Chapter 8
ONE LUXURY I CAN’T AFFORD
LEILANI
MOON-LUTES STRIKE UP, doors open to receive us. The murmur of the gathered throng assaults my ears as we step into the Watching Chamber. Diamonds glitter across the fan-vaulted ceiling, mimicking the spill of stars.
Astrophel leads me down the central aisle.
Courtiers on either side. Behind the scent of starflowers, vinegar burns the back of my throat.
Every member of the assembly wears a pomander, some around the neck, others the wrist. Tonight is the first time my father has relaxed the plague laws to allow a gathering of this size since Meissa’s last outbreak of Flamefever twelve sunrings ago – the one that claimed my mother as victim.
I can’t help but search the faces swimming past for signs of infection.
But the Sister is merciful tonight. There’s not a beaded brow, weeping pustule, nor angry burn-rash in sight.
The lords incline their heads as we pass, the ladies’ skirts whisper and sigh as they curtsy, but suspicious eyes drill into my back, lingering on my star-cursed hair, as we process towards my parents.
I wish I’d been permitted a veil. I wish the ground would swallow me whole.
Elvi and Izarius are in the crowd, their smiles strained. For their sake, I slow my stride and roll my shoulders back, try to look like a queen-in-waiting. I cling to the starstone.
My way out. My way back in.
Orthriel hovers towards the front of the chamber.
The courtiers give them a wide berth – partly out of respect, partly out of fear.
Before the Sickening, each of The Nine, and those occupying important civic positions, were assigned a Guardian.
But for many sunrings, Orthriel has been the only cielsylph seen at court.
Most of the coterie families followed my father’s example, dissolving their bonds of Guardianship, not wanting star-cursed magic anywhere near them, despite the cielsylphs’ inability to wield Shadow.
And later, the Sickening left the remaining Guardians too weak to navigate the breezes, unable to leave their floating isle and its dwindling supply of vital Star-Aether for long.
Orthriel continues to make the journey, but even their visits are becoming less frequent.
Thank the Stars, my Guardian’s here tonight. I’ll need all the support I can get when I destroy my father’s carefully laid plans.
Our eyes lock, Orthriel’s unblinking. A reminder that their corporeal form is a mirage.
‘You’ve decided then?’
I nod as Astrophel drives me forwards.
My parents sit on elaborate wooden thrones before the larger Crystal Throne – left empty, save for coronations, since Noelani’s retreat to the Silent Isle, when governance of the realm passed to her brother and the Regency was established.
My mother, Queen Twila, wears a mauve silk gown.
Its bodice gapes. She’s lost even more weight since her last fitting; breastbone and collarbones jut sharp through papery skin.
A jewel-studded hairnet conceals thinning hair.
Her smile is slightly puckered, but only those closest to her would guess it’s forced.
There’s no hiding the way she’s clawing the armrests of her throne though.
Blanched knuckles reveal how much pain she’s in, what it’s costing her to sit here.
My father watches her. Concern brackets his mouth and shadows his eyes.
She looks older, shrunken. He, on the other hand, is more statuesque than ever.
Opulent silver robes, edged and lined with frostfang fur, drape around him, and he wears his crown tonight: a circlet of nine-pointed stars wrought in silver, studded liberally with diamonds.
Together with the Regent’s Ring, it serves as a reminder of his absolute power.
He sits straight in his throne but not stiff.
There’s nonchalance to his posture – an entitlement that allows him to be easy with his gait.
But his eyes are sharpened flints. There’s nothing relaxed about them.
Astrophel falls to one knee with an exaggerated flourish.
I mentally roll my eyes at him, as I too genuflect to my parents, my ridiculously long sleeves sweeping the floor.
Our movements are sinuous, harmonious, practised and dancelike.
To the gathered assembly, we must present as perfectly complementary partners: the desired effect. A couple of show ponies.
‘Don’t be petty,’ Orthriel cautions. ‘It’s beneath you.’
I glance back at my Guardian. ‘Time to call this travesty off?’
Orthriel nods.
I face my parents again, but before I can request a private audience, my mother starts to cough, and the words thicken on my tongue.
My father leans towards her, brow creased, signals for one of her liegeladies to fetch a goblet of water.
Many of the courtiers raise pomanders to their faces.
