Chapter Three
Dinner was, by all accounts, not fun.
The tension at the long table clung to whispered small talk and shifting glances as the dignitaries watched the grand arch at the end of the dining room for the Plutonian prince. Or perhaps Lunelle only imagined it as her head drifted into a vast ocean, her vision hazy at the edges.
There was just so much to look at in the Plutonian palace. The tapestries lining the walls over the flickering lanterns past Yallara’s shoulder held her attention for at least ten minutes.
But they were so lovely. She imagined them as the eyes of the divine mothers waiting for her at the Court Above’s gates upon her Ascent. They swirled with gentle honey-golds, bronze streaks whispering the secrets of the System to her?—
“Lunelle?”
her mother asked quietly beside her.
Her shoulders jerked as she turned toward the queen. “Sorry.”
“You’re quite distracted this evening.”
Oestera folded her hands in her lap, her eyes darting between Lunelle and the Plutonian princess, stifling a laugh beside her.
“There’s just so much… splendor to take in,”
Lunelle returned, plucking another plump roll from the center of the table.
She’d had at least three, but nothing seemed to quell the ravenous hunger in her stomach.
Her mother sighed.
“Perhaps we absorb the splendor later. Or at least, with our mouths closed.”
Lunelle’s jaw snapped shut. She hadn’t realized it was open.
“Better,”
Oestera muttered.
Yallara’s shoulders stiffened as a flurry of movement from the far end of the room stirred the courtiers’ attention.
A servant called out, “His Royal Highness, Prince Arcas Hydranos of Pluto.”
The room rose in a fluid motion, Lunelle’s own frame a beat behind as she shuffled her seat back and tried to straighten her spine against the weight of the tea’s haze bearing down on her.
Everything felt suffocating.
The dress, the lights, the eyes of the Inner Court leaders as they ruffled along the table. She followed them to the prince at the head of the table—a pillar of long, slender lines, crowned by a disappointed sneer. His sapphire eyes and pale blue complexion mirrored his younger sister’s, but he lacked her self-assuredness, her lightness. Arcas stood with his chest out, though Lunelle could tell by the tension in his shoulders it was not the natural posture he’d preferred. He had to work to maintain it.
He was putting on a show, desperate to reflect the strength and confidence he found in the regents staring back at him.
Arcas sat, catalyzing a wave of courtiers falling to their chairs, and she felt her head swirl again as she plopped unceremoniously back into hers. Her eyes flickered toward Mirquios, seated to her left, and she recognized the same panic in his eyes she was trying to suppress. His lips cracked into a wide grin as she turned away, afraid to start giggling lest she never stop.
“I am honored to host each of you,”
Prince Arcas declared, his voice tight. Nervous, Lunelle realized. She wondered briefly how her sister would see him—what anxious rainbow clutched at his throat and soaked his shirts.
“I hope over the coming weeks we can come to an agreement on how Pluto fits into your alliance.”
Oestera raised a glass, prompting the rest of the dignitaries to follow, though Lunelle noticed a considerable amount of wine slip over the edge of Mirquios’s glass as he over-extended his arm. She stifled another giggle, drawing a disturbed glare from her mother.
“Sorry,”
she mouthed, setting her glass down but realizing a second too late that Arcas hadn’t given a toast yet. She floated the glass back up as he began speaking again. It was Yallara this time who snorted.
“To forging new loyalties,”
he said, his eyes glazing over the faces staring back at him.
“Hear, hear!”
Mirquios bellowed, the final note sinking quickly to a whisper as he realized he was the only one to cheer as glasses clinked together. Lunelle missed the Martian colonel’s glass across from her by a hair. Mirquios gasped at her mistake, quickly dropping his gaze and covering his mouth. Lunelle shot him a glare as her mother’s slipper connected with her shin beneath the table.
Dinner could not be over soon enough.
Arcas pressed forward as he sank into the chair at the head of the table.
“I would love to hear more about each of your courts and how we can be strong partners as Solan closes in around the Outer Courts, but tonight, let us celebrate.”
Chatter rose over the table as wine flowed and dishes began appearing before them.
“This is worse than I thought it would be,”
Mirquios whispered, leaning close to her.
She only nodded, shoveling her first course into her mouth as quickly as she could without raising alarm. She had to soak up that tea before it consumed any sanity left within her.
As she ate, she risked a glance at the prince, his lips downturned as the Venusian High Regent spoke in silky ribbons.
He was not unattractive, she decided.
