Are you quite sure about this?” said Kel.
“Quite sure about what?” Conor braced a booted foot against the interior wall of the carriage as it nearly lurched into a ditch. The recent rain had left the roads on the Hill pitted with holes. Kel would vastly have preferred that he and Conor ride Asti and Matix the short distance to the Roverges’, but Luisa, it seemed, did not know how to ride a horse. For Conor to arrive without her would not be protocol, so carriages it was.
When Kel glanced out the window, he could see the lacquered d’Eon
carriage following theirs, like a faithful blue beetle. “Am I sure about my outfit? I have never been more sure of anything in my life.”
“Not the outfit,” Kel said. “Though now that you bring it up, it is a bit much.”
Conor grinned ferociously. He had decided, for reasons Kel could not fathom, to attend the party dressed as the male incarnation of Turan, the God of desire. (Usually depicted as clothed in silver and gold, Turan could appear as male, female, or androgynous, depending on the God’s mood and the necessities of the situation.) Conor’s breeches and frock coat were of heavy gold fabric, shot through with silk-wrapped threads of contrasting silver. Silver painted his lids, and more glittering powder dusted his cheekbones.
If one looked closely, one could see that the cuffs and lining of his coat had been embroidered with human figures engaged in what could euphemistically be termed “acts of love.” Whatever tailor had been tasked with producing the embroidery had embraced their task with enthusiastic creativity. No position had been depicted more than once. (It was lucky for Conor, Kel thought, that the Queen had declined to attend the party, citing a headache.)
“I have no doubts about my outfit,” said Conor. “The Hierophant is
always complaining the royal family does not do enough to honor the Gods. Surely he’d be pleased.”
Kel thought of the grim-faced Hierophant and snorted. “You know he wouldn’t,” he said, “but that is not what I meant. Only—poor Luisa. She is hardly prepared for the silk-clad vultures who populate the Hill.”
“Is anyone?” Conor shrugged. “You were thrown in among them when you were only ten years old. You managed.”
“I was not being presented to them as their future ruler,” Kel pointed out, “but rather as your orphaned cousin from Marakand, whom they might pity. They will not pity Luisa.” They will hate her as a symbol of the scorn of Sarthe.
“Speaking of Marakand,” Conor said, “there is a saying with which my mother has always made sure I am acquainted. The jackal that lives in the wilds of Talishan can only be caught by the hounds of Talishan. I believe it means,” he added, “that you cannot defeat what you do not know.”
“And you cannot win a game you do not play,” said Kel. “Luisa is too young to play Charter Family games.”
“But she is not too young to see the board on which the games are
played,” said Conor. He smiled, eyes flashing silver under his silver-painted lids. “I am not going to change who I am, or what I do, because of an engagement that will not be a marriage for another seven or eight years. If Sarthe insists that Luisa remain in Castellane for all this time, they might as well understand the world she will inhabit, and the people she will know.”
“And perhaps they may see the wisdom of letting her finish out her childhood in Aquila?” said Kel—more a question than a statement, but Conor only smiled and glanced out the window as the carriage came to a stop in the Roverges’ courtyard.
The house of the dye Charter occupied a coveted position on the Hill, built half into the cliffside, with a view of Poet’s Hill. Mount Cicatur rose behind the Academie, its face threaded with glimmering veins of Sunderglass. The sun was setting now, as they left the carriages, turning the Sunderglass the color of copper. To Kel it looked as if a bolt of lightning had speared through the mountain and been frozen there, a fiery reminder of a force long past.
The house itself was as grand as might be expected, and far more in the
style of the old Empire than Marivent. Tall pillars supported an arched roof, and the front doors were reached via a broad marble staircase. Statues of the Gods lined the rooftop’s edge, gazing down benevolently—Aigon with his
sea chariot, Cerra with her basket of wheat, Askolon with the tools of his forge. Long ago there had been a statue of Anibal, lord of the underworld, but some past Roverge had removed it, considering it bad luck. The result, Kel thought, was somewhat odd—twelve Gods could be spaced out evenly, but eleven looked somehow lopsided.
The courtyard out front was full of carriages already, with footmen in the Roverges’ teal livery seeing to the horses. Several of them cast covert
glances at Conor: partly, Kel guessed, because he was who he was, and partly because of the sheer luminosity of his clothes.
They were quickly joined by the convoy from Sarthe. Sena Anessa and Senex Domizio were polite but unsmiling, wearing patriotic blue. Vienne d’Este—somber in her Black Guard’s uniform—looked as grim as if she were attending her own funeral rather than a party. Luisa, lost in a bell- shaped dress covered in lace, ruffles, and ribbons, seemed delighted by
Conor’s appearance in a manner that her companions clearly were not. She pointed from Conor to the statue of Turan on the roof, and eagerly showed him her hands, wiggling her fingers back and forth.
Conor looked puzzled.
“You can talk to him, you know,” Vienne said gently. “He speaks Sarthian.”
Luisa smiled. As they moved in a group toward the front doors, she explained that she liked the color of Conor’s nails, painted to resemble silver mirrors, and that she wanted her own the same color.
“Well, that’s easy enough,” said Conor, never one to deny another the opportunity to experiment with fashion. “We can have a cosmetician sent over to the Castel Pichon tomorrow.”
“That would not be at all appropriate,” said Sena Anessa frostily, and
Luisa scrunched up her face. Before the situation could escalate, however, the liveried servant at the door caught sight of them, and soon they were lined up to be announced as they entered the house: Conor first, then Luisa (with Vienne beside her), then Kel and the Ambassadors.
Shouts and cheers greeted the entry of the Prince, which died away as Luisa entered, pressed tightly to Vienne’s side. “Ostrega! Xé tanto grando par dentro,” she whispered. Gracious, it’s such a big place.
Indeed, the first floor of the Roverge mansion was a vast space, dominated by a wall of windows looking out onto a stone terrace and the city below. Nearly all the furniture had been removed, making the space look even larger. What remained was a temple to the worship of dyes: Brightly colored fabrics covered the plush divans scattered around the room and trailed gauzily from curtain rods. More consideration had clearly been given to impact than harmony. The textiles on display were a wild combination of deep cinnabar and blue, bright mustards and greens,
tangerines and violets. Servants, moving through the room carrying trays of iced wine, added to the riot of color—they were dressed in indigo blue,
gamboge yellow, poppy orange, vermillion red, poison green, and blushing coral.
Kel could hear Sena Anessa muttering that her eyes hurt. It was a great deal to take in, Kel thought, but it was also a display of power—a reminder to the Sarthians present that in taking on Castellane with this alliance, they took on the Charter Families as well, each one a fiefdom in their own right. The party might look like a carnival, but the message was clear: Reckon with our kingdom.
“Sena Anessa? Senex Domizio?” One of the serving girls was approaching their party, her head bent respectfully. She had on a red silk shift, the kind noblewomen wore under their gowns as a layer between the
expensive fabric of their gowns and their skin. Her arms and legs were bare, save for a pair of white lace stockings. If she had been on the Ruta Magna, she would have been arrested by the Vigilants for public nudity. “Sieur Roverge craves the honor of an audience with you.”
The two Ambassadors exchanged quick whispers with each other in Sarthian. As they did, the girl looked up, and Kel realized with a shock to his gut that he knew her. Knew her well, in fact.
It was Silla. Her red hair had been braided around her head, her lips lacquered dark scarlet. She winked at him before composing her features again into an expression of blank politeness.
Conor knocked his shoulder into Kel’s. “Look,” he said, under his breath. “Roverge must have emptied out the Caravel.”
