CHAPTER SEVEN

A seer cannot act for tomorrow

Without heeding the impact on today

To lose sight of the road on which you walk

Will often cause your feet to go astray

But some truths die swift on the teacher’s tongue

As elders say, youth’s wasted on the young

—THE BOOK OF UNVEILING

“Just stay calm and everything will be fine.” Zeli said the words without moving her lips, a frozen smile plastered on her face. She glided down the pathway behind Devana, who, judging by the set of her shoulders, was working herself into a frenzy of nervous energy.

Soft chatter and lilting music from the dining hall filtered its way through the courtyard as they approached. The dinner the Magister was holding that evening was even larger than his usual shindigs. One of the kitchen maids had told Zeli that they’d roasted two pigs. And temporary horse stalls had been erected to accommodate more animals than the already large stable could on its own.

It would be an evening of food, drink, conversation, and cunning that would last into the wee hours of the morning. Giving them little time to sneak away to catch their coach.

Much as Zeli relished this turn of events, she still needed to reassure Devana—it was one of her primary roles in addition to dressing her, cleaning her clothes and room, organizing her cosmetics, braiding her hair …

“I am calm,” Devana said. “I just don’t understand why he didn’t give me some kind of warning. Usually a dinner this large would be planned for weeks in advance.”

True. The kitchen staff had been scurrying around to make the preparations in record time. Zeli nodded in commiseration as a footman rushed by with a soiled tablecloth in his arms.

“Perhaps this is really a gift. Your father will likely drink too much and sleep so deeply that he won’t awaken until tomorrow afternoon. He may not even notice you’re gone until you return.”

The words felt hollow, but Devana’s shoulders relaxed. The girls paused at the threshold of the dining hall, where the guests were being seated. The low tables were set up in a U-shape, with the Magister at the short, head table. Seating, on plush embroidered cushions brought out specially for the event, was arranged in order of favor, with the highest ranking guests closest to the Magister.

When it was her time to be seated, Devana took her usual place at her father’s left side. Kerym sat on his right, with the other four Ephors next to him. Though his late father, from whom he’d inherited the position, had held the highest rank of the five, Kerym as the youngest had the least. However, his betrothal to the Magister’s daughter had skipped him above the others, rank-wise. Zeli had no doubt there were hard feelings surrounding that, ones only voiced well out of earshot of the city’s ruler.

The Magister took his place last. He was a tall, broad-shouldered former warrior only just beginning to thicken around the middle. His dark hair was graying at the temples and even the wicked scar bisecting the right side of his face did little to detract from his rugged appeal. The thin mark was several shades lighter than his skin and ran from his hairline, through his eyebrow, and down his cheek. It was a miracle he hadn’t lost the eye. Word was an Earthsinger had saved it, but had stopped short of healing the injury that had eventually scarred so badly. Since then, the Magister hated Earthsingers and made sure all of his staff gave tribute as early as possible. Even the youngest page boys had been shipped off to Sayya to be drained of their Song by the immortal king.

Zeli herself had made the trip at seven—far too young to travel so far alone. She remembered nothing of the actual tribute. Vague images of a carved door and a hard, cold table on which she’d lain, and then … nothing. She’d opened her eyes a time later with a hole in her heart the size of her Song. The emptiness still echoed within her. That sense that some important part of her was missing.

She shook off the lingering sensation. It was far better to be employed by the wealthy Magister than starving somewhere in the Midcountry, or being a broodmare in Sayya in the True Father’s harem, or any number of other fates that could have befallen her.

With Devana seated, Zeli positioned herself in the line of servants standing at the ready against the wall. She ladled soup and poured wine. Removed dirty plates and replaced them with clean ones. Picked up discarded napkins and brushed away crumbs.

Gladda bustled up to her during the final course. “Yalisa-mideni requires her special tea. She said you’d know where she keeps it in her room.”

Zeli nodded, excited for the task. She glanced toward the end of the table where the Magister’s mistress, Yalisa, sat. The elegant woman caught Zeli’s eye, a small smile on her lips. Zeli returned it, then dashed off on the errand.

When Zeli had first come to the estate, Yalisa had been a lady’s maid. She’d served the Magister’s late wife and after her death became Devana’s personal servant. Yalisa had trained Zeli and been her mentor in all areas of life. She’d taught her when to speak and when to stay silent, how to manage her monthly courses, and she had been the one to comfort Zeli after her return from that fateful tribute trip to Sayya.

After a year of mourning his wife, the Magister had been beset by aristocratic women hoping both to comfort him and secure their own futures. But somehow, he’d found solace in the arms of his daughter’s maid and soon elevated her from servant to favored. Though she was of low rank, she could come and go as she pleased, wore gowns of the finest fabric, and rubbed foreheads with the upper class. She’d even met the True Father on the king’s last visit to the region.

She was everything Zeli wanted to be.

Zeli raced into Yalisa’s room, which always smelled of vanilla, and went straight to the clay jar in which the woman kept her tea. The special blend soothed her throat, and her need for it indicated she expected to be called to sing at the party. Yalisa’s voice was pure honey. Zeli despaired that she herself could not sing—was it Yalisa’s voice or her beauty that had endeared the Magister to her? And what sort of future could Zeli hope for without either?

She sped back to the kitchen and prepared the tea, then served it to Yalisa.

“How are you enjoying the evening?” the woman asked as Zeli poured. Even before her first sip of the sweet-smelling brew, her voice was a throaty purr.

“It’s quite a large dinner on short notice. Do you know what the occasion is?”

Yalisa’s painted lips firmed. She shot a glance at the Magister before recovering her smile. “All will be revealed, never worry.”

