CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CAPTIVE AUDIENCE
One Vale dead, one Vale a liar. I’m not sure which fate is worse. Or which Vale is more damned.
Two weeks since Arliss Vale was murdered. Five days since Bastard Vale revealed himself as a cheat in Eteria. And five days since anyone has seen or heard from the liar himself—from the shadows or otherwise.
Is Bastard Vale hiding his face because he is embarrassed? Or is he perhaps hiding a guilty conscience?
He showed the world he is eager to lie. Could he also be eager to kill? Arliss Vale was murdered, and this Queen of Shadows thinks it was Bastard Vale himself who poured the lethal dose.
He might not be set to stand trial for his crimes, but in this court of judgment, Bastard Vale is guilty on all charges. Clearly, there is no honor among thieves. Or murderers.
Fondly,
Shadow Queen
My teeth chatter as I stumble over the ice-coated roads to Mozeri Temple. I’m fighting a scowl as well as a chill.
The note Kaidren slipped under the doorway of each of our Petruvian guests’ rooms sears a hole in my pocket, taunting me.
You are cordially invited to come see the future of the great Republic of Virdei in person. Come to Mozeri Temple at midday to witness your next Praeceptor, Kaidren Vale, discuss his plans for the future.
Apparently, even after his failure in Eteria, his opinion of himself hasn’t dimmed at all.
I’d hoped public shame would be enough to prove to him that he is far out of his depth. No such luck. Despite the whispers, despite the Shadow Queen, despite the fact that all of Virdei thinks he’s a fraud, he seems as determined to frustrate my plans as ever.
I slip into the back of the temple, relieved to be inside, away from the blistering cold.
Virdeian temples are devoted to the stars.
Many believe that each star is the soul of a god, dead or alive.
The lonely god who supposedly gifted us magic is said to be the brightest of them all.
Some believe he’s the only one still alive (hence the loneliness, hence the gifting us magic) and that he shines brighter because the other stars are the souls of gods that have long since died.
I don’t believe in the gods, but I know there’s magic in stars.
I used to spend hours with my mother staring at the endless expanse above, feeling the weight of everything float away.
She knew nothing of constellations, so she made them up.
Said they were all different kinds of birds, and that one day, they’d fly us far, far away.
Whenever I was sad, or scared, or angry, we’d watch the sky.
It made everything better. Maybe believing in stars is just as foolish as believing in gods, but I do.
The bulk of Mozeri Temple is a wide, windowless room.
Stained glass panes hang framed on the walls, but none of them actually look outside—an effort to trap in as much heat as possible.
The wooden benches that typically fill the space have been pushed to the side to provide room for people to stand.
The temple is packed. My nose is buried in the wool of someone else’s cloak, and all around me, people stretch on tiptoe to glimpse a peek of Kaidren.
I rarely venture below the Collar. It feels different from the arena’s raucous crowds.
The people who fill this temple are clearly eager, but they’re quiet, listening raptly.
I lean around attendees and peer over shoulders until I find Kaidren.
He’s in the pulpit at the front of the chamber.
He isn’t wearing the emerald green robes of an Honorate, or a thick cloak like someone of his status and recent inheritance can afford.
Instead, he’s wearing thin layers and no sjaal.
People like us. It’s what he said when he tried to convince me we must be twin flames because we’re both Opheran. He’s doing the same thing now. Costuming himself as one of the people below the Collar so he can pretend he’s one of them and gain their support.
I grit my teeth against my irritation at the transparent act and watch him.
He’s in the middle of a speech. It’s definitely rehearsed, but he doesn’t sound stilted, and there’s no sign that he’s reading from anything.
He strikes an imposing figure, but his face is composed into an oily smile that makes him look approachable.
Framed by six torches, he’s surrounded by a hazy stream of golden orange light that softens his features.
“I still have every intention of defeating the Praeceptor in the Tournament of Thrones,” Kaidren is saying. “I know there are people who doubt me and my word. But I am not walking away from the Tournament, or the Republic.”
As I watch him, only one question plagues my mind: Did he kill his father?
I’ve done my research. Kishori—the poison the imposter Shadow Queen claimed she used to kill Arliss Vale—is a thick, purple liquid that acts quickly.
It’s harmful in small doses, but not deadly.
In large quantities, it’s lethal within an hour.
When I saw Arliss’s body, he was already dead, and he hadn’t eaten breakfast. Which means he must’ve received the deadly dose in his dinner the night before.
Kaidren was already living in the Vale manor at the time—it would’ve been all too easy for him to slip poison into his father’s meal.
