But Bayan had died helping me to defeat my father, and when I’d finally taken the time to grieve, I’d realized there was no bringing him back. I was proof of that. While my father had grown this replica by submerging his own severed toe in the pool, he’d grown me from the parts of people he’d collected throughout the Empire. He’d tried to infuse me with the memories of Nisong, his dead wife. It had only partially worked. I had some of her memories, but I wasn’t her.

I was Lin. And I was Emperor.

Even if I could use the memory machine to restore some of Bayan into this replica, it wouldn’t be him.

I whirled, suddenly sure I’d heard something. A footstep? The scuff of shoe against stone? The lamps I’d lit behind me illuminated only stone and water; the only sound I could hear was my heartbeat thundering in my ears. In that one instant of blinding panic, I could feel everything being taken away from me – my years of hard work, the nights spent reading about bone shard magic, the courage I’d had to gather to defy my father – all of it dissolved in a moment of discovery. I was getting paranoid, hearing things where there was nothing. How could someone have followed me down here without the keys? The doors all locked again as soon as they latched shut.

Several of the books and pages of notes my father had gathered lay spread across the metal table. I was reluctant to move them to my rooms, where servants might see them. These were the weeds I was trying to pull: the Shardless Few, the sinking of Deerhead Island, the leaderless constructs and the Alanga. There were answers here, if only I could find them. It was finding them that was difficult. My predecessor’s notes were scattered, his handwriting messy. In spite of the three locked doors, my father wrote as though afraid someone else might find these books. Nothing was straightforward. Often he referenced notes he’d written previously, or other books, but without naming where those notes could be found or the titles of the books. I was trying to assemble a puzzle that had no picture.

I drew up the chair and flipped through page after page, a headache forming quickly behind my eyes. A part of me thought that if only I read enough, if only I read it enough times, I’d figure out my father’s secrets.