Chapter 5

5

Quil

Later in the evening, Quil bought Sufiyan a sketchbook and pencils for his yearfall—small enough that the gift wouldn't feel like a burden. Suf said nothing of what happened in the market. He thanked Quil for the gift and disappeared into the arched hallways of Navium's royal palace. To draw, Quil hoped. Or more likely to forget his sadness with whoever happened to be around.

For his part, Quil knew he should find his aunt and ask her about the deaths she'd kept from him. But he couldn't come right out and say it because she'd dodge his questions. He'd have to be clever.

He walked through the imperial gardens, breathing in the cool sea air. Quil spent so many nights under the stars that most Martial palaces felt like prisons to him. But Navium's was different.

Aunt Helene had insisted on extensive grounds with mosaic-tiled pools, flowers tumbling down high archways, and neat hedges that bloomed a fiery red in the autumn. She groused about the groundkeepers eating up the treasury. But when she passed through these manicured spaces, she always lingered—as Quil did now.

The prince slowed in the sculpture garden, where human warriors battled jinn—magical creatures carved to look like smokeless fire. In one corner, a Scholar man offered a Martial child a carved horse. In another, a falcon screamed in triumph, wings outstretched.

Someone had lit the lamps along a black stone path, and Quil followed it to three figures carved of pale gray marble. They stood with heads bowed and hands clasped, as if in supplication. His long dead maternal grandparents, and his Aunt Hannah. All had died at the hands of his father, Emperor Marcus Farrar.

The most hated man in Martial history.

His father had been cruel and murderous, as well as an inept ruler. He'd nearly lost the Empire when Karkaun barbarians invaded twenty years ago. Sometimes, Quil was certain that Marcus was the reason his aunt had sent him to the Tribal Lands, instead of allowing him to remain at her side. She didn't want to look at anything that reminded her of the monster who'd slaughtered her family.

Most of what Quil had learned about his father had been stolen, overheard in conversation, or gleaned from history books before his aunt whisked them away.

The only person who had spoken openly to Quil about Marcus was his paternal grandmother. He'd sat in her kitchen as a boy eating almond cookies. He'd seen himself in her long lashes and gold skin, her dark waves and high cheekbones and the measured way she spoke.

Your father loved those too , she'd told him as he enjoyed the cookies. He and your Uncle Zak—they were beautiful boys. Good boys. Until Blackcliff, anyway.

So, this was what he knew of his father. The man's disastrous, short reign, and the fact that he'd loved almond cookies. No paintings of Marcus existed. No busts or sculptures. Certainly not here in Navium.

There was, however, a statue of Quil's mother, Livia Aquilla. He stopped before her, seeking a reminder, perhaps, that he wasn't just his father's son. Assurance, for he was sick to death of dreading his future.

"Is this my fate, then, Mother?" He took in the high forehead he'd inherited, the full upper lip. "To take the throne? To never be free of it?" His skin crawled at the thought. Not just because of the unending constraints of the crown—his aunt hardly had a minute to herself. But because he'd read enough history to know that power corrupted. His father, who ruled before Aunt Helene, was evidence of that.

"What if I end up exactly like him?"

Power doesn't have to corrupt. Not if you're wise about it, instead of thoughtless.

Tas's words. Quil wished for his friend now, for Tas helped Quil untangle his thoughts. Tas, an orphan like Quil, was father and brother and blood in a way that few others were.

Years ago, after Elias and Laia married, Tribe Saif adopted Tas and he grew up with Quil. The prince's first memory was lying on a woven mat next to Tas as the elder child pointed out constellations above.

That big bird-looking thing? That's the falcon. Aquillus. That's your family's symbol. When Tas realized how much Quil hated his given name, he'd started calling him Aquillus—Quil—and refused to stop no matter what Aunt Hel said. Eventually, everyone else followed.

But Tas was gone, off on another mission for Aunt Helene. Going through half the treasury , his aunt had grumbled. Tas did have expensive taste. Charming, quick with a blade, and wickedly clever, he was the consummate spy, appearing not quite Scholar nor Martial, but a bit of both. Quil missed his irreverent humor, the stories of his adventures. He hadn't heard from Tas in months.

In truth, Tas's presence wouldn't make a difference. Quil wouldn't abdicate, no matter how much he wished to. Not after everything Aunt Helene had endured to secure the throne. Not after all she'd lost because of him.

