The two men Willow had seen wagering approached Kerish. One of them said something in a rueful tone of voice that Kerish laughed at. The other grinned and punched Kerish lightly on the arm. Kerish pretended to be hurt, which made the other two laugh as they walked away. “Those two have been my sparring partners for years,” Kerish told Willow. “They wagered on how long it would take me to win that duel. I think Arjan has never once won that bet no matter how often they make it.”
“Is that man going to die?” Felix asked.
“No, Abakian Raena is too smart for that. Though not smart enough to realize what would happen if she challenged Willow to an honor duel. I don’t know what she was thinking. Possibly that a foreigner wouldn’t know our customs enough to ask for a champion. Even so,” Kerish added, “if Terjalesh had lost to you, it would have looked even worse for Abakian than me defeating him.”
“You just fought a duel for me,” Willow said. “I had no idea how incredibly romantic that would be.”
Kerish laughed. “I’d ask for a kiss as my reward, my lady, but we’re still being discreet.”
“I can wait. Felix, are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Just hungry.”
Willow tousled his hair. “Patience.”
The crowd was dispersing, though with plenty of glances at the three of them. Willow again nodded and smiled just as if a man’s life hadn’t been at stake. The dry rainfall of spoken Eskandelic washed over her as they maneuvered through the crowds and took seats on an upper bench, flanked by Felix’s guards. The Prince standing near the altar had stopped speaking. Apparently the duel had delayed people’s entry enough to disrupt the meeting. Willow didn’t care. Surreptitiously she took Kerish’s hand and squeezed it gently, felt him run his finger down the back of her hand in response.
They sat through two speeches, then Kerish rose and beckoned to Willow. “Another uninteresting one,” he said, “though Mother and my majdrani will stay to listen, hoping to woo that principality to our cause. We can stretch our legs a bit.”
Willow followed him, Felix in tow, back to what she’d begun to think of as her spot. At least she didn’t have to explain to Kerish why she didn’t want to stand near the cooler exit with its brass doors. More people passed, brightly robed or clad in white, none of whom stopped to talk. Willow’s face hurt from all the meaningless smiling. “How many more speakers?” she asked.
“This one, then two more, then Father and Mahnouki Ghanetan.” Kerish shifted his weight. “I should go—I’ll be back before the next speech.”
“All right,” Willow said, trying not to feel abandoned. Then she grabbed his hand, not thinking how it would look. “Who is that?”
Ahead in the crowd, a woman dressed in the white clothing of a harem sister, wearing the gold bracelets of a vojenta, approached them at speed. She was flanked by three other women, all of them as intent on Willow as the first. People made way for them, glancing from the women to Willow and back. A susurrus of whispers went up, growing in volume to rival the sound of the tide coming in.
“Um,” Kerish said. “That’s the Takjashi harem. They look angry.”
“If they’re Abakian’s allies, they probably want my blood. I don’t think we can avoid them.” Willow sucked in a deep, calming breath and let it out slowly. “Let’s get this over with.” At least none of the women were armed. She wasn’t sure she could handle another honor duel, even one Kerish fought for her.
Takjashi Lucea came to a halt in front of Willow. She was a short woman with fine brown hair that blew in wisps across her round face. Her lips were set in a tight line, and her brow was furrowed over expressive brown eyes. Willow cast about desperately for something to say that wasn’t an apology—she felt no shame over exposing Abakian for trying to have Felix killed, and no guilt over Terjalesh’s injury—and came up empty.
“Willow North,” Lucea said. Her voice was deep and warm like her eyes and completely void of expression. Then she bowed, dipping a low curtsey that Willow could never have managed even in her own clothes. To her sides, the other three women did the same. Willow felt Kerish grip her arm tightly. She’d never seen that bow before. How was she supposed to respond?
Lucea and the others stood upright again. Willow, praying she was doing the right thing, returned the bow of equal-to-equal. Without a change in her expression, Lucea nodded, then walked on past Willow toward the Conclave bowl, followed by her sisters. The whispering stilled as they passed, then resumed at a louder volume once the four women were through the door. Now everyone was looking at Willow, but she was too stunned to care.
