FIVE #2
The words suck the air out of me, stealing my ability to speak.
How can he think that? How can he act like I’ve been lounging in our sitting room with my feet propped up while he does everything?
No one asked me what I wanted. I didn’t choose to be born into Order Icaros.
It’s not like I’m passionate about crops or weather patterns or livestock.
“What does that mean? Is this because you think I’m treating my birthright like a punishment?” My voice cracks around the anger building inside me.
“Yes, because you are,” he says firmly. “Your birthright is a responsibility.”
I finally realize what I heard in his voice a moment ago.
Not anger. Not sadness. Resentment. This isn’t about me at all.
Well, it’s not entirely about me. But I’m not the one who chose responsibility over love.
I swallow, trying to keep myself from snapping back.
I don’t want to make this situation worse.
“Perhaps it’s time Kieren joins the conscripts like the other orphans,” he adds.
The world shifts on its axis, my knees wobbling as I try to stay upright. “You wouldn’t …”
Broderic turns away from me. “We can’t afford a match like that.”
Afford? And suddenly I see how he’s calculated all of this.
“Like we can’t afford the clothing on our backs?
Like we can’t afford to drink the coffee we grow?
Like you can’t afford to marry the girl you love?
” I want to walk away from him, but people are arriving behind us—and I’m sure we can’t afford for me to make a scene, either.
“Are you going to sell us off to the first rich noble who will buy us?”
“I would never force you to make that sacrifice.”
Bullshit.
I look him directly in the eyes. “No, only you’re that much of a fucking martyr.”
“And you don’t understand. That’s the price of power,” he says in a clipped tone. “Aren’t we the lucky ones?”
He extends his arm. I take it limply, mind swimming with the truth as he guides us toward our fates. I’m so preoccupied I barely notice the guards stationed at the door. Broderic leads us through a wide archway into the ballroom, and I gasp, my worries replaced momentarily by awe.
The palace’s grand hall opens before us like a jewel box, every surface designed to remind lesser mortals of their place in the hierarchy.
Crystal chandeliers drip from the painted ceiling over a long table rising from a dais at the far end of the room.
Beneath it, a shining oak floor is surrounded by circular tables covered in shimmering lace.
Most of the tables are already full of nobles and their families, except for one that hosts a six-tiered cake.
A layer for every patron order, each decorated to reflect our patron constellations, and one for the king reigning over them all.
Our tier is on the bottom. Later, when all of this is finally over, there will be celebrating, and, more importantly to me, dessert.
Isidore is waiting for us near the left side, clutching our younger brother by the collar. “Finally. You two took forever. I’ve barely been able to keep Andry away from that cake.”
“Can I at least taste the wine?” Andry pleads. “Isidore tried coffee.”
We all ignore him.
After the ritual, there will be drinking and dancing.
Probably too much of both, since the first always leads to the second.
For now, an attendant shows us to our designated seats.
The centerpiece of our table is a curious mix of candelabra and sculpture, the gold shaped to resemble a pegasus.
Its flickering candles are staggered at various heights, so that the individual flames take the shape of the Icaros constellation.
Our table is positioned close enough to the royal platform to mark my lineage as significant, but sufficiently far that I might avoid the king’s eye. It’s bad enough that Bishop told him about my ritual. If he mentioned what happened this afternoon …
Isidore preens at our placement, practically vibrating with satisfaction over tonight’s carefully choreographed dance of who sits where, who speaks to whom, who gets served first. “We’re seated closer than half of Order Calix.”
“Because we are here with an initiate from a patron bloodline,” Broderic reminds her. “If any of our cousins had been invited, they would be in the back, too.”
Isidore’s mouth puckers like she’s accidentally bitten into something sour. “They only invited us, but every other order …”
“Can buy their invitations.” Broderic dares a glance at me. “Power is expensive.”
Apparently, our fight isn’t over. I resist the urge to scream at him, but only barely. Is this what this evening’s about for him? For all of them? Taking my place in some ruthless food chain? No wonder they gave me a knife on the very first night.
I scan the rest of the room for proof that he’s telling the truth.
There are at least a dozen tables glowing with the chalice sculptures of Order Calix.