Others make the sign of the Star. It’s known she suffers from a mystery wasting disease – a curious after-effect of the Flamefever she survived – cureless but not contagious, but any sign of illness makes people wary.
My mother sips at the water until the coughing eases. While she composes herself, my father and Astrophel exchange a look that ends with a reciprocal nod and crooked smile – the smile of victory. A familiar, bitter stab of jealousy rises from the pit of my stomach.
My father thinks he’s about to get his fondest wish: Astrophel as his son.
He stands and strides towards us, his long, narrow features arched with disdain. Astrophel retreats two paces, leaving us to one another. My father places a hand to my lowered head, a gesture of benediction to commence tonight’s ceremonies.
I clutch the starstone, focus on its strange, anchoring pulse. The room dims.
I stumble. Sparks streak the darkness. Images storm my mind.
Hushed conversations behind locked doors. A handshake. Chinked goblets. A plan.
I don’t know how I’m seeing them, but I understand only too well what this flood of borrowed memories means. They’re going to force me to abdicate my claim to the Crystal Throne in Astrophel’s favour after the ceremonies are performed.
If they think I’ll roll over and agree to their schemes, they’ve another think coming. I won’t tell my father about Noelani’s prophecy. Not yet. I’ll let him perform the succession rites first; not even my father can revoke those. I’ll secure my position before I tell anyone anything.
The starstone’s pulse accelerates, thudding against my palm, as if signalling its agreement to this plan.
My father holds up his right hand, his thumb and first two fingers pointing to the heavens. A pregnant hush falls over the chamber.
‘I acknowledge my daughter, Leilani, first of her name, descendant of the star-blessed Stellarion bloodline, as heir apparent to the Crystal Throne.’ His words ring out, memorised by rote.
I lift my head to utter the solemn vows I’ve rehearsed so often.
‘I, Leilani, of the Stellarion bloodline, do swear myself your liegemaid, do accept the role of heir apparent, and vow to serve you and the Throne for the remainder of my life.’ My voice sounds all wrong, small and far away, not like my voice at all.
I hand the replica sceptre into his outstretched hand, but it’s as though I’m standing outside my body, watching proceedings.
My father ushers me to a pedestal to the right of his throne where the Silver Book lies propped open.
His fingers press hard against the small of my back.
The bruising pressure brings me back to myself.
My father signs, then hands me the crystal dipping-pen. Despite my shaking fingers, I form my letters cleanly on the page.
And now for the final act.
My father resumes his throne, and I unwind the Celestial Chain from my wrist, slip it over his neck, carefully settling it beneath his robes, so the pendant is concealed.
The moon-lutes sound again and my name echoes around the Watching Chamber.
The cheers are muted; the courtiers resigned, but not joyful, at the prospect of a cursed future regent.
But in this Ruined Age, a tainted heir is better than no heir at all.
A leer blooms on my father’s lips. He glances at Astrophel. ‘And now, let’s proceed to the Rotunda for the long-awaited binding ceremony.’
Thankfully, my trailing gown and pendant sleeves conceal my trembling limbs.
‘The binding can’t take place.’ My voice cracks, the words coming out as little more than a whisper, but the lofty chamber magnifies them for all to hear.
A collective intake of breath hisses through the room. Astrophel stiffens. The muscles bulge on my father’s neck. But I’ll not be cowed this time.
My way out. My way back in.
I only have to make the leap.
I stoop towards my father, tug lightly on the chain.
‘Look down,’ I murmur in his ear.
His lips thin, his eyes dip. All colour ebbs from his face as he registers the starstone that shouldn’t be there.
*
I’VE NEVER BEEN permitted inside the Orbium before.
Entry is restricted to the King and the advisors that make up his Conclave, a group that now includes Astrophel and excludes me.
Silvered walls bear tapestries of the lunar phases; the floor is inlaid with glittering mosaics of the Dawn Sister’s creation of the moons from the amethyst in her troth ring; decorations so lavish, my eyes can’t process it all.
I’m dizzied, and the cloying incense misting from a large thurible set before my father isn’t helping matters.
Silence. The room grows small with it. My father has barely uttered a word since I requested this audience.
Not since he told the courtiers to remain in the Watching Chamber, barked orders at my mother, Astrophel and Izarius to follow us and, once seated at the head of the Star Table, demanded to read Noelani’s letter after I outlined its contents.