by Nina Varela
She was so hungry, and she’d eaten nothing for three days but pilfered bread and the meat pies she’d bought. Before that, the week and a half at sea, sick and delirious in the cargo hold, she was unable to keep down anything but water. Ayla’s stomach gnawed at itself, crumpling, rolling over. She clenched her teeth and forced her eyes away from the food. She didn’t have time to eat. She just had to get through the gates, inside the palace. . . .
While the main festival was in the courtyard and the city streets, there seemed to be a smaller, more exclusive celebration within the palace walls. Ayla could see more lanterns and banners, more smoke, the shift of a second crowd. The gates were open, though still heavily guarded. She tapped Benjy’s wrist as they approached, nodding in the direction of a troupe of what looked like actors or dancers. Even with the masks, it was easy to tell who was human. Automae carried themselves less like people and more like statues that sometimes moved. They were tall, angular, their skin smooth and poreless, their movements measured. Their hair was always sleek and shiny, dark in Rabu and lighter here in Varn, where fair hair was more common. Human bodies were more varied: a thousand different shapes and sizes, skin freckled or scarred or pockmarked, hair any number of lengths or textures. Ayla had always thought that was the great irony of the Automae. They were created to be perfect, inhumanly beautiful, and all it did was make them less interesting to look at.
Unless they were bent over a book, a tendril of loose hair curling at the nape of their neck. Unless they were sliding into a tide pool, silver under a Reaper’s Moon. Unless they were her.
Don’t.
Beside her, Benjy huffed. “I don’t want to wear a wig. Or take off my shirt.”
The actors were all human. They were masked, like everyone else, but their masks weren’t plain white—they were painted in bright, swirling colors, green feathers trailing off the edges. They were in costume, though Ayla didn’t recognize any of the characters. A woman in a blue yarn wig, another in a shining silver crown, a trio of men all shirtless, their bare chests painted with red and orange flames. Must be a Varnian folktale. “Relax,” said Ayla. “Look, there’s some in the back dressed more plainly. They don’t look so different from us. We can probably blend in with them.” She started forward, but Benjy’s hand shot out to grab her arm.
“Wait,” he hissed. “Look at their wrists.”
Ayla turned and saw the actors—and everyone else waiting to be let in the palace gates—had a green ribbon tied around their left wrist. There was something small and shiny dangling from each ribbon. Ayla squinted, blinking away tears from all the smoke, and realized the shiny thing looked like . . . a bell? No, a gold coin. The guards were checking everyone’s wrists, inspecting the coins carefully, holding them up to catch the firelight. There was no way Ayla and Benjy would be able to get inside the gates without those green ribbons unless they scaled the walls. Ayla actually considered it for a moment, but the walls were twenty feet high and the white stone looked completely smooth, and anyway there were guards prowling around everywhere. That was a no go.
“Okay, new plan,” Ayla muttered. “Everyone’s in green, it shouldn’t be too hard to find a couple ribbons.”
“And a couple gold coins?” Benjy asked. “We can’t exactly walk around slitting purses. Besides, those don’t look like any queenscoins I’ve seen so far. They’re not round. Watch the guard hold it up. . . . See? They’re squarish. It’s probably a special token.”
Ayla blew out a breath. “Maybe we could—cut the ribbon off someone’s wrist? Without them noticing? Or, or . . .” She cast her eyes around the crowd of people waiting to be let inside the gates. The costumed actors, a few more humans also dressed to entertain, a large group of Automae. Nobles, probably. They looked like the leeches who had come from all corners of Zulla to attend Lady Crier’s engagement ball. Throats and wrists dripping with jewelry, threads of silver and gold woven into their hair, their clothing the finest velvet and silk brocade. Ayla saw one woman in sea-green silk pants and a gold-embroidered doublet, her arms bare, her hair in a thick plait that reached almost to the small of her back. Unlike most, she wasn’t wearing a mask. When she glanced in the direction of the crowd, Ayla could see her mouth was painted gold.
