unable to perform his duties. Fanatic he might be, but your father is still sound of body and mind. And even if they desired to take the crown from him, it would be to be put it on one of their heads, not yours.”
If Malahi was put off by his words, she didn’t show it, her voice smooth as she said, “Mudamora is faltering under my father’s rule. Faith in the Six has been faltering under his rule. Do you imagine it will do any better under any of the High Lords?”
He didn’t, but neither could he imagine any of them accepting an alternative.
“Everyone was willing to let my father execute you. Was willing to let you take the fall. Everyone but me. Help me claim the throne and I’ll put you at the front of the Royal Army. And I have nothing but confidence that this time you’ll defeat Rufina.”
“You need the majority vote, Malahi. Just how do you hope to achieve that?”
“By offering myself—and my house—up as bait.”
“What do you mean?”
Instead of answering, the Princess laid her cards down on the table, and Killian’s focus snapped to the faces of the cards, a slow grin working onto his face, despite the gravity of the moment. It was rare anyone outbluffed him. “You have no hand.”
Malahi returned his smile, though hers was all teeth. “Let’s hope the gods think otherwise.”
12
LYDIA
If Lucius wins, it will be because of you.
The veracity of that fact haunted Lydia as days turned into weeks. Not once did she look to the book Teriana had given her, allowing it to languish in its hiding space in the library, unwilling to tempt herself with the thought of escape.
Instead, she turned to trying to undermine Lucius’s campaign, digging deep into the facts and figures behind his proposed policies and hounding her father at every turn with how damaging it would be for Lucius to take power.
“Do you think I don’t know all of this, Lydia?” her father had shouted at her after a dinner she’d spent berating him with facts. “It’s too late to counter him! What’s done cannot be undone, so for once, would you curb your tongue!”
Except she knew that wasn’t the reason: It was his ailing health. It was Vibius, lurking in the wings and waiting to inherit. It was her tenuous future. For it seemed her father would allow the Empire to burn itself to the ground as long as the man doing the burning protected her.
For that reason, despite all of her efforts, all of her pleas, her father remained Lucius’s stalwart supporter as Election Day came to Celendrial.
It was dreadfully hot, even in the shade, but Lydia waved away the sweating glass of wine a servant offered in favor of keeping her arms crossed under her breasts and a glare on her face. For hours now, she’d had to stand beneath the portico of the Curia, the shadows of the twenty-four towering columns that held up the roof showing the passage of time like sundials. All because it provided the best view of the Forum, and all because Lucius apparently wished to watch every last citizen cast their vote.
The only thing that made it endurable was that Lucius was losing.
Not by a large margin, but if things continued as they had, Basilius would win. Which was as it should be. Basilius was a good man and, until recently, had been one of her father’s closest friends. Though no longer. Not with Senator Valerius standing in Lucius’s camp, his face drawn and sweating as he listened to the other man wax superior.
As though sensing her scrutiny, Lucius turned his head. “Lydia, darling. Join us. Regale us with conversation.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“Lydia, please,” her father said, his voice cajoling. It only fueled her temper.
Pointedly eyeing the cisterns filled with tokens, she said, “It seems you’ll be using the wine you imported from Atlia to drown your sorrows rather than to toast your victory, Lucius. How fortunate that you ordered so much of it. I understand the sting of loss lingers far longer than the glow of victory.”
There were several snorts of laughter from Basilius’s camp, who lingered nearby, but rather than frowning, Lucius only smiled. “The polls are not closed, darling. You might yet come to thank me for my foresight in the matter of libations.”
“I applaud your optimism.”
“Not optimism, my love. Pragmatism. You aren’t my first wife, after all. I’ve learned to keep my cellars stocked.”