A letter opener. It had to be. Not as good as a knife, but it would do. How could she get it into her hands?
“And the rest?” Alizhan pressed. “Do you have another copy of this volume, for comparison? Or maybe something stands out as unusual?”
“Do I look like Prince Ilyr?” Ivardas snapped. “I am a scholar, not a magician. I will need time to solve this puzzle. Perhaps if you left the book with me.”
Alizhan shook her head vigorously.
“In that case, I suggest you read it yourself,” he said. “That is the first step with most books.”
Alizhan looked so mutinous that if her hands hadn’t been bound, she might have hauled back and slapped him. In an effort to redirect the conversation, Ev put aside her own embarrassment at such an ignorant question and said, “Who’s Prince Ilyr?”
To her surprise, it was Zenav who answered. “The prince in Nalitzva—you know, the only man to ever come back from the islands alive? He learned their impossible islander language, too. Supposed to be some kind of genius. People say he can read any language, even one he’s never seen before.”
Ivardas snorted derisively, and then said, “But what do I know?”
“Well, I never met the man. But I guess I don’t know much either.” Zenav laughed humorlessly. “Maybe I’ll join the Temple. Become a Doubter like you.”
Ivardas didn’t welcome this suggestion or the nickname that accompanied it. For a man who’d devoted his life to the fallibility of human knowledge, he placed a lot of value on formal titles.
“He stayed at Varenx House about three years ago,” Alizhan said, though neither man took notice of her. Then, in a louder voice, she asked Ivardas, “You think it’s impossible for someone to read a language they’ve never seen before?”
“Who am I to say what is possible or impossible?” Ivardas said. Ev supposed they should’ve expected that answer. He closed the book, brushing his thumbs over his fingers and then wiping his hands on his robe. “I cannot be certain. But I must remain skeptical of such a rumor. If Prince Ilyr did possess such an ability, he would be marked for death in his own city. Belief in magic is strong in Nalitzva—and the punishments for those who possess it are swift and fatal.”
As Ivardas continued speaking, Ev craned her head to get a better look around the temple. She needed a diversion. Enough time to get the letter opener into her hands and saw at her bindings until she was free. She had no idea what she would do after that. She couldn’t fight both Zenav and Vatik. Could she outrun them? Would she need a head start? What would Alizhan do? Would Ivardas get involved? What about the other people in the entrance hall? One step at a time.
There were people asking questions of the other priests, going about the usual business of the temple. Ev wondered if all the priests were so cranky, and all the answers so unsatisfying. Her gaze traveled the length of the room one more time, and then she sucked in a breath.
Vatik was lurking by the door, watching.
Ev said and did nothing. Zenav was behind her, still holding her staff, and Alizhan was to her left. Alizhan’s body language indicated that she was paying attention to Ivardas. She hadn’t fidgeted once since Ev had caught sight of Vatik.
Unusual. Deliberate, perhaps. Was it a sign? Ev hoped so.
Ev looked directly at Vatik, then glanced at Ivardas’s desk, with its stacks of books, its tall column of illuminated glass, and its little wooden-handled letter opener lying half-hidden under a piece of paper. She thought very, very clearly about what needed to happen next.
“Ilyr’s reputation as a scholar is more likely the result of careful, continuous effort and study,” Ivardas was saying. “Common rumor has elevated his intellect to something supernatural. A dangerous risk, for the prince. He is popular for now, but public opinion could easily turn against him.”
“Earlier, you said ‘for those who possess it’ about magic,” Alizhan said. “You believe?”
“I observe.”
“Have you ever heard of someone being able to erase memories with a touch?”
Ev didn’t need Alizhan’s senses to see that this line of inquiry surprised and troubled Zenav.
“There are all sorts of magic rumored to exist, and there is very little proof of any of it,” Ivardas said. He paused for a long time, weighing his words. “Some rumors strike me as more plausible than others.”
“And?”
“That is one of them.”
