Survive

by Vera Nazarian

  I repeat my greeting to the other ranking elderly ladies in this grouping, all whom I barely know. When I approach her, Dame Tammuz gives me an encouraging smile. Behind me, Gracie simply curtsies to everyone, moving a little stiffly and clutching her skirt with almost shaking fingers.

  “We are told, it is your Fourteenth Birthday today, according to the Earth calendar,” Devora says to Gracie loudly. “As you say on Earth—Happy Birthday!”

  “Thank you . . . My Sovereign Lady,” Gracie mumbles, as the other ladies look on, most with smiles, except for Therutat who simply raises her blue-tinted brows.

  With that formal part out of the way, my next task is to welcome everyone else.

  I pick up a small hand-bell from a flower arrangement stand and lift it, ringing it.

  The chime is loud and crystalline, and as if everyone’s attention is not already on me, they now freeze completely.

  “Ladies of Imperial Atlantida!” I say, and my resonant voice carries in the silence. “My Bridal Court Opens.”

  It might seem logical under the circumstances for the Bride to sit in a fancy chair with the Imperatris and other prominent ladies, and have everyone come to her. . . . But the tradition for this first Bridal event is different—the Imperial Bride plays the role of gracious Hostess, and is supposed to mingle with the guests.

  At this point Gracie has to stay behind—which she does, happy to keep out of the way—as instructed by the authoritative claw-finger of the Venerable Therutat pointing her to a chair nearby.

  Meanwhile, I put on a friendly face and start moving around the room, this time pausing to acknowledge individually the various ladies present. They, in turn, are supposed to curtsey to me and introduce themselves by their name and rank and—if we’re already acquainted—possibly exchange a few polite words. The process is more grueling than I thought—at the same time both stressful and tedious. I try to follow the guidance of Consul Denu who advised me not to try too hard to remember the details of name and rank for now, merely nod and smile.

  The first group of ladies I approach, just on the other side of the fountain, is full of young faces. They sink in a curtsey as one, then start rising and offering me their designations. As for their expressions, they are a wide mix of everything I can imagine—deferential, curious, suspicious, open, judgmental, eager, blank, friendly, condescending, even envious. . . .

  “Lady Carilla Oruvi, of the House Oruvi of the Eastern Vadat Province, eleventh generation, presently in Low Court. . . .”

  I recall the noble distinctions between the three levels of the Imperial Court that Consul Denu explained to me in painstaking detail. Low Court is for noble houses of at least one to nineteen generations of nobility. Middle Court is for nobility of twenty to forty-nine generations. High Court is for fifty noble generations and higher.

  “Very nice to meet you, Lady Carilla,” I say, glancing kindly into a pair of wide, nervous brown eyes. Then I move on to the next.

  “Lady Gudun Yator, of the House Yator . . . sixteenth generation. . . .” A friendly teen girl smiles easily at me.

  “Lovely to meet you, Lady Gudun.”

  “Lady Iskandrat Suriner . . . thirty-eighth generation, Middle Court. . . .” A slightly older one gives me a cool smile that never reaches her kohl-rimmed eyes.

  “A pleasure to meet you,” I respond, with equal politeness but feeling less enthusiasm.

  This goes on and on. I finish greeting the grouping, and move on to the next, beyond the fountain, and near several decorative pillars. At the same time, I cast a quick glance around the room, looking for anyone familiar, desperate for a glimpse of any of my friends.

  There, toward the left side—I finally spy Laronda and Chiyoko, with Hasmik and Dawn slightly behind, speaking with Brie. All of them are dressed to the nines, in their spectacular shiny fabrics, wearing their hair up or otherwise decorated, and sporting beautiful cosmetics. Looks like all my Earth female friends are sticking together—and yes, I suppose I can count Brie as one of them, even if it’s an oddball friendship that grew out of forced necessity.

