— CHAPTER I —

PURPLE BUNDLE, BLACK SHROUD

* * *

She bundled him in his swaddling clothes herself as habitually she would, the wet nurses and governesses standing idle, for none would dare interrupt.

The young mother wrapped her only child tightly and laid him to rest in his luxurious bassinet atop a soft feather pillow, sheets of damask, and an embracing of rich, warm cotton. Yet all merely cloaked a stillness no luxury could stir. He slept as peacefully as ever he had done, quiet as the grave, for this poor babe was dead.

Dispassionately she went through all the motions of preparing him for his bedtime routine whilst the room watched in respectful silence. She knew not any other action to take. Her heart lay full but her mind empty, too overwhelmed yet to confront the event. Normalcy would be her only comfort, and so she prepared her babe for his afternoon nap for the final time.

She ensured the curtains over the windows were drawn tightly to limit the light as one of the younger nurses sang to him a lullaby. The girl’s melodic voice was tender and sweet, but this child’s ears were long past hearing. Another waved a fan of soft, vibrant peacock plumes gently above the boy’s face, his lips blue and lifeless. The Tyrosian purple veil hanging from the mother’s diadem gently obscured her from view, but beneath lay a masque of cold stone.

The boy’s elder nursemaid wailed with grief in the next room as the mother gazed silently upon her son’s still face. She knew, but she couldn’t accept, as her own countenance lay frozen. ‘How?’ she wondered. He had already beaten the fever and had been doing so much better over these past few days. How could death take him now after such a recovery?

She had spent the last many days tending to her dying husband, and the long vigil had so robbed her of all her time and attention that she missed her son’s final moments on earth. Her emotions were spent, her grief exhausted. She could do naught but apologise to her poor child for not yet having the strength nor wits to mourn him as he deserved.

“I am so sorry, my love,” she whispered as she looked upon his sleeping face.

Hearing her domina speak for the first time since she entered the room encouraged the senior governess to finally approach.

“My dear sweet lady,” she spoke tenderly. “Allow us to care for him now. You must take rest.” The governess slowly led her away to the hall. As they approached, she could hear bellowing outside a voice she knew all too well.

“Where is the Empress?” he demanded as she emerged. Immediately the man approached her, gently caressing her arms and kissing her forehead. “My dear, I came as soon as I heard. O Ana, tell me it isn’t so.”

Beneath the words of comfort wafted the bitter air of politics, a stark contrast to the silent, heartbroken vigil within the room, and within her heart. As she looked upon her father, her nose tingled, her chin quivered, and her eyes welled. It was the closest she had heard anyone come to saying it outright. Even when the messenger came to inform her of the news, all he said was, “Déspoina, I fear you must come at once. It concerns the babe.” Just hearing her father speak of it made it feel too real already.

“Your grandson rests inside, Papa,” she replied with emotional void. She performed a desultory curtsy and departed for her chambers escorted by several consoling handmaidens. Her father turned towards the child’s bedchamber door and, after a deep breath, entered.

* * *

An eerie pall was cast over the room, heavy with the silence of a life barely begun. Andronikos Doukhas, First Secretary and Grand Chancellor of His Imperial Lordship’s government, brother of the Doux of Trapezion, and father to the Empress-Consort, looked upon his grandson, the newborn Prinkeps Arnza Tarkhuinal Zel-Rasnas tou Aurelianos, as he lay dead in his opulent bassinet. Observing the tiny bundle in his rich trappings, it was not a frown that stole across his face but a scowl.

Infant mortalities were no uncommon thing, even for royalty, he accepted. The boy had been born more than half a month early and was suffering from terrible bouts of fever during his first weeks of life. But for his daughter’s only child to pass so soon after her husband was far too convenient by half. His clan was vulnerable, his enemies many, and this tragedy was all too generous a gift to them to simply be His Radiance’s design, he surmised. Yet in the face of such weighty death, his mind reached only for advantage, his sole play to stave off the terrifying notion of losing grasp.

All around he felt the gaze of the many nurses and servants, governesses and stewards, handmaidens and attendants, watching all but speaking not. Were their eyes their own, he wondered? The mood of the babe’s chamber grew thick with unspoken fear, as if shadowed by unseen thoughts. He must act quickly, lest their latent designs devour him whole.

He snapped his fingers towards the nearby Palatina Guard officer, Kostas, bidding the man come forth. He did so with a dutiful bow. The chancellor would have for him but one question.