Kel looked, and cursed himself silently for his previous lack of observation. The servants were all as scantily dressed as Silla—in light
shifts for the women, tight breeches and flowing shirts for the men—and all were courtesans. He recognized the young man who had been telling
fortunes the last time they had been at the Caravel. The night Kel had met the Ragpicker King.
Their brief conference finished, the Sarthian Ambassadors decamped without a word, following Silla across the room toward an alcove where Benedict Roverge was holding court from an armchair of violet brocade. Vienne, watching them go, shook her head in disbelief. “Oh, those idiots,” she said. “Always their own interests first, never Luisa’s—”
“Oh, hello, hello,” piped up a cheerful voice. Antonetta was sailing toward them, and Kel had never been so relieved to see anyone. She wore a close-fitting gown of teal-green silk, cut daringly low in the back. Her hair was spilling out of the jeweled clips meant to restrain it, loose curls falling to cup her cheeks and brush her bare shoulders. When she bent to smile at Luisa, Kel saw the gleam of her gold locket, swinging on its chain. “Are you the darling little Princess?” she said, in passable Sarthian. “You look just lovely.”
“I see Demoselle Alleyne’s mother is no longer selecting her clothing,” Conor said, in a low voice, as Antonetta handed a sparkling hairpin to Luisa (while Vienne looked on, bemused). “A marked improvement, I would say.” Kel felt a prickly tightening of his skin. Antonetta turned briskly toward
Kel and Conor. “Now,” she said. “Why don’t you let me bring her around, make the introductions? I know just the girls for her to meet and, really, I’m not sure you can say the same.” She turned to Vienne. “Boys,” she said.
“They’re just impractical.”
Vienne looked stunned, as if the prospect of being asked to consider the Prince of Castellane and his cousin “boys” might be too much for her.
“Luisa is a bit shy—”
“Oh, don’t worry, all she needs to do is smile, and if she can’t do that, everyone will just assume she’s intellectual,” said Antonetta, in a bright tone that belied the cynicism of her words. “Now, I swear I saw a tray of
sweets around here somewhere, delightful cakes and things; I’m sure one of the rather naked servants had one. Come along, we’ll find them.”
“Interesting,” said Conor, as Antonetta set off, Luisa tugging her by the hand. Vienne followed, looking more than a little dazed. “I wonder if Ana sees something of herself in the girl. She, too, will have little say over who
she marries. Ana might be flighty, but she’s got enough of her mother in her to be a force of nature when she likes.”
Now that Conor was no longer with the Sarthians, party guests were beginning to sidle closer—Cazalet was lurking, no doubt hungry for tidbits about any new trading deals with Sarthe, and a group of young noblewomen stood not far away, casting glances at Conor. Since the Princess from Sarthe had turned out to be a child, the position of mistress to the Crown Prince
was clearly an open one for at least the next eight years.
She’s not flighty. But all Kel said was, “She enjoys saving people, I think.
At least, she used to. Remember she always like to lead the rescue
expeditions when we played pirates. She even saved Charlon when we buried him in that pit.”
“That was a good time,” said Conor. “Come—it appears we’re being summoned. And I have a plan for the evening.”
They started off in the direction of Montfaucon, Joss, and Charlon, who were waving toward them from a cornflower-blue silk divan.
“What plan is that?” Kel said.
“I want to get so drunk I entirely forget who I am.” They had reached the blue divan. Joss was lounging among the textiles, while Montfaucon and Charlon perched on the back. Joss slid over—a movement that caused a tidal surge of colored pillows—to make room for Conor and Kel.
“I see you’ve rid yourself of the child,” said Charlon, who was wearing a yellow-and-black-striped suit that made him resemble a gigantic bee. He
spoke carefully, which meant he was tipsy, but not yet slurring-his-words drunk.
“Excellent,” said Montfaucon, who was not drunk at all. His dark gaze roamed the room with a restless curiosity; his posture said, I am waiting for something interesting to happen. “Now we can enjoy ourselves.”
“I thought we were enjoying ourselves before,” said Joss. He plucked a glass of wine from the tray of a passing servant. Flicking open the clasp on his ring, he tapped three drops of poppy-juice into the pale-red liquid and handed it to Conor. “Drink,” he said. “I’d imagine it’s been a while since
you’ve been . . .” He paused as if searching for the right word. “Tranquil.”
Conor stared down at his own fingers, silver-tipped, wrapped around the stem of the glass. Kel wondered if he were hesitant—but it seemed not. A moment later, he had downed the contents, licking a spilled drop from his thumb.
Charlon had signaled another servant. Montfaucon and Falconet both took glasses; Joss looked over at Kel, indicating his own ring. “And for you?”
Kel refused the poppy-drops, taking only the wine. It was one thing to drink alongside Conor (always carefully, always less than he did). That was a sort of protective camouflage; to refuse wine would only bring questions. But poppy-drops made all the world seem as a dream, as if everything were happening at some distance, behind a wall of glass. As a Sword Catcher, they would render him virtually useless.
Conor sighed and relaxed back into the cushions. “You are always there in my time of need, Falconet.”
Joss grinned. One of the serving girls sauntered by dressed in a shift of saffron silk with indigo stockings. As she bent to pluck the empty wineglass from Conor’s outstretched hand, Kel recognized Audeta, the girl whose
window Conor had broken at the Caravel.
She appeared to harbor no ill will. “Boys,” she said, smiling at them all. “Domna Alys will be hosting a party at the Caravel late tonight and into the morning. She wished me to extend an invitation.” She glanced at Kel. “Silla especially hoped to see you there, Sieur Anjuman,” she added, and darted off, her stockinged feet soundless on the marble floor.
“And Anjuman conquers, without having done much of anything,” said Charlon. “As usual.” There was an edge to his voice. Kel imagined he hadn’t much liked Conor’s praise of Joss, either; he was looking peevish.
Kel raised his glass in Charlon’s direction. “Perhaps we have forgotten to thank you, Charlon,” he said, “for an excellent festivity.”
“Indeed,” murmured Conor. He was half sunk among the cushions, his eyes heavy-lidded. The poppy-drops would be softening the edges of
everything for him, muting the brightness of all the colors, letting them run together like paints in the rain. “There are those who would say that throwing a party for a child and staffing it with courtesans would be wildly inappropriate, but not you. You have forged ahead, a true visionary.”
“Thank you.” Charlon looked pleased.
Montfaucon snorted, and said, “Joss, do we—”
“Wait.” Falconet held up a languid hand. “Who is that? With the Counselor?”
Puzzled, Kel glanced over and saw that Mayesh had just come into the room, looking as he always did in his gray robes and heavy medallion.
Beside him was Lin.
He had to blink to be sure it was her. She wore a deep-indigo velvet, against which her hair seemed a fiery crown. The dress was not in the current, fashionable style of heavy skirts clipped back to show a narrower column of contrasting material. It was all the same velvet, shot through with a few glittering strands of silver, the hem sweeping around her ankles like waves. The bodice was tightly fitted, shaping her slight body into distinct curves, the tops of her pale breasts swelling above the neckline. She wore no jewelry that he could see, but the lack of adornment only seemed to
accentuate the delicate slant of her collarbone, the line of her throat, the curve of her waist where one might lay a hand while dancing.
Kel heard Charlon say, in a surprised tone, “Is that Bensimon’s granddaughter? She’s attractive. Doesn’t look much like him.”
“If by that you mean she does not have a long gray beard, Charlon, you are observant as always,” said Joss. He narrowed his eyes. “Interesting that Bensimon would choose to bring her here, tonight. Is this her first visit to
the Hill?”
