Chapter 1 #2
The houses that backed my grandfather in the Incarnial Wars were repaid in rich, flameward land.
Vernys’s vines ripen all year, and Delvos harvests again and again, while the shadoward provinces scrape through cold winters.
A lord like Weslyn would lose everything if frost ever chilled his fields.
That is the surest loyalty the emperor knows.
My father will send me to a colder, shadoward land, with looser reasons to be loyal. That’s what he did with my other sisters: Esmerelda is already in Mordun, Thalia and Staci in Marithos, Evinestra and Kytra on the edges of Sophys. Perhaps I’ll end up in Nyvos.
My gaze drifts, landing on the fair head of a lord from Nyvos: Cantor.
His hair is almost colorless against his olive complexion.
He’s speaking with a lady and laughs at something she says, easy and open.
I’ve noticed him at court a few times before.
I could picture myself in Nyvos, with those windswept lords in their high towers, and a husband who laughs with me.
I would choose someone like Cantor.
I shake the thought away before it can take root. I don’t get to choose.
“You disagree?” Weslyn asks, his grin absorbing into his face like it was never there.
“Be nice, Lysandra.” Heat flares under Jasper’s fingers, causing a flash of pain that makes me flinch. I doubt my skin will blister, but I’ll need to dab lobellum there so I don’t have a red spot tomorrow.
I have no idea what I just shook my head at.
“Ah, no,” I reply. “I agree with what you said, Lord Weslyn.”
That seems to appease him as he continues with talk of his harvest and his hounds. I make sure to bob my head along.
I don’t get to choose my husband, and even imagining I might feels like an invitation to disaster. Rinalda took someone for herself without the emperor’s permission, and what did she get? Instead of a wedding, she got a scorched funeral, forced to burn her lover herself in the Crimson Square.
“Why doesn’t this party have any servers?” Jasper mutters. “Hey! Hey you! Come here. Fill my cup.”
Jasper catches the ear of the young man standing just behind the throne, holding my father’s pitcher of wine.
Indecision flickers across the server’s face.
The rough silk of his tunic and trousers is fine for the weather but will provide little protection from royal fire.
He’s not allowed to step away from my father’s side, but if he ignores Jasper’s order, there is only one possible outcome.
No one cares whether a server regains the use of his hands. If his flesh is too melted to hold a pitcher, he will simply be replaced.
“You mentioned the wine fountains, Lord Weslyn,” I interject, taking a step toward him. Jasper’s hand tightens, his attention returned to me. “It was your idea?”
“It was.” He swirls his cup, lifting it along with his chin. “A brilliant way to aerate the wine and enhance the flavor.”
“Yes, the flavor was perfect,” I lie. I gesture toward the closest fountain. “Can you show me how it works? I’d love another taste.”
“Don’t be greedy, Lysandra,” Jasper says. “No one likes a lady who’s a lush.”
“Then more for you, Jasper, while I show her the mechanics.” Weslyn grins, as he waves us toward it.
I spare a glance back at the server, the relief clear on his face. He tucks closer to the throne, his pitcher at the ready for the emperor’s slightest twitch.
Weslyn reminds me of Marus—pacified, as long as I defer to his intellect and opinions.
If I attract Marus’s attention, a few simple questions and wide-eyed interest in his answers are often enough to avoid a burn.
Borin isn’t violent, as long as I encounter him at least two cups in, but no more than six.
My other four brothers only come to court from time to time, although the rarity of their visits makes it harder to read their moods when they’re here.
And my only sister at court is Rinalda, who tolerates me at mandatory functions, and otherwise avoids me.
As if summoned by my thoughts, I spot Rinalda over Weslyn’s shoulder, her amber eyes on me.
Her long scarlet hair is arranged in perfect waves, her haughty expression unreadable.
Princess of the Blue Flame, named for her fire that burns so hot, it glows cerulean.
Like me, she is only brought out of the Sunrise Palace for high holidays, or events important enough for the whole family to attend.
My fingers curl into my silk skirts. Was she invited to this party just to see my presentation to the court? Is my father taunting her, making sure she’s a witness to the attention I’m receiving, when she’s been secluded since her lover’s execution?
I would prefer to skip every party, narrowing my entire world to my marble room and our private gardens. But I don’t know how Rinalda feels. I don’t know if she sees the Sunrise Palace as her sanctuary or her prison.