“Kerish, what just happened?” she said.
“Takjashi Principality made itself parjenisur to you,” Kerish said. “To you directly, not to Serjian Principality, though I guess it’s the same thing—”
“To me?”
“I don’t understand it either—unless this is Takjashi’s way of showing they won’t follow a child-killer like Abakian. I can’t imagine any other reason for Lucea to do that so publicly. And it’s not as if Mother isn’t here. She could as easily have pledged herself to her. No, Lucea did that on purpose, pledging to you.”
“That was unsettling. Like being savaged by a butterfly.”
Kerish blew out a long, heavy breath. “I think,” he said, “the tide has just turned in our favor.”
“But Ghanetan is still speaking last. And the Mahnouki question is popular.”
“Neither of which we can do anything about. I’m taking a moment to feel optimistic.”
Willow smiled, but the knot of tension she carried around with her permanently these days didn’t unravel. Time enough for optimism when they’d won.
Though…once they’d won—she refused to think in terms of “if”—what next? She’d focused so much on how to get Felix safely out of Umberan that she hadn’t given any thought to plans for the opposite contingency. Terence wasn’t just going to give up the Crown because Eskandel backed Felix, and it was definitely going to come to war. Could Eskandel send Felix back to Tremontane with troops? Wouldn’t that be more like an invasion? They’d need support from at least some of the Counts or Barons, but how could they manage that? Willow didn’t even know which of the provincial lords had laid claim to the Crown in their own name. She sighed. This was a conversation to have with Janida later. Three days later, to be precise. The vote on the adjeni was day after tomorrow.
Kerish left. A handful of people stopped to speak to her and Felix, most of them assuring her of their principality’s support of the Serjian question. Willow felt too overwhelmed to remember all of their names, though she was sure Janida would want to know the details later. Felix tried to sit on the floor and she had to haul him up and remind him about his dignity. He scowled. Willow didn’t have the heart to reprimand him when she felt the same desire to sit and daydream about the coming meal.
Finally, Kerish returned and ushered them back in to listen to Salveri’s speech. Willow wished she understood his words. Salveri’s deep voice, always pleasant to listen to except when he was yelling at you, turned into molten honey that captivated Willow. The Conclave bowl was almost full during his speech, and Willow watched the listeners, all of whom were intent on his words. Kerish leaned forward with his knees on his elbows, rapt in concentration. When Salveri finished, a sigh went up throughout the bowl. Willow had wondered at the lack of applause, which in Tremontane would have followed any artistic performance, and these were clearly performances. Kerish just shook his head and didn’t try to explain.
Salveri took his seat with the Serjian harem. No one else moved, not even to switch seats for a better view. Willow realized her fists were clenched again and made herself relax, then wiped her sweaty palms on her knees. “Why doesn’t Mahnouki Ghanetan just start speaking now?”
“Tradition. Everyone gets that ten-minute recess. And he’s not here.”
“What do you mean, not here?”
Kerish grimaced. “It’s a ploy to indicate disrespect
for Serjian and suggest others ought to share in that disrespect by voting against us. But it can backfire. We’re—Serjian, I mean—we’re staying to listen to his speech, which could give us the moral high ground…or it could be interpreted to mean we feel weak enough that we’re compelled to listen to our opponent. There’s no way to tell how others will read each interaction.”
“And his speech is going to be compelling.”
“I assume so. I’ve never heard him speak before. He can’t be as good as Father. Maitea and Giara are excellent writers, and Mahnouki may not have anyone of their caliber. Too bad Imara isn’t allowed…” He trailed off, looking down at his knees. Willow nodded. Imara still hadn’t returned, and Willow was having trouble not feeling guilty over that. If she’d been more persuasive…
Motion nearby drew Willow’s attention. The Mahnouki Principality emerged from the doorway at the top of the bowl and made its way down through the benches to their traditional seats. Mahnouki Ghanetan, his long brown hair spilling straight and gleaming down his back, descended the steps to stand near the altar. He paused for a few moments, waiting for silence. Then he spoke, raising his hand to salute the crowd, and Willow’s heart sank, because she knew a performer when she heard one even if she couldn’t speak his language.
