Chapter 7
I barely recognize the manor tonight. Every surface has been draped in jewel-toned fabric, and garlands of dark flowers wind around the columns. The ballroom and alcoves are thick with candles. Hundreds of them, in wax of all colors, cast an amber glow on the vaulted archways.
Wearing the dress Norville gave me with my plain black mask tied tight, I huddle the children to the side of the stage as the crowd fills the room.
The Somnus celebration at the palace is not like this.
I’m used to decorative half-masks that cover the eyes, but I never had to wonder who was in the crowd.
Hanging beads and hoods and masks that leave only mouths free make short work of identities.
There are plaster masks shaped like animals, masks shaped like clouds and wings, and bejeweled masks that catch every candle.
Somnus is Delvara’s high holiday, the time of dreams and chaos. Here in Delvos, no one is themselves tonight.
Lord Norville takes the stage and welcomes the crowd.
Maybe it is because of his long robes, embroidered with a kaleidoscope of jewel tones, but he looks bigger.
Vines like the ones on his gates cover half his face but do little to hide his bright eyes and wide smile.
It’s clear Delvara’s wild power is coursing through him.
I have seen the way high holidays pull at divinials plenty of times at court.
The stronger the blood, the harder it is to hold steady when the god’s power peaks.
My father and siblings burn hotter at Embrus, their flames closer to the surface with every lick of temper.
With any emotion, magic leaks, following the bearer’s true nature.
Norville is showing the same signs. His violet eyes are too bright, almost fevered, and his hands sweep wide when he speaks, claiming the room with every gesture.
I don’t listen closely to the speech, my attention focused on keeping the children quiet.
Elva tugs my hand, her little fingers sticky with something I did not see her get into.
Ana whispers loudly, while Bowan holds the stiff expression of a boy who has been trained on the responsibilities of nobility.
Their brown curls are styled high on their heads, their masks purple around the eyes to accentuate their god-touched trait.
I tune into the speech just long enough to hear my cue. I usher the children onto the stage to join their parents, then step back a few paces behind them.
The ballroom is dazzling, but my stomach turns at the number of anonymous partygoers. Anyone could be in the crowd tonight. He could be in the crowd tonight.
I examine faces, searching for the specter haunting my dreams. The man wears a cowl pulled low, a dark mask hiding his nose and mouth so only his eyes show. Most guests wear their disguises the opposite way, brows and cheeks covered, mouths and jaws left bare for drinking and laughing.
None of them match. But I can’t stop searching. I scan the masks, unsatisfied when I don’t spot him, just in case the crowd parts and reveals the one I’m looking for.
My gaze catches on a figure in the middle of the crowd and my heart squeezes.
It’s not him, I insist to myself, as my mind catches up to my eyes.
This man doesn’t match the silhouette in my head.
His dark hair curls freely around his ears and neck, his bright silver mask fitted close from his brow to his cheekbones.
His jaw and mouth are bare. And with a glass in one hand and the other in his pocket, nothing about his posture suggests knife-wielding murderer.
Then what caught my attention? This stranger is tall, his shoulders cutting a line above the silk and feathers of the guests around him.
But it’s more than that…
Is he staring at me?
While every other face in the room is turned toward Norville, his chin is squarely pointed my way. I search for the eyes behind the mask. For a second, I think they’re silver, but as the candles flicker, they’re dark. And on me.
Definitely on me.
I resist the urge to reach up and check if my mask is in place. There is no way he could recognize me. With my charcoaled hair and features covered, I hardly recognized myself in the mirror.
So why am I looking at him? Or are we both stuck wondering why the other is staring?
I startle as Elva collides with my skirts, the three children returned to me.
“Portia,” Norville says, as we all walk off-stage. “Happy Somnus.”
I curtsy as best I can around Elva’s grasp. “Happy Somnus, my lord. Happy Somnus, Lady Rodania.”
Lady Rodania blinks at me slowly, her skin far more ashen than in her rosy-cheeked portrait. I wonder if she has any idea who I am. Her vine mask doesn’t hide her glassy eyes, the smell of something herbal coming off her. The older maid appears and takes her by the arm.
Norville puts his own arm around my shoulders, guiding me off the stage. “No late bedtimes for Somnus, Portia. See that the children are abed at their usual time.”
He’s enjoying the holiday. Or the wine. “Of course, my lord.”
