“Humble, Duke?” I say, smiling sarcastically as I gesture around. “The wine alone could keep an army in its cups.”
“As I have invited a veritable army, I have need of it,” the Duke responds, unashamed. “I’m glad you managed to secure permission to attend. Our King keeps you so tightly to his side that I can’t recall the last time I’ve seen you outside the palace.”
“I was recently in Firdana, or didn’t you hear?” I ask innocently, staring into his eyes, begging for a sign. But his eyes stay steady as he speaks.
“Ah yes, young Markis, led astray by the Vengeance. How foolish of him to set himself against the King.”
“Indeed,” I reply evenly.
The first course interrupts our conversation, luckily. I can feel a heat in my cheeks that has nothing to do with the wine. We didn’t accept Paloran’s invitation for the fun of it, of course. The spectacle and enormous cost notwithstanding, I’m here with a purpose, one our host would find more than a bit alarming if he knew. And here I am, waving around Markis Calladan’s capture like a threat. Despite my court upbringing, I’m not exactly the most adept at deception.
The food surpasses my expectation, everything intricate and complex, too complex for my experience to fathom. For all its quality, the palace kitchens cook simple food perfectly. This is exotic food cooked… well, hopefully perfectly. Or not at all, as it turns out. The first course is raw, some fish delivered a thousand miles from the coast and prepared in an esoteric fashion with rice and other fillings. I look at it skeptically for a moment, but Torlas just shoots me a mirthful look and pops a large bite into his mouth. Rolling my eyes, I follow suit with a more modest portion. The taste is divine, but something about the consistency of the fish and the knowledge that it’s raw prevents me from fully enjoying the experience.
As soon as the Duke’s table finishes, the plates are whisked away as if by magic, another glass of wine replacing the empty one at my side. The banquet hall quiets unnaturally. Torlas and I glance around in confusion, but the guests all look towards the doors in hushed anticipation. Just as I resolve to ask, the doors burst open and a dozen men and women in flashy attire come tumbling into the room, setting up a circus show right there in the hall. Two women loop long ribbons over a hook high overhead as the men perform feats of unbelievable strength, lifting one another into ever more precarious positions. One of the men flips into the air and strikes another in the head, and I wince even across the room. But, impossibly, he sticks there, upside down, his bald head flush with his fellow’s, his feet splayed wide for balance. I applaud with everyone else, Torlas letting out a cheer in appreciation.
The women climb the ribbons, like they’re horizontal, their movements sinuous and sure. I gasp as, together, they let go of the ribbons and hang, only a thin sheet of fabric suspending them from certain death high above the floor, no ties or ropes evident. They perform several acrobatic feats up there, graceful as swans, arms flung wide, their bodies spinning and contorting. Without any discernible signal, they both drop into sudden freefall. Several members of the audience scream as they spin towards the floor, uncontrolled, their limbs flashing. I’m half out of my seat, the earth answering my call to arrest their fall, but I’ll be too late… they snap to a halt less than a foot from the ground, their smiles wide as the terror of the audience turns to thunderous cheers.
“That was unbelievable,” I shout to Torlas as we clap, and Paloran overhears me. I should be tense, expectant, cautious. I have a job to do that’s more delicate than anything Father has trusted me with before. Somehow, though, I find myself relaxing and enjoying the show.
“They were simply the first act, my lady,” Paloran answers from my left. “We have many more courses to share, and many more performances to enjoy.”
Though a boast, it’s a truthful one. Each course is more exotic than the last, each performance more breathtaking. Bards with fingers of lightning and voices of thunder sing tales of heroism and sorrow that break our hearts. A troupe of players perform a satirical scene of the Vengeance that leaves us holding stitches in our side with laughter even as we boo the player stomping around and pretending to conjure gusts of wind to defeat his foes. Eventually he resorts to bending over and producing… another type of gust. All the while, some prescient artist paces the courses, the food and entertainment following each other so smoothly I’m never sated.
“Ah, we are coming to the main event,” Paloran says over dessert. “I had never heard of these performers before, but they came so highly recommended I saved them for last.”
