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THE MOST POWERFUL MAN in the world, a wielder of unfathomable magic, was speaking to Cyrele in her head. Had either the princess or Enosis heard the voice? But no...Kamene was staring into the mirror with an almost desperate intensity, while Enosis watched her impassively. Which meant Cyrele was at the mercy of a powerful stranger with no one to intervene for her.
You use that pesky magic within the bounds of our realm? the voice asked, in a tone that felt more inquisitive than hostile, for all that the words were provocative.
It didn’t set Cyrele at ease. It couldn’t. She’d been caught out as a glyphwriter before even reaching Lesra Kar. And by someone powerful enough to touch her mind. What else could he do to her? Could he kill her from a distance if he didn’t like her response?
Forgive me, she thought back towards the voice, grasping for whatever chance she had at ameliorating the situation. Is that not permissible? I was only obeying her highness’ orders.
A pause, during which time Kamene began talking with a feminine voice—a conversation that Cyrele couldn’t focus on at all, not with the icy fear running through her veins.
You speak of the Viemian princess? The voice replied, considering. She isn’t promising to be particularly subtle, if that’s the case. More than anywhere else in the world, the wasteland is saturated with our magic. We’d never have detected you so easily if you’d held off on using your glyphwriting until you arrived in Lesra Kar.
‘We’? ‘Our’ magic? Did that mean this voice wasn’t the Maelstrom? But if not him...then who? Another member of the Kavan royal family, surely, but was it possible that all of them could hold such power? The notion that multiple people could reach into Cyrele’s mind as they liked was utterly petrifying.
This is quite the quandary, the voice continued. Maelstrom Shilanar, the first of his name, had every glyphwriter of his time put to death. Your Order has been revived somewhat since then, but the lack of continuity doesn’t change my family’s wariness towards your kind, I’m afraid.
So Kamene had been right? Glyphwriters were truly not welcome in Kava? A sharp fear accompanied the revelation...but so did confusion. She still didn’t understand why the first Maelstrom’s descendants, to this day, would carry a dislike of glyphwriters.
I’m barely even a glyphwriter, your highness, Cyrele thought towards the voice, hoping that if only she could convince this person that she wasn’t important, she might somehow remain as overlooked as she’d always been. I was a low-ranked member of the Order. They sent me here with nothing but a communication device that lets the princess stay in contact with her family. Without access to more magical artifacts, my glyphwriting is capable of very little.
There was a pause that felt almost...contemplative, somehow? Then the voice said, I actually hope you’re lying to protect yourself. You could be very useful to me, if so. If you are lying, then keep doing it, for now. It’s a clever idea.
Cyrele didn’t know whether to feel relieved or worried. The voice was all but confirming that there was a way out of this, but at least one member of the Kavan royal family already wanted to use her. And if she had any illusions left about what it meant to serve a royal, her own princess was fast disabusing her of them.
The others have found us, the voice added, with a note of displeasure. I’ll convince them to spare you. But don’t tell them about our little talk. They would never let you live if they even suspected you might be useful to me. Family rivalries, you understand.
Then the voice was gone—yet Cyrele still felt trapped in the moment when she’d been discovered. Like there was someone still with her in her own mind, watching. And who was to say that there wasn’t? If a Kavan royal could enter her mind whenever they liked, what couldn’t they do to her?
She hadn’t even noticed how the world around her had slipped away, as she focused on what she perceived inside her mind rather than with her ears or eyes. But gradually, an awareness of her physical surroundings came trickling back in—of her hands trembling in her lap, of Kamene and Enosis staring into the mirror, of a soft-spoken dialogue happening around her.
“...first impression is critical,” an airy voice was saying. “The time leading up to the wedding is all you’ll have to intrigue him. If you don’t manage it by then, it will become much more difficult to accomplish later.”
“I understand, mother,” Kamene said, but she sounded more uncertain than Cyrele had ever heard her. More vulnerable, even. “I have plans that take all of your advice into account, truly, but I wish you were here to help me.”
“I know. And I’m sorry, my darling, but if you ever want to see me again, you must succeed on your own. Else you’ll have no power to visit us or to invite us to visit you.”
Something about those words finally tugged Cyrele all the way out of her own mind and back into the real world. No power. Never seeing family again. A situation Cyrele could relate to, for all that Kamene was a princess and she a servant.
