It has not slipped my notice that this tiny patch of sky provides the only spot of color in my cell. My wardrobe is colorless as well as shapeless, as are my mat and blanket. The waste bucket is only a darker shade of nothing than the packed dirt floor. Even my sickly skin is slowly turning the same faded, dirty dun of the adobe walls. Sometimes I wonder if my eyes are still their same dark brown, or if they’ve drained of color, too, leaving me washed out in a washed-out world. No Kualni An-Orra here, no Prayer of the Colors or rush to catch a glimpse of the sky—even if there was enough moisture to generate a rainbow, it would have to appear in just the right place for me to see it through my tiny window.
But even if it’s not Kualni An-Orra, there is one thing that happens here, wherever I am—one wild, beautiful thing. It terrified me the first time, entrenched in pain and panic and wondering what scaffold of sanity had finally given way. But now that I’ve convinced myself I’m not hallucinating, it’s become the highlight of every passing day.
Bats.
Thousands of them, millions. Every night, as dusk turns blush to blues outside my window, they stream into the air, a living storm cloud. I don’t know where they come from—caves, I assume, though I can’t recall any caves in my little knowledge of the Ferinno. But it must be a huge space. They wheel past my window in rivers so thick the sky turns black, chattering and squeaking. After those first surreal days, when the pain in my head became more bearable, I stood under the window, watching, listening, smelling—by the colors, they stink of guano and ammonia. But so do I in my fashion, so we’re siblings in that way. Now they’ve become a fixture for me, a timepiece. It’s bat-time. Their return is more dispersed and happens after I’ve drifted into sleep, so it’s their first mass flight that has become the most treasured tangible thing in my life. My lifeline.
With a tremendous amount of luck, they may just be my salvation, too.
So this is my life at present—four walls, a floor, a ceiling, a few muted objects, and the window to the world. Bats and air. When my head is clear, I sit and watch the colors turn in my little squint of sky. Pale pinks and yellows in the morning fade into a crystalline blue, to orange, to indigo, to bat-black, to night-black, and then back around again. Pretty soon I’ll be able to come up with brand-new names for each minute color change. I’ll be able to tell every breath and whisper of a different hue. I’ll be more intimate with every spot on the spectrum than any ashoki ever was.
Either that, or I’ll die of boredom.
If my escape plan doesn’t work out, I imagine that’s the more likely outcome.
Veran
The Hall of the Ashoki shimmers with every imaginable shade of turquoise, starting with pale robin’s-egg blue and going straight through to an iridescent green so dark it’s nearly black. I pause on the threshold with Eloise, taking in the sight of the room. Peppered throughout the excited crowd are larger-than-life statues on marble pedestals, their white stone garments frozen in flowing movement. Each one holds some type of instrument—a finger drum here, a harp there. The ashoki—the legendary wordsmiths that shape this country’s politics. Fragments of poetry and lyrics are carved into their pedestals—memories of their most beloved verses.
“Oh look,” Rou says cheerfully behind us. “Young’uns in their natural habitat.” He points to the long banquet table laden with an array of finger foods, where several older children of Moquoian ministers and a few young politicians are socializing—including Prince Iano. He shoos us in that direction. “Go on, make friends.”
I lean toward Eloise as he takes off toward Queen Isme. “He knows we’re adults, and not six, right?”
“I think he stopped making any distinction after about age ten. Don’t tell me your parents aren’t the same.”
“With five of us? They tend to group us into the older three and younger two. It lets them hover for other reasons.”
She gives a smile of commiseration. “Well, there’s certainly plenty to hover over between the two of us, isn’t there?”
I grimace. Eloise is the single direct heir to the throne of Lumen Lake, and her parents—Rou in particular—have always been protective of her. Being the fourth out of five children, I don’t have that excuse, but that doesn’t mean my childhood wasn’t as closely watched as hers.
Perhaps more.