“Let us hope they live up to their reputation,” I answer honestly. Even if I have another task to complete, and soon, I lean forward in my chair as the doors open a final time.
A pair of duelists strut out with all the arrogant grace of peacocks. One smoothly snatches the goblet from the hand of the new Earl of Firdana, Edwin Beck, who is so inebriated or shocked that he hardly has a response. The first throws the glass of wine into the other’s face, and they’re off. They twirl up and over and around the tables, fight fish to fish, and even use the arms of some of the guest’s chairs as a tenuous place to dart a dozen brilliant jabs and slashes at one another. It’s part showmanship, part comedy, and all breathtaking skill. Those men are more than just trained swordsmen; they have the balance and timing of acrobats as well.
“Not entirely what I expected from the main event, Hoiran,” Torlas says, leaning across me. He uses Paloran’s given name, a calculated move. Perhaps a half dozen people outside his family can call Paloran ‘Hoiran,’ and each is more powerful than he. Torlas’ hand rests on my thigh, the contact casual... until it lingers. I try to ignore him and keep my eyes on the performance, but my eyes flutter involuntarily, hyperaware of Torlas’ hand. Paloran turns back from speaking to a servant in hushed tones, and I blink at the angry face he makes an effort to control. He forces a laugh.
“Nor I, Graevo,” he answers with good cheer. Forced cheer, but still genuine. “Though I think it is just getting started. See, look, princess!”
Our attention returns to the stage as a man steps up in the stylized attire of the western Khalintars, a vest and overlarge pants his only covering. His massive and toned physique gleams with oil in the lamplight. The only person I’ve ever seen more impressive is Uncle, and he, well, he cheats. A woman in thin veils and silks slides between his legs, and the man catches her wrists, flexing and flinging her flipping into the air. She arcs gracefully, her body in complete control, hovering longer than seems possible before falling elegantly back into his arms. Two more women enter in equally impressive fashion, their nimble and disciplined movements balletic.
One of the women forms a ring with her body, bent backwards so that her feet rest on the crown of her head. The strength and physical control necessary to maintain that form is outlandish. The man lifts her and launches her spinning higher than any have gone before. A flash of movement, a shimmer of green silks, and a dark-skinned woman of the Isles dives through the spinning ring of her partner and… freezes. By the Creator, she should fall to the ground after the impossible leap, but instead she hangs in the air as if gravity can find no purchase on her skin. There are no strings I can see, no apparatus. Only a woman, her face serene, her attire a scandalous and revealing series of silk ribbons. On her face twists a tattoo of black whorls and undulating lines reaching from her forehead down the left side of her face almost to the jawline. It’s dark even against her skin, and it shimmers in the light as if alive.
The man below begins to juggle the women, their bodies contorted into compact and intricate shapes. I gape, having no idea if even Uncle could perform that particular feat of strength. The enthralled audience watches in silence, the absurd feats of athleticism bordering on mysticism. Surely, this isn’t happening. Surely, it isn’t possible. Surely, something will happen to break the spell, to reveal the trick, to open the door again for normal thought and expectation…
“Thief! There is a thief in the hall!
Stop! Thief!”
I blink in surprise, my head turning with all the others in the hall to see a boy crouching against the wall on the other side of the hall. Dressed in Paloran’s colors, he has a large rectangle of cloth balanced on his back like some strange pack. His expression is shocked, his mouth open, his face strangely familiar.
The imposter. Teldaran Hollenzar.
It appears we will be solving a mystery tonight. I reach for my power, drawing in the residual dust from the hall, forming it into a tendril of earth, reaching out to grasp the boy before he can run. Torlas grabs my arm and tugs me around just before the earth can grasp him. I scowl at him.
“Let me go,” I growl, turning back to the imposter as he sprints along a tabletop towards the doorway the performers entered from. The fool launches himself at a group of guards, tumbling into them and coming up sprinting. The cloth tears, and the unmistakable frame of a painting slaps on his back as he sprints away. “I can stop him.”
“No,” Torlas says desperately. “Please. He… I know him. He is my friend.”
