CHAPTER TEN

A corner is a good place for shadows to hide.

It is also a

good place

to shine a light.

—THE HARMONY OF BEING

Meet me in my sitting room, immediately!

The mental message was strong, urgent. It nearly pushed Zeli from the chair where she’d been sitting cloistered in a corner of the busy kitchen. She popped up, slamming the textbook she’d been trying to study shut, and almost crashed into a maid bearing a stack of dirty plates from the ballroom.

Normally, she found the palace kitchen comforting. It reminded her of the estate where she’d grown up. She understood the workings of kitchens, even one on such a grand scale as this one was largely the same, but there had been no comfort to be found today. The terrifying aftermath of the morning’s attack still reverberated through her limbs. She mumbled an apology to the maid and hustled off toward the western wing of the palace.

Sounds of revelry from the Winter Ballroom mocked her as she passed. The twins’ birthday party was in full swing. The Goddess had informed her that they were all supposed to go on as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. As if spirits from the World After had not attacked Queen Jasminda and the Goddess Awoken only a few hours ago. No one else knew and that was how it would stay. More secrets. Her life was uncomfortably full of them.

And how was Varten going to stand in front of all those people coming to wish him well? She wanted to peek in and catch a glimpse of him, but was too afraid. Though he’d invited her to his celebration, she certainly wouldn’t fit in at an aristocratic affair like that.

Instead, she rushed to follow her summons, heart beating nearly out of her chest with every step. What did the Goddess want at this hour? It couldn’t possibly be anything good.

She arrived to find the door to the grand office assigned for the Goddess’s use ajar.

“Come in and shut the door,” an ominous voice echoed. Zeli did as she was bid and stepped a few more paces into the room, trembling.

The Goddess’s back was to her. She stood beside a wooden desk, inlaid with gold filigree. The designs and swirls always drew Zeli’s eye, but the woman’s rigid posture and stiff shoulders raised pulses of alarm. Slowly She turned. “What do you know of this?”

Zeli tore her gaze away from the Goddess’s deceptively placid countenance to regard what She held in Her hand. A small, leather-bound book. Zeli frowned. “I have no idea, Your Excellency. What is that?”

The Goddess eyed her for a long moment, probably peering into her soul. She wouldn’t dare lie, so the woman must be satisfied, but the silence held. Zeli’s palms began to sweat under the intense scrutiny.

Finally, with what appeared to be reluctance, She beckoned Zeli forward. “I found this on the desk this evening. Is this not where you usually answer my correspondence?”

One of Zeli’s duties was to pen responses to the many letters that flooded the palace mailroom addressed to the Goddess Awoken. An Elsiran acolyte dealt with the letters in her language, but since Zeli could read and write, she managed quite a large volume of mail. The literate among her people were few, but apparently enough to fill bags daily. The Goddess Herself only answered a small number.

“Yes, but it wasn’t there earlier when I did the mail, Your Excellency.” She gripped the skirt of her robe to keep her hands from trembling. Stepping closer, she noticed that the little book was thick, with the ragged edges of the pages peeking out. It looked old, well-worn, the cover cracked and paper yellowing. A leather strap was wrapped around it, tied in a neat bow.

“When was the last time you were in this room?” the Goddess asked.

“This morning before breakfast. Before the … incident.” She swallowed, her throat thick with dread. All day she’d darted her gaze around, certain that vicious shadows were swirling in the corners of her vision.

“And you saw nothing amiss then? No one who struck you as odd as you approached or left? No strange feelings?”

She shook her head silently. She’d noticed nothing. While the Goddess’s face remained undisturbed, the energy swirling around Her was active. Zeli had rarely seen Her take on an expression other than serenity or slight amusement. But now She was shaken. Her hand quavered slightly as She held the book up. She seemed to notice and dropped it onto the desk, then stepped away, as if afraid it would hurt Her.

That was it! Zeli realized with a start. The Goddess actually seemed afraid. The indications were subtle, but Zeli had spent quite a bit of time with Her over the past months and had never witnessed Her such. Even when She’d stood facing down angry spirits filled with malevolent power, She hadn’t appeared truly afraid.

A trill of anxiety rocked Zeli. What in that little book could frighten a deity? “Your Excellency, is the book dangerous?”

The Goddess sighed, a world-weary sound that also surprised Zeli. “It is a journal. A diary, a very old one, its origination—as old as I am. How it came to be here is a mystery, and the knowledge inside…” She closed Her eyes on a long blink. “I have no doubt the pages contain secrets hidden for centuries that are likely best left that way.”

