Three
Slipping on a long, saffron-colored vest, Peroen pictured the upcoming feast in his mind. On the rare instances he had joined the court in the past, he had allowed himself to fade into the background. Dressing in pale grays and tans helped. Tonight, though, he must sit beside the Emperor. He couldn’t disappear.
He imagined himself next to his father and grimaced, taking off the vest. The vivid yellow was all wrong. The Emperor favored bold, saturated colors: crimsons and violets most of all. The juxtaposition to the black worn by the members of his Will appealed to him. In a bright yellow, Peroen would be competing with him.
He wanted contrast, not a direct attempt to overshadow his father—an endeavor that would only lead to failure. Searching through his wardrobe, he found a vest in sage green. Perfect. It wasn’t his usual neutrals, but it would draw the eye as a calm oasis between the vibrant shades the others would wear.
Not that he wanted the attention, but Qilar’s words kept coming back to him. This time, he was at his father’s court, but he still couldn’t afford to diminish his own importance. If anything, it was more crucial than ever to assert himself. Whether he liked it or not, Peroen was now a player in the game of politics. It was either that or he’d continue to be a simple phan piece for the rest of his life.
Too bad his moves were so limited.
Only four women, and no easy choice. Triese reminded him too much of Lhashiki, First of the Emperor’s Will. She used her beauty as a weapon, though she’d do well to take lessons from Lhashiki on subtlety. She regarded Peroen as a trophy to be won, not a person. Odela wasn’t much better. A bit too polished, she weighed her every word against a scale Peroen didn’t know. She had a goal, and Peroen suspected he was more an obstacle in her way than a prize. It was a situation he was intimately familiar with.
He didn’t even know if Sophenie was still in Kalitalo or if she had left after her outburst the night before. Even if she remained, however, she clearly didn’t want to marry him. She had a reason for coming to the city, but a union with a member of the imperial family wasn’t it. If she weren’t so antagonistic, that might have been in her favor.
Then there was Yslie. Yslie, who had drawn his notice from the first moment Peroen laid eyes on her. Yslie, who was kind without it being an act. Yslie, whom he could picture himself marrying and finding some measure of happiness with. Until the weight of being a princess—and one day an empress—for reasons that had nothing to do with her own desires turned her into a shadow of the woman who had caught his eye. If he married her, he’d have to watch the court drain her day by day, year by year. In the end, he’d probably end up more miserable than if he had simply married Triese or Odela.
It was a mess, and Peroen almost wished he hadn’t been given any say in the entire thing. He sighed. That was a lie. Even if he made the wrong choice, he wanted the choice to be his. This opportunity had impacted him more than he had expected. For the first time, he wasn’t content to stay passive and let life happen to him. He wanted to take control. He wanted to work with the Assembly. He wanted change.
But there would be no change tonight. Not under his father’s eye. Tonight would be an ordeal, but most likely an informative one. Seeing how the oracles behaved around him when everyone else treated him with contempt would be telling.
He left his rooms, knowing that the long walk from the isolated part of the palace where he spent his days to the dining hall would have him arriving after half the guests. Not so early that he’d be on display, but not so late as to attract attention, either. Not that he could avoid all attention.
Peroen entered the dining hall without hesitation, knowing better than to pause for a fortifying breath or even to let anyone see him squaring his shoulders in anticipation. He made his way up to the dais, where the Emperor sat behind an ivory table. There were three cushions on each of the long sides of the table, and Peroen’s father, of course, sat on the central one facing the rest of the hall. Lhashiki ushered Peroen to the spot at the Emperor’s right hand, an honor he would happily have gone the rest of his life without experiencing.
“Trying to usurp my throne already?” his father hissed when Peroen settled on the cushion.
He glanced at him in surprise, but the Emperor wasn’t looking at Peroen. “I don’t know what you mean. This is all the Assembly’s work.”
“Yes, despite some people’s efforts, the Assembly still recognizes that I am the Emperor. They knew that I was the only proper host for the oracles’ welcome to Kalitalo. But you had to go and meet them first.”
A small voice in the back of Peroen’s mind, one that often chimed up when he spoke with his father, but never before this loudly, insisted he point out that he was the one who would end up married to one of the oracles. He had a right to meet them, even before the Emperor did. Instead, he shrugged. “That was the Assembly’s work, too, for they appointed Pianti to help the women acclimate, and she arranged the gathering.”
The Emperor’s expression darkened at the mention of Pianti. He blamed her for Qilar’s refusal to remain a member of the Will after the revolution. The Emperor couldn’t accept that it was his own treatment of his half-brother that had driven him away.
