The God Beneath the Crown

The first time I saw a dead god, I was nine years old.

At the time, I thought he was sleeping.

That was what I told myself, anyway.

Gods did not die. Every child knew that. Gods fought, gods disappeared, gods changed their names and took new faces. Gods occasionally became angry enough to turn entire valleys into lakes, according to Brother Aldren, a round-bellied priest with a red beard and eyebrows so thick they nearly met above his nose, although my mother said that particular story had been invented to frighten children away from deep water.

But gods did not die.

So the man beneath the palace had to be sleeping.

And if I had possessed even half the sense expected of the future king of Valedor, I would have left him that way.

Instead, I touched him.

But I should probably explain how I got beneath the palace in the first place.

It was Tomas’s fault.

Most disasters in my childhood were.

“Nikolai.”

I kept walking.

“Nikolai.”

I walked faster.

“Nikolai!”

“What?”

My little brother came barreling around the corner behind me, one hand holding up trousers he’d apparently neglected to fasten properly.

Tomas was seven then, two years younger than me and already possessed of the unwavering conviction that rules existed primarily to make life more interesting when broken. He was small for seven, all narrow shoulders and restless limbs, with a round face that made him look far more innocent than he had ever actually been.

His dark hair stuck up in several directions.

There was mud on his cheek.

I stared at it.

Then at him.

Then back at the mud.

“Tomas.”

“What?”

“Why are you dirty?”

He glanced down at himself as though discovering his condition alongside me.

“I’m not.”

“You have mud on your face.”

“No, I don’t.”

I pointed at it.

He wiped the wrong cheek.

“Other side.”

He wiped his forehead.

“How are you this stupid?”

“I’m seven.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

I resumed walking.

Morning light poured through the tall windows of the eastern gallery, turning the white stone floors gold beneath my boots. Servants moved around us carrying flowers, linens, silver trays and enough food to feed a small army.

That wasn’t far from the truth.

The palace had been preparing for the Festival of First Light for nearly a week. Nobles had arrived from every province of Valedor. Ambassadors occupied half the guest wing. The kitchens had been operating through the night.

And somewhere downstairs, my father was preparing to introduce me to several hundred people who apparently needed reminding that I existed.

I hated First Light.

Not the festival itself.

I liked honey cakes.

I liked the lanterns.

I especially liked the enormous wooden dragon the artificers enchanted every year to fly over the city breathing harmless golden fire.

What I hated was being the Crown Prince during it.

“Where are you going?” Tomas asked.

“Lessons.”

“Why?”

I stopped.

He nearly walked into me.

“Because I’m the heir.”

“So?”

“So heirs have lessons.”

“That sounds awful.”

“It is.”

“Then don’t be the heir.”

I stared at him.

Tomas smiled.

There were moments when I wondered whether my younger brother was secretly a great philosopher.

Then he picked his nose.

The suspicion passed.

“I’m going to be king someday,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because Father is king.”

“You’re not Father.”

“I’m his eldest son.”

“So?”

I frowned.

Tomas had an irritating habit of continuing questions beyond the point where adults usually stopped.

“That’s how succession works.”

“That’s stupid.”

“You can’t call succession stupid.”

“I just did.”

“You’ll get in trouble.”

“Only if you tell.”

“I am literally going to be the person responsible for enforcing the laws.”

“Not yet.”

He had me there.

Again.

A bell rang somewhere outside, its deep note rolling across the palace grounds.

First bell.

I was late.

“Oh, gods.”

I ran.

Tomas followed.

“Why are you following me?”

“I need you.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know why!”

“Whatever it is, no.”

“I found a door.”

I stopped so abruptly he slammed into my back.

“A door?”

He rubbed his nose.

“Yes.”

“Congratulations.”

“A secret door.”

That was different.

I looked toward the end of the gallery.

My tutor would already be waiting.

Master Halric was a tall, painfully thin man who dressed almost entirely in gray and somehow always had ink on at least three of his fingers. He also had a vein on his forehead that became increasingly visible whenever I was late. I had once spent an entire arithmetic lesson watching it pulse and wondering whether it might explode.

Father expected me to know the names and heraldry of every noble family attending the festival before the evening banquet.

I knew perhaps half.

