Fiona wriggled into the gold silk gown without help and settled its skirts around her legs. The gown’s skirt was split up the front to reveal the embroidered satin underskirt, and the bodice fit perfectly, flattering her curves. The color made her hair glow like a corona of fire. Beautiful. She looked like a lady. If only it were as easy as putting on the right gown.
“Hold still,” Georgette said. She slid one of the gown’s sleeves up Fiona’s arm and stitched it into place while Fiona did as instructed. The needle whipping past so close to her skin made her nervous. If this was how noble women had dressed in Willow North’s day, she couldn’t believe the formidable North Queen hadn’t put a stop to the fashion. Or maybe she had, and the Veriboldans had used the fact that it had once been the fashion to torment their guests, make them uncomfortable and thus throw them off balance.
“Shoes,” Georgette said, extending a pair of white slippers that matched the pearls. Fiona slipped them onto her feet and took a few tentative steps. Her formerly injured foot flexed easily, painlessly. It still felt odd to her, even more than a week after being healed. She had never received magical healing before, and the palace healer had been gentle, if silent. The healing hadn’t been painful—hadn’t felt like anything at all, just the warmth of the healer’s hand on her cold foot. A faint white scar across her instep was all that remained of the wound. What would it be like to have a magic no one feared? No, it was better to have no magic at all, at least in Tremontane.
“Thank you,” Fiona said. “Please don’t wait up for me.”
“My thanks, milady, but I’ll finish hemming this gown first,” Georgette said, her arms full of shimmering North blue silk. “Enjoy your evening, if you can,” she added darkly.
Sebastian waited in the sitting room, his arms slung across the low back of a Veriboldan sofa. He wore formal knee breeches and a gold satin coat too warm for this climate. He gave her an appreciative look that made her blush. “We make a very attractive couple. Holt must have spoken to Georgette, to coordinate our clothes so perfectly.”
He stood with no effort—Fiona had struggled off the sofa when she’d sat there earlier that afternoon—and offered her his arm. “Shall we go?”
“Is it all right if I’m nervous?” she said as they walked down the hall to the stairs.
“I don’t think there’s any reason to be. We’re meant to be uncouth foreigners—it makes the Veriboldans feel superior, which makes them happy.”
“That’s rather cynical.”
“I don’t think it’s true of all Veriboldans, just the landholders. They have a high opinion of themselves. Not that I’m suggesting you slurp your soup, just that they expect us not to know all the rules.”
“I’m never comfortable when I don’t know what to expect.”
“Neither am I.” Sebastian put his hand over hers and squeezed lightly. “I haven’t forgiven Mother for putting us in this position.”
The staircase was wide enough to let them walk side by side, and they descended in silence to the front door, which a brown and green servant held open for them. “For example,” Sebastian said when they’d left the woman behind and were safely in their carriage, “I don’t like that we don’t know which of the candidates Gizane is. We have to pretend she’s nothing to us, and suppose she’s introduced and catches us off-guard?”
“I suppose we just have to…not react to everyone,” Fiona said. “What if she starts a fight?”
“Unlikely. She won’t want to give away her crimes. She’ll have to behave as politely to us as we do to her.”
Fiona shifted and slid on the carriage seat as the golden silk moved unexpectedly. “I know this gown is pretty,” she said, “but it’s not exactly comfortable.”
“This is rather old-fashioned, actually. I think the idea is to dress the envoys from the different countries in their national garb, like dolls.”
“That’s what Georgette said. That this was the fashion in Willow North’s time.” Fiona looked out the carriage window. They were traveling along the wide boulevard that flanked the river, and in the distance, the Jaixante drew nearer. Late afternoon sunlight warmed the white stone and made the buildings gleam painfully, blinding Fiona. She looked back at Sebastian, hoping to surprise a look of tenderness, but he was looking the other way, at the mansions facing the river.