The most in the room. Since controlling every magic-imbued good sold makes them wealthier than nearly all the other orders combined, that tracks.
Velesont is in second, with almost half as many, thanks to controlling all our posterns.
Leontia has modest representation, but they rarely act flashy even if they’re the ones keeping us alive.
No other table boasts a pegasus. We’re all alone.
But there’s one more notable absence. “What about Marius?”
“They have better places to be.” Broderic shrugs. “I’m sure the king prioritized guarding our coastline, and they only have one initiate this year.”
“Soldiers have more important things to do than get married and attend tea parties,” Andry chimes in, reaching for the wine.
Like follow people through crowded cities.
Isidore rolls her eyes as she catches his wrist. “Don’t even think about it,” she warns him, “and who told you married people have tea parties?”
He blinks up at her. “I asked Kieren why anyone would want to get stuck with a wife, and he told me that grown-ups like stuff like that, playing house and tea parties.”
Both Isidore and I smother laughter, and even Broderic’s mouth twitches.
My older brother meets my gaze and sighs, shaking his head in a familiar, conspiratorial way that makes the tightness in my shoulders relax.
He was upset earlier, but he’ll see reason eventually.
He would never actually send Kieren away.
Or force Isidore or Andry or me to marry for connections.
He’s just scared. So am I. But we have each other, and that has to be enough.
Isidore moves the wine safely away from Andry and pours herself a glass before offering it to our older brother.
But Broderic stands. “Not yet. I need to present Arden to the king.”
“You need to do what?” I blurt out. That’s what Bishop meant when he said King Ophelian was eager to meet me?
I didn’t expect it to be quite so literal—or so soon. Then again, I wasn’t given any warning about the ceremonial sacrifice, either. Everyone is just full of surprises.
“You are here at his invitation,” Broderic reminds me.
“So, then he already knows who I am.” I can’t face the king, especially with my brother at my side.
Bishop made it clear he’d told the king about my Petition, and if Broderic finds out what I did …
I haven’t allowed myself to consider the consequences.
That sometimes the Stars skip generations. “Let’s not waste his time.”
“If she won’t go, I will.” Isidore perks up, her eyes darting to the royal platform. The hunger is back. My sister is pretty enough to enchant the king, but she’ll have to fight her way through every noble hoping to catch his attention.
“No. Just myself and Arden,” Broderic says, crushing her hopes. “She’s the one receiving her birthright.”
“Let Isidore go,” I insist. Will I shamelessly throw my weight behind my sister’s cause to save my own ass? Apparently. Then again, the king is just as likely to say something to Broderic if I’m not there.
“I could introduce myself,” Isidore suggests. “I don’t want to be rude.”
“You can wait until after the Kindling, like everyone else,” Broderic says.
I latch on to the idea. “Maybe we should all wait.” They both ignore me.
Broderic stares pointedly at our sister. “And stop looking at him like he’s a trophy to claim.”
She gasps. “I’m not—”
“You are.”
I watch them bicker with a strange detachment that only comes when one is completely and utterly doomed. My sister wants to marry the king. My brother wants to maintain our dignity. Andry wants to taste the wine. I want to hide under the table until the void swallows us.
I foresee a lot of disappointments in our collective future.
“We should hurry,” Broderic says. “They’ll serve the first course soon.”
I scoot my chair back reluctantly. There has to be a way out of this. “What if I just wave? He can probably see me from here.”
My brother’s expression could frost glass. “Arden.”
So much for a truce. Refusing will result in another fight, and I can’t risk that. Not with Kieren’s fate on the line.
“Fine. Lead the way.” It’s only my funeral.
I follow Broderic through the maze of carefully spaced tables, humming a dirge under my breath.
The royal family’s table looks down at us from its silk-draped pedestal as we approach.
We may share magic in Antares, but the real power in the room rests on the shoulders of the man seated in the middle.
I’ve only seen the artistic renderings of King Ophelian that they send out with royal bulletins; he looks younger in person.
In the pictures, they give him shrewd eyes and sharp, hewn features, but his dark-brown cheeks are round as a baby’s.
He laughs at some private joke, and there’s something almost boyish about his easy smile.