She turned, looking to the window and the gardens beyond. Lights had been strung up among the trees, illuminating the paths in the darkness.

“Place it in the vault with the other thing. Ensure that both are safe. I do not … I do not want it near me.” Her voice almost broke there.

Zeli’s anxiety ratcheted. Certainly merely holding the book could not be hazardous. The Goddess had said so, but She, as it turned out, was not as infallible as everyone believed. This realization scared Zeli. She edged toward the desk and picked up the journal gingerly. It was just a book. Soft, weathered leather, inlaid with a border of vines. The strap tying it was loose, but she didn’t dare peek inside.

“Directly to the vault. Lock it away and ensure the caldera there is safe.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

Though the royal vault was perhaps the safest place in the country, Zeli still had to check on the other powerful object stored inside every few days to ensure it hadn’t been molested or stolen.

She tucked the journal against her chest and hovered, waiting. “Is that all, Your Excellency?”

“Yes, uli, that is all.”

Her voice was strong again, dismissive, as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened.

But even though it appeared Zeli’s secret thoughts were safe for the moment, a new fear creeped in. If this book was enough to make a goddess afraid, what in seed’s name could be written inside?

---

The Winter Ballroom had been decorated to live up to its name; Varten stood with a group of young men under a cluster of paper snowflakes hanging from the ceiling next to a pile of what smelled like soap shavings masquerading as snow. He’d been starched and creased into a formal suit, something he hadn’t counted on when the idea of the party was first broached. His hair was flattened with heavy pomade, and he felt entombed in the vest and jacket.

Every young aristocrat in Rosira had wrangled an invitation. They were gathered in thickets like weeds on the dance floor—not dancing—and snickering smugly at the tables. Lads and girls who didn’t know the twins at all chattered away in their posh accents, cutting their eyes at one another with judgmental glances.

Varten was doing his best to play his part. To act as though the world was the same place it had been yesterday, before he knew that some unknown enemy was intent on sending wraiths into the palace. But Jasminda had insisted that telling anyone—even Roshon—would only spread panic. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep a secret like this from his brother. As it turned out, he hadn’t even seen his twin until he’d stepped into the ballroom tonight.

He’d gotten a glimpse of Roshon and Ani earlier, but now a small phalanx of blue bloods had Varten penned in. Sons and grandsons of Council members, governors, aldermen, and anyone considered “old money.”

“If you ask me,” Hyllard Dursall said around a mouthful of birthday pie, “the umpire should be fired and never allowed to judge a match again if his vision is so poor. My father lost nearly seven hundred pieces on that game and flew into a terrible rage.”

“I thought your father had sworn off betting on swivet games after the finals last year. Didn’t you have to sell your boat?” the son of some distant cousin of Jack’s asked.

“We still have the boat.” Hyllard’s already slightly bulging eyes protruded even more at the perceived insult. “We don’t keep the crew on staff, that’s all, but we can go out on it whenever we want. We’re thinking of buying another, if you must know.”

“From where? Raunians are the best shipbuilders and won’t sell to us now.”

“They have perfectly good shipbuilders in Fremia.”

“Well, my father is buying an airship,” Godriq Norilos added. “Same style as the king’s, just a larger model.” Whispers of disbelief filtered through the group. Godriq looked smug, having successfully one-upped the others.

The mention of airships caught Varten’s attention. “When you get it, maybe I’ll take it up for a turn,” he said easily. “Clove’s been teaching me to fly. You know she came in second in the Yaly Classic. Who’s your flying instructor?”

Godriq looked peeved. There weren’t many airship pilots in Elsira, as they all well knew. And little chance Clove would want to help any of these snobbish horse’s arses. Varten hadn’t even been trying to play their little competitive game, he’d barely been paying attention, but found he was good at it. His position as “prince” had rocketed him to the top of the hierarchy of this group, and every lad here wanted to be his best mate.

The group kept getting larger and larger as people wandered over, itching to be in his orbit. Especially since Roshon was nowhere to be found.

Varten loved a good party, or at least, he had loved the idea of a party—having not been to one in so long. When he was younger, Mama had sometimes taken them to stay with friends on a farm near the town where they bought supplies. The family had four children close in age, and he and Roshon had played with them and celebrated more than one Breach Day at their home. Until the year Jasminda had accompanied them, instead of staying home with Papa, and suddenly none of them were welcome anymore.

