By the time King Wikhalthe the Third ascended the throne of the Living Lands upon the death of his father, King Wikhalthe the Second, the l’Thine lineage had dwindled markedly, though the lightkeeps still readily sent their scions to foster in the royal household and of course supplied fighters and Chosen per the High Accords. After Wikhalthe’s eldest died between battles against the horde, Vikhalthe the Incandescent received the crown from his father. He fathered Nikhalthe the Resplendent who had only one son with his queen consort—Mikhalthe l’Thine the Numinous. Not noted here are the unclaimed by-blows.
~ From A History of the Living Lands, expunged chapter
LAUGHING AND DRINKING resumed, but with a brittle edge on the merriment. Not my fault since the gallery was too big for any besides us to have heard the exchange, and I doubted the haloria had shared with many that the Devouring would be unbalanced. But maybe they still knew, somehow, the auric energy that flowed around and between us all running low and murky like the sediment in the bottom of casks of cheap wine.
And as was always the case with cheap wine, even as they reveled, they tasted the punishment to come.
When the palace servants whisked away furnishings to make room for dancing, I wanted to scream. The Devouring wouldn’t happen tonight, but that was only because of the attack in Velderrey. If not for those deaths, the Chosen would be dying tonight. My stomach churned with hunger and fury until I felt half demonic myself.
When the Chosen were ushered away, without attendants, to be presented to the king one by one, I took the chance to resentfully shove some of the leftover food down my throat.
Zik gave me one of his looks then joined me for a few bites of his own. “Where did you go, Fei?” After I told him about sneaking away to find a hart, he just shook his head. “She won’t go.”
“I know that,” I said, even more resentful that the leftover food was good. “I thought we might conk her on the head and drag her out.”
“Feinan.”
“You sound like the lady.”
“And I suppose there’s no chance you’ll listen to me if you don’t listen to her, ya.” He widened his eyes at me. “You even talk back to the Dragon Prince.”
“It didn’t help,” I grumbled. “How are we supposed to help?”
“Maybe we can’t. Maybe all we can do is be here with her, with them, with each other until the end.”
“That’s not enough, not for me.”
“Then I suppose it’s well that we’ve both learned how to go without.”
Even with the leftovers in my belly, I did not find his wisdom satisfying.
Since the display of harvest from around the Living Lands had been dismantled during the meal to distribute to the diners, only the model of the palace remained, still decanting ribbons of drink. Now the guests thronged to fill their goblets, and the tenor of the night took another turn, oddly more frantic and more languid. Some of the nobles had complicated gowns and robes that stripped apart, exposing enough bare skin that even I, with my lifelong lackings, boggled. The laughter turned sharp-edged and raucous. Drums joined the dulcichordias, a ceaseless pulse under the melancholy melodies.
“I suppose there is more than one way to ensure your aura is too twisted to feed to a dragon,” I muttered.
Zik, for all his very wide eyes, shook his head. “Drink and dancing don’t sully an aura. Not even dinzah.”
“I think it does when flaunted in front of those sacrificing on your behalf.”
“Even then, as long as one’s heart is pure, ya.”
I growled under my breath. “How can anyone know what’s in someone else’s heart?” No one could strip down that bare.
“The dragon knows,” he pointed out.
Heyo, how twisted was that?
Certainly the lors seemed to be in agreement with Zik’s interpretation of the auguries. Kalima’s diadem gleamed brighter than the nobles in their jewelry—none of that sparkle had been shed with their clothes, how sad for me—and Lor Berindo’s face was all hues of red and purple from drink, his eyes glassed over from something even stronger. Only Imbril stood to one side, head bowed.
The mingled fragrances of perfumed skin, liquor on many exhalations, and the murk of dinzah wreathed us. As did the more subtle whiff of whispers: how the Chosen seemed…lesser than other such nights, and the tithes lighter, and were the lightkeeps truly sending their due? Perhaps the king needed to issue a reminder, at sword point if need be…
When Lady Dyania returned to where Zik and I were shoved against the wall like more superfluous furniture, the gracious serenity of her expression was strained. Zik went to her side at once though he didn’t touch her.
“His Illuminance thanked us for our sacrifice but said the Devouring is delayed until the auguries favor our path.” Her voice faltered. “I’d suspected already, but knowing it…” Her words dropped to a whisper. “I may go mad with waiting.”
