“—or dueling rogue acolytes who had acquired far more power than anyone should wield!”
“You told me to deal with that,” I pointed out. “I dealt with it.”
“I didn’t tell you to almost die in the process!” she said severely. “What if you had, hm? If you had lost that duel, who would have taken over then?”
I leaned my pounding noggin’ back against the headboard, which didn’t help. It wasn’t the nice, padded, modern kind of accessory, but the hard, suffering-is-good-for-the-soul Victorian type, so it offered basically zero comfort. Kind of like Gertie, who was looking at me expectantly.
“You know the problem,” I said irritably. “I’ve told you before. Agnes’s acolytes were turned by the gods, and I had to destroy them—”
“All of them?” she demanded. “From her entire reign?”
“No, just the last group, but that included her heir—”
“Then what about the others? She must have had dozens of acolytes over the years. You could contact them—”
“We did. Or, rather, Hilde did—”
“Hilde?”
I stopped. Damn. I hadn’t told Gertie that her sister had joined my court, although that wasn’t my idea. Hildegarde had suggested it, after I caught her skulking around the last time we were here, making sure that Gertie didn’t see her. I wasn’t sure what the problem was, but had gotten the impression that the girls had been rivals back in the day, and Hilde wasn’t sure how she’d take the news.
Which didn’t make a lot of sense to me, or apparently, to Gertie, who was looking vastly relieved. “Well, at least you have some competent help,” she said. “Why not make her your heir, at least until you can sort out a suitable one?”
“I have a suitable one,” I said, frowning. “And Hilde can’t do the job—”
“I assure you, she can. And quite well, too.”
“I’m not talking about her skills. I’m talking about her age.”
“Her age?” It was Gertie’s turn to frown. “Just how old is she?”
“Old enough.”
I didn’t elaborate, because technically, Gertie and I weren’t supposed to be talking about the future, or really at all. Gertie was helping to train me, which I really appreciated since my predecessor had died before she could do anything except wish me luck. But I still had to be careful about what I told her.
You never knew what could influence a decision, even subconsciously.
But this was Gertie, so of course I didn’t get away with it. “Well, you have to find someone—”
“I have someone—”
“—competent, at the very least. What about those other acolytes? The ones you said that my sister found for you?”
“Also too old. They’re all friends of hers. And channeling the Pythian power for any length of time at their age, especially in the amounts that I’ve been using, would kill them.”
“The middle-aged ones, then!” Gertie was looking exasperated. “You are at war. You must have an heir!”
“An heir I can trust,” I snapped, because my head felt like it was about to crack open, and she wouldn’t drop it already. Why she was going on about this now, when we had more pressing matters to discuss, I didn’t know. But clearly, she thought this was paramount.
And maybe she was right. I didn’t like to face up to my own mortality any better than the next person, but facts were facts. No insurance company on Earth would cover me.
But picking the wrong heir could be worse than having none at all, as Agnes had found out to her—and everybody else’s—peril. Not only had dear Myra poisoned the boss, but she’d joined the other side in the war and almost handed them a victory. And had come very close to killing me as a chaser.
I couldn’t afford to make the same mistake.
“And why wouldn’t you trust them?” Gertie demanded, giving me no rest. “They haven’t turned traitor—”
“They haven’t had a chance! That doesn’t mean the gods haven’t been talking to them, too, offering them who knows what to change sides. The acolytes gave up the Pythian power when they left court, so right now, they’re harmless. But if I give it back—”