Chapter 21: The White Chair

The summons came the next morning, and it was not for the court.

It was for a small room at the back of the palace.

It held one white chair, one plain table and no windows.

The Empress was already seated when they came in.

She sent the guards out with a lift of two fingers.

"Marshal. Consort-Marshal," she said. "Sit."

Ambrose did not sit.

Linus stayed beside him, with his hands bandaged in clean linen and the gold under it humming.

"You are well," the Empress said.

She looked at Ambrose with something like approval.

"The plates are gone. The hand is warm. I thought you would not survive the month."

"You thought it?" Ambrose said.

"I planned it."

The room went still.

She said it without heat, in the voice she used for the harvest tax.

"The men on your stair were mine."

She folded her hands.

"The Duke's poison was running thin, and you would not have died quickly enough on your own."

Linus felt the fire in his palms rise.

He pushed it back down.

"Why?" he said.

"Because I have known for seven years what you are."

She turned her pale eyes on Linus.

"What your body is. I stood in that cellar twice."

"You knew about the boy."

"I knew about the fire. A drone with a Spark, burning out his life for a Warborn Marshal."

She tilted her head.

"I have wondered for years what the empire would do if it learned that a drone could carry what Warborn cannot."

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