There was a silence, and just when it seemed the conversation might be over, Alizhan gasped. Ev followed her stare toward the temple entrance. Vatik was no longer silhouetted in the light of the doorway. He was marching toward them.
“Zenav!” Ev said. He needed no more prompting to stride toward Vatik.
Two large, armed men walking toward each other in a crowded public space was enough to alarm anyone. Visitors scattered, and a few priests rushed forward, hiking up their black robes. The low murmur of conversation heated into argument. A promising beginning, but not enough.
But Vatik’s hand was on his sword hilt. Ev twisted toward the nascent conflict, pitched her voice high, and yelled, “That man is about to draw a blade in the temple!”
And then Vatik obliged her by doing just that. His sword flashed in the darkness as he struck at Zenav.
“How dare he,” Ivardas said with a quiet rage that made Ev shiver. His voice pierced through the roar of priests crying blasphemy at Vatik and onlookers screaming and scrambling to get out of the temple. “He will pay for this.” Then he stood up and strode into the fray, and his steady walk belied the deep wrinkles on his face.
Zenav stepped away from Vatik’s first few strikes, dodging and dancing out of range, his hands raised. He hadn’t drawn his own blade yet, reluctant to commit such a taboo act. From his movements, she guessed he was trying to talk his way out. But Vatik advanced until Zenav was backed against a wall. The crowd encroached on all sides. Zenav was forced to unsheathe his sword to defend himself. A shriek of metal on metal sliced through the noise.
She cringed. This was a sacred space. People might get hurt. She hadn’t been the one to draw a weapon, but Ev couldn’t escape the feeling she’d played a role in the transgression.
Black-robed priests were trying to force their way closer so they could separate Vatik and Zenav. The crowd obscured the fight, the two men caught in a knot of bodies, shouts and shoves drowning out the scrape of swords. There was no time to watch. Ev needed this moment to execute her plan.
Alizhan collided with Ev’s back. With their hands bound, they were unable to right themselves, and they both stumbled, banging their hips into the desk.
Ev put just enough weight on the edge of the desk that the whole thing tipped toward her. The glass lamp fell to the floor and smashed, leaking fluid everywhere. Papers fluttered. The letter opener slid into her cupped hands.
There was such commotion that hardly anyone noticed them knocking over the desk. Alizhan stood close behind Ev, shielding her hands from view while Ev sawed at her bonds.
Chaos consumed the hall. Were Zenav and Vatik still fighting? Had they been driven into the street? That didn’t matter yet. One thing at a time.
The rope parted. Ev’s hands were free.
Alizhan was already in position, holding her wrists out behind her back. Ev cut her bonds with the letter-opener—so much for not drawing a blade in the temple. Alizhan grabbed the book off the table.
There were a hundred people between them and the door, pushing and shoving and trying to spill out into the street. How could they get through? And even if they could, would Zenav and Vatik be waiting?
Before Ev could even shape the words we need another way out, Alizhan’s gloved hand was grabbing hers and they were dashing away from the grand entrance and toward the back of the room. Alizhan pulled Ev through room after room full of bookshelves and writing desks. No wrong turns. No missed steps. She was as quick and as sure as if she’d spent her whole life there. They skidded over stone floors and shoved p
ast shocked priests and servants. Then Alizhan yanked Ev’s arm and veered into a narrow spiral staircase cut into the stone, and they went down into a kitchen, a cellar, and out into an alley.
The angle of the light was different. They were in the shade now. They’d crossed all the way through the cliff and come out on the other side of Denan, and below them was Arishdenan Harbor.
Ev took quick, shallow breaths. They weren’t safe yet. They needed to move. Ev turned to ask Alizhan some unformed question—either how did you do that or what next—and was struck by the bright red trail of blood leaking from Alizhan’s nose. She was shivering and sweating, one shoulder pressed into the wall for support.
Ev reached forward, intending to wipe up some of the blood with her sleeve, and Alizhan collapsed into her arms.