I swallowed, the taste of stolen treats like dust in my throat. Perhaps now was the time to remind her about running away. “My lady, if we—”
“Don’t,” she warned. “Not now, and never again.”
But running away was my best move—often my only move. Grimacing, I settled back on my heels as two of the palace servants swanned past bearing between them a platter laden with glasses filled with the fountain liqueurs. They glanced toward us, and the lady shook her head, but Zik snapped his fingers. “An Osri cordial for my lady.”
All of us looked at him, but a small snifter was handed over which he passed to the lady. “Winter nights in Osiroon have no mercy,” he said solemnly. “But even when we’ve naught to eat, we have the yombark that grows in the Mires.”
I peered at the pale golden liquid. A greenish sludge was settling to the bottom of the snifter. “You said we wouldn’t like yombark tea.”
“This is fermented, ya. You still won’t like it but…”
Lady Dyania downed it in one gulp. “Another,” she gasped, her eyes watering.
“Uh,” I said, but Zik was already chasing after the platter.
I steered her into a corner farther from the torchieres. “Maybe we should go—”
“I told you I won’t leave,” she snapped.
“Back to your rooms,” I finished, holding back my own agitation. “We needn’t stay here.”
Her jaw jutted as Zik returned with a yombark in each hand. “This night is meant for the Chosen. I’ll stay.”
But was it? Even the Dragon Prince had fled. “Drunk is just another way to run away,” I said, but not so loud that she had to listen. Because what other choice had she left herself?
The lady drank the second—with less of a gasp this time—but before she could get to the third, a palace servant bearing the king’s vortix emblem bustled up, Lor Imbril in tow. “Lady Dyania? His Illuminance requests your presence.”
When the lady and lor glanced at each other, I plucked the third glass from Zik’s hand and drank fast. It burned all the way down and halfway back up, but I suppressed the nasty burp, very much reminiscent of a place called the Mires.
The distraction of my roiling guts kept me from appreciating the Illuminated Hall which held the Radiant Throne of the Living Lands. At present, the hall was empty, and the servant led us past the throne through an arched doorway to a smaller chamber. Though it was still plenty grand, with burnished wood and gleaming stone and a fire snapping on the hearth reflected in a round window framing the night beyond. Hopefully the warmth would explain Lady Dyania’s flushed face; I fully intended to blame the heat if I swooned from the Osri cordial.
Not that I’d ever swooned, but now seemed like the time to start. Because His Illuminance, King of the Living Lands, Mikhalthe the Numinous, third-facet master of the diamonde light and a bunch of other things I couldn’t remember, was pacing in front of that raging fire, awaiting us. Neh, not me so much as my lady, of course, but I was there. Two others stood at attention across from the hearth: one was Lisel’s father, Marshal Vreas, but the other was unknown to me, though judging by the fine cut of the heavy sash over his tunic, he was a noble.
When the servant cleared his throat, the king spun around. The reflection of the fire crackled in his dark eyes. “Thank you, Carow. See to it we’re not disturbed.”
The servant bowed his way out, but before he closed the chamber door, I saw pike-armed guards. Trapped.
Zik pressed flat to my backside as the king waved us forward. I swore I could feel the boy’s frantic heartbeat through my trousers. Although maybe that was my own pulse ramping up, ready to run.
I won’t leave.
Twasn’t me who said that, but the vow echoed in the hollows where my scheming and my folly usually resided.
“Come. Take a seat.” The king gestured more forcefully. He’d set aside his kingly mantle, which was flung over the back of a fireside chair, and his crown, which I didn’t see anywhere. “I won’t bite.”
Only disingenuous biters said such things.
Only two chairs weren’t covered by his kingly robes. Lady Dyania and the lor settled gingerly in the open seats while the king watched them, hands braced on his hips. Zik stood behind Imbril’s high-backed chair, which hid him entirely—an unexpectedly recompence for his years of deficient nutrition. I lurked at the lady’s elbow.
“Lady Dyania.” The king’s deep voice rolled like distant thunder. “I blessed you already for your sacrifice, but we must recognize you also for protecting the Chosen procession in Velderrey, wounding yourself to lure the horde.”
The lady dipped her head. “Your Illuminance, I only—”
As if he hadn’t just spoken of the need to thank her, he scowled. “You should never have stood before a tribunal. Explain that, Lor…” With an annoyed grunt, he glanced over his shoulder at the marshal and the noble behind him.
