Seeds of Inheritance: Inheritance, #1

By Aimee Kuzenski

A decade ago, Berenike, adept of the Fingertip Order, conspired to put her son on the throne at the head of a group of rebels who only wanted their futures back.

 

She failed.

 

Her son and husband dead, her dreams and reputation in tatters, Berenike makes the only bargain she can - she gives her magic-sealed oath to serve emperor Leontios the Unbending in exchange for the life of her young daughter, Evrim.

 

Now, after her failure to help the rebels and her years of slavery and humiliation, Berenike is dealt yet another blow. Evrim, frustrated with her mother's dedication to a lost cause, rejects Berenike's plans. She will not fight the battles Berenike cannot.

 

Berenike must find a way to unseat Leontios and redeem her promises to the rebels, all while navigating an almost unbreakable oath. Alone and disregarded, she will use any weapon that comes to hand - even if that weapon is her own daughter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aimee Kuzenski
• Release date: Mar 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9798990183414

Book preview

Chapter

One

A captor becomes complacent, but the captive elf watches. And waits.

~ Empress Pur the Younger

The hands lie and the eyes lie, but the shoulders and hips are truer.

~ Ansellema, adept of the Fingertip Order

Berenike stood at the back of the emperor’s study with her eyes closed, teasing apart the voices in the room while the mages set up the holo array. At her shoulder, her mentor-turned-jailer Theodora muttered reminders into Emperor Leontios’ ear for the upcoming broadcast. On the other side of the desk, two guards gossiping in low tones.

It’s safe, one insisted, even if she weren’t oath-bound, the spymaster taught her everything she knows. Theodora could probably kill her with one red-tipped finger.

It was flattering when the guards worried about her. After ten years as a slave, most of the denizens of the palacetree barely thought of Berenike at all. Her near-invisibility had become a worn cloak that itched what was left of her sore ego.

The second guard chuckled. The Fingertip Order is more spies than assassins these days, I guess. And you’re right - it’s been a decade. She would have moved by now if she could.

She would have. She would have burned the palacetree down around the emperor’s pointed, be-ringed ears, even if she burned with him. The fantasy weighed heavy in her mind like possession, trying to curl her scarred hands into fists against her near-century of Order training. Her muscles didn’t so much as twitch; she had more control than that. Besides, even if Leontios deserved a miserable death, most of his subjects weren’t her enemies. And the palacetree -

If the palacetree burned, so would the empire.

The palacetree of Foss-Karan was the root of all space travel, after all. And despite the failed spacer rebellion she’d helped lead, she wished the palacetree themself no harm.

A dull warmth kindled in her chest at the thought. Even chained and degraded, she still cared for others. Berenike had to cling to that, or she might as well throw herself down the recycler someday.

The dark thought was familiar, almost comforting. She had an option, even though it was one she refused to take. She could do something.

Berenike!

Internally, she cringed, though she made sure none of the reaction showed in her face or body. She opened her eyes and went to her knees. Yes, your Eminence.

Her gaze was at the floor, so all she saw of Theodora was the puddle of black robes covering her bare feet. If I catch you woolgathering again, slave, you’ll regret it.

Another internal cringe. Berenike’s attention strayed to her hands where they lay in her lap. She could just see the edges of the scar tissue that gloved all her fingertips, where the Order’s tattoos had been burned off ten years ago. Yes, your Eminence. Some days, those were the only words she uttered outside her head. Loneliness ached in her bones on those days, colder than the ice deserts of Avernus.

Go get your daughter and bring her to us.

What? Tension sprang into being within her, tightening Berenike’s shoulders. May I tell her why, your Eminence? Evrim had at one time been Leontios’ favorite prop, especially for how her presence tweaked the noses of the rebels, but he hadn’t summoned her for one of these speeches in years.

No. She’s in the back with the princess. Berenike risked a glance up at Theodora. The old elf was pointing over Berenike’s head toward the scroll cabinets. Her wizened index finger was tipped in blood red, skin and nail both. The emperor wants her at his side for this announcement.

Any more questioning would result in the regret Theodora had threatened earlier. Berenike bowed her head to the mossy floor and, when Theodora sniffed and turned away, she got to her feet and threaded her way through the press of people. They all treated her with the same lack of awareness they would show to a page or messenger. Her invisibility was in full force with this crowd.