Though somewhere in her mind, she realized her judgment was not exactly sound. The edge of his jaw cut against his hand as he rested it in his palm before Yallara’s tilted head caught his attention. She pulled her shoulders back, sitting up taller against her chair, and Arcas followed, unfolding into a wider, broader posture as he rested his hand against the table.
Lunelle’s lips curled into a soft smile, the connection between the siblings warming the space within her saved for her own sister.
“Arcas,”
Oestera hummed over the table as she leaned forward.
“The princess missed the palace tour your lovely sister gave this afternoon. Perhaps you could show her the Plutonian orchards in the morning?”
Arcas turned away from the High Regent and stared at Oestera, and then Lunelle. His eyes widened as they met hers, the deep blues throwing amber glitter as the candlelight reflected in them.
Whatever haze dizzying Lunelle cleared quickly, something about the intensity of his stare more sobering than the food. There was a darkness within them, like a midnight sea.
It was Yallara who answered as words failed to materialize from his tight lips.
“He’d be honored, Your Majesty.”
Arcas finally tore his gaze away, releasing her back to her plate, as the herbal swirl of the tea took its revenge and sent her pitching forward and squeezing her eyes against the current.
Whatever sobriety she’d found in the prince’s gaze vanished. Lunelle inhaled slowly, desperate to regain control of her senses. Her fingertips grazed the velvet of her dress in an attempt to ground herself.
“Well. Your mother certainly wastes no time,”
Mirquios whispered, leaning close once more. Her head snapped to the side and a panicked laugh escaped from her chest as his eyes and mouth switched places.
Oestera cleared her throat and leaned forward as Yallara patted Lunelle’s knee.
“Get a hold of yourselves,”
the queen whispered harshly.
Lunelle wondered if Mirquios, too, saw three heads springing from her mother’s stately shoulders, or if she was alone in her hallucination as she sank lower into her seat, finding the gilded edge of her plate to be endlessly fascinating.
“Oh!”
Yallara gasped beside her, ripping Lunelle from her debate over whether the gold was closest to that of a perfectly sweet honey or of her sister’s fiery irises.
“What is it?”
Arcas asked, leaning forward in response to his sister’s distress. Yallara shook her head, mumbling her dismissal and insisting it was nothing as she signaled to the servant behind her. She grasped for her plate, handing it to the servant quickly, but Arcas held up a hand, curling his fingers in a command to bring it to him.
The servant moved slowly toward the end of the table, Yallara’s cerulean complexion deepening into a brilliant fuchsia. The plate landed before the prince with a deafening thud.
Arcas’s face matched his sister’s as he took in whatever it was.
“Who did it?”
he asked, his words fraught with an ill-disguised terror. His eyes scanned the faces of the servants.
“You,”
he said, pointing a dagger-sharp finger toward the far edge of the room.
Lunelle followed the accusing gesture, landing on a young man in almost the right shade of uniform, but not quite. The buttons fastening his vest were silver, not bronze.
His face drained of color as the prince rose from his seat.
Everyone moved in motions that were too quick for her impaired vision to track. The Venusians were gone before she could blink—the sound of metal on metal sent a chill down her spine as she felt the chair behind her ripped away.
Lunelle stumbled forward, a hand gripping her arm tightly and shoving her forward as Yallara screeched her brother’s name. Her body raced toward the exit of the room, her silk skirts catching under Mirquios’s shoes as he pushed her along. Lunelle reached for the Plutonian princess, her face pale and lips hanging open in horror as she watched whatever was unfolding behind them. Lunelle wrapped a hand around her delicate arm, yanking her into her side.
Mirquios pulled the women forward, but even in the chaos, even as her mind swam beneath wave after wave of crushing confusion, she could not avoid the plate resting at Arcas’s now-empty place.
Instead of the lavish dessert she’d been served, Yallara’s plate boasted a scarlet mass of tangled vein and muscle, resting in a pool of burgundy blood against the porcelain plate. A small dagger pierced the heart, but she could not make out any detail as Mirquios rushed them away.
Bodies collided as they spilled into the hall, courtiers rushing away as Plutonian guards cut through them and raced toward calamity in the dining room.
“My mother,”
Lunelle rasped as she stopped to turn, but Oestera was already beside them, waving them forward.
“Get back to our chambers, do not stop,”
Oestera barked, searching the hall for someone. Her eyes landed on the Venusian High Regent’s as they ushered their courtiers toward their wing. “Kahlia!”
Oestera called, cutting through the crowd. Lunelle lurched forward to follow, but Mirquios held her back.
“We should get you to safety! Both of you,”
he yelled over the clamor, his grip tightening on Lunelle’s arm.
“Yallara!”
