by Beth Alvarez
She stepped forward slowly, half expecting more servants would spring from the woodwork. Wide arched windows kept the room bright and a narrow door in the far corner opened into a private bath chamber that was almost as large as her room back at the temple. The tub looked like bronze, worked with the same vines as the furniture. Shelves rimmed the tops of the walls, packed with jars and bottles, scented soaps and candles.
Firal had scarcely set foot in the room before a girl appeared behind her with a large kettle of steaming water. More girls filed in behind her with kettles for the tub. Firal stepped aside to let them in. None of the girls said a word to her until the great bronze tub was halfway filled. Considering it was so deep that it stood almost to her thigh, that was plenty. She had to insist on stripping off her grungy dress on her own, shooing the maids out of the bath chamber, though they wouldn’t leave until she promised to pass her dress out to be washed and checked for size. It was awkward enough to be bathing in a strange place. She might have died of embarrassment if she’d had to let strange girls bathe her, too.
She climbed into the bath and welcomed the heat of the water, sinking until it covered her shoulders, letting the weariness seep out of her bones. Bottles of oils and bars of soap sat on a ledge behind the tub. She smelled some and sampled others, puzzling at how some of them fizzed in the water. The bubbles tingled against her skin. Raking wet fingers through her hair left streaks of dirt on her hands. Wrinkling her nose, she sucked in a breath and dipped beneath the surface. A scented soap worked well enough for scrubbing her hair, and she washed it three times over before the water came away clear. She reheated the water with a touch of magic more than once, not caring that it would have gotten her in trouble back in the temple. All her fingers and toes were shriveled by the time she dragged herself out of the tub and wrapped herself in a thick towel the maids had left for her use.
When Firal emerged from her bath, a pale ivory dress and matching slippers waited on the bed. It was a better fit than most of the hand-me-down clothing she owned, but she figured there was no shortage of colors or sizes of clothing for visitors to the palace.
A bit of searching produced a comb and Firal seated herself in a chair beside the windows to work the knots from her hair while gazing outside.
There was a lot to see beyond the palace gardens. Sun-bleached wooden buildings stood at the edges of the city, mingled with the pale canvas tents and low cottages that belonged to merchants. Closer to the palace, thatched roofs were a cheerful splash of gold against the drab backdrop of pale stone houses and busy roadways. From where she sat, the countless people on the roads looked no bigger than mice.
From her new vantage point, she also noticed most of the streets led toward two buildings: the palace she rested within, and a tall, white building with a verdigris roof, halfway across the city. Firal hadn’t noticed it on her way to the palace. A belfry rose from the front of the structure, enclosed with stained glass windows and hosting a large, round plate of milk-white glass on the front. Regular marks encircled the plate’s outer edge, two verdigris arms reaching in seemingly random directions from its middle. It wasn’t until she looked again that she realized the longer of the arms had changed position since she’d first looked. Firal had heard of clocks, of course, but seeing one was a sharp reminder of how far from the temple she really was.
“Brant’s chapel is beautiful, isn’t it, my lady?”
Firal jumped and squeaked.
“Begging your pardon, my lady.” The maid bowed politely. “You did not answer when I knocked, so I thought you were still in the bath. I was sent to fetch you for supper, if you don’t protest.”
Firal hadn’t even heard a knock. “No, of course not. I would be more than happy to attend.” She set aside her comb, the worst of the snarls already removed from her damp hair. She hadn’t noticed the grumbling of her stomach until the maid’s mention of food. Tea with Medreal and Ran had been pleasant, but a proper meal sounded delightful. If she’d been glad to see what the inn had to offer, she was certain she’d enjoy the hospitality the king had to share.
16
Kin and Kindred Spirits
“Check.” The air in the room grew heavy with the announcement.
Kifel studied every piece on the board, considering his options with a growing frown. “Every move you make seems to be an act of desperation.” He traced back through the game in his mind. His hand hovered above the carved pieces for a long time before he moved one to defend his king.