11
Honeycreeper shift, 2nd Triad of Pyer, 761
FORGIVE THIS INCURSION OF THE present into my story, but it is important. His Royal Highness Prince Ilyr of Nalitzva is traveling the world, and his journey has brought him to Laalvur. Supposedly, the Prince does not travel as a diplomatic representative of the crown—does anyone really believe this?—but for his own education. He is preceded by his reputation as a brilliant scholar.
Naturally, I played hostess.
You remember these events, no doubt, but I record the fullness of my observations so that you might compare them with your own.
Ilyr is barely twenty-two years old, golden and lovely, and exactly as well-mannered and charismatic as one hopes a prince will be. Nalitzvans love portraits and statues, and most princes compare poorly with theirs, but Ilyr transcends his. His jaw could easily have been carved from marble. He is athletically gifted, an excellent rider and dancer, curious about the world and passionate about establishing a lasting peace between our two cities. An idealist. A sweet young thing.
There are some good qualities that I have left out of the above list, and a fearsome intellect is one. Ilyr is not by any means stupid. I enjoyed our talks very much. He does have a passable grasp of Laalvuri. But left to ourselves, we conversed mostly in Nalitzvan, as I was more comfortable in his language than he was in mine. He had much to tell me of his travels to Estva and Adappyr, and I was eager to learn his impressions of our city as compared to his own.
You will probably find this knowledge distasteful, but I write so that you may understand my methods as well as my purpose. So I will divulge that I welcomed Ilyr into my home with the intention of using him. A connection to Nalitzvan royalty could serve me in so many of my endeavors, but one in particular, which I am sure you will come to understand as I describe my encounter with the prince and finish telling my story.
Were I not so publicly committed to my faith and modesty, I would have ordered the most revealing gown imaginable for our meeting. But as I have made quite a show of my devotion, I had to exercise some restraint in that respect. Low necklines, high hemlines, slits and tight fits, these things were all out of the question. Still, it was a stunning ensemble, as my tailor is worth double her considerable weight in gold: a slippery-soft silk in lustrous red, opulently draped to flow over my figure. Nothing was revealed, and yet much was suggested.
I went without a face veil, and I left my hair uncovered as well. Even a modest woman may do so in the privacy of her own home, among friends, and there was no more precious accoutrement for my dress than the burnished gold of my hair, that rare color that is a sure sign of Nalitzvan ancestry. Mine may be the youngest of the four Houses, but the prince had chosen to accept my hospitality rather than theirs.
The prince is blond, and I had heard rumors that his betrothed shared this quality, so I thought it might be a preference of his. Uncovering my hair would signal our closeness before I even began. These preparations are half the battle. Happily, it is not usually necessary for me to sleep with men to get what I want from them. Suggestion suffices.
Such conquests, if they even deserve that name, are predictable. Surprises are a rare pleasure for me. Ilyr was a pleasure indeed. A young man obviously and utterly immune to my charms. I welcomed the challenge.
Everything became clear on the second triad of his visit, when I hosted the heads of the other three Houses, Mar ha-Solora, Sideran ha-Katavi, and Ezatur ha-Garatsina, their families, and a handful of other notable citizens at a party. Ha-Solora is, of course, a beautiful man—how it pains me to give that condescending brute any credit at all—and Ilyr did a poor job of hiding his interest.
You declined to tell me Ilyr’s secret on the first triad of his visit. I think perhaps you took a liking to him and wanted to help. You are admirably kindhearted, my little shade-blooming flower, but protecting Ilyr will require more than one person’s silence, and his secret is so plainly observable that it hardly deserves the name. I did not need your help to discover it, and neither will many others.
Nalitzva is not an easy place to live for those with his inclinations, and I pity him. If he is ever to accomplish anything as king, he will need to learn to disguise his desires.