Ghanetan was a master, his voice dipping down low enough that Willow had to strain to hear it, then filling the bowl with a few powerful words. It was like listening to the ocean in all its moods, calm, or stormy, or furious with the oncoming tide, or quiet enough to soothe a restless heart. Willow watched the audience and her empty stomach burned from more than hunger, because so many of those faces were avid in their attention to Ghanetan and the story he told. She glanced at Kerish. His eyes were closed, and he looked as intent as he had when his father spoke, but his lips were thinned tight with anger and his breathing came a little too rapidly.
Ghanetan spoke a few final ringing words, and another sigh went up from the audience. This one sounded excited, and Willow, to her horror, heard a couple of claps that were quickly stilled. “Let’s go,” she said.
Kerish was already on his feet, holding out a hand to Felix. “I’m hungry,” Felix said. “That’s not complaining if it’s true.”
“I think I’ve lost my appetite,” Kerish said.
“Was it as bad as I think?” said Willow.
“Probably worse. Even I wanted to vote for their question, and I know it’s a fool’s errand.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Not really. But I’m sure a lot of people felt that way. I’m regretting my earlier optimism.”
Kerish led them down the small, dark corridor that led to the carriage yard, a back way that kept them away from prying eyes. Willow didn’t feel like conversation, let alone the kind anyone who’d heard Ghanetan speak might feel inclined to start. The passage was dimly lit, and comfortingly small, not like the enormous antechamber with its twenty-foot-high ceiling and all those arches standing at attention like stone soldiers.
They had to stop at the end of the passage to allow one of Felix’s bodyguards to exit first. Kerish was armed, but neither of the burly men relaxed in his presence, not even after the duel with Terjalesh. Willow was grateful for their paranoia. Janida must have reamed them out after the incident at the dog show.
Finally the man gestured to them to proceed, and they crossed the vast expanse of the carriage yard, looking for the blue and copper of the Serjian carriages. The late afternoon sun hammered down on their heads, and Willow in her blue head scarf and heavy linen felt like wilting beneath it. A bath was definitely in order.
Someone shouted. Instantly the bodyguards took up protective positions around Felix, pushing Willow to one side. Felix cried out. Willow let her knife fall into her hand and scanned the crowd, looking for assailants. Kerish shouted in return and began pushing his way through the crowd, sword drawn. Willow hesitated, torn between her need to protect Felix and her desire to find out what the hell was going on. She couldn’t see or sense anyone coming at them with a weapon. Everyone nearby was craning their necks, looking for the speaker.
Then Kerish was back, sheathing his sword and crouching to speak to Felix. “It’s all right,” he said, “let’s just get back home as quickly as possible, all right?” He said a few words to the bodyguards, and one of them scooped Felix up and carried him behind his companion. Kerish took up the bodyguard’s place behind Felix. “Don’t sheathe that knife,” he said in a low voice. “I need both hands free, just in case, but I want to remind people we’re not afraid of committing violence on Felix’s behalf.”
“What—who was that?”
“I don’t know.” He hesitated, then finally said, “Whoever it was shouted ‘Death to the foreign King.’ I think it’s just words, but…”
“But nobody stopped whoever it was,” Willow said, “which means at least a few people here agree with that sentiment.”
“Right. I’m not going to be comfortable until we’re home.”
Willow nodded. In her heart, she’d already implemented her escape plan.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The wooden handle of the hairbrush felt smooth against Willow’s palm. She’d bought it herself in the marketplace, provoking an outburst from Caira, who liked the silver-backed set they’d found waiting in the dressing room when they arrived at the Residence. Willow usually compromised by letting Caira use that one to brush her hair, enjoying the fizz against her scalp. But today she needed all the tranquility she could muster, so she brushed her short hair herself and practiced breathing, in through the nose, out through the mouth. It was a calming ritual she’d invented for herself. It wasn’t working.
