Jerig won’t let it alone. “Your Highness,” he says to me. “Tell me, please, do you think the Ambassador is correct?”
“On the General? Or the South?” I ask politely, annoyed to the bone.
“Take your pick.”
“Well then, I think if the ambassadors were doing their jobs properly then perhaps these Southern men wouldn’t be so irritable, and then we wouldn’t have the trouble to begin with.”
“Oh?” Havis asks with a skeptical, raised brow.
Reni bumps my arm rather pointedly on my left, and Violet laughs into her hand on my right.
“Yes, they sit round tables and talk all day,” I continue, louder, “but what good has that ever done in the South? We need men of real action in uniform, like the General. I greatly admire anyone who risks his own life for the service of others. That is honourable.”
“You don’t have to be in uniform to do that,” Havis offers.
I raise my chin. “No, I suppose not, Ambassador. But you must agree—the uniform’s more dashing!”
Violet laughs out loud, as does Jerig, and Havis has the nerve to join in. Then he stares right at me, taking a savouring bite of the roast goose.
I fume into my creamed carrots, resisting thoughts of Havis’s hands on my hips, his rough kisses forcing me into shadowy corners, and instead I listen as the young pilot seated on Violet’s right seizes my praise of military men as an excuse to begin some tale about landing his aeroplane in the pitch-black of night. Apparently the 3rd Squadron airbase outside Hathene has a windy approach, and he demonstrates by waving his hand about like an overexcited child, his shiny hair slicked to the side. He keeps peering at Violet like he’s waiting for her to give him a round of applause. She has that effect on most young men. But of course it doesn’t take long for Reni to notice the lavish attention she’s receiving, and he interrupts Slick’s boasting with the deceptively casual question “And you think you’re better than the pilots of Savient?”
Trust Reni to circle us back round to sour milk.
The pilot smiles nobly. “Of course, Your Highness. They’re only good because they fly such fancy aeroplanes. Give me one of those and I could do the same.”
“Well, let’s hope you’re as talented in battle as you are at spinning tales.”
“I’m at the top of my class, Your Highness. That’s what counts in a dogfight—talent, not machine.”
“And how many battles have you won, rookie?”
The pilot blinks, suddenly aware he’s walked himself into embarrassment as others at the table overhear the rising debate and tilt their ears to listen, Violet beaming like a pleased circus master. I’m ready to offer both young men a set of pistols so we can get it over with—Reni will debate this boy into tomorrow otherwise, and Uncle’s already nodding along like the quiet instigator he is.
But Colonel Lyle comes to the rescue of his airman.
“To be fair,” Lyle says, “it’s been proved in history that the desire for victory is of far more importance than weaponry.”
“And you don’t believe Savient has that desire?” Jerig asks dubiously.
The Colonel shrugs. “It’s not the same as here, my lord. Here we’ve been tied to our land for countless generations. Our crown descends from Prince Efan himself. We understand loyalty. But what is Savient? A ten-year-old nation patched together in the midst of strife? Its people are from three different lands, with three different languages, rallied together beneath their Safire flag. How can such a place hold together when strained? Mark my words, Savient will go the way of the South. The General will overestimate his power and it will dissolve back into the chaos from which it sprang.”
Others at the table nod.
“And if it doesn’t?” Uncle asks, piqued. “What other land now has such resources as Savient? Dakar has taken the bounty of the east for himself. And he doesn’t spend it on palaces, my friends. He spends it on steel. When his army began marching for the capital of Karkev two years ago, did anyone think he would be a mere hundred miles from it today? Did anyone think he’d persuade the Royal League to allow his advance? No, we did not, but he did it. He isn’t a man to be underestimated.”
I can see Mother stiffen, feeling the barbed betrayal. Even her own brother persists in stoking uncertainty.
Reni appears ready to agree with Uncle, but catches Mother’s eye and, mercifully, backpedals. “Regardless, I’m confident we’ll gain much from our new friends in Savient … however long they manage to hold together.”