Arcas darted from the dining room, his onyx hair falling over his eyes as he pushed past the crowd, weaving between Martian and Earthen dignitaries. “Yallara,”
he called again. As he drew nearer, Lunelle could see the wet sheen on his black tunic.
She knew if she reached out to touch him, her fingers would come away with red stains.
“Brother,”
Yallara whispered, pulling away from Lunelle’s grasp.
Arcas held his hands up as she went to embrace him, running his hands through his hair to smooth the black curls that clung to his forehead.
“You do not want to touch me, I assure you,”
he warned, glancing frantically around the hall as courtiers shoved and pushed them into the walls.
“You need to get control of them!”
Mirquios yelled over Lunelle’s head.
“They’re panicking!”
Arcas spun, eyes wide as he took in the crush swelling around them. An Earthen councilor slammed into Lunelle’s back, pulling at her shoulders as he struggled to right himself. Mirquios shoved the man back, getting between them as best he could, but the crowd was too dense, too uncertain of where to go.
“Arcas!”
Mirquios yelled once again.
“This is your court! Manage it!”
Yallara glanced between the men, mouthing something inaudible to her brother as he paled. Mirquios pushed Lunelle toward the wall, her back aching as it crashed against the smooth marble. He pulled Yallara away from the prince, handing her off to Lunelle, who held her tightly as the Earthen Court spiraled into itself.
“Is there still a threat?”
Mirquios said, gripping Arcas’s shoulders and shaking him when he did not respond.
The prince shook his head.
Someone’s body fell at Lunelle’s feet, bouncing off the tile as the crowd stepped over him.
“Help me get him up!”
she hissed to Yallara, stooping as another wave of courtiers poured from the dining room. Yallara gripped the man’s hand as Lunelle pushed the crowd back, helping him to his feet as Mirquios’s voice boomed above them.
Their eyes snapped forward, finding the Mercurian king perched atop a bust of some ancient Plutonian king, his eyes wild as he screamed over their heads again.
“Do not move another inch!”
Mirquiod cupped his hand over his mouth to amplify his thunderous words.
“People of the Inner Courts! Silence!”
Heads turned, the clamor still rising over his pleas as the edges of the crowd pressed inward.
“Silence!”
Mirquios roared, the sound striking something deep within Lunelle’s chest and earning the eyes and ears of most of the hall.
“This evening’s threat has been dealt with, but please be aware of your surroundings as you head back to your chambers for the evening. We will debrief with the monarchs in the western wing library. Go! Calmly,”
he added, dropping from the statue into the crowd as it slowly shifted away from the dining room doors.
“You should go to bed,”
Arcas said to Yallara, who was still clinging to Lunelle’s arm.
“I will do no such thing,”
Yallara cried, pushing away from Lunelle.
“I was not asking,”
Arcas hissed.
“You’ve already been threatened once tonight. Isn’t that enough?”
“All the more reason I need to go with you?—”
“Enough!”
Arcas said, cutting his hand through the space between them.
“I will come find you when we’re done.”
Yallara held her brother’s gaze, her shoulders set in defiance as his eyes softened.
“It is not personal, Yallara, you are in danger,”
he said as he waved a guard forward from the doorway.
“See that the princess gets back to her room safely.”
Yallara relented, following the crowd as they dissipated.
Arcas looked to Mirquios for a moment, the hesitation clear on his face.
“Go change into something less bloodsoaked,”
the king muttered.
“We’ll meet you in the library.”
The library was quiet as they trickled in.
The walls were draped in ancient maps, peeling at the corners, framed by portraits of eyes that followed Lunelle as she shifted against the black velvet sofa.
Lunelle had not let go of Yallara’s hand, though not for lack of trying. The young princess had resisted both times she tried to untangle their fingers. She needed something to hold onto, and Lunelle did not mind being her anchor. Nor did she mind having one in return.
“You cannot be sure of their association,”
Omnir, the Martian prince, said as he folded his bronze arms against his chest. He leaned his head back against a densely packed shelf, glaring at the Plutonian prince as he paced between the tufted seats and rows of bookshelves.
“A dagger through the heart might as well be a dagger through a crown,”
Arcas hissed, pausing in his path just long enough to throw a look at his sister. Yallara stiffened against Lunelle’s hand as their eyes passed one another.
“The symbology was clear.”
Lunelle looked to her mother, her concerned face set in the corner of the room. She’d disappeared with Kahlia, the Venusian High Regent, in the chaos, only to reappear in the library with a marked coolness to her gait.
Oestera was nothing if not calm under pressure.
Mirquios spoke next.