“That boy is your friend? You know him well?”
“Yes, he’s my friend,” Torlas answers reluctantly. “I met him nearly a season ago, and he is here on my invitation. My suggestion. If he can escape, then please, let him.”
“These weeks my father has been looking for him, you’ve known where he was all this time, and you didn’t tell me?” I ask the question low, quietly.
The thief makes it out of the hall, the majority of the guests in hot pursuit, hindering the guards as they attempt to do their duty.
“Yes, I’ve known, but what would you do? Would you betray a friend for crimes that can only be described as harmless? He crashed a party, so what. He... well, he is currently stealing a painting, but Hoiran has more money than he knows what to do with. What is one painting?” Torlas speaks rapidly, as if to prevent me from getting a word in before he finishes, but I simply hold up a hand, and he subsides.
“I’m glad to know you’re loyal to someone. Because you have shown your kingdom no loyalty. You have shown your king no loyalty. And you have shown,” I speak over him as he tries to interject. “No loyalty to me.”
“Iliana, that’s not true,” he says quietly.
“You should have trusted me,” I say. I keep my voice low and steady so my simmering rage doesn’t boil over. “If you were my friend, as you claim, if you would have been my partner, as you wish, you would have trusted me. Know now you are neither.”
“Iliana—”
“Enough,” I make a cutting gesture with my hand. “Enough.”
I turn and stalk away. The anger in my heart burns hot. A reaction, I know, to the betrayal, but I let it have the reins. I’ll feel the hurt and the loss later. I still have work to do, and at least I don’t need to come up with a distraction of my own to slip away. The exit to the hall that leads deeper into Paloran’s estate is near the back, and a small crowd of self-important women block my path. I plan to skate by with the excuse of heading on to be certain the rest of Paloran’s art is secure, but another woman beats me to it: the Islander in the green silk who so ably levitated above the floor. She stumbles as she reaches them, and I stare in shock as she turns and stumbles away, the ladies tittering after her graceless exit. The theft was so smooth I never would have noticed without my angle and the brief glitter of the jewels in the lamplight.
My feet move of their own accord, and I’m in her path before she can move far. Her eyes track up my dress and stop on my face, showing surprise but no fear. She’s younger than she appears from a distance, but still older than me by a few years. Her eyes shine a deep, liquid brown and her hair a smooth and luxurious black. A scar on her cheek only highlights the delicacy of her features.
“Helping yourself, Islander?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. I keep my voice low. The audacity of the theft is so impressive I don’t feel like giving her over quite yet. Normally, I wouldn’t condone anyone breaking the kingdom’s laws, but I feel strangely forgiving.
“I have a feeling no one is going to pay me after tonight,” she answers, the necklace disappearing somewhere amongst the gleaming emerald ribbons.
“So you’ll pay yourself? That doesn’t seem entirely honest,” I say, glancing at my fingernails to hide the widening of my eyes. I need a moment to process. Something’s different about the woman, something important.
“What happened to your boy toy?” she responds, flicking her chin over my shoulder. I glance back to see Torlas near the entrance, all the sadness of a beaten puppy on his face. I’m not ready to see him yet, haven’t processed my anger, and the look he’s giving me pushes a strange mixture of rage and sympathy deep into my belly.
“He lied to me,” I say.
“Why did he lie?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I snap.
“Doesn’t it? I’ve been told lies by people I love,” she says, and her eyes are sad. She glances around. Her movements are a little slower, a little less certain. She speaks from somewhere that matters to her. She meets my eyes again with a wan smile. “Some lies are hurtful, some wonderful. Some, honestly, have nothing to do with you. Figure out which is which.”
Her words strike a chord in my heart, a resonating thrum that vibrates through the haze of my anger. Why did Torlas lie? To protect a friend. After what I saw in the dungeons, what Uncle is capable of, the hopeless screams of pain down past that particular cell… I can’t say I entirely blame him. Even so, he owes me honesty. I’ve given him everything, unadulterated, uncensored, so that we can understand each other. He can trust me to keep a secret, even from my father.
