The Articles of the Empire is a massive document, detailing all sorts of matters pertaining to governance, specifically laying out the powers and rights of the chamber of condes, the Quorum of Five, and the imperial throne. Thirty pages alone are devoted to the proper procedure for raising or lowering taxes. If this tome doesn’t put me to sleep, nothing will.

Finally I reach article fifty-seven, section eight, which outlines inheritance law. A single paragraph addresses the adoption of non-genealogical children as inheritors of land, wealth, and power. Taking on wards from other families is such a common practice among the nobility—including among the three queens of the empire—that it’s no wonder some enterprising conde insisted this clause be included. I read it carefully. Then I read it again.

There’s nothing here I don’t know. All adoptions resulting in inheritance of rulership must be approved by a vocal majority of the chamber of condes. So what? What did Father Nicandro want me to see?

No, there’s something not here that he wanted me to see.

I read it again, understanding dawning. I read it yet again to be sure. I read it five more times.

My pulse quickens. My face feels warm. Hope is unfurling inside me, even as I try to tamp it down. Hope is frightening. Hope is risky.

The seed of a precious idea has formed, but I dare not consider it too deeply. I slam the book shut and return to my bunk. I have other things to worry about. Like keeping my prince alive until the empress returns.

18

Then

WAR was coming.

Mula didn’t know what that meant when the cook had first said it, but she soon learned. Over the next few months, thousands of Inviernos marched through the free villages on the way to the great desert, cutting a swath through the forest as they went, turning the trading square to trampled mud. Once the spring thaw hit, the air began to stink of feces. Soon after, six villagers died of sour gut.

The army was ravenous, demanding more stew and ale than Orlín the innkeeper could provide. Everyone in the village reported missing livestock—horses, goats, chickens, pigs. People were going to starve come winter, for true.

“It’s all because of that new queen rising in the west,” the cook told the girl one day as he was sinking his fist into a batch of bread dough. He sneered out the word “west” like it was the most contemptible place in the world. “I just hope the White Hairs kill her quick, get this blasted war over with before the land is dead and our village starved.”

“For true,” Mula said. She hoped the White Hairs killed the new queen quick too. Because Orlín was selling her blood every day now. Sometimes more than once a day. Her thumbs and fingertips were crisscrossed with cuts that didn’t have time to heal before the next dagger came along. She walked around in a dizzy haze, so tired and thirsty she thought she might die of it.