The announcer sees me and hurries over before I can become lost in the crowd. He slams his staff on the marble flagstones three times.
“All hail Iliana, Princess of the Kingdom of the Sea, Creator’s Blessed, Master of Earth.”
Silence falls over the hall, and all eyes turn to me. I raise my chin and walk calmly forward. Whispers erupt, spreading like wildfire, rumors of my death and my miraculous recovery. The crowd parts before me, and I smile inwardly as I step confidently to my father and the throne. Just like sheep before a wolf. The people lower their eyes as I pass, the sound of my dress sliding on the marble a gentle harmony to the shocked murmurs. When I reach Father’s right hand, I turn, gazing out on the nobility and wealthy of the kingdom. The Sealord stands and places a hand on my shoulder.
“As many of you know, my daughter has reached her majority. Today, we celebrate more than just the Liberation. Today, we celebrate the day your princess steps forward as a shining beacon to lead us into the future. Bow before your future queen.”
He mentions nothing of the attempted assassination. The night will continue as if the parade has gone perfectly, as if my birthday is the only event of note. It’s calculated, surely. These people can’t know how close that bolt came. The guests begin to lower, each person casting eyes downward and bending. Exhilaration surges in my breast. Even if I can’t play in the garden, even if I can no longer be Yrena’s little one, even if my responsibility to rule and govern will be heavy... perhaps it’s not so bad to be considered a woman. The entire celebration bows to honor me, to show their fealty and loyalty. I can get used to this.
The delegation from the Khalintari Republic, far across the Way of the North and still independent from the kingdom, are also showing their respect. They stand in the back, each of them decked out in an awe-inspiring amount of jewelry. Their heads are bowed, even though they refuse to bend the knee. I find the display to be acceptable, though a cold smile graces my lips when I think of my father’s words: “Perhaps we will conquer the Khalintars and I’ll give them to you.”
Out of that group of olive-skinned men, I meet a set of eyes. Every other head is downcast and looking at the floor, but one of the Khalintari men stares steadily back at me. He can’t be more than a few years older than me, and he’s dressed in the simple (by Khalintari standards) silk vest and pants of a court scribe. He’s handsome, his features angular but smooth, but his dark eyes are mocking, one eyebrow raised as if the display of my power is little more than a joke. A flush of anger darkens my cheeks, and I step forward just as Father begins to speak again.
“Let us celebrate!”
The guests all stand as musicians stationed on the upper balconies launch into a lively tune. I lose those mocking eyes in the shuffle as everyone stands. There are cheers, and I smile around at the crowd, but I have to clench my fists to stop their tremble. I need to find the insignificant scribe who would dare to exhibit such disrespect.
“May I be excused, father?”
“Of course, Iliana. This party is for you. Enjoy it,” he says. As I start to walk down the steps of the dais he calls again. “Just remember. These people are temporary. We shall be here long after they are gone. Use them for your enjoyment and then discard them.”
I nod, keeping my face smooth until he waves to dismiss me. As I turn away, my brow furrows in confusion. The closer I’ve come to the day of my majority, the more Father has dropped comments like that. Of how the Creator blesses us above the normal man. Of how they are inferior. Of how their lives are inconsequential. I’m not entirely sure I agree. The people of the kingdom have always been good to me. On those rare occasions I’m let out of the palace with Yrena, I’ve seen people laugh, love, and live with such ferocity I sometimes envy their joy. The palace life is a good one, as far as I can tell. I’m tutored, given freedom, and always granted playmates until I tire of them. But I still wonder what it would be like to be out among the people, as one of them.
Dignitaries amongst the revelers stop me as I walk through the crowd, smiling and bowing and wishing me great joy on my birthday. I respond in kind, but I don’t bother to learn their names. I need to find that scribe. Every time I think about the derisive look in his eyes, my jaw clenches. I’ve almost reached the Khalintari delegation when a hand grabs my arm and spins me into the shadows under one of the balconies. I reach for the earth, the symbol of my power flaring up a bright emerald green. In the flash of light, I see the features of the scribe.
