Princess of the Void 5.49. A Family

Vora’s ears fan out wide. “What?”

Tarsik lowers his hands from the circular keyboard. “What?”

“I hereby na Vorakaia a Viscountess, as is my right as a Princess,” Sykora says. “I adopt her House into the House of the Black Pike, as is my right as the Matriarch. And I na her as the Princess-in-Waiting, as is my right as a mother.”

Tarsik attempts a chuckle; the noise he produces is too strained for the moniker. “But not her mother.”

“That is of no matter,” Sykora says. “And you’ll find plenty of precedent that says so.”

“You… Majesty.” Tarsik’s smile is fighting for its life. “That’s not possible.”

“Yes it is,” Grant says. “You got a Lomanza tucked away back there?” he calls to the huddling functionaries outside.

The Majordomo of the Black Pike enters the increasingly crowded and bewildered room. “Majesty.”

“Majordomo Lomanza,” Sykora says. “Kindly explain to the clerk what you told the chief engineer and I.”

Lomanza bows chanically, and says:

“At issue is whether a non-lineal individual, originating outside the imdiate genealogical lattice of the House, may be conditionally incorporated for purposes of ceremonial succession readiness. The answer, upon holistic review of the governing fraworks, is a qualified yes.

“First—and most key to this argunt—the 4683 Continuity Charter does not impose an absolute consanguinity requirent for provisional titles where the House’s forward-operational prestige, diplomatic elasticity, or succession optionality would be materially enhanced by controlled external integration. Indeed, in the House of the Black Pike’s interpretation, Section IX, Subclause 3(c) expressly contemplates quote-designated heirs-in-preparation-unquote, whose eligibility derives from formal investiture rather than birthright alone, provided that the adoption instrunt is executed under Seal and subjected to the customary genealogical harmonization protocols. Her Majesty’s Seal here affirms said investiture.

“Second, the Candidate’s external origin does not constitute a disqualifying defect where, as here, the House retains full discretionary authority over courtesy title issuance. The Princess-in-Waiting designation is, by longstanding interpretive consensus, a preparatory and non-vested style, conferring expectation without guaranteeing succession. Accordingly, the conferral operates within the House’s recognized zone of ceremonial autonomy and does not trigger the more restrictive bloodline preservation provisions reserved for fully vested heiresses.

“Third—”

“Enough.” Tarsik waves a hasty hand. “Enough, please.”

“There you have it, gentlefolk.” Sykora smugly crosses her arms. “My heiress is Viscountess Vorakaia of the Black Pike, newly styled Princess-in-Waiting of the Black Pike, both the ZKZ and its sector.”

Tarsik’s grin has given up the ghost. “You would rob your children of their birthright, then.”

“Their birthright is not your concern, Clerk.” Sykora gave birth scarcely two hours ago, and she’s already regaining her Princess steel. “I have the power to na a different Princess-in-Waiting whenever I so choose. And when my children co of age, I certainly intend to put additional consideration into my selection. But until I decide otherwise, Vora will be my Princess-in-Waiting. She will attend at all tis during my duties, on-hand to observe and advise. She will have control of the Black Pike, should my husband and I be indisposed or absent.”

Waian has a triumphant smirk on her face. “Every ergency power a majordomo has. What a coincidence.”

Sykora shrugs. “If a majordomo and a Princess-in-Waiting overlap in many functions, that’s not my fault. And if my three children co of age as equals, well.” She cozies further into Grant’s arms. “Their father is a Maekyonite. And that is how Maekyonites are raised.”

“Highly irregular.” Tarsik is typing rapidly, his tail quivering with agitation. “Highly irregular, Majesty. And potentially of serious harm to their developnt.”

“That is none of your concern, clerk.” Sykora matches his chill with a polar vortex. “Record the decisions of your superiors and depart.”

With a huff, Tarsik finishes his entries, and after a perfunctory bow, he wheels his cart from the room, past a dazed Vora.

“Will that be all, Majesty?” Lomanza asks.

“Would you like to hold one, Lomanza?” The smile Sykora gives to her majordomo is finally genuine.