Maybe a third.

Definitely the important ones.

Probably.

“Where?” I whispered.

Tomas grinned.

That should have been my warning.

There were six of us.

I was the oldest.

After me came Tomas, then our sister Elowen, a quiet dark-haired girl with enormous watchful eyes that seemed to notice everything adults wished she wouldn’t. Then came the twins, Adrian and Amara. Adrian was long-limbed and perpetually scraped somewhere from climbing things he had been told not to climb, while Amara had a wild mass of dark curls and the sort of solemn expression that made adults assume she was behaving even when she absolutely was not. Finally there was little Lucien, a soft-cheeked three-year-old with loose black curls and our mother’s smile, who had recently discovered screaming and seemed determined to explore every possible application of it.

Mother called us her blessings.

Father called us the future of Valedor.

The palace servants called us Your Highness.

I had heard one exhausted nursemaid call us something else once.

She hadn’t realized I was behind her.

I’d learned two new words that day.

Tomas led me through the servants’ corridors behind the kitchens, down a narrow staircase and into the oldest part of the palace.

The change was immediate.

Above us, the Royal Palace of Aurum was white marble, blue banners, enchanted lamps and windows taller than houses.

Down here, the walls became rough gray stone.

The magical lights disappeared.

Tomas carried a candle.

“You’ve been down here alone?”

“No.”

“Who came with you?”

“Bran.”

I relaxed slightly.

Bran was one of the palace hounds, an enormous black beast with a white blaze down his chest, paws nearly as large as my hands, and enough loose skin around his jowls to make him look permanently disappointed in everyone.

“Where is he?”

“He wouldn’t come down the stairs.”

I stopped relaxing.

“Tomas.”

“What?”

“The dog that tries to fight thunderstorms wouldn’t come down here?”

“He was tired.”

“Bran is never tired.”

“He ate a whole chicken.”

“That was you!”

“He looked hungry.”

“You stole a chicken from the kitchens?”

“I didn’t steal it. It was already ours.”

“That’s not how ownership works.”

“We’re princes.”

That was, unfortunately, how Tomas believed ownership worked.

We reached the bottom.

A corridor extended ahead of us.

I had lived in the palace my entire life and had never seen it.

“How did you find this?”

“I was hiding from Nurse.”

“Why?”

“Bath.”

Of course.

The air smelled strange.

Not rotten.

Not exactly.

Old.

Like the crypt beneath the Temple of the Seven, where Father had taken me once to see the tombs of our ancestors.

I hadn’t liked that place.

Dead kings stared from stone coffins while priests told me I’d join them someday.

Adults had very strange ideas about motivating children.

Tomas raised the candle.

“There.”

At first, I didn’t understand what I was looking at.

The corridor ended in a stone wall.

Then I saw the outline.

A door had been carved so precisely into the surrounding stone that its seams nearly disappeared. There was no handle.

At its center was a symbol.

A circle divided vertically.

One half had been filled with gold.

The other was black.

“What is that?” Tomas whispered.

“I don’t know.”

“You know everything.”

“I absolutely do not.”

“You act like you do.”

I ignored him.

I knew the symbols of the Seven.

Every royal child did.

Aurelia’s sun.

Mareth’s open hand.

Velkan’s sword.

Serath’s flowering branch.

Orren’s scales.

Nymera’s crescent.

And Vael’s crowned flame.

This belonged to none of them.

I reached toward it.

Tomas slapped my hand.

I stared at him.

“What?”

“You told me not to touch strange magic.”

“When?”

“When I ate the blue berry.”

“That wasn’t magic. That was poisonous.”

“It made me see a talking rabbit.”

“Because you were poisoned.”

“He was very nice.”

I looked back at the symbol.

Something about it bothered me.

Not because it frightened me.

Because it felt familiar.

I had seen it before.

Somewhere.

“Go get a guard,” I said.

Tomas’s mouth fell open.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You promised.”

“I promised nothing.”

“You came with me!”

“That’s not a promise.”

“You’re awful.”

“I’m going to be king.”

“You say that whenever you’re being awful.”

I reached toward the symbol again.

“Nikolai.”

“What?”

“You just told me to get a guard.”

“I changed my mind.”

