Mitxel himself met Fiona and Sebastian at the bridge. “Your Highness, Lady North, good evening,” he said with his usual bow. “Please join me.”
Fiona took Sebastian’s arm and followed Mitxel across the bridge to where a couple of palanquins waited. “This evening’s entertainment is at the far north of the Jaixante, and you should not be required to walk so far,” Mitxel explained. “Please be seated.”
Fiona cast a quick glance at Sebastian. He’d said no more than “It’s time” back at the embassy, had been totally silent during the short carriage ride to the bridge, and had barely looked at Fiona the whole time they’d been together. His continuing coldness made her heart ache with sorrow, guilt, and the inevitable hopeless longing for what could never be. In the face of that silence, her intent to propose marriage had frozen and died.
Now he released her arm and climbed into the nearest palanquin. Fiona stepped into the other. It was curtained in red silk and smelled stuffy, as if its last passenger had been a large, sweaty man who bathed in a musky cologne. Fiona twitched the curtains aside and tied them back, not caring if it was a violation of protocol.
The palanquin moved as smoothly as if it were on wheels. The bearers must practice for hours to achieve such an even gait. Fiona watched Sebastian’s palanquin with its four matched bearers trotting along before her and wished she’d found a way to break through his anger, or hurt, or whatever fueled his silence. You could accept his proposal, she thought, and immediately crushed the impulse. What a disastrous marriage that would be if she gave in to him just to stop him being upset.
The palanquin took them far north, along the route to the Irantzen Temple for a hundred yards before turning left and away from that familiar route. It was later than Fiona was accustomed to arriving anywhere in the Jaixante, and the sun had nearly set, throwing long shadows that made the tall white cliffs and stark black doors even more confusing. Then they turned right, and Fiona gasped.
Ahead, a white pyramid rose sharply against the twilight sky, surrounded by the kind of parkland Fiona had assumed the Jaixante didn’t have. It was barely enough to be considered a park; it would be more accurate to call it a grassy strip between the road and the pyramid. But trees grew along the verge, tall cypresses that quivered in the slight breeze like shivering maidens, and the park softened the harsh lines of the pyramid while making it seem even stranger than the rest of the Jaixante architecture.
Two giant brass doors set into the base of the pyramid opened at their approach. The bearers set down Fiona’s palanquin, and Mitxel came forward to assist her. Fiona was wearing the silver-embroidered North blue robe again, but instead of ordinary trousers and shirt beneath it, she wore a slim white sheath of a dress that was little more than a tube of fabric ending at her ankles. Georgette had come up with silver sandals to go with it, not footwear Fiona remembered acquiring in Aurilien, but they matched perfectly, so Fiona had worn them without complaint. But the ensemble was difficult to move in, and she was grateful for Mitxel’s hand.
Mitxel led her to where Sebastian waited, and Sebastian offered her his arm without looking at her. The gesture made Fiona angry. Maybe Sebastian had some right to be upset, but that didn’t entitle him to treat her with such rudeness. Fiona smiled at Mitxel and ignored Sebastian as thoroughly as he was ignoring her.
“This evening is for conversation,” Mitxel said, gesturing to them to follow him into the pyramid. “You will be told of the candidate’s causes and encouraged to decide which is worthiest. Though you will not need to make a final choice this evening—that is for the challenge of charisma, in two days’ time.”
“I thought the point of that challenge was for the candidates to convince us themselves,” Sebastian said. “Thus proving their skill at leadership.”
“There are many ways to demonstrate leadership, Prince Sebastian. Tonight you will encounter those the candidates have already swayed to their side. A leader’s true qualities are reflected in the people who follow him, is that not so?”
“I suppose,” Sebastian said, “though in Tremontane we don’t hold a follower’s weaknesses against his leader.”
“It would be more accurate to say that in Veribold, attracting the loyalty of a powerful man speaks well of the one who commands that loyalty,” Mitxel said. His smile was a little rigid, and Fiona wished she could slap sense into Sebastian. He shouldn’t let his anger with Fiona spill over into his interactions with others tonight.
They passed through an antechamber and into a slightly larger room lined with plain wooden benches. Mitxel directed them to sit, which Sebastian did with alacrity, as if touching Fiona burned him. Fiona sat nearby, more slowly. Black-clad men and women emerged from a smaller adjacent room, some of them bearing basins and towels. One woman knelt before Fiona and removed her sandals before Fiona could protest. Another set her basin on the floor and dipped a length of cloth into the water it contained, squeezing out the excess. And a third took Fiona’s right foot in her hands and held it off the floor.