"Cousin! I've been looking for you."

Quil stepped away from the statue, though the speaker would not judge him for talking to it.

Throughout Quil's life, Aunt Helene had tried to engender a closeness with Marcus's many family members. One of them was the girl approaching with a mallet tucked under one arm and a miniature catapult in the other.

"Cousin Arelia." He reached out a hand in greeting, but she rolled her eyes and gathered him in a hug, promptly dropping the mallet on his foot.

She wore dark blue engineers' coveralls, the pockets filled with all manner of rattling objects; her loose, brown-blond curls were pulled back into a bun. Quil was taller and broader than his cousin, and her skin was warmer—closer to Sufiyan's coloring. Quil tended toward contemplation and control, whereas Reli was forever muttering to herself and experimenting with dangerous ideas, chaos trailing. But they both had the hallmark strong jaw and pale hazel eyes of Gens Farrar.

"Glad I caught you." Arelia released him. "I saw the oddest blueprint on your aunt's desk when I was giving her an update on the bridge restorations. Here, hold my trebuchet—" Reli shoved it at him and patted her coveralls, pulling out a silver hammer, a leather hair thong, and a foreign coin before shaking her head.

"Had a sketch. Gone now. It could be a weapon, but I hope it's a form of transport because skies know livestock and barges are too slow. In the south, the Kegari travel by air. Air!"

"What good are aircraft if they're only used to raid and pillage?" Quil said. His aunt had expressed worry about Kegar, a nation so troublesome that even though they were thousands of miles to the south, their warmongering was affecting Empire allies.

"If we could get a look at their transports—"

"Good luck," Quil said. "They only talk to the Ankanese. Any time the Mariners have sent a ship down there, it disappears. They're worse than the bleeding Karkauns."

The smile dropped off Reli's face. "No one is worse than the Karkauns." Like most Martials, her hatred of the Empire's southern neighbors ran bone-deep—a savage occupation would do that to a populace. "Your aunt would agree—which reminds me. She's looking for you. What did you do to irritate her?"

"I'm sure she'll tell me," Quil muttered.

"You should apologize. Rumor is that she had a report from the Ankanese ambassador, warning her about Kegari unrest. Scant on details, but it put her in a foul mood. And a Jaduna Raan-Ruku arrived this morning, so she's antsy, too."

Arelia shuddered at the mention of the Jaduna, a group of magic-users so powerful, so shrouded in mystery that even Aunt Helene treated them with caution.

Quil frowned. The Raanis—the six women who ruled the Jaduna people—did not usually leave their lands. Instead, they sent their Raan-Ruku— Wolves of the Mother —as emissaries. Strong in magic , Aunt Hel told him years ago. Never to be crossed. You will know them by the shape of their coins, triangles flanking a circle.

But they didn't visit the Empire often. Usually only in times of emergency.

Quil and Arelia both turned at the tinkle of metal behind them. The prince's blood went cold at the sight of a blond Jaduna, wearing a heavily embroidered robe with bell sleeves and a golden headdress. It was decorated with triangle coins and a single circle, in the center.

She fixed her kohl-lined eyes on Quil as if she wished to bore into his brain. Sweat trickled down his back. He'd once read an old folktale about a substance that suppressed magic. He wished the stories were true, wished he could wrap himself in it so the Jaduna sorceress wouldn't know what lived inside him.

Now it was too late. The Jaduna must be aware of his magic. She'd have told Aunt Hel. And he'd be forced to train with them—

But she merely inclined her head and walked on. Quil bolted for his room, glancing back to make sure the Jaduna hadn't followed. Arelia kept pace, as keen to escape the Jaduna as he was. Magic perplexed her, as she couldn't take it apart.

"Oh." Arelia pulled a small book out of her coveralls. Recollections by Rajin of Serra. "Stole this from you a few days ago. I knew it would take you another three years to finish."

Quil winced as they turned into the passageway that led to his quarters. "I only got it from the library a week ago." He nodded a greeting to the Masks guarding the hall.

"If you spent less time bashing shields with that scim-happy friend of yours—"

"His name is Sufiyan, as you well know, and he's more healer than fighter—"

"Then maybe"—Arelia pushed open the door to Quil's room and offered him the book—"you'd have finished it faster. Too much ancient lore and navel-gazing for me, but I did find the drawings of his war machines enlightening."