The distraction was enough to save Peroen from any more of his father’s chastisements before the oracles arrived. A young member of the Will led the four women to the dais. His clothes—shirt, vest, and loose trousers—were all black, making it clear he was more than a regular servant. Most of the Emperor’s elite servants had abandoned him the moment they had that choice, though a few remained. They were the Emperor’s loyal eyes and ears at court. This man was nothing more than a sop to the Emperor’s ego, a way to make it seem he hadn’t lost so many of his Will.
Except he hadn’t been raised from childhood to serve the throne and it showed. He didn’t have the proper bearing, the carefully cultivated grace and uncanny ability to show no expression other than awe of the Emperor. Moreover, when he reached the dais, he simply stepped back, allowing the oracles to vie for what they considered the best spots themselves.
Unsurprisingly, the two most ambitious women took the spots that offered easiest access to the Emperor. The oracles as a whole might hate the imperial family, but Odela—on the Emperor’s left—and Triese—across from him—wouldn’t let that stop them from currying his favor. With a frown, Sophenie, who hadn’t gone home, it seemed, took the cushion opposite Odela. Which meant Yslie, who had hung back, was left with the one opposite Peroen.
He tempered his excitement that he would spend the feast looking at Yslie with a dose of harsh reality. Tonight would not be pleasant, not with his father seated next to him. Yslie would have a front-row seat to all the insults and disdain the Emperor hurled in his direction. Seeing that the prince she wanted to marry—whatever her reasons may be—had no power at court, that he didn’t even garner a modicum of respect, would change how she looked at him.
It didn’t matter that he had told her he had no importance at court. She hadn’t believed him. But tonight, she’d see. Tonight, she’d learn that whatever she hoped to gain by marrying him was an impossibility.
And he shouldn’t care so much when he had already realized that marrying her would most likely result in them both being miserable. Yet he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her.
At least, not until his father made himself the center of everyone’s attention.
“Welcome,” the Emperor’s voice boomed through the hall. “Tonight we celebrate the future of the empire. Before the year is out, I will have an oracle as a daughter-in-law. The Tjawer Dynasty will continue with the power that united Pynth centuries ago in our very blood. Let us feast to the hope for the future!”
A cheer went up from every table except the one on the dais. Peroen studied the three women across from him. Yslie’s expression was a neutral mask. Triese was too busy taking in every sign of wealth on display to pay attention to the Emperor’s words. Sophenie looked ready to take up a scimitar and slice her way through the court... until she looked in Odela’s direction. Then, her shoulders dropped, and she stared at her plate.
Peroen wished he could see the final oracle’s expression himself, but that would require leaning across his father.
Lhashiki and the man who had guided the women to the table began pouring wine and filling plates. An awkward silence fell as the oracles adjusted to the ways of the Emperor’s table and he waited for everyone else to keep him amused. Peroen could see Yslie getting more and more uncomfortable as she guessed how to act. Even Triese was at a loss for words.
Peroen tasted his wine, unsurprised to find a particularly strong vintage that he’d normally avoid, and accepted the inevitable. “Sire, allow me to introduce the oracles to you.” He gestured to the other end of the table, knowing Yslie would not want to be first. “Next to you is Odela of Tjon.”
“I am honored to dine with you tonight, Your Imperial Majesty.”
Peroen finished the introductions as quickly as possible. Because Yslie had been last, the Emperor’s attention was still on her when silence fell again, and apparently that was incentive enough to break through Triese’s awe.
“The palace is more impressive than I ever imagined, Your Imperial Majesty,” Triese announced in her sweet, high voice that was just this side of being saccharine. She looked over at Peroen. “Perhaps you can show me more of it later, dyela .”
The Emperor snorted. “I will have one of my Will show you the splendors of the palace. Peroen only knows the way between his room and his studio, hardly the parts of the palace that would interest you.”
“I’d be honored, Your Imperial Majesty.”
Though Triese was wide-eyed adulation in that moment, Peroen noticed that Sophenie wasn’t the only one who grimaced at the mention of the Will. Maybe anger at how the imperial family had treated the oracles sent to them every generation would be enough to distract the women from the insults the Emperor hurled in Peroen’s direction.
Ah yes, reminding them that oracles given to his ancestors were little more than slaves would surely make them more favorably inclined to marry him.
Yslie quickly mastered her expression, hiding once more behind a bland smile. She reached for her goblet of wine without unhooking her veil first, and Peroen gently cleared his throat. No one but Yslie noticed, but she looked at him. He reached up and casually scratched his cheek.
Eyes going wide, she set down her goblet and fumbled with her veil. Unhooking one side, she let it hang loose against her other cheek, and inclined her head slightly toward him. She took a sip of wine and focused on her supper.