Startled, Fiona tried to jerk away, but the woman’s grip was tight. The woman with the wet cloth swabbed Fiona’s foot, dropped the cloth into the bowl, and dried Fiona’s foot with another cloth hanging over her shoulder. They did this in total silence, in the space of a few breaths. When the woman lifted Fiona’s left foot, Fiona was prepared and didn’t flinch. The water was cool and comfortable, and although Fiona didn’t think her feet were all that dirty, she didn’t mind being washed.
The women didn’t return Fiona’s sandals, instead whisking them away into the smaller room. Fiona hoped she would eventually see them again. They didn’t offer her new footwear, but one of the women gestured to her to rise. Fiona did so. Sebastian had just finished having his own feet washed, and she caught his eye. He shrugged, a humorous, self-deprecating gesture that made Fiona smile and swept away some of the awkwardness between them. This time, when she took his arm, he didn’t tense as if he wished she were elsewhere.
They walked barefoot along a corridor floored in cold black quartz that glittered in the light of dozens of torches, small ones that smelled of creosote and reminded Fiona of the Irantzen Temple. The noise of people talking came to Fiona’s ears from ahead, reminding her that she would have to translate tonight. She hoped Sebastian’s bad mood really had subsided, because she didn’t want to play go-between for someone who resented her.
They emerged into a vast space that felt as if it wanted to swallow Fiona up. The size of the banquet hall, nearly matching the grand chamber of the opening ceremonies, made her wonder what noble Veriboldans felt they had to prove. It wasn’t that the room was big enough to seat three hundred people, at a guess; it was the vaulted ceiling, easily as tall as the room was wide, that filled Fiona with mingled awe and curiosity.
Sheets of colorful silk twenty feet long, crimson and emerald and sapphire and violet, hung from the distant ceiling and moved constantly in a breeze not tangible at ground level. It wouldn’t have surprised her to learn there were servants in the ceiling, fanning the silk.
She dragged her gaze away from the spectacle and scanned the room. A scattering of robed figures, all Veriboldan, kept the room from being echoingly empty with their quiet murmuring. There were no tables, no furniture of any kind, making her wonder where the food was served. She could smell it, though the aromas were faint: cooked beef and pork, something sweet she couldn’t identify, and over it all the scent of spicy fish sauce. From how often they’d eaten it from roadside booths, she’d assumed it was low-brow cuisine. Finding it at a banquet held for the highest nobility was unexpected, and comforting.
Mitxel put his hand on Sebastian’s elbow, drawing him and Fiona close enough to suggest what he was about to say should be held in confidence. “You have never been to an event like this before, I assume.”
“That’s right,” Sebastian said, withdrawing from Mitxel’s touch, but not in the abrupt way Fiona feared.
“The food is served over the course of hours,” Mitxel continued. “Servants will approach you so you may help yourselves. This allows everyone to freely mingle and speak to as many people as possible. It is less limiting than seating you at a table and restricting your conversation to the four people nearest you.”
“I see,” Sebastian said. Fiona still had questions, like How do we help ourselves? and Where are the dishes and utensils? But Mitxel had already left, heading toward Venelda and Morten, who had entered behind them. The Ruskalder wore the same style clothing Fiona and Sebastian wore, but in red and black. More color-coding the foreigners for someone’s convenience. It occurred to Fiona that the Veriboldans might have as much trouble remembering the strangers’ identities as she had in keeping track of who belonged to which Veriboldan noble house.
She drew in a breath. “Sebastian,” she said, just as Sebastian said, “Fiona, I—”
It startled Fiona into looking at him. He’d turned his head to face her, his expression unsmiling. “Go ahead,” Fiona said.
“I—” Sebastian began.
The hard, resonant sound of an enormous brass gong drowned out the rest of his words. They both glanced around for the source of the sound, but saw nothing but the Veriboldan landholders and the other envoys. Fiona looked up—maybe the gong was hidden in the rafters with the fanning servants—and this time saw ventilation slits in the ceiling, cleverly concealed near where the lengths of silk hung. She reminded herself not to be intimidated by Veriboldan architecture. Tremontane built things differently, but with every bit as much skill.