In the valley where he’d grown up, with only books and magazines to teach him about the wider world, he’d imagined a palace party quite differently. In his mind, these beautiful, rich, well-dressed people with access to the best of everything were truly happy. Their smiles were real, rooted in the depths of their joy at being so privileged. But here the laughter and gaiety were brittle porcelain masks barely concealing disdain, posturing, and emptiness. Varten found their concerns petty and meaningless on the best of days. But today, he could barely hold himself back from screaming.

Godriq, Hyllard, and the others had changed the subject back to the latest swivet match and the terrible umpire. Varten didn’t know anything about the game played almost exclusively by the rich, so his attention wandered again. He took a few steps back to peer around the knot of bodies surrounding him to the doorway for the thousandth time that night. The chances that Zeli would come were slim, but he couldn’t help hoping.

Was she holding up any better than he was? Was her body on constant alert, searching the darkened corners of the room? The dim lighting in the ballroom could easily hide shadows. Jasminda had claimed Oola believed another attack would take some time, but no one truly knew. He hoped his exterior didn’t betray the anxiety ratcheting inside him.

A swath of purple silk and beading filled his peripheral vision—a girl, smiling wide with bright teeth, had appeared at his side. “I’m Claudette,” she said, offering a genteel curtsey. “I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday, Your Grace.”

He nodded politely. “Thank you so much. My brother and I appreciate you coming to our party to help us celebrate.” Even though we have no idea who you are.

He resisted the urge to loosen the bow tie surrounding his neck. The band started another song, one that seemed to capture the attention of the guests, though he’d never heard it before.

The girl before him—Cosette? Clavette? He’d already forgotten her name—was looking up at him expectantly. He smiled and raised his eyebrows. Was there something else he was supposed to do?

“The band is lovely, Your Grace. They’re playing the most popular dances tonight.”

“You don’t need to call me Your Grace,” he replied hastily.

“Oh, but I do,” she said, laying a hand on his arm, fluttering her lashes. “You are a prince of Elsira now.”

The proprietary feel of that hand made him cringe internally. He turned back toward the lads, who were earnestly debating the merits of two famous swivet players; he wished he knew enough to rejoin the conversation. A movement in a gloomy corner of the room caused him to jerk, but it was just a butler emerging with another tray of hors d’oeuvres. His movement dislodged her hand, but she just stepped closer to him.

He smiled, more forced this time. “Just because my sister was made queen, doesn’t mean that I’m a prince.”

Godriq paused, mid-rant. “Of course it does. What else would it mean?”

Varten shrugged and widened his practiced grin. “Don’t you think things mean more when you work for them?”

Nothing but blank gazes met him. He stifled a laugh. “I mean, inheriting’s nice, too.”

He jumped when Colette, or whoever, grabbed his elbow. “Are you certain you would not like to ask me to dance, Your Grace?”

He chuckled to drive away the tension in his jaw and pulled away from her firm grip again. “Sorry, I don’t even know these dances.” The few couples on the dance floor performed elaborate steps to the syncopated music.

A Lagrimari servant came over with a tray. Varten greeted the man in his native tongue, but the pushy socialite shooed him away, a look of disgust on her face.

“You don’t like scallops?” Varten asked.

Her lip curled. “I don’t like the help. Seeing grols in the palace, it’s a disgrace.”

Varten stuffed his hands in his pockets, his face growing taut. “Grols, you mean like the queen?”

She paled and clutched the jewels around her neck. Nearby, conversation stopped. He honestly had no idea what he sounded like, but judging by the way everyone had suddenly grown tense, he hadn’t hidden his ire. “No, I … Queen Jasminda isn’t like the rest of them. Neither is the Goddess. You know what I meant.”

He grew very still, feeling almost as if he was turning to stone. “Because the rest of them are, what? Like my father? I’m not sure how you managed to come here forgetting that my brother and I are half grol, but please allow me to remind you.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I may look like one of you, but I’m not.”

He hadn’t yelled, but he hadn’t managed to hide the venom pouring out from deep within. The girl reddened and scurried away, teetering on her high-heeled shoes. When he looked up, the lads around him were all gaping at him like he’d grown another head.

Roshon was suddenly at his side, a hand on his arm, pulling him away. “Your face looks like a tomato. What’d she say?”

“The same shite everyone here is probably thinking.”

They escaped the ballroom and went out into the hallway. Dressed identically, somehow Roshon seemed to appear more comfortable in his formal wear. The music was just a low hum on the other side of the wall and Varten’s emotions began to settle. He ran his hands over his face. “Who thought this party was a good fecking idea?”

Roshon raised a brow. “As I recall, when Jasminda first brought it up you said, and I quote, ‘That’s a good fecking idea.’”

