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“Like Calix, you mean?”
His face flushed, which also wasn’t at all like him. “I wasn’t thinking of him, darling! I was thinking about you and me. About us! Come on, admit it, it would be perfect!”
She stared into the middle-distance. The envoy–herald relationship was an ancient one, a compromise between the archon’s right to absolute power, and the senate’s desire for impartial decisions in the public interest. The senate appointed hundreds of envoys all over Dynosia, in practically every polity in the whole country, doing important technical work like making trade deals, ensuring the city had the best supplies of food and equipment, cultural exchange and legal representation and the like. By contrast, there was only one herald of the archon, speaking with royals and nobility, performing ceremonial tasks, and attending the fancy parties and weddings and funerals that only a ruler’s family could muscle their way into.
Usually, it was a deeply fraught relationship.
But it won’t be that way if we have the roles...
“You might even get to be a steed trader!” he said, alluringly.
A tiny spark fizzed up. “The best steeds do come from the Ardoran plains. Apart from the pegasi of course. They all come from the fountains near Emphanisi. Have I told you the story of how—”
“Exactly!” he said, smirking at her excitement. “See! And Aunt Beeta would love it, too! Having the senate declare House Cosmin worthy of civilizing the most backward of polities?”
As quickly as the excitement came, it faded at the mention of her mother’s name. “No. She’d never allow it. She’s obsessed with marrying me off right now.”
“Don’t worry. I can make her understand.”
“But you know what she’ll say. Ardora? The land of passion and fertility? Of brutes and wenches? Wrestling and drinking and dressing up like therians? She’ll say it’s improper for those aspiring to patrician status.”
“Oh, come on, Tiggy. Stop making excuses! Your father would never have wanted you to live like this. He always—”
“You don’t know what he would have wanted!” she snapped, surprising even herself. She dragged herself from the bed a little too fast, causing a stab in her back. “He... he wanted House Cosmin to advance! And that is what Mother is doing!”
“And you would go along with that? Even if it means being beaten?”
Her stomach clenched. How did he know about that? “I... that isn’t...”
“For fuck’s sake, Tiggy. There are blood stains on your tunic!”
The sudden heat of the exchange cooled in the silence that followed.
“Please, darling,” said Aurelius, patting the bed. “Let’s not quarrel. Come with me to Ardora. You can start a whole new life there. Away from them. Away from all of this.”
Teigra looked into her cousin’s eyes—those big, ice-blue beacons of determination. He was so strong, so competent. He could march into any city he chose, without knowing a single soul, and by dinner, he would have the run of the place.
But me? Going to Ardora? As an envoy? Being entrusted with a position of power and influence by the senate? For five years?
The idea was ridiculous. Totally ridiculous.
She sighed, giving the most comforting smile she could muster. She already felt ashamed for raising her voice like that, after all he had done for her. “Thank you, Aurie. Really. It means a lot that you would think of me like that. But some of us must live the life we’re told to.” She smoothed the lines of her tunic, willing dry upon the drips of blood already running down the small of her back. “Whatever decision you make, you’ll have to make it without me.”
12
AURELIUS
On a clear day, Aurelius could see from his music room to the hazy, forested peak of Vaticily, far off in the distant northeast.
The faithful believed the mountain was where Vatic played games with the fates of men. Where people from Dynosia took pilgrimage, consuming strange medicines and conducting stranger rituals to induce guidance from the different ranks of oracles.
Aurelius didn’t go in for prayer, and he could count on one hand the times he had visited the Pentheon since he came of age, beyond the social necessities of weddings and funerals. But as he blew a dark melody on his favorite syrinx pipes—not based on any song, but just letting his pink lips wander across the row of reeds—he could’ve used a little of that mountain insight right now.
The archon was more cunning than he had expected. Offering him the herald position was brilliant. In one move, she had all but made him the Libercropolis of the modern day—screwing him over while preserving her position.
If he accepted the role of herald, others would see her as merciful, using the tragic death of her sister to forgive her wayward son. And in return, she would control him for the rest of his damn life—and get him out of the polity, where he couldn’t cause any more local scandals.
And if he refused the honor? Well, she would still be viewed as gracious. And everyone would understand when she never offered him another title for the rest of his fucking life.
