Chapter 55
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
LYRA
On and on the celebrations continue.
Food stuffs my belly to the point of discomfort. Sweets linger on my taste buds. There is dancing, singing, and clapping. Stomping while strings are plucked with endless tunes. And laughter. So much laughter.
Rhea and Finlay still haven’t returned to our group yet.
Once we entered the festival’s main area, Rhea went off to explore by herself, and Finlay, without a word of instruction or parting, turned immediately to follow her, keeping a few steps’ distance between them as he went.
Now, as the rest of us wander the streets with only a small amount of time left before the comet shower—Marcella’s arm looped through my own while Draven and Gray trail behind us, talking—I can’t help but wonder where the two of them are now. What they’ve gotten themselves into.
I am so lost in that trail of thought, I barely notice the person standing right at the corner of a merchant’s stall. I accidentally bump into her, pushing her into the table.
“Oh my gods,” I say, immediately dropping Marcella’s arm to help the woman. “I am so sorry. Are you alright?”
“I am fine, please do not worry.” The woman catches her balance and turns to face me.
My jaw hits the ground.
“Nuri?”
She blinks at the sight of me, staring as though she is gazing at a ghost. Until her eyes go wide as the moon. “Through Saffi’s good graces,” she breathes. “You’re back. You’re…alive.” She embraces me in a hug smelling of rosewater.
When she pulls back, I shake my head. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at Bathara?”
Her lips thin, but before she can answer, Marcella strolls over with a wide grin and pulls her into her own hug. “Nuri! What a pleasant surprise.” She draws back, scanning her. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at Bathara?”
“I could ask the same of you,” Nuri replies, stern though not unkind.
Marcella rests her elbow on my shoulder. “Fair play.”
Nuri chuckles softly, answering Marcella’s question only after Draven and Gray have wandered over to us, both expressing similar sentiments to her. “I am here because of my father,” she explains. “Because the Ardoris Festival is very important to us and my people.”
Though I try to hide it, I feel my brows twitch at her tone. There is a heaviness filling it. One which typically accompanies responsibility.
“Does Bathara know you left?” Gray asks.
She shakes her head. “No. I’m afraid things there are…changing.”
I hear the frown in Draven’s voice as he asks, “What do you mean? What’s happening at the academy?”
Marcella’s expression falls alongside her tone. “They’re taking sides in the people’s uprising,” she whispers.
“What?” Gray balks. “How is that possible? Bathara is politically neutral, and the uprising is politically-fueled. We are not meant to take sides. It would defeat the whole purpose of Jurafen.”
“Why are you just now telling us this?” Draven asks next, demeanor immediately shifting to that of the feared captain.
“No questions,” Nuri interjects, answering in Marcella’s place.
“Not here.” Her eyes dart left then right before she turns back to the merchant, dropping a handful of coins into the woman’s hand.
The woman hands her a tied velvet sack the size of a sunflower in turn, and Nuri thanks her before squaring her shoulders back to us. She smiles, the gesture graceful.
It is also forced.
“Would you like to accompany me to the palace?” she asks far louder than necessary.
“They are hosting a beautiful viewing party for the comet shower.” Her bright green eyes slide to me.
“I remember what you said about this festival during the exams. I’d love for you to enjoy the beauty of it as deeply as possible.
” Her smile widens, at odds with the low fervor caressing her next words.
“We can speak more freely there. Can catch up, away from the noise of a crowd.”
“When you say palace,” Marcella begins, “is that as in…”
“As in King Yarum’s palace? Yes, that is the one.”
Her brows rise to her hairline. “Just how popular a merchant is your father?”
“Let’s just say he is a very powerful one, and leave it at that, yes?”
We round the corner of the final stop on our tour of the Zarinee Palace.
“And this here is The Court of Wishes, the inspiration for the golden fountain resting at our capital’s center.
Its architecture and design acted as inspiration for the heart of the city, founded by Anatolé’s first king, Amir, after his subjects began lining up to make wishes in this very pond.
” Nuri makes a sweeping gesture of the courtyard, her smile broad and brimming with pride.
I gape at the sprawling sight, marveling at its lavishness and architecture.
At the heart of the courtyard is a longitudinal pond sprinkled with pink lotus flowers and lily pads, lined by hedges so impossibly green, they look fake.
The crisp, blue waters reflect the staggering north tower—tucked securely behind the north pavilion—with astounding clarity, even catching glimmers of the polygonal shapes and stucco work carved into the gorgeous columns framing the pavilion and galleries.
“This is incredible,” Gray muses, examining the geometric tilework running alongside the lower portion of the patio’s walls.
He tips his head back to marvel at the ornate wooden carvings etched into the pavilion’s ceiling next.
“You can practically breathe in the long-standing history of these grounds.”
“I am happy you like it,” Nuri says, clasping her fingers in front of her.
Since the tour began—getting glimpses of entertaining halls, lookout points, gardens, and now this courtyard—Gray has been buzzing like an insect, carrying the wide-eyed wonder of a child.
He’s asked Nuri a plethora of questions, all of which she has not only had an answer to, but has also seemed to enjoy discussing.