“Lucien Kyler is unqualified for his current role,” Kaidren says. “He sits on the throne and yet he’s never won a Tournament himself. He hasn’t had to earn his position. He’s not like us—hardworking people who have had to fight to get where we are.”
There’s that expression again. People like us.
Kaidren is nothing like the Virdeians who fill this temple. He lives in a manor at the top of the mountain. He just inherited more money than any of these people will ever see in their lives. Despite that, his words strike a chord. The quiet crowd buzzes around me.
Virdei calls itself a Republic, but we rarely have elections.
Unless scandal forces an Honorate out of the council, seats hardly ever open up, and the people seldom get to vote on anything.
For one of the godlike beings on top of the mountain to descend from Widow’s Hall to speak with them is more than a rarity—it’s unheard of.
I crane my head, trying to estimate just how many people are here. It must be over fifty. Maybe even close to a hundred.
As I scan the crowd, I catch a flash of an indigo cloak. A Petruvian.
“Lucien Kyler does not care about you,” Kaidren says.
“He does not care about anyone but himself. He has not failed on his promises—he failed to make you any in the first place. When was the last time someone in Widow’s Hall cared enough to visit?
Let alone cared enough to listen? Never.
Because everyone else at Widow’s Hall is a coward.
They care only for their interests and the interests of their friends.
I intend to be the opposite. To usher in a new future for our Republic. ”
People start clapping. The energy within the temple swells with his words.
I keep an eye on the Petruvian cloak as it leans to the side. Its wearer mutters something to the person next to them, in a similar cloak. Their head turns as they speak. Lorwen Night. Whispering something to her husband, Taelon.
I push through the crowd to stand closer to them, hoping to overhear their conversation.
Kaidren is giving his signature waxy smile that shows off his perfect teeth. He doesn’t cheer with the crowd. He has a calm, quiet confidence. The kind that comes with the knowledge that he already belongs here and doesn’t need to shout in order to prove it.
I’m a row behind the Petruvians when the crowd has quieted enough for Kaidren to keep going.
“This great Republic deserves better than what its current Praeceptor has done.
When I win the Tournament, I will make it a priority to expand the academies.
Right now, Virdei has two, and both are above the Collar.
When I am Praeceptor, my first priority will be getting the Honorate to fund more schools throughout the mountain.
“Right now, the council of honor that determines which Honorate are too disgraced to carry the title is composed only of those who live above the Collar. I will expand this so all of Virdei has a say in its leaders.”
Each of his pretty proclamations is met with excitement. The energy in this temple is tangible. I have to admit, in another context, I might be swayed.
The only issue: I’m on fire. Every word out of Kaidren’s mouth is a lie, and I’m the only one here who knows it.
People often say things they mean in the moment, but when the time comes to follow through, they balk. Luc does it to me all the time. Kaidren is different. He’s disingenuous from the start. He knows he won’t change anything, even now, but he says it anyway.
I press forward until I’m right behind the Nights.
“Remind me why we must make a farce of negotiating with these people,” Lorwen mutters. “They don’t even respect their king—”
“Praeceptor,” Taelon corrects her.
Lorwen brushes it off. “Same thing. Is this not treason?”
“They’re a Republic, Lo.” Taelon sounds bored. “They can say what they want.”
Kaidren is still speaking, but I’m less interested in his platitudes than I am in the Nights.
“Well, I say that it’s freezing,” Lorwen mumbles. “When can we leave?”
“When it’s over. His Majesty expects reports. It’s our job to keep him apprised of the Tournament. Especially considering his upcoming plans for—” He cuts himself off and looks around, ensuring no one is nearby.
I duck my head, keeping my hood low.
Taelon continues, voice even softer than before, so much so, I have to strain to hear. “Ophera,” he hisses.
“I don’t know why His Majesty insists on playing games,” Lorwen grumbles. “This bastard here has more acclaim than their king. If the people don’t respect their leaders, why should we respect the treaty?”
“Because it is treason otherwise.” Taelon sounds less bored now, and more annoyed. “These people have no respect for their rulers. But we do. You’d do well to remember that.”
Lorwen clearly means to argue further, but her husband nudges her to silence.
“Widow’s Hall is corrupt,” Kaidren says. “Full of people more concerned with protecting their family legacies than making it any better.”
All true.
“As Praeceptor, I will make it my mission to weed out this rampant corruption in the Honorate.”
Lie.
He is identifying real problems and offering real solutions. But he has no intention of ever implementing them.
For all the liars in Widow’s Hall, Kaidren Vale is the most putrid, most vile.
Unfortunately, the best lies are the ones that align with what we want to hear. So, even though I burn with the force of his deception, the Virdeians below the Collar are riveted, pleased to have finally been heard.