Chapter Thirty-Eight
“Can I help?” I say in a rush, eyeing the dead woman at our feet. She died for so much less than what I just did. “Let me
make it up to you. I can launder your clothes, fetch you a new jacket. Anything.”
He’s still dabbing himself with the handkerchief, but he cocks his head to study me further. His rage has fled as quickly
as it came, but his smile is sly. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll give you plenty of opportunities for penance.”
I suppress a shudder. “Thank you, my lord.”
“What’s your name?”
He probably knows, which means this is a test, so I say, “Bria Angarsold.”
“Well, Bria, I’m going to change my shirt and refresh myself, and when I return, you and I will have a long conversation.
You will answer every question with enthusiasm and truth.”
“Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”
He brushes past me, and his lieutenant follows him toward the exit. As he strides away, it feels like I can breathe for the
first time in my life. How close did I just come to death? And how arrogant must he be, how overconfident in his own power,
for it not to occur to him that a young mountain girl could be a threat?
“How did you do that?” says a young woman at my elbow. Sparkling green gems highlight the lines of her eyebrows, and long butterfly lashes flutter up at me in hurt. “I’ve been trying to get his attention all night, but you just walk in here and—”
“Yes, how?” says an older man. “He’s been ignoring all of us.”
I’m surrounded by a gaggle of the sway’s admirers, and it feels like I’m in just as much danger as before.
It’s not possible to get someone’s attention when all you do is dance like a puppet on a string. And how can you feel ignored
when all his magical power is focused on you? Maybe this is part of the persuasion. When it starts to ease, the mind fills
in the blanks to make sense of everything.
But I can’t help poking. “What did you do to get his attention?” I ask the girl with butterfly lashes.
“I . . .” She blinks. “I went . . . that is, I danced . . . huh. I don’t remember.”
“The pomegranate wine is strong tonight!” I say with a wide, understanding smile.
She smiles back. “That must be it!”
“You didn’t answer my question,” the man insists. “How did you garner his favor? He agreed to dance with you!”
Gasps all around, along with “He did?” And “Yes, I heard it too.” Followed by “But he hasn’t danced with anyone, not even
the potentat!”
I need to defuse this situation quickly. “No favor at all,” I say. “He was simply inquiring about a mutual acquaintance. He
couldn’t care less about me.”
Another man pushes forward, tall, black skinned, razor gazed. If not for the sway, he would easily be the most arresting person at the ball. He says, “And how exactly do you have a mutual acquaintance with the king of Corth?”
The ground shifts beneath my feet. “I’m sorry . . . what?”
“How does a Grimsvolder mountain girl share an acquaintance with King Jaydeth? You said he was asking you about it. I want
to know how it’s possible.”
I can hardly breathe. I must warn Titus. His own father is the sway. Another champion. And like Titus, he’s had a second,
secret Gift all along that made him irresistible to Sathrynos.
But first I must extricate myself from this mob of victims.
I hold up my hand to display my rings. “I’m a member of the Diamond Household,” I say. “I’m acquainted with a lot of people
that most Grimsvolder girls are not.”
Which begs the question, of course, of how a Grimsvolder girl came to be a member of their own ruling household. But the show
of rings seems to mollify them; a few even duck their heads in the half bow given to minor nobles.
“What’s your name?” I ask the girl.
“Cypha, my lady.”
“Cypha, the king is very dangerous.”
“Oh, I know!” she says with delight. “So dark and lovely.”
“No, that’s not . . . I mean he could hurt you.”
She winks. “He’s welcome to hurt me as much as he wants.”
I have no idea what to say to this kind of delusion, so I just smile back. “Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Cypha. I’m Bria.”
“Nice to meet you, Lady Bria.”
“I’m going to go get some air, but when I dance with His Majesty, I will mention what a good and willing dance partner you
would be.”
“Oh, thank you, my lady!”
Of course I have no intention of putting this sweet girl in his sights, but my words do the trick, and the mob of besotted
ballgoers lets me exit the lunarium unhindered.
The air outside is less thick with bodies and desperation, and I luxuriate in breathing for a moment. Hanging lanterns line
the walkway, not the standing lamps that might hide Syla’s horn, but a stone path wraps around the entire edifice. There may
be more lamps behind it.