It was as if she and Kamene existed in two different planes of existence, brushing against each other but never meeting. Here they were, across a table from each other. Both vulnerable, maybe even both afraid. But Kamene’s worries revolved around impressing her betrothed so she might retain her influence over her future, while Cyrele had already lost all control over her own life—her struggle now was to keep living it at all.
She had hardly any time to consider what to do next when, just as the first voice had promised, another voice appeared in her mind, harsh and demanding. But no matter how desperately she tried to focus on what this new voice wanted from her, she found she couldn’t understand a single word...
...and yet she had understood the first voice. Because, she suddenly realized, the previous conversation had been entirely in Viemian.
I’m sorry, Cyrele thought back at the second voice, terrified to say even this much when she didn’t know what she was responding to. I don’t understand.
There was a pause. Then this second voice returned, but now, it spoke to her in Viemian. Who are you? What magic are you working inside our borders?
Before Cyrele could even think up a response, someone else did it for her—as a third voice appeared inside her mind, this one laced with amusement. Oh, but cousin, surely you must have figured it out just from the language? This must be a glyphwriter. And look at where they are right now—the Rasa River that cuts through the barrens. Now, who do we know is traveling towards us along that river today?
Part of the bride’s entourage? the harsh voice said. I suppose it makes sense for the King and Queen to give their daughter a personal glyphwriter. Forgive my brusque questioning, Elei. I had not considered the implications of receiving a Viemian princess, given how long ago it’s been since one graced us with her presence. But I must still ask you what magic you were working?
Cyrele dared not lie to them. Of all the people in the world who could hold power over her, these voices had quickly become the ones she most needed to appease. Our King and Queen gifted the princess with an artifact, one whose magic facilitates communication. I was only using it to allow her to speak with her family.
This set off a flurry of conversation, none of it in a language Cyrele knew. The sense of helplessness at hearing her fate decided in front of her without understanding anything...it almost overwhelmed her. There was nothing she could, no way to prepare herself for what would happen next. Not until they chose to allow it.
Then it’s settled, the amused voice finally said. Once your princess finishes speaking with her family, you will use your artifact to contact us, so we may continue this discussion in a more personable manner.
But I don’t know how to do that, Cyrele thought back before she could reconsider it, afraid that there would be consequences for failing to meet the voices’ expectations. I only know how to make these artifacts connect to others of the same kind.
Don’t worry about that. Simply send your artifact’s magic downriver and I will take care of the rest. We shall wait patiently to speak with all of you, once the princess finishes her conversation.
And then the voices were gone again, leaving Cyrele with her orders—and the sinking feeling that she was about to be pulled into a world beyond her ability to handle.
#
PRINCESS KAMENE SOLICITED her mother’s advice with an almost hopeful note in her voice, oblivious to how her decision to contact her family now had upended everything. Her plans seemed so small compared to the scale of power the Kavan royals had only just demonstrated—did Kamene truly think she could impress them? Even if she somehow gained their favor, it would only take one momentary offense for her to end up in a worse position than she’d began from.
Right then, Cyrele would’ve given anything to have the fate that Kamene wanted to avoid—obscurity. The chance to fade from the attention of the Kavan royals and live out her life in peace and quiet. But it was far too late for that.
Kamene finally began saying her goodbyes, drawing out the moment far too long for Cyrele’s liking. Her dread of the princess’ displeasure had quickly become outweighed by the fear of the Kavan royals, and she had to remind herself that there was nothing to be gained from rushing Kamene—even the royals themselves hadn’t asked for that! And yet, every moment Kamene wasted still felt like a personal mark against Cyrele.
Taking steady breaths to calm herself, Cyrele glanced impatiently in the princess’ direction—and found Enosis watching her with narrowed eyes. That was slightly concerning, because she didn’t want the princess’ most important servant paying her so much mind, but trifling compared to the magnitude of unwanted attention she had already attracted.
“Deactivate the mirror,” Kamene finally said, already turning away with the full expectation that Cyrele would obey her without question. Except Cyrele couldn’t obey her.
“Kava requests an audience,” she said quickly, before the princess could order her to silence.
Kamene spun back, eyes blazing with fury...until she Cyrele’s words finally registered in her mind. Her anger bled away, replaced with confusion. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“Voices from Lesra Kar contacted me during your conversation, your highness,” Cyrele began. But then she found herself unsure of how to continue. For although she—and by implication, the princess—had been commanded to speak to the voices, she dared not use that language with the princess herself. “They insisted on speaking with you as soon as your meeting with the queen had finished and instructed me on how to use the mirror to facilitate it.”