“Ayla,” said Benjy. “You with me?”
She cleared her throat. “I have an idea.”
Without waiting for Benjy to respond, she hurried back into the thick of the crowd, making a beeline for the tables of food. She grabbed the nearest platter—a big silver dish of crab cakes—and dumped the contents into a basket of oranges, darting away before anyone noticed. Platter in hand, she returned to Benjy.
He raised his eyebrows. “So . . . what’s the idea?”
“Follow my lead,” she said. “And for gods’ sake, act deferent.”
“What—?”
Ayla bowed her head and curled her shoulders in, making herself smaller. Taking up as little space as possible. Then, ignoring the line of humans and Automae waiting to be let inside the palace walls, she headed for the guards. There were six stationed at the palace gates: three checking bracelets, three watching the crowd. Platter held out in front of her like an offering, Ayla quickened her pace, scurrying up to one of the watchers, sinking into a deep curtsy. She heard Benjy’s footsteps behind her and could only hope he was bowing.
“Sir,” she said, speaking to the guard’s shiny black boots. “We were ordered to fetch more crab cakes and heartstone.”
“More heartstone already?” the guard asked. “The night’s only just begun.”
“Everyone’s feeling very indulgent, sir.”
“At this rate they’ll deplete the queen’s stores by midnight. Why are you out of uniform?”
Ayla snorted. “Some drunk bastard spilled half a casket of wine over the both of us, sir. I believe he was reenacting ‘The Sailor and the Sea Serpent.’” She paused. “It’s an old human story about—”
“I do not require an explanation,” said the guard. Ayla risked a glance. His masked face was turned to the crowd again. “Fetch everything quickly,” he continued, dismissive. “And get back into uniform. You are servants to the queen; you should look it.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ayla, and heard Benjy’s mumbled “Yes, sir” behind her. The guard stepped aside, allowing them to pass through the gates, and they were in.
The palace courtyard was half the size of the one outside, and it was clear this part of the festival was organized not by commoners but by the queen. A shallow moat surrounded the courtyard, the surface dotted with white rose petals and floating lanterns; you had to cross an arched stone bridge to reach the festivities. Ayla could hear the gentle rush of a fountain somewhere, and she noticed a group of musicians at the edge of the courtyard—Automa, not human, Ayla saw with a twinge of surprise. The song they were playing was much slower and softer than the riotous music of the main festival—a song suited for conversation, not dancing. More white rose petals blanketed the ground like snow, so pretty that Ayla almost felt bad crushing them beneath her heels. And . . . Ayla frowned, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. It looked like there were insects darting around above the crowd, lighting up the night—large insects or maybe tiny birds, but that wasn’t it. The way their wings kept winking in the lanternlight . . .
They were Made. Golden, gossamer butterflies the size of Ayla’s entire hand. Swooping around, floating like sparks in the night air. Artificial creatures with minds of their own. Ayla thought back to the Made objects she used to see passed around in secret in the market at Kalla-den: pocket watches that tracked the movements of the stars and planets; daggers that folded up to be smaller than a thumbnail; chunks of pink salt that could supposedly grant you visions of the future if you tossed them in the belly of a fire and inhaled the smoke. Half of them were fake, and the other half only worked part of the time.
Of course, Ayla knew of one Made object that was very, very real.
It had belonged to her, after all.
Gripping the platter with both hands, Ayla tore her gaze away from the Made butterflies and led Benjy across the stone bridge and into the fringes of the festival crowd. “We should separate,” she breathed. Leeches everywhere, gods, her skin was crawling. Her heartbeat felt impossibly, dangerously loud, even though she knew there were other humans here, that she was not alone, that Varn wasn’t like Rabu. It was one thing to know that. Much more difficult to actually believe it.
“Separate?” said Benjy. “No, why?”
“Not a lot of humans here. A pair might look suspicious.” She paused, pretending to check over a spread of delicate cakes and pastries. Next to it, a font of liquid heartstone, deep red, for the Automae. “Meet me on the other side, at the palace steps, in a few minutes. Remember to hide your wrists. Don’t get caught.”
