This chapter is set in a place I haven't really explored yet, and I thought I would just use it as a sneak-preview, since Conquest is now up (just check my profile), and I was way too excited to share this with you guys.  

*Hector*

The pool gardens were hot and sultry, despite spring's recent arrival. Hector reclined on a cushion-covered bench, hanging silks fluttering all around him in the faint breeze from the slaves' fans. He sighed and set aside the maps and papers he'd been studying.

"Bored already, brother?" Cosmé asked from beside him. His sixteen-year-old half-sister was perched on a silk-covered stool, a piece of needlepoint stretched on a frame before her. She gripped the thick, bone needle in a tiny, henna-painted hand.

Hector shook his head. "No, no," he assured her. "Only, our half-brother assigns heavy reading." Cosmé laughed, her voice tinkling like wind-chimes through the morning stillness. It was too early for the children to have come to play in the pools, or the nobles to have come to relax in the relative coolness of the inner gardens.

He and Cosmé had come out early because the emperor was in the midst of a war council and did not require his siblings to attend him. Hector should have been with him there, but he'd arrived only the night before from his post on the Theorian border, and the emperor had given him a day to familiarize himself with the new plan of conquest.

Unfortunately, that familiarization seemed likely to take more than a day. With the reams and reams his imperial half-brother had sent him to read through, Hector was fairly certain he would be up all night, and probably late to the war council the next day as well.

At his side, Cosmé continued to push her needle in and out of the cloth, following the pattern she'd begun already, though she kept sneaking glances at him, and her dark eyes–the only part of her face visible above her veil–were worried.

After a time, once Hector had gone back to his reading, she spoke again. "I just don't think it's entirely fair of Arcturus to ask so much of you. You've only just returned, and you were wounded, too."

Hector grimaced and touched his knee, wincing as the slight touch sent pain shooting up his leg. He'd taken a spear to the knee during a raid on a Theorian border village, about a month ago, and it hadn't healed right. He hadn't gotten the time to rest it, so the wound had worsened before he'd finally been able to treat it. Now, the scab pulled tight every time he bent or flexed that knee.

"I'll be fine," he said, and it was true. At least reading gave him a chance to rest his knee, and it wasn't even the worst injury he'd ever sustained. "It's just a scratch."

Cosmé pursed her lips. Clearly, his reassurances hadn't worked. Thankfully, though, she let him get on with his work and returned to her own. He did notice that she jabbed the needle through her cloth with perhaps a bit more vigor than was necessary. She was angry, or disappointed; he wasn't sure he wanted to know which.

He forced his attention back to Arcturus's plans, despite the fact that they were beginning to give him a headache, though it wasn't even noon yet. And to imagine he had a whole day of this ahead of him, still.

A sudden clamor of voices echoed off the tile of the pool garden. Hector and Cosmé looked up at exactly the same time. A young girl skipped through the archway that led to the women's quarters in the palazzo, followed by a lengthy train of attendants.

The girl, eleven-year-old Hero, by the old emperor's second wife and Hector's mother, the youngest of Arcturus's surviving siblings, was too young to have yet donned the sari and veil worn by all women, and dressed in a silk top that covered only her budding breasts, flowing pants belted with a silver and turquoise belt, and a multitude of flowing, translucent scarves.

Her attendants, half of which included noble girls her age, half of which were servants and slaves, split. The noble girls stripped off their clothes until they stood only in breast bands and loincloths. Together, they dove into the pools, reveling in the cool water, swimming about, splashing each other and performing tricks underwater.

Hero, however, hesitated as the slaves began folding the discarded clothes. "Brother," she said blithely. "Sister."

Cosmé's serene smile showed only in her eyes, her mouth hidden by the folds of her ornate veil. "Hero, good morning. I trust you're doing well?"

Hero grinned. "Wonderfully so, thank you. And you?" Her eyes flitted to Hector, to his knee, as she asked. Hector suppressed a groan. While it was nice the women in his life cared for him, he sometimes wished they were less observant.