She set the brush down and moved to the window. A big storm was coming in, gray clouds massing on the horizon and wind blowing them so rapidly she could see them tumbling over each other in their haste to reach land. Did heaven care anything for what would happen today, that it sent this storm as portent of things to come? That seemed unlikely.
The fronds of the trees lashed the window, scratching the glass with a high-pitched skree almost too faint to hear. The wind was strong enough to shake the sturdy trunks, and the trees bobbed their heads in a bow of servant-to-master. Not that they would make good servants, rooted to the ground and incapable of doing more than offer scant shade at noon. Though in Umberan, perhaps that was enough.
A soft knock sounded at her dressing room door. “Willow?” Felix said. “Are you ready?”
Willow crossed to the door and opened it. “It’s almost time,” she said. “Do you wish you were going?”
“Not really. I’m going to teach Ernest a new trick.” He sounded cheerful, and Willow’s heart ached for him, so successfully concealing his fear over the upcoming vote. “Besides, you said it wasn’t safe.”
“I don’t want to take any chances. But you don’t have anything to worry about. I’m sure we’ll win.”
“Kerish isn’t sure. I can tell. And Janida watches me with her eyebrows squinched up when she thinks I’m not looking.”
“Well, I have confidence.” She hadn’t lied to him, ever, and it wasn’t entirely a lie, but she still felt guilty. She knelt beside him, feeling her robe pool around her feet, and hugged him close.
“I know you’ll take care of me,” Felix said, his voice muffled where his face was pressed into her shoulder. “That’s why I’m not worried.”
“You’re very smart. Now, have fun with Ernest, and I’ll see you in a few hours.”
She fastened her complicated sandals, inwardly groaning at how hard they would be to climb in, and left her rooms for the courtyard and the Serjian carriages. The wind was strong enough that she had to wait inside, listening to its howling voice and watching what little she could of the men and women preparing the carriages for the short journey to the Jauderish. She adjusted the dark blue headwrap so it covered most of her face. The wind carried too much dust to be comfortable.
“It’s going to be an unpleasant ride,
” Kerish said, putting his arm around her. He was dressed in dark gold tunic and trousers, and wore a headwrap with its ends hanging loose, ready to cover his mouth and nose.
“Is it strange that the storm feels comforting?” Willow said. “It’s like a reminder that there are things bigger even than this vote.”
“Nothing feels bigger than this vote, right now. Is Felix all right?”
“I think he’s just good at hiding his fears, which is sickening that a boy that young should be capable of doing that. This will be all right, won’t it?”
“I won’t lie to you, Willow.”
Willow leaned into his embrace. “I know. But I thought, just this once let’s pretend everything will go our way.”
“You idealistic are not, Willow North,” Janida said. She was invisible in her white veil and robes, trailed by the rest of the harem and Serjian Salveri, who brought up the rear.
“No, I’m not.” Willow straightened, and Kerish’s arm fell away from her. She wished she knew what Janida thought of their relationship. Did she think they were sleeping together? Willow tried to be discreet, but Kerish never cared who was watching when he kissed her—not that this bothered Willow. Much. She hadn’t realized how private a person she was until she was in the heart of the Serjian Principality, surrounded by dozens of people who all watched her like a beggar watches a rich man’s coin. Or, worse, did Janida expect them to sleep together, and was she disappointed that they weren’t?
“We have done our work, and now we can only pray for success,” Catrela said.
“Then let us go, and may heaven bless our efforts,” Janida said.
She took a few steps into the courtyard, then halted, causing Willow to bump into her. Willow moved to one side, her mouth open to apologize, then she saw what had brought Janida to a stop. Another woman, this one fully veiled in black robes, approached across the courtyard. Willow didn’t need to see her face to recognize the robes.
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