“No,” Conor said. He had sat up and was half sitting forward, his gaze fixed on Lin. Mayesh was introducing her to Lady Roverge, and she was nodding along politely. Most of the women at the party had their hair dressed high, held in place with glittering pins like Antonetta’s. Lin’s was loose, cascading down her back in rose-colored curls. “She’s been to Marivent, I believe.”
Montfaucon, alert to every nuance, gave the Prince a sideways look.
Conor was still looking at Lin, a low fire in his gray eyes. Kel had only seen him look like that before when he hated someone—but he had no reason to hate Lin. She had healed him, tended him, spent the night sitting beside him. The three of them shared a secret only they knew. The last thing Kel could recall Conor saying to him about Lin was that he owed her now.
Antonetta had come over to Mayesh with Luisa and Vienne in tow.
Introductions seemed under way. Luisa was smiling shyly and fidgeting;
Kel could not help but think that Conor had been wrong when he’d said Kel had managed the Hill easily as a child. He’d managed, but he’d been a gutter rat from the streets of Castellane, used to lying and fighting and scheming to survive. Luisa had none of those skills.
Lin bent to say something in Luisa’s ear, the line of her body graceful as she moved. Joss said, “I wonder if Mayesh would introduce me to his granddaughter.”
“Probably not,” said Conor shortly. “He knows your reputation.”
Joss laughed, unperturbed. Montfaucon said, “She’d never sleep with you, Joss. It’s against their Laws to go with those who aren’t their kind.”
“Forbidden fruit is the sweetest,” said Joss airily.
“Who’s talking about fruit?” said Charlon. “It’s her arse I’m looking at.
And it’s never forbidden to look.”
“But it might be unwise,” said Montfaucon. “Unless you want Bensimon to kill you.”
“He’s an old man,” Charlon said, with a touch of a sneer. “I hear they
know all sorts of tricks, Ashkari girls,” he added. “Things they don’t even know about at the Caravel—”
“Enough,” said Conor. His eyes were half closed; if he was still looking at Lin, Kel could not tell it. “The lure of a new face certainly has an effect on you lot, doesn’t it? There are a hundred girls here you ought to find more interesting.”
“Name one,” said Joss, and as Conor began to tick off names on his fingers, Kel rose and crossed the room to where Lin stood beside the Counselor.
Lin saw Kel rise and come toward her across the crowded room; by the
time he had reached her side, Mayesh had excused himself. The younger crowd, those near the Prince’s age, were here in the main room, he had explained. Those he wished to speak with—diplomats, merchants, Charter holders—were by and large in the back rooms, drinking and betting money on games of chance.
Lin did not protest. There was no point; her grandfather did as he liked and always had. It was a relief to see Kel, though. He was smiling—that smile of his that always seemed to have a hint of reserve to it. She
suspected it had something to do with always playing a part, and never quite being able to be himself. Every smile had to be weighed and calculated, like goods for sale in the market.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, bowing over her hand. It was a nice custom, she thought. He looked handsome and formal in a deep-green velvet cutaway coat, with gold buttons in the shape of flowers. Marakandi green, she thought, for the Prince’s Marakandi cousin.
“My grandfather thought it would be a good idea for me to know a bit more about those he spends his days with.”
Kel raised his eyebrows. “But he didn’t remain to introduce you around?” “I do not think you will be surprised,” Lin said, “to hear that he believes
in teaching children to swim by tossing them into deep water.”
“And these are deep waters indeed,” Kel said. She followed his gaze and saw that he was looking at Antonetta Alleyne, who looked stunning in a teal creation of Mariam’s. She was still with the small Princess from Sarthe, Luisa, and her guard, the tall, elegant woman with the burnished hair. This did not surprise Lin. She had learned in her short time with Antonetta that
she was someone who liked to take charge of a situation, especially when it came to looking after people.
“That’s the girl the Prince is going to marry, then,” Lin said. It was not a question. She had already been introduced to Luisa. It had been strange to put a face to the tale: the trick of Sarthe, the little Princess nobody wanted. “That poor child.”
“I hope there is pity in your heart,” Kel said quietly, “for both of them.”
Lin glanced over at the Prince, who had not moved from his seat since she’d arrived. She’d wondered for a moment if he might come to greet her, but had dismissed the thought quickly enough. He was settled among his
friends—a threesome whose names Mayesh had given her when they had entered the room. Falconet. Montfaucon. And Roverge.
Roverge. The family whose house and party this was; the family who had driven the Cabrols to dreams of revenge. She had thought it would not
trouble her to stand in this house and know that the Roverges faced the destruction of some portion of their fleet, but she found it made her uneasy. And yet it was impossible for her to tell—and who would believe her, even if she did? Who was she? A little physician from the Sault.
She was no one. There was no reason for the Prince to go out of his way to speak to her, either. Not wanting to betray that she had even thought of it, she looked at him only out of the corner of her eye. He did stand out: Among all the bright rainbow of colors, he wore gold and silver, the shades of metal. Like a steel blade, she thought, laid among a display of colorful flowers.
“It is hard to pity a prince,” Lin said, and she might have said more—that the Prince himself had told her he was not to be pitied, that instead she should pity his intended—but at that moment, the Prince’s ginger-haired companion—Roverge, son of the House—jumped down from the divan he’d been perched on and strode toward the center of the room.
There was a screen there, painted with a design of herons in flight. As the young Roverge approached, the screen slid back, revealing the musicians who had been playing through the evening. Beside them stood two rows of what Lin could only guess were singers, their hands folded. They wore gold slippers and what Lin at first thought was smooth gold cloth. She realized,
as the firelight flickered over them, concealing and revealing with its touch, that it was not cloth at all, but paint. They were naked, men and women both, painted head-to-toe with gold paint that mimicked, on their skin, the clinging folds of silk.
A murmur ran around the room. Guests craned their heads to get a better look at the entertainment. Vienne d’Este pulled the little Princess, Luisa, closer to her side, her mouth a thin line of annoyance.
It was quiet now, everyone watching; Charlon Roverge made a flourishing gesture, and the gold-painted vocalists burst into song.
It was a low tune, and sweet. An auba, a song meant to evoke lovers parting at dawn.
“Well,” Kel said, in a low voice, “at least they can sing decently.”
“Would anyone have noticed if they couldn’t?” Lin whispered back.
Kel smiled a little but said, “You’d be surprised. It takes a great deal to shock this bunch—or even to intrigue them.”
“I see,” Lin said. She stole another glance at the Prince, side-ways. He was looking at the singers but—indeed—without a great deal of interest. “That’s—rather sad.”
The song ended. There was a smattering of light applause. Charlon Roverge cast a glance across the room; he was looking at his father,
Benedict, who seemed to be observing the entertainment with a peculiar intensity. They both had an unpleasant look about them, she thought, and recalled her grandfather saying that even the other nobles of the Hill mistrusted them.
“Tonight,” Charlon said, loudly enough for his voice to ring off the walls, “we herald the dawn of a new alliance. Between Castellane and her closest neighbor, the honorable land of Sarthe.”
The hairs on the back of Kel’s neck prickled. He could not have said why, precisely, but he did not like this—did not like Charlon giving the welcome address, instead of Benedict. Did not like the tone of his voice when he spoke. The words were polite enough—Kel would have bet Prosper Beck’s ten thousand crowns that Benedict had forced his son to memorize them— but there was an expression on Charlon’s face Kel knew, and disliked. A sort of gloating look.
“Indeed,” Charlon went on, “the haste and eagerness of Sarthe to cement this union, which has surprised us all, must certainly lie with the many
advantages that will accrue to both our lands when we are joined in political matrimony. Sarthe, for instance, will have access now to a harbor. And
we . . .”
