Jeweled Fire

by Sharon Shinn

  “I would think anyone who lived in a royal palace and was competing for a throne would have to be part shadow as well.”

  He raised his eyebrows and leaned back against his chair, regarding her for a moment. “That was a dagger thrust from a hand in a silken glove,” he said, but he didn’t sound offended. “You are not the innocent you appear to be.”

  She was smiling. “I have spent my life at court, learning how to pick the truth from the lie,” she said. “Or—no. Learning that it’s sometimes impossible to tell the truth from the lie, but that someone is always lying.”

  “If you were willing to be truthful about it,” he said, smiling in return, “would you consider yourself flame or shadow?”

  Her hand went to the necklace at her throat, strung with three delicate rings stamped with the glyphs for courage, clarity, and travel. “In Welce, we’re not so restricted,” she said. “We affiliate ourselves with one of five elements—fire, water, air, earth, and wood. My element is fire.”

  “I would have guessed that, I think.”

  “But there’s more to it than that. Each element corresponds to a physical component. Fire and mind. Water and blood. Air and spirit. And so on. So the sweela folk—the people of fire—are thinkers as well as lovers. They’re creative and passionate and full of imagination. But we’re never just one element or another. In fact, we go to temple to meditate ourselves back into a sense of balance. We realize that we need all of our elements, all of our physical selves, to function in harmony.”

  Jiramondi smiled again. “I think our philosophies are not so different, if you look at them closely,” he said. “It is merely a matter of discovering where you stand on a spectrum of choices and deciding how honest you want to be about those choices. In the end, it is not the color of your house or the element you select that defines who you are. That color, that element, reflects what you have chosen to be.”

  Corene listened closely. “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” she said. “But I agree with you.”

  “But I like your elemental affiliations very much,” he added. “What would I be, if I were in Welce?”

  She surveyed him a moment. A slim, handsome, charming man whose quest for power had forced him to hide a side of his personality that was strongly condemned in his corner of the world. “At first glance, someone would think you sweela,” she said slowly. “But I would bet there is a lot of coru thrown in.”

  “Coru?”

  “The sign for water. Adaptable, open to change, and full of surprises.”

  His smile was back. “Interesting. I think I shall take that as a compliment.” He nodded to where Filomara sat halfway around the table. “What about my aunt? How does she fit in your world?”

  Corene almost laughed. “Oh, there’s no doubt that she’s hunti! Wood and bone. Strong, powerful, and determined. Hunti people are utterly reliable—but so stubborn that trying to change one is like trying to kick a brick wall down with your bare feet.”

  He couldn’t restrain his laughter. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d just spent a couple of ninedays with my aunt in close quarters. That describes her perfectly.”

  “My father as well,” she said. “My guess is that hunti folk are commonly found among the monarchy. It takes great strength of will to rule a country.”

  Jiramondi glanced thoughtfully around the table, his gaze resting briefly on Garameno and Greggorio. Greggorio, who seemed to have run out of things to say to Liramelli, stared right back. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “But I don’t think either of my cousins are any more—What did you call it?—hunti than I am. I wonder what that says about our chances for success as rulers.”

  “You said it yourself,” she answered. “You make your own choices about who you want to be. And, I would think, how you want to rule.” She toyed with the stem of her water glass. “Or you could choose a hunti bride.”

  “Someone whose assets make up for my deficits,” he said. “Yes. A wise course of action, I’m sure.”

  Greggorio leaned across the table, offering an attractive smile. He was so good-looking he was almost pretty, and his face held none of the sharpness that characterized both of his cousins. “Princess Corene!” he exclaimed in Malinquese. “I haven’t said a word to you all night. Tell me how you like Palminera so far.”