  And as I look behind them, I see Princess Manala, exquisite and fragile in her shimmering layered outfit, standing next to Hasmik. Manala’s usual nervous and subdued expression is replaced with a look of open wonder as Hasmik is smiling at her and leaning closer with some kind of amusing story. It occurs to me—for once, poor timid Manala does not feel alone in a big gathering. A pang of emotion rises to fill my heart on her behalf. I’m so grateful to Hasmik in that moment that I can cry. . . . Then, just to make me feel even more emotion, Laronda raises one hand and waves at me with a toothy grin. Dawn turns and smiles, giving me a tiny wave with her usual quiet dignity, Chiyoko does likewise, and Brie gives a mocking thumbs-up salute.

  Yes, my friends are all here. I don’t see Oalla and Erita, but I’m sure they’re also somewhere in this huge chamber. . . .

  I breathe in relief, knowing that I have a group of complicated, comfortable people to fall back upon—that is, if I ever get a free moment.

  I force myself to keep looking around, to scope out the entire room. That’s when I see the queen bee herself, Lady Tiri with several of her retinue, gathered in a central, shining High Court cluster of expensive colorful fabrics not too far from me. Yes, I will have to approach them eventually, but first, several other groupings of unfamiliar ladies await.

  I return to my duty, and continue mingling.

  Among the multitude of new faces and names, I am particularly fascinated to see two elegant and beautiful women in their middle years, both with black hair untouched by golden hair dye but taken up in intricate yet stern coiffures. They stand out as handsome ravens in a sea of gold, wearing little jewelry, and their outfits are more subdued than most of the others around them. One of these women in particular, with striking features and an aquiline nose, bears a strong resemblance to someone I know. . . . She curtseys with quiet pride and rises slowly, all the while looking at me with an intelligent, unflinching gaze of very familiar black eyes. Even before she speaks, I realize who she is. . . .

  “First Lady Aduar Vekahat, of the House Vekahat, of the Southern Uru Province, one hundred and ninth generation, High Court.” Her voice comes soft and powerful.

  I recall that the designation “First Lady” indicates that she is the highest-ranking female of her House. Furthermore, her noble pedigree is very impressive. I had no idea the Vekahat family was such longstanding nobility. . . .

  “Very lovely to meet you, First Lady Aduar,” I say with a suddenly nervous smile. “Is Xelio Vekahat related to you by any chance? I consider him a friend.”

  A spark of interest flickers to life in the woman’s eyes. “Yes,” she says with the tiniest additional warmth. “He is my son. I am pleased you know him.”

  Then First Lady Vekahat turns to the other brunette woman standing at her side who bears no resemblance to Xel. She is exquisitely beautiful yet somehow frail and docile, with a vacant, lost expression. “May I present my sister-in-law, Lady Ghara Vekahat, widow of the House Vekahat and daughter of the House Deksu that ends without progeny at ninetieth generation, High Court, and is absorbed into House Vekahat.”

  For just an instant, Lady Ghara does not react, but stares before her, past me, into empty space.

  “Ghara—” First Lady Aduar prompts her gently.

  Lady Ghara blinks—her slate-grey, soulful eyes focusing on me for a moment, like struggling butterflies—before she looks down. She then curtseys and rises, with solemn, perfect form, but does not look at me again. Her voice is barely audible as she repeats her intricate and unusual pedigree, echoing her sister-in-law.

  . . . ends without progeny . . . oh my lord. . . . This is Xelio’s aunt. She could be his deceased cousin Elikara’s mother—unless he has other aunts and uncles? No, for some reason I’m certain she’s the one.

  Elikara was Aeson’s first crush in Fleet Cadet School, who died under mysterious circumstances when they were still children.
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  I try to set aside the unfortunate reminder and greet Lady Ghara with particular kindness.

  She stands motionless as I speak, but I suspect she doesn’t hear me—whether by choice or due to illness, I don’t know. Her gaze remains downcast, as though she is subtly engrossed in something far away. . . .

  She must be in an ongoing state of mourning for her daughter, her spouse, and their noble line. That’s enough to break anyone.

  I had no idea that Elikara was not their only loss. Now I begin to understand that there’s something very complicated and disturbing going on in Xelio’s extended family. And this blatant display of natural black hair is some kind of statement—or possibly, a rebellion.

  As I focus on Lady Ghara Vekahat, First Lady Aduar notices my slight thoughtful pause and gives me an intense look, as though willing me to overlook her sister-in-law’s shortcoming.

