Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
Ivy
The whole city is draped in red.
Scarlet banners hang above storefronts and stretch high across the streets. Crimson streamers dangle from windows. Ruby ribbons festoon every cart and carriage.
And the people only add to the cacophony of red. Every noble and inner-warder milling around the courtyard outside the Temple of the Crown wears silk, satin, or finely woven wool dyed in some shade of that hue.
Even in the outer wards, where few can afford full outfits in every divine color, people will be tying red sashes and scarves around their bodies to join in the celebration.
Casimir didn’t fail me in his self-assigned role as my official costumer. Airy silk wraps across my chest and tumbles over my legs in a deep wine-red that somehow makes my sallow complexion look creamy rather than sickly.
The assault of color that meets my eyes everywhere I look makes me feel a little sick, though. At the edge of the square where Stavros and I have halted to survey the festivities, I shift my weight and reach to adjust the lace that shades my eyes.
Along with Sabrelle’s color, everyone in the inner ward has donned helmet-inspired headdresses to honor the godlen of war. For women, that means a light metal cap with silver-toned filigree meant to mimic chainmail, which flows over my hair and down my face to the tip of my nose.
Nobles do love an excuse to be semi-anonymous while they revel.
Thankfully the face covering includes eye holes, so my vision isn’t too obscured. I’m not here to revel myself, but to keep watch.
Beside me, Stavros frowns at the crowd from beneath his own helm. The men wear a less dainty version, with silver plates over the nose and cheeks.
“Our performance for the military division isn’t until the seventh bell,” he says.
“You’ll have lots of time to circulate. From what I saw of the planned layout, the entomology club has their demonstration of sorts set up in the northeast corner of the square.
You should be able to get a look at most of the members there so you can keep track of them. ”
I nod. “I already spotted Ster. Torstem. He’s got golden stags embroidered on his jacket.”
“I doubt he’ll make any concerning moves.” Stavros sighs. “I’m not sure any of them would risk revealing their intentions with so many witnesses around. But they did strike at Prince Jacos in the middle of the college. With the royal family making an appearance, we can’t be too careful.”
A blare of a trumpet brings my head around. “And here they come now.”
The crowd parts around the front of the temple to make way for the royal procession. No doubt as aware of the threat as we are, the king has brought a dozen members of his personal guard, their usual uniforms swapped for a striking garnet-red.
King Konram and several other figures walk in their midst. He, Queen Ishild, and their two living children—Princess Klaudia and Prince Jacos—wave to the revelers, who raise their voices in eager cheers.
They only just returned from their tour of the provinces last night. Not a bad welcome, coming home to a massive party.
I’m not familiar with their companions. A stately woman in a belted dress that looks more like a cleric’s robes than a noble gown strides along behind them, one of her eyes covered by a patch that reminds me of Esmae’s.
At her left trots a spindly, ivory-haired man whose uneven gait could indicate the stiffness of old age or a leg-related sacrifice.
And behind them—
My breath hitches at the sight of the third man’s misshapen form. He holds his substantial frame tall and haughty, but neither his posture nor his thick cloak can disguise how lopsided his body is.
He’s missing one arm, all the way to the shoulder.
Gods above, what kind of gift will he have gotten for that sacrifice?
“Who are those three with the royal family?” I murmur.
Stavros dips his head lower so he can match my quiet tone.
“I suggested to the king that he might have his magic advisors join him for this excursion. I don’t think he’s mentioned specific concerns to any of them except his chief sorcerer, Hessild Korinya there, but any of them are likely to pick up on unusual magical activity around them.
The two men are Tinom Akorek, the smaller one, who specializes in illusions and ephemeral blessings, and Lothar Riosemek, who’s a master of herbal and chemical concoctions. ”
I can’t help raising an eyebrow. “He gave up an entire arm just to mix potions?”
One corner of Stavros’s mouth crooks upward. “I’m not sure exactly what his gift is, only that he dedicated himself to Creaden. I’d imagine it allows for more than just smooth mixing.”
“But not impressive enough for the king to make him chief sorcerer.”
The former general shrugs. “I believe Hessild has a powerful gift in her own right. An eye isn’t a minor thing. And there’s a family history. Her mother and grandfather both served as chief sorcerer before her.”