“That’s what kings do?”

I glared at him.

He smiled.

I pressed my palm against the circle.

The stone was warm.

Something clicked.

We both jumped backward.

A line of pale light appeared around the doorway.

“Oh,” Tomas whispered.

The door opened.

No dramatic grinding.

No burst of dust.

It simply moved inward as silently as if someone had been waiting on the other side.

Tomas looked at me.

I looked at Tomas.

“We should get a guard,” I said.

“Absolutely.”

Neither of us moved.

Beyond the doorway, stairs descended into darkness.

Tomas lifted the candle.

“I’m scared.”

That surprised me.

Tomas wasn’t afraid of anything.

He had once jumped from the stable roof because Adrian told him he couldn’t fly.

I reached for his hand.

He took mine immediately.

That frightened me more.

“We look for one minute,” I said. “Then we leave.”

“One minute.”

“And you stay behind me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m older.”

“By two years.”

“Behind me.”

He stuck his tongue out.

But he obeyed.

We descended.

The stairs went farther than they should have.

Aurum Palace stood atop a hill overlooking the capital. I tried counting the steps and stopped somewhere after a hundred.

The air grew colder.

Then our candle went out.

Tomas screamed.

I screamed because Tomas screamed.

“Stop!”

“You stop!”

“I stopped!”

“You screamed!”

“You screamed first!”

Something flickered ahead.

Blue light.

It came from the bottom of the stairs.

We continued.

Slowly.

The stairway opened into a chamber so enormous that our little candle could never have illuminated it anyway.

Blue flames burned in iron braziers around its perimeter.

They lit themselves one after another as we entered.

Whoom.

Whoom.

Whoom.

Each flame revealed more of the room.

Columns.

Carvings.

Statues whose faces had been deliberately destroyed.

And roots.

Thousands of pale roots had broken through the ceiling and crawled down the walls, converging toward the center of the chamber.

Toward him.

A man sat upon a stone throne.

No.

Not a man.

I knew that even before I understood why.

He was too large.

Even seated, he seemed enormous, with shoulders broad enough to dwarf the throne around him and long limbs that made the stone seat seem built for someone smaller. He wore no crown. No armor. Only a dark robe that had decayed almost completely, exposing smooth gray skin stretched over a powerful chest and arms.

Long black hair fell around his shoulders.

His face might once have been beautiful. It was severe now, all high cheekbones and sharp angles, untouched by age despite everything around him having rotted.

His eyes were closed.

And something had been driven through his chest.

A spear.

Its shaft was black.

Its blade glowed faintly gold where it emerged from his back and disappeared into the throne.

Tomas squeezed my hand.

“Nikolai.”

I couldn’t answer.

There were carvings around the throne.

People kneeling.

Cities burning.

Seven figures standing together.

And an eighth standing opposite them.

The eighth figure had been scratched from the stone.

Everywhere.

Wall after wall.

Destroyed.

Removed.

Forgotten.

Except here.

At the base of the throne.

A name had been carved into the stone.

I couldn’t read it.

The letters seemed to move whenever I tried.

“Nikolai,” Tomas whispered again. “We need Father.”

He was right.

I stepped backward.

Then the man spoke.

“Valerius.”

I froze.

Tomas made a tiny sound.

The man’s eyes remained closed.

“Did you hear that?”

Tomas nodded.

I should have run.

Instead I said, “That’s our family name.”

The dead man’s fingers moved.

Once.

Barely.

Tomas pulled at me.

“Nikolai.”

“Wait.”

“No.”

“Tomas—”

“No!”

He bolted.

His hand ripped from mine.

“Tomas!”

He ran for the stairs.

I turned to follow.

And heard chains.

Not metal.

Something deeper.

A sound I felt inside my teeth.

I looked back.

The man’s eyes were open.

They were gold.

Not brown flecked with gold.

Not amber.

Gold.

Light poured from them.

I couldn’t move.

“Firstborn,” he whispered.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

I tried to call for Tomas.

Nothing came out.

The roots surrounding the throne began to writhe.

The man looked directly at me.

Then at something behind me.

Fear crossed his face.

That was what terrified me most.

Not the spear.

Not the moving roots.

Not the impossible eyes.

