CHAPTER FIVE
I t’s black,” Lin said.
Mariam shook her head. “It’s dark blue.”
Lin glared at the gown hanging from the rail on Mariam’s wall. “It’s black. Which is not a color Ashkar are allowed to wear outside the Sault, Mari.”
“It’s marine blue,” Mariam insisted stubbornly. “It’s supposed to be the color of the sea.”
“Hmph.” Lin brushed her hand down the material of the dress. The silk was smooth and heavy in her hand; she could feel the weight of its richness, its luxury. Tiny jet beads cascaded across the front, a scatter of stars. The neckline was modest enough, but the back seemed dangerously low. “You made this in two days?”
“I adjusted it to your measurements in two days,” Mariam corrected. “It took me two weeks to make it. It was meant to be for Demoselle Mirela Gasquet, but her mother decided it was too revealing.”
Lin eyed the back again. “If it’s too revealing for a daughter of the nobility, it’s certainly going to be too revealing for me. ”
Mariam rolled her eyes. “It’s the fashion. At least try it on.”
There was no arguing with Mariam when she was in this sort of mood. Lin stripped down to her smallclothes and shimmied into the heavy dress, standing patiently while Mariam did up the hooks along the side.
“Lovely,” Mariam said when she was done. “Oh, Lin. It’s so pretty.”
Lin looked in the mirror. She had to admit Mariam was a dressmaking genius. The dark satin was as close-fitting as a glove. The beads that shimmered and drew the light seemed to illuminate the most sensual parts of her: flare of hips, curve of waist, rise of breasts. When she turned, she nearly gasped: The back of the dress was cut almost to her waist, showing a moon-pale expanse of skin.
“I feel practically naked,” Lin said, awestruck.
“Which is why you will be carrying this shawl,” said Mariam, producing a soft black shawl woven with a pattern of silver flowers. Somehow it did seem to match the dress. Lin took it and threw it about her shoulders, causing Mariam to sigh.
“Really, the dress is better without the shawl,” she said, “but if you feel you need to wear it...”
“I need to wear it,” Lin said firmly. “Oh—and shoes.”
“Demoselle Mirela had me make a matching pair of pasifles. They’re over here, I think,” Mariam said, waving off Lin’s offer of help as she rummaged around a pile of fabric remnants. She sighed again as she straightened up, two silk slippers in her hands. “I do wish I could go with you. See everyone admire you in your dress.”
As she handed over the slippers (which were very clearly black, like the dress), Lin felt a wave of guilt wash over her. To her, attending this party was an obligation, one she was dreading. (Again, the little voice in her mind reminded her that the Prince would be there, that she would see him, that he would probably have forgotten her.) But for Mari, it would be a treat, a chance to see the glittering beauty of the Hill.
And the treachery, Lin thought, remembering the little Princess from Sarthe. The cruelty. Mariam was kindness personified—easy sport for the wolves of the Charter Houses.
“You’re too good for the people on the Hill, Mari,” Lin said.
Mari looked as if she wanted to argue, but she stopped herself. She twisted a bit of her skirt between her fingers and said, “It hardly matters. I mean, I couldn’t go—and besides, there’s something else I’d like to do tonight.”
Lin finished wiggling her feet into the slippers. “What’s that?”
“The books that you’ve been reading,” Mariam said. “The ones about”—she lowered her voice—“magic... I want to read them, too.”
Lin was surprised. “Really?” Mariam had never evinced any interest in this aspect of Lin’s studies before.
“I’m so grateful for all you’ve done for me, Lin.” Lin started to protest, but Mari waved her words away. “ But —I feel as if my fate is entirely out of my own hands.” Her dark eyes searched Lin’s face. “Do you understand that?”
“I understand that feeling,” Lin said. “Only most of the books are—” Stored at the Black Mansion, she was about to say; she had never felt truly safe keeping them all in her house since the time the Maharam had barged in and confiscated her precious tomes. He’d had to give them back after the Tevath, but the memory stung.
“I don’t care if they’re forbidden,” Mariam said. “Lin, the only choice I can make is to rely on you to save my life. And I do—I trust you entirely—but surely it cannot help either of us for me to know so little. I want to understand what you’re doing. What is happening inside me.”