“You’re angry,” he says, his soft accent just noticeable in the Donirian tongue, his eyebrow cocked in the same mocking expression as before. He’s even more attractive close up, his long black hair flowing past his shoulders. I shove the thought aside.
“I am angry,” I say, still not letting go of my connection with the earth. I work some of the glass free from the mosaic behind him, slowly turning it until the sharp fragment is pointed squarely at the back of his head. “This is my home. This is my kingdom. How dare you show me disrespect?”
“Because you don’t deserve respect,” he says, waving a hand contemptuously. “Put your shiny toy away, girl. You might hurt yourself.”
I blink once, shocked. My concentration wavers, and the piece of glass falls to the ground. The faint tinkle of shattering glass is just audible over the music.
“Good. That is no way to have a conversation, knowing someone is thinking about killing you. It makes it hard to be friends.”
“What?” I say, my anger returning tenfold. “Friends? What in the Eternal’s forgotten name makes you think I want to be friends with you?”
“You’re only angry with me because I ruined your moment. All of those people, bowing to you, obsequious, spineless... boring. You do not yet understand, girl.”
“Quit calling me that. My patience is growing thin. I could have you killed for this impertinence,” I say, fighting not to stamp my foot. I know it would be childish. He smiles, as if he can guess exactly what I’m thinking.
“But you won’t, will you, girl?” he says, his eyebrows raising slightly. “I interest you. I do not bow. I’m not a playmate that is forced to be in your presence, nor am I a servant who scrapes the marble at the first sign of your displeasure. No one has ever treated you this way, neh?”
“We are heading towards a crisis between the realms when I murder you in front of all these people,” I say, mentally snatching up the shards of glass from the floor and sending them darting towards his neck. He doesn’t move. He just smiles his mocking smile. Even when one of the tiny shards pierces his skin and draws a small bead of blood, his expression doesn’t change.
“Your father is right. They are sheep. We are wolves.”
My eyes widen, and the glass drops away from his neck. As far as I can tell, that phrase has never come up in any conversation that could be overheard. The man just seemed to pluck the phrase out of my mind. I look him up and down, but there is no tell-tale gleam of a symbol of power anywhere visible on his person. He’s shirtless under his sleeveless silk vest, but none of his visible skin shows even the faintest hint of light.
“I don’t know where you heard that from, but I don’t believe you,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You are not a Shaper. You’re just trying to... I don’t know what you’re trying to do. Die an early death, I guess.”
“Perhaps we can’t be friends,” he says, looking disappointed. “You are too young. You’re just a pup, not a wolf. Why would you assume things you could never know?”
He grasps the fabric of his pants over his left leg, snapping it taut. A faint symbol in silver gleams through the silk, beautiful and mesmerizing in its shape. My eyes trace the intricate, weaving light. I start to feel dizzy, vision blurring at the edges. I finally tear my eyes away and meet his dark gaze. My breath comes shorter, my chest tight. We are halfway through a different song than when he last spoke. How long did I stare at that symbol?
“Perhaps, when you’re older, you can come visit, neh?” he says, reaching out and patt
ing me gently on the head. “I will be there. In the heart of Coin. Until then...”
He bends down, picking up a slender shard of glass. It gleams in the lamplight, a tiny bit of his blood adorning its edge. I blink, and he’s gone. I glance around quickly, but there’s no sign of him. In fact, I’m not sure what I’m looking for at all.
Confused, I wander back into the party. Something has just happened, something important, but my mind feels as if it’s stuffed with mundane nonsense. I remember something about dark eyes, and a burst of anger burns through me, but there’s nothing behind it. I don’t even know what I’m angry about. How can you forget why you’re angry?
In a daze, I blink slowly as a man comes into view. A boy dressed as a man. He’s standing in front of me, a nervous look on his face. I squint at him.
“Right, well, I will just, uh, be going then, your highness,” he says, scraping a bow and flushing red with embarrassment. It’s clear he said something to me, and, in my befuddled state, I haven’t registered the words. My brain catches back up.
