstration of his rhetorical qualities that would be of greatest consequence today.
“Your Worthship,” he began. “His Excellency, Lord Andronikos’ claim that a widow is sole fiduciary to her minor children is only sound when one considers that such precedent is predicated on the assumption that such a wife is natural mother to those whose estates she is administering. Her Ladyship Anastasia is not. All of His Majesty’s inheritances were equally divided amongst his elder sons, her own issue via the Emperor not having inherited, and likely shall never do so, as Their Majesties’ own future issue shall take precedence. Therefore, I contend that an Empress-Dowager may not assume fiduciary responsibility through a child who has little likelihood of ever being a beneficiary to such titles.
“Though sadly my sister is no longer amongst us to fulfil such a role, the young emperors’ grandmother certainly is. I argue that in this unprecedented situation, and in the absence of my sister’s last will and testament, it needs be understood that Empress-Mother Velthuria is the true lawful fiduciary of the Cae-Aesars’ royal estate. Her devotion to the boys is incontrovertible, as are her familial blood ties. And let us not forget her display of acumen for administration during her husband’s — pardon, our beloved Emperor Velthur the Sixth’s — long incapacity. She is the most fit, legally, and otherwise, to steward the young emperors until their majority. Nay, to steward all the Empire.”
Many of the like-minded in the crowd began to thump and stomp, showing approval of the young duke’s succinct arguments as he breathed new life into the Phokhio-Komnian faction’s beleaguered case. The chief magistrate angrily struck his gavel repeatedly in response.
“A call to order in this divine court. This is not the Senate House!” he demanded as the gallery composed itself. Tzemiskes sighed and lowered his spectacles. “A well-articulated technicality you raise, Lord Phokhas, in stating that the Empress-Dowager’s own natural issue may never inherit. But until our sovereigns bear children of their own, of which neither shall be capable for several years, the Prinkeps and Porfyrogenitos Arnza Tarkhuinal Zel-Rasnas tou Aurelianos will remain their sole heir, and is likely to do so for the duration of the regency. And he is as much His Majesty Tarkhuin’s son as they.”
“With all due respect to the Empress-Dowager,” Phokhas continued. “The young Arnza was only recently born but a Moon’s turn past, and has been suffering with terrible fever for much of that time.”
A weary Anastasia hearkened with increasing trepidation as the duke’s arguments tread closer. Her eyes were forced to endure the sunlight shining brightly through the open skylights as she watched and listened. Before long, she closed them tightly and attempted to manage another burgeoning headache. The menace of the morn’s nausea returned. Beads of sweat collected on her brow and threatened to damage her fine cosmetics and carefully-crafted visage.
Her father glared indignantly to hear the Phokhian duke speak.
“What do you mean to imply, Your Grace?” the Chancellor asked.
Phokhas looked briefly to his feet with a deep breath before preparing to complete his point. “What I say now may be most distressing to many, but we must take into account how fragile and potentially ephemeral life is to one so newly born, even a prince of the blood,” he said, turning to view the unsettled empress as the crowd gasped with surprise.
“Objection!” Doukhas declared in near apoplexy.
“Sustained!” Tzemiskes ruled. “Your Grace, need I remind that imagining the death of a blood royal is high treason?”
“I imagine nothing,” Phokhas said, raising his hands in yield. “I merely state an unfortunate reality that the young often do not survive their infancy, so we must not make permanent judgements based on the assumption of life.”
Magistrate Tzemiskes pounded his gavel in consternation. “That will be all I shall hear from you. You dance very close to contempt this day, Your Grace. You will sit before you cross it irreversibly.”
“Have you any evidence that the young Lord Arnza is in ill health?” High Magistrate Tobias interjected. “To the extent that it would constitute an imminent danger to the sole heir’s life?” The chief glowered at his colleague for speaking out of turn.
“I will allow it,” Tzemiskes said, with subtle indignation. “You may answer the honourable Altha Zilath’s query.”