We weave among the silk jackets, long skirts, and glittering hair jewels, catching snatches of conversation, all of it focused on speculation for the upcoming announcement.
“—heard that Oiko fellow can play sixteen different instruments, that’s got to count for something—”
“—amazed the queen is letting her son make the appointment, even with her upcoming abdication; it’s highly irregular—”
“—but the politics are the most important thing, of course. That Kimela, now, I’m told she’s a real champion of industry. If the prince hopes to preserve the traditional values of this country, he’d be wise to appoint her—”
I glance at this last voice—it belongs to Hetor Kobok in-Garnet, the minister of industry just returned from factory audits. It’s taken me a while to remember the color titles of various nobility in court, but Kobok’s isn’t difficult—he wears his traditional color bracelet over the sleeve of his turquoise jacket, the gold links studded with fat garnets that flash in the light. Even without this indicator of status, it’s not hard to tell that he’s an influential member of court—transfixed nobles stand around him in a half circle, hanging on his words.
“I didn’t think to do any inquiring about the candidates for ashoki, did you?” Eloise asks as we squeeze past the group of ministers. “I’ve been too wrapped up trying to make progress with the Ferinno Road.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it thorough, but I’ve picked up a little from listening to the queen’s attendants,” I say. “Of all our options, it sounds like Oiko—that one who can play a million instruments—is best for our interests. I heard one of the ladies on the Citizen Welfare Committee saying he’s in favor of phasing out the use of bond labor. I think the one we least want is Kimela—she sounds vocal about maintaining things as they are, including limiting Moquoia’s relations with its neighbors. I expect we’ll have a much harder time gaining any ground if she’s appointed.”
“Well, let’s hope Iano still upholds the same convictions he did in his letters,” Eloise says, eyeing the prince as we draw near the flock of young courtiers. “Even if he’s given us no indication of such since we’ve gotten here.”
We reach the skirts and jacket tails of several diplomats, and they make way excitedly for us, greeting Eloise warmly. She responds with seemingly effortless cordiality and introduces me to the handful of courtiers I haven’t met. All of them are positively brimming with excitement over the upcoming announcement. In fact, the only person not visibly enjoying themselves is Iano.
True to the first day of the si, the prince is decked in deep turquoise silk, his sleeves and collar piped with gold. Beads of jade and tourmaline flash from his embroidery and the lobes of his ears, and the gems down the legs of his trousers are each as big as the seal my father wears on his thumb. Gold winks from the jeweled pin holding his long black hair in a half tail, and it shines on the hilt of the ceremonial rapier on his belt. The only thing outside his Mokonnsi color scheme is his si bracelet, by comparison a much plainer band of stamped bronze, set with a cluster of lapis and worn with age. On our first day in court, I was surprised to see such a shabby token of his titular colors when so many other courtiers’ si-oque drip with gems, like Kobok’s, until I found out that it’s an heirloom piece several hundred years old, the colors replaced for every heir.
“Good morning and a bright Mokonnsi to you, Prince Iano,” Eloise says, careful to get the customary greeting right. “How exciting to be here for this day.”
Iano adjusts his grip on a glass cup of cream tea, his lips set in a frown. “Mm, I’ll bet it is.”
I can safely say that that’s not the proper response to the gr
eeting on the first day of a new si, but Eloise doesn’t let him deter her. She fixes him with a warm smile, believable enough to look genuine to the untrained eye, and gestures to me. “You have already met our translator, Veran Greenbrier—as you can see, he is joining me for the announcement of the new ashoki this morning.”
I bow slightly, the shift in weight making my blisters sting. I rack my brain for the right thing to say. “We are very much looking forward to it.”
His eyes narrow just slightly, but a bubbly girl at his elbow is the first to reply. “We’ve tried everything to get him to tell us his choice, even a hint, but he hasn’t budged. What a surprise it’s going to be!”
“For most,” Iano says flatly, looking away toward the stage at the end of the hall.
