Zonne, the imperial capital of Svemilet.
At its heart stood a cluster of palaces vast enough to swallow a lesser city.
Here lay the halls of Justin the Great. Here he kept a court of wives and concubines and children, a small kingdom within the kingdom itself.
This day, the emperor's second son — and among the living the eldest — Borcuse Solan, had been summoned in secret to his father's bedchamber.
He was twelve years of age.
The elder son, Sarbon Solan, had once been more grown, and his name carried weight even among the common people; yet long ago a quarrel with his sire had sent him to the northern marches to stand with General Furris Schiff. He fell there beneath the banner, and did not return.
The housekeeper led Borcuse to a door flanked by two imperial guards. He knew the place well — his father's chamber — and stopped only at the housekeeper's words.
"Sir Mitte bade that you enter alone," she said, and then she turned away.
Hoch Mitte — the name struck him like a familiar echo. Mitte was his father's closest attendant and had been Borcuse's tutor. Why, then, had he issued the summons?
Perplexed, the boy pushed open the heavy door and stepped into a room more lavish than any feast. Gilding and tapestries swallowed the light; cushions lay like small islands upon rugs of woven night. Upon the bed his father lay like a man folded into too-fine linen. Beside the bed stood Mitte and another figure: Borcuse's uncle, Barlog Solan, who served as chancellor of the empire.
"Father," Borcuse said, and a cold premonition sat heavy upon him. He performed the one-knee court bow he had been taught, waiting for a father's words to lift him. Nothing came.
"Borcuse, my nephew," Chancellor Barlog said, low and measured. "The great emperor is dead. You must take his crown."
"Me?" The boy's composure shattered. He sprang to the bedside and clasped his father, weeping as if the world itself had bled open.
"Father! You were so young — why have you gone? I have not yet learned all I should from you. How can I be fit to rule? Teacher — last year he was stabbed upon the road while on tour; it must be—"
"Your father shows no sign of poison," Mitte interrupted, voice even as a clock. "He wore himself out with care; his labors took him. He died of his toils. As for the running of the realm, you must not fear. Your uncle and I swear fealty to you. Prepare yourself for the seat. Here are the words we have drawn up together; learn them well. Do not bring shame upon the memory of His Majesty."
Barlog's hands were steady on the papers he held; his face was grave, as if the face of a man who has swallowed a bitter draught and found it necessary. Borcuse clung to the bedclothes, his sobs making little rents in the silence. Outside the palace the city of Zonne breathed and went about its commerce, ignorant, for now, of the change that had come to the roof of the realm. Inside, gilt and shadow pressed close, and a child was told to become an emperor.