  I leave the two women of the House Vekahat with a nagging sense of sorrow and unrelieved curiosity.

  However, a few moments later I’m introduced to a very tall and striking woman with short gilded hair who captures my attention with her subcurrent of humor, warmth, and grace. She wears a sparkling long dress in an intricate pattern of rich jewel tones that gloriously complement her super dark skin, even as the form-fitting cut of the dress emphasizes her willow-slim figure.

  First Lady Kuz Ruo introduces herself as Keruvat’s mother, ninety-seventh generation, High Court. At once, her joyful smile absolutely melts me.

  “My son tells me you are wonderful in every way, My Imperial Lady Gwen,” First Lady Kuz says, beaming at me from her considerable stature—it’s clear where her son gets his own height. “I can see he is not exaggerating. Our home is open to you, and you must visit immediately. Well, not immediately, because you must deal with all this, but you understand. I intend to feed you thoroughly, to make up for the atrocity of the Games.”

  “Oh, I am so happy to meet you, First Lady Kuz!” I say, trying to hold back a huge grin and an irrepressible urge to hug her, even as she rises from her curtsey and is briefly at eye-level with me.

  And then I must move on to the next, less interesting and less familiar lady in line.

  Several interminable minutes later, as I make my way along the perimeter of the chamber—having met and smiled at close to over a hundred ladies, young and old; having received forced smiles and eager, genuine ones—I am faced at last with the unpleasantness of dealing with my so-called rival.

  Lady Tirinea Fuorai is not to be avoided any longer.

  Deep breath, Gwen, deep breath. . . .

  I approach their group, feeling my heartbeat start to race. Immediately they all turn to me, with a variety of fixed smiles, and curtseys.

  Lady Tiri, I notice, is overdressed in a spectacular white dress with exquisite gold beadwork, tight-fitting over her perfect figure, in a style somehow similar to my own. Did she do this on purpose? Did she somehow find out what I would be wearing and do her best to echo the style? I’ve little doubt.

  Her metallic gold hair is sculpted into an intricate filigree “haute couture” form on top of her head, and fine crystals sparkle on chains, cascading down to her swan neck. Her stunning eyes are an unusual green-gold, a color somewhere between hazel and honey, outlined in dramatic darkness of kohl underneath delicate arching brows. Her skin is translucent and pale, and her sensuous full lips are deep rose, glittering in the light.

  She is perfect and perfectly Imperial, and she knows it. If it hadn’t been for me, Aeson would have likely followed his Imperial duty and chosen her as his Bride.

  I notice that Lady Tiri is standing next to an older woman who bears a slight family resemblance to her. The woman is dressed in a deep burgundy tunic of many diaphanous layers, and bejeweled with great precious stones along her collar, while her own metallic hair is in a severe netted bun. Her expression is haughty and cool, and she examines me critically.

  Lady Tiri takes a step toward me, and lowers herself into the most perfect yet insolent curtsey I’ve encountered. She rises slowly, then offers the formal greeting, “Lady Tirinea Fuorai, of the House Fuorai, of the Eastern Vadat Province and the Eastern Quzakat Province, one hundred and twenty-seventh generation, High Court.”

  Her words ring with pride and at the same time slither. I notice the slight emphasis she gives the word “and” as though to highlight that her family’s land holdings span two provinces, not one.

  “Very nice to—see you again, Lady Tirinea,” I say politely, nearly stumbling and saying “meet you” because of an overwhelming urge to pretend this is our first encounter. That would be inaccurate, of course, since I’ve met Lady Tiri previously on that first day at the Palace when I was walking in the gardens with Manala. It would also be taken as a slight, and the last thing I want to do is give her another reason for hostility between us.

  Lady Tiri either pretends to overlook my tiny pause or misses it entirely, and her gaze simply cuts into me with antipathy. She then glances to the older woman next to her, and says softly, “May I present my venerable mother.”

