The Oracle wept, the knife fell to the ground, and Azaiah died on the stone altar, staring up at the sky, the slash on his throat a grim echo of the smile on his face.
* * *
Three days later, the Oracle returned to the altar. She was not surprised to see nothing there but a flower crown, somehow unstained by blood. Even the trinkets—the belt, the compass, the coal, the pigment, the tea leaves—were gone.
There was no body to burn, no ashes to spread on the doors, but plague did not come to the village, not that year or any other… and the village prospered for generations, succumbing only to time and its inevitable march onward, until all that was left of the village was the altar, which crumbled into a pile of stones in front of a tree that was no longer dead.
Once a year, on the longest day of summer, a red blossom unfurled on the tree’s tallest branch, but there was no longer anyone alive who knew why, or what the day meant, or for whom the flower bloomed at all.
PartTwo
The Emperor
ChapterTwo
Wildflowers blanketed the fields of Iperios on the day Nyx became the second son of the emperor. Mourners in white robes and masks made of grass walked in solemn lines to Tyr’s tomb, and three witches in spiked crowns and metal collars stood at the mouth of Tyr’s burial mound, their hands outstretched over Tyr’s shroud. Soon, Tyr’s body would be interred and the mound closed, becoming yet another grassy hill dotted with flowers. Now, the entrance to the mound yawned black behind his body.
“I always hated this part.” Lamont, who’d been the second son of Emperor Andor before Tyr died, blew pale brown bangs from his eyes and scowled at the procession. He had his father’s lack of a chin and his mother’s cheekbones, which gave him the look of someone whose face was falling into his neck, and he kept shifting in the leather armor all members of the imperial family were supposed to wear for burials. Nyx, who had worn some form of armor most of his life, was a statue at Lamont’s side.
“Hush,” he said. He wasn’t allowed to use his dominance during a burial, which was a shame, because Lamont needed it to temper his restlessness. “The witches need silence for their work.”
Lamont twisted round, and Nyx risked a glance behind them. Emperor Andor lay on a litter carried by six soldiers, dressed as a mourner. He looked inhuman in his white clothes and bristling mask, and Nyx shivered despite the midday heat. He turned back to the burial mound, where the witches bent over Tyr’s body, his shroud shimmering with their magic. This was the final rite for the dead, when the witches would summon the memory Tyr had held closest in his heart as he was struck down in the field.
Nyx hoped, for Tyr’s sake, that it wasn’t a poor memory. Tyr had been a kind man, soft-spoken and quick to smile, and he’d been the first to befriend Nyx when Nyx was adopted by the emperor. Tyr was too compassionate to be the son of a man like Andor, and Nyx had loved him. He’d never admitted it to anyone, even himself, but as he saw the shroud shimmer and flicker with color, he let himself feel it.
The witches drew back and straightened the shroud so the crowd could see the image that lay there: Nyx dancing with Tyr on one of their last nights in the field, grinning as he swung Tyr in his arms. Nyx stilled, feeling the gazes of every member of the crowd turn his way, and his shoulders went stiff at the sound of the emperor at his back.
“My son’s dearest memory was of his family,” Andor said, as tears stung Nyx’s eyes, threatening to spill. “Let his family see him put to rest.”
Nyx and Lamont, the last two living sons of Andor, saluted Tyr’s body as it was carried into the tomb. Then, as the first stone was rolled over the entrance, Nyx turned to leave.
Lamont caught up to him just as the mourners threw themselves onto the burial mound, beginning their three days of wailing and rending the earth. Nyx couldn’t stand to watch—none of themknewTyr, not like Nyx did—but Lamont grabbed him by the arm before he could disappear into the city. His sharp eyes were narrowed, and his mouth was a hard line.
“You fucked him, didn’t you?”
“For pity’s sake, he’s ten minutes in the ground,” Nyx said, but Lamont glared at him. “No. I didn’t.”
“But he loved you. You saw the shroud. He loved you best—and you, the look you had when he was brought inside…”
“He was my brother,” Nyx said. “Ourbrother. Of course I loved him.”
“You aren’t actually our brother, though.” Lamont kept a firm grip on Nyx’s arm. “You’re just some peasant’s whelp who got lucky.”
He was right. Nyx had lived in the Palace of the Moon since he was a boy, but he hadn’t become a full member of the royal family until he was ten. It was bad luck for an imperial family to have only two children, so when Nyx gained favor with the emperor, he’d been elevated to third son. He was a son in name only, existing solely to placate a superstitious court. Lamontstilltreated him like a glorified servant at times. But Tyr hadn’t. Tyr treated him as an equal from the start.
“What did you do?” Lamont hissed out the words. “Did you bend him over in your tent? Fuck him into convincing Father to favor you? Well, you won’t get anywhere trying that on me. I know what you are. Just a whoreson with a sword.”
Lamont and his brother looked similar—Tyr was never a beauty, but his eyes had been bright and keen, seeing through Nyx when they played games in his tent or sat around the fire after a battle. But where Tyr’s face had lit up with a hidden loveliness every time he smiled, Lamont’s sneer was bitter and cruel enough to turn the prettiest courtesan into a monster.
“Believe what you like,” Nyx said, shaking himself free of Lamont’s grip.
“Watch yourself. Remember who’s the first son. I will be emperor one day, Nyx.”
“Good night, Lamont.” It was a struggle to suppress his natural dominance. Before Lamont could open his mouth to reply, Nyx turned on his heel and strode toward the gates of the palace.
The witches said that the palace had been built before the city, and it certainly appeared that way. The streets nearby were more orderly and even, inlaid with mosaics of flying fish and water dragons. They gradually devolved into a complex network of streets, bridges, and aquifers as they branched out. The mosaics remained, and city districts formed based on the patterns in the streets. Most people walked above the street to avoid ruining the designs, navigating a series of rickety wooden bridges and boards nailed between roofs. There were rooftop gardens everywhere, and makeshift, illegal pipes siphoning water from official aquifers. The city was vibrant and lush with life, but it seemed wrong without Tyr to appreciate it.
Someone coughed behind him, and Nyx stiffened, bracing himself for Lamont’s mocking voice. But it was just Nadia, one of the soldiers in Tyr’s squad, holding her helmet under one arm.