Lin felt a lump in her throat. “Mari—”
There was a perfunctory knock on the door; a second later Chana was peering into the room, her eyes bright under the scarf that bound her hair. “Oren Kandel is outside,” she announced without preamble. “Lin, he has a message for you from the Maharam. He says it can’t wait.”
Lin’s hands flew to her bodice. “I can’t meet the Maharam wearing this. ”
Chana shook her head. “He said no delay, chicken. Better to meet the Maharam wearing that dress than to keep him waiting. Just keep that wrapped around you.” She waved a hand at Lin’s shawl.
Lin turned to Mariam, who was looking anxious. “Mari,” she said slowly. “That foreign tea you were looking for—I have some on my kitchen table. It’s only one flavor of tea, but it’s a good one.”
Mariam mouthed thank you to Lin as Chana fussed her out of the room and down the hall. Lin barely had time to wrap the shawl more tightly around herself before she’d been hurried outside, where Oren was waiting for her in the street.
His dark eyes seemed alive with hostility as he watched her approach. “The Maharam has requested I bring you immediately to the Shulamat, Goddess. ”
Oren flicked his gaze over Lin, from her bare head to her slippered feet, and it felt like a garden rake scraping her skin. She could feel the hunger and loathing in his eyes as he looked her over. As if he were starving but the only food he could find was something he detested.
Lin crossed her arms over her chest. “And what is this about, Oren?”
He smirked. “The Maharam will explain.”
There was no point arguing. Oren had the upper hand and was clearly enjoying her discomfort. Lin resisted the urge to pull her shawl even closer and followed him without another word.
They set out into the blue twilight. It was the time just after sunset when the sky was not yet dark, but shadows had begun to gather thickly into corners and beneath trees. The air was velvet-soft, carrying a trace of salt so vivid it seemed as if one could taste it.
As they walked, Lin’s mind raced. Could it be the Sanhedrin? But the Maharam had said they would not arrive for at least another few days, and besides, the Sanhedrin were a full caravan of dignitaries. The gates would have been thrown open for them, the Sault’s council of elders assembled to greet them. It was not the sort of event that could have passed unnoticed.
Had the Maharam decided it was time to stop hinting around and demand that she admit she was not the Goddess Returned? She wondered if he had spoken to Mayesh. The two men disliked each other, and they had clashed before over Lin, but surely the Maharam would not take action against her without Mayesh’s knowledge. Her grandfather was too important a man for that. And Mayesh would have warned her—despite the distance between them, he would have warned her. He was still angry at her, he had been since the Tevath, but he had also kept her secret. He had not told anyone he disbelieved her claim to be the Goddess, though she knew he did. That had to count for something.
They had reached the Kathot, the main square of the Sault. The flowering fig and almond trees at its heart cast great shadows across the flagstones, and hawk moths rustled in the darkness. The blue tesserae atop the dome of the Shulamat glowed under the light of the dimming sky. As Lin lifted her heavy skirts to make her way up the steps, she thought of the pride, mixed with resentment, she had always felt at the sight of the temple. Pride in the beauty of the architecture and in her people’s knowledge and history. They had fled Aram with nothing, and built so much; they carried their wisdom, their traditions, as if they were precious goods, passing them down like heirlooms from one generation to the next.
Yet those same traditions had blocked her from the knowledge she desired. I would not have claimed what I did, she thought, save that I had no choice.
She raised her chin, straightened her spine. Stepped around Oren, entering the Shulamat before him. The Goddess did not follow a man like Oren Kandel.
She moved down the central aisle of the Shulamat, to the raised dais where Maharam Benezar sat, Oren hurrying behind her. The Maharam was in his usual chair, his staff across his lap. At his shoulder stood a stranger.
The stranger watched Lin as she made her way down the aisle. He looked older than Lin, but was still a young man—twenty-nine, perhaps, or thirty. His hair was the color of bronze: a dark, tarnished gold. His skin had probably once been fair but was deeply tanned. He was clearly Ashkar; wrapped around each wrist and crisscrossing up both forearms were the slender black leather straps of the Rhadanite traders. He bore their markings as well—inky tattoos written in their pictographic shorthand—on his arms, his hands, and his throat where the laces of his shirt were open. He was plainly dressed in the dust-stained linens of a traveler, his boots thick brown leather.