The carriage turned and rattled up to the gate of the bridge to the island, where it came to a stop. Of course. No horses or wheeled vehicles allowed in the Jaixante. A footman—no, it was Holt, garbed correctly in livery indicating his service to the North family—held the carriage door for Sebastian, who helped Fiona out, for which she was grateful; the skirt tried to tangle her legs, and she almost tripped over the hem. She emerged without falling on her face and took Sebastian’s arm, resting her hand loosely on it instead of taking it in a death grip the way she wanted to.
A man dressed all in black waited for them, his hands clasped so his sleeves covered them completely, and nodded for them to follow him across the bridge. Holt was apparently included in that invitation, because he trailed along behind them.
Fiona was too nervous to appreciate the sight of the Kepa at sunset, though the light hitting the water was almost as blinding as the white buildings. A few minutes more, and they were surrounded by the tall, windowless buildings Fiona remembered from their night flight. After seeing the blank walls of the Jaixante, she wondered whether any of its residents ever got lost. The Irantzen Temple was the only thing she’d seen with any individual character.
She hesitated as they passed between the first buildings, not wanting to draw attention to herself because she superstitiously feared being recognized. It was an irrational fear, not only because no one was likely to have seen her closely enough to remember her face, but also because the Jaixante guards in their fluttering, ragged robes were nowhere to be seen. Nevertheless, she took Sebastian’s hand and gripped it tightly, hoping he would understand her fears.
Their guide brought them to a wall so high it looked like a white cliff in which were set a couple of black-stained wooden doors tall enough to look normal-sized in that giant wall. Unlike the fairy spires of the Irantzen Temple, this looked like a fortress, or a gate guarding the treasures of a kingdom.
As they approached the doors, they swung open silently, weightlessly, with no apparent hand to set them swinging. Fortunately for her peace of mind, Fiona noticed black-clad servitors holding the doors as they passed through. The servants in black had their heads bowed low so they were apparently looking at their feet. Fiona averted her gaze. It wasn’t that she felt embarrassed, or worried that looking was wrong; they were so still and so determined not to impose their presence on her she felt noticing them was rude.
The doors opened on a long hall paved in white stones joined so closely the seams were invisible. Wide enough to admit two carriages side by side, the hall was lined with pedestals on which stood statues of black marble. The statues didn’t look like anything real, and gave Fiona a funny feeling when she looked at them, as if it said something about her intelligence that she couldn’t identify the subjects.
Another set of identical doors stood open at the far end of the hall, and the sound of stringed instruments playing atonal chords emerged from them. Other figures made small by distance passed through the doors, garbed in colors as bright as their own. Sebastian and Fiona followed them. Fiona realized her palm was sweating and wished she dared wipe it on her gown, but it would leave a mark. She waved it surreptitiously at her side, willing the air to dry it.
The room beyond the doors was the largest Fiona had ever seen. She didn’t know how it compared to the grand ballroom at the palace in Aurilien, but it had to be more than a hundred feet long in both directions with a ceiling at least forty feet high. Terraces draped in filmy white left it open to the sky, which was orange and peach and gold with the sunset, and a cool breeze scented with a spicy cinnamon odor caressed Fiona’s cheeks and dried the sweat from her hand. It kept the room from being over-warm with so many bodies filling even that great space.
“Your Highness, Lady North,” a Veriboldan man said, approaching them. He was dressed in a peacock-blue knee-length robe open over black linen trousers and a matching shirt with a deep V-neck that blended with his dark skin. The robe was embroidered with threads of what Fiona suspected were real gold, and tiny emeralds in an abstract pattern winked at her. The man’s feet were bare, his toenails lacquered bronze, and he wore his hair cut short to frame his face.
“I am Mitxel,” the man said, bowing at the waist low enough that Fiona could see his black hair was thinning on top. “I am honored to be your guide throughout the Election.”
“What does that mean?” Fiona said, her curiosity getting the better of her manners.