BOOM. A door slammed distantly and footsteps thunked down the hall.

"Right," Arelia said. "I'll take my leave."

"Coward!" he called as she slipped away. A minute later, Aunt Helene strode through his door, kicking it shut behind her.

"Aunt," he said. "I saw a Jaduna Raan-Ruku—"

"Routine visit. Sit." She pointed at a posh settee. "Now."

She spoke with the toneless frigidity of a Mask—something she reverted to when she was giving orders or tamping down her anger. Quil's own frustration rose. He wasn't in the mood for another lecture.

Still, he sat, watching Aunt Hel pace. To the distress of the court clothiers, Empress Helene mostly wore plain black fatigues, with a scim strapped across her back. The only indication of her rank was a silver circlet pinned to her crown braid—one that Quil had seen flung to the side of a training field, tossed in with the laundry, and once, most strangely, sitting atop the head of a particularly ugly gargoyle on the roof of the palace in Antium.

They'd laughed when he'd found it up there, but the Empress was the furthest thing from laughter now. She crossed her arms and pinned him with her pale blue gaze.

"You were overheard in the market today," she said. "Speaking with Sufiyan about abdication."

"Were you spying—"

"I didn't have to spy on you. Half the city heard you. Including the Paters of Gens Candela, Duria, and Visselia."

"We were only talking, Aunt Hel. I didn't mean—"

"Those men rule their Gens with iron fists. Their heirs don't so much as sneeze without their permission. Yet here I am, Empress and Mater of my own bleeding family, and I can't get my nephew to show decorum in public. You cannot act like some ranting revolutionary plotting to bring down the government!"

You used to be that revolutionary, Aunt. You and Mother and Laia and Elias. Twenty years ago, when a jinn known as the Nightbringer tried to wipe out humanity, Aunt Helene defied the powerful families of the Empire and took her troops into battle. Quil wanted to remind her. But that was as wise as flashing a scarlet centurion's cloak in front of a cranky bull. He kept his mouth shut.

"You are the crown prince. You're to be Emperor, Zacharias."

The sound of that name was as pleasant as the shriek of an axe splintering wood. It reminded him of his demon of a father and the twin brother he'd murdered—and then named his son after.

"How could you be so careless?" The Empress stopped pacing. "You know what this throne has cost. You'll throw it away because you don't want responsibility?"

"It's not about responsibility," Quil said. I don't want to be like my father. But if I tell you that, you'll dismiss it because you hate talking about him. So, there's no bleeding point. "Abdication isn't unheard of. The crown princess of Sunn—"

"Abdicated because Sunnese rebels threatened regicide," Aunt Hel said. "They still killed her, and now the country is starving. They've been begging us for grain and could barely muster up a defense force when the Kegari raided them last year."

"The Ankanese—"

"Have a representative government overseen by a single spiritual leader."

Though he was nearly a half foot taller than his aunt, Quil felt small suddenly. Cut down to a schoolchild who hasn't remembered the day's lesson. This was why he hadn't spoken to her about abdication. He wanted to research. To come up with legitimate arguments and explanations. He wanted to make a case so effective she'd be forced to consider it.

"I've managed to silence any word of your…misstep," the Empress said. "But that brings me to another matter. Your guard captain said you first ordered him to leave you and then rushed toward an altercation."

Finally, an opening. "Something awful happened in the square—"

"Yes. A dead child. Before you ask, I won't discuss the details."

"Why?" Quil shot back. "Why, when other children have died and you're doing nothing about it?"

"This is exactly why you need guards," Aunt Hel said.

Her blatant evasion was so bleeding infuriating that he almost threw something at her head. But she'd only storm off and he'd never get any answers. Quil pitched his voice low, so as not to sound petulant.

"I don't need guards."

"Just because you've been trained to fight—"

"By the greatest warrior in the Empire."

The Empress's lips thinned. "I wouldn't call him the greatest —"

Quil snorted. "Every year you and Elias have that ridiculous duel and every year he beats you."

"I beat him three years ago! And stop changing the subject." The Empress's cheeks turned red, and the pale ghosts of two scars appeared on her face.

