“Why did Tyvian hit you?”
“He didn’t. I fell into the wall. But it was still nice to see you get him.”
“Was it.” I am forced to hide my amusement. I also owe Tyvian an apology. Or perhaps not.
“You will stay with me at all times, human. You will accompany me during the day, and when you cannot, you will be confined in the same place you sleep, in the cage at the foot of my bed.”
“You have a cage at the foot of your bed. For what?”
“The bed was not originally of my design. I believe the previous king enjoyed having his mates captive in his bedchamber.”
“The previous king. Your father.”
She speaks innocently enough, but I do not like the reminder about my father. Krash never felt like a father to me. He felt like a manager resentful of the new hire who would one day take his job. He did everything he could to ensure that I was not ready for the throne. From time to time, I considered the possibility that it was Rath K’zar he preferred entirely. If not him, one of many dozens of other young korabi soldiers he courted over the years.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It is true. It was his.”
“It must sound like I’m rubbing it in, salt in the wound.”
“One of his favorite tortures, actually.”
She winces and looks down, assuming I mean to use the same techniques on her at some future point. She cannot be aware of my penchant for mercy, but I am not my father. I am not Krash. She will not be subjected to the many cruel instruments of his realm.
The truth that I am trying to hide from all around me is that I was never prepared adequately for this role. I tried to be. I became a royal guardsman. I learned what I could. But Krash kept me out of the many secret agreements which make this empire run. He left me with a city of suffering, rebellious, and occasionally murderous human beings and I was forced to make a show of revenge.
I was going to let Rath K’zar destroy the human who attacked their convoy. That seemed just. And it seemed as though it would satisfy all the factions who worshipped Krash. He was a popular king, as bastards always are.
Now the eyes of the korabi are on me, not merely to avenge his death, but to produce an heir. I do not wish to do either. It is so unthinkable to so many that a child should not mourn its parent. But there are those who stand in plain sight, dutifully following the traditions, while feeling none of the proper emotion.
I settle her into the cage. I expect complaints, whining, endless crying. She doesn’t make so much as a single sound. She curls up as though she is the most content little pet in the universe, and I feel another strange welling of warmth and happiness in my chest. This human makes me feel a range of emotions I have never experienced before. Watching her gives me peace. I have never known this kind of calm before.
I take a seat nearby and watch her. She must be aware of my gaze, but she does not react to it. She starts pulling the blankets inside the cage around herself to get more comfortable. I envy her. She has nothing, and because she has nothing, she has nothing to fear. Nothing to lose. I have so much that could be taken away from me. The crown. My throne. Megaris itself.
Slowly, her eyes start to close. It is not long before she is asleep. She is calm, and so am I.
Finally, I can think. The first thing to mind is the scrap that made me intervene. She said Tyvian was not punishing her, but that was a lie. I know it because she has been truthful most of the time, and so that untruth blazed from her in so many little uncomfortable ways. She is not a good liar.
But why would she lie about being in trouble with the dungeon master? It makes no sense unless she did something she does not want me to know about—or he did.
I go to the dungeon master’s quarters, where I predictably find Tyvian healing himself with a nanospray. Little biological entities are covering his skin, taking samples of his code, while consuming damaged tissue and generating fresh skin to cover the old. In a matter of minutes, he will no longer look as though his king whipped him like a whelp.
“Tyvian.”
“Yes, sire?” He looks up at me with that equanimity I so envy him. Tyvian is the walking definition of cool, calm, and collected. He has all the qualities of a leader. He was another of my father’s favorites. Practically everybody was one of my father's favorites.