Whatever this thing was—

it was afraid.

“Too soon,” he said.

Something moved in the darkness behind the throne.

I saw only its shadow.

It had too many arms.

The dead god looked at me again.

“Run.”

This time, I listened.

I sprinted.

The blue flames extinguished behind me one by one.

I reached the stairs.

Something screamed below.

I climbed.

My lungs burned.

“Nikolai!”

Tomas stood at the top.

“GO!”

We ran through the doorway.

The stone door began closing.

Tomas slipped.

I grabbed his arm and dragged him through just before the opening vanished.

Silence.

We lay on the floor.

Breathing.

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

Then Tomas started crying.

I’d seen him cry before.

Usually because someone had taken away something he wasn’t supposed to have.

This was different.

I crawled over and hugged him.

He buried his face against my shoulder.

“We’re telling Father,” he said.

“Yes.”

“We’re telling him everything.”

“Yes.”

“And I’m never coming down here again.”

“Neither am I.”

That was the first promise I ever made that truly mattered.

And the first one I broke.

Father believed us.

That was almost worse.

King Alaric Valerius listened without interrupting.

My father was an enormous man, especially through the eyes of a nine-year-old. Thick dark hair had begun to gray at his temples, and a neatly trimmed beard framed a face that could shift from warm to terrifying with remarkable speed. His shoulders strained the formal blue coat he wore for the festival, and the gold crown resting on his head somehow seemed less impressive than the man beneath it.

We sat in his private study wrapped in blankets while Mother held Tomas against her chest.

Mother—Seraphine—looked almost delicate beside him, though I had never once mistaken her for fragile. She had long dark hair, warm brown skin and graceful features that made painters beg for sittings she rarely granted. Her dark eyes were usually the gentlest in the palace.

They weren’t gentle now.

They were frightened.

I’d expected anger.

Instead, Father became quieter with every word.

When I described the symbol, his wineglass stopped halfway to his mouth.

When I described the throne, he put it down.

When I described the spear—

he looked at Mother.

It lasted only a second.

But I saw it.

They knew something.

“What did he say to you?” Father asked.

“Valerius.”

His face changed.

Mother’s hand tightened around Tomas.

“Anything else?”

“Firstborn.”

Father stood.

He walked to the door and opened it.

“Captain.”

The commander of the royal guard entered, a broad-shouldered man in polished blue-and-silver armor with close-cropped brown hair and a square jaw. A pale scar disappeared beneath the edge of his collar.

“Your Majesty.”

“Seal the eastern undercroft. No servants. No guards below the third landing.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Send for the High Oracle.”

That frightened me.

The High Oracle didn’t come to people.

People crossed kingdoms to see her.

Father turned back to me.

“What else, Nikolai?”

I hesitated.

The thing behind the throne.

The shadow.

The arms.

I didn’t know how to explain it.

“He told me to run.”

Father stared at me for a long time.

Then he knelt.

Kings did not kneel.

Not before their sons.

Not before anyone except the gods.

He put both hands on my shoulders.

“Listen to me.”

His eyes looked different.

My father was a large man. Strong. Loud. The kind of man whose laughter could fill a banquet hall and whose anger could empty one.

I’d never seen him afraid.

Not until then.

“You will never return to that place.”

“I won’t.”

“You will never attempt to open that door.”

“I promise.”

“You will never speak of what you saw to anyone outside this room. Not your tutors. Not your siblings. Not your friends. No one.”

“But—”

“Nikolai.”

I swallowed.

“Yes, Father.”

He pulled me against him.

I stiffened.

Father hugged us, of course.

But not like this.

This wasn’t affection.

He was checking that I was still there.

Over his shoulder, I saw Mother.

She wasn’t looking at me.

She was staring toward the window.

And silently crying.

That was when I finally understood.

Whatever Tomas and I had found beneath our home—

my parents already knew it was there.

The High Oracle arrived before sunset.

By then, the Festival of First Light had begun.

From my bedroom window I could see thousands of people filling the streets of Aurum. Enchanted lanterns floated between rooftops. Musicians played in the squares. Vendors sold sweet wine and roasted meat.

Children screamed happily as the wooden dragon soared overhead.

Golden fire spilled from its mouth.