We were closer once…or at least, she was a bright point of safety in the Central Palace as I grew up. She wasn’t warm, exactly, but she didn’t treat me differently from my red-haired cousins. To young, pale-haired, flameless Lysandra, that was enough.
Now, we’ve spent the better part of ten years sequestered in the Sunrise Palace together, and I can’t even read the expression on her face.
Jasper finally lets my shoulder go, focused on filling his cup. A marithian lord with blue-streaked hair pulls him into conversation. Weslyn rambles over the swelling music about the proper temperature for wine. I keep my smile carved on my face and my chin bobbing.
In the corner of my eye, the first figures take to the floor. I need to get out of here before the dancing starts. Judging by the number of lords Jasper chased off, I’ll be scrubbing the oily feeling of unwanted touches off my skin for days if I stay.
“You couldn’t guess how many barrels it took to fill it—”
“I truly couldn’t. Excuse me, Lord Weslyn,” I say, forcing my desperation into some corner of my chest so my tone stays light and airy. “Princess Rinalda is beckoning me.”
I duck my face and hurry past him. My sorry excuse for a dress flaps indecently wide as I rush through a gap in the crowd.
The clearest way out is the archway across the courtyard, but Captain Orso is posted beside it, hands clasped behind his back.
His blocky head stays forward, even as his eyes sweep the guests.
He won’t stop me from leaving, but whatever he sees gets back to the emperor.
Walking out past him would be the same as announcing my early exit.
The hedges it is, then. I swerve toward a break in the dark leaves.
A claw-like grip closes around my arm, jerking me back.
“Leaving so soon?” My mother’s voice is soft in my ear.
She’s in unusual disarray. Orange curls have slipped free from their pins, one whole section listing to the side. She hooks my elbow and steers me back the way I came. I try not to pull away, but my arm jerks once.
Keep calm, Lysandra. Showing my mother a reaction will only make the situation worse. I smooth my face and bury my nerves, even though they’re still sparking in my chest.
“I was just going to join the dancing,” I lie.
“Ah yes. Time for all the lords to circle round.” She keeps her voice low, nodding to several guests who bow their heads as we pass. “Now that you are a flower ready to be plucked.”
We stop at a table where the white-haired empress pi mata, Rinalda’s mortal mother, sits. She’s well over a hundred now, but still with decades left thanks to daily vernalian potions. My mother leans her hip against the table and collects her cup.
From this vantage point, I am reminded of what has probably been needling her all night: the woman back in my father’s lap, with her mouth on his ear. An empress pi mata, aged out of fertility, might have to endure a new empress, but mistresses are usually kept behind closed doors.
My mother is the current empress, still fertile, and she’s being humiliated.
She finishes her wine without a break for breath and wipes her mouth.
“Do you feel hopeful? Joyful? Looking forward to what your life might be? I did too.” She curls one lock of my hair around a finger.
The strands are pale, with only the slightest hint of rose in the light.
“I should have known yours was being traded for mine as soon as I saw that hair.”
My marriageability should be a gift, a chance to make a favorable match and increase her influence. But I can see my birthday is bringing up her own twenty-first year.
She was twenty-one when she married the half-divine Emperor Belzas. Twenty-one when she gave birth. Twenty-one when he stopped coming to her rooms after the disappointment that followed…me.
She retakes my arm and marches straight toward the dais.
I try to pull back, and her nails dig in.
My mother is full of wine, and my father is full of fire, and the two won’t mix.
We’re close enough now that I feel the first wave of heat radiating off his skin.
Any moment, the emperor’s head will turn and his ember eyes will land on us.
Seran steps in front of us, blocking our path.
“Pardon me, Empress,” he says, bowing low. The muted olive tones he always wears give his russet skin a grayish cast, while his straight hair hanging in a tail accentuates his long features. “Could you spare me a moment of your time?”
“Ah.” She peels her attention off the throne. “What is it?”
She may be teetering on the edge of reason, but she knows Seran is always on her side. He’s the advisor who elevated her from her ordinary mortal life and put her forward as a candidate to become empress. His standing follows the curve of hers and, by extension, mine.
“The delvarians are asking about the venue for the Somnus event.” He gestures toward a cluster of courtiers dressed in richer jewel-tones near the far wall. “There has been some question about using the seaward private gardens.”
“They’d be destroyed,” she snaps, her grip on me loosening a fraction. “Tell them no.”