Phokhas turned his head to look deep into Anastasia’s eyes. She tried with all her will not to let her face inform the rival doux of anything as she held his piercing gaze with steely resolve.
“Say it!”
Anastasia subtly shuddered as a voice called from the far back of the room.
Tzemiskes turned with indignation to treat the gallery to a scowl. With a single loud bang of his gavel he raged, “I will suffer no disruptions in my court.” He returned to addressing the doux. “Your Grace, you will answer the question.”
“Nay,” Phokhas finally spoke, breaking eye contact with the Empress. “I do not. That is why I would call Iatrós Lazaros, the royal family’s physician, before the court to give sworn testimony as to the child’s condition. Let him assure us all as to the Prinkeps’ good health.”
“Preposterous. My grandson is the epitome of strength and vigour, with a pair of lungs so mighty they would shatter the God’s Eye itself — and a thoroughly robust manhood, I might add,” Doukhas replied indignantly whilst some in the gallery sniggered. “A blood royal is assumed healthy until proven otherwise, not the reverse. We need not disturb the good iatrós from his practice.”
“Agreed,” the Arch Magistrate said. “We do not require testimony to reinforce what is already assumed, such as a royal’s long and healthy life. If you’ve no other arguments to present, you are hereby dismissed, Your Grace.”
Artemios Phokhas bowed in reverence to the magistrates as he returned to his seat.
Doux Komnas returned to the floor. “Your Worthship, and Your Honours: His Grace, the Doux of Ephaisos does not fear to speak the truth and nor shall I. And so, it must be said, when the Empress-Dowager was still handmaiden to the Prinkipassa Rhamza, her liaisons with His Majesty’s ward, the Kayanid Shahzada, were well known,” he spoke to audible gasps and whispers.
“Order!” the Arch Magistrate bellowed, but Komnas was not near done. He turned now to address not the trio of magistrates, but the gallery of elites.
“How can we think to grant the Doukhai regency based on the birth of the lady’s son, when we do not yet know for certain the nature of said birth? I propose the child be given a holy blood assay by the Hierophany to determine if his heritage is truly divine. We cannot risk a bastard grandson of the evil Shah sitting the throne! Our very Sun would shun the Empire for all time.”
“Uncouth scoundrel!” Andronikos Doukhas raged. “How dare you slander the Empress’ honour, and not merely in public but under sworn testimony! You should be rightly condemned for this!”
“Shahzada’s whore!” someone shouted from the gallery. Doukhainan supporters quickly combed the crowd for the heckler.
“Seize whoever said that at once!” Magistrate Tzemiskes ordered. The court sentries surrounded the crowd as many pointed in opposing directions.
“This matter should be decided by the Senate!” Komnas declared.
“Rightly said!” was heard. The many senators rose from their seats to stand on his side of the chamber, seconding him near unanimously.
The magistrate repeatedly banged his gavel. “Out of order! You shall all sit at once or be removed. Protectorship over the Empire is not some commodity to be bought and sold at market! Our sacred law determines succession. Need I remind our esteemed legislators in the gallery that the Senate’s role is to advise, not decide, whoever that may be?”
“He’s on the take!” one voice shouted. “The whole lot of them up there!”
“Who said that? Arrest him at once.”
More charges erupted from the gallery.
“Graspers!”
“Fornicators!”
“Thieves!”
“Traitors!”
“This is out of order! Stratiotai, secure the courtroom!” the chief shouted over a series of angry gavel strikes. The court sentries marched before the magistrates and formed a tight phalanx to protect their charges, a wall of steel razor points directed outward to the roiling gallery. A cadre of Templar Palatina surrounded His Holiness’ person, lest his holy box become threatened by the rising disorder.
“I shall remove this entire gallery if this sacrilege persists,” Tzemiskes declared. “Do not force me to shed blood in these hallowed halls today. How shameful that such noble curators of our glorious empire cannot conduct themselves with dignity. And over so grave a matter as this.” He leaned over the bench. “And if I hear one more word from you, Doux Komnas, I’ll have you in irons! I am quite finished hearing arguments today. My esteemed colleagues and I shall move immediately to deliberation. For shame!”
