Chapter Thirteen #2
I am led to a round table in an alcove at the far end of the pavilion, occupied by a handful of souls.
At least the lighting is low, a soft copper, and I select a seat squeezed directly in front of a sconce so that I appear a silhouette, resolving to stay only for a single game.
Perhaps I can find a way to use it to my advantage, at least. Figure out why things don’t seem right here. What Moranya is really up to.
Perhaps that’s the key to undoing the curse.
Dahlia and Maia slide into the curving booth at the other end, along with the rest. The introductions come fast—Rasmus, Unna, and other names I can’t keep up with.
“Rasmus is a Dignified,” Sorrell explains quietly, for my ears alone.
Sliding into the wingback next to mine, he cants his head toward a man at the far end with closely coiled black curls and pale skin; next to him, leaning on his shoulder, is a woman with a soft brown complexion and deep scarlet hair that coils past her hips.
“Leila was, too, but His Gloriousness approved her request to join the Exalted a few weeks after her appeal. She was the very first he changed. It caused quite the stir.”
I had assumed the palace was composed mostly of Exalted.
“Is everyone upset about the appeals?” I ask.
“I’d say we’re equally split,” he says. “Many feel making such allowances is unfair to those of us who lived a traditionally worthier life.”
“And you?” I test.
“It isn’t our place to question Moranya’s judgment,” says Dahlia. “And that includes how she chooses to delegate.”
“But if her judgment was so sound in the first place, why has she allowed her new Sovereign to hear appeals?” Maia asks.
Interesting, that. I tuck it away for later.
“Because she has decided to be merciful even when we don’t deserve it,” Sorrell says.
“Are you saying I don’t deserve it?” Leila asks. “Are you saying you wish His Gloriousness denied my appeal?”
Sorrell whisks up a hand. “Not at all, Leila, you know that. Surely a little shuffling among the upper echelons is in order, but when it comes to the lower tiers…”
“You should keep your voices down,” Dahlia hisses. “This conversation is entirely inappropriate to begin with…”
“Fine, fine.” Sorrell straightens his robes. “Let’s begin, shall we?”
The game, they explain, works like this: Each player is given five playing gems: one sapphire, one crimson, and the other three a lavender gradient between the two.
Every round, players will cast the color of the gem that equates to their level of agreement—or disagreement—with the selected player’s statement.
Red signals a vehement opposition, while blue is complete accord.
The variations of purple in between show the level of agreement.
At the end of the round, whoever’s gem dictates they have the highest level of disagreement with the group has one minute to sway as many opponents as possible.
There is no currency, they tell me. Instead they play for favors: A massage. A party prepared in their honor. Other favors, too, that I dare not repeat.
The first round happens quickly. Sorrell sets a small hourglass on the table and flips it, then makes the first statement: “Maia’s celibacy lasts only for a month.”
He ducks as Maia chucks her gem at him. “Ass.”
Even so, the rest indulge, sliding gems across the table. All blue save for one purple. Dahlia’s. She lifts her shoulders. “The loneliness will catch up to her. Or the curiosity. I think she’ll hide it from us, though.”
“You indulge enough for the rest of us,” Maia retorts. “Not all of us are so desperate for physical affection—or require any, for that matter.”
“Perhaps I merely like to have a good time. You’re just jealous, darling.”
“Jealous?” Maia lets out a single, pointed laugh. “I’m not the one throwing myself at anyone with a lick of favor or power. Must be awfully exhausting.”
Dahlia’s face blooms pink, but she merely tucks a silken strand of hair behind her ear. “One might say I’m spending my time wisely—and enjoying it in the process.”
“Ladies, ladies. Let’s move on,” Sorrell says, “before we ruin the evening. Who wants to make the next statement?”
“I will,” I volunteer, an idea taking root.
“Let’s hear it, dancer,” Sorrell says.
A swath of smoke curls underneath my nose, laced with something much like frankincense but sweeter, thicker. I draw it in and immediately turn my head to hide my cough under the guise of adjusting my skirt. Taking in a steadying breath, I say, “Souls should be allowed into the Abyssal.”
It’s risky questioning Moranya’s decrees once again. But five red gems and one pink amethyst tumble quickly across the table to land in the middle as if Moranya were here to witness it—including Rasmus and Leila, whom I’d thought might agree.
Then, boldly, one true sapphire skids amid them all.
Maia lifts a gem-clad shoulder at the bewilderment cast her way, which I surmise is not so much disagreement as it is her audacity to admit it openly.
But this was what I was hoping for—to find someone who might be willing to speak a truth.
Someone I might question, who might not fully agree with Moranya’s edicts.
A weak link.