“Perhaps it is.” Ran made his next move without an ounce of hesitation. “Have you decided yet?”
“Not yet,” Kifel replied, removing a piece from the board as he countered.
“It isn’t as if you have any other choices.” Ran didn’t manage to keep the irritation out of his voice, though even if he had, his eyes would have betrayed the emotion. Watching him was almost as interesting as watching the chessboard. Kifel did a much better job of keeping his thoughts in check, his expression serene.
Ran’s mouth tightened when he did not respond. He made his move. “Check.”
Kifel plucked the threatening piece off the board. “It takes courage to play chess in such a reckless manner. Aren’t you afraid of losing?”
“You’re skirting the issue,” Ran growled.
“It’s an issue I’d rather not discuss now. To be honest, I don’t think you’re ready.” If their casual game made Ran forget who he was playing against, Kifel’s stony expression and hard tone should remind him. “I don’t think you’ll be ready for a long time.”
“And someone else is better prepared? I’ve been here, Father! How many years has it been? How long are you going to keep looking? You have me!”
Kifel sat in silence. His outward composure never faltered, no matter how the words dug beneath his skin. When he found his voice, his tone softened. “It seems that every time we meet, now, we’re locked in some sort of duel. We’ve crossed swords, met fists, now this.”
Ran slammed a fist against the table, jarring pieces out of place. “Stop putting this off! Will you crown me or not? Will you ever recognize me, or are you just planning on leaving me to rot?”
“It’s your move,” the king replied patiently.
“No,” Ran snapped. He dashed discarded pieces off the table as he rose from his seat and planted his hands where they’d been. “It’s yours. I’ve waited for too long. What is it you’re afraid of? You know exactly what will happen to your kingdom if you sit for too long with no heir. And yet you’re still waiting? Explain this to me! What are you waiting for? What better option do you think you have? Blood or not, I am your son!” His voice cracked, though only anger shone in his eyes. “Yet you refuse to recognize me. After everything I’ve done, after everything you’ve taught me, am I still not enough?”
“You’re young. You’re reckless.” Kifel kept his voice level, though it was a greater challenge than he expected. The emotion he reined in planted itself in his throat and made it hard to speak. “Power is a dangerous thing. I’ve taught you everything I can, but you won’t learn to keep yourself in check. It doesn’t matter what your heart wants when you’re in a position like this. Until you can learn to rule your heart with your head, there is nothing more I can offer you.”
Ran stared at him for a long time. His jaw tightened, his eyes never leaving Kifel’s face. He lifted a piece and thudded it down on the board. “Check mate,” he said through clenched teeth before he thrust himself away from the table and stalked from the room.
Kifel clasped his hands together and rested his chin against them as he stared down at his defeated ivory king. The sight of the obsidian knight that had backed him into a corner sent a chill down his spine.
His own days of reckless youth seemed a shadowed, distant memory. He wished it were as simple as naming Ran as his heir, but it wasn’t. The black eye-ink of a court Master the boy now wore only complicated things further.
Mages were granted power and authority across the
island, in both his kingdom and the human kingdom alike. A part of Kifel wanted to be proud that Ran had achieved such strength in so little time. Some mages studied for the better part of a century before they were granted the eye-marks that distinguished them as leaders in power. But as he’d told Envesi, Ran was his son, blood or otherwise. That the Archmage granted him such a rank created a conflict of interest.
There had never been true peace between he and King Relythes of the Giftless lands, but Kifel took some pride in that they had sat for years without war. There were occasional disputes, but both sides seemed content to remain silent and aloof, the distance separating them serving as a shield. They were both given to arrogance, he admitted. Neither half had named their kingdom, referring to the land only by the island’s name—Elenhiise. As if ruling half somehow gave them the sole authority to use the name.
