An abandoned boy, a grieving prince, and a reclusive sorcerer find themselves caught in a web of peril and mystery...
Domi, a young thief abandoned on the street at birth, just wants to save his dying foster mother. But first, he must survive the m...
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The morning of Daedalus's nameday started bright and early. Too early. Part of Cercitis wished Fons could have cleared the freshly-minted fifteen-year-old's schedule to at least grant him the morn off. The boy worked so hard, far harder than anyone should, let alone a growing child. He deserved a break.
Even so, a guilty sense of relieved gratitude filled Cercitis's chest, for Fons had agreed—if reluctantly—to make space for this meeting between her, the boy, and Comitas. The task stretching before them this morn was of vital importance. Now that Daedalus's newly-unsuppressed twin ran amok in distant Provincia Sicarii, the oblivious younger boy's every breath and deed put the Princeps's life in danger. Put the whole world in danger.
The two women stood side by side beneath the black, silver, and blue mosaic of the domed tablinum office, the post-Brightening Rain a gentle patter against the glass above. In a few minutes, once the soil grew saturated, the showers would turn to light snow.
Daedalus, who slept poorly the eve before due to his pounding migraine, sat before them, slumped in a high-backed chair and nigh inhaling a porcelain goblet of black coffee. On any other day, Cercitis would have discouraged such—caffeine, alcohol, and other psychoactive substances could interfere with a growing Lightbearer's magic—but today she held her tongue. The discussion that loomed before them would be uncomfortable enough without trying to pry coffee out of the hands of a tired, grumpy adolescent.
Comitas, hands folded before her, prim and proper as ever, cleared her throat, and Daedalus at last acknowledged her with a soft grunt and lazy flick of his fingers. The protocol handler cleared her throat again with a stern frown at his behavior, and this time the boy ignored her. Cercitis hid a smile as the Princeps took another sip of his coffee. He was not a morning person.
Comitas arched a brow but at last proceeded as though she had not been rudely rebuffed. "Basilicus, I am here today because your foster mother asked me to discuss with you the important topic," the protocol handler said, "of your marriage."
Daedalus shot a sharp glance up at Cercitis over the rim of his goblet. "This is most irregular."
She resisted the urge to sigh. The boy spoke the truth, of course. As only his foster mother instead of a closer family member, and a mere Empowered at that, it was not her place to initiate such conversations. But the Princeps lacked an heir, and with no one to inherit the Trellis after him if his twin cost him his life, the preservation of his royal line must be addressed with haste. Thus, she had used what influence she possessed as his kin and arranged for this uncomfortable little talk to take place.
"It is a touch unusual, yes," the protocol handler said. She cast a pointed glance at Cercitis, who would not offer this meddling woman the satisfaction of a response, and a moment later Comitas turned back to Daedalus. "However, I agreed to initiate the conversation because it is the proper time in your life and reign to discuss such things. You are fifteen years old now, Basilicus, and old enough to wed."
His eyes narrowed in annoyance. "I will be old enough in a year."
Cercitis sighed. The law required all Promethidae to wed an approved match prior to their eighteenth nameday, though those who wished to be paragons of duty could choose to marry as young as sixteen. Most people could not wed younger.
But Daedalus was not most people.
"We would like to encourage you to take a spouse now," Comitas said. Her voice remained firm and matter-of-fact, as though she advised on nothing more outrageous than the proper color to wear to a night-side soiree.
Daedalus's customary composure cracked as his jaw dropped, and Comitas tapped her own chin with one fingertip. After a moment, the boy closed his mouth and arranged his face into a regal mask.
Comitas nodded in satisfaction. "You are the Princeps Worldholder," the protocol handler went on. "The Rex will grant you special dispensation to wed a year early if you wish."
"Now?" His brow furrowed in baffled irritation. "Why in the world would I wish to do that?"
"For the good of Aquarius. You are the last of your line, Basilicus. You must have an heir. A child to—"
The boy's composure crumpled again. His hands clenched around his goblet of coffee. "A child to sacrifice to that hungry thing."
Comitas gasped at the blasphemous outburst. "Basilicus—"
He shook his head, waving the handler off. "I apologize, that was uncalled for. I am weary, and my head aches." He drew a deep breath and straightened in his chair. "Very well. Marriage. Has the list of eligible conjugal matches been updated recently, Comitas?"
"Fons and I prepared a fresh one every six months since the day of your birth, Basilicus. Your royal mother identified the three she considered most suitable. All young ladies, as she knew are your preference."
He nodded. "I will take her candidates into consideration, but I will make the final decision." Comitas opened her mouth to argue, but the boy shook his head. "Send me the list, Comitas. I will review the candidates and make a selection by the end of the month. Tell Fons to begin the appropriate preparations for the proposal and nuptials. You are dismissed." He flicked a glare at Cercitis out of the corner of his eye. "Both of you."
She sighed, but as she obeyed and took her leave, a warm wave of relief flooded her body. Daedalus would wed. He would not like it, but the boy she raised was dutiful. He would produce an heir if he survived long enough to do so. If his twin, through ignorance or malice, cost Daedalus his life, there must be a new Princeps Worldholder for the Trellis. Now, if the Eternal Radiance willed it, there would be one.
