Midnight crept ever closer. A palpable hush spread throughout the frozen palace, weighing heavily on the already-doleful prayer services. And thanks to the castellan’s timely decision to skimp on candles, part of the corridor, the way to the half-empty imperial wing, was pitch dark.

Somewhere in that direction, on the other side of the enormous carved doors and surrounded by useless healers and clergy, the leader of the empire fought for his life. The latest was that His Grace, Emperor Margius, wasn’t going to pull through this time.

Hinges creaked faintly, the noblemen gathered there rushed over to the door, and, in the rush of elbows and hissing, courtesy and titles gave way to a scene that smacked more of the port market. But they all froze in an instant when they saw who emerged.

“Lord Demos,” someone gasped. “Could it be…”

Rubbing his eyes, a short man with a face mangled by fire hobbled toward them. A chain decorated with the medallion of the imperial treasurer dangled from gaunt shoulders, clearly burdensome to its owner. His clothes were wrinkled, his dark hair greasy. But even still, he held a thick leather packet carried with him from the emperor’s chambers closer than he might have held his own child.

“The emperor is dead,” Demos announced in a matter-of-fact voice.

Someone mumbled a prayer; the women lamented. Not a single guard moved a muscle. The other noblemen kept their eyes fixed on the packet clutched in the treasurer’s arms.

“Lord Demos, we would like to pay our respects,” begged a young and already half-bald man wearing a doublet embroidered with pearls. “Give them the order to let us in!”

The treasurer shook his head. Shadows laced their way through the deep creases on the disfigured side of his face.

“Save your emotions for the ceremony—there will be time for them then,” he replied. “His Grace won’t be telling you anything else, and we’ll announce his last wishes later once the Small Council has time to go over them.”

“Did Margius say anything before he died? Anything at all?”

“Who is the heir?”

“Lord Demos, tell us!”

“I will, but later.” The treasurer tried to squeeze past the noblemen crowding up against him.

Emboldened by fear or perhaps desperation, the balding young man gripped Demos’ arm.

“No, tell us now! Do you have any idea what’s at stake?”

The treasurer’s lips curled into a loathsome smile.

“Oh, I most certainly do. But rather than work yourself up over the will of the dead, spare a thought for the living, Earl. For example, think of all the disgraceful little secrets that could make their way to the surface if you—all of you—keep pushing me. Uncle Margius turned a blind eye to much that I will not hesitate to reveal.”

A heavy hand laid itself on the earl’s shoulder. He jumped, whirling around in a fright. Gesturing toward him to stand aside, a tall Ennian bodyguard casually placed his other palm on the hilt of his scimitar. The earl instantly jerked his arm away.

“My thanks,” Demos said with a nod as though nothing had happened. “Tell the chancellor I’ll be waiting for him outside.”

***

The torches flickered in the light breeze gusting in from the lake and breaking over the white stone walls of Missolen. The openwork gallery in the courtyard was empty, the guards having cleared it beforehand of curious eyes. Below, near the fountains, as was his right at the beginning of spring, a tomcat yowled insistently. And on the other side of the palace walls, on the other side of the Uli River, the lights of the capital glittered in blissful ignorance.

To Demos, the night was especially stifling. He carefully emptied the packet onto the marble banister, stopping once finished to crack his knuckles. His head was pounding. After fishing a pipe out of his tobacco pouch, he packed it full, lit a match using the candle in a nearby glass bowl, and tentatively lifted it toward his pipe. The splashing water in the fountains was drowned out by approaching voices.

“I said we should get the Ennian healers!” Demos recognized his mother’s southern accent. “There’s one staying in my manor, and the emperor would still be alive if they’d listened to me.”

“Ask sorcerers for help?” came the hissed reply. “Are you out of your mind, Lady Eltinia?”

That voice was enough to tell Demos that his mother was getting into yet another fight with the chancellor. Irving of House Allantain, Duke of Osvendis. He was the second-ranking person in the empire and its new leader until the Small Council named an heir. But his new status and the gravitas that came with it didn’t seem to have sunk in for Lady Eltinia.

“Lord Irving, I was born in Ennia,” she said, her voice softening. “I know what our healers are capable of, and I’m prepared to swear that they could have saved the emperor’s life without resorting to sorcery. How many more tragedies do we have to endure before you take your blinders off?”

Their footsteps got closer. The chancellor shot back in an ominous whisper.

“You really should think twice about saying things like that around clergymen. Out of respect for the situation and your house, I’ll write your outrageous sentiment off to nerves. But remember that the Great Master would see it as heresy.”

“Enough!” Demos barked, slamming the packet down on the banister hard enough to make the quarreling pair jump. “Margius is dead, and there’s nothing we can do to change that. Much worse is that his damn last will could very well split the empire in two.”

Lady Eltinia nervously smoothed down a crease in her dress as she lifted her eyes toward her son. Allantain’s deeply creased face flushed deeply all the way to his closely cropped gray beard.

“We have to figure out what to do about that, and fast.” Demos patted the leather packet. “If we announce the contents of these documents, total chaos will ensue. Our only chance of maintaining order is to align our efforts and keep the split from happening.”

“What’s in the last will?” Lady Eltinia took the pipe her son was holding and breathed in the fragrant smoke.

“The emperor left the throne to his wife. He went against the will of Tallonius the Great and bequeathed it to a woman.”

Allantain looked at the treasurer in surprise.

“Are you joking?”

The fire-scorched lord waved a thick piece of paper. The sealing wax was adorned with the imperial Tallonid coat of arms.

“See for yourself.”

The chancellor turned the document over, squinted, and stepped closer to a lantern. Once he finished reading, he shook his head in disbelief and handed the last will to Lady Eltinia.

“Margius mentioned that once, but none of us thought…”

“It’s true. His Imperial Majesty’s last will was to make Izara of Targos his successor, and we have the paper to prove it. Thank god, it’s the only copy. As soon as the emperor breathed his last, I grabbed it before anyone else could see it.”

“There’s no way we can crown a foreigner,” the chancellor replied firmly. “That’s out of the question.”

Demos took the pipe back from his mother and took a hungry pull. “You’re right that a woman can’t inherit the imperial throne. On the other hand, what one ruler can forbid, another can permit.”

“Well, only if that unfortunate packet also contains an order making changes to the rules for succession…”

“It does,” the treasurer replied with an unhappy smile. “I wasn’t exaggerating when I told you we’re looking at chaos.”

“That cannot happen. Izara would be a weak and controversial heir.”

“You’re starting to find some common ground.” Eltinia beamed charmingly, then nodded to her son and headed toward the garden. Demos and the chancellor were left to come to an agreement on their own.

The treasurer watched his mother walk away before turning back to Allantain. Irving fixed his colorless and watery eyes on him.

“Which would be the greater treason?” the old man asked, gesturing Demos toward a marble bench next to a large torch and bowl. “Doing nothing in the face of chaos or pulling some dirty tricks in an attempt to maintain order?”

“Is there a difference when it’s treason in both cases? When I swore allegiance, it wasn’t to Margius; it was to the empire. And I’m less worried by the interests of one particular corpse than I am about the future of the country he couldn’t find a worthy heir for.”

“Then you know what to do.”

The scorched lord smiled grimly and clutched the edge of the packet. Allantain got up shuffled away. Once he was gone, Demos knocked the contents of his pipe out on the marble, dropped it into his pocket, and pulled himself to his feet.

“I may regret this,” he whispered to himself as he tossed the will into the fire burning in the bowl.