A handful of the other gods and a handful of raksha demons united to prove to Ash and Bara that there was another way. They created the battle formation we now call the Lotus, because of the way warriors are placed in protective petals around a central point, and surrounded the ancient celestial weapon that Ash would need to use to end the world. They expected to die for this, but then, to their surprise, Ash and Bara looked at each other and smiled. “There is indeed another way,” they said. “You have proven it is possible for you to unite. It is just as we hoped.”
And that was how the first gods and first rakshas made peace. Thousands of years later, we celebrate that on Kali with the Lotus Festival. Other realms celebrate it in their own ways, as well, choosing which part of the story to focus on based on their values. Kali, unsurprisingly, focuses on the Lotus.
It’s a full day of starship displays and tournament games in the training fields and amphitheaters of the kingdom. Then, after the sun lamps go down, there are feasts and dances in the streets all night while the palace has a dance of its own. It’s to the latter that Elvar has invited King Yann of Elba, in the hope that we can persuade him to join us.
As a child, it was at the Lotus Festival that my brothers would win every tournament. Alexi, in particular, was the star. When I pictured being here for the festival, I always saw myself with them. Alex and I would compete, of course, but the only stakes would be which of us would have to buy the drinks. Bear and I would sneak away from the dance to eat cakes on the rooftops of the market. I would invite Rama for the festivities and we would laugh ourselves silly at the grumpy old advisors who would inevitably complain that there was too much fun. My mother and I would be together.
I never expected to be here without any of them.
“Esmae.” It’s Titania in my ear. She sounds unusually subdued. “I need to talk to you. Can you come see me after the festival?”
I’m on the uppermost balcony of a palace tower, deeply absorbed in my favorite hobby of hiding from other people. “I can come see you now,” I say. “I don’t plan on getting involved in the festival. Are you okay? You sound upset.”
“I don’t get upset,” she says, a blatant lie, “and while you may not have plans today, I do.”
Things have really gotten out of hand if a sentient spaceship has a busier social schedule than I do. “Who do you have plans with?”
“The starship theater,” she tells me, deeply smug. “They asked me to join them in this year’s show. Keep an eye on the northern sky. It’s going to be spectacular.”
This makes me feel absurdly proud of her. “Good for you,” I say. “I’ll look out for you. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, this can wait until tomorrow.”
She’s only been silent a few minutes when I hear the ominous sound of familiar spiky boots on the other side of the balcony door. Then the door clatters dramatically open and Sybilla stalks out, followed by a somewhat apologetic Radha.
They’re carrying bottles of mulberry wine, strips of pork soaked in a spicy dark syrup, and a basket of hot, buttery flatbreads.
“We’re sorry to interrupt your alone time,” Radha says sheepishly, “but we decided we couldn’t let you spend the day all by yourself. Not on the day of a festival as special as this. Don’t you remember how we celebrated it on Wychstar?”
“With the Friendship Festival,” I say.
“Exactly.”
“And to be fair to you, Esmae, you picked a spot with a great view,” Sybilla adds. She opens a bottle of wine and drinks from it without further ado, then squints down into the city far below. “Look, the archery tournament is starting! Are you sure you don’t want to go compete?”
“I’ve had my fill of competitions, thanks,” I tell her. “I’ve retired. Radha can compete.”
Radha chokes on her drink, then sputters laughter. “You know I’ve never touched a bow in my life! That was one thing Rama and I had in common, a complete and utter lack of interest in learning how to use weapons. Father forced Rama to be tutored in the basics regardless, but he didn’t bother with me.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” Sybilla says, tactful as ever. “Because you’re a girl?”
“No, it’s because my mother died when I was born.” Radha’s face falls. “Father pretends I don’t exist more often than not.”
Sybilla blinks at Radha for a few moments, stunned. I know why she’s so shocked. Her father resents her for the exact same thing.
“Well,” she says at last, “you can join the Guild of Children of Terrible Parents. So far there’s Esmae, me, and most of the Hundred and One. Maybe Max, too.”