A flash of worry crossed the princess’ eyes. “Interesting. The Maelstrom himself?”
“They didn’t identify themselves, your highness. But the fact that they can contact me at all suggests that this is a royal audience.”
Kamene frowned. “But I must be presentable before a royal audience. Not...this.” She held up a strand of her hair with a look of distaste, though to Cyrele’s eyes, her appearance was already overdone for the purpose of traveling.
“Your highness,” Enosis interjected. “Permit me to remind you that everyone on board, from the crew to the Kavan attendants, will know if you ask your servants to ready you for royalty. Elei Cyrele’s presence in this cabin will be noticed and the servants might even suspect the mirror’s true nature. Meanwhile, the Kavan royals await you.”
An expression of uncertainty crossed the princess’ face, before hardening into determination. “No. It was only ten minutes ago that my mother reminded me how much a good first impression matters. I will not immediately discard her advice.”
Enosis’ shoulders fell, but her voice was completely devoid of emotion when she said, “As you wish, your highness.”
“I won’t be foolish,” the princess insisted. “If the Kavans already know about Cyrele, then we no longer need to protect her identity. But we will hide the mirror. And I’ll tell the servants to prepare something elegant but not extravagant, so as not to take too much time.”
For all that the princess had laid out her intentions for scrutiny, neither Enosis or Cyrele could actually disagree with her decision. Though Enosis almost looked like she wanted to. And Cyrele certainly did, as all the advice she’d ever received to never keep royalty waiting repeated itself in her mind. Surely that advice applied tenfold to Kavan royalty.
But Kamene wasn’t like herself or Enosis. She had been taught to vie for power, not submit to it. Though little good those lessons would do her now.
Next commenced a half-hour long fashion frenzy, lasting until the princess declared that her servants’ less than satisfactory work would simply have to do. Cyrele supposed that amount of time must have seemed reasonable to Kamene. And truly, it could have been worse. They would simply have to rely on the royals’ forbearance.
Enosis dismissed the servants and took her place behind Kamene, in full view of the mirror, while Kamene seated herself and rearranged her dress to her advantage. Cyrele carefully placed the mirror back on the stand and sat behind it, though she doubted she could remain concealed for long. At a nod from the princess, Cyrele raised her stylus and finally did as the voices had instructed—she told the mirror to send its magic downriver.
Her heart raced with the fear that this might not work. The royals were powerful, true, but they knew nothing of the mirror. If they’d incorrectly theorized how their abilities would interact with the artifact, there was a very real chance Cyrele would be the one to answer for it. To the voices, to the princess, possibly even to the Maelstrom himself.
It was disconcerting to realize she had done all she could, and that success or failure was no longer in her hands. All she could do was hold her breath, wait—and hope.
#
“YOUR HIGHNESS,” A DEEP voice suddenly spoke, one that certainly did not belong to herself, the princess, or Enosis.
Which meant that the voice came from a Kavan royal, speaking through the magic of the mirror. Her hopes for a successful facilitation of this meeting had come to fruition—yet suddenly, that success became more terrifying than failure.
“And you must be the glyphwriter,” the royal spoke again.
“Oh no, this is my scribe,” the princess said. “Cyrele, come here.”
Perhaps one day she would look back on this moment, when she took the last few steps that would bring her before a Kavan royal, as the most significant in her life. When that day came, would she be comfortably employed in a steady household, with this time of her life serving as a memory of trials overcome? Or would she be locked in a prison, awaiting her execution, remembering the day that sealed her fate?
Clasping her hands together to keep them from shaking, she moved next to Enosis. Then she looked up to take her first glimpse of the three richly-dressed figures visible in the mirror, standing side by side.
Three figures. Three voices.
Did that mean that the first voice had joined the other two, maybe even convincing them to spare her as promised? Or had the last two voices brought a fourth person to this meeting?
“This is my glyphwriter,” Princess Kamene said, her voice as strong and confidence as if she’d meant to publicly acknowledge Cyrele all along.
“I see,” the figure in the middle spoke. A tall, broad man whose appearance came off as simple in comparison to his companions, despite wearing high-quality linen and jeweled bangles every bit as regal as theirs. “I am Matiser. Princess Kamene, let me introduce you to your betrothed, the Prince Avenah.”
He nodded to the dark-haired man at his left, who gave a polite but empty smile.
For a man wearing such a placid expression, Prince Avenah’s gaze shouldn’t have made Cyrele feel like her blood had turned to ice. But this was the Maelstrom’s heir. The person who would inherit all of that power—though after today, Cyrele wasn’t sure he didn’t already have it. Fear was the only logical reaction to having his eyes on her.
