Chapter Text
“That wasn’t half as painful as thou hast promised me,” Iviro remarked with a coy smile.
Captain Orthema, his wife Reneian Orthemo and Ailano Pashavar had made their farewells shortly after the emperor departed. The hour was late and the servants still had much to do. Thus the remaining members of the dinner party — Lanthevel himself, his niece Iviro and Lord Pashavar — had vacated the dining room to let them work in peace. They retreated to the garden room — a humid greenhouse where the gardener coaxed the roses to bloom even in the depths of winter.
Lanthevel sipped at his tea and inhaled the sweet scent of the enclosed garden. Between his work and the preparations for the dinner party, the day had been hectic. This was the first quiet moment he’d had since before dawn.
“Dost thou not think so, uncle?” Iviro pressed. “Even Merrim Orthemo graced us with a few smiles by the time dessert was served. She was as jittery as a rabbit out on an open field when the evening started.”
“And the emperor managed a joke. I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him. Typically, his dinner-time conversation partners report that he projects all the personality of a dead fish,” Pashavar piped in. He had never developed a taste for tea, whether black or herbal, so he enjoyed the remnants of the night’s selection of wine. Tapping his fingers against the side of his armchair, he added, “Setheris Nelar has much to answer for. As does Varenechibel.”
“In sooth,” Lanthevel said, “I’m in two minds on this. On one hand, everyone should receive an education. On the other, he was the fourth son. The kind of education that befits a future emperor is both an expensive and a time-consuming endeavour.”
“It’s not about education, Lanthevel.”
Iviro bit back a giggle and Lanthevel too could tell his friend was on the verge of embarking on one of his favourite past times — a tirade. But they had spent the evening carefully choosing their words; Lanthevel could not begrudge Pashavar his desire to speak more freely now. He motioned for Pashavar to go on.
“The boy's damaged,” Pashavar declared. “You don’t get to see it, but I’m at Corazhas meetings with him day in and day out. He has the responses of a servant boy who expects to be backhanded whenever he utters a word. He has intelligence enough to try to hide it — in sooth he’s not half the dolt he’s rumoured to be — but when one takes the trouble to really look, it’s clear. He’s afraid of his own shadow.”
Lanthevel sighed. “I don’t dispute your conclusions, Pashavar. I saw more than enough tonight. To be frank, that he chose his two nohecharei over his cousin for the coronation ceremony should have been a clue to us all.”
“We should’ve guessed what the end-result would be the day he was sent off with Nelar! Everyone knew what Nelar was like. Arrogant. Ambitious. Short-tempered. And exile does not improve any man’s disposition. At the same time, the son of the man who had condemned Nelar to a life in exile in the marshes, without even the comfort of his wife’s company, is right there. Of course his foul moods would turn upon the boy.”
Quiet fell over the room. Lanthevel had no counter-argument to give and Iviro likely had none to offer either. Now that Pashavar has laid out all the facts before them, the outcome did seem to have been an inevitability from the beginning. A cold guilt settled in the pit of Lanthevel’s stomach. It wasn’t the guilt of a bystander to a tragedy, but the more uncomfortable realisation that he hadn’t even taken the time to consider that a tragedy might have occurred.
Varenechibel’s fourth wife and her unwanted son were sent off a Drazhada country estate as soon as she had recovered enough to travel. After her death, her boy was sent off with Nelar. Out of sight, out of mind. Others, including Pashavar, had pressed the issue with the late emperor, but Lanthevel had never spared so much as a second-thought for Varenechibel’s decisions regarding his youngest son.
“Would that Nemolis got his way on this. He wanted his brother here at court,” Iviro said with a shake of her head, then tugged at the woollen shawl she had draped over herself after the emperor’s departure.
That was news to Lanthevel, but he suspected Iviro spoke the truth. He trusted his niece’s factual information about Nemolis, if not her sentiments. Iviro was a few years older than Nemolis and their circles of friendship overlapped throughout their lives. And Nemolis had always possessed an easy charm. Many among the younger generation at the court had eagerly awaited the day Nemolis ascended the throne.
Lanthevel scoffed. “Nemolis was useless. Anyone who had to work with him on serious matters knew that. He could prattle off a few pleasant-sounding platitudes, but the man lacked any of that Drazhadeise tenacity.”
“Or perhaps he had a sense of self-preservation,” Iviro replied. “Even an emperor’s heir might fall afoul of the emperor’s temper.”
“Nemolis in exile? That would’ve been quite the scandal,” Pashavar snickered. He tipped the rest of his wine into his mouth and set the now-empty glass onto the table. “I had best take my leave. I told Ailano I’d be five minutes behind her and it’s been at least half an hour.”
“Don’t you worry, when she hears ‘it’ll be only five minutes’, she knows better than expect you to keep your word,” Lanthevel responded but rose from his seat nonetheless. It was close to midnight and all of them had work to attend to come morning.
