Mother intervenes, breaking her self-imposed silence. “You won’t take us to the hell of the South,” she says. Her hand grips Father’s arm. “And you certainly won’t send our children there. You won’t. This is enough.”
“Think what you will, Sapphie,” is all he offers in reply.
His gaze is still dominated by the Impressive, and she casts me the ghost of a disturbed glance behind his back, as if she can see the death in my head. The charred limbs and black smoke. She knows she can’t rescue me from this. I think she’s always known, and now it’s simply becoming more real.
When the Impressive is announced ready for the official ceremony, she and Father descend the stairs for the docks.
Arrin and Leannya follow behind, their arms linked, laughing together as they go. Leannya’s his tiny golden shadow, always at his side when he’s around. She’s the only person in the world he thinks of before himself. And for her part, she tries to look after him, too.
When we reach the wharf, the crowd parts, cameras flashing, bulbs shattering.
With a grin, Arrin passes the ceremonial bottle of wine to Leannya.
Father doesn’t object, since having his sweet daughter send his new warship off will look rather nice in the papers, perhaps even better than his decorated eldest son.
Leannya maneuvers herself onto the canal railing, refusing every offer of help from a nearby colonel, then stands firmly in her heels and lace-trimmed dress, raising the bottle high above her. She gives a grand smile for the photographers, looking a hell of a lot older than her fourteen years—when was the last time I saw her? Four months ago?
“For the glory of Savient,” she proclaims, making it sound entirely charming.
Then she hurls the bottle at the Impressive’s hull with all the force and determination worthy of a Dakar, and it shatters into a hundred pieces, iron plates running red.
4
AURELIA ISENDARE
Hathene, Etania
My boots are entirely muddied by the time I reach the familiar honey-coloured walls of home. After depositing Ivory at the stables, I try to dart inconspicuously for the back doors of Hathene Palace, through the still-dreary east gardens, then sprint across the wide lawn and pray my mother won’t see from any of the broad windows. Her quiet displeasure looms like a shadow beneath the spiraling grey pinnacles.
I slip in through rear smoky kitchens and nearly run right into a young hall boy carrying a freshly plucked goose. He blushes hard. The kitchen maids standing at the wood table try not to stare as they knead dough for the oven. It’s not the first time I’ve used this route, but thankfully we’ve an unspoken agreement where I hurry through silently and they pretend they’ve seen nothing. It’s awkward, yes, but it only ever lasts a moment or two. A brief moment of nearly tripping over vegetable crates, smelling spice and flour and sweat, then I’m up the flight of narrow stairs and bursting into the bright marble halls of the main wing.
Home.
The glossy floors shine beneath my dirty boots, arched alcoves on either side displaying oil paintings and colourful tapestries. I hurry down the empty hall—it’s still too early for the courtiers to linger about, the ladies in fox furs and the men with waist coats and scarves—and bits of mud fall behind me in a convicting trail.
Mother’s rooms are in the quiet western wing, a peaceful place far removed from the dining halls and audience rooms and state apartments. The place where she can watch her beloved sun set each evening. But when I come in view of her parlour, raised voices filter through the oak. My mother and brother. I approach cautiously. Pillars guard the Queen’s parlour doors, the elk and wolf crest of Etania painted atop, wrapped in our kingdom’s motto—Loyalty binds us.
I knock.
The voices cease swiftly. After a breath, the door opens and my brother, Renisala, stands there, handsome and dark-haired, his hazel eyes at first annoyed, certainly affronted by someone’s nerve to knock so boldly, then changing to relief as he waves me in.
I’m his ally.
Uncertain what trap I’ve stepped into, I try a smile at both, but Mother’s gaze is still fixed on Reni, her body very still, her anger silent as a cat coiled tight. She reminds me of the si’yah leopards of the Southern steppes. Here, they’re only painted in their elegance, silver-striped creatures with russet fur, decorating the halls. But in Resya …
“And what do you know, my son?” she asks sharply, accent glittering like desert stone. “You who have never stepped a foot beyond the western Heights?”
Reni raises his hands. “Stars, this isn’t my vain opinion, Mother! It’s in the papers! It’s reality, being discussed in every royal council across the North—except ours. This Southern uprising is spreading faster than it can be contained.”
“And you think the truth comes from a bit of paper? The page lies as easily as the tongue.”
He frowns at her derision. “Seath is on the move again, rallying these Southern fools to his Nahir cause, and it’s only a matter of time before that ambitious General Dakar spies a new opportunity there. He’ll set his army on the things everyone else in the North can’t keep ahold of. He’ll stir it up, unite the South even stronger. And then do you know what happens, Mother? The world grows desperate. The Nahir, the North. It will be a nightmare, the precarious balance upset, and we can’t entangle ourselves in that.”
Mother’s brows are still raised. “The people of the South are no fools. The fools are those here in the North who insist on taking what doesn’t belong to them, who haven’t stopped pushing and taking for a hundred years no matter the nightmare it has become.”
Reni gives me a grimacing glance, as if he can’t believe the things he’s hearing. These careless words from her are what he fears most. The South is her home. A place she understands while the rest of the world watches in panic. But she can’t say such things aloud. Not here. Not now. Not when our father went against tradition and gave his crown to her in full, so she might rule absolutely until Reni was of age.
She already looks too much like a si’yah cat in a kingdom of wolves.
“Isn’t Seath dead?” I ask cautiously, because that was certainly what I read in the papers only a month ago.
A fresh shadow mars Reni’s face. “True or not, someone is masquerading under his name and leading the insurrection.”
Mother laughs dismissively, a bold sound in the tension of the room. “Seath isn’t dead. He’s never dead.”
Before Reni can react to that, I intervene and offer Mother the hidden letter in my coat pocket, playing for a distraction.
“It’s from Ambassador Havis,” I say, confident the bait is strong.
It works—Reni looks as if I’ve just handed over a suspiciously decorated dessert.
Mother ignores his curiosity, ripping the seal, and I slip to Reni’s side, both of us facing the large map on the wall, giving her the illusion of privacy. His hand brushes mine. It’s a reminder of his love—and also a request I stay on his side no matter where this conversation leads, even if it wounds Mother.