He let his voice hang. There were a few titters; Kel could see the Sarthian Ambassadors, some distance away, glaring daggers.
“Did he just imply there’s no advantage to Castellane in this marriage?” Lin murmured.
Kel wondered for a moment if he should run at Charlon, knock him over.
He could plead terrible inebriation. He would garner some sympathy; he doubted there was anyone at this party who hadn’t wanted to hit Charlon at some point or another.
But it would not stop things, he knew. Conor was the only one who could prevent this, and he was stonily silent, arms extended along the divan behind him, staring straight ahead.
“Well,” Charlon smiled, “we will have the opportunity to learn more of the arts and culture of Sarthe. Who among us has not admired their music, their poetry?”
There was a confused murmur. If this was an insult, it was a poor one.
Even Senex Domizio looked more puzzled than enraged.
“In that spirit,” Charlon said, “please approach, Princess Luisa d’Eon.”
Luisa looked up at Vienne; she had clearly recognized her name, and realized that somehow what was going on now was about her. Vienne said something to her softly, and together they came up to Charlon, in the center of the room. Luisa dropped a curtsy, her hair ribbons bobbing.
“Princess,” Charlon said, in very stilted Sarthian, “a gift for you,” and took from the inside of his jacket a thin gold box. He handed it to Luisa, who looked uncertain.
“We had all heard, for instance,” said Charlon, as Luisa fumbled the box open, “that the Princess of Sarthe, Aimada d’Eon, was a skilled dancer.
While she is not here, we have been assured by the good Ambassadors from Sarthe that her sister Luisa is just as skilled in every area as she is. In fact, we have been assured, they are as good as interchangeable.”
“Gray hell,” Kel muttered. Luisa had opened the box, and taken out what was inside. Frowning, she unfolded a black lace fan with a gold-lacquered grip.
“I believe your sister has one like it,” Charlon said, not bothering with Sarthian now as he looked down at the girl. “Surely, then, you must know what to do.” He stepped back. “Dance for your Court, Princess.”
“He must be joking,” Lin whispered. “She’s just a girl, and she’s shy—” “He’s not,” Kel said, grimly, just as the musicians began to play. As the
tune rose up, rapid and sweet, the room exploded with the chant: “Dance! Dance! Dance!”
Luisa looked around uncertainly. The guests must have appeared a blur to her, Kel thought, of bright coats and dresses, rapid gestures and hungry faces. He could see Antonetta among the crowd; she had her hand over her mouth, as if she were stunned.
Kel looked at Conor. He had not moved, only Kel could see his hand curled against his side, and thought of what he had said in the carriage: If
Sarthe insists that Luisa remain in Castellane for all this time, they might as well understand the world she will inhabit, and the people she will know.
Vienne tried to pull Luisa toward her, but Sena Anessa, looking at her across the room, shook her head warningly. Vienne let her arms fall to her
sides. Kel could imagine what they were thinking. It was just a dance, and
to run forward now to intervene would only underline how much of a child Luisa was, how unsuited to this position and this place. And they were, after all, the ones who had put her here.
Luisa began to dance. It was uncertain, awkward: She turned in a circle, the fan clutched in her hands. She was not following the beat of the music at all, only moving blindly, and in the flicker of the firelight, Kel could see the brightness of tears on her cheeks.
He felt Lin, beside him, tense. A moment later she was stalking across the room, her skirts swirling around her; she pushed through the crowd to where Luisa stood, shaking, and put her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “That’s enough,” she said, her voice rising over the music. “This is ridiculous. Stop.”
The music stopped instantly. The sudden silence was like a shock of cold water; Lin felt herself suddenly incredibly exposed, the center of a room full of staring strangers. Where was Mayesh? She had been looking for him ever since Charlon Roverge had begun speaking, but she had not seen him among the crowd.
With a squeak, Luisa dropped the fan, pulled away from Lin, and ran over to the side of her guard, Vienne. Good, Lin thought. Let her go where she feels safe. She glanced over at Charlon, who was looking at her with an expression that reminded her of Oren Kandel—the sulky resentfulness of a boy whose game has been spoiled by a girl he had taken little note of before.
At least, Lin saw with relief, Vienne—accompanied by Kel, who was directing her—was hurrying Luisa out of the room. Whatever else happened, the girl would not be tormented further.
A mocking whistle cut through the silence. Lin looked to see dark-eyed Joss Falconet looking at her with amusement. “Charlon,” he said, “it seems the Counselor’s granddaughter thinks she has the right to interfere in the evening’s entertainment. Are you going to stand for that?”
He dropped a wink at Lin, as if to say: It’s all just amusement, just a game, you know.
She did not smile back. Of course he thought games were amusing; people like Falconet were the players of the game, not the pawns on the
board.
Charlon looked over at his father, as if for help, but none seemed forthcoming. “No,” he said gruffly. “I . . .” He cleared his throat. “Counselor’s granddaughter,” he said. “You have deprived us of our entertainment this evening. How do you suggest it be replaced?”
Lin suddenly felt close to snapping at him. At everyone in the room. A bunch of terriers, deprived of the rat they were tearing to pieces. “I’ll take her place,” she said. “I’ll do the dance instead.”
A stir among the crowd. She heard someone laugh: Lord Montfaucon, she was nearly sure. She was glad Kel had left the room. He was the only one here likely to have regarded her with sympathy, and she did not think she could stand it.
“Really,” said Roverge, and as he looked at her, she could see the sneer on his face. “What do you know of Sarthian dancing, Ashkari . . . girl?”
“Let her do it.”
The room went still. Prince Conor was still leaning back among the
cushions of his divan, as if utterly relaxed. In fact, he looked almost sleepy, his eyes half lidded. Silver and gold dust glittered on his light-brown skin, where the angular bones of his face caught the light.
“Let her do it,” he said, again. “It will be something to amuse us, at least.”
Lin stared at him. In that moment she could see nothing in him of the young man whose wounds she had tended, who had said to her bitterly, Ten thousand crowns. The cost of a Prince, it turns out. I realize I have been a fool; you need not tell me.
His face was blank, a wall; his eyes narrow silver crescents below silvery lids. Beside him, Falconet was looking at her with curiosity, anticipation.
The Prince’s face did not show even that.
Charlon shrugged, as if to say, As the Prince requests. He signaled, and the musicians behind the screen began to play. The tune seemed to Lin to have changed: No longer pensive and playful, it was slow and dark, the occasional bright note lancing through like a shaft of light piercing the
darkness of an unlit street.
Though perhaps it was only her own jangling nerves, Lin thought, as Charlon, having retrieved Luisa’s dropped fan, presented it to her with an
exaggerated bow. He backed away, eyes narrowed. He was not pleased with her, Lin knew. She had spoiled his game.
Now he wanted her to give him another one. They all did. Her only allies
—Kel, her grandfather—were not in the room. She could, she supposed, simply run away. Flee House Roverge. It was hardly as if they’d set the dogs on her.
But then they would win. The Hill, the Palace, would win. And she would have managed only a few hours in this rarefied air before being shamed and defeated.
She raised her chin. Snapped the fan in her hands open, the black lace brilliant, laced with bright threads. She knew only one dance. She had never bothered to learn another, never been required to learn another. And she had never been grateful to have learned even the Dance of the Goddess. Not until this moment.
She let the music—different as it was from the music of the Sault—wash over her. She began to move, holding the fan as, in the dance, the girls of
the Sault held their lilies. She turned, her body sweeping into the
movements of the dance, the room blurring around her, vanishing. She was in Aram now, and it was overrun. Armies clashed on the barren-blasted plains, under a sky that was always dark. Lightning speared the clouds overhead. The end was very near.