Varten shook his head and turned away. That felt like a lifetime ago.

“You don’t have to go back in, you know.”

“It’s our party.” Varten crossed his arms.

“Yeah, so we should be having fun.”

“Well, you’ve been hiding out somewhere with Ani the whole night, so I have to pick up the slack.” Did he sound bitter? He was having a hard time reining it in right now.

Roshon sighed and leaned next to him. “You don’t have to do everything everyone asks. Jas meant well with this, Sovereign knows she did it for you. But if it’s not your thing, just tell her.”

“But she worked hard on it.”

“Someone worked hard on it, but not her personally. She has people for things like this, you know.”

“And all the money…”

“Jack’s rich, remember. Don’t worry about all that.”

Varten shrugged and slid down to sit on the floor. His brother joined him. They sat in silence for a while until Varten wasn’t vibrating with cold anger. Roshon studied him closely, and Varten worried that his secret was written on his face. But when his brother spoke, it wasn’t what he expected.

“So have you decided whether or not you’re coming with us? Ani has a shipment she needs to pick up in Fremia next week. We might leave as soon as Firstday.”

Varten blinked. He got the sense that Roshon truly wouldn’t mind him coming along on Ani’s ship as they sailed the seas smuggling and trading and whatever it was Ani did for a living. The idea of always being the odd man out held no appeal, but that would be true whether he stayed or left.

“What about the wedding?”

Roshon let out a groan. “That’s turning out to be a problem. Looks like it might start an international incident. Ani’s mother insists the wedding be in Raun. And Jasminda is equally adamant that it be here.”

Ani’s mother was the king of Raun, a small island nation to the west. Considering she was also responsible for the trade embargo, this could get dicey. “Do you think Jas really cares, or is this a political thing?” Varten asked.

“I don’t think Jas does political things, that’s more Jack’s domain. She said that since we’ll be at sea most of the time, the least we could do is have the wedding here with family. If it’s there, she wouldn’t be able to go—at least not while the embargo is happening.”

“Seems like they could use this as a way to come together.” Varten scratched his chin.

Roshon shrugged. “If King Pia is anywhere as stubborn as Ani—or Jasminda for that matter—then I doubt things will work out anytime soon. We may have to elope.”

“That may cause a war.”

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten you haven’t answered,” Roshon said, nudging him.

“I’m neutral, like Fremia,” he said, holding his hands up. “But no, I don’t want to be the third wheel as you start a new life.”

Roshon’s face fell. He began turning the golden cuff link at his wrist. “You’re still thinking of joining the army?”

“Seems like a good way to be useful.” Varten didn’t have any better ideas. There was always university in Fremia, which would at least allow him to see somewhere new, but he wasn’t as studious as his sister, and didn’t want to be locked away in a classroom for years. The army held some appeal, or maybe the foreign service, so he could travel. With all the recent upheavals, Jack and Jasminda needed folk they could trust abroad, too. Enemies, both magical and not, were all around. Someone was going to be needed to fight them off.

“I’ll figure something out, don’t worry about me.” He brought a smile to his face; it was almost easy to do.

“Hmm,” was Roshon’s response.

The door to the ballroom swung open, releasing a torrent of sound. Ani marched out and spotted the twins. Her short, blue hair was almost in her eyes. The ball gown she wore was in the traditional Raunian style, a thin, sort of wispy material that wrapped around her, leaving a swath of torso bare. Scandalous by Elsiran standards, but Ani didn’t care. She wasn’t wearing her prosthetic hand tonight, and the scar tissue at the bottom of what remained of her arm made Varten hold back a wince. She said she didn’t remember the pain, but he couldn’t help feeling at least a little responsible since she lost her hand the day his family was captured and imprisoned.

“What’s wrong? Too many spirits?” she asked.

“Are they serving spirits here?” Roshon’s brows rose.

“They should be, given how much of a snooze the party is. No offense.” She pulled a silver flask from her bosom and grinned mischievously before settling beside them.

“None taken,” Varten said. They passed the flask around, but the burning liquid did little to improve Varten’s mood. Fortunately, neither Roshon nor Ani pressed him for conversation. Melancholy swelled within him and he battled it, knowing he really should get back inside the ballroom.

Something moved in his periphery again and he whipped his head around, half-expecting to see a shadow wriggling its way out of the wall. But it was a person rushing along the intersection between hallways. A familiar, shortish figure in a light blue dress running as if a wild dog was chasing her.

He leapt to his feet.

“Where are you going?” Roshon asked.

“I’ll … I’ll be right back,” he said, already jogging away.