Page 15 of Burn Her They Said
Light-blue tendrils coil from Wyrth’s Imperial witch, Imelda, staring at her charge with wide brown eyes made to appear larger from how tightly her shiny black hair has been secured.
“Say your offering of gratitude,” Emperor Aldritch chides me, and I nod.
“Glory to the Dragons, to whom we owe everything.” His Majesty releases a breath once I finish, apparently satisfied with my performance.
Quiet conversation floats from the Imperial Court leaders at the end of the table, and I focus to catch anything they might say that could distress the Emperor.
“I find it amusing how much disdain he holds for his second cousin now that he has ascended the Draconean throne. So utterly rankled by the fact King Culven is the newest to take his claim of being the youngest to have ruled in their family,” Imperial Marshall Bradick remarks. “While I never expected him to pretend to be saddened by the death of his first cousin, he could have at least sent his congratulations to the son on his ascension. Yet all he’s done is raise the rates on our trade with them ever since it happened.”
“His family power squabbles are none of our concern. What we need is for him to name an heir,” Imperial Chancellor Huber says, as concern prickles underneath my skin with this conversation having the potential to turn dangerous. “There isn’t a citizen in Ampara Deicra who wants to see a land ruled by Dragons again.”
A shudder runs through me from the very real fear of what sort of war and bloodshed we would endure were the majestic beasts we worship to become our rulers. Then my stomach drops with the terror His Majesty might have seen in my reaction, and I shift my eyes to the side to learn one way or another, only to pull in a breath of relief when he simply carries on his conversation with Wyrth.
“I doubt any of us will live to see the day he caves and names an heir, so loyal to his precious Philosopher, who promises he will make sure the Emperor’s rule lasts forever, should he continue to believe these mysterious experiments will lead to the answer to immortality, after all.” Imperial Marshall Bradick wipes his mouth on his napkin, and I send tendrils of fear out to each of the Court leaders’ hearts, hoping it is enough to keep this conversation from escalating much further.
The Marshall’s assigned witch widens her eyes as she maintains a tether on his emotions the moment my magic infiltrates his form. She fixes her gaze on the floor and refuses to meet my own, though something in her expression tells me she knows.
“He refuses to consider any of the contradictory evidence I have attempted to provide him.” Imperial Chronicler Enit shakes his head. “So thoroughly convinced he will be the first sorcerer to live forever in Continental history, despite it never having been documented as a possibility.”
“If his concern was leaving the citizens to survive the reign of the Dragons—” Imperial Chancellor Huber pauses to glance over at His Majesty and Wyrth, still deep in conversation. “Then he would name an heir or marry. However, by doing so, he would place a target on his heart, since an heir is the only way to avoid a Dragon reign in his absence, and not even the other lands are willing to risk it.”
Imperial Steward Garth drops his fork. “If he spent half as much time preparing his own court for the future as he does in attempting to steal spells from other lands, all of this would be resolved.”
Imperial Marshall Bradick raises his brow as he looks from the Imperial Steward to the Emperor and back while His Majesty remains oblivious.
“While we’re at it, if we could please convince him to stop Wyrth from experimenting with his famous hybrids, it would make my soldiers’ jobs much easier,” Imperial Steward Garth says. “Gods know the forest can’t contain many more of his rejects—or escapees.”
My eyes widen at the casual confirmation of the long-held suspicion that the forest is filled with mysterious beasts of our own Philosopher’s making.
“Do you have a death wish?” Imperial Marshall Bradick chides.
“What?” Imperial Steward Garth asks.
“You know better than to use the term referring to deities from other lands,” Bradick says.
“Oh, please. Our parents invoked the term and lived,” Garth says.
“Our parents did not work within the Imperial Palace, nor did they say it in the same room as the ruler who forbids its usage.” Imperial Marshall Bradick shakes his head as I imbue the Imperial Steward with enough fear to shift his expression—throat bobbing as he takes a quick swig of wine, keeping his eyes fixed on the Emperor the whole time.
I release a breath once it’s clear the Emperor did not overhear, for if he had, he would have ordered me to kill the Steward over nothing more than naming those we denounced in favor of our benefactors.
Purple mist billows in my periphery as something cold and hard taps my cheek. A single blackberry floats within Malin’s magic, hovering just an inch away from my face. I narrow my eyes at him to indicate I do not appreciate his attempt at telekinetically feeding me. Yet I take the offering and pluck the berry from his magic, exaggerating my chewing until I earn a small smile from him in return.
Emperor Aldritch snaps his fingers and gestures to one of the servants. “Where is the Thornberry jam?” he demands, tapping his finger where the bowl normally rests.
The servant with a meek temperament and cropped brown hair steps forward, his hands clasped tightly behind his back as he bows. “We are awaiting shipment, Your Majesty.”
All eyes fall closed around the table as the Emperor slams his fist down in a clatter of plates and cutlery. “They dare mock me.”
“I believe Draconea’s intent may be to provoke us into further negotiations on our trade agreements, Your Majesty,” Imperial Marshall Bradick says, as the Emperor ignores him and turns to Wyrth, whispering in low tones I don’t bother trying to decipher.
Monotonous musings of the Imperial Court members meld together as my Guards close in, each of their fists tightening around the swords holstered to their hips.
Gooseflesh ripples up my skin, and I pause my eating to try to discern what threat my body detects. Then all breath halts with the buzzing of tiny wings, as my whole being screams for me to start running—the exact action the abomination soaring nearer was made to prevent me from doing.
“I hate that thing,” Imperial Steward Garth says.
“Why create a hybrid with its exact mix of attributes?” Imperial Treasurer Aldo adds.