“I’ll do my best,” he said dryly.
Ayla kept still until he disappeared into the crowd, then headed off in the opposite direction, moving parallel to the eastern edge of the courtyard. She was thankful for her size. In the port town she’d stood out, but here, nobody would think twice about a small human girl carrying an empty platter through a crowd of glittering festivalgoers. The guards would assume she was just another servant heading back to the kitchens. Ayla tried not to worry about Benjy, focusing instead on slipping through the crowd like a shadow. Benjy would be fine; he could take care of himself. All they had to do was cross the courtyard and get to the palace steps. That wasn’t hard.
Ayla should have known better than to think a foolish thing like that.
She was so close—the palace steps were in sight, and the palace beyond them, rising like a colossal crown of bone, its highest tower the height of the city walls behind it, all spiraling turrets and towers that tapered into swordlike points, a palace like a mouth of bared fangs, well suited to the queen who held the throne. The thin arrow-slit windows glowed with yellow candlelight, flickering. Ayla couldn’t breathe for a moment. Her brother was somewhere within those walls. She was so close to him, only a few hundred paces away from the palace doors. By dawnbreak, they might already be reunited.
She strode forward and then faltered. An odd weight on her head, something catching in her hair. Not a hand. She reached up and her fingers found something delicate, metallic, fluttering, alive. One of the Made butterflies had landed on her. Ayla repressed a shudder, knowing it wasn’t a real insect, but there was something deeply unsettling about the sensation of its spindly legs on her scalp. She shook her head hard and the butterfly lifted off again, bobbing away into the smoky night. Ayla stared after it, frowning. Unlike the other butterflies, this one kept . . . glowing. Pulsing yellow, more like a firefly than a butterfly.
Wait—
A gloved hand wrapped around her wrist. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
Ayla sucked in a breath. A royal guard stood over her, eyes glinting behind his white mask. He jerked her closer to him, startling her into dropping the platter. It hit the flagstones with a loud clang.
“Who let you in?” the guard demanded.
“I’m a servant,” Ayla tried. “I must have lost my ribbon. I’m sorry for the trouble, I’ll leave immediately.”
“You will not,” said the guard. “You’re coming with me.”
Ayla’s eyes widened. “No,” she said, struggling against his grip. But even if she weren’t half starved, she could never match the strength of a leech. “No, let me go, I’ll leave, I just wanted to see the party, I don’t mean any harm—”
“Shut your mouth before I cut out your tongue.”
Mind racing, Ayla let herself be dragged along by the guard. Where was Benjy? Was he watching? Would he know that she’d been captured? The guard pulled her across a second stone bridge, crossing back over the moat, and then to the side of the palace steps, where there were arching doorways reserved for guards and servants. Within moments, Ayla knew she was completely out of sight. All she could do was hope Benjy was safe—and that, if he had seen her with the guard, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to try a rescue.
The heavy wooden door swung shut behind them, and it took Ayla’s eyes a few long moments to adjust to the darkness inside. This was a dank, narrow passageway, lit only by torches every twenty paces or so. She blinked hard and tried not to stumble as the guard dragged her forward. His grip was so tight, she worried he’d crush the bones of her wrist.
The passageway ended with another wooden door, which opened up into a wider hallway with a high, vaulted ceiling. Unlike the sovereign’s palace, where all the ceilings were decorated with ornate, gilded paintings and marble carvings, the ceilings here were mosaiced with colored glass in geometric designs. Ayla thought it was strange how much it was sparkling until she realized it wasn’t glass. It was thousands of gemstones. The fear in the pit of her stomach mixed with revulsion. One square foot of that ceiling could feed a family for ten years. Four square feet could feed a village.