She danced her terror, her excitement. She danced the howl of the wind through the broken walls of her kingdom. She danced the blackening of the land, the dim red light of the sun.
He approached, the Sorcerer-King who had once been her lover. The man she had trusted above all others. She wanted him with a fierceness that seemed to outpace the fire, the storm. She danced that fierceness now: her broken heart, her longing, the passion she still felt.
He begged her to stop, then. She was not to be a fool; to destroy magic would destroy him, who she loved, and destroy her, too. All he wanted was her, he said. He would put aside everything else: magic, power, kingship.
She would be all he needed.
But he was not to be trusted.
Lin danced the last moments of Adassa—her defiance, her power, blooming like a flower of fire. She danced the shudder of the world as magic left it, draining from the earth, the rocks, the sea. She danced the
grief of the Goddess as she stepped into darkness: The world was changed forever, her lover lost, her people scattered.
And lastly, she danced the first fingers of sunlight as they burst across the eastern horizon. The sun rising at last, after months of darkness. She danced the beginning of hope, and the glory of defiance. She danced—
And the music stopped. Lin stopped, too, hurled back into the present.
She was gasping, utterly out of breath; perspiration ran between her breasts, stung her eyes. She was aware of eyes on her: everyone in the room watching. Charlon’s mouth was open.
“Well,” he said, “that was—”
“Very interesting,” said the Prince. His arms were outstretched along the back of the divan; his eyes raked Lin with a sort of bemused curiosity. She was suddenly very aware that her hair was plastered to her temples and the back of her neck, her dress clinging to her damply. “I had always heard the Ashkar were not particularly good dancers, so that was acceptable,
considering.”
A murmur went through the crowd; a few titters. The Prince was smiling, a cool little smile, and she suddenly hated him so much that it was as if she were back in her vision, on the tower, choking on smoke. Her whole body seemed to burn with hatred for his arrogance, his contempt. For the fact that he clearly saw her as a joke, a plaything.
And she hated that because he was beautiful he was loved and forgiven, no matter what he did. He would always be wanted. The whole world wanted him. She could feel a violent trembling in her hands, utterly at odds with her healer’s instincts: For the first time since she had been an angry child, she wanted to slap and scratch and claw. To wreck his pretty face, to stop his sideways smirk.
With a gasp, she hurled the black fan across the room. It hit the floor and skidded to the Prince’s feet. “I hope,” she said, her voice shaking with rage, “that you have been recompensed for your lack of entertainment. For, as you say, I am unskilled, and have nothing more of myself to offer.”
She caught a look of surprise as it passed across the Prince’s face, but she was already turning away. Pushing past Charlon Roverge, she strode from
the room. Her grandfather had been right. These people were monsters. Let all their ships burn.
“Lin. Lin. Stop.”
It was Prince Conor’s voice. He had followed her, through the winding corridors of the Roverge mansion. She could not believe he had followed
her. Perhaps he planned to arrest her, for throwing the black fan? An assault on royalty, they would surely call it.
She whirled to face him. She had fled the main room without knowing where precisely she was going—all she had thought was out, away. Away from the titters, from the people who had seen her dance, from the look on the Prince’s face.
But he had followed. And now he had caught up with her in one of a set of deserted and interconnected drawing rooms that seemed to occupy the front of the mansion, each one decorated in a different color scheme. This one was blue and black, like a bruise. A carcel lamp glowed overhead, its flame striking sparks off his rings, his circlet. He seemed to loom over her, reminding her again how tall he was. Up close she could see his dark hair was in disarray, the black-and-silver kohl around his eyes blurred into
luminous shadow. His eyes were a very dark pewter color. He said, in a voice of controlled fury, “What are you doing here, Lin? Why did you come?”
Even through her rage, the question set her back on her heels. “After all that,” she said. “That’s what you want to ask me? You know Mayesh is my grandfather. You know he brought me—”
He waved this away, with a short, sharp jerk of his arm. “You’re a physician,” he ground out. “You healed Kel. You healed me. I have been grateful. But now you come here, like this—”
His gaze dropped to her dress. She felt it like a touch, the fierce drag of his eyes over the neckline of her gown, her collarbones, her throat. She had always thought of contempt and loathing as cold emotions, but now they seemed hot, radiating off him. If she were not so furious, she would have been afraid.
“Oh?” she spat. “You mean I should know my place. Stay in the Sault, not presume to think I might be welcome, or allowed, on the Hill.”
“Don’t you understand?” He caught hold of her. She tensed up immediately, even as his gloved fingers dug into her upper arms. She could tell he was something more than drunk. He had always been unreadable, but now she could see too much in his face. The yearning printed plainly there,
the hunger to insult her, to belittle her. “This place,” he hissed. “The Hill— ruins things. Things that are perfect as they are. You were honest. This
place has made you a liar.”
“You dare call me a liar?” She could hear the fire in her voice. “The last time I saw you, you made a pretty show about how guilty you felt. How you’d gotten yourself into this situation, how I should pity your bride. I thought you meant I should pity her for the situation you found yourself in, but you meant I should pity her for the way you planned to treat her.”
“Touching,” he said, in a low voice, “that you believe I have plans.”
She reached up and caught at his wrist. Soft velvet, crisp lace, the heat of skin underneath. She said, “Perhaps you have no plan. Perhaps your only goal is to be a selfish bastard who treats his wife-to-be abominably.”
His grip tightened on her. “The commerce in this city is gold, Ashkari girl. But the commerce on the Hill is cruelty and whispers. If the Princess does not learn from me and mine, she will learn it from worse tutors.”
“So you are cruel out of necessity,” she said, her voice dripping sarcasm. “No—out of kindness. And what is your excuse for humiliating me?”
“I have no excuse.” He was so close she could breathe the scent that clung to his clothes: a mixture of spice and rosewater. Like loukoum candy. “Only I wanted to see you dance.”
She tipped her head back to look up at him. His lips were stained faintly red with wine. She remembered placing the morphea drops on his tongue, the soft heat of his mouth against her fingers. “Why?”
“To dance is to drop your guard,” he said, and there was a harshness in his voice that made her believe him. He meant what he was saying; in fact, he hated saying it. “I thought I would see you without that wall you have built around yourself, like the walls of the Sault. But you were only further away than ever. All I could see was how little you wanted from me,” he added, and there was a loathing in his voice that was directed entirely at himself. “You have wanted nothing from me since the moment I met you.
You are and have everything you need.” He dipped his head; his breath stirred her hair. The scent of wine and flowers. “You do not look at me as if I have any power over you.”
She stared at him wonderingly. How could he think that? Power—he had all of it. Was armored in it. Wore it like his shining rings, like the strength
of his body, the gleam of the circlet crown among the dark curls of his hair. “And that makes you hate me?” she whispered.
“I told you to stay away from me,” he said. “From Marivent—I was clear I did not want you there—” He lifted a hand, slowly, almost as if he could not believe what he was doing. He laid it against her cheek, his hand soft but callused at the fingertips. Her hand was still wrapped around his wrist. She could feel his racing pulse. Imagine his heart, frantic as her own, driving his blood. “I did not want you,” he whispered harshly, and kissed her.
He slanted his mouth over hers fiercely, parting her lips with a hard flick of his tongue. She twisted away from him—or meant to. Somehow he had pulled her against him and she clawed at his shoulders, digging her
fingertips in. He groaned as she clung to him, almost tearing at the material of his jacket, and it was not simple hatred she felt, it was betrayal. She had liked him, that night he had been whipped. She had been unguarded. And then, tonight, he had been like this.