“I feel like Max would not appreciate that label for Elvar and Guinne,” says Radha, torn between mirth and shock at Sybilla’s disloyal description of her king and queen.
“It’s probably overly harsh,” Sybilla admits. “They’re not perfect, but they do love him.”
As the afternoon wears on, there’s a burst of fireworks in the northern sky of the kingdom. We look over and see the starship show begin, and there’s Titania among the other ships, swooping and circling with unabashed joy. They create a series of beautiful, complicated formations in the sky and end with a version of the Lotus. The cheers and roars of the crowds are so loud, we can feel the vibrations all the way from the base ship.
With almost a whole bottle of the mulberry wine in me, it’s easy to picture Rama next to me and trick myself into hearing his voice.
“Really, Ez?” he says, exasperated. “The top of the tallest tower? Do you have any idea how many stairs that is? You know how I feel about stairs!”
“And yet you’re here,” I say tearfully.
He rolls his eyes. “Of course I am. I’m resentful and grumpy and require a nap immediately, but I’m here. I’m always here.”
My eyes blur with tears, so I blink them away and he goes with them.
Sybilla has her mouth stuffed with bread and pork, but Radha looks at me with a little too much understanding. “I talk to him all the time,” she says softly. “It helps, you know?”
I wipe the back of my hand across my nose and say, “We need more wine.”
Sybilla passes over the last bottle, which we waste no time demolishing. It’s sweet and spicy and gets to work chipping away the lump in my throat.
“Where were you the other night?” Sybilla asks Radha. “I checked on you and you weren’t in your bed.”
“That’s slightly alarming.”
“I’m your bodyguard,” Sybilla says, a little too defensively, “it’s my job.”
Radha looks confused. “Well, I have no idea. I’m not even sure which night you mean. Maybe I went to the library to get a book? Esmae might remember, we’ve bumped into each other in there a few times.” Suddenly, she jumps up with a gasp. “What time is it? We have to get ready for the dance tonight! Do we even have time to sober up?”
She dashes down the stairs. Sybilla gives me a you see how annoying she is? look, and follows her. I clear up what’s left of the food, pack the empty bottles into the basket, and take it all down to the kitchens. Then I go back up to my suite to get myself dressed for the dance. I don’t plan to actually dance, but I’m not missing the occasion either. It’s my chance to meet King Yann.
When I enter my suite, my dress for the evening is on the sofa in my outer sitting room. I stop for a moment just to look at it, to touch the soft, fairytale layers of fabric, and I feel a sudden, desperate longing for the girl who came here months ago.
When I first came to Kali, I loved the uncomplicated joy of an almost constant supply of food, beautiful clothes, and frivolous luxuries I had never had before. Hot baths, soft soaps, brightly patterned leggings just because, desserts soaked in honey, dresses made just for me. It was all dizzyingly exciting after seventeen years of small meals and thirdhand clothes.
Now I can’t remember the last time I got dressed in anything other than the dark grays and silvers of my war gear.
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This is the most beautiful dress the palace seamstresses have ever made me. The Lotus Festival is a special occasion, so they took special care with this. It has a fitted torso with a panel of armor on the inside and a layered, floaty skirt. There’s a pair of flat golden dancing slippers on the carpet beside it. The dress itself is a creamy white, the perfect color to add contrast to and warm up my pale bronze skin.
On top of the dress is a thin, delicate gold circlet crafted to look like knotted vines. It’s like the ruler and consort crowns, but smaller and gold instead of silver.
When I eventually put it on, at the end after I’m dressed, the cold vines of gold press into my forehead like the edge of a sword.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Throne Hall has been decorated with lotus flowers for the dance, and the edges of the room are packed with small tables, chairs, refreshments, courtiers, and their families. I see Rickard with his family, including his young grandson Sebastian, who was named after him; and General Khay with two older men I recognize from her file as her fathers; and Laika with her two young children, a boy and a girl, both in identical red dresses; and Jemsy, Henry, and Juniper from the Hundred and One.