She turned to point out the slits to Sebastian and was distracted by men and women garbed in dark green wrap-around shirts and loose trousers, filing through a nearby door. They bore trays from which emanated more of the delicious smells. They moved through the scant crowds without pausing or making eye contact with anyone. Between that and the near-total silence of their bare feet on stone, they reminded Fiona of Devices, lifelike ones cleverly designed to fool the viewer into believing them human.
Each servant took up a position that to Fiona seemed randomly chosen, some of them close to a little knot of guests, others standing alone. The smells of beef and fish sauce made Fiona’s stomach growl. It had been a long time since dinner at the embassy. All the trays were held high enough that she couldn’t see any of the delicious-smelling food, and she thought about edging closer to one of the servants, but Sebastian still had hold of her arm and she didn’t think she could gracefully take him with her.
Another door opened, this one opposite the one the servants had used. The murmur of conversation ceased. A double handful of women in white emerged. Irantzen priestesses, with Hien in the lead. Hien led them to the center of the room, passing Fiona closely enough to touch her. But Hien ignored her. Sela, on the other hand, shot Fiona a poisonous glare from her position directly behind Hien. Fiona didn’t flinch. She almost smiled politely at Sela, but the woman would likely take it as an insult, and Fiona didn’t want to start a war.
Hien came to a halt at the room’s center, or at least close to it. Fiona couldn’t see any marking that might indicate where Hien should stand, but from what she knew of Hien, she guessed wherever the woman chose to stand defined the center. The other priestesses stood with their backs to her in a loose circle. Hien raised both hands with her palms upward, as if she wanted to hold up the distant ceiling. Her companions mimicked her. Fiona glanced around to see if this was something she was expected to follow, but the rest of the guests simply stood and watched.
“We are one in the service of My Lady Veribold,” Hien said in a clear voice that carried throughout the room. “As we serve Her, so does ungoverned heaven guide our service. May we be ever mindful of our duty, even in the midst of pleasure.”
“Ungoverned heaven guide us,” everyone around Fiona replied, not just the priestesses but the other Veriboldans. Caught off-guard, Fiona hoped this was a cultural thing outsiders weren’t expected to participate in.
“It was a prayer,” she whispered to Sebastian. “Invoking heaven’s guidance.”
“I hope heaven doesn’t just smile down on Veriboldans,” Sebastian murmured back.
Hien and the priestesses lowered their arms. The servants immediately brought their trays down to chest height and turned to the nearest groups of people. Fiona noticed in time that none of the Veriboldans had moved to approach the servants and impatiently waited for one of them to draw near to her and Sebastian.
The servant stopped within arm’s reach of her and held the tray forward in offering. It contained a stack of porcelain bowls the size of her cupped palm, a pile of small two-tined forks, and three platters heaped high with a variety of meats and vegetables, all cut into bite-sized pieces. Fiona and Sebastian exchanged glances. It seemed simple enough, which meant it was probably complicated and they were likely to get it wrong.
Sebastian shrugged. “What would you like?” he asked Fiona.
“The beef, I guess,” Fiona said, pointing at the platter that smelled most strongly of fish sauce. If she was going to get Veriboldan fine dining wrong, she intended to at least enjoy the food.
Sebastian scooped beef chunks into one of the tiny bowls and handed it to Fiona. She took one of the odd forks and waited for Sebastian to serve himself. The servant gave no sign that he was paying attention to them, not even a show of disdain for the uncouth foreigners, but as soon as Sebastian had his own bowl and fork, he raised the tray and turned away to serve someone else.
Fiona covertly observed the other “diners.” The three Veriboldans nearest her held their bowls in one cupped hand, raised close to their chins, and used the little forks to convey morsels to their mouths neatly and rapidly. It didn’t look like a dining method that allowed for much conversation, which suited Fiona fine. She mimicked their gestures and chewed and swallowed with satisfaction.
“I think we’re meant to have seconds and thirds,” Sebastian said between bites. “I wonder if they serve these things like courses, or if it’s the same foods served all night long?”
“I’m hungry enough not to care,” Fiona said, “but that won’t last.” She scraped the last bits of sauce awkwardly from the curve of the bowl. That hadn’t been enough to satisfy her. “Do you think we can reasonably follow those servants around, begging for more food?”