Once I knew what he wanted, the matter was simple. I had to distract that fat old boor Ezatur, and the insufferable chatterer Sideran, both of whom had cornered the prince with their hopelessly unsubtle machinations. Ezatur was talking about his insipid daughters, as though the prince might be persuaded to throw aside his life-long betrothal for dull girls who can barely string together two thoughts. Sideran was rather obviously harboring the even more futile design of sleeping with him herself. Even if Ilyr had been attracted to women, Sideran is as unpleasant in personality as she is beautiful. Her late husband thought he could accept that compromise, but I am quite sure she talked him to death.
Ezatur and Sideran sorely tested the prince’s diplomacy, and I let them go on for a time just to see how long he could keep smiling. But I am not unduly cruel, and I did intervene.
“Ezatur, doesn’t Sideran look lovely this shift?”
Trapped by good manners, he had to agree.
“Oh, well,” Sideran started, turning her attention toward him. “I don’t know, this tunic doesn’t fit me quite as well as it should, and I told my tailor…” She continued, and Ezatur did his best to look interested.
“Let me get you a glass of wine, Your Highness,” I said, offering a hand to Ilyr, which he accepted gratefully. He slipped out of the corner, and I led him to the balcony, where we would be able to have a more intimate conversation. Mar was already seated in one of the chairs, drinking alone, as I knew he would be. He avoids social gatherings unless there are beautiful and charming women to chat with. If Mar has noticed that I am the only such woman present at my own parties, he has never mentioned it.
I gestured to the chair next to Mar’s, and then picked up the glass pitcher of honey-colored wine from the low table so I could pour Ilyr a glass. “This comes from some vineyards I own, near our western border with Hapir,” I said. I oversaw breeding of the varietal myself, but I could not mention that; my interest in cultivating new plants was a sin against God’s Balance. The Temple remains unaware of it, but it pleases me to share the secret here. I digress. Hapiri wine is sweet, delicious if you like that sort of thing, but its most useful quality is that its flavor disguises its strength.
Ilyr had not yet taken his seat. He was standing and staring at the view of the sun suspended over the glittering ocean. I was glad he appreciated it, since I was dressed to match in red and gold.
“The sun is so much higher in the sky here,” he said. “The light is so much warmer than in Nalitzva.”
“So are the people, if you listen to stories,” Mar said.
“Oh, but how can that be true, when His Highness has been nothing but warm and generous since his arrival?”
“You flatter me,” Ilyr said.
And how easy it is. I sat down on the couch that was positioned opposite their chairs, with the table between us. I poured myself a glass of wine to sip, but left the dishes of olives, almonds, bread, thornfruit, and orange slices untouched. I needed to focus
.
I moved some pillows so I could partially recline on my side, folding my knees and spreading my skirts just so. The effect might have been lost on Ilyr, but at least Mar was there to enjoy it.
Once the three of us were comfortably ensconced in conversation, I pressed Ilyr on the subject of his travels.
“It is quite impressive, this mission of yours,” I said. “What a pity that you will be unable to explore the hidden cultures of our world. Wouldn’t that be daring, and noble, to bring to light something truly unknown?”
“The islands?” Mar said, understanding immediately. He is sharp. Not as sharp as he thinks he is; just sharp enough that I can depend on him to serve my purpose without fully understanding what is afoot. “Are you mad?”
“But think,” I said. “Who better to finally breach their deadly waters than a charming royal diplomat, promising a peaceful exchange of knowledge?”
“Perhaps you could,” Mar said, addressing Ilyr contemplatively. He was reluctant to admit my point, but equally reluctant to offend the prince. “Still, it would be almost impossible. You’d have a hell of a time finding a willing crew. It’s suicide to sail anywhere near the islands.”
“But imagine what gifts you could bring to the world if you succeeded,” I said. “And I am ever so interested in the culture of the islands, since they keep themselves isolated. They say—well, it would not be proper to speak of it.”
“We all know what they say about the islands,” Mar said.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” Ilyr said. “I’m not sure that I do.”
As I suspected. His royal education had left out certain subjects. “They say,” I began. I looked away for a moment and managed to conjure the daintiest of blushes. “They say the islanders do not always wear clothes. And they say—they say—”
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