That guards’ conversation had burrowed beneath Berenike’s skin - normally, the invisibility would be a fact she noted and dismissed. But what he’d said had planted a seed in her. If no one pays attention to me anymore, then maybe -

The mere whisper of treasonous intention drew a red curtain of pain across her vision - the blood oath, tightening about her like a snare. She missed a step and stumbled, half-blind, against a warm body.

Hands tightened on her upper arms. Mother? There was surprise in the familiar voice, enough to shame Berenike into acting.

Three quick breaths, an exertion of will, and the bodywork spell fell into place. The pain ebbed away and her vision sharpened. She would pay for it later - the Fingertip Order’s bodywork spells only delayed the effects they dispelled, usually compounded - but the thought of letting Evrim see her weakness was worse. She disconnected herself with a twitch of her shoulders.

Evrim snorted, the concern at the corners of her eyes vanishing. Getting clumsy in your old age?

It hurt, even though her century and twenty-five was barely midway through middle age. Her child always saw the knife in her heart, even if no one else could.

Evrim stood hip-shot beside the circular doorway, crossed arms rumpling the silver embroidery of her soft gray tunic. Her short black hair shifted in a breeze from the window smelling of greenery and spice, and the single silver hoop in her left earlobe glinted in the morning sunslight. Beside her, one hand on Evrim’s hip, stood the emperor’s daughter, Hypatia, in green and gold, her hennaed hair a red riot down her back.

Seeing Evrim and Hypatia together always clawed at Berenike’s throat. That the child of a revolution and the heir of an emperor had fallen in love would make for an excellent children’s story. In reality, it meant that Evrim’s motives and loyalties must always be in question. Another knife, another piece of her heart bleeding.

Packing these thoughts away for later examination - or perhaps just for the recycler - Berenike bent her knee to Hypatia and dismissed her. Evrim, the emperor calls for you at his side.

That caught Evrim’s attention. Frowning, she glanced toward Leontios. That’s unexpected. She caught Hypatia’s golden-skinned hand. The anniversary, do you think?

Hypatia pursed her lush lips, painted an orange red to match the hair that framed her soft face. I think so. The announcement is about the Lilypad, and I know Father means to celebrate it on-station.

The anniversary. They meant the anniversary of the death of the rebellion. The death of her son, and so many others. Berenike should have made that connection herself. Frustration heated her cheeks, enough that she called on bodywork again. Her flesh and mind cooled.

Tonight would not be pleasant. But no night had been, for years.

We should go to him, daughter. Before Theodora becomes impatient and uses the implant in my brain to bring my to my knees. There were two swords over Berenike’s head - one magical, one biological - and Theodora used her weapon indiscriminately.

As if she’d heard Berenike’s thought, Evrim’s face twisted. Fine. He can trot out this show pony for a few minutes. She leaned back against Hypatia and kissed her deeply. The muscles in her twisted neck stood out like vines. I’ll be right back.

Greet my father for me, would you? Hypatia’s voice was light, but there was an undercurrent of bitterness in it, laid bare by Berenike’s training. The rumor that Leontios was ignoring his heir for some reason might be true, after all. He’d always said he wanted a male heir, despite the fact that his preference was at best considered a quirk of personality, at worst, an indication of madness. But emperors could be mad with few consequences, and so his ridiculous belief that males were better rulers continued with no challenge. It burned hot in her chest, another coal for the fire of her hatred.

Three breaths. Suffer that in silence as well. She had no choice.

And yet still, a voice inside her whispered, You do have a choice. Be ready for it, when it presents itself.

Evrim made her way to Leontios’ desk and bowed. His eyes glittered in the flowerlight one of the mages had grown just out of holo range. He looked like a bearded hawk - hooked nose, close-shaven skull. His curled and graying beard fell to the hollow of his throat, where he wore the torque of his rank, a living branch of the palacetree caught in a net of gold wire. Gold rings cascaded down the curves of his pointed ears.

Her own ears felt naked before his display of status. She’d worn the single silver hoop in her right ear since the end of the rebellion, so long she usually forgot it. Leontios took one look at her and reminded her that her only adornment told everyone in the room that she was his captive.

