by E. J. Beaton
“Uncle!” Jale said, bounding up to embrace him. “You’ve been busy, eh?”
“I have found time to look into a few profitable endeavors.” Vigarot Chamboise detached himself from his nephew. “Your marriage among them. We should celebrate your last days of unwed bliss, Jale. But you must introduce me to your friends—I fear they do not have the stomach for our sun.”
Lysande worked hard to exude what she hoped was a serene aura. Hands were shaken, introductions given, and each of the Council made their courtesies and compliments. Vigarot Chamboise gave a curt bow to Cassia, Luca, and Lysande, yet he did not bow to Dante, who merely raised a hand. The Valderrans kept their fingers on their swords as Jale led them through the columns.
Lysande made every effort to repress the pain in her chest. She could feel the bubble expanding and expanding inside her, threatening to burst, but it would not do to collapse on ten thousand cadres’ worth of rubies. Her footsteps echoed across the foyer of Rayonnant Palace. She passed over a tile encrusted with so many gems that it might have been a rainbow: mosaics of bulls fighting and lovers riding a swan, and a smooth stone set with a school of fish swirling in an arc of sapphires; strange, she thought, how even if you saw the underbelly of the system that built such wealth, you could still be arrested by the sight of the glories it produced.
Yet she was hurried through without much time to be awed. A herald in blue-and-gold livery bowed to Jale and flung open the far doors.
“His Acting Majesty Vigarot is pleased to announce the return of the jewel of the south and the true son of the desert: the radiant Prince of all Lyria, Jale Chamboise!”
Instead of a vaulted ceiling, Lysande found herself walking under a dome with a hole at the top, through which rays of light streamed. Gold wreathed the dozens of people in thin raiment who rose from their benches. A shower of sun fell on headpieces and heraldic pins, illuminating every member of the court, and on the far side, the beams glanced off five throne-like chairs, each embellished with the letter of a city: L, V, A, P, R.
Lysande decided to concentrate on those letters. If she did, she could almost ignore the agony in her lungs and her thoughts about what the eyes traversing her body might see.
“And with him comes the Council of Elira,” the herald cried, “soon to celebrate the union of our great land with Bastillón! Your Councillors, Lyria!”
Thunderous applause; Jale beamed and nodded, and the rows of nobles bowed to him as he led them through. Derset pointed out the noble families of Lyria in a low voice as Lysande walked: the Chateliers and the Gaincourts, sporting so many bracelets and necklaces that they seemed to be competing with sapphires; the De Clair sisters, holding their ceremonial swords, and the Prichet family, who had recently survived the spotting-plague.
Lysande surveyed her hosts, noticing, even through the haze of anxiety, the fine edgework on their necklaces and bracelets. No commoners here, then. Logic told her that none of these people in their elegant clothes could have guessed what she was feeling, but something else made her fear that they would know the silver had turned black: that she was being stabbed from the inside.
At least my jail will be comfortable. She heard trumpets blare.
Vigarot Chamboise ushered the Council to the gold chairs at the end and asked Dante to remove his outer fur, and although the First Sword did so without any ill grace, the Valderrans muttered and cast dark looks at Vigarot. Lysande felt a spurt of relief when Jale stood up and silenced the room.
“Ladies and lords of Lyria, I’ve assured our guests that they will be treated with more splendor than you can shake a sword at. Let’s show them what we do with southern gold!”
More applause; louder cheering. One of the Chateliers jingled a wrist enthusiastically. Lysande saw women and men gazing at Jale with chins tilted toward him, some with eyes brightened and cheeks flushed, not bothering to hide their admiration.
“They say a ball in the north is an event you remember all your life,” Jale went on, raising a hand, “but in Lyria, we don’t call it a celebration if you can remember your name in the morning! So let’s make this a Sapphire Ball . . . not to remember, but to forget!” The court whistled and laughed. “Before we get to the preparations, however, my uncle has a proposal.”
Vigarot Chamboise stepped out in front of the chairs. From the look of polite inquiry on Jale’s features, Lysande guessed that the prince had not been privy to the idea.
“On the Council’s journey here, there was a heinous attack on our ships,” Vigarot announced. “It would seem that elemental scum are on the move again, and if they strike on the Grandfleuve, who is to say they will not strike at us here, downriver? To protect our Council and citizens, I move that the Lyrian guard be doubled at the Sapphire Ball. A special guard for the ballroom, to be selected from our elite ranks.” He looked around slowly. “And new swords for every woman and man in armor.”
Muttering and whispering broke out in earnest. Luca leaned forward, Tiberus coiling around his neck. “Convenient timing,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Cassia said.
Lysande felt a rush of desire for the calming effect of scale and fought to concentrate. Vigarot turned to face them. “I believe Prince Fontaine wishes to remind you that it is the responsibility of the crown to pay for security at such an event,” he said.
“Of course,” Dante said, loud enough for Lysande and the others to hear clearly. “You refit your army at our expense.”