I throw a quick glance at Eloise, but she’s still not deterred by the prince’s dour behavior. She gives the barest flick of her eyes in my direction, as if in warning, and then says, “I thought it would be beneficial to Veran if you were to share some of your process for choosing the ashoki. It must be such a . . .” She pauses, her brow furrowing. After a moment, she glances at me, lapsing into Eastern. “I can’t remember the word for ‘significant’—it’s not bengka, is it? That’s ‘loud’ . . .”
I’m about to offer the translation, when Iano replies in accented Eastern—I’ve forgotten he’s nearly fluent. Both of us have forgotten, apparently. “The word is aquagii, and yes, it is quite a significant decision.”
I almost jump in surprise, but Eloise doesn’t flinch. “Yes, of course,” she says coolly, still smiling. “Perhaps you could tell Veran about the audition process.”
“And why, I wonder, is the Eastern delegation suddenly so interested in the choosing of the ashoki?” Iano looks from Eloise to me, his lips set in a thin line.
I’m not sure how to respond. The other courtiers shift with a false front of cheerfulness—none of them can speak Eastern, but it must be obvious we’ve irritated the prince.
“We . . . have just heard of their importance in court,” I stammer. “I read all about them at home.”
His eyes narrow, and he looks away, back to the empty stage at the front of the hall. His free hand fingers the gold fringe hanging from his rapier hilt.
After the silence stretches out too long, the bubbly courtier from before jumps to strike up conversation again. She reaches for my lapel.
“Oh, how lovely!” she exclaims. “And look how it matches the new si!”
I look down to where her fingers are brushing the silver filigree firefly pinned to my jacket. The Lumeni pearl in its abdomen does have a turquoise color to it, to mimic the blue ghost fireflies that swarm around the palace in the summer. It was a gift from Mama on the steps of the Alcoran Senate building as we were about to depart in June.
“To remember your roots,” she’d said, stabbing the pin through my tunic like she had a grudge against the fabric.
“I’m not going to forget, Mama,” I’d said, holding still lest I be stabbed, too.
“I hope not, because Colm will have to answer to me if you do.” She’d capped the pin and started absently neatening my tunic laces. “You listen to Rou. And do your best to help Eloise.”
“I will.”
“Remember to drink more water than you think. Stick to the shade—and don’t be afraid to ask the others to take a rest. They’ll listen—”
My face had flushed. “I know, Mama.”
“I know you know. Just . . .” She’d taken a breath, her hands pressing my shoulders, grounding me. “Earth and sky, just be careful, Veran. Listen to your body.”
I tear my attention back to the group of courtiers around me, trying to keep my collar from growing hot like it did that day in Alcoro. The bubbly girl—I need to ask Eloise her name—just said something that I didn’t catch.
“Sorry?” I say.
“I said, your pin—it’s the ernduk, the light beetle that is holy to your people, yes?”
“Uh, yes. It’s firefly season back home.”
This is hilarious for some strange reason, sending everyone—except Iano and Eloise—into fits of delighted laughter. At least I think it’s delighted. My collar heats despite my best efforts.
“I wonder if it will glow at the Bakkonso Ball next week,” says another. “Wouldn’t that be charming!”
“You are coming to Bakkonso, aren’t you?” the first asks.
Eloise gives our confirmation that we are, in fact, coming to the fabled ball, though neither of us are sure we understand it. The name translates to “indigo lamp,” and the information we’ve cobbled together involves a mineral powder that glows bright white under a particular kind of blue-shielded lantern. I haven’t quite figured out what one does with the powder, or how it figures in with the dancing, but the younger echelon of the court has been chatting about it nonstop for several days.
“And do you have an ernduk pin as well?” our friend asks Eloise.
“We are not from the same country,” Eloise begins, but neither of us have the chance to elaborate on the differentiation between Lumen Lake and the Silverwood Mountains before a series of chimes sound from the end of the hall. A few excited murmurs go up, and folk press toward the soaring curtains hanging over the stage, the fabric changed from green to turquoise overnight. The courtiers around us start to jostle and whisper.
