“I’ll make him listen,” Nekantor said. “We’ll play the game together.” The pattern of the greatest game of all rolled out across Benél’s brown silk carpet, and Nekantor stalked around it, while the fire in his stomach diffused and spread. He stopped at one spot on the tasseled edge. “Ninth Family is easy. They’ll think they have to choose between Reyn and Gowan, but Gowan is the one with cabinet blood. They’ll choose him.” He pointed across to another spot. “Twelfth will choose Yril.”
Benél snorted. “After we got him disgraced? How can he be an Heir candidate if he’s closeted from attending the Accession Ball?” Benél sat down at the center of the carpet, bottle in one hand and glass in the other. He held his head high; his back was straight and his eyes gleamed. Power radiated from him like the heat of a fire. How could no one else see it?
Nekantor looked toward the spot on the carpet’s edge where Yril would stand, and shook his head. “Nevertheless, they’re too divided over the others. Yril’s the only one with both intelligence and tenacity, not to mention good health.” He pointed across the carpet. “We’ll see Fernar coming from the Eleventh. Xemell from the Third, Menni from the Second.”
“You’re amazing.” Benél laughed a little and poured again. “A genius.”
“It’s why we belong together,” Nekantor said.
Benél’s face reddened. He smiled, slow and broad, and sipped his drink.
Oh, that smile felt good. Nekantor’s ears burned. The chatinet put warmth into his legs. “I plan, and you carry the power,” he said. “We are like Plis the Warrior and his adjutant on the fields of Melu.”
“No, we’re not.”
Nekantor cast him a glance. “No?”
“Not really.” Benél studied his drink.
Nekantor stared. Neither full nor empty, the glass put hooks into him, pulling him toward Benél. He bent down and snatched it, drained it fast. Chatinet slithered down his throat. His skin tingled where Benél’s fingers had touched his.
Benél’s hand grasped his ankle, stopping him before he could walk away.
“We’re Trigis the Resolute and Bes the Ally,” Benél said. “Sit down; I’m sure you can still see the pattern from here.”
Nekantor sat down. It was true. From the center, he could see all of it, and in the swirling fumes of chatinet the lines did their dance of intrigue and assassination. Sangar of the Eighth Family, Herm of the Seventh, Innis of the Fifth. Some would die. All would lose, except for one.
Benél’s hand landed hot on the back of his neck. Tightened. Shook him.
“Thanks, Nek.”
Nekantor looked at his face, very close now. Benél’s lip was almost healed, from the whore that had thrown the chains at him. “What for?”
Benél’s hand released slightly, moved, pushing down toward his shoulder. It tensed his muscles and shivered him. Benél said, “For thinking I could be Heir.”
“You will be.”
Benél swooped in, and for a second Benél’s lips pressed his.
Nekantor gaped. Benél’s hand tightened on his shoulder, moved again. Feel the power there—so much power! Nekantor raised his hand and touched Benél’s face. Power leapt through the touch like an electric shock, and Benél surged suddenly. Benél’s mouth, hot and urgent, sent power exploding outward; Nekantor fell on his back with Benél all over him.
“Benél! Honey, dinner’s on the table; where are you?” A lady’s sickly-sweet voice.
And suddenly Benél was gone, taking everything away. Nekantor gasped for breath. Benél shut the bottle and quickly pushed it and the glass back under his dresser.
Nekantor struggled up. Hissed desperately, “Benél!”
Benél’s hands lifted him, set him on his feet. “That’s my mother—we have to get you out of here before they find you.”
“No,” Nekantor said. His body shook, and the room shook, everything still submerged in chatinet and Benél’s mouth. “I have to stay with you.”
“No, you have to get home before your father misses you at dinner.” He looked around frantically. “I know—here.”
Benél’s hand grasped the back of his neck, dragged him behind a curtain into darkness.
Nekantor’s throat shrank tight. “Benél!” he croaked. “What are you doing? This is the Lowers’ hall!”
“This way, quick.”