“And of course,” Matiser continued, turning to the woman on his right, “this is our cousin, Lady Akaterin.”
Our cousin, he’d said. His and Prince Avenah’s. All three of them truly were members of the Kavan royal family, whatever titles they were or weren’t using. Cyrele was so far out of her depth that it took her breath away, and that was when these royals weren’t even truly here. How much worse would it be when she reached Lesra Kar?
Kamene’s eyes had locked onto her betrothed like a...well, like a snake so desperately hungry that it was giving serious consideration to whether it could devour a lion. It couldn’t, of course. The lion would tear Kamene apart the moment she struck, if he so desired.
“I am pleased to finally meet you,” the princess said, dipping into a slight bow.
Matiser—Lord Matiser? Prince Matiser?—adopted a rueful expression. “My apologies, princess. I’m afraid he doesn’t speak Viemian.”
Kamene’s expression fell momentarily, but she quickly replaced it with a smile and began speaking to her betrothed in Kavan. Prince Avenah stiffened, almost imperceptibly. As if he hadn’t expected the princess to address him. As if he hadn’t considered how long she’d expected to one day marry the Maelstrom’s heir and join him at court, how long she would’ve prepared to adopt his language and culture.
But then why would he? He could afford to remain unconcerned with his new bride, while Kamene’s life would soon revolve around his whims...
...which meant he was truly here for Cyrele, didn’t it? The heir to the Maelstrom’s seat, taking the time to participate in a conversation he didn’t even understand, all because Kamene’s retinue included one measly glyphwriter with no social standing to speak of. What could possibly be so threatening about her presence in his kingdom as to warrant that?
Kamene asked her betrothed a question, watching him with an air of expectation, and Prince Avenah gave her a concise response delivered in a distant tone. Even now that the conversation had shifted to his own language, he displayed a disinclination to contribute to it. Cyrele had to wonder, did he truly not speak Viemian? The Kavan royals would’ve learned multiple languages, and though Viemian didn’t have to be one of them, all three of the voices who’d spoken in her mind had known it. Was he not one of those three?
Just as Kamene opened her mouth to speak again, Matiser intervened, returning the conversation to Viemian. “No doubt you’re happy to speak to your future husband, your highness, but there will be plenty of time for that later.”
“Indeed,” Lady Akaterin added in a strong, low-toned voice. “I’m most curious to find that you’ve brought a glyphwriter along with you. We see so little of the glyphwriting technology in Lesra Kar—I would love for your glyphwriter to visit us when she arrives. We’ll have tea and she can tell me more about the art.”
Lady Akaterin had phrased it as a request, but even Kamene could hardly refuse. Still, there was an air of hesitance about the princess, as if she’d realized the landscape had changed, but couldn’t figure out how. Cyrele certainly felt that way herself—the royals had contacted her because they’d caught her glyphwriting, but what did they want to happen next?
Then Kamene’s uncertainty dissipated, giving way to a sly smile. Which meant she’d thought of a way to use the situation to her advantage. To use Cyrele to her advantage.
“Of course,” Kamene told the Lady Akaterin. “Better still, we shall arrange for a demonstration!”
Cyrele’s mind sifted through the potential outcomes of demonstrating her glyphwriting abilities with dismay, unable to imagine a single good one. Kamene clearly wanted to awe the Kavan royals—who had the power to enter someone’s mind from leagues away and would certainly not be impressed by a simple illumination glyph—and would blame Cyrele if the demonstration fell short. Yet for all Cyrele knew, anything with the potential to genuinely impress the royals might also be grounds for immediate execution.
She felt as if she’d landed in the pages of a political satire, one where several nobles made increasingly contradictory demands of a servant who then struggled to find clever ways of fulfilling every order. Was that to become her fate?
Lady Akaterin’s lips curled up in amusement, her expression almost patronizing. “Is this not demonstration enough? It’s thanks to your lovely glyphwriter’s intervention that we can see you before you’ve even reached Lesra Kar.”
“Oh,” Kamene said, her enthusiasm dying with the lackluster reception to her idea—something she wasn’t used to from home, no doubt. “I hadn’t considered...oh.”
“You even get the boon of seeing your dear husband in a private setting before the wedding,” Akaterin added, a teasing light in her eyes. “I fear your first official meeting won’t be like this. Too much ceremony and politics involved for that. Imagine how much all of his other brides must envy you—why, with only four witnesses, the two of you are practically alone together.”