“Excuse me,” Iano says, setting his tea down—he must be about to make his announcement. But instead of moving directly for the stage, he takes a short, sharp step toward us. I step quickly to one side, but I run into Eloise. My wooden heel wobbles and my ankle turns awkwardly. I feel a blister burst.
I bite back a grimace as Iano leans in close, so quickly it must only look like a nod of his head to an outside observer.
“I have people watching you,” he murmurs in Eastern through gritted teeth. Then he straightens, turns, and strides effortlessly through the turquoise crowds. They part like ocean currents around him.
“What?” I say aloud.
“What?” Eloise echoes. “What did he say?”
I straighten off her shoulder, watching him walk toward the stage, the golden pin in his black hair glinting.
“I’m . . . not sure,” I say. I try to process his words again—had he gotten his translation wrong? Why would he say something so ominous out of the blue? Was it directed to both of us . . . or just to me?
People watching me?
I shift on my sore feet and wince at the torn blister on the pad of my foot. I lean too heavily on my walking cane, my stomach turning at both the pain and the uncomfortable end to our interaction with Iano. “Eloise, I’m going to sit down for a second.”
She turns to me, her face instantly changing from puzzled to concerned. “Why? Are you all right?” She hurries to thread her arm under mine, getting her weight under my shoulder, but I wave her away.
“Not like that. It’s these damned shoes—they’re eating my feet.”
She glances down, still holding me under my shoulder, fully prepared for me to buckle on the spot. “Oh. Well, can you make it closer to the front? I want to be with Papa when Iano makes the announcement.”
I get an image of me studiously observing my weeping blisters in the midst of the elegant Moquoian court. “No, let me just . . . I’m going to sit back there, just for a moment. I’ll come find you.”
She looks doubtful, but the crowd is pressing eagerly toward the stage, jostling for the best vantage points. I slide out of her grip, smiling as robustly as I can to convince her I’m not about to collapse. After another moment of scrutiny, she turns and hurries to join the tide of courtiers. I draw in a breath and walk as normally as I can in the other direction, toward the back of the hall. I pass a giant statue of a woman with ribbons flying from her hair and holding a tambourine, and then I spy a small bench next to a black-clothed block. The block is an odd shape and height, too tall to be a table, but it doesn’t concern me now—it’s the bench I’m after. I teeter toward it and collapse, discardin
g my cane on the floor.
I wriggle my cursed shoe off my foot and sigh in relief as it pops off. The blister stings in the open air, and carefully I set it down on the cool hardwood floor. I’m going to need to start wrapping my feet in bandages to stave off infection.
It’s going to be a long walk back up six flights of stairs.
Queen Isme is making her way onto the stage, gems glittering in her hair like raindrops. I lean down to slide my other shoe off, just for good measure, when I catch sight of the object underneath the black shroud beside my bench—it’s not a table as I first assumed, but solid white stone, like the statues in the hall. I reach forward and twitch the shroud back a few inches, revealing the same tiled pattern along the bases of the ashoki statues. It’s another pedestal . . . but with nobody on top.
I’m about to lift the cloth higher, to see if there’s a name, when the barest breath of air moves against my neck.
I have people watching you.
Instinctively, I drop the cloth and whip my head around. Crouched in the shadow of the shrouded pedestal is a person, dressed in black and holding so still that I’d looked right past her. She’s holding a dustpan and brush frozen in midair, as if she’d halted as soon as I sat down.
“I’m so sorry, lord,” she whispers. “I didn’t think anyone would require this space. Forgive my presence.”
“Not at all,” I say, trying to shake off my nerves. “I simply needed a place to sit down out of the way.”
She ducks her head, showing a few streaks of gray in her brown bun. “I will return at a later time.”
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