It stuck in Evrim’s craw more than it should, today, and she shifted under his scrutiny, frowning. He tilted his head back as he looked at her, smirking. Evrim Karanlik. Stand beside me as I speak.

He was definitely up to something. She flicked her gaze over to Hypatia, who still leaned against the scroll cabinet, arms folded. Her beautiful face was relaxed and unbothered, but Evrim, who knew her better than anyone, could see the disquiet in her shoulders and the tilt of her head. Hypatia should be by her father’s side, not Evrim.

Your majesty? The words came out on impulse, and his dark eyes narrowed. This was probably a bad move, but one toe in the water was a coward’s game. Should I call your heir to your side as well? Not terribly subtle, but that was Hypatia’s domain, not Evrim’s.

Leontios snorted derisively. No. It’s you I want the holoflowers to see, little captive.

Then this was about the anniversary. Gods, Evrim hated being paraded around.

Swallowing her annoyance, she bowed again and took her place on his left side. On the other side of the desk, just out of holo range, stood Theodora, all thick robes and hooded eyes sunken in wrinkles. She glared at Evrim, as she always did; it was hard to believe that she had been her mother’s mentor before Berenike’s expulsion from the Fingertip Order. Evrim never really knew what Berenike was thinking, but Theodora hated in the open.

She winked at the old crone just as the mage came forward to start the spell. She probably shouldn’t tweak Theodora’s nose, but it wasn’t as if Evrim had any standing to lose.

The mage tending the holoflower array was a round and rolling person, walking with a gait like a sailor’s from one flower to the next. A touch and twist of their dark fingers enervated the magical, cultivated plants, opened and turned their many-colored petals to the emperor. Thirteen systems and twenty-eight worlds watched through those holoflowers, through the ansible array that grew inside the mage themself. Magic was the common heritage of every elf, but mages could only be grown. As a child, Evrim had once asked a mage what it felt like, to serve as a conduit through space.

They had only laughed at her. Mages laughed a lot and rarely made any sense. The consequence of such an invasive implant, probably. Evrim thought of the comm implant behind her ear and coughed to hide a shudder.

With a flick of his fingers, Leontios activated the holo array, and the mage closed their eyes, inhaling deeply. The broadcast had begun.

Staring into the array, Leontios began to speak. His voice was a rich tenor that reminded her of Hypatia’s soft alto, but he was stiff and, as a result, incredibly boring. Evrim stifled a sigh, hoping this wouldn’t take long.

My subjects, greetings. He folded his hands upon the desk. Gold rings flashed on his fingers. In ten days, the crowning achievement of elven technology will open to the public. The Lilypad is the first fully grown space elevator in our history, granting us easy access to and from our home planet of Foss-Karan. Our thanks go out to the engineers who developed its genome and grew it to maturity in concordance with the laws set down by Pur the Bloody so long ago.

Evrim couldn’t help a glance toward Berenike at that little dig. Her dark eyes glittered, but that could be a flowerlight bobbing for all Evrim could tell. Her sallow skin and underfed frame were stark against her heavy black robe, but even her shaved scalp and ragged ears couldn’t dim her dignity.

Berenike had broken Pur’s laws years ago. It was one of the reasons she was here, enslaved and without status. It was the reason Evrim existed at all - her mother had built her in a gene loom in an attempt to prove the laws unnecessary. None of it had ended well.

Leontios let out a satisfied huff, as if he’d gotten the reaction he wanted, though Evrim had noticed nothing. But that is not the only success we shall celebrate at the Lilypad’s opening. We have another event to commemorate.

There it was. Evrim smothered a grimace.

It has been ten years since the rebellion was put down. Serhan Karanlik and his spacer rebels tried to destroy all that we built, but thanks to the sacrifice of my dear friend Baron Leksi, he and his army were put down.

Serhan. Evrim knew she’d flinched at her brother’s name, even though she’d been braced for it. Berenike could have been carved of marble, for all she showed. Evrim would never understand how her mother could stay stoic when Serhan was mentioned. Or why. That immobility cheapened his memory, as if he’d never mattered at all.

Leontios’ smile spread, toothy and vulpine. The imperial household shall celebrate the anniversary of that victory on the Lilypad.

