CHAPTER SEVEN
T he wall that rings the palace shimmers like frost, the evening sunlight spilling over the sloped roofs of the buildings nestled within.
The grounds are vast—larger than an entire village.
Archers are stationed along the wall, their bows slung across their backs.
The red-lacquered doors are flung wide, armored guards bearing white-tasseled spears flanking the entrance.
Their weapons gleam brighter than any iron I’ve seen, glittering like stardust.
My pulse races, my palms growing damp. It doesn’t feel real that I’m at the Palace of Nine Hills, the one I’ve stared at from a distance all these years.
My mind drifts to the wonders within: the food, silks and jewels, the precious ornaments of jade and gold.
But I can’t get distracted. If I fail to regain my ring, I’ll end up dead or trapped in servitude.
Moreover, Mistress Henglan isn’t the only danger here—the guards with their weapons sending a chill down my spine.
Fortunately, I look nothing like the girl chased through the village by the soldiers.
I’ve bathed, combed my hair and tied part of it up, the rest flowing down my back.
The dress from Little Dragon that I retrieved from the pond swings around my ankles, pearls and crystals glimmering from my shoes.
I was worried they’d pinch, yet they fit better than my old ones.
A small pouch hangs from my sash filled with herbs and dried flowers, those I use to treat my scrapes and wounds.
One piece of silver was traded to a merchant who allowed me to ride in her carriage to the palace.
From the entrance, a line snakes, curling around the corner of the wall.
The guards examine each guest, demanding their invitations.
Once they surrender their scrolls, the guards instruct them to touch something by the table—an iron tablet—before they are allowed to pass through the doors.
A strange ritual, but the greater problem is my lack of an invitation.
Those without it, no matter how well dressed, are turned away.
The only exceptions are the occasional carriage or palanquin entering through a side gate—maybe the honored guests of the prince.
“We should have gone by the West Gate,” a woman says to her friend in a petulant tone. “The line there will be shorter.”
The man adjusts the sleeve of his brocade robe. “I passed there on my way here. The line is just as long.”
“Maybe His Highness really did invite the entire kingdom,” she replies with a sigh.
An old woman in front turns to them, wrinkling her nose.
Iron hairpins studded with sapphires are tucked in her gray hair, matching bangles lining her wrists.
“Every noble is invited,” she clarifies with a sniff.
“Only the commoners from the closest towns and villages received an invitation. The palace would be overrun should every peasant in the realm attend, the treasury bled dry from feeding them all.”
She makes us sound like leeches. My fingers itch to divest this haughty woman of her invitation, but there’s a cunning glint in her rheumy eyes that makes me think she won’t be an easy target.
I search for another, passing over a woman with three daughters, then an elderly man with a crutch.
Nor will I steal from those like me, for whom visiting the palace is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity—easily identified through their lack of jewelry, the discolored seams of a hem hastily lowered or raised.
A lanky man in orange brocade is staring at me, stroking his chin.
Jade rings gleam from his fingers, a thick bracelet of iron links clasped around his wrist. As his gaze slithers from my chest, down to my feet, then up to my face—I recoil inwardly.
A quick glance reveals his invitation tucked into his belt.
My mouth stretches into a wide smile as I head toward him purposefully, loosening the silver pin in my hair.
Once beside him, I drop my head like I’m afraid to meet his gaze, my hairpin sliding out to fall to the ground.
The man swoops down to pick it up—as do I, my elbow knocking against his.
I laugh, smoothing my hair back with one hand, as my other plucks his scroll out and slips it up my flowing sleeve.
While I’m tempted by his pouch, it’s too dangerous.
The man doesn’t notice as he presses my hairpin into my palm, brushing his thumb deliberately across it.
I pull away, my jaws clenched. As the man’s gaze dips to my chest again, I quickly murmur my thanks, then hurry toward the West Gate on the other side of the palace.
The back of my neck prickles—is the man watching me?
Does he suspect anything? Against my better judgment, I turn, but he is still standing in the line, staring into the distance, his expression disgruntled.
None of the other guests are looking my way, nor are the guards.
As I search the archers lined by the wall, my eyes collide with those of ebony—a tall man, staring directly at me, the rest of his face cast into shadow.