Gone was the previous tension from the questions surrounding what Bathara was doing.
For Gray, it was replaced by reverence for the history of what had been.
Though, the same could not be said for Draven or Marcella, even if they are hiding it well as they trudge along at the back of our small group.
I wander further down the patio, examining all the many details carved into the stone and wood.
The designs are beautiful, with their overlapping lines and delicate arches.
I am staring at one such design when two guards approach from the opposite direction, flanking a man boasting a mess of curls and distinctly green eyes.
“Make way for His Majesty,” the one on the left announces.
I clear the path immediately, my heart kicking in my chest at the sight of King Yarum.
Flashes of that night during The Founding celebration flood my mind, and I’m struck with the oddest sense of wonderment if he might remember me.
A thought I quickly answer, reminding myself he is a king, and he probably helped me only on a whim of mercy or pity or gods-only-know whatever else.
I drop my head as they pass, only daring to lift it once they are a few paces away. To my surprise, the guards halt as they reach Nuri, where King Yarum steps around them to greet her.
She inclines her head at a deep angle. “Your Majesty.”
“Lift your eyes, child.” She obeys, and King Yarum grins at her. “Sahtalla,” he says, fingers motioning the movement the stallman taught me.
“Zentati,” she returns, beaming back at him.
He turns to his two guards. “Leave us.” They obey without a second’s thought. Once they are gone, King Yarum returns his attention onto Nuri. “Who are your friends?”
She turns to her left first. “This is Gray Nightenjoy, from the Rivara Kingdom. Behind me is Draven Dalmar, from House Dalmar, and Marcella Lynderful, from Rolfbear. Gray and Marcella are fellow students of Bathara, and you already know Captain Dalmar’s position.”
The boys bow at the waist while Marcella dips her chin. The king motions for them to rise. “It is a pleasure to meet Nuri’s friends.”
Nuri glances over the king’s shoulder, where her eyes latch onto me. “Lyra,” she calls out. “Come meet His Majesty.”
My palms immediately prick with sweat, and my pulse flutters against my neck.
Slowly, my feet step one in front of the other, the action happening on nothing but muscle memory alone.
I stop once I reach her hip, my eyes still on the ground as I square my shoulders to the King of Anatolé.
For reasons I despise, my cheeks flush from my nerves and anticipation, a dirty feeling coating my skin.
Which is worse: for him to remember me as the mocked night attendant that he took pity on, or for him to not remember me at all?
“Your Majesty,” I say, still not lifting my eyes from the ground, hoping the act will be taken as a sign of deference.
“Lift your eyes, child,” the king instructs, just as he said to Nuri.
With a slight quake in my knees, I do as he asks, dragging my eyes from the ground to look at him. His features are as warm and kind as I remember them to be. Oddly familiar in a way I still cannot place.
He studies me with as much scrutiny as I expected, though there is nothing unkind in his observations. His sharp green eyes narrow with focus, his brows pinching together as he gazes at me with a look I don’t understand at all.
Feeling like my nerves are about to explode, I do the first thing I can think of. “Sahtalla,” I say, hoping the stallman did not lead me astray by saying this was a respect I could offer the people of this kingdom.
Surprise flashes in his eyes, and he regards me with even sharper interest. “Zentati,” he replies, voice filled with an airiness I hope is good. His gaze lingers on me for only a moment longer before it moves away, focusing now on the group as a whole.
My shoulders nearly sag once free of the near unbearable weight.
“What brings students of Bathara, and an aggregate captain, no less, into the borders of my kingdom?”
“The Ardoris festival,” Draven answers without missing a beat. “We have always wanted to experience the festivities and watch the comets pass.”
“Ah,” King Yarum muses. “So you are not here to spy on my court?”
“No,” Draven says, firm as steel.
“With all due respect, Your Majesty,” Marcella begins, voice tentative, “even if we were, surely you don’t expect spies to answer that question truthfully?”
The golden jewelry at his neck shifts as he cocks his head. “So should a question not be asked merely because it may solicit a lie?”
Her cheeks stain red. “No, I suppose not.”
Nuri speaks next. “These were the fellow examinees I previously spoke of who were assigned to my team for the second test. And Captain Dalmar here was the one who stuck his neck out so Lyra would not be eliminated from the exams. They can be trusted.” A pause which carries the weight of unspoken words. “Perhaps they can even help.”
Something passes between their silent stares, and I glance to Gray, who is also watching them with concerted interest.
King Yarum scans each and every one of our faces, finding mine last, where he lingers. He straightens, clasping his fingers in front of him. “Come,” he says, voice soft. “You all will stay as my guests of honor for the evening, provided with rooms for the night and a good meal.”
To my surprise, it is Gray who responds with, “In exchange for?”
King Yarum angles his body just enough to gaze out over the placid courtyard. “In exchange for a conversation which you must agree to enter with open ears and minds.”
Draven takes a step forward, fingers brushing against my back. “And if we don’t?”
King Yarum’s eyes find him. His warm gaze is now swallowed by a stone solemnity that dries out my mouth. “Then my kingdom will burn, and my people along with it.”