Lomanza returns it. “No, thank you. But you have my most sincere congratulations.” She pivots smoothly on her heel. “And you as well, Princess-in-Waiting.” She extends her palm for a handshake, recognizes the sleeping infant in Vora’s arms, and ratchets her hand back down.

“Thank you,” Vora murmurs, eyes unfocused.

“You can bla your husband for this, y’know,” Waian says. “Or maybe bla Grant, ‘cause it was his itchiness about the in-waiting thing that gave Oryn the idea.”

“Or bla , perhaps,” Sykora says. “Because I refuse to command without you by my side, Vora.”

Vora is slowly returning to herself. “I will bla… hmmm.” She rests Kiar back on the bed. “I will bla myself for saying yes.”

Sykora beams and yanks Vora into a hug.

“There is going to be so much paperwork, your Majesty,” her Princess-in-Waiting says.

Grant joins the embrace, and they stay a while longer with the command group, chatting in quiet awe around the sleeping children, and then it’s ti to say goodbye for now. “Gonna get to drink again soon, Majesty.” Waian winks. “How’s that feel?”

“Like a hosanna, Chief Engineer,” Sykora says. “Tell them to prepare themselves out there. I’m coming to drain the taps dry.”

“I will return to my room,” Lomanza says.

“Not fucking yet you aren’t.” Waian raises a finger. “One drink, Majordomo. Just one and you’re out.”

Lomanza shifts from foot to foot. “One drink,” she says.

Out goes the command group, and they have the quiet again, for a mont. The next well-wishers are coming.

“I swear I will not snap at her,” Sykora says. “At my sister, I an. But that’s the extent of my willpower. If that traipsing little gargoyle tapdances onto my frayed nerve, I disclaim any snapping that results.”

“It’s what she wants,” Grant says. “She loves getting a rise out of you.”

Sykora scowls. “She’ll love it right up until I make her regret it.”

The door slides open and disgorges Narika, who strides in with Specialist-Gefreiter Axyna on her heels.

The Princess of the Glory Banner is sleek, grood and graceful. “Sister.”

The Princess of the Black Pike is bedridden, exhausted, and covered in dried sweat. “Sister.”

The Specialist-Gefreiter is how she always is. “Look at these little prunes, eh?” She sidles to Sykora’s bedside.

“You have an unorthodox re-encoder,” Narika says.

“She’s inflicted herself upon you, then,” Sykora says. “That’s payback from the universe.”

“We’ve had a lovely afternoon together, haven’t we,” Axyna says. “Learning all about your fraught little family tree while I waited to see its new branches.”

“Specialist-Gefreiter, I am tired, I am in no mood.” Sykora glowers at the strange little scientist. “You wanted to see them, you’ve seen them.”

“Uh-huh. You’re welco, by the way. For these lovely little freakshows. I cannot wait to find out how lanky this one gets.” Axyna beams at Ziavra. “Wanna know how I know it’s her?”

“I want you to be quiet,” Sykora says.

“Oh, but I should, shouldn’t I?” Axyna snickers. “I wonder if you’re wondering, Glory Banner. Well, you’ll wonder a little longer, but only a little. Eh, Black Pike?”

“Are you here to do anything important, Axyna?” Grant asks.

“I am here to et my creations, Maekyonite.” Axyna’s attention turns to Kiar. “And you, my boy—oh, yes. You are going to get nice and big and full of nice juicy blood for your Empress, aren’t you? And for Auntie Axie.”

Sykora thrashes up to a seated position. “Will you shut up!”

Narika seizes Axyna by the scruff of her robe and yanks her anticomps up to her forehead. Flash. “Sit,” she snaps. “And be quiet.”

Axyna slams into one of the bedside seats hard enough to scrape the legs back. She stares in gape-mouthed shock up at the Princess of the Glory Banner, who looks just as startled as she does.

Narkia’s eyes flash again. Color is rising in her cheeks. “You may stand and speak again, Axyna,” she says. “But for God’s sake, if you have nothing useful to do or say, leave them alone awhile.”