High Magistrate Attikos raised his hand to speak before the room was cleared. “Your Worthship, might I ask for one minute of time before we move to recess?”
Tzemiskes sighed with frustration. “This had better be worth it, Your Honour. Make it quick.”
The room began to quiet as Attikos claimed his time. “We have heard much from both sides, far too much at times, it needs be said. And whilst we’ve heard from the Empress-Mother Velthuria of her willingness to assume the regency, we haven’t heard from another who might also rule for the next many years. Why do we not hear testimony from the Empress-Dowager? This body must gauge her fitness and learn if she is even willing to assume such a momentous responsibility.”
The Arch Magistrate scratched his whiskered chin. “Very well. If it please, Your Imperial Majesty, you may step forward and give testimony.”
Empress Anastasia slowly rose from her bench. The vast chamber fell silent, the only sounds being the faint rustle of expensive fabrics and the frantic beating of Anastasia's own heart echoing in her ears.
The wall of sentries dutifully parted to allow her passage as she warily stepped to the centre of the chamber. Here the three grand magistrates and all the city, nay all the world, would finally hear what she had to say. She looked briefly to her father who nodded to her with encouragement, then to Empress-Mother Velthuria as the elder royal nodded with her own permission.
“You may have the floor, Soteira,” Arch Magistrate Tzemiskes said. “Do you testify, with sound mind and body, that you are willing and able to assume regency over all the Empire and custody of the royal children?”
Her hands shook as she sweated through her expertly applied cosmetics. Her head throbbed with pain, making clear thought most difficult. Her watery eyes and dilated pupils struggled to focus on the magistrates at the bench where she now saw six of them eagerly awaiting her. Tremors ran through her knees, and her stomach tightened as she felt the increasing need to retch.
The chamber was silent as a crypt as the Empire’s elite watched and waited with bated breath to hear her testament. Taking several deep breaths of her own to prepare herself, she lifted her head. And spoke.
In A Nest of All Kinds: Jewels of the House Divine, debut author Michael Reid weaves a rich tapestry of court intrigue, subtle conspiracy, and mystic prophecy.
The story follows Empress Anastasia Doukhaina, second wife of the newly deceased king, mother to a dead infant prince, and stepmother to the twin boys Rhaska and Khaile, who will take the throne when they come of age. Her ascension has been controversial, with those who openly revile her ethnic origin outside the court, and those who seek to usurp her control from within the royal family. The twin boys’ strong bond is fractured by the death of their father; Khaile, the sensitive twin, is more open to accepting their new queen as family, but Rhaska has a warrior king’s ambition and sees her as a threat and an insult.
When Ana discovers the likely cause of her son’s death—a piece of lapis lazuli once embedded in her husband’s ring, found lodged in the child’s throat—it incites her to investigate. She starts alone, as she believes her otherwise doting father’s approach to securing his house’s power in the Imperium to be too aggressive. Ana later hires Tatiana Ingvarsdottir, a well-known fighter from the pit of the Imperium’s celebratory war games, to protect her and guide her through the underbelly of the kingdom. From there, a spider web conspiracy unfolds, resulting in a heart-wrenching revelation and a twisting of fate.
Reid’s prose is very competent, smooth and elegant. As far as form goes, I give Jewels of the House Divine five stars. For content, however, I did take issue with the novel’s treatment of sexuality, especially when it comes to the young twin boys. Crude comments about Ana were not necessary to express the bigotry of the Rasnaian Imperium, or Rhaska’s rebellious anger and grief. It was definitely unnecessary for Khaile to have a (thankfully, unrequited) crush on his stepmother, as it led to uncomfortable heights of intimacy and courtship between them.
I recommend this first installment of A Nest of All Kinds to fans of fantasy and royal politics, but beware the gross and superfluous taboo.