Everyone hides a chuckle, and I feel compelled to raise my glass for good measure. “To our new eastern allies. To a prosperous friendship.”
The table agrees to my toast, and Mother observes with evident approval.
Lyle smiles at my brother, and raises his glass in Reni’s direction. “And to you, Your Highness. The 3rd Squadron serves you as loyally as we did your father. You will always have the sky.”
Havis rolls his eyes slightly at the flowery compliment, an Etanian tradition of poetic affection among the two forces—army and air, the earth and the sky—but Reni accepts it graciously.
The musicians strike a different tune then, and couples stand to waltz on the dance floor while they wait for desserts to be served. A grinning illusionist turns a little magic show, moving from guest to guest, while Slick continues to eye Violet discreetly. I reach for my wine, pretending my hand is a plane bobbing about and nearly take out a servant’s arm as he tries to refill Reni’s glass.
Violet tugs me up and we hurry a safe distance away before bursting into laughter.
“I think he was about ready to propose marriage,” I say between breaths.
“Then let me go back,” Violet replies, a girlish glimmer to her voice. “I’d like to see what your brother does then.”
“Violet! That’s rotten of you.”
“Yes, but he does the same,” she insists. “Always smiling at other girls, and always when I can see. He’s the rotten one.” She’s still sparkling, though. “As for Ambassador Havis…”
I moan. “Please, don’t mention that old rat to me.”
“He isn’t old, Ali. A man of thirty is at his best!”
“You’re mad in the head,” I say, stroking her hair like she’s a kitten. “And so terrible at art.”
Violet puts a hand over her heart. “I spent three hours on that wolf creature, darling. It’s not my fault it looks more like a bear.”
The illusionist twirls between us without warning, dressed all in silver, like a fish. We awkwardly make way while he says nothing, pretending to pull a rose from behind Violet’s ear with a toothy, silent smile. I find I don’t like the slipperiness of him. He turns to me, hesitating, and I wonder if he’ll try one of his tricks or if he’s been instructed not to pester the royal family.
His hand snaps before my eyes, quick, and he opens it to reveal a tiny ceramic fox.
A Safire fox—with a bloody rabbit between its teeth.
Violet slaps him on the shoulder. “That’s quite uncalled for,” she says sharply, the sort of tone one wouldn’t expect from her. “Leave us alone.”
The man shrugs, the fox disappearing in his hand again, and he moves on to his next audience.
“Must everyone bring their heated opinions even to dinner?” Violet laments, gripping my arm in annoyance.
“It’s fine,” I say, staring at the back of the silver man. “How far can it truly go?”
“As far as ridiculous tricks, apparently.” Her smile warms again. “Can I please give this court a proper show? They deserve to be entertained with—” She stops, her smile broadening further.
“Care for dessert, Princess?”
Havis’s sudden presence behind me is like heat on my skin. Spicy cologne and tempered irritation, looming at my neck. “Dessert?” I ask, turning.
He has another full wine glass in his right hand. “I want to finish our earlier conversation.”
Violet nudges my arm.
“I thought
it was finished, Ambassador.”
“No, I’ve waited all day to hear the end of the story. About the letter?” His dark eyes bore into mine, forbidding me to lie.
Trapped, I try to concoct some excuse, but Violet ruins that by saying, “I’ll leave the two of you together. A pleasant evening, Ambassador.” The words purr off her tongue, but Havis gives her only the briefest nod.
Alone now, I see Havis has something in his left hand as well. A plate of marzipan sweets. He offers it towards me and I take one, since at least those look inviting.
“Your birthday’s at the end of this summer,” he says. “Have you planned any celebration?”
The polite angle throws me, and I pause. “A masquerade.” I half expect him to seize onto that and say, “Are you going to be sending invitations? Letters? Like the one I gave you this afternoon, which you gave to your mother, didn’t you?” But he doesn’t. He just waits. “It’s a party where everyone wears masks,” I add.
“I’m aware,” he says with a frown. “But I do find parties a waste of money.”