Prince Avenah directed a foreboding glance towards his cousin, almost as if he’d understood exactly what she’d said. Almost as if Akaterin’s teasing had been directed at him instead of Kamene. And what if it was? Because why would Prince Avenah—the highest-ranking person here—stand idly by, listening to a conversation he didn’t understand? What royal wouldn’t insist on conversing in his own language, or at least getting a translation?
“We don’t have time to indulge in any romantic notions at the moment,” Matiser interrupted.
Making this the second time Matiser had intercepted a turn in the conversation towards the impending marriage. Something was off. Between Matiser’s interventions and Avenah’s distance from the conversation, Cyrele could only imagine that the two men were intentionally blocking Kamene’s attempts to make headway with her betrothed. It was likely Prince Avenah likely understood more than he was letting on.
As for how...Cyrele considered two possibilities. One, that he did speak Viemian and didn’t want Kamene to know—a theory consistent with Aralath’s warning about the princess’ place in his life. Or two, that the three royals were all speaking to each other in their minds even while participating in another conversation out loud.
The second possibility discomfited Cyrele far more than the first. The idea that the royals could have been saying anything to each other, deriding the rest of them or even debating Cyrele’s fate, without her knowing...
You’ve figured it out, haven’t you? A voice suddenly appeared in her mind.
Cyrele hardly dared breathe, because it was almost as if the voice in her head knew what she was thinking—and she couldn’t discount the possibility that was true. Not when she knew so little of what the royals were capable of beyond the great power they’d already demonstrated.
You’re clever. Certainly more so than my betrothed.
His betrothed...but that meant this was Prince Avenah. Speaking to her directly inside her mind, using the Viemian language. Perhaps it shouldn’t have taken her aback as much as it did. But somehow, the knowledge that the prince was communicating with her in her own language, at this very moment, made the danger feel that much more urgent.
Well? Ignoring a prince is a little rude, you know.
He couldn’t read her mind after all, not if he needed to await her response—oh, what an incredible relief that was—and yet he could still somehow read her. Was it his court experience? Did he know how to interpret her expression, her body language?
Forgive me, your highness, she began. I’m simply...shocked at being addressed by someone so important.
Well, it isn’t the first time we’ve talked, he said, and it somehow felt like there was a hint of laughter in his voice.
He hadn’t been the harsh voice from before, the second to ever speak to her in her mind, she was sure of it—that must have been Matiser. That left the possibilities that he had been the first or third voice, which had been more tonally similar to each other. But which one?
You caused quite the stir, Avenah continued. We felt such power coming from the barrens, where no one should dare tread.
The artifact is powerful, she rushed to explain, alarmed at the prospect of causing a stir among the Kavan royals. I have no power of my own, your highness.
I’m aware of where your power comes from. I’m even aware of what your power is capable of. The question is, are you?
Then Prince Avenah suddenly spoke aloud, his voice light and cheerful. Lady Akaterin readily translated. “The prince likes the idea of a demonstration.”
Cyrele didn’t understand. Was he...toying with her?
“Yes, I have full confidence that my glyphwriter knows of some way to entertain you,” Kamene immediately agreed, then pointedly turned to Cyrele. “Surely you have a proposal that would interest my new family? A glyphwriting skill they might like to see?”
The warning in the princess’ voice wasn’t so subtle that the Kavan royals, themselves subtle beyond Kamene’s means, wouldn’t pick up on it. Prince Avenah in particular looked as if he were repressing laughter. Cyrele promptly glanced towards the ground, away from his gaze.
How much should she admit to being able to do? She couldn’t forget that glyphwriters did disappear in Lesra Kar, allegedly. The royals’ interest couldn’t be for nothing. She simply needed to be as uninteresting as possible.
“In this case, the mirror is doing all of the real work,” she began, tentatively. “But I can show smaller, simpler magics that don’t require an artifact. Nothing like this, I fear. But perhaps you will still find it amusing.”
“Then it’s decided,” the Lady Akaterin said with a smile that was almost predatory. “Upon your arrival, you will present yourself to us.”
Princess Kamene beamed as if she’d been handed the key to her future. The Kavan royals, too, seemed satisfied enough with how the meeting had played out—but then, how could they not be? They’d been in control every step of the way.
That left Cyrele as the odd one out. Because all she’d gained from this meeting was the dreaded sense that a trap had been laid out for her, and that she would have no choice but to knowingly walk into it.