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Water rippled around his footsteps, but he did not sink, not yet. Tarquin stood in the center of the reflection room, a room of still water that sunk the unworthy and allowed the worthy to walk. According to legend, the stars that descended on land that had not yet whispers of the name Prythian built it. Though, Tarquin did find that difficult to believe. The carved blue stone formed a dome, tall enough that he managed to not hit his head—by a mere brush.
The room was locked, closed, like many of the secrets the palace held, during Amarantha’s reign. Now, it was time to reopen them, all of them. No matter what was hidden in each room. This one, perhaps, was the most sinister.
“I’d always wondered,” Varian lingered by the door, eyes flashing between his High Lord, the water, and the bones that floated in perfect formation in front of Tarquin. “Always, what happened to him. He disappeared when you and Cress did.”
“He fought,” Tarquin said, simply. It was the truth. Uncle Nostrus had been killed and power transferred to Tarquin, in a moment of madness, Marcus flung himself at Amarantha in an attempt to attack her. He very nearly succeeded, before the Attor got to him.
His screams echoed long after he was dragged away.
“How did they get here?” Varian asked, confused.
“They didn’t,” Tarquin responded.
He knelt into the water, right knee down, and picked up Marcus’ sword. “They left him there.”
Varian blanched. It did not escape Tarquin’s notice that Varian no longer tried to step into the room, where once he did, carrying Tarquin with him. Long ago, when Tarquin was barely five, it was a hazy memory.
“You should tell Cresseida,” Tarquin said, after a moment. “I’ll gather everything.”
If the sight of her deceased betrothed’s bones disturbed Cresseida, it did not show beyond the grip of her fingers on the hilt of his sword. A fine sword it was, crafted in the Continent with metals from the deep ocean, a hilt of pearl and coral immortalized in glass. Gold-gilded, Tarquin remembered the sailors marveling at the sight of it in Summer’s greatest warrior’s hands. Sun-tinted-sea, they whispered, beautiful death.
Tarquin ducked his head, examining how the white sheet fitted over his bones instead.
“Well,” Cresseida said, but her voice was caught. “What do we do now?”
“What do you want to do?” Tarquin asked, lowering his voice. “You are his only…” He trailed off. Marcus’ entire family had been killed for his insubordination, and Cresseida was the closest living individual to him.
“A funeral, I suppose,” Cresseida muttered. “Is that not what’s expected?”
“It’s not about what’s expected,” Varian piped up from the other side of the remains. “It’s about what you want, Cress.”
She swallowed, audibly, her hand flying to her throat. “He always told me he wanted a hero’s death. He wanted the full…process. I don’t know if he was serious.”
“We can do that for him,” Tarquin said. “He was and still is greatly respected. I’m sure there are many people who will show their dedication.”
“Indeed,” Varian agreed. “Across the courts.”
“A funeral, then,” said Cresseida, faintly. “Or, no. I don’t think I could—“ she cut off, turning her head to the side. Varian looked at Tarquin, helplessly.
“Why don’t you take a day to think about it,” Tarquin offered. “There is no rush.”
She nodded, staring into the distance. Tarquin hugged her, gently, and kissed her temple before leaving the room quietly. Varian followed him. Through the door, her faint sobs seemed to echo.
“Cauldron,” Varian sighed. “This is so incredibly fucked.”
“It is,” Tarquin agreed. “All of it.”
He walked off, leaving Varian in front of the door. Tarquin had more closed rooms to open, and if his suspicions were right, more dead bodies to discover. Which led to his biggest dilemma of all; tracking down the the last living member of the family that was able to access the closed rooms with such ease, in a way that Varian would have never risked.
“High Lord,” Livia Gratia Prima stood outside his office doors. Tarquin paused at the sight of the most powerful Senator’s shockingly young wife (even for fae) and nodded politely, cautiously. He had more than enough reason to believe her to be more dangerous than she showed, her easy survival of Amarantha indicating as much.
“Domina Livia,” Tarquin stopped in front of her, inclining his head. “What brings you to my offices?”
“You’ll have to forgive my shortsightedness in sending prior notice, High Lord,” she curtsied, and he automatically bowed in response. “I come to you with a matter of urgency, High Lord, and my Lord Husband had decreed I approach you with such matters if there would be no one else.”
“Senator Honorius is not here?” Tarquin’s brow furrowed, then he held up a hand. “Pardon me, I’ve had a trying day. Please, let’s talk in my office.” He let her go ahead, signaling to a standing guard and entering after her.
Livia was beautiful, truly, and a pure High Fae, like most of the nobility and families of the senators. Her dark hair was braided into thin, long braids that were masterfully crafted into an intricate bun in the back of her head, accessorized by gold, of course. And she dressed like a Senator’s wife, as Tarquin’s mother had done so long ago.