“Lor Imbril.” The nobleman crossed his arms over his chest. A gray-green stone winking from his signet ring matched his sharp eyes as he assessed us.
Imbril flinched. “Your Illuminance, I think Numinlor Kalima—”
“So you didn’t believe in the tribunal?” The king stalked toward the hapless lor, stuck in the chair.
Imbril surprised me with a glimpse of spine. “Your Illuminance, I spoke against the tribunal, and I’ve asked the lady to share more of her experience with us that we might—”
“Do that.” The king arched an eyebrow. “That’s why you’ve been creeping about in my shadow, isn’t it, Lor Imbril? To tell me all this?”
“Lor Berindo confirmed his calculations, as he told Numinlor Kalima, but I’ve come to believe—”
The king made a crude noise. “Berindo likes his dinzah too well, almost as much as Kalima likes telling me what to do.” He took up his pacing again, flicking an imperious finger at the nobleman. “Petro, this was your idea. Say something, man.”
I startled. All the lightkeep-named knew of Petro no’Maru. He wasn’t a nobleman, not by blood or bride. Instead, he’d made his way up through the ranks of demon fighters, leaving Maru Deep for the High Keep before I was even born. His exploits were recounted among street-snipes and sludge-grubbers as a path to a better life. And here he was, advisor to the king.
Now his gemstone eyes sought each of us in turn, even the tip of Zik’s shoe peeking from behind the chair. “Our circumstances are only getting more dire,” he said in a low voice. “The horde has been surging in number and strength, and the lightkeeps can deliver only so many Chosen scions, whatever the Lyrac Accords might demand.”
“And our army is worn thin, losing heart,” the marshal added.
“Then to be told of a Devouring…” No’Maru shook his head.
Imbril sat straighter. “Your Illuminance, my lords,” he protested. “The haloria did not suggest a Devouring on a whim. Our prayers and reviews of the auguries indicated a catastrophic season of struggle lies ahead and so we must do whatever we can—”
“My point exactly,” the king interrupted. “It’s no longer enough to do what we’ve always done, hoping that this time will make the difference.”
Imbril swayed in his seat, obviously torn between his loyalty to the haloria and his own worries about our plight. “Numinlor Kalima and Lor Berindo would say—”
The king paced away again, his steps so long I wondered if he might stomp himself directly into the enormous hearth and go up in a burst of impatient royal flame. But he wheeled at the last moment to glare at the poor lor. “It doesn’t matter if they want to keep doing things according to the old ways. We don’t have the auras for a Devouring. Despite the lady’s unquestionable bravery.” He flashed a distracted but no less charming smile at Lady Dyania. “Not that a Devouring is the answer anyway.” He thrust one hand through his hair, disordering the thick curls. “Maybe it would be different if we could trust Aric.”
No’Maru flicked a dismissive finger, his ring winking. “Your Illuminance, as we’ve discussed before, he is demon-touched, tangled too deeply with the beast. Offering him more auric power now, with an unbalanced Devouring, would only give him influence we can’t be sure he’d wield for the Living Lands.”
The fermented bark I’d drunk felt like it was turning into an entire tree in my stomach, branches reaching up to claw at the inside of my throat and roots tangling down through my intestines. But what really sickened me was hearing them blame the prince for the burden he carried—borne on their behalf, for all of us.
But… Were they wrong? The ice in the prince’s eyes glinted in my memory like a bare blade, and I suspected he would agree with them. Still, their nonchalance in betraying him, knowing he would fall to the beast without the pure auras to constrain her, felt unfair to me.
Neh, hadn’t I already been put in my place about fair?
Maybe Lady Dyania sensed my quivering indecision. “You believe there is another way to fight the horde?”
“Not just fight,” the king said. “Win.”
Had we not been trying to win? I must’ve let out an audible noise, though I would’ve sworn the disrespectful jeering was all in my head, because no’Maru looked at me sharply. Curse the yombark.
The king’s look was more like stabbing. “You. You were with Aric. Do you serve him?”
I shook my head as the lady explained, “Feinan is my attendant from Sevaare. She was at my side in Velderrey when the demons attacked.”
Closing distance, no’Maru looked down at me. “Yet the prince spoke to you. He almost never speaks.”