“I want them on schedule tomorrow too.” He wags a finger at me. “So I want you back in your room by midnight.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good.” He gives me a smile, then turns to the ballroom.
“Lord Norville!” I stutter. I almost lose my nerve as he looks back at me, that wild light flickering in his purple eyes. But then I think of last night’s dream. Of the blood running down my front. “About what we discussed…are you still willing to read my future? For the holiday?”
His eyes move between mine, offering no hint of whether I’ve annoyed him by asking twice. I shrink back.
Then he smiles again, the light catching on the silver hair threading through the brown. “Of course, Portia. We’ll discuss it after the party.”
I nod, pursing my lips, cringing at myself for asking again so soon. But if Norville won’t deliver, tonight is the night to find another purple-eyed stranger in the crowd.
With as much assurance as I’m going to get, I escort Elva and Ana to the children’s table, while Bowan struts alongside.
“Hello,” he says, introducing himself to the girl at the head of the table. “I’m Bowan. I look forward to joining our families.”
A bit forward, Bowan, I want to say. I know this meeting was arranged because of the prospect of future marriage, but still. They are only nine.
The girl blinks dark eyes at him, copper skin offset by her pearl mask. The streaks of blue in her curly hair are a clear sign she’s marithian. “I’m Meeran. This is my governess, Falta.” She looks like she’s tasted something sour. “You may sit.”
Bowan sits stiffly.
“Young love, isn’t it sweet?” the governess, Falta, says to me, as I take a seat across from her.
“Ah.” To my eye, Meeran looks like she is more interested in her food than Bowan. “Yes.”
Divinial and divinial pairings are common enough, but rarely with heirs, and rarely this young.
If they marry, their future children will inherit mortal blood from both parents, but only one divine line.
Norville is taking the risk that this house will go to grandchildren with power over water and swimming things.
Perhaps he is confident that Bowan’s blood is stronger.
Generation is the biggest predictor of strength. A sixth generation divinial will almost always outmatch a seventh, the concentration of mortal and divine blood a simple equation.
But the gods granted their lines many gifts, and individuals can still surpass expectations in one way or another. No one will know the full power of these children until they mature. And even factoring in generation and individual strength, there is no guarantee which bloodline will pass on.
It’s an alchemy that worries me.
My quarter-divine blood dictates I should be stronger than any divinial lord I can marry.
But when it comes to personal affinity, I have some block on reaching Ignar’s power.
Seran brought in sophirian priests who confirmed I can bear sun-strong children.
My father will perform a ceremony, as he did for my other sisters, to help ensure it.
But still, I worry. What if I’m the first of my sisters who fails to produce ignarian heirs?
I leave Bowan and Meeran to their stiff chatter. I cut up Elva’s meat, and coax Ana back to the table after she skips away. By the time I get to my own soup, it’s cold. I glance out at the crowd and instantly find silver.
My eye catches on the man just as easily when he isn’t staring at me.
He’s talking to two women, standing still while they bob and sway before him.
His dark hair blends into his midnight jacket in the candlelight, the tailored fabric skimming broad shoulders and a lean, powerful frame.
A glass hangs from his fingers, everything about his posture relaxed and languid. His jaw is sharp under his silver mask.
One of the women stands on tippy toe to say something, and he tilts his head to catch it, a slow, seductive smile pulling at his mouth.
Even with half his face covered, I doubt I’ve ever seen a more beautiful man.
“Who are you looking at?” Falta asks.
I startle. “No one.”
The other governess follows my gaze, and grins. “Ah. Of course.”
“I wasn’t looking at anyone.”
“Then you’d be the only one,” she snorts. “He’s the talk of the party. You’d expect him at Kalgasari’s Somnus party, not this small estate. His attendance wasn’t even announced.”
“Announced?”
She gives me an incredulous look. “You really don’t know who you’re staring at? His mask isn’t that good…that’s the Sovereign of Arastos.”
Sovereign? Now that is unexpected. Unusual, even, that a sovereign of one of the nine provinces would come to this tiny manor for a high holiday. He must have been in the area on other business.
I sip my water, wracking my mind for his name. I should know it. I’ve been told it. He took over the title a few years ago, but all I can think of are the names of the previous sovereign, Lord Staburn, and his wife, Lady Filipa.
“The Norvilles must be very honored to host him,” I say.