His right hand was in her hair now, fingers tangled in its thickness. He kissed her and kissed her, as if he could draw breath out of her and into his own lungs. She bit his lower lip hard, tasted blood, salt on her tongue.
Arched up against him, into the sharp ache that was suddenly all she wanted.
His free hand stroked along her throat, his fingers finding the edge of her dress’s neckline, where her breasts rose to press against the material. She heard his breath catch and was not prepared for the piercing ache of desire that shot through her. She had never felt anything like it. Perhaps only in her dreams of smoke and fire, where everything burned.
There was a step in the corridor. Lin felt the Prince freeze against her, the hardness of his body suddenly gone to stone. She felt her cheeks flame hot and slid away from him, along the wall—by the Goddess, what if it was Mayesh, looking for her? She smoothed her dress down, frantically, but the step in the corridor faded.
No one was coming into the room.
She looked at the Prince. “Lin,” he said, and took a step toward her again.
She flinched away. She could not help herself. Her legs were still shaking, her heart beating like a panicked bird. She had never been so close
in her life to losing control. Some part of her, a part she could not question or understand, had wanted to draw his hand down, to the rise of her breasts, to that place between them no one but herself had ever touched. Had wanted him to touch her more, and deeper.
It was madness, and the realization that she was as vulnerable as anyone else to the lures she had always thought foolish and shallow—beauty, power, royalty—was more than shameful. It was true what the Prince had said. The Hill ruined things, and this was the path to ruination.
He had seen her flinch, pull away. She did not catch the moment his eyes went hard, like chips of diamond. Only heard the distance in his voice as he took a step back and said, with a cold calm, “Aigon. I must be drunker than I thought.”
The arrow in her belly dug deeper, a stab of pain. Lin raised her eyes to his and said, “My grandfather brought me here because he thought I might be interested in taking over his position someday. He wanted me to know what it would be like to be among those who call the Hill their home, to work among them. Now I know. I know, and I hope never to return.”
And she strode out of the room, without looking back.
Kel had taken Vienne and Luisa to a small drawing room, where Lady Roverge sometimes received daytime visitors. The first time Kel had ever been drunk had been in this room; Charlon had unearthed his mother’s secret cache of cherry jenever, and they all took turns making themselves thoroughly sick. Even Antonetta.
They had been the same age then that Luisa was now—twelve years old. Thinking themselves adult, but so very much children. Kel suspected Luisa did not consider herself an adult, and was likely the better for it. She had clearly hated being the focus of attention at the gathering, and was much happier here, curled onto a sofa with Vienne, who was reading aloud from a colorfully illustrated book of stories of the Gods, translating into Sarthian as she went. Seeming to sense Kel’s gaze on her, she looked up, one hand ruffling Luisa’s hair, and smiled.
“You need not stay,” she said. “It is enough that you brought us here and away from all those—people.” She rolled her eyes. “They are bad enough at the Court in Aquila, but your nobles here are even bigger—”
Kel grinned, despite himself.
“Bastards,” she finished, primly.
“I’d be careful with that. They’re quite fussy about their bloodlines around here,” Kel said. He knew he should return to the festivities, knew he should join Conor, make sure he’d not drunk more of Falconet’s poppy- drop wine. Knew he should check on Lin, though he was confident she could manage Charlon. But there was something calm and pleasant about
this small room, something that reminded him of the quiet times of his childhood, the moments of rest between study and training when he and Conor lay before the fireplace in their room, seeing the shapes of distant countries in the flames, planning their future travels.
“And they aren’t in Marakand?” Vienne said. She looked at him curiously. “I am sorry. I know you are a noble, but—you seem so much more like me than you do like them.”
“Oh, I assure you,” Kel said, “I am like them. Well, not as stupid as Charlon, perhaps—”
Vienne shook her head. “I sense that you do not just accompany your cousin, the Prince. You guard him, look after him, as I do Luisa. And yet you left him tonight to help us. So for that, I am grateful.”
She was right. He had left Conor—and what was more, he had not even thought about it. He had wanted to protect Luisa against something he had grown so used to, he doubted he would have noticed at all weeks ago. It
was easy for him to think of Montfaucon and the others as Conor’s friends
—careless but harmless, the sort of people who threw pies off towers. But carelessness could be a knife, sharpened by boredom as steel by a whetstone, turning it to cruelty.
Conor would not see that. He would not want to think his friends cruel, or that they did not have his best interests at heart. There were so few
people in Conor’s life that he could trust at all, and he had known them so long—
“Here you are.” Antonetta had appeared at the door, smiling, though her eyes were anxious. “Kellian, Sieur Sardou has been looking for you.”
“Sardou?” Kel was puzzled; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken directly with the lord of the glass Charter.
“He seems to have something to say to you.” Antonetta indicated her puzzlement with a shrug. “Honestly, this is the strangest party.”
Kel could not say he disagreed. With a nod to Luisa and Vienne, he left the room with Antonetta.
“Is she all right, the little girl?” Antonetta said, leading the way back toward the party. Kel could hear the sound of it rising as they approached, a dull tidal roar. “I suppose it’s good that children forget things so quickly. I wonder if she even really understood what was going on.” She made an impatient noise, which Kel realized was directed at herself. “I ought to have stopped Charlon . . .”
“Lin did,” said Kel. “It’s all right, Antonetta.”
Antonetta’s jeweled sandals clicked on the marble floor. “She danced, you know.”
Kel stopped dead. They were in a wide corridor that ended in a beveled- glass window, looking out over the drop to the city below. “Lin danced?”
“She said she would dance in Luisa’s place, and so she did. But it wasn’t really a Sarthian dance, it was . . .”
“Lin,” Kel said, again. “Danced?”
Antonetta nodded. “Do keep up. I told you she did! But it wasn’t like any dance I’ve ever seen before. It was like—she looked beautiful, but she was daring anyone to think she was beautiful. It was as if the dance said, You will want to touch me, but you will lose your hand if you do. I wish I knew how to dance like that.” Antonetta sighed. “I’m probably explaining it wrong. You look like you don’t believe me.”
“Not disbelief. Surprise,” Kel said as Antonetta opened a door and strode through it confidently. He followed her into a narrow stone hallway. A few more turns—the light dimming as the wall lamps became fewer—and Kel barked his shin on something solid and square.
“Oh, dear,” Antonetta said. “I seem to have gotten us lost.”
Kel almost laughed. It was ridiculous. The whole evening had been ridiculous. They were in a low-ceilinged space, full of wooden crates, some of which had bills of lading, laboriously written out, nailed to them. The floor was damp stone, and spiderwebs drifted like white flags of surrender in the corners. A single taper affixed to the wall offered what little light
there was.
He leaned against a pile of crates. Whatever was in them must have been heavy; they didn’t shift. “Perhaps it’s not so bad to be lost,” he said. “If you didn’t want to return to the party immediately, I wouldn’t blame you.”
Antonetta leaned against the crates beside him. Her locket, her hair, gleamed in the darkness. “I thought I would be more troubled by Conor getting married,” she said slowly, “but I feel nothing but pity for that poor little girl. And the way they treat her—”
Conor has his reasons for what he does, Kel thought. But he found, unusually, that he did not wish to think about Conor at the moment. Instead, he said, “You cannot be surprised at it. We know these people, and how they are. They will not be merciful because Luisa is a child.”
Something flashed behind her eyes—a glinting, sharp thing. If it was a memory, it was not a good one, and she said nothing about it.