Benél dragged him stumbling forward, around a dark corner. Chatinet made the shadows sway. They clung to his clothes and pressed inward toward his skin. Benél’s hand on his neck wasn’t enough to keep him safe. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe!
And suddenly Benél’s hand pushed him through another door, stumbling into light. Walls draped with curtains, and green carpet under his feet—the vestibule? Benél pushed him out the front door.
He was alone in the hall. Alone, except for the clinging shadows.
Nekantor ran. No counting, no touching, just trying to keep his feet moving straight—the bright light of the hall tugged at the shadows but couldn’t chase their taint away. He flung himself home and straight to his rooms. Tore off all his clothes and climbed into the empty bath, poured water over himself. His skin was flushed red. Had the shadows burned him?
Benél hadn’t meant to take him through the Lowers’ hall. He’d been forced to. It was the Lady’s fault—Benél would never have done it if he’d had any choice. And if he were here now, everything would be all right. Benél’s hands could rub shadows away. Benél had power.
Nekantor scrubbed himself with soap and poured more water, hot. It scalded, but now the flush was from the water, not from the creeping shadows. He dried himself and covered up the evidence with clothes, one careful layer at a time. He would have been safe if Benél were here.
Benél’s hands, Benél’s damaged lip—
Benél was in their citadel, fighting off the Lady’s invasion. But he should have been here.
Benél’s arms, Benél’s mouth—
It was too tight in here.
Nekantor went into the bedroom and tried to start the circle. No. Impossible to stand still. Too hurried, too shaky, and circling dizzied him. His mouth still tasted of chatinet and Benél.
Too tight in here.
And when he went out into the drawing room, he found the locked door.
The door was locked. It was in the right place, exactly the same place. He should have been inside it, with Benél, but instead Tagaret had locked the door. The door must not be locked!
A wire was no good for this lock; hours of work hadn’t cracked it, and the hooks reached deep. Nekantor stalked the drawing room. What he needed was—there. A large split geode full of amethysts, awkward but good enough. He hefted it, cold, rough, heavy, in his hands. Back to the lock, and he slammed the stone into it. His knuckles stubbed—the geode slipped out of his fingers and thudded to the floor.
The doors from the sitting room burst open.
“Nekantor!” Father shouted. “Varin’s teeth—what are you doing? Get away from that door!”
“No!”
Father’s rough hand gripped his shoulder, spun him away from the lock. Father growled, dangerous with power. “You’ll do as I say. The entire family has been at the table waiting for you.”
“But the door,” Nekantor protested. “The door must not be locked! It’s wrong. You don’t know what Tagaret does in there. He plays secret games—and he doesn’t even care—he doesn’t deserve a citadel!”
Father’s fingers dug deep as claws, grinding his bones. “What in Varin’s name is wrong with you?”
“It’s wrong!” Nekantor cried, heat overflowing from his eyes. “It’s wrong! The door must not be locked!”
Fists bunched on his collar and pulled him up into growling teeth—and suddenly the growling stopped. The fists shoved him backward into the stone wall. “Drunk!” Father shouted. “Drun
k! I should have known.”
Nekantor gasped, limp. Father’s fists hung him from his clothes, dragged him to his rooms, flung him on his bed. Then Father slammed the door; its vibrations shook outward, undoing everything that had once been right.
Nekantor sobbed and shook. He didn’t dare open his eyes to see everything wrong, all wrong. He felt with his hands, found the edge of the bed, the smooth surface of the bedside table, and on it, the whore’s ring.
The ring was round, and smooth, and perfect. He followed it with his fingers, around and around. It was more than perfect; it was his own piece of power, the key that had opened the ultimate game, and let him see the pattern before anyone else.
He followed it with his fingers, around and around.
Around and around, in the blind dark.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Accession Ball
Father called this a day of opportunity—and it was—but the ‘most important event of his life’ had just turned his friends into enemies, and a handshake into a threat of death. Tagaret struggled not to cringe at the excitement of the crowd. Half the First Family had now packed into the suite, including at least six of the Family’s eligible males. Erex had charge of the younger ones, Father of the older, but Father was shamelessly playing favorites, and Tagaret could feel the glares of the men in their twenties. No Lady Selemei, so the major standoff was still to come.