Can’t he?
The woman walks past me, brushing past so close I feel the warmth of her skin, so much darker and yet more beautiful than my own.
“You’re lucky,” I call softly to her back. She pauses. “I have somewhere to be… and I never liked that woman in the first place.”
“You’re lucky, too,” she answers. “That man loves you so much he’s dying over there. It’s so obvious it hurts. Be careful, princess. Love like that is rare.”
Anger lances through my heart. No one tells me how to act, no one save Father, Uncle and… Torlas. The thought brings me up short. Even as the idea begins to worm its way beneath my skin, I shake it off. Eternal’s tomb, I don’t have time. I file away her words for later. Whatever that strange Islander saw between Torlas and me may be significant… but not now. Now I need to accomplish what I’m here to do.
I brush past the Duchess and her cohorts with a flimsy excuse, but they don’t dare question. It isn’t until I reach the doors that I realize exactly what was different about the Islander. Her face, so striking and pristine aside from the scar… it was tattooed before. An intricate, complex tattoo, one that seemed to gleam black in the bright lights…
I spin back around, my breathing coming sharply as my dress swirls around my legs. The hall is empty save for the Duchess’ crowd and servants. The Islander… the Shaper… she’s gone. I almost resolve to run after her, but I force myself to continue on. What kind of world are we living in? A Shaper, blessed by the Creator above all others, reduced to thieving and acrobatics?
But what is she the Shaper of? What element has a black symbol?
The halls are empty in the back of the estate. I pass a few frantic guards as they scurry from one place to another, but one look at my face is enough to hurry them along. I’m aiming for stern, but it’s coming off frightening judging by the reactions of the guardsman. There will be no doubt in anyone’s mind I wandered throughout Paloran’s estate tonight. There are far too many witnesses. What I need is a moment to myself, a moment unobserved to find what I’m looking for… or leave something behind. Creator, what a frustrating mission.
***
I was nervous for days after my narrow escape in the dungeons, shying away from contact with Uncle and Father, certain the guardsman gave me up under questioning. When the summon comes, I’m so terrified I can hardly move, a
nd the expression on Father’s face does nothing to smooth over the rough edges of my fear. I almost burst out with an apology, my mouth opening, the words beginning in my throat, but Father speaks first.
“Hoiran Paloran is a traitor,” Father says quietly, his voice as grave as I’ve ever heard it.
I blink once, surprised. He stares down at the maps laid on the table, the markings of hundreds of notations scribbled across the length and breadth of the world. The war room brightens in the late Spring evening, the stark and severe chamber illuminated by the rays of the rising sun. Father leans over the table, his powerful frame sagging wearily. For the first time in all the years I’ve been alive, he looks tired. He looks like the burden of his position, the responsibility of being king, finally grows heavy.
“Paloran?” I gasp. “But why? What does he stand to gain? What more can he desire?”
“Apparently, his greed knows no bounds. Perhaps being duke is not enough, but instead he wishes something more. A return to the days of the Council, when normal men ruled and the Shapers were… subservient,” his face twists in disgust at the final word.
“But the Council was corrupt,” I protest. “They were leading in all but name, influencing and threatening…”
“I know, daughter. Trust me, I know. But not all view the Council as we do. Some miss the days when men were kings instead of dukes.”
“So he is in league with the Vengeance. Just like Calladan.”
“How do you think we discovered his treachery? Paloran first came under suspicion years ago. We placed him in charge of our trade negotiations because he was viewed as such a shrewd businessman, but he signed us into a ruinous deal with the Khalintari Republic that I nearly had to threaten outright war to renegotiate.” Father says bitterly. “Markis’s servants and retainers were very forthcoming after his capture. Both of these traitors have been very meticulous in hiding their involvement. There hasn’t been a shred of hard evidence. If they keep any records of their support for the rebels, we haven’t been able to find it. We weren’t completely certain about Markis until you saw him in conversation with the Vengeance himself.”
The Crux of Eternity: Eternal Dream, Book 1 (The Eternal Dream Saga) Page 50
