The Ball
Having boundaries with casting and conduiting is important. Never let anyone convince you to do something that you aren’t comfortable with.
Fundamentals of Magic by Eroland Lockhart
THE SENDING WITH GALIVA and Garrett breaks apart with an abruptness I should be used to, yet it never gets easier.
I miss Galiva, miss Cancassi, miss Dom, miss the Crux. Yet as Arlon and I make our way to the main ballroom, Arlon speaks up. “I’m glad you talked to him.”
His eyes are resolutely ahead, but there’s something I can’t quite read in his expression.
“Thank you for giving me the sending,” I say. “You don’t happen to have another, do you?”
“Not that we can spare, I’m afraid,” he says through a huff of amusement. His grin fades before he says, “Dom wouldn’t talk to me about what’s going on with him. When he left his collar and that note behind, I was -”
He cuts himself short as he adjusts the neat cuff of his tunic, but I think I know what he was going to say. It hurt him when Dom left.
Arlon seems to push those feelings away, the Grandmaster taking their place. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just glad he’s been able to talk to you.”
I grab his hand without thought, squeezing gently. “And he’ll talk to you when he’s ready. Just... know that he didn’t leave because of something you did. It had nothing to do with anything or anyone inside of the Crux.”
Arlon is quiet for a moment before he lifts our joined hands, brushing a quick kiss against my knuckles. “Thank you for telling me.”
We fall into the first comfortable silence we’ve shared since arriving. Some of the weight that settled between us has lifted tonight, and I think we’re both grateful for it. Yet as we approach the main ballroom, Arlon lets out a weary sigh.
“You really do hate these events, don’t you?” I ask, amused.
“I tolerate them,” he says before a grin quirks his lips. “Barely.”
The towering copper doors of the ballroom are thrown open to reveal the arched ceiling of lapis and gold.
It’s designed to draw the eye to it, but below, across the sprawling marble floor, is a massive banquet table.
It’s decorated with living bouquets of rose and lotus set around plates of jeweled pomegranates, ripe melons, and dripping blood oranges.
Beyond the grand table, the room opens up to a vast mosaic floor for dancing.
Already, strings and winds play from one of the alcoves, carried by the steady beat of a drum and bells.
Some members of the Shykhdar are already present, sitting on a long dais against the far wall that’s raised a little higher than the rest of the room.
Unlike at the talks, their families are with them tonight, and I can’t help but smile as Lavleen catches my eye, waving excitedly.
There’s no sign of my ama or father yet, but Lavleen must say something because Samira turns from her conversation with Shykh Ramzi.
Her eyes light up at the sight of me as a smile splits her face.
It doesn’t take long for the rest of the dais to notice their guests arriving. Slowly, the chatter among them fades, and I feel the weight of all those eyes descend on me.
Ramzi seems shocked to see me, while Shykh Farras looks less shocked and more appalled, his mouth dropping open. But at his right hand, another set of eyes watches me far more intently.
Feisal.
I track him out of my periphery as I head into the room with Arlon, my skirts whispering around my feet.
The silk feels like armor as we head across the room to our seats for the banquet.
The chatter starts again, trickling out slowly, and just from the whispered Cashir I catch, most of it is about me.
It’s easier to harden myself against it than I expected. It’s just talk, after all. And talk that I’m intentionally stirring up.
I could have done as I said - worn something simple and understated, cowed to the vision my father has built of me to himself and his peers. Instead, I’ve shattered it, and I’m enjoying dancing on the pieces as I sit in the chair Arlon pulls out for me.
All the while, Feisal’s eyes follow me. I can feel his gaze like the heat of a candle. This is the first time I’ve seen him since we left Straetham, but he’s lost none of that smugness. I give him every bit of attention he deserves, which is to say I ignore him. For now, at least.
Instead, my eyes are drawn to the door beside the side of the dais as my ama walks through with my father. Seeing him makes my teeth clench without thought, years of anger rising up.
But then I notice how slow he’s walking. How my ama holds his arm in a tight, steadying grip. They ascend the stairs of the dais together, my ama keeping in time with my father’s slow steps. When they get to his seat, he lowers himself to sit with a grimace.
“Are you alright?”
I blink as Arlon’s deep voice pulls me from my whirling thoughts. I force myself to take a breath before letting it out slowly. “I’m alright. I’ll be alright.”