“Tagaret, good luck tonight!” Yet another overenthusiastic middle-aged cousin offered a handshake, then hesitated.
Tagaret tugged tight his white, pearl-buttoned gloves, and smiled when the man decided to thump his shoulder. “Thanks.”
“Stop messing with those gloves, or I’ll take them,” Father rumbled.
“Father, they’re for safety.”
“Young Tagaret,” said Fedron, “we need you to look serious, not artisanal.”
He would have given anything for Reyn right now. Searching for a friendly face, Tagaret waved to his cousin Inkala, who came and lifted his hands consideringly.
“How do you think they look?” he asked.
“Perfectly good!” Inkala giggled. “On your mother . . .”
“Come on!”
Mother’s gloved hand touched his arm. “Come over here a second, love,” she said. “You don’t have your mourning scarf on.”
Any excuse for a break. He let Mother take him aside, threading through the crowded dining room and stopping just inside the kitchen’s swinging doors. When Keeper Premel saw them, he bowed and stepped out.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” Tagaret said. “I know it’s important. I know what the Heir’s power means. It’s just that I can’t stand it.”
Mother kissed his cheek gently. “I know, love.” She found the long, moon-yellow mourning scarf he’d stuffed into his pocket, and knotted it around his right arm just below the elbow. The ends fluttered down to his knee, whispering of Mother Elinda’s gentle comfort—but it was impossible to feel comforted, knowing how Indal had died.
He tugged at his gloves again. Mother’s were midnight black with diamonds, like her dress, and came up past her elbows. Which raised the question—
“Mother, where’s Aloran?”
Mother blushed and hugged herself. “I told him to meet us at the vestibule as we go out.”
“Father will complain again.”
She raised her head defiantly. “You think I care a pin for what your father thinks?”
What a question. Tagaret decided to be honest. “Mother, if you really didn’t care, don’t you think you’d realize that Aloran has vowed himself to you, not Father? It’s no defeat if you’re the one giving the orders.”
Mother looked annoyed. “I’ll concede the point, Tagaret. But here’s the problem: he’s a man. He doesn’t disappear into his black the way he should. I turn, and I see him, and he’s a man. Now you’ll tell me it doesn’t matter.”
Tagaret shrugged. No point lecturing her on something she’d told him a hundred times. And bringing up Father’s bias for male bodyguards wouldn’t help at all.
She squeezed his arm. “I’m trying, love. I’ve written to Eyli, and she assured me again that she vouches for him, so I am, I promise. But you need to try, too. Whether you’re the First Family’s candidate matters less to me tonight than that the Pelismara Society sees you behave as the man you are. Do I need to ask Erex to take you in his group?”
That made his cheeks burn. “No. I’m sorry.”
Mother lifted her head. “Thank you, Premel, for permitting our intrusion.” She took Tagaret’s arm. “Here’s an idea. Why don’t you walk in with Pyaras? You need the company, and Erex would like a break from handling him.”
“But Pyaras isn’t eligible,” Tagaret said.
Mother nodded. “And if you tell him that, he might believe you.”
So they found Pyaras and joined the mass procession of the First Family, at least the portion of it that answered to Father, walking in between orange-uniformed Arissen toward the central wing and the Hall of the Eminence. Father and Fedron were at the front, side by side, accompanied by Sorn and Chenna. Tagaret came behind with the other eligibles, doing his best to smile. Pyaras was definitely upset about something, but his energetic presence made it easier to ignore Nekantor stalking the edge of the group, and the prospect of Selemei’s imminent appearance. Mother walked on Tagaret’s left, smiling at everyone’s compliments for her gown and gloves; Aloran followed so quietly it seemed impossible even she should notice.
“Tagaret,” Pyaras said suddenly. “Am I in your gang? Did you ask?”
Oh, no. “Sorry,” Tagaret said. “I hadn’t yet—but with the Selection on, it’s just you and me anyway. First Family first, and all that.”