“Who knows?” Lord Doukhas asked, to the man’s subtle surprise.

The kentarch looked about for the many watching eyes and open ears. “Surely few beyond the closest caretakers and physicians,” he answered. “But Eparch Bessarion has sent riders to inform the Basilika, Senate, and High Praetors of a royal passing as is protocol.”

“You will apprehend them all at once,” Doukhas ordered. Kostas looked to him in astonishment.

“My Lord Chancellor,” he said delicately. “You know I cannot supersede my commander’s orders.”

Doukhas closed distance. “Whom do you serve, Kentarch?”

“The Imperator,” he replied. There was a pause. “And his closest of kin, my lord.”

“The Imperator is dead. It is his empress’ wish that news of their son’s tragedy remains a private matter until she’s had proper time to grieve. Any who are at risk of defying the Empress’ wishes must be taken into protective custody. I will inform the commander of his error as well. Is that understood?”

Kostas nervously nodded his head.

“Good. Now, off with you,” Doukhas said. “And should any ear outside these walls hear word of this before I deign to inform them, it will be your head.”

The kentarch was immediately off with his fellow Palatina sergeants to intercept his commander’s messengers. Armsmen belonging to the House of Doukhas poured into the bedchamber of the eternally sleeping prince thereafter. The nurses and stewards watched them with trepidation.

“Arrest them all,” the chancellor ordered.

* * *

The pillars of the ancient temple held their secrets close, the weight of centuries pressing down in the hush. Rhamza Tarkhuinia Zel-Rasnas tis Aureliana prayed in solitude before the grand altar in the apse of the Hieron of the Eternal, her royal father’s viewing long completed. A procession of many of the Empire’s most prominent citizens, led by the Doukes Komnas and Phokhas, delivered him to the bowels of the ancient temple. There, his embalming would be completed according to ancient tradition before being interred deep in the royal necropolis with his ancestors for all time. The great gallery was quiet and emptied as the hour grew late, sombre as if the stones themselves mourned in silent reverence.

Tears fell from her delicate maiden cheeks, yet raw from hours of grief, her lament a whispered song. A great bronze statue of His Divine Radiance, the ascended mortal Atoum, was before her, with the brilliant Banner of the Twenty-One-Pointed Sun arrayed behind Him. Hundreds of white candles illuminated the altar, bathing the effigy of her empire’s god in golden light. Yet even the many candles’ glow paled beneath the light of His Eye above, lingering long past day’s end. It seemed today, even His Radiance was reluctant to rest.

It was to Him she prayed, her God and her ancestor, as it was His holy blood that ran through her veins. Of all things, it was a prayer for forgiveness, for her heart ached with more than simple loss.

“I know those tears,” a matronly voice spoke, approaching from behind. “They are tears of guilt, not grief. I know them well, for I have borne them many times myself.” She came to a halt just behind the girl. “And by now they have all run dry, for they are but lies, my dear. In time, you will understand.”

“But how am I to feel anything but guilt?” the princess asked.

“Stand and face me when you speak, child,” the woman commanded.

The Prinkipassa wiped her eyes as she turned to address Matriarch Laraniia-Araziia Zel-Rasnas, Hierophantissa of the enigmatic Cloister of Oracles, mistress and keeper of the Sacred Mysteries.

This blind seeress wore temple vestments as brilliant white as she, but with silver embroidery to match her long hair as it radiated against the low golden sunbeams bathing the temple. Over her head, she wore a veil of plain-woven violet silk with a linen blindfold of deep crimson over her eyes. Her voice was erudite and regal, as truly a sister of an emperor should be, though not to the recently deceased, but rather his father. She walked without assistance, ever sure-footed of her path and purpose as her bare feet glided over the immaculate marble floor, barely touching.

“Yes, Your Reverence,” Rhamza said, rising from her knees to offer a deferent curtsy. The elder presbytera approached her young acolyte, delicately brushing her locks of deep chestnut behind her ear as the girl looked to the floor.

“You only feel so because you still cling to the illusion of will,” Matriarch Laraniia-Araziia said. “We are but instruments of destiny, child, spokes on a great wheel. Everything we have done and will do has been preordained by movers far greater than ourselves.”

“By the gods, Your Reverence?”