Lin looked from the stranger—expressionless, his posture ramrod-straight—to the Maharam. She could hear Oren behind her, breathing harshly. A flash of terror went through her, sharp and hot as a razor’s bite. She had thought only of the Sanhedrin, but this was a traveler come with news. News from the Gold Roads. News for her.
“Josit,” she whispered. “Has something happened to my brother?”
The stranger glanced at Benezar. “She has a brother?”
Confusion cut through Lin’s anguish. Before she could repeat Josit’s name, the Maharam said: “Lin. This is Amon Aron Benjudah. Our Exilarch.” His deep-set eyes bored into her. “He has come to test the Goddess Returned.”
Lin’s stomach cartwheeled in a mixture of relief and shock. This was the Exilarch? She had seen pictures of Exilarchs, of course—men in rich robes, bearing medallions of silver. Yet here stood this stranger, in much-washed linen and a buckskin vest, sleeves pushed up, one bootlace partly untied. His bronze hair was thick and untidy, his cheeks grazed with stubble. Nothing about him spoke to his high position. Amon, she knew, was the name he used ceremonially, but the common people referred to him by his birth name, Aron.
“Now?” Lin kept her voice low, hoping it would not tremble. “Surely the test cannot be now. I have had no time to prepare.”
“Is preparation necessary? Should the Goddess not simply be... the Goddess?” Aron’s voice startled Lin. It was deep, rich, and musical. The voice of a descendant of Judah Makabi, the protector of the Goddess, who had gone with her people into exile.
Lin did her best to remain expressionless. She said, “It is written in the Book of Makabi that when the Goddess first returns, she may not even know herself.”
“So it is,” said Aron dryly. “It is good to see you know your holy books, Lin Caster.” He glanced past her, his eyes narrowing. “Leave us, Kandel.”
Oren glanced beseechingly at the Maharam, who shot him a quelling look. “Do as the Exilarch says.”
As Oren walked away, slump-shouldered, Aron Benjudah stepped down from the dais, quashing Lin’s hopes that he would be short. He wasn’t. He was at least a head taller than she was. His amber gaze ran over her, taking in her silk-slippered feet, the richness of her satin dress. His look was absent both the hunger and the fury that had been in Oren’s eyes. It was cool, calculating, adding her up and assessing. “Is there,” he said, regarding Lin steadily, “some sort of festivity in the Sault tonight? One I am not aware of?”
Lin raised her chin. There was no point in lying. “A festivity, yes. But not in the Sault. On the Hill.”
“On the Hill? Where the nobles of your city live?”
“You do know,” said the Maharam, “that her grandfather is Mayesh Bensimon? The Counselor to the King?”
“I know Mayesh well,” said the Exilarch, to Lin’s surprise.
“He hopes she will follow in his political footsteps,” said the Maharam. “He likes her to accompany him to the Hill now and then. Acquaint her with those close to the throne.” His tone was dry.
“Interesting,” said Aron. “Mayesh always had something of an unorthodox perspective. Unless he’s changed. It’s been seventeen years since I saw him last.”
“He has not,” Lin said shortly, “changed.” Though her mind was racing—how had her grandfather known the Exilarch seventeen years past?
“He is at the Palace now,” grunted the Maharam. “I am sure he will wish to see you, Aron.”
“All in time,” Aron said. “I have other concerns in the Sault.”
“Many matters of justice await your judgment,” said the Maharam. It was customary for the visiting Sanhedrin—and for the Exilarch, their leader—to take up cases brought before them for the application of Law. Often these were disputes of property or custom: anything the council of elders felt was beyond them to decide.
“Indeed,” said the Exilarch, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere. He approached Lin consideringly, as if she were a horse for sale in Fleshmarket Square. “Maharam,” he said, without taking his eyes from Lin. “You know I must.”
“Yes,” said the Maharam, his thick brows drawn together. The Exilarch’s attention was still on Lin, who fought the urge to knot her hands at her sides.
She would not show that she was anxious, she told herself as he came closer. She would not let him intimidate her. She had experience of princes. They were just men, like any other men.
“Lin Caster,” Aron said. “I am your Exilarch, your gadol hador. Look up at me.”
