Tears stung her eyes.

I will be loved.

She found her father, surrounded by guards, standing expressionlessly beneath the statue of Saint Grimvald—a metalmaster, just as he was. She wondered what he was thinking. All his and Tal’s careful work, brought to ruin. And now the future—hers and theirs—lay in her hands alone.

She made herself stand tall.

They will love me. All of them will.

Rielle listened as King Bastien repeated what Ludivine and Audric had told her: seven trials, one for each of the seven elements, to be designed by the Magisterial Council and administered to her over the next seven weeks.

If, by the end of that time, she had proven her abilities and her control to a satisfactory degree—if she had throughout the trials consistently demonstrated loyalty and devotion to the crown, and neither defiance nor volatility—then she would be deemed the Sun Queen, the most holy symbol of the Church and the prophesied protector of the crown, and would be accorded all due privileges and tributes.

If not…

“Then, Lady Rielle,” said the king, his voice heavy, “I will have no choice but to order your execution.”

Rielle allowed the hall’s silence to grow. Lord Dervin Sauvillier watched her, his eyes keen. Across the gallery from him, the Archon sat, sedate, with his hands folded in his lap.

“I do not decree this lightly,” added the king. “I have known you all your life, and your father has served me for twice that long. But I cannot allow that to affect my duty to protect my people. We must be certain you are not the danger we have feared for a thousand years.”

Oh, Rielle, said the voice, returning with a swift jolt of anger, please tell me you won’t let them trap you like this.

But she had already stepped forward to speak. She felt as bright and sure as the sun.

The Magisterial Council believed it to be a choice, Ludivine had said—to protect and not harm. To serve and not betray.

It was a choice, and she had made hers.

She would be a symbol of light and not of death.

“I understand your fear, my king,” said Rielle, “and I will happily endure these trials to prove my worth and my strength to you, my people, and my country.” She made herself look around the room. No one would be able to accuse her of cowardice. She found Audric and Ludivine, drew strength from the sight of their faces. “I am not afraid to test my power.”

Whispers moved through the assembled councils. Rielle lifted her chin to stare up at the king.

I will show you what I can do.

I will show you who I truly am.

“Then, Lady Rielle,” said the king at last, his expression torn, “let the trials begin.”

12

   Eliana

“You will hear things about the Emperor’s assassins, things designed to terrify you. That their loyalty to him gives them extraordinary strength. That, like him, they cannot be killed. But I tell you, the butchers of Invictus are as flesh and blood as you are. It is a battle of beliefs. Can your faith outlast theirs?”

—The Word of the Prophet

“You don’t look surprised to see me,” said Rahzavel. He approached through the bathing room with a dancer’s grace. “So you’re a fool, but you’re not stupid.”

Every instinct screamed at Eliana to run out of the maidensfold after Simon and Navi, but to where? And then what? Rahzavel would chase her to the ends of the earth. He and Invictus and the Emperor himself would view her defection as a personal insult.

She had time for two fleeting hopes—that Simon and Navi would get out of the palace safely. And that Simon would find a spark of mercy in his heart and protect Remy and Harkan.

Then Rahzavel attacked.

He was fast, through the bathing room and upon her before she had the chance to strategize. He raised his sword, and with that pale face smiling coldly at her, everything Eliana knew abandoned her in an instant.

She turned and ran.

Rahzavel chased her through the scented labyrinth of the maidensfold. He caught up with her, let his sword fly. Eliana swung the adatrox sword, its heavy hilt slick with blood, and parried. Rahzavel advanced; Eliana barely blocked each of his cuts.

Their blades caught. Eliana stepped back and quickly turned her sword, dislodging him. She swiped wildly at his torso, but he was too quick. He advanced again. Eliana stumbled back, found a carving of a scantily clad woman on a tabletop, threw it at him, and ran.

She heard the carving hit the floor. Rahzavel’s quick footsteps followed her through a series of narrow carpeted rooms.

Her strikes became desperate; Rahzavel was too fast, too meticulous. She gasped for breath; he hardly seemed to break a sweat. She ducked his sword, the blade hissing past her neck. She flung aside the adatrox sword, used her free hand to grab whatever she could find—vases, goblets, gilded plates—and fling them back at him.

He laughed at her, dodging it all.

They emerged once more into the bathing room, the tile slick from water and blood.

A lone girl huddled in the corner, whimpering.

Rahzavel’s smile unfolded. “You’re frightening the whores, Eliana.”

She thrust at his belly with Arabeth; he blocked her easily.

They circled each other, Eliana blinking back sweat. Her hair had fallen loose from its knot.

“You should never have turned,” said Rahzavel, every syllable pristine. “You could have been one of the Emperor’s favored. Your family would have wanted for nothing.”

Then, without warning, someone shoved Eliana from behind. She lost her footing on the slick tile, and Rahzavel used his sword to knock Arabeth away.

He lobbed a hard backhand across her face. She fell, her head knocking against a low table.

Dazed, she saw movement and color—one of Lord Arkelion’s concubines, scurrying away. The girl had pushed her.

“It seems the bonds of sisterhood do not extend to traitors.” Rahzavel’s voice floated above her. He straddled her hips, his face inches from her own—clean-shaven jaw, straight nose, gray eyes flat and distant.

She felt a sharp pain below her throat and glanced down, too dazed to fight.

He was cutting her.

A new panic seized her, shocking her awake. She needed to get away from him, now, before he saw the truth.

“Many would kill their dearest loved ones,” Rahzavel murmured, “for the chance to serve the Emperor as we do in Invictus. And yet you have thrown in your lot with the Prophet’s lapdog?”

Another cut, a shallow X between her collarbones.