Alix arrives in the wake of the rest of the Strae delegation.
Ahead of him, King Thermilious looks resplendent in his finery.
He’s wearing a fitted tunic that’s the exact blue of his eyes.
Over one shoulder, a gold-threaded capelet is draped and fastened with finely woven gold maille across his chest. A part of me wonders if Varice made this particular outfit, even as the thought makes me homesick.
But more surprising is that Allisande walks beside the King, their arms linked.
Likely to show all present that her life is not something that Straetham will negotiate on.
Seeing them side by side, the family resemblance is obvious, even though Allis has to be a decade older than him.
She looks coolly around the room, as if this is the last place she wants to be, and I can’t help but wonder what cajoling the King did to get her here.
Those gathered stand to show respect, but only the Strae delegation bows. Once Thermilious finds his seat at one end of the grand table, we’re allowed to take our seats again. Alix falls into the seat next to me, only to groan as the Immen King and his retinue appear at the ballroom doors.
I’ve never had the patience for such formality, but I follow Thermilious’ respectful lead and stand all the same. And I get to watch the Shykhdar get caught in that awkward spot of trying to sit only to raise again like birds startled from their perch.
The Immen King, Luther, looks exactly as I imagined.
His skin is a sallow white, like milk gone off.
He’s bent with age, head bald with a white beard that he keeps oiled to an excessive degree.
Unlike Thermilious’ understated elegance, he’s dressed in a blood-red silk that drapes him like a shroud.
Yet the silver-adorned vest he wears looks more like armor. Like he’s expecting to be attacked.
It’s certainly a statement, albeit a ham-fisted one.
These more informal events are meant to ease tensions, allow the feuding parties to interact in a less stressful setting than a negotiation room.
But Luther’s heavy brow is drawn down as he eyes the rest of the room imperiously.
It doesn’t pass my notice that a few guards break off from his retinue as if to check the room for anyone lurking in the shadows.
Paranoid old fool. The Shykhdar wouldn’t allow anyone to ruin the talks and fuck up this opportunity for them. Not when access to magic hangs within their reach.
“Oh look, an outfit even more subtle than yours,” Alix murmurs, and I can’t help but grin.
Yet Luther comes to a stop just inside the main doors before a man I don’t recognize comes to stand beside him.
He’s tall, with short black hair and deep-set eyes that make him look exhausted.
He’s close to my age, maybe a few years my senior, but there’s something about the way he’s standing that’s oddly familiar.
He flinches as Luther rests a hand on his shoulder.
“Introducing the heir to the Immen throne, Crown Prince Tevares,” the herald cries, his voice carrying across the room.
“Thank the gods he’s finally shown up. Maybe now Luther will stop complaining,” Alix mutters as we all take our seats again.
“We can hope,” I say, though my eyes linger on Tevares. He takes the seat at Luther’s right hand, stiff as a board. But my attention is forced to the raised banquet table with a rhythmic clink against a silver cup.
My father sets his knife down before he smiles benevolently at the gathered room. As the eldest member, he’s required to speak on behalf of the Shykhdar at these kinds of events, but I’m not prepared for the frailty in his voice as he speaks, first in Strae and then Immen.
“Welcome, esteemed guests. Please, release the tensions of today’s negotiations as they have no place here. Instead, let tonight be a time for lighter talks, for us to share food and drink as the neighbors we are. Please, make yourselves at home, and enjoy the delicacies of Cairish.”
The far door to the room opens as if on cue, allowing in servers carrying heavy silver platters stacked high with food.
There’s yogurt-marinated lamb and mutton, whole honey-roasted pheasants stuffed with freekeh, dates, and slivered almonds.
Cod, caught fresh from the gulf, is spiced and drizzled with tahini over a bed of rice and roasted eggplant.
And as I take my first bite of mutton, I realize that I missed more of Cairish than I thought. I can’t help myself as I sit back in my chair with a groan of appreciation. Beside me, Alix gives me a look.
“Never heard that sound outside of a casting room,” he says.
I jab my fork at a bite of flatbread wrapped around a piece of mutton and say, “My father does many questionable things, but he doesn’t hire bad cooks. Eat that and tell me it’s not the greatest thing you’ve ever tasted.”
Alix pops the bite in his mouth, and his eyes widen. “Alright. Point taken.”