“No, no, Torlas. I’m sorry. Something is up with my brain.”
“Ah,” he says, his expression clearing. “So nothing has changed, then.”
“You... You... Blast it, Torlas. If my brain was working I would have come up with, I don’t know, something mean to call you,” I say, smiling in spite of myself.
Torlas is the first son of Duke Graevo. The Duke is one of the largest landholders in the kingdom, the head judge of the domestic court, and a close confidant to my father. Torlas himself is trying to follow in his father’s footsteps, working as some sort of legal consultant in the courts. He’s the only boy allowed near me since I turned nine, mainly because we’ve known each other since I was born (though he is four years my senior). Always around the castle, Torlas represents the most serious and dignified of fronts when exposed to anyone of importance or station, but I know him in an entirely different light. The boy is a prankster. He’s constantly stealing things, hiding them, and playing practical jokes on everyone he won’t die for offending. Sometimes, he toes even that line.
“Still the princess I know,” he says, smirking. “Thinks far more highly of her abilities, mental or otherwise, than she should.”
“You, sir, are an ass,” I say, shaking my head and fighting back a laugh.
“Oh, you wound me!” he gasps, clutching at his chest.
“If you’re going to die, Torlas, then please, do us all a favor and make it quiet.”
He stands up straight suddenly, looking me seriously in the face.
“I find that I am much revived by the beauty that stands before me,” he says, taking my hand and bowing gently, pressing his lips to my knuckles. I snatch my hand away, giggling.
“You can’t say anything serious, can you?”
Something flashes across his face, something far from frivolity, but his smile is back in place before I can figure out what it is.
It has been six months since I’ve seen him last. He went with his father on a diplomatic trip to the southern province of Itskalan, something about ensuring the shipping lanes between the Broken Isles and our southern ports. The shipping lanes are a constant problem. My father being the Master of Water notwithstanding, the layout of the world, as designed by the Shapers of old, is not conducive to sea travel.
Before the fall of the Eternal and the Shattering of Isa, there had been three continents, brought together through the cooperation of generations of Shapers working out their lives. They moved islands, brought mountains together, flattened, crushed, and generally had their way with the land. In the end, the three great land bridges of the world were constructed: mighty edifices of stone and unshakable mortar that crossed the oceans to bring commerce and trade to all corners of the world. The land bridges formed a triangle which extended into the continents themselves, and the Ways travel straight and smooth to the largest city of each continent. Donir, the heart of the Sealord’s kingdom, is an ancient city, existing at the confluence of the Way of the North and the once-mighty Way of the East, broken and mostly destroyed during the Shattering.
The Ways, however, still exist. Perfectly straight, they bore directly through mountains, hover above marshes, and delve through deserts and jungles. In each climate, the Ways are the safest places to be. With such an easy path available, the perils of crossing the open sea, especially the Maelstrom between the continents, never seem worth the effort. The only men and women who genuinely direct their energies to sailing are the people of the Broken Isles, the two Ways connecting their shattered continent to the others long destroyed. They rule the seas, and even the Sealord, Master of Water, can demand nothing from them.
As such, Torlas traveled down to the base of the Bridge of the East, as far south and west as the kingdom stretches. He and his father negotiate with the merchants, who then negotiate with the pirates, and, hopefully, the trade between the Broken Isles and Itskalan will continue.
The trip has hardened him, honing away some of the boyish curves and leaving the structure of a man, lean and tall, tanned face handsome and roguish.
“You’re making me self-conscious, Iliana,” he says. “You’ve been staring at me for entirely longer than is decent. Like what you see?”
“Of course. I see my oldest friend.”
“Right,” he says, sounding vaguely disappointed. “What mischief are we going to get into tonight?”
“Torlas, I don’t know. I’m a woman now, or at least, that’s what they keep telling me. I think it would be frowned upon for me to make a fool of myself now.”