"We're well," he said, before Cosmé could utter anything to the contrary. "Despite how boring Arcturus's reports are. Don't worry about us; it's too hot for that. Please, enjoy your swim. Don't let us disturb your plans."

Hero grinned and shimmied out of her silks. Immediately, one of the slaves scooped them up and carried them off. "As you command, brother," his sister teased, and dove into the pool.

Once the noon sun hung heavy in the sky, Hector and Cosmé retreated inside. It was too hot, too dry outside to stay there. Instead, they took their midday around the artificial lily pond placed at the center of Cosmé sitting room.

As they nibbled at figs, flatbreads, cheeses and olives, they talked about insignificant things, like what they were planning to give Hero, or their other sister, twenty-year-old Lenia, for their name-days, or what color Cosmé was planning to wear to that night's tree-viewing party. Cosmé managed to wheedle a few humorous tales out of her brother about the men he'd commanded on the border, though Hector was careful to avoid telling her anything that might worry or frighten her.

They were just finishing their meal, nibbling at various fruit pastes, when their brother exploded through the beaded curtain that served Cosmé as a door.

Both of them leapt to their feet.

Arcturus, emperor of the Reynes, only twenty-six years old and already considered a brilliant ruler, was a tall, lean man with a mustache and beard the color of ink, black hair with the tips sun-bleached red, and eyes like piercing jet. His skin was much darker than that of any of his other siblings, excepting Lenia, their mother having been a tribal princess from the Yakal desert.

Hector's own mother had been an Adrawyd noble's daughter, captured by slavers and consequently bought by the emperor. Cosmé's mother had been a princess from a conscript kingdom at the far east of the Empire. She'd given Cosmé her almond-shaped eyes and milky skin.

"Radiance," Hector and Cosmé said together, bowing to their older brother. Arcturus nodded to them and took a seat on the rim of the pond.

"Sit," he ordered them, never one for formalities. "Hector, have you had a chance to familiarize yourself with what I've planned?" Hector swallowed.

"I believe I have the general gist of it, yes," he said carefully. He didn't want his brother to think he'd been shirking, but, in truth, with the pain from his leg, and the weariness travel had taken on him, he wasn't even close to halfway through yet.

"Good," Arcturus said, pouring himself a goblet of sweet, thick wine. "Then you will be able to accompany me to this afternoon's war council?"

Hector hesitated. He couldn't refuse, but he wasn't remotely prepared. Perhaps he could go, and use the meeting to learn more about his brother's plans. Or, perhaps, he should just claim exhaustion, which was true enough. He was exhausted; he merely doubted that simple exhaustion would be enough to convince his brother that he was unfit to attend a council meeting.

"I'll be there," he said wearily. Arcturus nodded firmly. It was not a nod of confirmation or one of approval. It was a nod that told Hector that Arcturus had known his answer before he'd given it, and had not been surprised in his knowledge. It was a nod that confirmed his superiority.

Arcturus downed his wine in one gulp, slammed the cup onto the table, and, before either Cosmé or Hector could rise and bow, he'd gotten to his feet and stalked from the room.

Hector let his head fall forward into his hands. Over and over he reminded himself of the duty he owed Arcturus as a younger brother and a subject. He had to bow to him, to give him unquestioning obedience, no matter how it might irk him, no matter how it chafed him in everywhere that his sense of right and wrong still clung to him.

Cosmé was speaking. "...you don't have to go. Just tell Arcturus that it's too soon, that you're exhausted. If you don't go to him, then I will go for you. I will go, and tell him just how exhausted you are. I will tell him how my slave heard you screaming in your sleep last night–"

Hector reached out and grabbed her hands. "Never, never tell anyone about that," he hissed, and dropped her hands as if her touch had burned him. Cosmé hissed and flexed her fingers. Hector saw, on their milky skin, dark marks where he'd grabbed her with a grip like iron.

Cosmé ducked her head, refusing to meet his eyes, as she rubbed her hands. Hector sat back and closed his eyes, ashamed.