“Maybe because he knows you don’t trust him,” I pointed out. “He must realize you’d let him die too, just like the Chosen Ones.” The king reared back, and both his advisers sucked in breaths as if I’d struck at him, when really my words had no more edge than the blade in my boot. I blinked. “Is that not obvious?”
After a scandalized heartbeat of hush broken only by Zik’s faintest resigned sigh, the king laughed. Not a friendly sound, exactly, but the tension eased. “Ah. That’s why he’s drawn to you.” Without clarifying, the king looked back at Lady Dyania and Imbril. “We can’t rely on the dragon since we can’t keep it fed and leashed. And the truth is, we haven’t enough fighters to continue the battle. I task you with finding another way.”
While the lady sat unmoving, Imbril made a noise like Zik at his most panicked. “But…but we don’t—”
“You don’t refuse your king,” no’Maru said as he sank into the chair across from them, nudging aside the royal robe.
“Oh no, definitely not that,” Imbril stammered. “But—”
“Enough for now,” the king said. “I must return to the gallery before the night winds down.” He wheeled away, and Marshal Vreas jumped to open the door. The guards beyond parted deftly as the king glanced back at us. “You mustn’t fail.”
The sound of drums and low roar of inebriated voices drifted to us as the king and the marshal strode away.
Leaning back to loop one arm over the king’s cape, crushing it, no’Maru arched an eyebrow at us. “He was still a child when his father died, and though he read all the inspiring speeches in his quest to be seen as a gallant and valiant liege, he never had the chance to witness what went on behind the throne.” He smiled wryly. “Which is where the crux of many matters is often hammered out.”
Imbril clutched the arms of his chair. “Hammering us won’t defeat the horde.”
No’Maru chuckled. “Of course not. I meant only that you shouldn’t be daunted by his…zeal.”
“From my reading of history,” Lady Dyania murmured, “it’s not being daunted that results in the demise of those who disappoint the ruler of the High Keep so much as the hangings and beheadings.”
Behind me, Zik let out a little moan, but no’Maru smiled again. “During his reign, Mikhalthe has been both gallant and valiant, and he dislikes executions.”
I would’ve preferred a more decisive ruling that dislike. “So you want the most junior lor”—I gestured at Imbril—“and the younger daughter of a lesser lightkeep”—I inclined my head toward the lady—“and two nobodies”—I waved between myself and the invisible Zik behind the chair, although he made another noise of dissent—“to fight and win a battle that’s raged for centuries that all of you”—I broadened my gesture to take in the whole palace—“with all your coin and fighters and auras haven’t been able to overcome, by ourselves? With what? Our own zeal to keep our heads on our shoulders?”
No’Maru considered. “The marshal has also volunteered his remaining offspring to your service, since she was present for the demon attack in Velderrey.”
Imbril stood. “My lord—”
No’Maru lifted one finger from where his arm was slung over the king’s mantle. “Not a lord.” His gaze roamed between us, though I thought perhaps it lingered longest on me.
“Be that as it may,” Imbril continued. “You have the king’s ear. You must tell him what he asks is impossible, especially if the auguries speak aright.”
“Impossible, and yet needs must.” No’Maru lifted one shoulder. “His Illuminance has other concerns at the moment. There is a disquiet in the kingdom of late, and not just among the horde, that troubles him. But he’s not an unreasonable man”—his lips twitched—“and he will be otherwise distracted tonight and probably for most of tomorrow. He’ll call for you again after that.” He flicked that finger at Imbril. “Ormonde’s library is reserved for you. Send for me if you have any requests.”
Responding to the dismissal, Lady Dyania stood, even as the lor stuttered. “Any requests? Perhaps a less impossible task? Was holding back the tide already taken? Capturing the wind assigned to some luckier others?”
Lady Dyania faced the king’s advisor. “Goodnight, my lord.”
He eyed her without correcting her about his title. “Goodnight, my lady. I pray you might serve your king better than as a dragon’s supper.” He turned his assessing gaze to the lor. “Lest you take your grievances to Kalima, I remind you she is one of the king’s closest advisors. And not everyone has the same hopes for the Living Lands.”
Before I could untangle his meaning—was he saying Numinlor Kalima agreed to this farce or that she didn’t?—Lady Dyania was marching toward the door, Zik hustling behind her. I hesitated, looking back at no’Maru. He met my gaze with that inscrutable gemstone stare, as icy in its own way as the prince’s and somehow more unsettling.
At least I knew why the Dragon Prince was dangerous.