Julita lets out a huff in my head. You’d think between three royal sorcerers, they could keep this scourge menace in check themselves.
Stavros pauses, and his hand slips around mine as if to emphasize his next words. “Be particularly careful if you cross paths with Lothar. He’s been more vocal than the king himself in encouraging the hunts for the riven and the public executions. I get the impression he has a personal vendetta.”
A lump fills my throat. “I wasn’t planning on—”
“I know.” Stavros runs his thumb over the base of my forefinger—over the tiny scar that’s the only evidence of my temporary sacrifice two days ago. “Just… be careful.”
He lets go of me, but the ghost of his touch lingers on my skin with an unwelcome warmth. My gut knots with the memory of my confession yesterday morning.
I knew he’d find out about the fallen guard. He’d be suspicious about when and where it happened. If I’d tried to lie, I’m not sure he’d have believed me.
And maybe a part of me thought I’d get some kind of confirmation out of it. That if I told him, the man who’s reviled my magic from the moment he discovered it, his reaction would give me whatever punishment I truly deserved.
Somehow, he didn’t run me through or drag me to the gallows. When he growled a few curses, they were directed at the scourge sorcerers rather than me. Then he stormed off and returned simply to inform me that the guard had lived.
She’s still in the infirmary, undergoing additional care from the medics. Her skull cracked with the fall. But apparently they expect her to fully recover, given enough time.
Neither of those facts has loosened the guilt still tangled up inside me. I think I might actually feel more reassured if Stavros had dragged me off to be executed.
I lost my grip on my riven power. Only for a few seconds, and with consequences that weren’t absolutely dire—but we don’t know what the scourge sorcerers will demand of me next.
How can I promise it’ll never be worse?
A couple of days ago, I was angry with him for not trusting me. Now I’m not sure I deserve the trust he’s decided to offer.
Stavros shifts forward. “I’m going to stay close to the king until it’s time for the performance. But it looks as though you’ll have some company while you keep an eye on the rest of the festivities.”
I glance around to see two men weaving through the crowd toward us.
I’d recognize Casimir’s graceful stride anywhere, regardless of the helmet covering most of his face. His soft smile brings an answering one to my lips despite the tangle inside me.
I can’t say military gear suits him, but he manages to look stunning in his crimson-and-gold tunic even with the lump of metal on his head.
Alek’s lean form follows right behind the courtesan.
He’s wearing a festival helm that extends all the way to his jaw, hiding his mask completely.
His red tunic is edged with embroidery in a bronze tone, and his breaches are more fitted than Casimir’s fashionable billowy ones, but he cuts just as striking a figure.
We can explore the celebration together at least for a little while, with our identities concealed to anyone who doesn’t know us quite so well.
Stavros nods to them discreetly and heads off toward the royal procession.
Casimir slips his hand around my elbow. “How are you doing, Kindness?”
The tenderness of his tone tells me he’s not just asking if I’m enjoying the festival.
Stavros was able to alert him and Alek to meet us early yesterday so I could tell them everything that happened without worrying about revealing my secret to Benedikt.
The courtesan stuck close to me for the whole rest of the meeting, as if he could tell how unsteady I’m feeling.
“Wishing I was back in my room with a book,” I say with a light laugh. “But I suppose we’d better celebrate Sabrelle properly.”
Alek comes to a stop in front of me, his expression solemn. He spent several minutes yesterday arguing with both Stavros and me about whether we should call off my plan to infiltrate the conspiracy.
Not because he’s worried about what I might do. Because he’s worried about how it’s affecting me.
“Sounds like a better way to spend an evening than this,” he says. “We could go do that right now.”
I wag a finger at him to try to show I’m all right. “We’ve got work to do here. I should probably see if I can enjoy myself too. I’ve never spent very long at any festival but Signy’s.”
It never seemed like a good idea to strut around when everyone’s trying to draw one or another godlen’s attention in every way possible—not when I was trying to avoid the gods’ notice.
Unless there was an item it was an ideal time to steal or a con I needed to pull, I stayed off the streets during festivals.
Casimir’s thumb strokes my arm through the sleeve of my gown. He can probably guess at my reasons. “Does that mean you’ve never tried bloodfruit pudding?”