She raised her face unwillingly. He was only a few inches away from her. This close, she could see that his eyes were the color of desert sands, as if they had been dyed by the arid landscapes he had passed through on his travels.
The room was utterly silent. She could hear her own breath as their gazes connected. She did not think she had ever been looked at so closely. Aron seemed to be taking her apart with his eyes, as if he could crack open the shell of her with the force of his will and examine every component of her being for the truth or lies contained within.
Lin’s heart seemed to beat with a sort of sickly dread that whispered to her: He is who he says he is. The Exilarch, the descendant of Judah the Lion. He is seeking in me some sign that I am who I say I am: the Goddess Returned, the one who is destined to reunite with him. Surely there is meant to be some spark of the divine, some flame that is lit when the Exilarch looks upon the Goddess for the first time. Surely he expects to feel something.
It seemed quite clear to her he felt nothing.
He stepped away, breaking the contact of their eyes. Lin wanted only to drop her gaze, but she forced herself to stare straight ahead, her heart hammering in her chest.
Aron’s voice was flat. “Well, you are not the first who has claimed the stature of Goddess Returned since the Sundering. You are not even the first this year. I have learned to temper my expectations. So have the Sanhedrin, which is why they chose, in the end, not to accompany me here. If you pass the first of the tests, I will summon them.”
Otherwise, it would be a waste of their time. He did not say it, but it was clearly what he was thinking. Lin felt a flare of annoyance before telling herself she was being ridiculous. He was right to be cautious. She knew that better than anyone.
“The first test?” she echoed. “How many will there be?”
“Let us concern ourselves with the first now,” said the Maharam. “If it does not go well, after all, there will not be another. You will be notified when it is to take place.”
Lin swept a small curtsy. It was a bit of Castellani decorum, not Ashkar custom, but it hardly seemed to matter. “I would appreciate some advance notice,” she said, “as I must concern myself foremost with the care of my patients.”
“Foremost?” The Exilarch raised his eyebrows. “Above your duty to your people?”
Lin set her jaw. “These are lives, Exilarch,” she said. “And as the Goddess herself said, we who are Ashkar hold life above all other things. Above even duty.”
I will not let one single patient die to please you, she thought. No matter what it costs me.
The Exilarch only narrowed his eyes, as if he guessed what she was thinking. Without another word, he turned his back on her. From the dais above, the Maharam gestured at Lin; she was dismissed. It was over.
As she left the Shulamat, she paused at the top of the steps to catch her breath. Had she been holding it? She wasn’t sure; her head was pounding. All she could think was that she must do as much for Mariam as she could before her first test took place. Afterward, it seemed clear, it would be too late.
“I shall drink myself into a stupor tonight, I think,” Montfaucon announced.
Kel looked over at him without much interest. He was crammed into one of the smaller Palace carriages with Conor, Falconet, Montfaucon, and Ciprian Cabrol, on their way to House Alleyne to celebrate Antonetta’s engagement. Not that Kel saw much to celebrate.
“So, an ordinary night for you, then,” said Falconet dryly. He was dressed in his best, as they all were. In Falconet’s case this meant an ivory silk shirt with slashed sleeves showing ice-blue velvet beneath, and gloves with a frill of ivory lace at the wrists. Montfaucon wore poison yellow, and Cabrol his usual linen.
“I mourn my great love, Raimon,” said Montfaucon portentously. “Had I known when I saw him at the Caravel it would be the last time—”
“You would not have encouraged him to publicly fight a man dressed as a bear?” said Ciprian.
Conor stretched and yawned. “Ciprian, let him be. Montfaucon, you fall in love every two weeks.”
This was true. Kel strongly suspected that Montfaucon was not so much mourning the death of Raimon as he was trying to milk every drop of drama there was to be had out of the situation. Murder was exciting even to the jaded denizens of the Hill. According to Montfaucon, the Vigilants had been investigating Raimon’s death, largely under the assumption that he had been killed by an old enemy from his Arena days.