Evrim groaned internally. Was he really going to drag them all up there? Why? Probably just to thumb his nose at the dregs of the rebellion, isolated on the moon. So much politics was based in spite. Though - she caught Hypatia’s gaze again. She and Hypatia could treat it like a retreat, the sort of vacation the two of them had never had. Besides, she thought, anticipation beginning to tingle in her, it’s not like I ever get to leave Foss-Karan. She had long ago made peace with the fact of her captivity, but she never enjoyed it. Gods, new surroundings! It would be like all the daydreaming of eloping with Hypatia had come true.

Leontios laid a hand on her forearm, startling her from her thoughts. Why was he touching her? She glanced down, but he was still looking directly into the holoflower.

When the uprising ended, the traitors were exiled to the moon, as a gesture of understanding. Though I did not approve of their methods, I understand that children - or the lack of them - can drive an elf to foolish behavior.

Foolish behavior. Gods, she hated political speeches.

I too am a father.

Evrim searched past the flowerlights for Hypatia, but the glare cast a pale curtain across the rest of the room. Hopefully, Hypatia wasn’t working up a fury at being used as political tool. Though - if nothing else, Evrim had plenty of experience in that particular role.

But there comes a time where every child must grow up. These former spacers, these exiled citizens, must leave their childish passions behind.

Meaning the rebels’ political messages. The urge to turn and stare at Leontios was strong enough to twitch her fingers. Was he threatening the rebels? She didn’t know how to feel about that. She’d known a good number of them, back before the end of the rebellion, but - it had been ten years. There had to be a point where she gave up and move on.

Leontios got to his feet; the broadcast had ended while she daydreamed. It jolted Evrim from her thoughts so abruptly she stepped back and brought her hands up. He raised a brow at her reflexive movement, and his guards drew close.

Cursing her training, she turned it into a bow, one fist clasped on her chest. One corner of his lips turned up, and he turned toward Theodora.

See, my spymaster? Her mother can drill her all she wants, but our lovely captive is more Fossian than rebel these days.

Theodora’s black eyes were holes in her face. As you say, your majesty. She didn’t sound like she agreed, but she said no more, and Berenike was just a silent shadow behind her.

Evrim was already turning away, back to her place at Hypatia’s side, leaving the war where it belonged - with the old.

The emperor’s household would leave for the Lilypad the following morning. Berenike’s training session with Evrim that evening would be hurried.

When she arrived at the training room door, Evrim was already there, chatting with a guard as they unlocked the space for them.

The strangeness of training her daughter in the house of her enemy had faded years ago. She’d demanded the right to teach Evrim the ways of knife and magic as a condition of her parole - it was, in fact, the reason Leontios had demanded the blood oath that shackled her. Berenike had hoped to shape Evrim into a knife aimed at the heart of the empire, one that could be honed in secret until the time was ripe.

She hadn’t anticipated the way ten years in soft captivity would blunt Evrim’s interest in the rebellion. That apathy was the knife now, and it was lodged deep in Berenike’s heart.

The guard, muttering under her breath, struggled with the palm lock. Berenike looked up through lowered lashes at their chaperon, registering the guard’s mass and musculature, the knives in her belt and the vambraces around her forearms. Her broad shoulders were tense with irritation under the emperor’s colors, red lacquered lamellar over black tunic. The new palm lock appeared to be giving the guard trouble. The copper (corporal, a lower rank than usual) and bronze (no relation to the emperor) rings in her pointed ears shivered when she swore.

The calm cracked under the weight of a heavy, melodramatic sigh. Evrim, expressing her annoyance.

Berenike squeezed her eyes tight against an incipient headache, then forced her expression to stillness. Berenike glanced over her shoulder at her daughter. Evrim. Patience.

I have plenty of patience when my time isn’t being wasted. She shifted her weight to her other foot. I have to pack for the Lilypad, Mother. This is a waste of time.

A waste of time? Berenike had given up so much for this waste of time. Grounding her frustration, she murmured, You’re past adolescence, Evrim. She kept the tone observational, subservient, her shaved head bowed.

The lock finally released. The oval door relaxed, faded to a paler green, and spread open from a central point like a blooming flower. The guard dug one blunt-fingered hand into her belt and produced two bronze training knives, the edges and points dull as spoons.

Berenike knew sixteen ways she could kill this guard with even one of those knives, armor or no, if she were free to use them. The oath wrapped tight around her intentions took those options away, leaving her essentially useless.