“You have been kind to her,” Kel went on. “More than I would have expected. And you were kind when you brought Lin to me, after I was injured, though I may not have acknowledged it. I know you disguise your intellect, by intention and design. But why also disguise your kindness?”
“Kindness and weakness are twinned, or are seen as such on the Hill,”
she said. “I recall long ago when Joss was kind. When Conor was kind. No longer. It is a defense as much as an affectation.”
“Conor,” Kel said, slowly. It seemed he was to think about him, whether he wished to or not. “If you think he is not kind—then why did you want to marry him?”
“I am not sure kindness is relevant to princes. And like all princes who have thus far faced little in the way of great conflict, he does not yet understand that being royal is easy enough. It is ruling that is difficult.”
“Wise,” said Kel. “But not an answer. And being royal is not so easy.”
“You will always defend him,” said Antonetta. “It is true that I’ve always known he would marry for advantage, not for love. And I suppose I thought, Why not me, then? You see, marrying him would have given me something I wanted very much.”
Kel braced himself. “What is that?”
“The silk Charter,” she said, to his surprise. She was not looking at him, leaving him staring at the curve of her neck, where the flickering candlelight caressed it. “You know I cannot inherit it from my mother. It will pass into the hands of my husband when I marry. But if my husband were the King—”
“He cannot hold a Charter,” Kel said, realizing. “Yes. I would remain in control of it.”
“Was this your plan all along? Or your mother’s?” Kel asked, remembering the long-ago party where she had first told him she intended to marry the Prince.
“My mother has always wanted me to be queen,” said Antonetta. “I believe she thinks it would be a sort of ornament to the Alleyne name. I want the silk Charter. I suppose our desires converged.”
“I had not thought you so interested in power,” said Kel.
Antonetta spun to look at him so quickly that her hair flew in strands of spun gold around her face. “Of course I am interested in power,” she said hotly. “Everyone is interested in power. Power allows us to chart our own course, make our own choices. And look at my other choices, Kellian. They are few and constraining. I feel them close in on me like the walls of a
labyrinth.” She tugged at the locket around her throat. “That is what is fascinating about you,” she said. “You don’t seem to want anything at all.”
“Of course I want things.” His voice sounded rough to his own ears.
They were leaning into each other, he realized. As close as they had been all those years ago, behind the statue at her debut ball. When he had realized
how far away from him she had gone.
But now she moved closer to him. Deliberately. A step and another step, bringing her head to just under his chin. He could feel the heat of her body, smell the heady scent of her perfume and her skin combined. See where the silk of her dress clung to her breasts, to the curve and dip of her waist, pulling tight across her hips.
She looked up at him. She looked nervous, and there seemed no artifice in it, no affectation. She laid a hand on his shoulder. It was a light touch, but it sent heat spiraling through his body. Through the pounding in his ears, he heard her say his name, Kellian, and without being able to help it, he reached to touch her.
His hand found the indent of her waist. He could feel a line of silk- covered buttons rough against his palm as he held her there, his hand resting just above the flare of her hip, as if he meant to balance her in a dance. The silk felt just as he pictured under his fingers, though he had not properly imagined the warmth of it, heated by its contact with her skin, nor the ache he would feel at the warmth and curve of her, a pressure in the back of his throat, in his belly. There was a haze in front of his eyes. All he could think of was drawing her closer.
And then she winced.
“Ana—are you all right?” He drew his hand back, a little awkwardly. “It’s nothing,” she said, but she was white around the mouth. If there was
anything Kel knew when he saw it, it was pain.
“You’re hurt,” Kel said, a faint buzzing in his ears. “Antonetta, tell me— did someone harm you—”
“No. No. It’s nothing like that.”
“Tell me,” he said again. “Or I’ll get Lin, have her look at you.”
Antonetta pushed out her bottom lip the way she had when she was young and they had refused to let her pretend to be the head of the Arrow Squadron and give them all orders. “Oh, all right,” she said, and twisted about, as having some odd sort of convulsion. It took Kel a moment to
realize she was flicking open the row of small buttons that ran down the side of her dress, from just beneath her arm to her waist.
“There,” she said, turning so that he could see her bare side through the parted silk, the smooth curve of her waist into silk-covered hips. Along her rib cage was a short, angry-looking cut—a dark-red line against pale skin.
Kel knew pain. He also knew sword wounds. “A blade made that cut,” he said. “How?”
“Sword practice,” she said. “I used to love sword training when I was a girl—maybe you remember, though it’s all right if you don’t. I had to cease training when we all stopped being friends and my mother took over everything I did. She said no one would want to marry a girl who could swing a sword. But I missed it, and sometimes, now, I sneak away and train down in the city. My mother knows nothing about it. But when I do it,
everything else falls away—the pressures of marriage, of etiquette, of being an Alleyne. I am just Antonetta, who is learning to fight.”
“Can I touch you?” he asked. She looked surprised for a moment before nodding. He traced the cut lightly with his fingertips; her skin was warm, but not hot. No fever or infection, then. Just a crimson line, an incongruous mark in the context of silk and softness.
His blood was heating again. He told himself not to be a savage; she was injured. And yet her skin was like the silk on which her family had built its empire. He did not want to stop touching her.
“Talk to your dressmaker,” he said. “Lin is discreet. She won’t tell anyone. But you must have this bandaged. In the meantime, wash the cut
with honey and warm water. When I have been injured before—”
“Have you been injured often?” she asked, looking up at him with wide blue eyes.
Kel froze. He had almost mistaken himself, almost forgotten that she was not talking to Kel Saren—she was talking to Kel Anjuman. A lazy, minor
noble of Marakand, who lived off the kindness of House Aurelian, and had no reason to bear a multitude of scars.
Years ago, Antonetta had told him to make more of himself. And he was more than she knew. He had resented her for her artifice, for showing a
false face to the world. Yet he’d never acknowledged that he was doing the same thing. He had become so used to lying that it was not simply second nature; it was first. Everything he told her, even when it was the truth, had a lie at its heart.
Lady Alleyne had been right all those years ago, but not for the reasons she thought. There was no future for him with Antonetta. There was no
future for him with anyone.
She seemed to see a change in his face. She looked away, biting her lip, her hands suddenly fluttering nervously. “We ought to go back,” she said. “Can you help me do up my dress?”
He did not want to do it. It was dangerous to be so close to Antonetta.
Even now, the urge to take her in his arms was overpowering; she would be soft and hot to touch; he could take her by her silk-covered hips, lift her up against him. Stop the ache in his heart and his body with sensation so powerful it obliterated all thought.
No. He was not Charlon; he could control himself. Could behave as if nothing was troubling him, as if he had no weakness where she was concerned. He had acted more difficult parts.
He turned to the row of tiny buttons that required his attention, and focused on pushing them through their small silk loops, rather than focusing on Antonetta. She stood very still, bracing herself against the crates in front of her; as Kel glanced up, he saw the label on one of them flash white in the dimness.
Antonetta looked over her shoulder at him. “Is everything all right?” “Just fine.” As he rose to his feet, he settled her tousled hair around her
shoulders, his hand brushing the clasp of the gold chain at the back of her throat. “Do you think . . .”
“What?” She turned around, her face open, questioning. His stomach felt sick with wanting and guilt.
“I could speak to Conor,” he said. “Even Mayesh. See if there’s a way to protect your Charter so you could hold on to it, even if you don’t marry.”
She smiled at him, luminous in the dark. “That’s not necessary. I’m not entirely out of ideas yet.” She glanced around the room. “I’ve realized—I do know where we are. Come along.”