“It means, milady, that I am to answer your questions, to show you to your place during the ceremonies, and to anticipate your needs. I will also introduce you to your counterparts, if you will follow me?” Mitxel bowed again, not quite as low this time. His Tremontanese was barely accented, like Hien’s had been, making him sound more like a northwestern Tremontanan than a Veriboldan.
“Thank you, Mitxel,” Sebastian said. There had been no mention of “translator” in that list of Mitxel’s duties, Fiona noticed, and she wondered if they knew Sebastian spoke no Veriboldan. If they thought it was a slight, that Tremontane had sent an envoy who didn’t speak their language, they didn’t show it. Sebastian hadn’t been at all uncomfortable at the idea when Fiona had brought it up two days before, saying only, “Then you’ll have to translate for me,” and Fiona had let it drop. She didn’t mind translating, but it was one more reminder that she had no idea what the Veriboldans expected of her.
Fiona examined her surroundings as they followed Mitxel into the vast chamber. If the parquet floor had a pattern, it was invisible from this angle, appearing only to be a variegated mass of browns and golds. The lights that burned high overhead had to be Devices, as they didn’t increase the warmth of the room, just glowed with a soft white light that cast faint shadows across the floor. Fiona gripped Sebastian’s sleeve more firmly and reminded herself she was here by invitation.
Sebastian seemed to have been right about the Veriboldans’ desire for everyone to dress in their national costume. Most of the men and women in the room were Veriboldans dressed much as Mitxel was, in brightly colored and embroidered knee-length robes over linen shirts and trousers in either black or white, and all were barefoot. Fiona was certain the colors meant something—she knew enough of Veriboldan nobility to know their society was highly stratified with complex rules—but the meaning wasn’t obvious at a glance.
The little knot of people they approached, however, stood out from the gaudily dressed Veriboldans, though two of them were as brightly garbed as their hosts. Those two wore floor-length divided skirts of jade-green silk, embroidered thickly with gold and silver thread in a rich floral pattern, and matching cropped long-sleeved jackets open at the front over bare skin. The curves of the woman’s breasts were barely visible in the gap. Fiona wondered if the jacket chafed her, or if she worried about it flying open and exposing her to the world. Only the scions of an Eskandelic principality would dress that way.
The second couple were clearly Ruskalder, their fair hair and wintry blue eyes pale enough to look bleached. Ruskalder national costume for men apparently consisted of a fur-trimmed suede shirt and trousers dyed a deep blue, tucked into knee-high boots of shiny leather that looked never worn. The woman’s shirt was similar to the man’s, but she wore a calf-length skirt with at least two petticoats, bright blue to match her companion’s trousers, embroidered with tiny white flowers all around the hem. Both their fair complexions were pink, and beads of sweat clustered at the man’s temples. Fiona found herself grateful for the thin silk of her gown.
But it was the last person in the little group that kept Fiona’s attention. He was tall, easily six and a half feet, with long honey-blond hair pulled back from his face in a braid that fell halfway down his back and blue eyes like a summer sky. Where Holt was gaunt, this man was well-built, his sleeveless leather jerkin displaying the muscles of his arms and his tightly-fitting leather pants showing off a well-rounded posterior. Fiona realized she was staring and quickly turned her attention back to Mitxel.
“My lords and ladies,” Mitxel said, switching to Veriboldan, “may I present the envoy from Tremontane, Prince Sebastian North, and his lady wife, Fiona North. Your Highness, Dekerian Nikani and Dekerian Salena of Eskandel, Morten of the Ruskalder and his wife Venelda, and Stannin of the Kirkellan.” He accompanied his introductions with delicate hand gestures as if to connect the names to their faces.
“Fiona?” Sebastian said. Fiona flushed. She’d already forgotten herself. Blame it on the gorgeous Kirkellan warrior.
“My…husband speaks no Veriboldan,” she said quickly, “and begs your pardon for the need for a translator.” To Sebastian, she said, “Did you catch all the names?”