“Well, that’s fine.” I muster a radiant smile, one Heathwyn couldn’t find fault with. “You don’t have to come.”
Havis drops the dessert plate onto the nearest table with a rude thump. It makes a nearby footman jump in surprise. “And what of the end of the story, Princess? Did your letter reach its destination?”
“Perhaps.”
I catch Reni out of the corner of my eye. Surely he’ll come rescue me. Surely he’ll … No, he surely won’t. Violet’s slender body tilts forward, showing off her necklace and an eyeful of something else, the jeweled end dangling far below her neck, and Reni stares as if all of the world’s problems are suddenly there for him to solve on the swell of her chest.
Stars!
A shade of impatience worms into Havis’s gaze. “You’re a pleasant girl, Princess, but still a child. You can smile pretty and delight these gentlemen, but what do you know of the Safire? The General?” He drains his red wine. “Having him here will be a good lesson for you. You’ll find there’s little to admire about a man in uniform.”
“You know nothing about what I admire,” I retort coldly.
“I know there’s more at stake here than you can imagine. Which is why that letter had better have reached its intended audience.”
“What are you saying?” His words have an unwelcome edge.
“I’m saying,” he leans near, voice low, “you have an entire court divided and how long until that spreads to an entire kingdom?”
I try not to show fear at those words. Most days, it’s easy to overlook the division between my mother and brother, the rising boldness in Reni. But the General’s invitation has dissolved their mirage of unity, and with everything I heard between them earlier today …
“My brother will be king in a year,” I inform Havis, more confident than I feel. “That’s a fact, and nothing to be divided over.”
“The sun rises and falls,” Havis replies, “a hundred times before spring.”
It’s a Resyan proverb about fortune, one that’s always felt rather pithy until this moment. Now it feels like something dark.
Uncle Tanek materializes at Havis’s shoulder, a shadow of anger on his brow, glancing between us. “Gref, that’s enough. Let’s retire to my study.”
Havis frowns, irritated to have been caught by Uncle yet again, and he looks at me like I’ll intervene. But there’s a sudden shriek.
A feral, high-pitched sound that rises above the violins and voices. Panicked.
Mother!
The room comes to a stunned halt as she jumps back from the table, covered in blood, red running over her hands and down her beautiful taffeta dress. Reni is already at her side, but she raises her wet hands to hold him back and spins on the silver illusionist. “You vile creature!”
The man doesn’t grin, his hands raised. “No, you bring the vile creatures here, Majesty. You bring the Safire to our peaceful kingdom and we won’t have it. We won’t be silent. We won’t watch our home become a piece in their new empire!”
“Get him out of here,” Mother demands, and it’s then I realize, at last, she isn’t harmed at all.
Only an illusion.
Guards grip the man’s arms, Lord Jerig escorting him from the room, and Uncle watches them leave with a perturbed expression.
“This court grows wild,” he mutters, and I’m not sure if it’s meant for Havis or me.
Possibly neither of us.
He leaves to assist Mother, who’s struggling to cross the marble floor with a gown soaked in red liquid, her skin still marked by false blood.
I stand there, aware of the eyes that flick from Mother to Reni to me, courtiers wondering at what’s just occurred, wondering at why a person would do such a thing and how they should feel about it.
“On that note,” Havis says after a moment, “have a pleasant evening, Princess.”
His voice is pure satisfaction.
* * *
I escape from Heathwyn as soon as I can after dinner. I show her the painting from the woods, of the deer and the mountains, and say it’s a gift for my mother on this difficult day. It’s a bit splattered-looking, since I had to leap up and save the fawn, but she buys the lie and pats my cheek. “You’re such a sweet daughter, my lamb.”
Yes, a good daughter who’s also about to perform necessary subterfuge.
I slip down the dark halls, aware this is a gamble, but I’m counting on Reni and Uncle and everyone else not to let a stunt like the illusionist’s go undebated. And I’m right. There’s no sound from behind Mother’s door, only a maid retreating from the room with a golden tray of empty dishes. Everyone important is meeting in the throne room.