I slipped into the Hall without any fanfare, so I have the unusual luxury of a few minutes of peace. Then a courtier recognizes me and sweeps me into conversation, from which I only escape when Rickard rescues me by calling my name in his deep voice.
“I was surprised not to see you in any of the tournaments today,” he says, giving me a quick hug. “Sebastian was most disappointed.”
“I wanted to duel with you,” Sebastian tells me. He’s ten or eleven years old, with bright brown eyes and very dark brown skin. His smile is a light, utterly without reserve. “I don’t think I would have won, but it would have been fun!”
“I agree. What if we have a duel later this week? I promise I won’t go easy on you.”
His entire face lights up. “That would be amazing. What do you think, Grandfather? Could I beat Esmae?”
“I have no doubt you could,” says Rickard. Rickard, who never lies. I swallow my smile, and he gives me a sheepish shrug. He adores that boy.
Across the room, I see Radha come in with Sybilla trailing sullenly after her. Radha’s in a beautiful emerald green gown, while Sybilla has swapped the grays and silvers of her war gear for identical trousers in black, her usual black boots, a white dress shirt, and a fitted black jacket. She undoubtedly has at least three weapons hidden in that jacket.
I meet them in the heart of the room, where they both do the correct thing and curtsey. “You both look beautiful.”
“So do you!” Radha replies.
Sybilla, however, wrinkles her nose. “You look so princessy.”
I snort a laugh. “Thanks.”
Elvar and Guinne are announced, along with King Yann. He looks just like the pictures I’ve seen, and he smiles as he follows them in. It’s the easy, confident smile of someone who knows he is wanted more than he wants to be here. They sit down at the high table that’s replaced the thrones for the night, and I adopt an expression of polite curiosity before leading Radha and Sybilla up to join them.
“King Yann,” says Elvar, once we’ve greeted him, “Allow me to introduce you to Princess Esmae, my niece.”
“Your reputation precedes you, Princess,” the other king says, lifting my hand briefly to his lips.
“As does yours, King Yann,” I say, showing all my teeth in a smile.
He and Radha have met before, so they chat briefly about how their respective families are. Sybilla pours herself a very big glass of mulberry wine from the jug on the table, then says something to one of the guards flanking the high table. Guinne asks me to describe my dress for her. Meanwhile, Elvar taps a nervous rhythm on the table.
Grandmother and Max arrive together. My great-grandmother is regal in scarlet, while Max is dressed in black with a white shirt under his jacket. Grandmother takes an empty seat beside Guinne, which leaves Max to sit next to me. I fidget with the edges of the white tablecloth.
“So this is the crown prince,” King Yann says, and the tone of his voice makes me look up.
Max is polite. “I am.”
“You look so much like your father,” Yann replies. Max automatically glances at Elvar, but Yann laughs. It’s not a nice laugh. “No, not King Elvar. Your other father, the one you were named after. Max. The man your mother Maeve left me for.”
There’s a moment of shocked silence.
Unexpectedly, Guinne intervenes. “Maeve didn’t leave you for Max,” she says. “You asked her to marry you, and she turned you down. Frankly, considering you’ve been married three times since then, I thought you had gotten over the disappointment.”
“You knew about this?” my great-grandmother demands, aghast. “And you didn’t tell us?”
Guinne sighs. “I hoped it wouldn’t come up.”
“Do you know why I accepted this invitation?” King Yann asks, sitting back in his chair and smiling slowly. “I was going to decline, but then I decided I wanted to see him, the son of the woman who rejected me and the man she rejected me for. I thought it might be more satisfying to eat your food, enjoy your hospitality, and see his face fall when I refused to help you.”
Elvar’s hand tightens on his glass. “So you won’t join us. You won’t even consider it.”