Zeli looked in the direction of the head table, only her gaze was caught by Kerym as he gave a full body laugh at something the Magister had said.

“Be careful, little swan,” Yalisa said. “Your eyes give you away.”

Zeli dropped her gaze, chastened. It would never do for her to reveal the crush she had on her mistress’s husband-to-be. On the Magister’s other side, Devana laughed as well. A pretty, feminine sound that trilled across the room. Zeli wasn’t sure what she looked like when she laughed, but it was certainly not so sweet and winsome.

She had begged Yalisa to teach her the other things a mother taught a daughter. Lessons on how to attract and keep a man. Not Kerym, of course, but perhaps she could catch the eye of another of the favored. Perhaps she, too, could be elevated and have her own room, finely appointed, no longer having to share a straw mat with three other girls. But Yalisa had so far demurred with one excuse or another. Now, Zeli was determined the press the issue at the next opportunity.

Yalisa patted her hand. “Go. Your mistress looks like she needs you.” She winked at Zeli before stirring her tea.

Zeli hurried back to the front table to switch out Devana’s dessert for one with fewer nuts.

“So,” the Magister said, patting his belly as the final dishes were cleared. The chatter in the room silenced as if someone had turned the volume down on a radiophonic. “Nothing like a gathering of friends and neighbors, is there?”

The quiet seemed somehow unnatural, like the hush before a Midcountry sandstorm. It was as if, on a subconscious level, those gathered somehow knew what was coming. Zeli held her breath.

“I would hear, if I may, of the triumphs and troubles of my dear friends.” He turned in his seat toward the end of the table. “Ogus-deni, please, tell us about your jewelry shop. I’d heard the production out of the mines has been down quite a bit this year. Has this affected you greatly?”

Ogus, a rather short, rather squat man of middle years looked up, surprise sharpening his features. He was of low rank, one of the people it seemed the Magister invited just to fill the available seats.

“Oh, well, mideni, yes, that’s true. Over the past few months raw materials have been a bit scarce, but we’ve made do with what we have. It’s the Lagrimari way.” He chuckled nervously. Did he feel the strange tension in the air like the prescient echo of a coming storm?

“Indeed.” The Magister’s voice rumbled. Beside him Devana looked bored, but Kerym leaned forward, intrigue evident on his face.

“So please tell me, in these times of retrenchment, how is it that your house staff has been seen carting in bushels of food into your home?”

Ogus’s deep skin tone turned ashen. He swallowed several times. “Mideni, I’m not sure where these reports have come from, but I assure you they’re entirely false. We have our rations, and what extra provisions you yourself have chosen to supply in your generosity, and that is all.” He spread his hands apart to indicate the meager quantities he had.

The benefits of being one of the favored were the gifts allotted to them by those of even higher rank. Their wealth, extra provisions, and supplies set them apart from a populace living off what the government provided in the way of food.

The Magister smiled, his expression now edging on the feral. Zeli leaned back against the wall, instinctively trying to get as far away as possible from what was coming. Even Devana perked up, no doubt sensing the blood in the water.

“I’m quite sure that you’re not doubting the efficacy of the intelligence personnel who I myself handpicked?” The Magister’s voice never lost its pleasant edge.

“Oh, certainly not,” Ogus stammered. “It’s just that, perhaps there’s been a misunderstanding. That’s all I…”

“I find it very interesting,” the ruler continued as if the other man hadn’t spoken, “that a craftsman, highly skilled as you are, would think to outsmart those ranked above him. The True Father has divisions for a reason. He is ever wise, our king is.”

Ogus bobbed his head up and down. “Yes, he is, mideni.”

“Ever wise and ever watchful.” The Magister tapped the insignia on the sash tied across his tunic, the all-seeing eye of the Father. The motto was one of the first things a Lagrimari child learned. The immortal king, it was believed, saw all and knew all, in no little part due to the extensive network of people willing to report on their neighbors. The Magisters, the Ephors, anyone with even a modicum of power—derisively called “payrollers” by those without status—had earned it by virtue of the intelligence they provided the king, or anyone above themselves.

The Magister leaned back. “I’d thought better of you, Ogus-denili. I never dreamed a man who had been welcomed into my home on many occasions and shown every courtesy would try to cheat the True Father.”

“B-but, I…”

“Guards.”

The guards appeared out of nowhere and lifted poor Ogus from his seat. He was still denying and sputtering, tears running down his face as he was dragged out.

Zeli clenched her jaw and widened her eyes so as to show no visible reaction. Anyone displaying too much sympathy for an accused would have suspicion cast upon them. She didn’t know why it had to be this way. The True Father demanded loyalty, she supposed that was the right of any king, but to require the elite to keep their positions by having an endless network of spies whispering in their ears about their neighbors and countrymen?

If someone thought you had more food than you ought to, finer fabrics than you should have been able to afford, or conversely, if they thought your clothing or shoes weren’t fine enough when you had been gifted fabric and leather enough that you must be doing something nefarious with the excess—the list of crimes was longer than her arm. Zeli didn’t understand how it all worked. It was the one part of being favored that gave her pause. At least when you had no rank you knew where you stood. You did what work you could, received your rations, and scrabbled along. The poor had no need to worry about their neighbors informing on them, they could be “called into service” and sent to the camps, the mines, or the harems at any time for no reason at all.

She couldn’t say she understood, but it was the way of things. It kept things orderly, she supposed, and was as the True Father wished it.

The rest of the party was silent until Ogus’s screams could no longer be heard.

“Well.” The Magister slapped his hand on the table. “How about some entertainment?”