The recent increase in skirmishes and raids along the border had been concerning enough, but for Kifel’s only viable heir to be promoted to a rank that would give him access to and power in Relythes’s kingdom could only spell trouble. Whether Relythes would see it as an attempt to spy or part of some more sinister plot, Kifel didn’t know.
“Majesty?” Medreal called from the doorway, interrupting his thoughts.
Kifel sighed. “Yes.”
She inched farther inside. “I apologize that I was not at the door when you arrived. I came as soon as I heard you’d returned from your errands.”
“Forgiven,” Kifel said, rubbing his eyes. “I should have sent word that I’d be returning early. Are things in order for the ball?”
“The banquet hall and ballroom have both been decorated, food has been gathered and stowed in the pantries, and so far everything is proceeding as planned.”
“What would I do without you?” Kifel pushed himself up as if the movement pained him.
“You would try to manage everything yourself and the turrets would fall down around your ears,” she teased, though her eyes were full of pity. “The first of our guests arrived with Lomithrandel yesterday. He insisted that we put her up. I figured it best to let you speak to her. We have treated her as best we could without you here, my liege. She has been informed of your arrival and is waiting for you in your office.”
He grimaced. “Dragging peasant girls into the castle and then expecting me to crown him during the solstice. He’ll be the end of me, Medreal, I’m sure of it.”
The elderly woman shooed him off with one hand and turned to resume her day’s work. He did not doubt that the turrets really would fall down around his ears without her assistance.
Kifel made his way through the hallways on his own, pausing at the intricately carved wooden doors of his office. He was more practical than his ancestors, finding the large doors unnecessary for a private office, but all he could do was ignore them. He slipped inside and scanned the too-large room twice before he saw her. She was easy to miss, standing in the far corner beside one of the many high windows that lined the wall. Kifel’s brow furrowed. The mageling was the last person he’d expected.
Firal had not dressed in finery for their meeting, something he found rather refreshing. Her ebony hair hung loose about her shoulders and her ivory gown only emphasized how dark her curls were. It was a charming image, one that stirred burdened memories and an ache in his heart. He couldn’t help but sigh. “I suppose I ought to apologize that he pulled you into this.”
Firal wheeled to face him, a crimson flush in her cheeks. She dropped into a bow before he could stop her.
“There’s no need for that,” he reassured her as he crossed the room to sit at his desk. “Actually, I’d prefer if you didn’t. Please, come sit. I have to say I’m not surprised it’s you that he’s brought along.”
“I beg your pardon?” Firal gathered her skirts and made her way to sit as he’d directed.
“Ran has always been...particular about who he is seen with, due to his circumstances. I suppose after our little bout of swordplay, he’s comfortable having you in the palace.” Kifel leaned back in his chair, grateful for the thick cushions. The weight of his troubles had begun to make him feel old.
She blushed again. “I suppose you are right, Majesty.”
“Please, don’t worry about the formalities while we’re in private. If you are a friend of his, then you are a friend of mine.” He smoothed back his tawny hair and frowned when she didn’t relax. “I suppose by now you’ve been fitted for the dress I’ve bought you?”
Firal’s amber eyes grew wide. “So it was you.”
“A gift,” he said. She opened her mouth to protest and he lifted a hand to stop her. “Please, don’t misunderstand my intentions.” Kifel had not even considered the gift he’d purchased on Ran’s behalf might be misconstrued until Medreal prompted him. He was older than Firal by decades—perhaps centuries, considering the way the Eldani aged. But he was still well within the prime of life, and he was without a queen. It would have been easier to explain had Ran not asked that his name not be attached to the gift. An odd request, but Kifel assumed it had something to do with the embarrassment of asking for it.
“Actually,” she said, “I feel a bit better knowing it came from you. The seamstress didn’t show me what the style was to be and she wouldn’t let me change it. I was afraid it was some prank Ran was trying to pull. I’m sure he’d dress me in something positively indecent.”
