I know you despise me; allow me to say, it is because you do not understand me. -- Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South

Arásy's earliest memory was of sitting in her mother's dressing-room as her mother and grandmother prepared to greet a foreign dignitary. She had been only three or four, a quiet and introverted child more interested in climbing trees with her older brother than dressing up for parties. Her grandmother -- her mother's mother, for her father's mother[1] had died when he was born -- had found no end of things to criticise the little girl for doing or not doing. The minute her grandmother swept out of the room in a sea of fabric and perfume, Arásy turned to her mother and began to complain.

"It's not fair!" she had shouted, stamping her foot and folding her arms. "Why does she always pick on me? Why does she always tell me to smile and speak to people? Why does she tell me to stop playing with the servants' children? She never talks to Biënth like that!"

Empress Rangara sat down on the rouyao[2] beside her daughter. The Empress Consort had been considered a rather plain woman by the nobility, who never failed to find something to criticise in their rulers, but in Arásy's eyes she had been beautiful. If asked to describe her mother, Arásy would have said she was like a swan; graceful, elegant, and terrifying when angered.

"Your grandmother expects perfection from everyone," Rangara said in her quiet, musical voice. "And she is angry when she doesn't find it. She criticises you and not Biënth because your sister is still a baby."

"Why don't you tell her not to yell at me?" Arásy pouted as she remembered some of her grandmother's more insulting remarks. "You're the Empress! You can tell her what to do!"

Rangara's lips thinned and the faintest suggestion of a frown appeared on her forehead. "Yes, I am the Empress, but she is still my mother. I could not insult her by openly telling her what she may or may not say."

And that was all Rangara said on the subject. But Arásy noticed afterwards that her grandmother criticised her far less. She had been too thankful -- and too young -- at the time to wonder if her mother had said something after all. But now, all these years later, when her grandmother and her mother were long dead, she did wonder.

It seemed an odd thing for her to remember now, as she was on her way to the palace where she would collect her step-granddaughter. But her mind kept going back to that day, that room, the brightly-embroidered rouyao, the rustle of her mother's dress, and the scent of the rose perfume her mother wore.

Perhaps, she thought, someone is trying to tell me something.

She didn't believe in ghosts or messages from beyond the grave. She was a Caranilnav. While still a child she had learnt that to think too much of death was to invite madness. But she did believe in the gods and goddesses, and she believed that they might on occasion communicate directly with mortals.

She and her husband had their doubts about Kilan and Qihadal's way of dealing with this child. And now she remembered a time when her mother may have -- quietly and without causing a fuss -- spoken up on her behalf.

Arásy suspected there was a connection.

~~~~

Gialma had concocted a perfect explanation for his trip to Istogu. A merchant there wished to buy rubies from his family's mines. Gialma would take his steward and go to visit the merchant to negotiate a contract. No one, not even that meddling fool Nimetath, could find anything suspicious in this.

He travelled with the typical retinue of servants who would be expected to accompany a royal on a business trip. The minute they were safely on the airship, he retreated to his private room and locked himself in.

No one knew better than Prince Gialma that his personality was utterly unsuited to plotting of this sort. He was, to put it bluntly, shy. He needed hours to mentally prepare for speaking to strangers. Merely starting this correspondence with Prince Nalginton had left him emotionally drained.

And now he was on his way to speak to a complete stranger. Worse, a complete stranger who was a woman. Talking to women frightened Gialma in a way that talking to men did not. He always had the unpleasant feeling that women were mentally weighing him, finding him wanting, and laughing at him behind his back -- which was likely, for his attempts at conversation were always awkward and stilted.

Why had he -- withdrawn and introverted as he was -- ended up plotting against the Emperor? Against his own cousin, no less? How could he ever be a better Emperor than Tinuviel?

Good question.

Gialma would dearly love to know the answer.

As he sat in the armchair beside the window and stared down at the landscape moving swiftly by, he reflected on the events that had led him to this place, this situation.

It was all Marin's fault. Like so many other problems in the Caranilnav extended family, it had begun when the disgraced Emperor took the throne and immediately disregarded all forms of protocol. Instead of attending events himself, he sent his brother to attend them for him. Instead of meeting with important people himself, he made Kilan do it. Gialma had watched from a distance. He had overheard his parents' whispered conversations on how serious things were getting. He had pitied Tinuviel then.

The cousins had never been close. They had last met on Kilan's sixteenth birthday. Gialma's sister Rivant had made an ill-advised dare that led to the future Emperor falling down a flight of stairs. After the initial panic wore off, and after a doctor had assured everyone that Kilan would suffer nothing worse than a splitting headache in the morning, Rivant had apologised and forgotten all about it.

Gialma didn't forget. His most vivid memory of his cousin was the sight of Tinuviel lying in a pool of his own blood, motionless and pale as death. Even now, when he thought of the Emperor, that was the image that superimposed itself over the photographs and official portraits. And so he had pitied Tinuviel during and after the scandal Marin caused.

It was when Tinuviel was on the throne almost a year that the woman named Elukesh first approached him at his university. She introduced herself as a noblewoman concerned about the Emperor's way of ruling -- and especially his decision to hold a referendum in Istogu.

"This will lead to the collapse of the empire," she had said. And then, "Why don't some of the other Caranilnavs challenge his claim to the throne?"

Gialma had refused to listen at first. He had warned her that she was treading dangerously close to committing treason, and sent her away. But once the idea entered his mind, he couldn't get rid of it. The more he thought about it, the more dissatisfied he became with the current situation.

Why should Tinuviel be Emperor? he thought. His mother was disinherited. His father is only the lord of some province. Why is he in the line of succession at all?

After that, it was a short leap to, Why shouldn't I be Emperor?

Gialma shied away from the thought at first. Him, an Emperor? It was an absurd thought. Yet it kept returning to torment him.

Both my parents are Caranilnavs. I have a better claim to the throne than he does. And what prospects do I have here? I'm only a third child. When my parents die, their titles will pass to Rivant[3]. I have no title of my own. Everyone calls me a prince, but I have no political influence, no princedom to command, not even any money of my own. My father's put me in charge of the mines. But do I really want to spend my life writing up profits and contracts and bills of sale?

Before long he had convinced himself that Fate had dealt him a very shoddy hand. And when he saw Elukesh again one day, he was much more inclined to listen to what she had to say.

And that was how he ended up here. With his name connected with scandal, on his way to Malish to plot against his cousin.