“Devils who channel primal forces are afoot. You must see the need for the ball to be adequately defended, First Sword.” Vigarot kept up a beatific expression. “Assuming, that is, that you want it to go ahead . . . I would never doubt your commitment, but others will talk.”
Lysande could not see a hint of geniality in Dante’s eyes. The First Sword gave the slightest inclination of his head. “Valderos supports the decision of the prince of Lyria.”
The court was peering at them. Vigarot Chamboise flashed a particularly bright smile before turning back to face the benches.
“Let it be known,” he said, glancing at Dante, “that Lyria supports the safety of its Council. And we hope that by forging a chain between my nephew and Princess Ferago, our land will be safe from elementals.” He unsheathed his sword and raised it. “The vermin who gnaw at the foundations of our culture may scuttle to their leader again, but Lyria will hunt them down. Glory to Elira, the puzzle realm. And death to all elementals!”
The cheering reverberated around the circular room before any of them could speak. It pounded in Lysande’s ears like a drum, and though she saw Luca frown and Jale look displeased, none of them rose to silence the crowd. Family by family, the nobles stood, drawing their smallswords and echoing the cry: “Death to elementals! Death to elementals! Death to elementals!”
Vigarot Chamboise bowed and smiled so politely that his face seemed to strain. Lysande did not really see him, however—she saw the blotch on the bracelet in her mind’s eye, the black tinge creeping across the silver, and as the cheering reached its final crescendo, she felt the daggers in her lungs begin to thrust again.
* * *
• • •
Defense diverted her as soon as she left the courtroom. Raden rode back from a nearby town, wearing a grim smile. The secret party of Axium Guards possessed weapons made of the finest capital steel, he assured her, and all of them knew how to use them; sixteen of the twenty elite dagger-throwers had been spared from their posts, and two hundred of the most dangerous women and men waited in Flemency, just five miles from the city.
Lysande found this one piece of good news a tonic for her spirits. She had a longing to sit down with Litany and Raden and a bottle of wine, and ease her soul further with a hand of cards—or ease it in other ways with Derset—but there were more pressing games to play.
If the rules of honest and open engagement were to be respected, then she should ha
ve been collaborating with Luca in this strategy. She knew it, and yet she brushed it aside. The kind of collaboration she imagined having with Luca was not the kind that involved military preparation.
She gave orders for the guards to be dressed as pilgrims and brought to inns across Lyria, trying not to dwell too long on what Luca might say if he found out. A careful dispersion seemed necessary, since two hundred Axiumites in robes would not escape notice, and Vigarot Chamboise had given strict orders about the number of guards each city could install. She made plans and drew up lists in her head. The Axiumites would need crown buckles, robes, and prayer-books to avoid questioning. She felt a twinge of guilt about the bone people, who could surely have done with new clothes, but she had to keep that line of thought in the back of her mind; an invasion could burn through any reforms like a flame through paper.
“You’re all right, aren’t you?” Raden said.
She froze, one hand gripping her chair. “Why in the Three Lands shouldn’t I be?”
“Don’t know . . . I thought nearly being killed by a ball of fire falling out of the sky might’ve shaken you a little.”
“Oh, yes. Positively shaken.”
Calm yourself, she thought. It’s not him you have to worry about.
He gave her a mock salute as he strode away, and she managed to return it. Even in a palace decorated with Lyrian gold, Raden still swaggered.
No books on magical powers could be found in the palace library, though she had not really expected to find any; the only references to magic in Axium’s collection she had discovered, aside from interpretations of the Old Signs, were records of battles fought and chimeras slain—as if elementals were stock figures to be moved around the stage of history. She could not quite believe that she was one of these people. That was how history worked, though. If you could not write yourself into the long story, the story that wove through decades and centuries, then others would write you out of it. Before you knew it, you found yourself clutching the few pieces of your life that had endured, the words spoken on the doorstep of an orphanage, passed down to you in scraps.
Of all the people she had met since her appointment as Councillor, only Three would understand. Perhaps he would even be able to tell her when she could expect the maturation process to begin. But he was not here. Damn him. Instead, she was surrounded by the group of people most likely to notice her symptoms. She ought to be checking over her shoulders. Jale knew about elementals. Luca’s gaze could slice through layers of her person, even if he went still at her touch, and he might have deduced her true nature just by observing her. Dante, the hungriest for the persecution of magical people, might know the signs best of all. A week ago, she would have counted Cassia as her friend, but now she had burned that rose garden away. Cassia had as much reason as any to examine her with suspicion.
And then there was Derset. It would be easy to forget about all of this and pull him under her, sliding into a state of solace. She yearned to be feeling nothing but the warmth of one body against another. Breathe deeply, she told herself, and do something useful.
She worked her muscles by practicing in the indoor target range, and she was almost satisfied with her progress when a stab of pain in her lungs sent her tottering. Her dagger spun off course and landed in a potted plant.
“No more strain in this heat.” Litany wrapped an arm around her. “Time for rest.”