“As per your permission to begin opening the ancestral rooms which lay untouched in most of our ancestral homes,” Livia began immediately. “Our household began this morning. My Lord Husband’s eldest son was conducting the procedures.”
“And I presume Fabius found something rather unpleasant?” Tarquin interjected, and her face drew up in surprise. “A dead body or remains, perhaps.”
“Yes,” Livia nodded. “It is not just us, then.”
“No,” he shook his head. “Unfortunately not, I’ll be expecting more of such notices. Please preserve the remains till I am able to arrive with a specialized extraction team. Did you identify them?”
There, she hesitated. “Perhaps your presence would be better, High Lord.”
Tarquin sighed, he clearly was not destined for a single moment of peace.
Fabius greeted him as soon as he arrived, curiously giving his stepmother a disdainful glance. “Forgive us, High Lord, for disturbing you.”
“This is no disturbance,” Tarquin responded, shaking his hand. “It’s a matter of great importance to me, in fact. You should know, we found my cousin Cresseida’s former betrothed’s remains this morning.”
Livia gasped. “Cauldron! Is the Princess well?”
“She is not alone,” Tarquin said, shortly. “May I see the…”
“Yes,” Fabius nodded, opening a set of doors just to the left of their villa’s main entrance. “I apologize for the mess but we have not had the chance to touch anything since High Lord Nostrus’ command prior to the pretender queen’s reign.”
“I understand,” Tarquin responded, coming to a pause behind Fabius. “And…I see.”
“Yes,” Fabius said, awkwardly. “These rooms are imbued with truth-compelling magic.”
“Of course,” Tarquin muttered. “I suppose there will be no need for identification.”
“Likely not,” Livia said, quietly.
Staring back at him were the bones of the previous Lady of Summer, seeming to float in the air with a missing crown above the skull, and ashes scattered around.
Tarquin felt sick.
He sat in the atrium, Livia and Fabius keeping him company as officials from his and Cresseida’s offices trailed in and out. Cresseida herself was supposedly due to appear, though he’d encouraged her and Varian not to, and requested Ondara’s presence instead. Tarquin stared at the crown that had been cleaned and placed in front of him.
“Livilla, no!”
Livia shot up from her place, and Tarquin looked back as a little girl ran into the room, giggling. Fabius hissed something lowly but the girl ignored him, jumping towards Livia, who caught her without hesitation.
“Is Papa here?” Livilla asked, staring at her mother.
“Livilla,” Livia said admonishingly. “We have a very important guest, I told you to stay in your rooms.”
“But Papa—“
“No, Livilla,” Livia said firmly, setting her down. “Now, greet the High Lord and then return to your lessons posthaste.”
The girl turned to him, very reluctantly, and curtsied. “High Lord.”
“Domina Livilla,” Tarquin inclined his head. A lesser fae nurse quickly grabbed the girl’s hand, escorting her out of the atrium.
“Please, High Lord,” Livia turned to him. “Do forgive my daughter’s—“
“There is no need for an apology,” Tarquin cut her off. “Children are a blessing, and should be treated as such. How old is she?”
“Just six,” Livia said, relaxing back into sitting down. Fabius did so more stiffly.
“And where is the Senator?” Tarquin realized, suddenly.
“He’s gone to visit our estate in Zephyria,” Fabius spoke up. “Just a routine yearly check.”
Tarquin nodded, then blinked at the jewels again.
“High Lord?”
He turned to the doorway, then stood. Ondara had a grim expression on her face. “I do believe they’ve extracted another set.”
“Uncle Nostrus?” Tarquin asked, ready to move.
“No,” she seemed hesitant. “It’s…the deceased Prince of the Isles and the Princess.”
Tarquin stopped. And the world came crashing down.
His father’s spine was shattered. It was the first thing he’d noticed, that half of it just seemed to be in glimmering white shards around the glass floor that he was located on. That his bones were located on, not himself because he was dead. The next thing he noticed was that his father’s skeleton was not fallen like others, or floating, it was brittle yet on it’s side, and curled around his mother’s smaller form.
In death. In death, they were together.
Tarquin stepped deeper into the room, he froze. His mother’s belly—where it was—in the cradle of bone, lay a smaller figure. Smallest possible, bones seeming breakable by a single touch.
He felt sick.
“High Lord,” Ondara whispered as he turned. Tarquin didn’t have to ask why the soft tone from her, he knew what he must have looked like. A rumble of thunder echoed, and he knew that the oceans must be rising, roughly.
“I need,” he paused. “I need a moment.”
“Right away,” Ondara lowered her head respectfully, snapping her fingers at her guards. Tarquin waited for them all to leave before he fell to his kneed, silent sobs wracking his body as he bent over, pressing his forehead to the cool ground. Below, the ocean and the underwater city seemed to glimmer, then fade. Glow, fade, glimmer, fade. As though they mourned too.