~~~~

In the Land of the Dead, Death watched Gialma's life unfold with a mixture of fascination and despair.

Mortals, she thought. They always find a way to do the worst possible things without even meaning to.

It was something she could never understand. Why did someone make decisions that any sensible person could see were terrible ideas? And why did they never realise until much too late? Gialma was just the latest in a long line of mortals to walk a path leading to their doom. What interested her about him particularly was that he was also leading a good few other people to their doom.

And of course she couldn't do anything about it. Fate would throw a fit if she tried.

Death shook her head at the foolishness of mortals -- and certain immortals.

Well, thinking about it any more would only put her in a bad mood. Death turned away from the visions of the present and future she saw in the surface of the river in her throne room. Visiting Kilan would cheer her up. Probably.

~~~~

The idea struck Kilan when one of the High Council paid him a visit. For once the counsellor was not complaining about something he did. Instead, Counsellor Glerval was there to inform him of her retirement.

She had scarcely closed the door on her way out when Kilan realised three things.

One, Glerval's retirement would leave an empty seat in the High Council. Two, there was no law against members of the royal family joining the council. Three, what better way to keep an eye on a potential troublemaker than to have them right under his nose?

Death arrived just as his idea had become a certainty.

"I'm going to offer Prince Gialma a seat on the High Council!"

Chapter Footnotes:

(Not-so brief author's note: family trees are my worst nightmare. Keeping track of who's related to who is almost as terrifying as NaNoWriMo itself. Also, I'm trying desperately to reach today's word count. So here, have a look at Kilan's family tree, and a bit of world-building, that will probably never be mentioned again and isn't that important anyway!)

(People who have suffered through NaNoWriMo will understand why I'm babbling like this. Everyone else... probably thinks I'm crazy. Sorry about that! *sheepish shrug*)

[1] her father's mother = Empress Ranoryin, in case (like me!) you're having trouble remembering how everyone is related. Ranoryin had only one son, Grand Prince[1b] Erselís, who became Emperor Selon. He had five children; Amnollud (Emperor Vretiel), Arásy, Biënth (who you might remember as the aunt whose visit was expected way back in chapter one), Kanlao (Gialma's mother), and Irlinfed.

[1b] Grand Prince = Carann uses different titles for royalty than England does. The Grand Prince/Princess (tasirtaikei in Carannish) is the heir to the throne, and so roughly equivalent to the English title "heir apparent" or the German "Kronprinz". Meanwhile, the Carannish title "Crown Prince/Princess" (temirkei) means any prince(ss) who rules their own princedom, and is therefore an equivalent of the German title "Fürst". The Grand Prince is always a member of the royal family, while a Crown Prince may be a noble(wo)man who rules in their own right.

The title of Grand Prince is not automatically given to the eldest child (or niece/nephew) of an Emperor or Empress. Instead the ruler chooses when to bestow the title upon them, usually after discussing it with the High Council. It is possible for a ruler to go their entire reign without giving the title of Grand Prince to their successor, but this does not affect the successor's claim to the throne.

For example, Vretiel never gave Marin the title of Grand Prince, but as his oldest nephew he automatically became the heir. Marin never gave the title to his daughter, but if not for his abdication she would have become his heir. Kilan never had any title beyond a courtesy one, yet he still became Emperor.

[2] rouyao = A long cushioned chair, somewhere between a bench and a chaise longue.

[3] The Carann Empire practices absolute primogeniture; i.e., the oldest child inherits everything regardless of gender.