“It was good to see you again, Lord Pashavar,” Iviro said as she and Lanthevel bade Pashavar farewell at the door.
“Your company is always a pleasure, Dach’osmin Lanthevin. And you, Lanthevel, remain tolerable,” Pashavar replied.
Lanthevel flicked his hand toward the door. “Get out of my house, you old ogre.”
He and Iviro watched the door swing shut behind Pashavar and waited for his footsteps to fade into the distance. The household staff had retreated to their servants’ areas of the apartments and would finish there last of the work there shortly. The rest of the house was now dark and every shuffle threatened to echo through the rooms. Lanthevel sank onto a bench positioned between the front door and the gilded coat rack, and sighed tiredly.
Iviro crossed her arms. “Well, uncle, what hast thou decided?”
She would have been itching to throw this question at him the minute the emperor left. But some matters were too sensitive to be discussed outside the family, even with friends as old and dear as Pashavar. Seeing that Lanthevel was in no hurry to offer an answer, she paced the length of the narrow entryway.
“What have I decided?” Lanthevel muttered under his breath, then spoke more audibly. “Why thinks thou that I have I decided anything as of yet? It’s not some fleeting trifle we ponder here.”
“I understand, uncle. But the question stands nonetheless. Who is to be the crowned emperor of the Ethuveraz?”
It was a heavy question, possibly the heaviest of all. How Lanthevel chose to answer might yet determine the fate of all that lived in the Ethuveraz, his and his family’s included.
At this point, only the deaf and mute would be ignorant of the truth — the court was ill at ease. Foul rumours spread. These were not the sort that would emerge naturally, but deliberate, malicious gossip. When one lived one’s life suffocated by the dark molasses of court intrigue, one learned to tell the difference. Lanthevel thought he knew the sources of this discontent. And he strongly suspected the discontented would not soothe themselves with spreading nasty tales.
He was only a marquess, not a prince of the five principalities. And he was not a member of the Corazhas either. But as the presider of the House of Blood he held considerable sway nevertheless. Should the discontented decide to act, they would expect to have his support.
Lanthevel cocked his head as a dark suspicion overtook his thoughts. “How far has it gone? Have they made definite overtures towards us?”
Powerful men at the court understood the importance of circumspection. A plot is too easily unravelled when all the participants gathered in a smoke-filled salon every second Tuesday of the month, or suddenly embarked on hunting trips every week. Thus, everyone worth knowing used intermediaries. Iviro, who dined socially with many crucial figures at the court and unhindered by a husband, was Lanthevel’s.
She turned on her heel and peered at him, her ears lifting in agitation. “They are eager to expedite matters. But they want to be sure they have the support among those who matter.”
Lanthevel drew in a long breath and exhaled slowly. “What thinkst thou, Iviro?”
“Edrehasivar has promise. Chavar is in a hurry because he worries he’ll be dismissed and replaced. As to Prince Idra, I don’t know. There’re no worrying signs, but he is fourteen,” she said in a steely tone that was reserved for the rare conversations where she could be wholly honest with her opinions.
“Should Edrehasivar be removed from the scene, Marquess Imel will be his closest male relation.”
“That’s a worry. I’ve known horses more intelligent than Imel.”
“As have I.” Lanthevel tilted his head back until he stared up at the shadowed ceiling, then jerked his head down, startling Iviro. “Fine. I’m resolved. The Lanthevada will not support any move against Edrehasivar until Idra reaches his majority and can raise his own banners.”
Iviro quirked her brows. “It’s two years before he comes of age. Edrehasivar might have an heir of his own by then and his position will be that much stronger for it.”
“I’d rather we have to smother a newborn than allow Shevean to play a part in her son’s regency. Chavar is a fool to have allied with her in the first place.”
Silence fell between them while Iviro peered at him with a strange look on her face. Lanthevel supposed it was not like him to speak so callously of murder and treason. He was a scholar, not a soldier. No, he had once been a scholar. He was a politician now and while scholars could cloak themselves in sentiment, politics were a cold, harsh undertaking. If a few lives could be exchanged for the lives of many, it had to be done.
When Iviro finally spoke, her words had a wry undertone. “In sooth, uncle, I suspect that after tonight, thou art not half as sceptical about the emperor as thou wouldst believe thyself to be. It’s only that thou fearest to draw Chavar’s displeasure.”
“Thou art babbling nonsense,” Lanthevel scoffed. “My concern is for our family and our realm, as it has ever been. Chavar’s hysterics don’t interest me.”
“However—”
“Iviro. My answer is set.”
Having learned many years ago that once Lanthevel’s mind was made up, he could not be swayed to alter his decision, Iviro nodded and replied, “Then I will inform the concerned parties: Edrehasivar has two years to earn the loyalty of the Lanthevada.”