The Matriarch heartily laughed before looking about to see if any other temple primates were within earshot. “No, child,” she said, leaning closer. “Something much greater, and They have gifted you brief glimpses of Their grand designs. Not so you may intervene, but rather to gain a bit of wisdom from Their example. For to see any more than a glimpse would render any mortal mind mad.”

“Yes, Your Reverence,” Rhamza said.

The Matriarch smiled. “Release yourself of your cares, child. You belong to the Temple now. Let go of your attachments and look beyond this earth for your purpose. You’ve seen much horror already and you know well there is more to come. Much more. Liberate yourself now, before the coming of sorrows.”

“Yes, Your Reverence. I shall try.”

The Matriarch sighed. “You feign understanding, but you have not. I see your heart, child. You still believe your gift will allow you to prevent what comes. Your agency is but a myth, girl. Try, if it please, but none can alter destiny. Even should one change the route, the destination ever remains the same.”

Young Rhamza nodded to the blind woman, who grinned in reply.

“Run along now, child. To your bed, the hour is late,” the Matriarch said as the princess bowed her head and turned to depart.

“Think on what I say when you take vespers, girl. Any mortal attempt to alter the Path is hubris, a grave error. And all such errors are corrected in time,” she said, gazing upon the statue of His Radiance, the once-mortal God-King Atoum. Long did she hold His gaze.

“Their time.”

* * *

The captain of the Doukhas household guard fumbled clumsily about the Empress’ bedchamber, exchanging the linens on the bed, folding and hanging clothes in the adjacent wardrobe. He had all the finesse of a three-legged mongrel, the Dowager-Empress Anastasia thought, as she stood watching him inscrutably. Her bedsheets were wrinkled, the linens were folded against the seams, and not a single garment was dabbed with even a bit of the scents before being hung up.

“All wrong,” she said as sweat dripped from his nervous brow. “Is it your pleasure to make your empress’ domicile unliveable?” He turned immediately to acknowledge her and dipped his head low.

“Apologies, Déspoina,” he said. “I am afraid my wife and her maids handle such matters at home. I’ve never been adequately trained for such domestic tasks.”

She glowered at him unmoved. “You lot might have considered that before you carted my poor ladies-in-waiting off to the Aranthas. Young Daphne has a deathly aversion to mould and dust. Eugenia is terrified of enclosed spaces. For Nicoleta, it is the dark. What justification do you offer for subjecting fine, virtuous women to such discomfort, good Ioannis? The least you could do is fulfil their duties whilst they’re gone. The least I could do is let you know how you compare.”

“I am merely following your father’s command, Déspoina,” he replied. “’Tis not my place to ask justifications.”

“He is your master, but I am his,” she said. “I could order them all released at once, and for you to take their place. I am still your and my father’s empress, am I not?”

Komes Ioannis looked to the floor as though trying to find the appropriate words for a delicate response. “That we do not yet know, I fear, Basilissa. The Altha Zilathia have yet to make their ruling. Believe me, as soon as we receive word that you are imperatrix, I shall follow your commands to the letter over any other. I mean you no distress.”

“Why do you insist on torturing my poor guard captain, Ana dear?” a voice enjoined from the doorway. Anastasia turned to address her father.

“Because I’ve been calling on you for hours with no answer,” she said. “How better to summon you than to deprive you of your chief enforcer?” She returned to the count. “Ioannis, your role is now fulfilled. You are dismissed. Leave everything right where it is. I shall have to redo all of it myself anyway.”

“Yes, Déspoina. Apologies, Déspoina,” Ioannis said as he dutifully bowed to both lord and lady and took his leave.

“You are upset,” Andronikos Doukhas said as the door closed behind the guardsman. “And you have every reason to be, but matters must be addressed delicately or we risk finding ourselves even greater trouble.”

“The capital has been nothing but trouble for us since we arrived,” she replied, stripping the bed of its linens to remake it. “This is His Radiance’s way of telling us we never should have come. Let us take his signs to heart for once and return home. Allow Empress-Mother Velthuria the regency. She at least has some blood relation to the boys. I know I desire it not.”

He approached her.

“I am afraid that is not an option,” he said, taking her hands to stop her work. “We have a duty to stay and protect our interests — to protect ourselves, rather. Look at me, darling.” She reluctantly lifted her head to meet her father’s eyes. “We are in danger, Ana, and fleeing home to Trapezion will not save us. Our house remains weak, and our rivals shall continue to devour us piece by piece if it remains so for much longer.” He released her hands and turned away. “Alas, I suspect they may have already made their first strike.”