  The woman now curtseys in turn, slow and superior, and rises back up with a look of near disdain. “First Lady Vahiz Fuorai,” she says loudly, then follows with the same pedigree, except her generation is one hundred and twenty-sixth, being the one previous to her offspring. Since married women take on the noble generation and family name of their spouse, I will not know First Lady Fuorai’s birth family name or noble generational rank unless I look it up later.

  “A pleasure to meet you, First Lady Vahiz,” I say in a careful, neutral voice.

  Vahiz Fuorai barely smiles at me, continuing to examine me, head to toe, while her daughter gives me a sardonic fixed smile. She must hate me for taking Aeson away from her daughter. Both of them hate me.

  I force myself not to rush but to slowly look away and focus on to the next person in their gathering.

  Fortunately, this girl with a softly rounded face, pale blue eyes, and river-red clay skin, is Lady Zua Kainaat, one of the milder and least offensive of their group. She offers her designation in a benign tone, and her generation is fifty-fifth, placing her in High Court.

  I reply with a pleasantry—even as I continue to feel Lady Tiri’s black-hole stare upon me—and I turn to the next person, a tall young woman with tight metallic curls, fierce and heavy dark brows over dark eyes, and bronzed skin. She is the stately Lady Hathora Sekru, who informs me of her lofty seventy-fourth generation.

  Next up is Lady Irana Nokut, pretty and slender, with porcelain-pale skin and short straight hair in a stylish cut. At once I flash back to our first meeting when Lady Irana had a little baby pegasus with her—trapped in a cage, levitating alongside her as an exotic pet.

  I feel a great urge to ask her about the pegasus. . . . Is it okay? Does she still have it? But I realize this moment is not the best time to do so, and instead simply give her a polite greeting in reply to her own. She too is fifty-fifth generation High Court nobility.

  A few more young ladies, their mothers, sisters, or other maternal relatives, and I’m done with this group and move on to the next along the chamber perimeter. As I walk away with relief, I can feel the weight of their combined gazes on me, and whispers starting. But for now, I ignore the whole lot of them.

  About twenty minutes later, I’ve completed the formal Hostess introductory rounds of the room. I’ve even endured the silliness of coming up to my friends and having them curtsey awkwardly to me, hold back giggles, and announce their own “ignoble” names. That last part especially is executed by Brie to stunning effect, as she adlibs, “Gabriella Walton, of a dank cornhole in Iowa, the US of A, Planet Earth, no generation and no court. Not a lady either. And if you really wanna know—”

  I widen my eyes at her to make her stop, while my lips barely stay fixed in a straight line, quivering from the effort of not laughing, especially with Laronda’s own eyes grown so wide now that she’s on the verge of bursting.

  “Very . . . um
. . . lovely to see all of you and . . . I’ll be back later—behave,” I whisper to them and give a warm smile to Manala who simply beams with innocent joy at me. Then I return to the central area near the fountain with the Imperatris, the Venerable Therutat, and the elderly VIPs.

  Here I pick up the bell again, and ring it once more. My remaining duty is simple.

  “Ladies of Imperial Atlantida! I am delighted with all of you and look forward to deepening our acquaintance in the days to come. Thank you all for gracing my Bridal Court. And now it’s time for relaxation and refreshments. Please mingle, enjoy the dea meal, and your charming company!”

  Phew . . . I did it.

  I grow silent and watch the chamber come alive as the Ladies are now free to move about, partake of the Imperial festive buffet, and chatter amongst themselves. Devora Kassiopei looks at me with approval while Therutat appears either satisfied or unphased by my performance—it’s hard to tell.

  At least the formal part of the event is over.

  Now the real battle begins.

  Chapter 34

  As soon as I end my speech, Gracie rises from her seat near the high-ranking ladies and steps toward me. The Imperatris nods at both of us with a fond smile, recognizing our eagerness to depart this very central spot and join our friends. “Very well done. Now, go and enjoy your party,” she says to me.

  “Thank you, My Sovereign Lady.” I curtsey once more, and Gracie echoes me with only a tiny delay.

  And then we’re free also.

  Gracie and I make our way toward our friends. I see them close to one of the long side tables laden with food, attended by Imperial staff who are preparing more. Additional servants appear with large trays of bite-sized delicacies and start circulating around the chamber, offering the delights to all the guests.