Axyna shoots to her feet, still with that bewildered look on her face. “I—I’ll just…” She lowers her anticomps back over her eyes. “I’ll check in with them in the morning.” She stumbles for the door, fumbling with her hood. Grant would miss it if he blinked, and later he’ll wonder if he imagined it, but in the mont her horns look halfway out.

Narika sighs and sits at the bedside chair Axyna lately occupied. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Oh, hush,” Sykora says. “It’s one of the first truly laudatory things you’ve ever done.”

Kiar’s eyes squint open. And they’re in a blue face, on a body tinier than any healthy Maekyonite baby, but they’re Grant’s eyes, so much so that it steals the breath from his lungs. Brown and soulful. Earthling eyes. His tiny tail double-wraps around Grant’s thumb.

“Hey, little man,” Grant whispers. “Welco to your life.”

***

Night has fallen on Aodok. Grant pads back to the recovery room from his trip to the john. Narika has relocated to just outside, now that Sykora’s getting so well-deserved sleep. She sits in a waiting-room chair, holding Aurora with the intense focus of a surgeon at the table. The slow rotation of a nearby glass statuette—so ancient Empress, Grant thinks—parades faceted light across her face.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hmm,” she says.

“I’m glad it’s just us for a second.” He sits next to her. “I need to say sothing.”

Narika looks up from her niece expectantly. “Can’t we let this brief truce last a little longer?”

“I had one sibling,” he says. “A brother. And he died young and badly. And I hated that guy. I knew I did. I knew he was beyond my help. I knew it was too late to be back in each other’s lives. I knew all that, right until I was holding his hand while he went away forever. And then I found out I hadn’t known a thing.”

She sighs. “I see where you’re headed.”

“The kind of stuff we used to fight about was owing money and getting into trouble with cops. Little things. I know that for you and Sykora, the stakes are way higher. I can’t pretend like we’re similar. And I get that your fights and disagreents are just how Void Princesses are, but this—”

He rests a hand atop his daughter’s silky head.

“This isn’t,” he says. “This is uncharted. This is our big chance to break out of the Void Princess rivalry bullshit and figure sothing else out.”

“We have hurt each other very badly, Grant.” Narika rocks Aurora gently. “I know from where you’re sitting it seems like I must be the monstrous one. I won’t waste your ti arguing my case to you. But I cannot forget what she’s done.”

“That’s not what I’m asking for,” he says. “I can change her behavior, or try to. I already have, sorta, right? You told so. But I can’t change yours. I want you there all the ti. I want them to grow up with the coolest aunt in the fucking firmant. But I can’t do that, the way things are right now. I forgive you. I think I can get Sykora to forgive you. I need you to forgive her, too.”

Narika hums absentmindedly. “Forgive her.”

“That’s right.” Grant hopes she was listening at all. Her focus on Aurora is so all-consuming that a part of him wants to take his daughter back.

“My niece,” she murmurs. “I’m an aunt, and this is my niece. I have…”

She trails back into stillness.

“A family,” Grant says.

Her mouth moves, but whatever response she intended hooks itself in her throat. She takes a mont to compose herself. “Please inform your wife that I will relinquish my designs on Ptolek,” she says. “No protestation. Not today.”

He touches her shoulder. “Thank you.”

“I only do so as a favor to you and your children, Grantyde. If I didn’t, she’d neglect all four of you in her zeal to destroy .”

“The reason doesn’t matter to ,” he says. “Thank you, sister.”

A flicker beneath her resolute impassivity. Her lip twitches. She lifts Rory toward him. “Excuse , please, Grantyde. I have to—excuse .”

“Sure.” He gingerly retrieves his sleeping daughter and Narika stands and hurries from the room, her severe heels rapping on its tile. She shoulders through the waiting room door and disappears into the hallway beyond.

Grant surreptitiously looks through the door panel. The Princess of the Glory Banner is a dozen feet down the hallway, leaning on the wall by a drinking fountain, covering her face with both hands and shaking like a leaf.

He turns from her and curls his baby girl closer up against him. He stands and steps through the threshold into the room where his wife sleeps with their children in her arms.