I hurry through the door as soon as the maid disappears.
Mother’s parlour greets me with shadows, faint moonlight illuminating the bright colours of her woven rug, a gift from Resya. I flick on the lamp, my painting in hand. The chandelier and finely wrought walls gleam curiously at me.
Determined, I tiptoe for her bedroom, certain she wouldn’t tuck the letter away in her mahogany desk. That would be too straightforward. If the letter from Havis is filled with unwelcome secrets, then she’d hide it well, perhaps in her private vanity.
It’s what I’d do, in any case.
I approach the beautiful cabinet, glass perfume bottles glinting on a lace runner with familiar scents of her—notes of jasmine and saffron and citrus. Guilt nips inside as I rest my hand on the first cream-coloured drawer.
What sort of daughter rummages through her mother’s vanity?
What sort of daughter rummages through her Queen’s vanity?
Well, I suppose I do, and I have no choice. Before I can talk myself into retreat, I open the drawer. The first two yield only silken scarves and delicate underthings and makeup, but the third drawer holds a tempting painted box. I lift the top, unable to resist.
The face of my father stares back.
Boreas Isendare.
Stunned, I sink to my knees on the wooden floor, box in hand, the sight of his face so unexpected and wrenching that my hand trembles holding the photograph. Mother doesn’t allow pictures of him displayed anywhere, only his formal oil portrait in the hall of Etanian kings. Yet here he is—the real him, not in paint, hidden away with dried, sacred orchids. No one is supposed to pick those flowers. It’s considered unlucky to do so. But they’re here. He’s here. In my hand. A playful quirk to his smile, the gentleness I’ve tried to cling to with all my being, and all I want is to hold him forever.
There are other pictures, too, of Reni and me as children. Mother and Father riding horses together. She never rides, not that I’ve seen, but she looks confident in the saddle, and wearing pants. Unladylike pants.
Of course she’d keep that from me!
A feather curves along a photograph at the back, vibrant blue, half-covered behind the others, and I pull it free. It’s a woman with golden hair, her eyes like the sea. Thoug
h the photo is faint with age, her shy gaze meets mine, her head tilted to the side, blonde strands captured and held in place by the beautiful feather. Beyond her, grey water meets a rocky shoreline. A friend of Mother’s from long ago? I don’t know why else she’d be here, though she’s no one I’ve seen at court, nor does she look Resyan. The words “Sapphie elski’han” are written in cursive along the bottom, and I sound them out beneath my breath.
Sapphie elski’han.
They carry a familiar, lilting Southern tune.
Pulling myself together, I place the photographs back into the box, memorizing the precious details of Father’s face, then I yank open the final drawer and discover my instinct is right. My mother and I are too similar. Hidden beneath an underslip, poking out invitingly, is the edge of an envelope.
Who else would dare venture here?
I open it quickly.
Sinora,
Forgive me for coming to you this way, but I have no other choice.
Seath wants more. His plans are not what we thought and he grows impatient. Your brother refuses to discuss terms—I know he doesn’t trust me. Please find a way to meet me alone. I’m concerned for what’s next, with Dakar, but I have a proposition.
Gref
My breath cartwheels to a halt in my chest. All air leaves my lungs, the names Seath and Dakar lighting up like electricity, brightening and searing through my brain.
My hand shakes more than when it held my father’s face.
I’m ready to be ill.
The whole world feels suddenly hot at my neck, guilt and fear needling my skin, and I refold the letter, shutting the drawer wildly. I rise from my aching knees and stumble for the door, but then remember my ruse.
I drop the painting on my mother’s bed.
Then I flee like a caught spy, switching off the lights, returning the room to shadows, and fly out the door.
I run right into Reni.
“Ali?” he asks, arms outstretched to stop me. He stares in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
My head struggles to work properly as I glance right and left down the empty night hall. “I made Mother a painting. That’s all.”
Dark of the West (Glass Alliance) Page 7