Kifel laughed. “I wouldn’t put it past him,” he admitted. Now he understood why Ran hadn’t wanted her to know who the gown was from. Perhaps he’d been mistaken in assuming Ran meant to court her. “But I don’t imagine he’ll bother you during the solstice. He and I seem to be of differing opinions on certain...political matters, as of late. I would be surprised if he still made an appearance.”
“I don’t see why he wouldn’t,” she said. “I’d think he might enjoy an event somewhere he doesn’t have to hide who he is.”
Kifel raised a brow. “I’m surprised he spoke of his position within my household with you.”
“I suppose he had no choice, really, having to explain why he was sparring with the King of Elenhiise.” Firal smiled wryly and lifted her chin. She was pretty, he decided; not the sort of woman he personally preferred, but her soft features bore a sweetness about them, and her pale, dewy skin was unusual for an islander. She was different. Kifel understood why Ran might be charmed.
“Indeed,” he murmured. “In any event, since my son has welcomed you into my palace, you are free to roam as you will. Once the solstice is past, I will have you and the rest of the temple’s guests escorted back to Kirban.”
Firal squirmed in her seat. He tried not to let it bother him. It would be foolish to expect her to be comfortable in his presence, regardless of her apparent comfort with Ran.
“I beg your pardon, Majesty,” she began, averting her eyes, “but I don’t see why you would spare so much effort for magelings. The temple treats us like children. I expected the same treatment here.”
Kifel gave a low chuckle. A number of rumors had swirled around the event, the most popular of which claiming that he had organized the ball with the intent to select a new bride. It was not that far from the truth—it merely focused on the wrong bachelor. “Crowned or not, Lomithrandel is of marriageable age. I would prefer to keep his options open.”
“I don’t...you mean, all this is a ploy to have him around women?” Firal gaped.
“Regardless of whether or not he is my blood, I would like to have grandchildren before my time ruling comes to an end.” He tried to smile, though the expression was halfhearted at best. “Would that my wife had given me more children before I lost her, too.”
Firal sat straighter. “You did lose a child of your own,” she said, too thoughtful for his liking.
Kifel pursed his lips. He’d tried too hard to bury that memory to let it resurface now. “I think that’s enough discussion for now. I enjoyed our visit. As I said, please make yourself comfortable in my palace. I doubt our paths will cr
oss again before the solstice.” He gestured toward the doors with one hand, wordlessly dismissing her.
She opened her mouth, but a sharper gesture cut her off. Apparently thinking better of speaking, Firal rose from her seat and dipped into a deep curtsy before she removed herself from the king’s office.
Left to wander on her own, it didn’t take long for Firal to become lost in the sprawling expanse of hallways. She felt a little more at ease knowing she was welcome to explore, but she couldn’t help the color that rose into her cheeks every time a maid or servant crossed her path. They scattered like dry leaves as soon as they caught sight of her, which made them seem less like people and more like ghosts.
When one girl brushed past her with an armful of linens, she murmured more profuse apologies than Firal had ever heard. Being treated with such deference was oddly unnerving. In the temple, magelings were treated as if they were always underfoot and needing to be looked after. But the servants here didn’t know her rank, and even if they had, their behavior likely wouldn’t have been much different. To the Giftless, a mage was a mage, all of them worthy of respect.
Firal paused when she stepped into a hallway lined with paintings on one side and windows overlooking the royal gardens on the other. The windows reached nearly from floor to ceiling. An uneasy feeling brewed in her stomach when she tried to peer out them, so she turned her attention to the paintings, instead.
There were paintings of generals, paintings of ships, portraits of the prior king and queen. She saw one or two family portraits showing King Kifelethelas as a child. Then there was a portrait of Kifel and a woman, her hair dark and her features lovely, but her eyes an eerily familiar shade of icy blue. Firal paused before the image and looked closer. Mage blue, she decided. There was quite a difference between eyes that were naturally blue and those that were the cold, eerie shade earned with magic. She forced herself to move on. A few more images of King Kifel with his parents, then one that stopped her dead in her tracks.