As much as he doubted Montfaucon’s sincerity, Kel still couldn’t look at him when he talked about Raimon. As Montfaucon launched into an explanation of why Raimon was different from any other lover he’d had, Kel glanced over at Conor, who was slumped in the corner of the carriage. He wore a cloak of black swan feathers tipped in gold. Rings flashed on his fingers; his crown was a thin gold circlet from which a pendant diamond glittered against his forehead. There were shadows around his eyes: kohl or exhaustion, Kel couldn’t tell.
“I’m too sensitive,” Montfaucon said. “That’s the problem. I feel the pain of others deeply. I worry about our dear Antonetta, being forced to marry Artal Gremont.”
“You don’t think exile might have improved him?” Kel said. He doubted it himself but wondered if Montfaucon knew anything he didn’t.
“Not from what I’ve heard,” Montfaucon said grimly.
Before Kel could ask exactly what he’d heard, Falconet, turning to Conor with his usual flashing smile, said, “It’s your fault, you know.”
Conor raised his black eyebrows. Kel said, “How’s that?”
Falconet smiled. “If our Prince had not made it clear that he would never consider giving Lady Alleyne what she wanted and marrying Antonetta, perhaps she would not have chosen this particular alliance for her daughter.”
Conor looked at him coolly. “I have chosen instead to make an alliance that will benefit our nation, not Lady Alleyne.”
“Lady Alleyne will find some way to turn it to her benefit in the end, I’m sure,” said Cabrol. “She strikes me as a very practical woman.”
“Practical is one word for it,” said Montfaucon. “She’s the sort who’s happy to smile and stab you in the back at the same time. Ice in her veins.”
“A good quality,” said Cabrol, “for the head of a Charter Family. Is her daughter like her?”
“No,” Kel said flatly. “She isn’t.”
They all looked at him—even Conor. Luckily, Kel was saved having to explain what he meant by their arrival at the Alleyne manor.
A double line of servants bearing torches in gold holders flanked the walkway that led to the front door. Inside, they were guided into the Alleynes’ ballroom, which had been elaborately decorated with yet more gold—dangling chandeliers, immense vases holding sprays of silk flowers, stacks of plates and goblets shimmering with rims of diamonds. A stage at one end of the room was half hidden by billowing ivory silk curtains embroidered with designs of coffee and tea leaves. The union of silk and tea Charters. Charming.
Beside it, a statue of Turan, God of love, bore a tray holding glasses of green wine from Hanse. For a moment, the loud room full of chattering nobility seemed to fall away from Kel; he forgot the reason he was here, remembering only a scene from memory, many years ago. Antonetta’s debut ball, the first time he had seen her as her mother and the Hill wished her to be: icy with diamonds at her ears, glittering in gold and silk. A hard smile like a knife’s edge. Beside the statue of Turan, she had looked at him with lifeless eyes and said, I know my mother spoke to you. She was right. We are not of the same class. It is one thing to play in the dirt as children, but we are too old to close our eyes to reality.
“There he is,” Conor said, at Kel’s shoulder. Feathers from his cloak rose up around his face like wisps of black smoke. “Artal Gremont. Just as I recall him.” He narrowed his eyes. “Slightly repellent.”
“Only slightly?” said Falconet, in a tone of somber amusement.
Kel followed their eyes and saw Lady Alleyne by a banquet table laden with pastries, wearing a dress that itself looked like a confection: cream lace and silk, tightly corseted, her hair swept high and dressed with garnets. She was laughing with a man Kel recognized immediately, though he had not seen Artal Gremont in many years.
He had been a burly young man and was still big, with shoulders like planks of wood and a thick neck. His clothes had a faintly military flair, though Kel was sure he had never been near a battle, with gold braid and a stiff upright collar whose tips prodded his jowls. The years that separated him from the young man he’d been when he left Castellane made him resemble a portrait whose paint had smeared, blurring its clarity.
Cabrol said nothing; he had never known Gremont, and was gazing around the room, clearly bored. Montfaucon, too, had his eyes elsewhere. “Sancia Vasey looks particularly delightful tonight,” he said.
Sancia, positioned near a display of silk violets that matched her dress, glanced over at Conor and the others and winked. Her lids had been painted silver; the wink flashed like a knife blade under candlelight.
“I see you’re already moving on from Raimon, Montfaucon,” Conor noted dryly.