They were the only remnant of her mask, the liquid metal that once covered her face and marked her as an elite soldier of the Empire—a Mask. Whenever Quil wanted to whine about his duties as heir, he'd remind himself that Aunt Hel trained and suffered for fourteen years at Blackcliff Academy. She'd revered the Holy Augurs who founded the school, and whose predictions had guided the Empire for centuries. She'd knelt as the Augurs had laid the handcrafted mask of living metal upon her face.

Aunt Hel had trusted the Augurs even though they deceived her. Quil was glad he'd never have to meet them. They were dead now. But Blackcliff still trained its recruits rigorously, and the Masks lived on, their face coverings taken from soldiers who had fallen and refashioned for new troops every year.

As Aunt Hel touched her scars, Quil knew she was fighting an urge to bellow at him, even as he suppressed his own glare. His aunt loved him, true. But some days it felt like it was because she had to, and not because she wanted to. Some days, Quil thought Aunt Hel would never stop seeing her dead sister in his face and his father in his eyes.

Deep in Quil's chest, a familiar sensation. An unfurling—warm, as if he'd taken a draught of hot, spiced cider amid a snowstorm. It was his magic responding to his frustration, eager to be used, to read Aunt Helene's emotions, her memories, to sway her the way he wished.

Quil shoved the unwanted inclination back into a box. Memories were private, meant to be offered—not taken. Emotions were meant to be experienced or shared—not stolen and manipulated. Quil couldn't bring himself to sink into someone's mind without permission. It felt like something his father would do if he had possessed magic. The violation was unconscionable.

The Empress cracked her knuckles and walked to the window. Her gaze roved the balconies and parapets of the royal residence. She was always vigilant; it was a habit that would never die.

"I'm sorry I got so angry," she said after a minute, her voice almost subdued as she turned and sat beside him. "Listen. Please."

A chill rippled across Quil's spine at the shift in her demeanor. Whatever she was going to say, she sensed he would hate it.

"You are twenty," she said. "Old enough to assume the throne. We are to have a fete in five days to mark Rathana. I plan to use the occasion to announce your coronation in the spring. You're ready. And I…I am finished with this." She gestured to her circlet, to the royal residence. "I've given up enough of my life for the Empire. Long ago, I swore to see you on the throne. It's time to keep my promise."

Quil felt as if hands were dragging him down into a cold ocean, holding him deep beneath the surface. He couldn't find words, only a well of denial choking the breath out of him.

"I know you don't want this, nephew," the Empress said. "Skies know I didn't want it either. But it will be good for you. You hide it well, but you've walked with shadows these many months. You loved Ilar and Ruh. Their loss—"

Helene shook her head, and Quil knew she remembered her own lost love, dead twenty years now.

"I understand. Of all people in the world, I do. The business of ruling will give you purpose beyond grief. You were born to a Plebeian and an Illustrian. Brought into the world by a Scholar. Raised among the Tribes. You are the best of the Empire. And she needs you. Remember the words of your Gens." Loyal to the end.

The Empress stood smoothly, shoulders thrown back, eyes burning like blue fire, as if she didn't hold the weight of millions of souls upon her shoulders. Quil wondered if he'd carry the crown so effortlessly. If he'd move through the world with the knowledge that he was exactly where he should be.

Perhaps he would. Or perhaps his heart would turn cold, his face hard. Perhaps he would become resentful and bitter like his father—or any number of Martial emperors who were more monster than human.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Quil asked again when she was at the door. "About the dead children?"

His aunt paused, her back to him. "Grief is a strange beast. Some battle it, their souls scarred from its abuse. Some bury it, and live life waiting for it to reemerge. And some tread water, the grief a weight about their necks. Every reminder makes the weight heavier." She turned halfway, her face in profile. "You and I tread water, nephew. And I would not see you drown."

A moment later, the Empress was gone. Quil thought of the wide spaces in the Tribal Lands. Of racing across those long flat deserts, sleeping beneath that crystalline night sky. Since he was torturing himself anyway, he allowed his thoughts to stray to Ilar, the way she'd walk for hours at night and return to him, a half smile on her face, the scent of wind and roses in her hair.

He missed her. He missed that life. He wanted it so badly he could smell the heat and feel the stars between his fingers.

But it didn't matter what he wanted. Remember the words of your Gens. The Empress had spoken.

And he was loyal. To the end.