"Please, Cosmé," he said, more quietly. She nodded once. "Thank you," he breathed, and then added, "I'm sorry."

Cosmé stood. "I know," she said. "And I should go. I'll see you later." She turned to go, and hesitated. "Hector..." she turned away again, and then turned back. "Please, please be careful. Don't let Arcturus walk all over you."

On her way out, she paused long enough to kiss his forehead, and then glided away, leaving him staring after her, the scent of her perfume hovering around him like a fragrant cloud. For some reason, the smell made his stomach turn over.

He bent over, arms wrapped around his middle, feeling at once dizzy and worn down. His family, his big, glorious, overwhelming family, that left him feeling guilty and indebted, that he loved and hated, could be so, so pushy.

War had been so simple–easy, even–when compared to his family. Yes, it had been dangerous, deadly, yet so was his brother's court. Ever since they had been young, Arcturus had been in possession of a temper so sharp and so sudden that it was a battle simply to keep one's head, both literally and figuratively, in his presence.

And now Arcturus was emperor, determined to make kingdoms rise and fall at his order, and Hector was just a pawn on his imaginary chessboard, with no choice but to live and die at his command. Had he not been a prince of the empire, he would have taken himself off to some far kingdom to live his life, in peace, the way he wanted to live it.

As it was, though, he was a prince, and he had an obligation to the empire, to his sisters, to his mother, to his brother. With a sigh, he heaved himself to his feet, fighting off a torrent of pain as he put weight on his injured leg, and hobbled from Cosmé's apartments.

Perhaps his sister had been right. Perhaps he shouldn't let his brother "walk all over him," as she put it. Yet, if he dared to defy his brother, he had no doubt that, come the next dawn, he would find his head on a spike above the city walls. It was all very well for Cosmé to tell him to stand up for himself, but he wondered if she understood just how dangerous such and action would be if put into practice.

Outside the shadows and silky half-light of Cosmé's apartments, the palace was a riot of colors, an explosion of flowers and gems. The courtiers pranced about, gilded peacocks, blind to any other lifestyle but that into which they'd been ceremoniously placed at birth.

Once, before Arcturus had sent him to war, Hector had been one of them, a fawning princeling with an ambition and a love for the lavish. War had changed him, though. He'd seen men's broken bodies bathed in blood and moonlight; he'd seen his friends and companions tortured to death, seen them die screaming in agony as he watched, helpless, unable to make so much as a sound in fear of sharing their fate.

Only now, when he returned to the palace that had once been his paradise, did he realize exactly the toll those horrors had had on him. How could he go back to being a mindless flatterer of his brother when he'd taken more lives than he could count?

From the moment he was born, he had been destined to serve: he was the younger son, the son who always had a choice between either the military or the priesthood, and nothing more. In fact, it hadn't even been he who had made the choice. From the moment he'd shown the slightest aptitude for strategy and the sword his father had decreed that his son be trained into a ruthless commander. At the time, Hector had been flattered that his father, a brilliant warrior, believed him to be skilled enough to follow in his footsteps. Now, though, Hector wondered if, perhaps, had he known the horrors he was to commit and those he was to play witness to, he would have chosen to enter the priesthood.

But now, it was too late. He had chosen the path of the sword, or, more accurately, that was the path that had chosen him. He hadn't had much of a say in it, and, truly, he couldn't imagine what his life would be without a sword at his side and battle plans in his mind.

Now, in the smothering heat of the afternoon, he stared blankly at his hands. For an instant, he could have sworn they were coated in blood. But then he blinked, and they were back to their sinewy, clean, brown normality. The only redness came from the sunlight striking a nearby statue inlaid with rubies.

Hector sighed, suddenly weary beyond belief. The warfront seemed a lifetime away from this sickening paradise. He wished he hadn't come back, yet what choice did he have? His sisters wouldn't let him go back to war any time soon, and, so long as they were coddling him, Arcturus would use him closer to home.

Throughout his life, Hector had borne witness to countless horrors, yet, somehow, his brother's court was the greatest horror of all.