Chapter Four
In the morning, we board the ferry down the River Mara to the capital. It’s cool outside this long before dawn. Adria and the others have gone below, but I don’t want to miss anything, so I stand alone near the bow, taking it all in.
The landscape shifts from marsh to rocky canyon and back again as the Mara meanders on. The river is slow, but our boat makes great time with a wind-born at the sails. We’ll be in Faros this very afternoon.
Shortly after the sun rises, I’m joined on the deck by Typhon.
As he exits the stairs into the morning air, he breathes in a deep, languorous breath and then sighs an exhale of utter contentment.
His Selaran silks billow in the breeze, the thin white of the fabric spreading out behind him like a cape.
It's surprising to see him so at peace. The Typhon I’ve come to know is an anxious mess, always wringing his hands and pacing back and forth, rubbing his bald head as if the hair might return if he does it hard enough.
We’ve resented his presence ever since he arrived at the end of the war, knowing that he reports our every move to his father, Lord Cyrus, King Ronan’s Grand Vizier.
I had never stopped to consider that he was as unhappy in his post as we were having him there.
“You’ll be able to see the Dalven temple of Kerensa soon,” he says as he joins me, pointing to where the ribbon of the Mara disappears into the horizon. “The temple in Faros is larger, but I think Dalven’s is the most beautiful.”
“Kerensa does admire beauty,” I say. It’s a dumb response. Of course the Goddess of Beauty admires beauty. Gods. But I don’t know what else to say, having never been to any temple other than those in Pyka, our old home, and Kalla, our new one.
Typhon is in too good of a mood to care about anything I say anyway.
He’s happy to have someone to talk to about the sights of his homeland, and for once, I’m happy to listen.
I’ve read about many of the places he points out: the ruins of the Hellenian Palace, lost in an invasion more than two hundred years earlier and never rebuilt; the Gardens of Luminaris, where rare alchemical ingredients are grown by an order of water-born; the Mausoleum of God-Queen Julia, the monarch who reunited Selara and Nithyria after our first civil war.
But to see them with my own eyes, to watch the world come alive as it wakes, a world so alike and yet so different from mine, it’s fascinating.
It's midday by the time Faros comes into view. From a distance, the city rises in the river’s haze like a giant sandcastle sculpted by ancient hands.
Warm mudbrick and sandstone structures give the illusion of neat little stairs and whimsical turrets as the city tumbles down from the palace, which rises high on a cliff overlooking the sea.
The others have gathered on deck now, but no one else is listening to Typhon as he describes the neighborhoods and quarters of the city.
I take in every word.
“That’s the Ivory Spire, home of the Great Library of Faros.
It’s home to every book in every language in the entire world.
I’m telling you, every single book. Oh, and over there, the Palace District.
On market days, you can find a trader from every country in the world.
There are a dozen markets all over the city, but the best is right there, just steps from the palace.
If you go—and you must—try to find a man with a red canopy.
He sells the most delicious pastry you’ve ever had in your life.
It’s layered with walnuts and pistachios and soaked in honey. Heavenly.”
“Is that the Alchemists’ Guild?” I ask, pointing to a pair of white towers that frame a building with a golden dome.
“Yes,” says Typhon, looking uneasy. “A lot goes on there. Very secret, as you know.”
Oh, believe me, I know. We all know.
“May I borrow Sylvie for a moment?” asks Larus. He’s been watching us from across the deck, but I suspect he joins us now so I don’t speak my mind about the Guild, getting us all in trouble before we’ve even arrived.
Larus, who yesterday wore his usual mixture of loose Enezian clothing and brown leather Nithyrian armor, has opted for a full Nithyrian look for today’s introduction to the palace. He’s also tamed his locks into a thick ponytail at the base of his neck, a style sometimes worn by nobility.
He looks me up and down: I’m wearing the same armor as yesterday, with the same style tunic underneath, only in blue rather than green. He shakes his head.
“Maybe something a bit softer,” he says. “What you wear sends a message. They expect to see a fighter in Adria. Perhaps you’d rather send a different message.”
I would love to get rid of this ill-fitting leather, if only because of the heat it traps to my skin.