He followed her from the room. A series of twisting corridors brought them back to the party, where a peculiar sight met their eyes. The room, with its divans and flowing curtains, was mostly empty: The terrace doors had been thrown open and the guests were outside, crowded up against the stone railings.
“I must find Conor,” Kel said.
“Sardou can wait,” Antonetta agreed, and Kel slipped into the crowd.
The night air was cool, the mingled scents of different perfumes—musk and flowers, the bite of juniper—clashing in an olfactory war. As he came close to the edge of the terrace, he realized why the guests were here. Down
below, at the foot of the Hill, a crowd had gathered. Kel could see little of them in the torchlight, but recognized their makeshift banners, the lion of Castellane pouncing upon the eagle of Sarthe.
Their chanting rose up, faint at this distance but still audible, like thunder over the mountains. “Death to Sarthe! Better blood than alliance with Sarthe!”
But Kel could not concentrate on Sarthe, or questions of uneasy alliances between countries. In the room with Antonetta, he had seen the label on one of the Roverges’ boxes flash out at him. Singing Monkey Wine. He had not forgotten the odd name. The same brand of wine, the same sort of boxes, that Prosper Beck had had in his office.
Could the Roverges have some connection to Beck? Could Benedict be his patron? It was a thin connection, but enough to push Kel to do what he had done next.
Now he opened his left hand and glanced down at the gold locket in his palm. Antonetta had not even felt it as he slipped it off her neck. That same sickness of guilt came back as he stared down at it. This was what Beck had demanded of him, what he had sacrificed the little that was left of his sense of honor for. He felt suddenly sick at the idea of turning it over to Beck
without knowing what was inside it. He knew what Beck had told him, but had no reason to trust it; what if it contained something that could truly
damage Antonetta, or her reputation?
Without another conscious thought, he snapped it open. And stared.
There was nothing inside, only an empty miniature frame where a small painting or illustration might be placed. Surely Beck had not charged him with this task only to have him retrieve an empty locket?
And yet. The locket was oddly light in his hand, for an object made of gold. He thought of the false bottom to Conor’s cabinet, where the poppy- drops were concealed, and pressed down hard with his thumb on the gold frame.
With a click, it slid to the side, revealing a small hollow space beneath.
Inside it was a woven circlet of some kind of dark, rough twine, with fraying edges . . .
His heart seemed to stop in his chest. It was a ring. A ring made of grass, the long pale grass that grew in the Night Garden. It was the gift he’d given Antonetta so many years ago, before her mother had warned him away from her. Before she had changed.
He snapped the locket shut, his mind buzzing. Someone was coming up behind him; he turned, trying to school his expression from shock into a mild curiosity.
It was Polidor Sardou, wearing a brightly dyed doublet of rich brocade. “The protestors only say what everyone feels,” he said. He looked sallow, unwell, his eyes shadowed. “It is an insult, what Sarthe has done.” He glared past Kel, in the direction of the Sarthian Ambassadors, who stood with Mayesh. Senex Domizio seemed impassive, but Sena Anessa was clearly furious. “And House Aurelian tolerates it.”
“House Aurelian has no choice.” Kel saw Conor, then, emerge from the house. He was smiling, seemingly careless, and not alone. With him was Silla, her red hair bright as candle flame. “You wanted to talk to me?” Kel asked, tucking the locket carefully into his sleeve.
“Indeed. There are always choices,” said Sardou. “I hear you walked away from that farce of a welcoming ceremony in the square. You showed your loyalty then.”
Kel looked at Sardou in surprise. You showed your loyalty. Loyalty to whom? It had never occurred to him that his leaving the dais might be
interpreted as anything other than what it was: a desire to go to Conor. But it was clear that some had seen it as an expression of indignation.
“If you ever wish to discuss,” Sardou began, “potential options—pressure that could be brought to bear, perhaps, in certain places, where this
marriage”—he said the word with disgust—“might be discouraged . . .” Kel could not help but think of Fausten. “There are those who would see
House Aurelian destroyed,” he said in a low voice.
Sardou recoiled. “Destroy House Aurelian? I have no such goal. I wish to strengthen them where they are weak.”
Kel looked at him in the shadow-shifting darkness. He knew he should stay, pressure Sardou, try to discover more. But he felt a sudden revulsion for all of it—for the Ragpicker King, for Prosper Beck, for the lies he had told Conor, for what he had just done to Antonetta. For having looked
inside the locket at all.
Antonetta had worn the locket necklace since she was a child; she could easily have placed the ring inside it years ago and forgotten all about it. But it did not change the fact that he was most likely the last person she would ever want to know it was there. He could not escape the feeling he had violated more than her trust. And then there was Prosper Beck. Why on earth would the crime lord care about the dried-up remnant of a long-gone crush?
But is it long gone? whispered a voice in the back of his head. Did your heart not skip a beat when you saw the ring, hidden away? Does it not mean something to you that she kept it, all these years?
Kel was well practiced at ignoring that small voice, the one that wished him to know more about himself than was practical or wise. He pushed the thought away, concentrating on Sardou.
“I shall remember what you’ve said,” Kel said, carefully, “as the words of a loyal man who wishes to protect his Prince and his King.”
“Indeed.”
Kel took a step back. “But I must go. Conor will be looking for me.” Sardou’s smile turned brittle. “Of course.”
Kel felt Sardou’s eyes on him as he left the terrace and went back into the mansion, where he found Antonetta in conversation with one of the brightly dressed courtesans. She turned to smile at him as he approached. “Everything all right?” she said.
“Yes, only hold out your hand,” he said, and when she did, he set her locket gently in her palm. “You dropped this,” he said.
“Oh, how lovely!” said the courtesan, leaning in. “What do you keep inside it?”
Kel felt his stomach lurch as Antonetta flicked the locket open. “Why, nothing. It’s a pretty bauble, but I don’t keep anything in it. I just like
people to think that I have secrets.”
Lin dreamed again of the tower that night. This time she did not have to wait for Suleman to arrive; he was already there, standing at the tower’s edge, the black and red storm clouds coalescing behind him. When he came toward her, she saw the winking gleam of his Source-Stone in the hilt of the sword belted at his side.
He held out his arms to her, and this time, for the first time, she let him pull her close. Pull her down, so that they were both lying on the rough
stone top of the shaking tower. When she drew him on top of her, she felt
the relief of it. She had wanted him so much—had loved him, and love did not disappear when hatred bloomed. Rather, her hatred seemed to feed her passion, as if she were watering a monstrous plant with poisonous water.
She tore at the front of her dress, baring her skin to the thundering sky. He kissed her bare breasts and she arched up against him. His mouth was hot on her skin, the only warm thing in a world of distant flame and icy wind. She clutched at him, drawing him closer, closer still, her hand lowering to grip the hilt of his sword. She pulled it free with a single motion, driving it into his back even as her legs wrapped around him. And when he gasped, she did not know if it was pleasure or pain, only that his blood was hot against her as it ran out over her bare skin, burning scarlet as the eye of the storm . . .
 |
After generations, the people of Aram found a peaceful settlement. They began to build, and to raise their children there, until the king of a neighboring land heard that they were users of magic, and came to them at the head of an army, saying, “If you swear fealty to me, and use your magic on my behalf, I will not slay you.”
And the younger of the Ashkar said, “It is worth it, for peace, to do this thing.”
But Judah Makabi remembered their Queen, and he remembered, too, what happened when kings used their people as tools to do magic. And in despair he went away from the settlement, and into a cave in the mountains. And he cried out to his long-gone Queen Adassa, saying: We have always been faithful to you, O Queen, we have always been your people. Do we die in your name or do we give our fealty to another?
It was then that Adassa appeared to Makabi in a vision.