The moons are drawing closer, and the sky is brightening, making stealth impossible. I hurry toward the rear of the lunarium
to search, my skin prickling with the knowledge that anyone inside can see me, that my behavior is surely suspect.
Two more lamps stand guard at the rear entrance, but neither contains the dragon caller.
I peek inside the doorway. The potentat still sits quietly on her dais, her back to me. From here, the dais is revealed to
be a hastily built wooden scaffolding, its temporary nature disguised with rugs and artfully placed potted palms.
The hum of conversation has gained volume as the persuasion loosens its stranglehold in Jaydeth’s absence. The brightening
sky has chased away the shadows; anyone who looks toward the dais will see me.
But there are also no guards.
Could I get the potentat away from this room, away from King Jaydeth and his murderous companion?
How long will it take him to put on a clean shirt?
If I’m lucky, he’ll also stop to eat and regain his strength.
In fact, I’m certain he would not have left the ball at all if he wasn’t in need of a rest. So I probably have a few minutes.
Now or never. I edge toward the front of the dais and gain the first two steps.
“Your Majesty?” I whisper. “I’m here to help you.”
The potentat is slack-jawed, her head canted to the side. A string of drool is working its way down her chin toward a wet
patch on the sleeve of her gown. There’s no indication that she heard me.
“Please, I’m here with Titus. Syla is safe. I want to get you somewhere safe too.”
Her eyelids flicker.
There’s no point in hiding anything. King Jaydeth already knows who we are and why we’re here, so I press on. “I’m Titus’s
companion. My name is Bria Angarsold.” I glance around as I talk, certain someone will come charging at me at any moment.
Maybe the king. Maybe his murderous companion. The ballgoers below mill about, talk occasionally, but their movements have
a syrupy slowness. How long must the king be away before they are fully themselves again?
The potentat speaks. “Sssyluh.”
“Yes! Syla, your daughter. She’s safe, last I saw her.”
“Syla,” she repeats, stronger this time.
At the sound, the ghouljinn rattle their cages. One reaches a glassy arm through the bars, even though I’m several steps away.
The other keens, shrill and eerie like a wounded night owl. Purposefully or not, they are raising the alarm.
I put a hand on the potentat’s forearm and squeeze, knowing I’m taking liberties, but desperate to return her to herself.
Her head tilts, just enough that she can fix her gaze on me. I reach down through the neck of my gown, snag the cord, and pull out my amulet. “See this? Cerastes’s coil. The goddess herself gave it to me. I’ve seen Syla’s amulet too. Jeridan’s knife.”
Her mouth forms a little O. Moisture sheens in her eyes.
Encouraged, I grasp her hand; it feels like a bird that just flew into a window—warm and alive but stunned and limp. I lift
it to my amulet, force her fingers around it and hold them fast.
“I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you,” I say. “But please know that I’m a friend.”
Her eyes widen. Her chest rises with a deep breath.
“Blackwind is here too. Titus says he was your gift to him. He’s a magnificent horse. He even saved my life once.”
The potentat says, “Titus. My sweet boy.”
“Yes! And I’m his chosen companion. Titus and I met in the mountains of Grimsvold, after he visited King Raddivorg. Please,
Your Majesty, come with me.” I’m not sure exactly where to take her, but any respite from Jaydeth may help her return to herself.
“The horn,” she whispers.
I freeze. “The horn! Do you know where it is?”
“The horn,” she says, pointing to the floor.
My heart sinks. I have no idea what she’s talking about. It’s likely she has no idea what she’s talking about.
“Underneath,” she says.
“Under the dais?”
“Get it.” Her chin collapses to her chest, and she closes her eyes.
I hesitate only a breath before I launch myself from the dais and drop to my hands and knees to crawl beneath, dragging my gown through sawdust. It’s so dark under the scaffolding that the lumpy bulk in front of me makes no sense at first. Gradually, I make out a pile of items that were brought out for the ball but were in too much disrepair to be used: a badly stained rug sloppily folded, shattered clay planters, a chair with a torn cushion, and a lamp with a bent arm toppled onto its side.
I run my fingertips along the rim of each remaining horn of the fallen lamp. My skin snags on an imperfection.
My hands are trembling as I give it a twist to dislodge it from its iron ring. Too much force, and it might break . . . but
it unsticks with a little pop, and I scramble out from under the dais to examine it in the light. Sure enough, it’s yellowish
in color, like old bones. My hand was not the first to snag on it; something dark stains the tiny crack, just as Syla described.