Five days later, Quil found himself awaiting his aunt in a long stone hallway outside the palace's throne room, searching for serenity and failing to find it.

He pulled at the collar of the tunic, which fit him about as well as an assassin's garrote. At least it was blue and silver—Gens Aquilla colors. The imperial clothier tried to force Quil into a black-and-gold outfit— a nod to Gens Farrar and an unsubtle reminder of Quil's Plebeian origins.

But Quil wasn't stupid. This party was going to be bad enough without his foes muttering about his unworthiness as heir.

With his guards looking on, Quil paced back and forth. He'd brought Rajin of Serra's Recollections with him—Arelia was pestering him to finish it—but he couldn't focus, and eventually shoved it in his pocket.

Two winters ago, he'd spent Rathana with Tribe Saif in Nur. They celebrated midwinter with fire-throwers and acrobats and spit-roasted deer. Laia, the Tribe's Kehanni and storyteller and history-keeper, told a dozen tales. Sufiyan's little sisters won a dueling contest, and Sufiyan and his little brother cleared out the moon cake stall.

It was the happiest Rathana that Quil could remember.

Now he was here wearing ill-fitting clothing and with shadows beneath his eyes. His coronation would be announced tonight. His fate sealed.

The steady clip of boots was a blessed distraction, and he looked up as his aunt rounded the corner into the hall. She wore her ceremonial armor and dented coronet, her silver-blond hair tucked into a crown braid.

"Have you heard anything from Tas?" Quil asked before his aunt could speak. Better to find out now, before she got swept away by every member of court who wanted a piece of her.

"The Blood Shrike is to arrive tomorrow from Antium," Aunt Helene said, speaking of her second-in-command. "We'll ask her."

Quil knew Aunt Hel well enough to sense she was dissembling. He'd overheard her fighting with Tas nearly six months ago, the day before Tas left on a mission he never returned from. Most of the court heard it, as it had happened in the bleeding throne room.

What the hells is the point of having an adviser if you never listen to the advice? Tas accused the Empress.

Say something worth hearing, you drunken lout , Aunt Helene snapped, and maybe I will.

Certainly, Tas was a libertine. He found whatever perks there were in espionage and enjoyed them to the fullest. But he'd spent years carrying out missions for Aunt Hel. And still, she kept him at arm's distance.

"Tas is a brother to me and I'd like the truth," Quil said. "Even if you two don't always get along."

His aunt's eyebrows shot up. "Tas is a loyal servant of the Empire," she said. "And I'm deeply appreciative of all that he's sacrificed. As I said, we'll ask the Shrike."

So diplomatic. And cryptic. That was Aunt Hel, always implying something without saying it. It made Quil want to shout, but he bit back his discontent.

His aunt took his arm and they walked to two huge doors—carved with the falcon of Gens Aquilla—that led into the throne room. Aunt Helene stopped to take a breath, as she had the very first time he'd joined her at a public event. He'd been seven, solemn and poker stiff beside her, smoothing down his shirt over and over because he'd wanted to make her proud.

Do you mind if we wait a moment? she'd asked him. Sometimes I'm nervous before I go in. If I take a second to breathe, it helps.

"It's a battle on the other side, you know," she said now, voice soft. "But not the kind I spent my youth training for. Your mother was so much better at this."

"You're better at it than you think, Aunt Hel."

She smiled faintly. "You'll be better at it still. Ready?"

For a moment, the distance between them dropped away, and he smiled back, his lone dimple a mirror of hers.

"As I'll ever be." He gave the answer he always did. She nodded to the guards, and the doors swung open. Every head turned as a herald announced them.

"Empress Helene Aquilla, High Commander of the Martial Army, Imperator Invictus, and Overlord of the Realm, and her nephew and heir, Zacharias Marcus Livius Aquillus Farrar, Lieutenant Commander of the Imperial Army and Crown Prince of the Realm."

"What a bleeding mouthful," Aunt Hel muttered as the room bowed. She gave an imperious half nod in greeting, then gestured to the musicians, who promptly began to strum their instruments. Almost before she'd stepped into the room, she was surrounded, a dozen voices clamoring for her attention.

Quil stepped back and took in the party. Hundreds of colored Tribal lamps cast a soft light over the room. A groaning table was filled with Scholar delicacies like sugared nuts wrapped in paper-thin pastry, minced meat enrobed in spiced tea leaves. The musicians were Scholars too. Quil didn't see much about the gathering that was Martial. The way the Plebeians kept to the edges of the crowd, perhaps. The way nearly every person was armed.