“This is not my war,” Yann shrugs. “You have nothing to offer me. What use to me is an alliance with Kali?”
“We may surprise you,” Grandmother says tartly. “Perhaps you should think carefully about what you want, boy, because we may be able to give it to you. Better that than waste this opportunity for the sake of a petty grudge.”
King Yann tips his glass to her, which isn’t a reply but isn’t an outright refusal either. I’d quite like to stab the glass into his eye, but I fear that wouldn’t be productive.
The palace clock chimes above us, nine times. The crowd empties out of an enormous circle of space in the heart of the Hall. Across the room, on a small platform, the musicians reach for their instruments. It’s time to open the dance. It usually starts with Elvar and Guinne dancing alone for a few minutes before everyone else gradually joins in.
Elvar stands and raises a hand for silence. “It has been another glorious Lotus Festival,” he says to the Hall. His voice booms. He sounds every bit the proud, strong king he wants the world to think he is. “And I am honored to have served as your king for another year. Tonight, as always, we will celebrate the end of the gods’ war with a dance, and this year, I am especially pleased to be able to say that Prince Max and Princess Esmae will open the dance.”
“We what?” I say. I dart a look at Max, who looks back at me, just as startled.
“Get a move on then,” Grandmother shoos us. She gives me a pointed look. They want to get Max away from Yann. If they want to have any chance at all at persuading him to help us, Max can’t be there.
Max seems to realize this, too. A muscle flickers in his jaw, but he stands and holds a hand out to me. I take it and walk out into the open space. Everyone watches. As the musicians play the sweet, tentative first notes of an old Kalian lullaby, I pull the pattern of the dance out of my memory and twirl. It’s just a sequence of movements, like a battle formation. It’s slow and sweet, a hand here, a foot there, a twirl.
I try and fail to tell myself that’s all it is. A sequence, a pattern. But I can feel the rise and fall of his chest, can see the frantic flutter of the pulse in the hollow of his throat. Our fingers are linked so tightly, and heat radiates from his other hand right up my back.
I’ve been so careful about not getting this close. I’ve been so careful not to touch him. Because I knew my whole body would come alive, I knew my heart would break, I knew how impossible it would be to turn away.
“Yes,” he says, little more than a croak.
I blink. “Did I accidentally say something out loud again?”
“I never got to answer you that night
, when you asked me if I still wanted you. So I’m answering now. Yes.”
For the first time in months, I look at him, really look at him. His impossibly dark eyes meet mine and I catch my breath at the expression there.
The corners of his eyes crinkle in a smile. “Hello.”
I exhale on a tearful laugh. I put my hands on his face and feel the roughness of his jaw. “You haven’t shaved.”
“You like it when I don’t shave.”
“I can’t stop.” I have to say this, before either of us says anything else. “I know you want me to, but I can’t. Not even for you.”
As if afraid I might vanish into thin air, his fingers tighten on my waist. “I know. I can live with that. Just don’t go.”
“Why would I?”
“Because you always do. You’re a star hurtling at a thousand miles an hour and it’s impossible to hold on to you.”
I swallow. “Try.”
He lowers his head like he’s going to whisper in my ear, but instead, with my hair hiding his mouth from everyone else, his lips brush the curve of my ear, down the lobe, to the sensitive skin underneath. My whole body coils tight as a wire and I stand very still, fingernails pressed hard into his shoulders.
He lifts his head away far too quickly, and there’s mischief in his dark eyes. I open my mouth and what comes out is, “Can we go upstairs?”
But then Sybilla materializes beside us. She glances between us with a very poor attempt to hide her grin, and then she jabs a thumb over her shoulder and says, “King Elvar wants you both back at the table. It’s important.”
And there it is. Reality. The warmth in my body goes cold. Max sighs, but he nods and lets me go.
The Hall is full of dancing couples now, so it takes a minute to get back to the high table. We take our seats and Grandmother says, “It would seem there is something King Yann wants from us after all.”
House of Rage and Sorrow Page 6