  The conversation became more general at that point, and more stilted. The tête-à-tête with Jiramondi had been unexpectedly enjoyable, even more so by contrast with the rest of the meal. Corene labored through the unfamiliar language, well aware that she missed a good third of what was being said, and tried to keep her expression civil as she accidentally took another bite of that wretched zeezin. There was no dessert served at the end of the meal, as she was accustomed to, though the servants came through pouring some sweet, heavy wine that seemed to signal the final course. Everyone else at the table sipped it with obvious pleasure, but Corene found it syrupy and cloying.

  So far, there wasn’t much about Malinqua that she actually liked. She thought she liked Melissande, but the other girl might not be trustworthy—and, anyway, Melissande wasn’t even from Malinqua.

  Not the best way to start a quest for a foreign crown.

  She found herself fighting off a yawn and hoping the meal was almost over so she could seek her room and collapse. She was delighted when Filomara came to her feet and everyone—except Garameno—followed suit.

  “It was a pleasure to see you all,” she said, showing no pleasure. “Good night.”

  “Oh, but wait,” Garameno spoke up. “I had a question.”

  She looked impatient. “Yes?”

  He was smiling as if he knew he was about to delight her. “Why didn’t you tell us your good news? Even for you, this can’t be a trivial thing.”

  Everyone else was staring at him, but Corene watched Filomara. The empress mostly kept her expression under control, but Corene saw her lips tighten and her eyes grow colder. “Maybe it’s news that’s not ready to be shared.”

  “But it is!” Garameno exclaimed. He made a sweeping gesture with both hands. “Everyone—you should know. Filomara has returned from Welce with a living grandson in tow. Sadly, as we all know, Subriella is dead, but what we didn’t know is that she had two sons—and one of them has come to visit us today.”

  Naturally, that caused pandemonium as everyone burst into conversation at once. What? Subriella has living offspring? A grandson? Another heir? What was that? What did Garameno say?

  Corene saw bewilderment on Greggorio’s face, calculation on Jiramondi’s, and angry satisfaction on Garameno’s. She interpreted that to be a message to his aunt: You cannot outmaneuver me. Include me in your plans or see those plans upended. Clever, Corene thought.

  Corene glanced at the others to try to assess their reactions. Steff, of course, was trying to hide flat dismay under a stoic demeanor. The prefect and the other city officials were offering Filomara congratulations, but she saw worry under their smiles; what they wanted was a stable succession, and too many heirs threatened that stability. Alette showed no expression at all, but Liramelli looked intrigued. Maybe she thought Steff might be a more attractive marriage prospect than the three young men she’d known her whole life. Melissande, predictably, appeared delighted, at both the new candidate and the chaos. When she caught Corene’s eyes on her, she laughed and pursed her mouth into a kiss.

  Filomara raised her hands for silence, and everyone subsided. Her face was set in grimmer than ordinary lines. “Yes. My daughter did indeed escape her marriage in Berringey and keep two sons alive. One remains in Welce, and one has accompanied me here.” Now she gestured at Steff, whose face became even more masklike.

  “But this is so exciting!” Jiramondi exclaimed. “Weren’t you going to tell us?”

  “Of course I was,” she snapped. “But I wanted to conduct tests. I wanted to be absolutely certai
n.” Her dark eyes rested on Steff a moment and Corene thought she saw a flicker of pain. “The story put forth by Steffanolo and his family was convincing, yet I am sure you all would agree that science trumps anecdotes. If he is not in fact mine, I do not want to embrace him.”

  The prefect spoke up. “You said Subriella bore two sons. Will we have the opportunity to meet this young man’s brother?”

  “If you sail to Welce, you will,” Filomara replied with a trace of humor. “There are circumstances that prevent him from traveling beyond those borders.”

  “Then you don’t expect him to join the long and ever-growing list of contenders for your throne?” Garameno said a little too sharply.

  Conversation died to nothing. Filomara and her oldest nephew locked gazes. “Lerafi will never leave Welce,” she said deliberately. “If he ever wears a crown, it will be in that country, for he is attached to one of the old king’s daughters.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Greggorio said. “Are you thinking of passing the crown to this stranger? Instead of one of us?”