“Iliana,” Torlas says, reaching forward and grabbing my elbows. He lowers his gaze until our eyes meet and holds me there for a long moment. “If you don’t do anything fun for the rest of your life, I’ll have to kill myself at the tragedy of it. I’m eighteen, nearly nineteen, my ‘manhood’ long established, and I’ll never stop having fun. Now, damn it, follow me.”
I let him lead me by the hand towards the doors, inwardly pleased. Maybe I’m not ready to be a full-on woman just yet. I glance back over my shoulder, just in time to see my father shake his head in disgust. I almost snatch my hand out of Torlas’s, but before I can act on the thought, we’re out of the hall.
He marches us towards the back of the palace. I have to wave a pair of guards back, assuring them I’m in no danger. Torlas ignores them and drags me into the first servant’s passage we come across, threading our way to the kitchens.
“We shouldn’t mess with the kitchen staff, Torlas. The dinner bell is an hour off and they are busy,” I say, tugging back so that he comes about.
“We aren’t going to mess with them. There’s just something we need in the kitchen.”
Shrugging uneasily, I let myself be led further. The sounds and smells of a busy kitchen begin to drift up the tight stone passageway, and I groan as I think about how hungry I am. The staff is preparing a meal for hundreds, and the fresh-baked bread, sizzling meat, and vast array of spices is mouth-watering.
We enter the kitchen proper. The clamor dies down as every single pair of eyes locks on me. My stomach twists in on itself. I look around desperately for a familiar face, but I don’t have the faintest idea who any of these people are. It’s clear, though, that they know exactly who I am. One of the men steps forward, grease matting what little remains of his hair to his head. His apron covers a generous belly, and his pants show the markings of countless swipes of dirty fingers across the cloth. His smile, though, is wide and genuine.
“Master Torlas, Princess Iliana. We were not expecting you this evening. With a thousand pardons, may I ask what you require?”
“Creator’s hairy balls, Lucius, she isn’t that much her father’s daughter,” Torlas exclaims, dragging me forward as he embraces the man with one arm. He steps back, gesturing to the man with a short bow. “Lucius Baker, the lead chef in the kitchens and the reason all of your food is divine. Lucius, meet Iliana.”
He seems to have deliberately left off
my title. I can’t decide whether to be annoyed or elated.
“My lady,” Lucius says, bowing deeply. “It is an honor.”
“Thank you. If you are the creator of all of the works of art they call food in this palace, then the honor is mine.”
His grin nearly splits his ears, his ruddy face deepening to a solid red.
“You humble me, my lady,” he says, bowing again, but his grin belies his words. He’s practically bursting with pride. “How did you get mixed up with our young master Torlas here? He’s a shifty sort for such esteemed company as yourself.”
“Oh, I fear I’ve been absconded with,” I say, waving my hand over my brow as if I’m about to faint. “As you can see, the devil still hasn’t let go of my hand.”
Torlas, turning a bright shade of crimson himself, hurriedly releases me to the raucous laughter of the servants. Lucius turns and shouts at them to get back to work. They all shout back in mock outrage as they turn back to their tasks. Lucius leads us into the back corner of the kitchen, where a small table is tucked against the wall. He quickly clears the remnants of someone’s snack from the surface, his movements swift, precise, and economical. In the blink of an eye, a chair presses at the back of my knees, and I sit as Lucius pushes it in for me.
“Torlas has been coming here since, oh, before you were born,” Lucius says, looking down at us. “I first caught him trying to pinch a pastry from the cooling rack when he was three. The only reason I caught him, smooth as he is, is that the damned thing had just come out of the oven, and it burned him into crying! Even while he was crying, the little bugger was hiding the pastry behind his back, trying to pretend he’d stubbed his toe.”
I laugh, picturing a tiny Torlas, stubbornly refusing to admit he has stolen anything despite the pain. Torlas looks embarrassed, but I just put my hand on top of his where they rest on the table. He glances up at me with a reassured grin.
The Crux of Eternity: Eternal Dream, Book 1 (The Eternal Dream Saga) Page 7