Her blood ran cold, her eyes and mouth lay frozen wide as she recoiled, struggling to comprehend his implication.

“You can’t mean it, Father.”

Pensively he scratched at his bearded chin and began to pace. “Forgive me. I do not mean to burden you with an old man’s suspicions. What has happened is a terrible tragedy none could have foreseen. Now two such tragedies unforeseen, just when we were making great progress in earning the Emperor’s forgiveness. I fear we shall forfeit everything we’ve worked for if we vacate the capital now.”

She shook her head. “I should think you and Uncle Nikephoros far beyond earning my husband’s forgiveness now.” Speaking of His Majesty’s death threatened to make her think of their little one and her composure began to waver.

Her father looked around the room instinctively, as if compulsively making sure there were no other ears present before answering. Yet even the gods below could do little about the ears within the walls themselves.

“But perhaps we need it no longer,” he whispered, drawing closer. “For when you are declared regent of the twins, all the powers of state shall be yours. This is our moment. You are the key to our house’s revival, Ana. And our very survival, I fear.” He leaned away to look on her with pity. “I wish it were not so. I wish it did not have to fall on you, especially at such a trying time as this. But alas, we must all do our duty to the house, no matter how unpleasant.”

He sighed and took her hands in his. “Your uncle and I have made mistakes. I admit that. But I do not believe they are so egregious as to merit the end of us. We will not be the generation that presides over our house’s destruction. We must not be. Your uncle does his part in Trapezion, as does your Aunt Kassandra in far Czerniygrad, and I, here. And you — you must do your part here as well.”

“My son is dead, Papa,” she finally admitted as her father looked down and grasped her fingers tightly.

“Yes, Ana, he is. And devastating as that is, he was our best argument for securing custody of the boys.” She frowned and averted her eyes as he continued. “I hope you can understand my reasons for ensuring word of our tragedy doesn’t spread beyond these walls too soon. Everyone we’ve confined to the Aranthas will be right as rain soon after tomorrow’s ruling is made. I am sorry to ask this deception of you, but it will lead to happier days for all of us. This I promise. And should all this prove more than a terrible happenstance—”

He paused to muster a deep sigh. “Then my wrath will be without end. His Radiance’s destruction of the old Pantheon will pale in comparison to the reckoning I shall unleash. This also do I promise you.”

She remained silent as she listened. Talk of more death and suffering was not the comfort her papa believed it to be.

“But you needn’t hear such things,” he continued. “It would be best for you to find time to grieve in the meantime. Your testimony will likely be required tomorrow before a verdict can be decided, and a clear mind will do much to prove your fitness for the regency. You might even find a moment to mourn the Emperor’s passing with your stepsons. A good rapport with them will be most necessary going forward, but you must tell them nothing of the babe.”

“I am a perfect stranger to them, Papa,” she said.

“All the more reason to make the effort now. Grief can be a powerful tool to bring people together, and already I fear the claws the Phokhades and Komnai have dug into them. We need the boys as close to us as possible, and no other. Please tell me you are willing to do what needs to be done. I must know I can count on you.”

She failed to answer, quietly distressed by her father’s preoccupation with his designs on such a day as today. It was to be expected, she accepted. Her father was who he was.

“Ana,” he pressed.

Finally, she nodded. “Yes, Papa. But first you must release Iatrós Lazaros from confinement. He alone has what I need to grieve properly. I shall take responsibility for him.”

“Out of the question, I am afraid,” he said with a shake of his head. “You must be in a proper state of mind to give adequate testimony tomorrow, and I need him to preserve the boy for burial whilst we still have him in custody. I will release the good iatrós along with everyone else once a decision is made. He may medicate you at that time. Within moderation, of course.”

She received the news with grim despondence, saying nothing but dutifully accepting.

“I shall send the chaplain along shortly to lead you in your evening vespers. Once he has finished reciting departures for the child’s soul, that is. I have much work to do now, my dear, but I shall see you again later. We will rehearse all night if needs be.” With that, Andronikos Doukhas bowed and took his leave. Anastasia returned to making her bed when she spied the pile of clothes the all-thumbs officer had fumbled about with. Next to it were a pair of crocodile leather shoes, a babe’s size, not yet worn. Upon seeing them, Anastasia collapsed to the floor and grievously wept.