The guard held the knives out to Evrim, who took them silently.

Go on, the guard said, waving them both in. You’ve got an hour.

Berenike dipped her head in thanks and waited for Evrim to precede her. The door folded shut behind them, cutting off the faint sounds of the palacetree. Quiet settled over them like a blanket.

She would have left the room dim, but Evrim touched the wall beside the door. A tendril quested out, lengthening and thickening. A bud grew at its tip and burst into bloom. It cast bobbing shadows across the room, oscillating into stillness when the flowerlight finished its growth cycle.

They had been training together since Evrim’s early childhood, as soon as Berenike was sure she would take it seriously. Even before then, her daughter had shouted from the sidelines when Berenike sparred with Serhan. He had smiled at his sister’s every piping instruction.

Bossy, he’d shot back, wait your turn.

While Evrim, blessedly resigned now, pushed baskets against the rounded walls of the storeroom to clear a space, Berenike untangled herself from her heavy robe. It was an extravagance of fabric, thick wool that scratched and encumbered her every movement. When the last button let loose and the robe fell to the floor, she took a full, sweet breath, the first that day.

Let’s get this over with. Evrim flipped one knife over in her hand, cocked it back, and threw.

It tumbled through the air toward her chest. Berenike swayed aside and plucked it from its path, thrilling in the ease of the movement.

The taut floor of the storeroom beneath her bare feet thrummed in time with her steps, an irregular un-rhythm drilled into her from early childhood. Golden flowerlight glinted on the blunted training blade across from her.

Relax your grip, Berenike said as they circled each other. Her daughter's response to the rebuke was a feint and sidestep of smooth feline grace.

Better. She evaded the next strike, let the air of its passage ruffle her tunic, then returned on the half-beat with a thrust to Evrim's face.

Evrim fell back to gain space, regripped her knife point-down, and resumed her circuit of the storeroom. Her knife faked high, then reversed direction to nearly clip Berenike on one exposed thigh.

She swept the leg to safety, smiling in approval. Good!

Don't sound so surprised, muttered Evrim, but her spine straightened.

The world was sharp-edged; it always was with a knife in her hand. Berenike's toes encountered a broad root in the floor as she moved; she marked it as a potential obstacle and stepped away. The air smelled of wood and the honey-sweet fragrance of the flowerlight.

The floor trembled - the wind outside had picked up. Evrim's gaze flicked towards the bobbing head of the flowerlight for a fraction of a second.

Berenike's disappointment did not keep her from responding.

She stomped her foot, twitching the floor beneath Evrim’s feet. In the same moment she lifted her knife high, arm cocked back for a strike.

Eyes wide, Evrim brought up her free hand to check the anticipated swing toward her throat.

Her block met nothing.

Berenike instead went low and swept a long trail across Evrim’s belly. The hilt pressed against her palm, telling her she’d hit her mark. The blunted point raked and dug in. Were the knife sharp, Evrim’s guts would have spilled steaming to the floor.

With a cry of frustration, Evrim threw her weapon at Berenike’s feet. You win again. Good job. She pulled up the hem of her thin shirt and hissed at the angry red welt forming on her brown belly.

With her eyes hidden beneath long lashes, Evrim’s physical resemblance to her long-dead father Bilal was a stab in Berenike’s chest. Her daughter had reached her physical maturity, if not her legal adulthood, and the paring of baby fat from Evrim’s face left the evidence of her parentage in sharp relief. The flowerlight etched lines of light and shadow along her strong, stocky body, picking out broad cheekbones and rosebud lips and the curve of neck and shoulder. The single silver ring in one pointed ear mocked Berenike with an almost audible voice.

Hostage, it said. Prisoner.

She touched her own ear. It was studded with ragged, pitted flesh, long healed. Bare of even a captive’s ring. Theodora had ripped all her rings from Berenike’s ears herself. She’d called it her duty to bring her former student low.

She clenched her jaw against remembered pain; she had no time for self-pity. She forced her hand away. Again, she said.

Evrim snorted and dropped the edge of her shirt. For gods’ sake, Mother, give it a rest.