Only half the table engaged in conversation as they ate. Triese and Odela took turns one-upping each other as they vied for the Emperor’s favor. Peroen followed the conversation only enough to note that Odela, at least, moderated her responses so that she never flat-out insulted him when she agreed with the Emperor. The rest, he ignored, knowing that any reaction on his part would only make matters worse.
Drawing the Emperor’s attention was never wise. Sophenie and Yslie seemed to agree.
???
The longer the supper went on, the harder Yslie found it to maintain her polite expression. The Emperor spared no opportunity to insult his son, and Triese went along with every barb thrown Prince Peroen’s way. She was certainly ingratiating herself with the Emperor, but did she have no fear of losing the prince’s favor?
Then again, Prince Peroen hardly seemed to notice the conversation. It was a version of indifference bred from familiarity that she knew well. How many times had Yslie pretended she couldn’t hear Triese’s insults, though they stood only a few feet apart? Sometimes, she even convinced herself that she didn’t care what was whispered not-quite-behind her back.
Perhaps the self-deprecation the prince had displayed when she first met him hadn’t been an act. By the end of their scheduled conversation the evening before, when every word and gesture had become stiff and formal, she had convinced herself that she had imagined the friendly man who had announced his only worth was in knowing how to paint.
He hadn’t lied about his place at court, though. By the Emperor’s own words, Peroen lacked even the slight value he had claimed. His Majesty didn’t disparage his son’s ability, he simply made it clear that painting was an embarrassment rather than a skill to take pride in.
The prince had told her, hadn’t he? He had said that most people saw his painting as a waste of time. Yet he had still divulged his passion to her. She began to wonder if she had more in common with the prince than she had originally thought. What a sad commonality to build upon: being accustomed to disdain.
Yslie barely ate any of the delicacies placed on her plate, though that didn’t stop the servant from loading it to nearly bursting with each course served. She barely touched her wine, too, though that was a conscious decision. She wanted to keep a clear head.
She noticed the prince also took very few sips from his goblet, though the Emperor’s and Triese’s were refilled many times. Finally, the last course was removed, and a gong rang, signaling the beginning of the evening’s entertainment. The Emperor led the way to the connecting chamber, Odela and Triese flanking him.
Yslie fell in step next to Sophenie. The other woman had sat through multiple lectures from Pianti and Heolin that day, and their words had been enough to keep her quiet through the meal, but she was clearly bursting with the need to rage.
“Remember what Pianti said,” Yslie whispered, though they were now well behind the Emperor. “No word spoken in the palace goes unheard.”
“He’s abominable,” Sophenie hissed, barely managing a whisper. “A monster without a conscience.”
“The Assembly can’t remove his claws too soon,” Prince Peroen added, stepping up on Yslie’s other side. She started, horrified that he had overheard them, though he seemed to be in agreement with Sophenie. He offered them a weak smile. “Pianti was right. You are lucky that, in this case, the member of the Will assigned to watch you isn’t as well trained as some of the rest. I don’t think he heard you.”
“I apologize, dyela ,” she said, not having any idea how else to deal with the situation.
He raised a brow. “Why should you apologize for Sophenie speaking the truth?”
“I’m not going to apologize,” Sophenie grumbled.
Prince Peroen smiled. “I wouldn’t want you to.”
They reached the next room while they spoke. Yslie spotted the Emperor seated on a throne centered on yet another dais, Triese and Odela standing on each side of him. She shuddered at the thought of spending more time near the Emperor, on display in front of the entire court.
“If Pianti hasn’t instructed you to stay together all evening,” the prince said when the women both hesitated near the door, “I can show you the best corner of the room to actually enjoy the upcoming performance.”
Yslie looked at her fellow oracle.
Sophenie nodded. “Anything to get away from him .”
“Will the servant follow us?” Yslie asked.
“Probably, but the location I’m thinking of doesn’t allow him a convenient spot to lurk, so he won’t be too close.”
“Then please lead the way, dyela .”
The prince took them around the edges of the room to an alcove created by a potted plant and a porcelain vase resting atop a marble plinth. Such ornaments alternated around the entire perimeter of the room, but Yslie saw at once why the prince had aimed for this particular nook. Not only was the position perfect for watching the front of the room where the performers were setting up, but the plant and vase were just a little larger than their counterparts, offering an extra level of shielding from the casual eye.
people could just fit in the space, but contact was inevitable. Sophenie maneuvered so that Yslie remained between her and the prince. She also frowned when Yslie pushed a little closer, causing her to almost tumble into the waxy green leaves of the plant. Yslie pulled back and tried not to notice the way her arm brushed against the prince’s. It was an innocent, accidental touch, shielded by two layers of fabric. It should not make her shiver.