Pyaras’ dark brows knit. “I should be eligible, you know. Everyone always said so. I’m big enough!”
“It’s not about being big, Pyaras.”
“But I’m almost twelve! My blood is pure!”
Tagaret frowned. “Of course it is. Who says otherwise?”
Pyaras flushed and mumbled, “People call me ‘Arissen’ at school. Don’t tell my father. Grenth started it, because I hit him.”
“Varin’s teeth.” Tagaret squeezed his cousin’s strong shoulders. No way had Grenth started it, though; that kind of subtle retaliation was pure Nekantor. “I’ll let you join my gang, all right? I’ll tell the others. You don’t need to ask again.”
Pyaras hugged him so hard his feet came off the floor.
“Pyaras, calm down,” Father growled. “You’ll cause trouble in security.”
Tunnel-hounds were on duty outside the Hall of the Eminence. One approached them now, trotting on small dark paws, snuffling their feet and knees with its eyeless head and broad, sensitive nose. Whether it was trained to sniff poisons or sense energy weapons, it apparently found none in their party.
Fedron eyed the animal and shrugged. “Tunnel-hounds didn’t save Dest from assassination last time. He was downed with a simple projectile. I worry about precedent.”
Tagaret scanned the heavily guarded foyer for assassins. “You think they’d try it again?”
“No one would do it at the Ball,” said Father. “Besides, projectiles are so uninspired.”
“Permit us, sirs?” Two Arissen guards approached, carrying tunnel-hounds. An upper-body check was unpleasant, but tolerable in the name of safety. Pyaras actually crooned to the hound and offered it his fingers, but when the guard smiled at him, he scowled.
The Arissen passed them in.
Tagaret sucked a breath. Potential enemies packed the Hall of the Eminence, glittering in their finery from the wall hangings all the way to the stage with the wooden throne, while mourning scarves in grieving yellow whispered, death. To be on guard, he needed his eyes open. And to be the man Mother wanted everyone to see, he had to stand gracefully, making the high mosai
c vaults his portrait frames, and the crystal chandeliers his spotlights. More and more eyes watched him as the Great Families entered through doors around the Hall. From this vantage point he couldn’t clearly identify either Ninth Family or Eleventh. Sixth seemed like it might be in the far corner.
Reyn. Gowan. Fernar. Della. They were with him now only as a haunting ache. He exchanged glances with the cousins around him, but only Pyaras smiled.
Soon after they arrived in the First Family’s assigned area, a reverent voice sang a single clear note that cut through the murmuring gossip. The crowd hushed, and the lights dimmed, revealing the stately form of the Voice of Elinda upon the stage. She stood with arms reaching forward, her deep blue sacramental robes overlayered with a yellow funereal cloak. A silver moon-disc shone upon her chest. When silence was at last complete, she sang the prayer:
“All with eyes in this place, hear me, gaze and turn your faces upward! Though ages pass, the heavens still show us the inevitable way: the Silent Sister spins and circles beneath our feet, and her holy siblings dance with her around our great Father.”
Tagaret turned his face up. In the mosaic arches above, tiny gold tiles hinted of the stars. Mother had tried to lift him up to them, but had managed only to bring their likeness down, in the diamonds across her gown. “Father Varin,” he mumbled. “Source of all life.”
“Today we honor Indal of the Fifth Family,” said the Voice of Elinda. “He rose in brightness, and grew to glory, Eminence of all this land which takes our great Father’s name. Nightfall came too quickly upon him.” She raised her arms high, and her sleeves fell into great curves like those of Mother Elinda herself.
Tagaret loosened the scarf at his elbow, and nudged Pyaras to do the same. They raised their scarves as arms rose across the Hall, sweeping the room in yellow.
“All honor to Indal of the Fifth Family as he sets in this life,” the Voice of Elinda said. “Let him find his way to our great Mother’s arms and take his place among the stars.”
“Honor to Indal of the Fifth Family,” rumbled through the crowd.
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