It was a gift that a girl with such sharp skills could care for her. She let herself be bustled back to her suite, which contained everything that might be expected from a palace presided over by Jale: a painting of the coronation feast of Princess Charine Orvergne adorned almost an entire wall, and her bed had been decorated with mirrored glass, covered in blue silk, and draped with a mosquito net flecked with sapphires. A design of a chimera carrying the sun on its back on one of the bathroom tiles did not surprise her as much as it might have; she thought of Severelle’s description of the southern practice of sun-worship, a sacred connection embodied in the act of sitting, whether on painted tiles or cracked stone. In the path of the morning sun, the Lyrians claim, the magic of light reawakens the spirit.
Had not Charice argued that nature and the elements were as lovers, a fusion from which the chimera had also emerged? Too easy to imagine the spots of color in Charice’s cheeks, the spots she had cherished because they were so rarely displayed. She could not help but think that if not for the crown’s rules, Lyria might have tolerated people like Charice and Three . . . and herself.
A balcony hung out over the palace gardens, complete with a pool, so that if she chose to swim, she could look down at swirls of pebbles and bowls of heart-flowers. Twin summerharps rested on the stands that flanked the desk. An attendant offered to play them; another offered to change the water in the bathroom, and another offered to bring food every couple of hours; yet the visitor waiting on her window sill pleased her most.
Three’s speckled dove cooed softly into her hand. Lysande took out paper and her gold quill, but after several attempts to compose, she merely wrote Thank you for moving quickly. Come to me as soon as you can, sealed the envelope, and passed it to Cursora.
Litany garbed her in a thin cotton suit for bathing and escorted her to the pool, where the water was cool and sweet-smelling, and full of some southern crystal that made it sparkle, soothing her skin and senses. The pain receded until it was almost possible to forget the black stain on the bracelet and the sound of the court shouting “Death to elementals!” In the water, it all seemed very far away.
“Come and join me, Litany,” she said. “I won’t have you scuttling through the halls alone, before you get a moment’s rest.”
When the stars came out above them, her lungs cleared again and she could breathe in without pain. She did not mind at all that Litany had settled beside her on the ledge and rested her head upon her shoulder: it was nice to stroke the girl’s hair and to feel her closeness.
If she knew what I am, she reminded herself, she might not sit so near. The thought of losing Litany pierced her, in a manner that surprised her. She could not bear to think that the attendant who had chewed her food and assessed it, filched a purse from Luca, and climbed into the rigging amidst the attack at sea might turn on her one day, after all that had changed and developed between them.
No pains of a maturation woke her in the night, even though she had feared they would. Mosquitoes butted their heads against the net and circled her; but the city rose before she did, and the buzz of commoners going about their business had well and truly started by the time she sat up. Lysande finished a breakfast of fiery balls of rice and pickled vegetables, sharing it with her attendant after Litany pronounced it safe. While Litany was smoothing down a doublet, Lysande took out her goblet, spoon, vial, and jar of blue flakes and gazed at them for a while. Her hand seized the jar just as a knock sounded at the door.
It shocked her, the speed at which Litany swept the jar from the table, along with the goblet, snatching the spoon and vial in one hand and slipping all four items into their chest.
“Pardon the interruption, my lady,” Derset said, leading in a slim youth in gold livery, “but this gentleman insisted on seeing you.”
The boy strode in and bowed. “I have the honor to be your guide, Councillor. His Highness wishes to delight the Council with the three wonders of Lyria: the Monument of Silver, the famous Pavilion of Songs, and of course, the Hill of Oblitara—”
“The Hill of Oblitara?” Lysande cried.
The guide paused. “Yes,” he said, “there is only one.”
“I had no notion that we could walk upon a site dating back to the Conquest.”
How Sarelin would have smiled to see her visiting somewhere from the Songs she had translated. And yet it felt different to consider the Conquest, now, when she knew which side her ancestors had been on. You could not smile at stories from a distance when you had been written into
them.
“We can really ascend to the place where the chimera Oblitara was slain?”
“If we leave before the sun is at is zenith, yes, Councillor.”
Derset smiled, and she gave him a look that said she could take a hint. “You may thank Prince Chamboise,” she told the guide. “We will only be a minute.”
The boy bowed and retreated. “His Highness says you can only climb two hundred steps, however,” he added, as he walked out.
She began to gather her belt and boots, and nodded to Litany to leave. Once the door was closed, she gestured to Derset to draw near. It was easier to stand in proximity to him since he had dived to cover her from fire. “We began a conversation on the ship.” She fixed her daggers in their sheaths. “I would finish it now.”
Derset bowed. “After the attack, it occurred to me—and as I say, I have since realized that it may have been no more than a fancy—that when the first fireball struck the deck of the ship, it seemed to land where you had been sitting. Right on your chair. Prince Fontaine had invited you to play tactos near the prow just before the elementals attacked.”
There was a knock at the door—most likely the guide—but they both ignored it. Lysande felt her hands clench. “Go on, my lord.”
“The thought crossed my mind that his new alliance with you might be no more than an act, designed to lull you into sitting where he asked . . . that he might have arranged for an attack on you. But I have since reflected that I was wrong to think so. The magical fire was thrown from a long way off.”