“What is the entertainment tonight?” she asked, needing a distraction.
The prince looked over at the performers. “It looks like the story dancers.” He glanced at Sophenie. “I’ll warn you in advance that my father probably chose a horribly insensitive moment of history for them to perform tonight, but if you can forget that their tale isn’t fiction, this troupe’s dancing is superb.”
“If the story glorifies the imperial line, then it is fiction.” Sophenie clearly felt no need to appease the imperial standing near her, leading Yslie once again to wonder why she had come to Kalitalo. She had tried asking Heolin that afternoon why he had permitted Sophenie to come when he had rejected other oracles.
Heolin had shrugged. “It was not my place to judge your reasons for wanting to marry the prince, so long as they were your reasons.”
“But she doesn’t seem to want to marry the prince,” Yslie had pointed out.
“And do you, Odela, or Triese truly desire to marry Peroen, or is marrying the prince simply the only way to get what you want? If I had required the oracles’ motives to be pure, we would have no potential brides.”
After spending the banquet at the Emperor’s table, listening to the contempt thrown at the prince, Heolin’s blunt truth sounded even worse. Treating Prince Peroen as nothing more than a placeholder for future power felt a lot like everyone in Garaea only caring about Yslie because her future as the Emperor’s Oracle would protect them from discomfort.
Did anyone see Prince Peroen as a man with his own dreams and desires? A man with his own intrinsic worth?
Yslie was guilty herself of only thinking of him in terms of his rank. She had traveled all the way to Kalitalo without once asking anything about him. She vowed to do better in the future. Not because it might secure her a crown, but because it was the only decent thing to do.
She would start immediately. The prince had spoken of the dance troupe as if he had seen them before. Yslie turned toward him to ask, but before she formed the first word, a drum began a slow beat somewhere out of view.
The dancers lined up, stepping in time to the beat. Then they froze. They were standing still, but Yslie was already entranced. Their poses somehow weren’t static, each careful angle of a wrist and tilt of the head evoking movement.
The drumbeat sped up, and the lilting notes of a flute joined it. The dancers leapt into motion, and Yslie forgot everything else. She didn’t know what moment of history they enacted, but she didn’t care, for the story itself tugged her from emotion to emotion without pause. She rejoiced and despaired in equal measure, her heart stopping when it seemed all had been for naught, then beating again when the two primary dancers triumphed against overwhelming odds.
The flute faded away, the drum slowing.
“You liked it?” the prince asked softly.
She looked up at him, knowing her expression was too open, too awed, but unable to care about pretending a level of sophistication she didn’t own. “It was beautiful. I didn’t know so much could be said without words.”
“Dancing always amazes me. I know how to convey emotion through colors on canvas, and music I feel is intrinsically tied to emotions, but to influence people with something as slight as the point of your toe and the curve of your spine seems magical.”
“The dancing was fine, but the story wasn’t accurate at all,” Sophenie informed them, breaking the moment. “Daitano didn’t seek out Jaesa and convince her to serve him. She went to him. She was the one who convinced him to work with the magical races.”
It took Yslie longer than she wanted to admit to recognize the names of the first emperor and his oracle. “That was the story of the uniting of the empire?”
“Of course. Even with the inaccuracies, it was easy to recognize. The scene depicting the Battle of Sarssa, for example, couldn’t have been anything else.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Yslie shrugged. “I never studied history that closely.”
“Don’t feel bad,” Peroen whispered. He stood close enough that his breath brushed over her when he spoke, sending a shiver down her spine. “If I hadn’t already seen this dance before, I wouldn’t have known either.”
He pulled back, a slight flush on his cheeks, and spoke a little louder. “I’m impressed, Sophenie. No matter how well versed they are in history, most people need an interpreter the first time they watch one of these dances.”
Yslie studied the prince, letting her gaze linger in a way she hadn’t allowed during the meal. This was the man she had spoken to in the back room of Pianti’s home. A man who didn’t hesitate to compliment a woman who didn’t censor her scathing indictment of his entire family. The aloof facade he had hidden behind during their second conversation had been a response to her own attempt to portray a neutral personality.
With no masks in the way, Yslie enjoyed the prince’s company. Which meant it would hurt that much more when he chose Triese over her. She didn’t delude herself that his escort tonight meant anything. Triese and Odela had concentrated their charms on the Emperor for the evening, but they’d switch back to the prince soon enough. He wouldn’t look at her twice at that point.