Everyone cheered.

I watched from behind the glass.

I’d been excused from the banquet.

Father told everyone I had taken ill.

Tomas really had.

He’d vomited twice and fallen asleep beside Mother.

I couldn’t sleep.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw gold.

Firstborn.

Someone knocked.

I jumped.

The door opened.

My father entered.

Someone followed him.

She was tiny.

That surprised me.

The High Oracle of Aurelia was supposed to be the most powerful divine seer alive.

I’d imagined someone enormous.

Instead she was an old woman barely taller than I was, with dark brown skin, a narrow, deeply lined face, silver hair braided down her back and cloudy white eyes that should have looked empty but somehow seemed to notice more than anyone else’s.

She carried no staff.

No jeweled robes.

No crown.

Just a plain yellow dress hanging loosely from her slight frame.

“Nikolai,” Father said, “this is Oracle Samira.”

I bowed.

She snorted.

“Don’t.”

I straightened.

Father looked offended on my behalf.

Samira ignored him.

She walked toward me.

“Hand.”

I looked at Father.

“Do as she asks.”

I held it out.

Samira took my wrist.

Her fingers were warm.

For several seconds, nothing happened.

Then her grip tightened.

Her blind eyes widened.

The room disappeared.

I was standing somewhere else.

No.

Not standing.

Falling.

Stars surrounded me.

Thousands.

Millions.

Something enormous moved between them.

I heard screaming.

A sword broke.

A crown rolled across a floor covered in blood.

Someone laughed.

Someone I loved begged me to stop.

Six figures stood beneath a black sun.

One disappeared.

Then another.

Then—

I saw myself.

Older.

Huge.

Covered in blood.

A shield in one hand.

A broken sword in the other.

The boy I was could barely recognize the man.

He was built like Father but larger, his shoulders massive beneath battered armor, his chest thick enough to make the breastplate covering it look almost too small. Dark hair hung loose around a scarred face, longer than I had ever worn mine, and blood ran from somewhere above one eye.

Someone was dying in my arms.

I couldn’t see his face.

I screamed his name.

The sound never reached me.

Behind us—

something opened its eyes.

Gold.

I ripped my hand away.

The bedroom returned.

I fell backward.

Father caught me.

Samira staggered.

Blood ran from her nose.

“Oracle?”

She ignored him.

She stared at me.

Actually stared.

Her cloudy eyes had turned gold.

Just for a moment.

Then white again.

“What did you see?” Father demanded.

Samira wiped the blood from her lip.

“Nothing.”

“Do not lie to me.”

“I am not speaking to the king.”

She looked at me.

Her expression softened.

Then she did something I would remember for the rest of my life.

The High Oracle knelt.

Before me.

She took my hand again.

This time there was no vision.

“Nikolai Valerius,” she whispered, “when the day comes that everyone tells you what you are supposed to become…”

She glanced toward my father.

“…choose for yourself.”

Father went very still.

I didn’t understand.

I was nine.

My entire life had already been chosen.

I would study history and law.

I would learn diplomacy.

I would command armies.

Someday I would marry.

Someday Father would die.

And then they would place the Crown of Valedor upon my head.

I had been told this since before I could remember.

“I’ll be king,” I said.

Samira smiled sadly.

“Perhaps.”

Outside my window, the crowd erupted.

The dragon passed overhead.

Golden fire illuminated the room.

For one heartbeat, Samira’s shadow stretched across the wall.

Except it wasn’t her shadow.

It had wings.

Then the light disappeared.

I blinked.

Everything was normal.

Samira released my hand.

She stood.

“Enjoy the festival, little prince.”

And she left.

Father followed her.

Their voices faded down the corridor.

I remained beside the window.

Far below, thousands of people celebrated beneath floating lights.

My people.

My kingdom.

My future.

I pressed my palm against the cold glass.

For the first time in my life, I wondered whether I wanted any of it.

And far beneath my feet

beneath the palace,

beneath the hill,

beneath the city that would someday expect me to rule it

something knocked three times against a stone door.

Knock.

I stopped breathing.

Knock.

I turned toward the floor.

Knock.

Then silence.

I told myself I’d imagined it.

For fifteen years, I almost believed that