The hallways were labyrinthine; Ayla tried to keep track of all the twists and turns, but it quickly became impossible, especially because the guard seemed to be doubling back every so often on purpose. They passed the entryways to open-air courtyards with gardens and fountains, courtyards lined with metallic statues, big banquet halls and drawing rooms, smaller corridors branching off into guest wings and guards’ quarters. Occasionally Ayla glimpsed a servant or courtier, but for the most part the halls were empty. Everyone was outside enjoying the festival.
She had assumed the guard would take her to the dungeons. She kept waiting for him to open a door with a stairway leading down into the deep, dark underbelly of the palace. But instead, he led in her in circles for a while and then turned down the widest, grandest hallway yet, the flagstones carpeted with green velvet. There were guards stationed at the mouth of the hallway, both wearing white masks. As they approached, the guard who’d captured Ayla removed his own mask, and only then did the guards step aside, letting him and Ayla through.
“Where are you taking me,” Ayla gritted out, not expecting an answer. The hallway ended with a single arched door plated with solid gold. There were four guards standing outside, but they weren’t like the others. They were all women, unmasked, dressed not in plain white uniforms but in emerald green. Ayla remembered seeing other guards like this in the queen’s consort when she’d visited the sovereign’s palace a few weeks ago on a diplomacy tour. They were always closest to the queen, her personal bodyguards.
“Let me pass,” said Ayla’s guard, coming to a stop at the end of the hall. He dropped Ayla’s wrist only to grab a fistful of her hair, forcing her head back. “Look what I caught in the middle of the Maker’s Festival. In the queen’s courtyard, no less. She was posing as a palace servant.”
None of the guards moved. One said, “What makes you think this worthy of the queen’s attention?”
“Her majesty bade us watch for Rabunian spies,” Ayla’s guard insisted. “Her majesty said one would be a girl-child, no older than the queen herself. This human is the right age.”
A girl-child. Ayla bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood. Was Queen Junn somehow expecting her? Was this Storme’s doing? Perhaps he’d told Junn the truth—that Ayla wasn’t just a handmaiden; she was his long-lost twin sister. And if Queen Junn knew Ayla was behind the assassination attempt on Lady Crier . . . Had she predicted Ayla’s next move?
The queen’s guards stared at Ayla, scrutinizing her face.
“Leave her,” one said. “We will deliver her to the queen
.”
“No,” Ayla’s guard protested. “I’m the one who caught her. If she is a Rabunian spy—”
“Leave. Her,” said the queen’s guard. Her voice was flat and cold, allowing no room for protest. “If she is a spy, I will make certain the queen knows who to credit for her capture. That’s what you’re worried about, is it not? Your credit? Go.”
A moment of furious silence, then Ayla pitched forward when the guard let go of her hair. Her knees hit the floor, velvet carpet providing no cushion from the flagstones below. She scrambled upright, wincing, only to find a sword at her throat.
Two of the four guards flanked her, leading her through the heavy golden door and into a large high-ceilinged chamber. The walls were draped with more green velvet. A long, narrow pool ran down the center of the room, an aisle of green water, white rose petals floating on the surface like on the moat outside. Two dozen guards were stationed around the edges of the chamber, female, unmasked. Then Ayla’s eyes traveled up the length of the pool to the far end of the room, and her fears were confirmed. This could only be the queen’s throne: a dais and a high, raised chair carved from one giant piece of white stone. Ayla was relieved to find it unoccupied—until she noticed the figure standing beside it, her back to the rest of the room. Even from behind, Ayla recognized her. Queen Junn. The Mad Queen, the Bone Eater.
“Your majesty,” said one of the guards flanking Ayla. Both of them had bent their heads in deference upon entering and were now straightening up. “My deepest apologies for the interruption, but—”
“Not now,” said the queen without turning around. She wasn’t speaking loudly, and yet still her voice carried throughout the entire chamber. “I don’t care what it is, I’m not dealing with it tonight. If it’s an assassin, prepare for them a platter of the finest cuts of meat, the ripest fruit, the sweetest wine; let them eat, and only after that may you escort them to the dungeons. If it’s war, call for a strategist; war can wait till morning. If it’s anything else, get out.”