Helpless, familiar frustration blocked Berenike’s throat. She spoke evenly, logically. We have one hour a week, daughter. We must make use of every moment we can wring from our captors. She fell back into her fighter’s crouch, waiting. Hoping.

Evrim let out a sardonic laugh. Your captors, maybe, but not mine. She saluted in the Fossian manner, clenched fist above her heart, and turned aside to retrieve her tunic where it lay over a nearby wicker basket.

Very well. Bronze was not her only weapon. She shaped her next words with care for their razor edges. Your brother would beat you bloody, could he hear you speak that way.

The blow landed square. Evrim rounded on Berenike, eyes alight with fury. It’s lucky that Serhan has been dead for ten years.

It was a fair riposte, and well-struck. Berenike winced. No one could hurt her the way Evrim did.

Gesturing wildly, Evrim spat, I’ve spent more than half my life in the emperor’s household. These people have always treated me well. They’ve educated me, they treat me like family. Why in all the hells would I think of them as captors?

Berenike stretched and flexed her fingers to display the gnarled and ugly scars that gloved each fingertip. Evrim looked away. Yes, child, that’s one reason.

But there were more. Because they killed your brother Serhan and your father Bilal. Berenike stressed the names, willing Evrim to respond, but she only shook her head.

I never met my father, and I wasn’t even seven years old when Serhan died, protested Evrim. The words had the weary whine of frequent repetition.

Berenike pressed on, letting desperation color her voice. Because they massacred all the soldiers sworn to your house. Look at me Evrim, hear me!

Because you - She flipped the knife in her grasp and pointed it accusingly at Evrim. - will never be free.

You don’t know that. Evrim’s response rang with hollow bravado. Evrim shook out her crumpled tunic. The silver embroidery on it glittered.

Now.

Berenike surged forward. One moment still as stone, the next leaping toward her opponent’s unprotected flank.

Evrim saw it too late, eyes widening in shock, hands coming up in a defensive gesture to protect her head.

Berenike’s empty left hand slid with honed speed behind Evrim’s rising arms to grasp the front collar of her thin shirt in an iron grip. Her momentum slammed them both into the wooden wall, and it shuddered with absorbed force. Evrim gasped, her body relaxing in shock.

A normal mother would stop there, with the lesson hammered home with minimal pain or injury.

The Fingertip Order had not raised Berenike to be normal.

She swept the training knife in a brutal arc. The dulled bronze hit the flesh of Evrim’s abdomen hard, under her ribs, aimed at her thundering heart, and stopped just before skin parted.

They stood eye to eye, until Evrim winced and looked away.

Berenike leaned into the knife for just a moment longer before she pulled it back. Oily shame twisted in her gut, and she packed it away. There was no space for weakness in the palacetree.

You, she said as she stepped away, are too easily distracted.

Shaking, Evrim put her hand to her gut and coughed. She pushed herself off the wall, face dark with anger. And who taught me, mother? Whose fault is it? She snatched her tunic from the floor where she’d dropped it and pulled it over her head like it was armor.

Berenike picked up the discarded knife, watching Evrim from the corner of her eye. She was suddenly unutterably weary. I suppose you mean it’s my fault, Berenike began, but broke off when the summons came.

The pain was an unannounced spike behind her ear.

The demand for attention would worsen only if she did not attend her mistress quickly enough. Still, the bright stab of agony left her breathless, the world around her shaky and edged with watery light.

Evrim’s voice was soft. You are sent for? Softer than Berenike deserved, after that lesson.

Her hands were at her temples, and the knives had fallen to the floor. Such a loss of control. It was no wonder Evrim didn’t respect her.

Yes. Berenike straightened her spine and turned away. She picked up her robe and buttoned it to the hollow of her throat. Her breaths grew shallower.

The moment stretched between them, only the rustle of cloth breaking the silence.

Berenike lifted the rough fabric of the hood with a practiced, hampered gesture. She caressed the flowerlight with one hand and it wilted, its light fading.

Come. The door irised open at her approach, letting in a spicy scent redolent of tomatoes and turmeric. The guard held out the other hand, palm up.

Evrim complied, and the training knives disappeared back into the guard’s belt. Reflexively, Berenike noted their location.

Chapter

Two

You may have forgotten, but we never will. Provoke us at your peril.