“It’s what he would have wanted for both of us,” Montfaucon said, and departed in a cloud of swirling yellow. After a moment, Falconet followed him, arrowing his way toward a group of young noblemen playing dice in the embrasure of a large window.
Kel turned, meaning to make a wry comment to Conor, but the words died on his lips. Gremont was bearing down on them, grinning broadly. Up close, Kel could see a thick chain hanging around his thicker neck, a gaudy medallion, set with a winking ruby, hanging off it.
“Conor,” he said in a booming voice as Conor looked at him with a dry, nearly invisible dislike. “ Monseigneur, that is.” He chuckled. “My apologies. The last time I saw you, you were ten years old and had just fallen into the fountain in the Queen’s Garden.”
“I expect I was drunk,” Conor said pleasantly. “I was often in those days.”
Gremont, looking nonplussed, chuckled again. “Well. Youth is the time for wildness.”
“Some of us are still young,” said Conor. “Time is a cruel master, is it not, Gremont? And you have stayed away from Castellane for quite some time.”
“My dear city,” said Gremont. “She has welcomed me back handsomely.”
“It must be nice,” said Kel, “to have whatever business has kept you away so long cleared up.”
Gremont waved a hand. “Youthful hijinks, as the Prince said. I never understood what all the fuss was about.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “I’ve been asking around about where a man can go to have a good time these days. Is the Pearl still open in the Maze? That was quite an interesting establishment.”
“Oh, no,” said Cabrol. “The Caravel is the place to be nowadays.”
Gremont grinned unpleasantly. “I’m partial to the Caravel. Perhaps we can all make a visit together sometime soon. Before the prison gates of marriage close upon me.” He laughed aloud; Kel fisted a hand at his side. Somehow, he was sure Gremont knew exactly who owned the Caravel and was taking special pleasure in thinking about inflicting himself upon her. “And you, Monseigneur,” Gremont added to Conor. “Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials. Word of the beauty of Anjelica Iruvai has made its way as far as Taprobana and Favár.”
“I do not think I’m very popular in Malgasi at the moment,” said Conor lightly.
“Oh, the Malgasi admire strategy, Monseigneur, and aligning yourself with Kutani was a masterstroke. Besides, the news of the moment is that Elsabet Belmany is considering marriage to Floris of Gelstaadt.”
Conor and Kel exchanged a look. It had not been long ago that the Malgasi Ambassador had demanded furiously that Conor wed Elsabet, the heir to the Malgasi throne.
“How interesting,” Kel said. “Between his great height and her fierce beauty, they are sure to produce a brood of absolutely terrifying children.”
Conor hid a smile. Lady Alleyne’s voice trilled from across the room: “Artal! Artal, could you come here for a moment?”
Gremont looked torn. It was clear he would have preferred to stay near Conor, who gave him a tight smile. “Do go on,” he said. “I must take myself off across the room to inquire of Sieur Marchbolt about his health.”
Gremont looked puzzled. “Isn’t he dead?”
“All the more reason to be solicitous,” said Conor, and walked away.
Gremont, bereft of the presence of royalty, smiled tightly at Kel and Cabrol. “I remember you,” he said. “That foreign cousin of the Prince’s. Anjan or something. And you”—he tipped a nod at Cabrol—“the new holder of the dye Charter, if I’m not mistaken?”
“Correct,” said Ciprian. “I hope you weren’t too attached to the last one.”
Gremont snorted. “Not at all,” he said, “but I hope you’ll excuse me. My future mother-in-law requires my presence.”
“Well,” said Ciprian as Gremont wended his way across the room to rejoin Lady Alleyne, who was snapping her fan in annoyance at his dawdling. “He seems charming. Surely the fair Antonetta cannot be delighted to be saddled with a husband who regards marriage as prison.”
Husband. Kel felt sick, but before he could say anything in return, the inhuman wailing of a dying swan echoed through the room. Everyone turned to look at the stage, from which the noise had emanated.
Kel stared. The curtains were drawn back, and three musicians were standing on the stage. One carried a viola, another a cornet; the third held a lior and was tuning its strings, which had caused the terrible screeching sound. Realizing everyone was staring, the musician nearly dropped the instrument, but that was not why Kel was staring.
He was staring because the three musicians, all dressed in Alleyne livery, were Jerrod, Merren, and Ji-An.