“Dekerian Nikani, Dekerian Salena, Morten, Venelda, and Stannin,” Sebastian repeated promptly, bowing to each in turn. Well, he’d probably been trained from birth to remember people. “Do any of you speak Tremontanese?”
“Most children of principalities speak Tremontanese and Veriboldan as well as Eskandelic,” Dekerian Nikani said smoothly. His accent was even better than Mitxel’s. “You are a child of Willow North.”
“She was my great-grandmother.”
“Eskandel remembers the Queen fondly. We honor you in her memory.” Nikani made a bow that Sebastian returned without a hint of self-consciousness. Fiona, uncertain whether she’d been included in that bow, stayed still. Dekerian Salena gave her a pleasant smile, which she did return. At least some people at the Election were friendly.
“Tremontane is disrespectful to send an envoy who doesn’t speak the language,” Morten said in Veriboldan. His voice was somehow gruff and whiny at the same time. “I have practiced many years to show respect to our hosts.” Next to him, Venelda closed her eyes briefly as if in pain, an expression Fiona was familiar with. She’d worn it herself many times when Roderick had said or done something embarrassing.
“Prince Sebastian North is the Queen of Tremontane’s own son, and a fitting envoy,” she said, putting steel into her words. “And I speak Veriboldan for both of us.”
Morten scowled and opened his mouth to say something else, but Nikani cut across his words with, “A prince of the royal house of North is certainly worthy of attending the Election, whatever language he speaks.”
“He not speak?” said the giant Stannin. He clapped Sebastian on the shoulder. Sebastian staggered, but managed to remain upright. “I not speak well! Is hard, Veriboldan, it tangles tongue.” He then said something Fiona couldn’t understand, a long string of gutturals that made Morten scowl harder and Venelda cover her mouth to hide a smile. Stannin ended his sentence with a booming laugh and a smile for Fiona. She laughed too, though she had no idea at what. Hopefully Stannin hadn’t just made a joke about Morten’s mother that would earn Fiona Morten’s enmity.
“I’m starting to question the wisdom of sending me as envoy,” Sebastian murmured.
“Nothing to fear,” Nikani said. “We are all of us outsiders in Veribold. Even speaking their language is not enough to make us one of them.”
A deep ringing tone echoed through the chamber. Instantly, every Veriboldan turned to face one of the terraces. Fiona looked in that direction, but saw only the fluttering drapes filtering the cool evening air. The sound rang out again. The Veriboldans began walking in the direction of the terrace, silent, the only sounds the hissing of linen rubbing against linen and the faintest noise of bare feet on wood. Fiona hesitated, unsure what the protocol was.
Morten took a step as if to follow them, and Mitxel put a hand on his arm briefly, withdrawing it when Morten turned angrily on him as if he’d punched Morten instead. “We will wait,” Mitxel said, then repeated himself in Tremontanese.
They waited, watching the colorful Veriboldans pass through the drapes onto the terrace and disappear from sight. Fiona resisted the urge to scratch under her arm. The room wasn’t warm enough to make her sweat, but nerves were doing what the heat couldn’t. Morten tapped his foot impatiently. Stannin looked about him as eagerly as a puppy exploring the world outside his basket for the first time. He really was painfully good-looking.
Fiona glanced at Sebastian, who had his attention on the distant terrace, and her anxieties eased slightly. Out of place, unable to speak the language, and he still wore that air of easy competence that made her heart turn over in her chest. Next to him, Stannin looked like a glorious piece of art—beautiful, but nothing you could make a life with.
“It is time,” Mitxel said, gesturing for his little flock to follow him. Sebastian quickly followed, putting himself and Fiona directly behind Mitxel as if he had understood the man’s words. Fiona could hear the sharp taps of the Eskandelics’ shoes on the parquet floor and knew they were immediately behind her, but didn’t dare turn to see how the others had ranged themselves. Would the Veriboldans see their order as denoting rank? In any case, it couldn’t hurt to be first through the door.