  “Yes, Greggorio, that’s exactly what she’s considering,” Garameno said, his voice edged. “He is directly in line for the throne.”

  “I have made no decisions yet,” Filomara snapped. “I have not even verified his lineage. I would thank you to not presume to know my own mind before I know it myself.”

  “And yet, everyone will want to learn about him,” Jiramondi said smoothly. “Everyone will want to lionize him. I mean, he’ll be so popular. Just look at him.”

  Of course, when everyone turned to stare at Steff, he looked like nothing so much as a small boy caught stealing the baker’s pies—chagrined and nervous and braced for terrible consequences. I warned you this would not be easy, Corene thought.

  Melissande’s laugh trilled out, and she strolled around the table to lay her hand on Steff’s sleeve. Surely it was random coincidence that her indigo dress paired so nicely with his blue tunic. She could have had no idea who he was or what he might be wearing to this dinner, could she?

  “I for one will be happy to look at him,” she said gaily. “A handsome prince! Every girl’s dream come true. Hello, Steffanolo, I am Melissande. I am sure we will be the best of friends.”

  • • •

  Despite the fact that Filomara was clearly ready for the evening to end, everyone else obviously wanted to stay and talk, so the whole party eventually adjourned to another room. It was a bit bigger and more informal, full of simple but comfortable furniture, and featured two huge windows that gave a spectacular nighttime view of the northern half of the city. The most impressive sight, of course, was the bright beacon of the white tower, with the eerie light of its crystal dome glowing like a low half-moon.

  “Isn’t it pretty?” said a voice from behind Corene. She turned to find Greggorio had joined her at the window. Everyone else had fallen into one of two clusters: some around Filomara, some around Steff. It was hardly a surprise that, generally speaking, the women encircled Steff and the men gathered around the empress.

  “Truly impressive,” she said, answering in Coziquela. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak your language very well.”

  “I don’t speak yours at all,” he said, obligingly following suit. He gave her a rueful smile. “I haven’t had much chance to talk to you. Kind of a strange evening.”

  She decided to be forthright. “You didn’t seem very happy to hear the news about Steff.”

  “Who?”

  “Steffanolo.”

  The rueful expression grew more pronounced. “It just makes things more complicated, and they were already complicated enough.”

  “That tends to be the way of it when there’s no clear succession,” she agreed.

  He leaned against the window, his back to that incredible view. “Garameno says it used to be clear,” he said. “When my cousin Aravani was alive.”

  It was a moment before Corene recalled that Aravani was the name of Filomara’s eldest daughter—the one who hadn’t been sent off to marry a murderous Berringese prince.

  “I don’t know anything about her,” Corene said. “I think the empress said she died of a fever.”

  “I don’t know much about her, either,” Greggorio said. “I was born the year she died.”

  Corene was having a hard time doing the math in her head. “How old was she? Shouldn’t she already have been married and had an heir or two of her own by then?”

  “I think she was thirty? Thirty-two? Something like that. And she was married. And had two daughters. They all died, and so did her husband.”

  “So you were a baby and the other two—”

  “Jiramondi was ten and Garameno was fifteen.”

  “I would have thought Garameno would have been the likeliest heir, since he was the eldest nephew.”

  “Yes, Harlo said that once.”

  “Harlo?”

  “The prefect. Liramelli’s father. He said Garameno would have been an even better ruler than Aravani—at least until he got injured.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was riding and his horse fell on him. It took him forever to heal and he’s still in a lot of pain.”

  “And the good people of Malinqua don’t like the idea of a ruler who has a broken body.”

  Greggorio looked uncomfortable. He himself was the picture of perfect health, with fine shoulders and muscular arms not entirely disguised by the tailored jacket. “It’s such a hard job,” he said earnestly. “I think people just want to be sure he can do it.”