Did he see what I’d done? Yet he isn’t calling the guards.
He’s not in armor like the archers, instead wearing a robe of white brocade—
I stumble over the uneven ground, catching my balance. Fortunately, my shoe isn’t scuffed, the scroll safely tucked in my sleeve. When I look up again, the man in white is gone.
The line by the West Gate is as long as on the other side, but I wait patiently, assured of entry. When I finally reach the front, I hand the stolen invitation to one of the soldiers.
She inspects it, then nods toward the iron tablet on the table. “Press your palm against it.”
The metal shines with the fierce glitter of the soldiers’ weapons here, not the dulled gray of the iron in the villages. “What is this for?” I ask, ignoring the impatient sigh of the man waiting behind me. “I haven’t seen iron like this before.”
“Of course you haven’t, if you’ve never been to the palace,” the man sneers, elbowing me aside to thrust his own invitation out for inspection.
“Stay in your place, sir, or I’ll send you to the back of the line,” the soldier snaps at him.
As the man retreats, she turns back to me, speaking in a more patient tone.
“This iron is only for those in the Palace of Nine Hills—rarer than the usual kind, and it darkens when touched by a magic-wielder.”
I thank her, then press my hand to the tablet. Cold, my palm tingling like I’ve dipped it in ice water, the metal retaining its luminous sheen.
“You may enter.” The soldier waves me through, then beckons to the man behind me.
I’m holding my breath as I take my first step into the Palace of Nine Hills, my heart beating too quickly.
Hundreds of red silk lanterns illuminate the way ahead like a trail of fire.
Elegantly pruned juniper trees flank the path, paved in stone.
The air is fragrant with the scent of sandalwood, its richness laced with a faint metallic undertone—maybe from the soldiers’ armor and weapons, or the wall that encloses the grounds.
As I inhale, a shiver ripples over my skin, perhaps from my excitement at being here.
Ahead, a circular gateway leads to a courtyard of willows, then to a wide square that appears to be the heart of the palace with several paths leading there.
Guests stream in from the east and west, all heading north, past an enormous statue of a dragon erected in the middle, ringed by a shallow pool of water.
A vast hall looms in the distance, ablaze with light.
As I start toward it, the man I stole from emerges on the opposite pathway.
His face is flushed as he gestures furiously to his companion, an older man wearing a black hat set with a disc of iron.
I curse myself for choosing a well-connected victim.
Not daring to risk a confrontation, I slide swiftly back into the shadows.
In my rush, I tread on the foot of a slender man, his hair pulled into a gold headpiece. As he swings around and glares at me, I duck my head and apologize.
His companion, a plump woman in peach silk, says in a loud whisper, “Lord Liuming, this is what comes of inviting commoners to such events. They have no manners and bow like farmhands, dropping their heads too low. Some of these accents from the villages are an assault to one’s ears.”
Anger sears. I’m grasping for a retort, but my mind goes blank. As a fortune teller, I’ve spouted lies with ease—yet the unfamiliar grandeur makes me feel smaller, out of place.
A young girl in green silk breaks away from the group. Her smooth skin is tinted with rose, her double-lidded eyes tilted at the corners. “Lady Minji, everyone tonight is His Highness’s guest. Moreover, Princess Chunlei is here, and she doesn’t look kindly upon such rudeness.”
“She’s here?” I repeat in shock. “The prince’s older sister?”
The man I trod on scowls. “You should refer to the princess as ‘Her Highness’ unless you want to be whipped for insolence.”
“Lord Liuming.” An older man with a pockmarked face addresses him. “This lady might be more than she appears. Her dress is finer than the usual commoners’.”
Except I’m exactly what the pompous lord thinks… possibly worse. My gut tightens as more courtiers stop to watch us, when all I want is to slink back into obscurity.
Lord Liuming’s lip curls. “No matter how fine one’s clothes are, they don’t hide one’s true nature.”
My fingers dig into my skirt. It would be stupid to attack anyone here, to draw more attention. “You’re right.” I smile recklessly as I rake him with a scathing look. “One’s true nature always shows.”
Lord Liuming points a finger at me. “My servants will punish you—”
“I wasn’t insulting you,” I say quickly. “I was agreeing with you.”