~ Rebel broadcast

Berenike followed Theodora out of the shuttle seed, head bowed. It was the first time she’d been free of the palacetree in years. Unfamiliar sounds and smells assaulted her senses, throwing her off-balance.

Such weakness - how far she had fallen from her time with the rebels, when she’d helped lead an army. Biting the tip of her tongue to center herself in the now again, she pried apart the sounds to rob them of their power over her.

An astonishing number of elves were already on the space elevator. Here, two elves in the midst of haggling - the market must be near. There, the soft rustle of vines carrying the sedan chair fashionable with the nouveau riche. A merchant, then, or perhaps an engineer who’d grown the vineservant themself.

And over it all, the low-pitched susurrus of fluid flowing through the xylem and phloem of the Lilypad itself, the great green structure that arced over and beneath her and enclosed them all in a bubble of light and warmth nearly fifty thousand kilometers above the surface of Foss-Karan.

Berenike inhaled slowly, letting the spicy scent of greenery ease her nerves. Her surroundings came back into focus as anxiety sheathed its claws.

The bustling transit station was at the center of the structure, beside the stalk that tethered it to the planet below. Only a few flowerlights were lit, despite the lack of windows, because for now there was no need. Outside, the twin suns of Foss-Karan bathed the Lilypad in light, light that filtered through the plant matter and turned the ceiling a bright grass-green. Only one floor, then, for this extravagance of a resort.

After yesterday’s broadcast, Leontios’ speech had haunted Berenike’s thoughts. The threat he’d aimed at the rebels hadn’t even been subtle. Now, inside the emperor’s latest engineering feat, she couldn’t stop comparing the staggering amount of resources that had gone into its genes and growth to the likely state of affairs on the moon. No wonder Omer had stepped up his rhetoric. It was only a matter of time before the rebels grew bolder.

It hurt to think of Omer. They’d never been close, but after Serhan’s death and Berenike’s surrender, he’d blamed all of it on her - the pact to end the war with a duel, Serhan’s death, the rebels’ exile, Evrim’s captivity. When they’d met, Omer had called Berenike bloody one in tones of reverence. Now, if he thought of her at all, it was as a failure. A betrayer, who should have fought to the death before dishonor.

Perhaps he was right; her death might have freed Evrim, if she’d been able to run. But it was far too late to change her actions, even if she thought it could have made a difference. She pushed away her musings, cursing her inattentiveness. What if she’d been needed?

Thought what she might have been needed for, she couldn’t imagine.

Theodora stood beside Leontios as he gestured excitedly, his hands tracing the lines of the long green ribs that spanned the ceiling, bracing the structure and delivering nutrients. Theodora followed his descriptions with a look of interest that Berenike doubted was real. She’d been witness to Theodora’s private rants before - as an orthodox interpreter of Pur’s Laws, Theodora distrusted any and all new genetic manipulation, for any reason. She called it dangerous, bad precedent, a slippery slope that would lead to genetic engineering being used on elves themselves. Such tirades always led to the topic of Evrim, and none of those nights ended quickly or well.

Beyond the emperor and his spymaster, Hypatia leaned against the far wall, a soft wisp of striped fur cradled in her arms. Hypatia took after her father in her attraction to engineering. The feline was one of her own creations, an animal modified away from its ancestor’s carnivorous diet into something more palatable for elven society. The creature had a terrible temper; even Evrim kept clear of it.

Evrim - where was she? Berenike glanced around the station, looking for a short shock of dark hair and finding none that matched. Chest tightening, she skirted Leontios’ lecture and knelt before Hypatia.

Princess, where is my daughter? Her voice was calm, almost emotionless. Her control had returned, thankfully, or the words might have sounded like an accusation.

Hypatia petted her creature, offering a crooked smile. Was that compassion Berenike saw there? She snuck off to the market down the hall. She pointed with her chin towards the sounds Berenike had heard earlier. Said she was hungry.

Hungry? Anger sparked in Berenike’s chest. That child didn’t know hunger.

Don’t worry about her, she’ll be back once she gets bored. Hypatia scratched her creature beneath its chin, eliciting a rumble of pleasure. She’s just restless.

Restless. Berenike wanted to laugh. The emperor will be upset if he notices she is gone, princess. She knew she sounded like a chiding nanny, but gods, even if Hypatia and Evrim suffered nothing more than a