  “So when Garameno’s horse fell on him, people started looking at you and Jiramondi.”

  “Harlo says I am the next natural heir. My father was Filomara’s oldest brother, and if something had happened to her, the crown would have gone to him. My father’s dead now, but Harlo says I should still be next in line.”

  Harlo sounded like he enjoyed meddling in the succession, Corene thought. Out loud, she asked, “Do you want to be king? Or—no—you don’t call yourselves ‘king’ and ‘queen,’ do you? Would you be ‘emperor’?”

  Greggorio nodded. He was smiling. “Garameno always says it’s a grand title for a small nation. We used to be kings and queens until a hundred years ago, and then the king decided he was going to consolidate the nations of the southern seas. So he called himself emperor and started wars with all his neighbors, but he couldn’t conquer a single one. The new title stuck, though. Garameno says it’s silly.”

  “I like the story,” Corene said, “but he was probably a horrid man.”

  Greggorio laughed. “I think a lot of rulers are horrible people.”

  “And so? Do you want to be one?” she repeated.

  He looked briefly confused. “I suppose so. I mean, who wouldn’t? There are people to help you through the hard parts. And you have all that money and all that power, and people love you.”

  “Well—people probably don’t love you if you’re a tyrant.”

  “I wouldn’t be,” he said earnestly. “I would be kind to everybody. And fair. And I would only raise taxes if I had to.”

  This boy doesn’t have a clue what it takes to be a king, Corene thought. His general likability kept her from feeling true contempt, but she couldn’t help thinking he would be a bad choice for Filomara. Unless two minutes in his company didn’t accurately convey the kind of man he really was . . .

  “Is there any reason we need to raise taxes?” asked a voice behind them, and Corene and Greggorio turned to see who had joined them.

  It was Liramelli, the prefect’s daughter. Corene surveyed her critically, not making any attempt to hide her curiosity. Liramelli appeared to be about twenty, though her serious expression might make her look older than her years. She was dressed all in white, the color accentuated by her ice-blond hair, and didn’t seem to be wearing a single personal adornment. Corene
thought Liramelli might be the plainest person she had ever seen. She remembered that Melissande had expressed a desire to make her over, and she longed to see what the Coziquela girl might do if she had the chance.

  Greggorio greeted Liramelli without enthusiasm and then added, “No, I don’t think we need more taxes—that was my point.”

  Corene tried a smile to see if Liramelli would respond. “We were talking about all the responsibilities that fall to a ruler. Just in general.”

  Liramelli nodded and didn’t lose her solemn expression. “Of course, it’s not just the empress who decides to raise taxes. The mayor and the prefect and the council offer advice. As they do in all matters of state.”

  “Of course,” Corene answered.

  Someone called Greggorio’s name from across the room. Corene thought it might have been Jiramondi. “Well, I better see what he wants,” he said in relief. “Maybe we can talk tomorrow.”

  That left Corene alone with the deathly serious potential heir. For the longest moment of her life, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  Liramelli tried to fix a look of interest on her face. “So did you have a pleasant journey from Welce?”

  Not by any measure, Corene thought. She tried another smile. “I’ve never made a long trip by sea before,” she said. “I had no idea what to expect! The rooms were small, but the food was very good. And I never got sick enough to throw up. So I think that counts as pleasant, don’t you?”

  Liramelli’s lips quirked up slightly, but the smile did almost nothing to lighten her expression. “Most of my ocean travels have been less than a nineday, but I agree, the quarters are very cramped. I would not want to be a sailor and spend all my days at sea.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I’ve been to Dhonsho twice and Cozique once. Someday I’d like to see Welce. I know hardly anything about it.”

  “No, it seems like no one here does,” Corene answered.

  “I’d like to learn, though.”

  “Then you should spend an afternoon with Steff and me,” Corene said. “I grew up in the city and he grew up in the country, so we can tell you everything.”