Page 91 of The Cradle of Ice

Knowing he must show no hesitation, Jubayr turned. He kept his feet within the black circle, where he was protected by Hyka for the life he was about to take. He lifted his sword two-handed. He met Tykl’s eyes, something he hadn’t done with any of the fourteen men and two women he had slain this long day. Jubayr gritted his teeth. He had known Tykl all his life, often running through the halls when he was a boy, wearing the Fist’s oversize helm.

Even now the man sought to help Jubayr.

Tykl gave him a small nod of his chin, acknowledging that he understood and forgave this act.

Jubayr raised his scimitar high, took a deep breath, and swept the blade with all the force of his shoulder and back. He cleaved through throat and spine, angling his wrist at the last moment to send the Fist’s head rolling to the foot of the throne. It was not his first execution. He had become adept, serving this role for a decade, since he was nineteen.

Still, this was the most painful cut.

He sagged afterward, almost fell from the black circle. He leaned on the tip of his sword, trying to keep his shoulders from shaking. He cursed those who had taken Rami and Aalia—not just for the abduction of his siblings, but also for the needless death of an honorable man.

He made a solemn oath with Tykl’s blood splashed across his face.

I will make you pay.

His father stood with a jangle of thirty-three chains. He lifted a palm and spoke solemnly, ending the long proceedings. “It is done. Hyka is slaked and served.”

Freed by those words, Jubayr stumbled out of the circle. People filed out of the galleries without a whisper. He passed the ceremonial sword to an armory guard, glad to be rid of the bloody blade. Jubayr intended to head directly to the baths, to seek the hottest water, the coarsest salt, and scrub this day from his body.

But it was not over.

His father held a palm toward him, silently asking him to stay. With no choice, Jubayr stood as each of his father’s Chaaen came forward and undid their silver chains from his throne and departed. Three remained afterward, stepping alongside the emperor. They were Makar’s most revered councillors.

Jubayr sensed there was something else of import, something that had been kept from him until now.

His father came alongside him. “You did well, my son. I know that was difficult, especially the last.”

Jubayr didn’t deny it.

“Accompany us to the strategy room. There is a matter you must be informed about.”

Makar headed out of the chamber and aimed for the bridge that spanned over to the Blood’d Tower of Kragyn, the god of war. It was the second-highest spire of the citadel, second only to the royal residence. The Blood’d Tower housed the empire’s map rooms, war libraries, and all manner of chambers dedicated to tactics, strategies, and weaponry. It also held a battery of nests at the top, where bridle-singers trained and dispatched hundreds of skrycrows each day.

Jubayr followed his father. Makar was resplendent in a traditional imri cap and splay-sleeved robe that reached his knees. From the emperor’s shoulders, a heavy cape hung. Its gold-and-silver embroidery formed the Haeshan family crest of a mountain hawk in flight, where its eyes were thumb-sized diamonds and its claws were solid gold. He also wore a circlet of dark iron, sculpted from a star fallen from the heavens, adorned with a ring of bright blue sapphires.

Jubayr’s habiliment was also finely wrought, only now splashed and soaked in crimson. The blood weighed down his clothes as he walked. He carried each death with him.

Like his emperor, Jubayr had oiled his shoulder-length black hair, which was ironed flat and fixed behind his head by gold pins in the shape of the Haeshan Hawk. He shared his father’s complexion and strong lines of jaw and cheek. The only distinguishing feature between the two were Jubayr’s violet eyes, courtesy of his mother, dead these past twelve years.

Despite those eyes, many considered Jubayr to be the exact image of the younger Makar, but Jubayr wondered how much was due to shared blood and how much was because he had been groomed for the throne, forged into his father’s likeness by duty and responsibility.

Still, he doubted if he could ever accept that mantle. He stared down at the caked blood on his hands, knowing he was better suited to be an executioner than a future emperor.

* * *

A HALF-BELL LATER, their party reached the Blood’d Tower and climbed to the topmost chamber, just under the skrycrow nest. Jubayr listened to the cries and squawks of thousands of birds. He caught the whiff of their pungent spoor through the open window slits.

He hid a cringe. The reek always set his teeth on edge, a reminder of the chaos that roiled beyond the rhythm and routine of the Eternal City. He preferred order and the established roles found here, adhering to an adage as old as Kysalimri.

Each to his own place, each to his own honor.

But of late, chaos had descended upon the city and palace.

There was no escaping it.

Knowing that, Jubayr followed his father into the strategy room. He discovered the Wing of the imperial fleet and the Shield of the empire’s ground forces waiting for them. Each man dropped to a knee and saluted Makar with fists to foreheads.

The emperor waved them up and motioned their group to a massive ironwood table inscribed with a map of the Southern Klashe. The chamber itself was circular. Hundreds of other maps hung from the walls, forming the entire circlet of the Crown.