I shove the horn into the gown’s pocket. It sits heavy and bulky beside the knife, but it will be a lot less obvious than
holding it in my hands. Thank you, Master Mehuda.
The potentat has not moved. A quick glance toward the ballroom floor confirms that Titus has not returned. I climb back onto
the dais and whisper, “I got it. Now let me help you up.”
She takes a shuddering breath and says, “Run.”
The crowd is shifting, hushing, taking a collective breath. . . .
King Jaydeth is approaching the lunarium.
Still, I hesitate. I don’t want to leave Titus’s foster mother behind.
“Go,” she says, stronger this time. “Help Syla.”
I jump down and dash out the rear door. But there’s nowhere to hide. The landscaping is sparse, with just a few tall palms swaying in the breeze and a stone path leading back to the palace. Anyone on the dais can see me back here.
Then again, why hide? Jaydeth believes me swayed. Maybe the real danger would be in appearing furtive.
I push back my shoulders and raise my head high, and I walk confidently around to the side of the lunarium. I’m just a ballgoer,
on a leisurely walk to get some fresh air, before returning for my promised dance.
“Bria!” comes a frantic whisper, and I whip my head to the right, but nothing is there except for a tall hedge. I don’t remember
a hedge here when I passed this way bef—
A black-gloved hand darts from between the leaves, grabs my upper arm, and yanks me into the hedge. My skin prickles—just
like it did when I passed through the false mirror of the potentat’s dressing room.
It’s Titus, Syla beside him. The princess’s eyes are squeezed tight, but Titus says, “Thank the moons. We got back and had
no idea where you were.”
I’m so relieved to see them both that I can hardly speak for a moment. The hedge wavers. “Just a minute or two more,” Syla
says, breathless. “Make this fast.”
“The sway is my father,” Titus says.
“It’s King Jaydeth,” I say at the exact same time.
Titus’s face is grim. “Syla talked to the legatat. The persuasion finally weakened enough that she could name him. She says he came under the guise of peace talks. You were right about him wanting the potentat to think a war is brewing. All he needed was an audience.”
I say, “But he’s not here to conquer the confederacy. He’s here to kill you and steal the gloves and horn.”
“So we were right. He’s a candidate.”
I’m nodding. “Chosen by Sathrynos. I got a good look at his amulet.”
Through the glass walls of the lunarium comes the sound of the orchestra, taking up the same Blavanese waltz as before.
“What do we do now?” Titus asks, sounding lost.
Through gritted teeth, Syla says, “We kill that moons-cursed son of a banshee, find the horn, and get to the preserve.”
“I have the horn. The potentat was hiding it.”
The hedge disappears for a split second before snapping back. “You talked to Mother?”
“She’s in bad shape, but she’s still in there, resisting as much as she can. For you.”
“Oh, thank Sulestra,” the girl says. She reaches into the pocket of her trousers and pops something into her mouth. She’s
dressed in plain clothing for travel, and has two packs slung over her shoulder, one of them mine.
I say, “You two should go. Leave me to deal with the king.”
“Absolutely not,” Titus says.
“He wouldn’t leave you in danger any more than I’d leave my mother,” Syla says around a mouthful of something chewy.
“Well, here,” I say, reaching for the horn and handing it to Syla. “I shouldn’t hold on to this. The king will be looking
for me. I promised him a dance.”
“You spoke?” Titus says.
“I can confirm that he’s horrible. Also, he has a creepy companion. Just as murderous as his liege.”
Titus is suddenly very close. “If you try to kill him while dancing, his companion will kill you.”
“There’s also an entire ballroom filled with worshipful admirers.”
“I won’t let you—”
“Sorry to interrupt, but I can’t hold this illusion much longer,” Syla says.
“We have to lure him away, or people will get killed,” I say.
“Like my mother!” Syla says through gritted teeth.
“It’s the whole reason he’s here at the ball; to draw you out. He’s counting on your desire to protect her and everyone else.
He’d kill every single person in that lunarium if it meant . . . oh. Oh.”
“Oh? What?” Titus says.
“The ghouljinn. He’s going to release them.”
The orchestra falters. The screaming starts.