I’m dying under the southern sun. But I don’t have many better options.
With our people going hungry, we haven’t had the luxury of having fine clothes made for us.
All I’ve packed are the utilitarian garments sewn by my chambermaids and a few of my mother’s dresses they altered to fit me.
They’re at least twenty years out of fashion.
“I think the only message I can send with what I brought is, ‘I need new clothes.’”
Larus laughs and turns to a servant. He takes from him a package wrapped with a white ribbon and hands it to me.
“For me? When did you have time to buy something?”
“I ordered it weeks ago. I was worried I wouldn’t be able to get it when we arrived so late last night, but as Arnan’s luck would have it, the merchant was having a drink at the bar.”
I untie the ribbon, and the fabric releases, nearly slipping from my hands.
Silk. Fine Selaran silk dyed a soft, forest green. A gold cord falls to the ground. The belt, I’m guessing. It’s a beautiful garment. And it can’t have been cheap.
“Larus, this is too much,” I say, but he holds up a hand to stop me.
“What you wear sends a message,” he repeats, a lesson in his words as usual.
I think for a moment and then realize his meaning.
Selaran silk in a Nithyrian color. The dress is the bridge between Selara and Nithyria, and that’s the part I’m meant to play.
I should save it for when we meet the king—he’s due to arrive tomorrow—but I can’t bear to wear my miserable leather trousers for a moment longer when this dress exists and it's mine. I have to at least try it on.
I hurry below deck and find a dark corner that I darken even further to give myself privacy while I change. I’m not sure how to tie the cord, so I settle for the most obvious answer: directly around the waist. Then I wander through the stowed belongings until I find a looking glass.
Good gods. The dress drapes beautifully over my curves, hugging my hips and just grazing the ground beneath my feet.
My heavy boots look a little silly peeking out from under it, but I’m certain I can find something better before I meet the king.
The soft green looks lovely with my dark hair, which I release from its bun and allow to fall in gentle waves onto my shoulders.
I find a gold necklace in one of my chests, a gift from my mother just before the war.
It sits between my breasts, drawing attention to them.
I will not be seducing the king. But there’s no harm in letting him admire me.
It’ll make it all the easier when it’s time to stab him in the kidney.
I step back onto the deck, and heads slowly turn as I walk by. Typhon, of all people, is the first to compliment me. “Kerensa’s grace smiles on you,” he says. His gaze is admiring, appraising without leering, and I feel guilty for having misjudged him all this time. “But let me help you with this.”
He gestures to the belt, and I nod, giving him permission to tie it a bit lower so it hugs my hips. “That’s the style, or at least it was last year.”
I thank him for his help as Larus leaves his conversation with the captain to join us once more.
He stands back and takes me in, then gives his nod of approval. “Different shoes, but it’ll do nicely, I think.”
“Exquisite taste as always, Larus,” says Typhon. They continue to chatter their approval, but I notice Adria smirking at me from across the deck.
“Excuse me,” I say and head to her.
On a different day, I might have shrunk from Adria’s mockery, but today, I’m in the mood to fight. It’s funny, but somehow taking off my armor has given me more courage than wearing it ever did.
“Something funny?” I ask.
“They’ll laugh you out of the court in those shoes.” To my surprise, she pushes off the railing and starts heading to the stairs. I guess I won’t be getting that fight today after all. She doesn’t gesture or look back; she just assumes I’ll follow her.
And she’s right. I find her below the deck, flinging garments from her own chest with reckless abandon. From somewhere near the bottom, she retrieves a pair of sandals. They’re made of some kind of reed or jute with long strips of leather that must wind around the ankle somehow.
“Why do you have those?” I ask as she hands them to me. I sit on the ground and remove my boots, but I’m not sure what to do with the leather straps, so I leave them off.
Adria bends to help me. She crosses the leather straps in a pattern I know I won’t be able to replicate and ties them behind my calves.
“From my last trip to the capital. They stripped me of my weapons and my armor and made me dress up just like this. To show my loyalty to Selara.” Her voice shakes with the same barely contained rage I felt just last night.