“I’m less concerned about their loyalty and more concerned about their singularity. A lone rebel making a statement is one thing, but if your halls are littered with Outer Courtiers attempting to take advantage of our gathering?—”
“He was not a rebel,”
Yallara said, rising suddenly from her perch beside Lunelle.
Every head whipped toward the princess, her pale complexion flushing under the weight of so much attention.
“And how could you possibly know that?”
Arcas asked, his pacing rounding the sofa as he loomed over her.
Yallara stepped toward him, rubbing her forefinger to her thumb as her eyes unfocused, as if searching her memory.
“His coat was not Plutonian. The buttons. They were Uranian steel, I’d bet my life on it.”
Arcas dismissed her.
“We cannot be certain of anything, Yallara. The rebels have just as much reason to target a summit of monarchs as the Outer Courtiers?—”
“Once again,”
Mirquios cut in.
“It does not matter as of right now. What matters is being certain there isn’t anyone else lingering in the palace?—”
“Lunar and Venusian guards are sweeping the halls now,”
Oestera said.
“If anyone is here that shouldn’t be, they’ll be dealt with swiftly.”
Arcas spun on his heel, shame dripping from his tongue in the form of a tense growl.
“The Plutonian guard is more than capable of securing our palace!”
“If that were true, we would not have been treated to such a violent scene at dinner,”
Kahlia said evenly, with a masterful control over their intonation.
“I’m beginning to see why Solan left Pluto to their own devices,”
Lilah, the Earthen Court’s leader, muttered beneath her breath beside Omnir.
“Now, now,”
Oestera said, waving her hand between them.
“Most of you in this room aren’t even old enough to remember the devastation of war, let alone be certain what to do when it crosses your threshold. We will return to our courtiers and ensure their safety. We’ll get whatever rest we can. Tomorrow, we will begin negotiations with our young prince here, and we will decide how to move forward together.”
“Oestera is right,”
Kahlia said, looking pointedly at the sullen Plutonian prince.
“Our people must come first, and I think you have your work cut out for you on that front, Arcas.”
They brushed behind the prince, resting a hand briefly on his shoulder before disappearing into the hall.
“Brother,”
Yallara said, her voice still laden with a defiance Lunelle admired.
“That man is not a rebel?—”
“Was,”
Arcas spat.
“Whoever he belonged to, it does not matter. He is no more.”
He cut a path behind the Martian and Earthen leaders, leaving his sister to watch his frame sulk away into the night. Yallara’s midnight skirts swished against Lunelle’s shins as she followed, her chin tucked to her chest in defeat.
“You did well, Mirquios,”
Oestera said as she stepped between them. She squeezed the king’s arm, a gesture so soft and familiar that Lunelle questioned if she saw it right.
“The prince could learn a thing or two from you.”
Mirquios fell into step beside Oestera, Lunelle a pace behind as they wound their way back through the alarmingly silent halls. She felt a heat prickle at the back of her neck as they rounded a corner, afraid of what might be lurking in the shadows.
“He has the potential to be a good leader, do you not think?”
The king huffed a sigh as they came to a stop before the long hall that the Lunarians had taken over.
“I was a boy on a throne once, too,”
he finally responded.
“Scared shitless, no one to guide me.”
“What changed you?”
Lunelle asked.
Mirquios leaned against the wall, twin sets of silver eyes falling over him as he thought.
“War,”
he shrugged.
“You mature quickly when enough bodies pile up at the feet of your failings.”
Oestera nodded beside him.
“He has potential. He needs us.”
“But do we need him?”
Mirquios asked, his brow raised.
Oestera’s eyes bounced from his face to Lunelle, who was eager to hear her mother’s assessment.
“Remains to be seen,”
the queen hummed. She wrapped her fingers around the bronze handle of her bedroom door and stretched her neck as she disappeared through the frame.
Lunelle stepped toward the next door down, her hand stopping to rest on the handle as the king slid along the wall with her.
“Good evening,”
she said, the words coming out as more of a question than a declaration.
“Your sister would have my head if I didn’t ensure you made it into your room safely after all the commotion this evening.”
“Ah,”
she sighed.
“Of course.”
She nudged the door with her shoulder, slipping into the low-lit room, happy to see Lura waiting for her on a plush settee at the end of the bed.
“Goodnight, Lunelle,”
Mirquios said from the hall.
“Goodnight,”
she mumbled, already feeling a wave of nausea overtake her without the eyes of every ruler across the Inner Courts suppressing it. Lura wrapped an arm around her shoulder, squeezing her gently before untangling her hair from its braid, humming a song she used to sing when they were much younger girls.
It did little to soothe the well of panic opening within her chest.