The Empire. Grayson Reyes-Cole
the girl grew longer she remained fair-haired and light-eyed. Her lips compressed like the Emperor’s when frustrated. She radiated with Spirit that felt like his in all ways.
But the time did not fit, even for a late child.
This mystery forced a wedge between Raeche and her little daughter. Though the Empress dutifully spent time with the baby, Rucha sensed her mother’s unease and cried while her Spirit clung to the Emperor. Raeche neither trusted nor felt worthy of a like bond so she did not press. The separation wrought despair, and despair wrought obsession and paranoia. In all ways, Rucha was the daughter of the Emperor. She bore no signs of the man with whom Raeche had betrayed him. But that was impossible.
The Empress had to be mad. Only insanity would have her reject what was surely a blessing from the Spirit. A miracle. The Empire had its rightful heir. The Empress had her life, but the question opened a raw wound, draining her of all interest and energy. It drew her away from her duties as Empress. Trapped Raeche in her chambers, where she wore through the thread of her rugs and of the curtain she pulled back often to look toward the East Forest, which hid Galan’s secret path to her.
There was no one in all the Empire or beyond to whom she could speak or beg counsel. Galan had gone. It would be unwise to address this with the only person who knew for certain of her awful treachery–her husband. Her wretched mother, who arrived at the palace as a banquet for the eye, though empty-handed, empty-headed, and empty-hearted, recommended that she brush her hair fifty more strokes, use more bahtberry on her lips, and finally begin to wear the ornate crown of the Empire. Even in Raeche’s state of half-living she rejected these foolish remedies, and wished she could do the same to her mother.
Her mother. Annikah. Raeche could not think of her without fearing she would be consumed by the Rage. More often than should have been bearable, this fury washed over her as she stared at her own reflection. She looked very much like her mother. Sometimes, to the Empress’s horror, she behaved very much like her as well.
Annikah had been the Empire’s reigning beauty before her daughter came of age. Perhaps the constant adoration and power bestowed on Annikah for her exquisite appearance had hardened her to the benefits of cultivating other Spirits. Never had she sought to tame her erratic temper, or to soften her heart to anyone around her. The Spirit of Compassion was as foreign to her as the mysteries beyond the Death White Border. Taritana had disdained Raeche’s behavior as much of the same for as long as the Empress could remember.
However, Annikah had never made an exception for her daughter. Her blood had never warmed to Raeche and she had found no joy in her role as mother. Raeche, on the other hand, felt her daughter tug at her heart with every glance, every touch. Annikah had never told her daughter her secrets, of which Raeche was certain she had many—for an instant she saw again the soft glow of the objects on the vanity—while Raeche had vowed to keep nothing from Rucha. In the end, she banned her Spirit-cursed mother from the palace altogether. She was happy for the first time that she did not have sisters because she alone had to bear the bite of her mother’s vapidity and neglect. The status of her birth was proof that the Spirit possessed a sense of humor. An older sister would have saved her from the Empire–Raeche would have been the Personal. A younger sister and Raeche would have at least had a proper Personal, a confidante she could trust with her life and, beyond, with the Empire, should she perish. But she was glad no one else would suffer her mother, though it forced her to rely on the Personal she had been saddled with.
Taritana, ever distrustful, would certainly confirm the Emperor’s suspicion and force his hand. She had broken her stony silence for mere seconds to say, “Raeche, you do not seem well. You should eat more, drink more, and spend more time in the morning shine of the daystar, away from the palace.”
A moment of reflection caught Raeche wondering what the world would be like if Taritana did not hate her or covet her husband. Before Rucha was born she had wondered if there was some way to exchange places with Taritana. The Personal could have the Emperor and Empire. Selection for this, the second most exalted position in the Empire, required that she be the second most suitable woman in the kingdom to wed the Empire. Likewise Valor, the Emperor’s younger brother and so much like her husband, was the second most suitable man to wed the Empire. Raeche did not fool herself into believing she would be any good at the role of Personal, but for freedom from the Emperor she would try. Sadly, supposition was pointless–she would never abandon Rucha, despite her distance from the girl.
She tried Taritana’s therapies but they failed to restore her as they did not solve the ever-present puzzle. She watched her daughter grow blonder. The daystar did not harm Rucha, but did not warm the tone of her skin either. Her eyes remained pale green, like the Emperor’s, but shaped like Raeche’s, as were her nose and cheeks. The Empire rejoiced over how beautiful its heir would be, and how strong.
Raeche considered more than once that perhaps Galan had been an unconscious production of Spirit. A figment of her imagination, or even a phantom. Still, in all her imaginings, she had known little of the relationship between man and woman before him. She had received no education in such things when she was given to the Emperor. It had been her mother’s duty to prepare her, but Annikah had merely told her that she knew all she needed to know.
“Look at you,” Annikah had said, gesturing to her. “Of course he will want you. There is nothing left for you to know.”
When Raeche began to ask questions, her mother had kept her distance but scrutinized her as if scrying, her gaze delving her daughter’s. The moment had passed soon after, and her mother had gone, leaving her to her fate. The things the Empress had learned since the few ill-fated couplings with her husband had not come from her imagination. They filled her mind at the oddest of times, made her cheeks and belly hot.
Galan was real, but he could not be the father of her child. Yet, it could be none other.
Raeche’s hair became dry and brittle. Her skin began to flake. Dark half-circles developed beneath her eyes. Her lush curves diminished. When she evaluated the image in her mirror, all the womanly trappings that had lured Galan to her had disappeared. Though the bards still wrote songs of her beauty she heard none of them. Raeche made few appearances in public, ignoring many of her duties as Empress. She talked to herself incessantly, often arguing over the puzzle of her daughter’s conception. When Taritana interfered, Raeche sliced through her insincere overtures with the lethal truth: the Personal loved the Emperor and could therefore not do her duty to the Empress, though it was Raeche to whom she owed her fealty and devotion.
Her existence grew unbearable. As cycles scraped by, she spent her free hours apart from the world in the Imperial Library. She read books, scrolls, the Codex of the Empire, and the Codex of the Spirit. Searching for answers–even searching for a reference to a strange blood-eating vanity–but she learned little more than she already knew.
Steeped in yawning despair, she would have willingly and with relief gone into death this way, if not for a Chance of Spirit in the form of Rucha taking her first steps.
Raeche had not even noticed Rucha was of an age to walk, so long had she dwelled in a compartment of fear and confusion. As she passed the Emperor’s apartments one day she saw his door standing ajar. Though not unusual, a whisper of breath on the back of her neck made her turn her head and she saw her daughter’s first steps. Of course, Rucha had been walking to her father. From his loud whoop as he swung the girl in the air, Raeche knew for certain the Emperor had never experienced a happier moment. He did not contain his Spirit and it overwhelmed her, pouring happiness into her. She did not remember ever knowing the Spirit of Happiness or Contentment.
In this breath of a moment, Raeche was reminded of her husband’s masculine beauty. More than the most powerful man in the Empire, from head to foot he was the most handsome, courageous and terrible. His coloring so different from her own, his body so large and undefeatable in battle, he stole her breath at the strangest of moments. Galan had never stolen her breath or stopped her words and she had been so thankful for that. The Emperor had sea-green eyes that stroked her. The Emperor’s hands were scarred and had thick calluses on the palm yet were gentle as they directed her in a dance.
She had always known him to be handsome but, until