Sebastian had finished his helping and was looking around. “More to the point, where do we put our used dishes?”
Fiona saw someone set her empty bowl on a passing tray, with the servant not even pausing. “I guess we let them worry about that,” she said.
For the next half-hour, she and Sebastian ate without conversing with anyone. It would have worried Fiona more if she hadn’t observed most of the Veriboldan landholders doing the same thing. As it was, she couldn’t help feeling anxious the way she did when some unknown challenge approached. She reminded herself that they weren’t there to make the Veriboldans like them; they were there to keep Gizane occupied, if necessary, so she wouldn’t return to her rooms early and possibly catch Holt in the act of rifling through her things.
On that thought, she looked for Gizane. The crowds had grown since Fiona had arrived, though they were still small enough to be swallowed up by the vast chamber, and at first Fiona didn’t see anyone she recognized. Eventually, she noticed Alazne of the Otsoan, her tall, angular figure towering over the man she was talking to. The candidate wore an emerald green robe embroidered with dogs—no, wolves—and had her head bent in a stance that suggested she was holding forth passionately on some subject. The man listening to her wore a plain gray robe, unadorned and simple like nothing Fiona had seen on a Veriboldan landholder before.
She surveyed the room more closely and realized that, contrary to her first impressions, the gathering wasn’t as brightly garbed as at the opening ceremony, nor were the colors as varied. She saw a lot of gray robes, a handful of green ones, some crimson, some sapphire blue, and some violet. Against this limited palette, the foreign envoys stood out, and the white-robed priestesses even more so.
“What do you think the colors mean?” she asked Sebastian.
Sebastian swallowed a last bite of chicken. “They’re the supporters of the candidates,” he said. “Green for Otsoan, red for Azergn, blue for Triminon, purple for Araton. Embroidered with, I think, the animals associated with each family. But did you look closely at the purple robes?”
Fiona did. “What…are those rats embroidered on those robes?”
Sebastian chuckled. “Araton…rat…it makes sense. I’m guessing rats don’t have the same significance in Veribold as they do in Tremontane. Everyone looks so proud to wear them.”
Now Fiona spotted Gizane in her purple robe embroidered with, yes, rats climbing up her arms and over her shoulders. The beautiful woman stood at the center of a group of gray-clad Veriboldans, with Stannin of the Kirkellan listening from the outer edges. Fiona fingered her North blue robe, ran her hand over the roughness of an embroidered cat. Cats pursued rats. It was a reassuring symbolism.
“And how does Tremontane find Veribold?” a creaky voice said. It sounded like an old metal hinge. The speaker was an elderly woman dressed in a sapphire-blue robe embroidered with monkeys. Fiona, fascinated by the skill with which the robe had been sewn, didn’t think to respond. Sebastian was quicker on the uptake—or maybe that was just his upbringing.
“We have received the warmest welcome,” he said, bowing. “Might I have the pleasure of your name?”
“I am Aurkene of the Belatzen,” the woman said, returning the bow. “It is good to know my countrymen have good manners. Not all of them respect our neighbor to the east.”
“And I suppose Bixhor of the Triminon is not one of those,” Sebastian said.
It took Fiona a moment to catch up. Right. Bixhor was the blue robes. And this was one of his supporters.
Aurkene’s eyes glinted with appreciative humor. “Bixhor sees the value in a strong diplomatic relationship with Tremontane, yes.”
“Queen Genevieve would agree with that.” Sebastian handed off his bowl to a passing servant without taking his eyes off Aurkene. “Do the Belatzen support Bixhor of the Triminon, or must he win their support individually?”
“I am matriarch of the Belatzen, and many follow where I lead,” Aurkene replied, “but Veribold is only strong when the strong make their own decisions. As I am sure you understand.”
“That’s how it is in Tremontane as well. Tell me, yana, what will Bixhor do for Veribold if he becomes King?”
It didn’t surprise Fiona that Sebastian knew the correct term of address for a noble Veriboldan woman; what surprised her was how good his accent was. Aurkene didn’t seem surprised either.
“Many things,” Aurkene said, “though I assume you mean specifically what cause he has championed.” She tilted her head to one side. “You know of kang-shu in Tremontane, yes?”
“We do, though I believe our version developed independently of yours. We call it opera.”