After many long moments, Tarquin straightened, and met his reflection in a mirror. He hadn’t noticed it. There were many things he hadn’t noticed. Firstly that they were in Senator Titania’s house, and that she was the first female Senator when her husband and son were both killed. He wondered if they’d found those remains yet. Then he noticed that the room was different, quieter, and wondered what made it special.
“High Lord,” Ondara called. “The Senator Titania has arrived.”
He stood. In the mirror, he seemed utterly shattered, eyes reddened with tears and face drawn in grief. Tarquin could not allow that, he was not the only one who grieved, and others had more to grieve. He shook his head, closed his eyes, then looked again. This time, his eyes were reddened—but they seemed raging, his face an impenetrable mask, and his demeanor that of a High Lord.
Tarquin stepped out of the little alcove, drawing himself taller than he felt when he greeted the Senator. She was old, likely as old as or older than Beron, and she seemed tired, incredibly tired. He remembered that her daughter was often used in Amarantha’s games, and reportedly no longer had stable mental functions.
“High Lord,” she bowed her head. “Please accept the sincerest expression of my condolences for your loss, the discovery, and that it happened under my roof.”
“I thank you for your condolences, Senator Titania,” he said, and he did not recognize the voice with which he spoke. “I will ensure that your property is cleared of such an upsetting sight as soon as I possibly can.”
Ondara stared at him with an odd expression.
“You will no longer receive trouble nor disturbance from us, honorable Senator,” Tarquin nodded at her. “I will have these remains extracted now.”
Senator Titania took a minute, then she sunk into a low curtsy. Tarquin walked past her, expecting Ondara to follow. He let the sharp sun hit him, heard the roiling storm, and turned his head slightly. “Ondara, I will delegate all urgent responsibilities to you and Varian. I must find someone.”
“Yes, High Lord,” she bowed.
Adriata’s underwater city had survived the reign best, second only to Velaris. By the grace of the ocean, and how none of his court had willingly turned to Amarantha’s side, Tarquin saw the least trauma in them, the least dead. All but his cousin, Nostrus’ illegitimate son, and a victim of Rhysand.
Valerius had retreated to the underwater city long ago, and Tarquin had not seen him even when he returned. Only in the war—in the thick of battle—he thought he’d heard a familiar war cry. But there was nothing to prove it. Not in that mess.
Now, it felt as easy as plucking a string from the hum that made his court, thrumming with life, and following the string down to a room in the often empty palace in the underwater city. If Tarquin was correct in his assumptions, it was the room that Nostrus had hidden him in. Sure as the Sun in Day, the Bastard Prince sat with his head hung between his knees, the skeleton of his father spread out on the bed behind him.
Tarquin stopped in the boundary, keeping his eyes on Valerius.
“Do you know, cousin,” said Valerius, in a voice that was once strong and sure, now broken and gutted. “That he used to fuck her quick, fast, in this very bed, then leave?”
Tarquin tilted his head to the side, he did not know this. In fact, he’d never met Valerius’ mother. Though he’d heard she was a courtesan, a half-mermaid that shifted from legs to tail with ease, a beauty and a voice bestowed on her that caused near-calamity between the powerful men of the city. Tarquin had heard all of this from those men, of course.
“He didn’t care that I was in the cot in the corner,” Valerius continued. “Stuffing my ears as fucking hard as I could.”
“You loved him,” Tarquin stated simplistically.
“I did,” Valerius admitted. “My father was my hero. As your’s was to you.”
“Your father was a coward,” said Tarquin, bluntly. “He ruined us all.”
Valerius flinched.
“He speaks, you know,” Valerius continued, raising his head now. “He did, when that Illyrian bastard was—he spoke. He was in my head. He still is.”
“He’s dead,” said Tarquin. “And you need help.”
Valerius met his gaze. There was nothing of Nostrus in him. His mother’s calamitous beauty, madness brought on by his father’s actions, Valerius was a consequence of power. Tarquin saw that he had much to learn from his very existence, and much to stop as well.
“You will go to Edencrest,” Tarquin continued. “There is a place there for you and others who suffered from the reign. Dawn’s healers work there.”
“I’m not sick,” Valerius responded. “I’m mad.”
“There is no difference, cousin,” Tarquin told him. “Will you go?”
“Will you give me a choice?”
Tarquin let his silence speak the answer.
Valerius sighed, then rose from the bed, looking back once, “Goodbye, Father.” Tarquin cast a fleeting glance at Nostrus’ bones. He placed a hand on Valerius’ shoulder, and winnowed them both away.
He never did send anyone back for those bones.