Distantly, through windows opened to keep the room temperate, Quil heard the drums echo, marking the change of the city guard.

"Greetings, crown prince."

Quil bowed his head to the green-robed, white-haired woman who'd finished speaking with the Empress. The pear-shaped jewels edging her robe flashed in the lamplight.

"Ambassador Ifalu," he greeted her. "You are to return home tomorrow, yes? We will miss you at court. My aunt especially."

"I will miss the Empire—and the Empress. She has been a good friend to me in my years here." The ambassador glanced at the Empress with affection. "But I long for Ankana. You have seen the beauty of our capital. My family is there. My parents and cousins. My duty to them calls me home."

The ambassador was the only child of a high-ranking Ankanese family. They expected she would be named High Seer one day.

"Congratulations are in order, I hear," the ambassador said. "Are you happy?"

A question Quil couldn't answer honestly. "I am the heir," he said.

"I see." The ambassador's brows dipped in sympathy. "You do not wear the mask, but you were trained as one. Duty first, unto death —is that not their motto? It always spoke to me, for I, too, am dutiful. Fear not, prince. You will do good for this world. Emifal Firdaant." She offered the traditional Ankanese words of parting— May death claim me first —and faded into the crowd.

Moments later, a voice spoke up from behind Quil.

"Skies save me, Quil, but who tailored that tunic for you? The fall is all wrong."

Quil smiled and turned to the tall, dark-haired man emerging from the crowd of partygoers. Musa of Adisa. To most here, he was the ambassador of Marinn, a seafaring kingdom east of the Empire. The Empress referred to Musa on some days as "beloved," on others as "you jinn-touched demon of a man." To Quil, he was simply a friend.

"Didn't think you were coming," Quil greeted Musa.

"Your aunt asked me." Musa shrugged. "I am, as always, her humble servant. Unlike the castle clothier, who clearly has it in for you. I swear to the skies, that old man wouldn't know fashion if it bit him on the arse. Here." Musa loosened the top button of Quil's tunic and draped his own scarf about the younger man's neck. He caught Quil's eye. "How are we feeling about today? Not planning anything reckless?"

Quil laughed, though it sounded hollow. "When have I ever been reckless?"

"Maybe that's your problem." Musa tracked Helene as she moved about the room. "You're a model prince, Quil. She tells you to attend a party, you arrive early. She tells you to fight Karkauns, you seize their cities and expand the Empire in her name. She tells you you're going to be Emperor…" He shrugged.

"I know my duty, Musa."

"Yes, duty." Musa snagged a deep-fried potato cutlet from a nearby server. "Your family makes much of duty. But you're twenty, Quil. You shouldn't be chained to the throne. Or to your aunt's wishes. You can tell her I said that." Musa winked and took a bite. "She and I are due for a good, long…argument."

Quil gagged audibly at the insinuation as Musa walked away, laughing. Only a moment later, the prince, still disgusted, was accosted by a Pater who'd finished speaking to Aunt Helene.

"What do you think of your aunt's plan, Your Highness?" Pater Vissellius oozed forward, clapping the younger man on the shoulder. "No objections?"

"Do shut up, Vissellius." A woman with massive rings in her ears and ghas stains on her fingers appeared at his side: Mater Andricar, a wily old creature whom Quil had always liked.

The old woman took a thin cigarillo from her bodice and lit it on a nearby brazier.

"The boy supports his aunt. The Empress is only being reasonable." Mater Andricar blew ghas smoke into Vissellius's pale face. "She must secure the line."

Vissellius coughed, waving the smoke away. "A bit rich, seeing as she never had children herself. Why does it have to be a foreigner?"

"To make a strong ally! The girl's highborn, I hear. If it's done before the coronation, all the better. The prince's bride will—"

Quil, who'd begun to inch away from the two gossips, froze. "I'm sorry," he said. "What's this about a bride?"

Vissellius and Andricar exchanged a glance. The former quickly took a large sip of wine to hide the barely repressed glee seeping from every pore.

"Why, my dear prince, didn't the Empress tell you?" Andricar, to her credit, appeared genuinely shocked. "You are engaged to be married."