“Kang-shu is one of Veribold’s most treasured cultural heritages,” Aurkene went on. “It is something all Veriboldans appreciate, regardless of their social status or wealth. Bixhor intends to restore the Sendoha, the place where kang-shu is performed in Haizea. It has become sadly dilapidated in recent years.”
“That is a noble cause,” Sebastian said.
Fiona held her tongue. It struck her as typically Veriboldan that the landholders would think putting money toward a so-called cultural treasure rather than, for example, lighting Dusktown properly was a great use of the nation’s treasury. She knew full well that whatever Aurkene said about the unifying nature of kang-shu, it was only the wealthy who could afford to attend. Probably all the candidates’ causes were similar in nature.
“It is unfortunate that the other candidates are all frivolous,” Aurkene was saying. “Refurbishing the King’s residence, as Luken of the Azergn intends—so self-centered. Alazne of the Otsoan believes awarding every citizen one day in seven in which they are free from work is a fine idea, but if they are not compensated, how is that anything but taking money from hardworking citizens? And of course Gizane of the Araton’s desire to build a sanctuary for the hooded owl is nothing but pandering to the Irantzen Temple.”
That got Fiona’s attention. “How is that?” she asked.
Aurkene didn’t look surprised at Fiona’s sudden intrusion into the conversation. “Then you do not know the hooded owl is sacred to the Temple?”
“I know it was the sign given by ungoverned heaven that Haran spoke the truth. I suppose I could have guessed the priestesses would care about it.”
“It is true. The hooded owl is dwindling in number, and no one knows why. I suppose a sanctuary for them is a worthy goal, but in the context of the Election, it means only that Gizane thinks to influence the Temple to lean her way.”
“I agree, that’s not worthy of respect,” Sebastian said. “You have given us both much to think about.”
Aurkene’s eyes twinkled again. “I knew your uncle, the one who shares your name,” she said with an impish smile that belonged on someone fifty years younger. “Do give him my regards when you return to Tremontane.” She bowed again and walked away.
“That sounded like more than a casual acquaintance,” Sebastian said, watching her go. “I wonder…Great-Uncle Sebastian never married, and he’s never said why not.”
Fiona considered saying something about people from different worlds not being compatible, but decided that would just start an argument. “So now we have some idea of what we’re voting on in two days,” she said. “Does it matter who we support so long as it’s not Gizane?”
“We ought to want the best candidate, which for us means the one most beneficial for Tremontane,” Sebastian said. “But I’m afraid I really don’t care. All those causes seem good mainly for noble Veriboldans.”
“What about giving everyone a weekly holiday? That would help even poor people. Except…Aurkene was right about most people working every day so they can survive. If they have to stop working, they won’t eat.”
“Thus demonstrating, once again, that Veriboldan landholders don’t have any idea what the lives of ordinary people are like.” Sebastian shrugged. “We should be looking at who supports each cause, not whether the cause is a good one. But we don’t know enough about the nobles to appreciate what it means that they support one candidate over the others.”
Fiona was about to say something when she saw Hien approaching them. The priestess moved like a bull who’d just seen a stranger enter his field, implacable and unwavering. The sight drove Fiona’s words out of her head. “Um,” she said. “Sebastian—”
“Prince Sebastian,” Hien said, coming to a stop beside them. “Lady North. You are still here.”
“Should we have left?” Sebastian said, making it sound like a joke.
Hien ignored him. “I would speak with Lady North. Privately.”
Fiona and Sebastian exchanged glances. “I should…speak with the other candidates and their followers,” Sebastian said. His gaze flicked across the room to where Gizane stood, holding forth to a new clot of listeners. Fiona nodded. He bowed to Hien and walked away.
Hien turned and strode off in what to Fiona seemed a random direction. She didn’t tell Fiona to follow, but Fiona didn’t need direction. She followed Hien like a toy on a string, bobbing along after the priestess.
When they were nearly to the wall, and well away from inadvertent or intentional eavesdroppers, Hien turned on Fiona. “Why are you still here?”
Taken aback by the priestess’s abruptness, Fiona stammered, “I—because the Election isn’t over.”
“You are not here for the Election any more than you were here for the festival,” Hien said. “You have another purpose. Why would Tremontane want to destroy Veribold?”
“That’s not true. Tremontane wants—”
Hien cut her off with a gesture and a glare that could melt stone. “You have the Stones,” she said. “Give them back. Now.”