It’s a little ironic, then, that I’ve returned with a companion. Not a sibling, but a mate.
My future wife.
The one I cherish with all my being.
She instinctively moves closer to me as we near the final set of doors. I breathe in her sweet scent, and as always, it grounds me.
It overpowers the stench of sickness and decay that seeps from my father’s bedchambers. I can hear his breathing—slow and erratic.
Gods, father, why didn’t you send word earlier?
But it’s just like him to not tell anyone that he’s bloody dying. Valdon Duthriss wouldn’t want the world to pay witness to his weakness.
He’d rather die first and shock them all.
He would have planned his funeral procession already—right down to the very last detail.
He always was obsessed with details.
We pass through the antechamber, where a large arched window overlooks a pond filled with golden koi set amidst immaculately landscaped gardens. My boots land on plush silk carpet. Between a pair of life-sized bronze statues—depictions of mother and father in their prime—rests a sofa upholstered in sumptuous green velvet, where one can sit and meditate upon the view.
Father used to sit here alone. As a child, whenever I intruded, he’d chase me out.
I never knew what he was thinking; why he sat in that place so very often.
I glance up at the statue of my mother.
Empress Helia.
Her face is as I remember it; serene and beautiful, her eyes conveying warmth.
How the artist captured that, I don’t know.
Mother… if only I could have shown you…
Me, as I am now.
And Finley.
My memories of her from when I was a little boy are still so vivid. She’d always had a commanding presence; an aura that would make everyone in the room focus on her. She was incredibly beautiful, with raven hair, flawless skin and eyes that were a curious shade of violet.
Nobody else in Rahava had eyes like hers.
And yet, it was her incredible warmth I remember the most. She was never cold and distant. She was funny, kind, loving, mischievous.
The formidable Empress of Rahava would exchange her lavish dresses for a simple loose shirt and trousers. She would sit on the floor and play toy soldiers with me.
With me, she was simply mother.
She made me feel safe.
And I loved her so. That’s how I remember her before she fell ill; before father confined her to her chambers like a caged bird, and as the days passed, I saw her less and less…
She wasn’t from one of the powerful noble families. My mother was from a small village in the mountains on the northern border of Tyron. It’s a big part of the reason I’ve vowed to protect Tyron, although I seldom speak of it.
Father didn’t marry my mother for strategic reasons. On a visit to Tyron in his younger days, he’d caught sight of her… and become entranced by her beauty.
He’d made her, a simple villager, the Empress of Rahava.
Not just his consort.
The Empress.
It was unheard of. The court was in an uproar. But father quickly silenced any dissent.
I put my arm around Finley and pull her close to me. As I close my eyes and inhale her sweet scent, I tremble.
I kiss her forehead.
She leans into my kiss. “It’s all right, Corvan. Go and do what you have to. I’ll wait here.”
“Thank you.” I say, absorbing a fraction of her quiet strength.
Nothing more needs to be said. She reads the moment perfectly, offering to wait instead of forcing me to ask.
I leave her in the antechamber, seated between the statues of my mother and father, immortalized in their prime.
I suspect father always thought of himself as a god amongst ordinary men. He cared more about how his deeds and actions would be remembered, rather than how they’d affect the common folk.
And mother was truly a goddess, and she left this world too soon.
She’s with Hecoa now.
I walk forward, my body feeling heavy even though I move like a damn wraith. There are no guards here; no servants, no attendants.
There’s just the sound of my father’s heavy, rattling breathing.
Part of me doesn’t want to see him; not like this, not ever. I could simply refuse to see him; I could deprive him of my presence in his last dying moments.
Part of me wants to be so cruel.
But the boy in me that once yearned for his approval is still there, telling me I must speak with him one last time.
I need to know.
Why he sent Finley to me after all these years.
What really happened to her mother—and mine.
And why does he still want me to inherit this cursed throne? Even when I’m cursed by this mysterious magic; magic that he’s shunned and forbidden for as long as he’s ruled.
I walk forward, across carpets made of the finest golden silk. Into a chamber that smells of sickness and pungent herbal incense. It’s stuffy in here. A faint haze of medicinal smoke hangs in the air.
I see his bed; a large, imposing thing of gilded wood, with four posters rising to a silken canopy, the wood carved with the most intricate scrollwork.
The sheets are pure white silk. The covers are made of supremely rare slynkan fur.
Diamonds and jewels are woven into the fabric.
And in the center of it all lies the Emperor of Rahava.
Asleep.
I take a moment to study him.
He’s so very different to how I remember. His hair, once thick and dark, has become thin and grey. His skin is pale and papery, his cheeks sunken, his body frail.
Age and illness have transformed him.
This is what it’s like to be mortal.
I can no longer fathom it.
Eventually, he stirs. His eyes flutter open. He sees me, and for a moment, his eyes are clouded and confused; he doesn’t recognize me.
Then the haze clears, and his gaze becomes sharp once again.
That’s the father I remember. The ruthless, cunning bastard.
“My son,” he whispers. There’s something else in his voice, too.
Adoration.
It’s the closest he’ll ever come to showing me love.
His hand, papery and frail, emerges from beneath the covers. “Come closer, son. Let me look at you.”
A torrent of emotion rushes through me. I conceal it carefully behind an expressionless mask.
I step forward. Bend over just a little so he can see me better.
A ghost of a smile flickers across his thin lips. “My boy. You’ve come to me at last.”
I feel anger, sharp and cold. “How long were you planning to wait? You could have sent word.”
“But what I sent you was far better, don’t you think?”
Finley…
I always hated it when father proved to be right.
“How did you know… that she would be so right for me?”
He chuckles softly, and for a moment, the weight of illness lifts from his shoulders. The old arrogance returns. “I have known about you ever since you were born, my beautiful boy. About your true potential. And I know that there’s one thing in this world that’s as sweet as ambrosia for your kind.”
“My kind…”
“You know what you are by now. Or must I spell it out for you?”
“Go on, then,” I say softly, baring my fangs. “Spit it out.”
“You’re a direct descendant of the Goddess of Death. The old texts call your kind Vampyr, but that’s a term that’s become maligned by myth and superstition. In truth, you’re a descendant of a tribe, just like the Khaturians and we Rahavans… and the Batavans across the sea. And the Dryads. Being what they are, it stands to reason that dryads are completely irresistible to vampires.”