by Natalie Mae
“The gods chose you for this,” he says. “Prove they were right.”
XXIII
WE leave in silence, Kasta with that same stiff, impassive expression, and me with static riding my veins, both for what I’m about to do and for the king’s declining health. I knew the Mestrah’s time was drawing to a close. But it’s another thing to see it, even if he’s not my favorite person given how harsh he’s been with his children and the cutting things he can say. He’s still the one who defended my position to his advisors. Who is giving me a fair shot to prove myself, even going so far as to put Kasta on trial with me.
But more chilling is the worry that he may not survive till our coronation. And if that happens, according to all my history lessons, the priests will crown Kasta and me right away.
The idea of the fake pelts grazes the back of my mind, a teeth-laced whisper.
But what I’ll do about it will have to wait until tomorrow, after I have hopefully not ignited a war. I shift my thoughts to what’s coming, going over again how I’ll say it. The guards lead us past the high archway to the gardens. Down a hall paved with sunlight, into an open gallery filled with life-sized gods’ statues and even larger indoor trees. Kasta stays quiet at my side. I can almost imagine he’s a bodyguard and I’m alone, and this is one of many meetings I’m used to having.
I survived the Crossing. I can survive this.
We reach the massive doors to the banquet hall. A marble Rachella, goddess of love, smiles from where she sits on one of the banisters that borders them, and more overwhelming than the burst of conversation that hits us when the doors open is the sudden quiet that follows.
This is what it is to be royalty.
In the banquet room, at least a hundred people turn to us from beneath palm tree columns that drip strings of crystal, from seats around the rim of the jeweled crane fountain at the center of the room, from between a dozen high, fluted tables set with steaming platters of food. Crystal wine glasses glitter in ringed hands; crowns glisten on brows. They smile, and I remember these people have been doing this since birth. They smile, and it reminds me of jackals.
Despite my better judgment, I step closer to Kasta.
A thin, solemn-faced man bows to our side.
“His Royal Highness,” he announces, “Deathbringer, Crossing Victor, and dōmmel of Orkena: Kasta, son of Isa. And Her Highness, Living Sacrifice, Whisperer, and dōmmel of Orkena: Zahru, daughter of Lia.”
The royal entourages dip their heads, though the kings and queens only look on.
Kasta stiffens. “They bow for my father,” he mutters.
A physical reminder of how power in our world is shifting. Murmurs bubble, and my nerves with them—it’s time for my welcome speech. But it’s one thing to practice in front of decorative pillows and another to actually stand before a hundred pairs of eyes. My Influence sparks and reaches; a panic reflex, not a command. Emotions press against my skin. Amusement, curiosity, doubt, and something hostile: an anger as sharp as a blade.
My breath hitches. My mouth goes dry. I need to let go, to remember that eagerness I felt just this morning, but my silence only makes their doubt stronger, until it bites down and presses its fingers into my head and I’m not sure my plan will work at all—
A feather-light touch on my arm. The pressure vanishes. It’s like holding forsvine all over again, except this time, instead of my magic ripping away, it simply . . . rests. Quiet, waiting.
I look down at Kasta’s fingers. He snatches his hand back, but I can’t tell if it’s because he felt the same thing or because he only meant to shock me into paying attention.
Honored guests, he mouths, prompting me.
Helping me.
I tear my gaze from him and turn back to the room. The people are just people now, no suffocating doubts or hostilities.
Focus. I can do this, I belong here.
“Honored guests,” I say, glancing at Kasta. “I know you’ve heard many things about me, from my life as a Whisperer, to my journey across the desert as the Crossing’s sacrifice. You’ve also heard how I came into power, and no doubt that there’s as much conflict within our palace walls as the war brewing outside of them.”
Charged silence from the crowd. This is exactly what they want to hear, and this is how I’ll rewrite those rumors as mine.
“But I want to assure you that when it comes to Orkena, Kasta and I are of the same mind. This country and its people were worth trading my life for. Together, there is nothing we wouldn’t do to see it thrive.”
I can feel Kasta watching me, and it brings a smirk to my lips. He won’t like this next part nearly as much.
“That said, we want you, our friends and allies, to feel comfortable and on equal ground during your stay here. When I was a Whisperer among this same company, I felt entirely out of place. Entirely inadequate. I had magic, but mine was the kind reserved for stables and servants. I can only imagine what it must be like to be among us with no magic at all.”
Kasta shifts, and I realize I’ve accidentally hit on the reality of his life before this.
“Which is why both Kasta and I will be wearing forsvine tonight.”
Kasta jerks his head at me, and shocked exclamations ripple through the gentry. I smile. Jet draws the crowd’s attention to where he stands at the side of the room with two of the army’s forsvine samples, holding the little bracelets high. Each one contains just enough metal to neutralize our own magic without affecting anyone else—Jet’s idea, so we don’t accidentally disarm any guards if we need them. To prove they work, Jet lifts the bracelets to an enchanted torch, and the fire snuffs out.
“I realize forsvine is a tool of our enemy,” I continue, “but tonight, it’s our reassurance to you that we plan to speak on equal ground. No tricks, no wondering if we’ve mastered some kind of secretive magic to use for our advantage. So please enjoy our hospitality, and do not fear that it’s being used against you. We are the new Orkena. Welcome.”
And I bow, my fingertips to my forehead. The room squawks in surprise and delight, grins breaking across faces, though Kasta doesn’t echo my gesture. It doesn’t matter. When I rise, I reach tentatively for the room’s emotions, meaning to this time, and now they’re warm with true approval. Doubt is still there in tight strands, and so is that eerie anger, but we’re closer than before.
So far, so good.
Kasta takes to this just about as well as I hoped he would. “Next time,” he growls in my ear as we step off the raised platform, “I’m going to say we absolutely shouldn’t use magic at all, so you’ll actually do it. Are you happy now? You just threw out our best strategy!”
“I threw out a lazy strategy, and believe it or not, I didn’t do it just to spite you. We can earn their trust without cheating, and there’s no fallout if people ever find out I have Influence, because I can still prove we didn’t use it to gain their help.” I smile as Jet approaches with our bracelets. “Relax. I read the room, and they’re already much happier with us.”
Kasta works his jaw but says nothing. Jet stops before me, his warm eyes glistening, and fastens the first of the bracelets around my wrist.
“That was perfect,” he says. “I’ve never been prouder of you.”
“Thank you,” I say, bracing myself against the cold flush of the metal. “I almost threw up.”
“Don’t tell me that. Go secure some kingdoms to our cause.”
He drops my hand and turns rigidly to Kasta, who crosses his arms and dares him with a look to come closer. At which point I remember that the last time they were this close, they were literally trying to kill each other, and I hastily snatch the second bracelet.
“Thanks again,” I tell Jet. “I’ll see you later?”
He pulls his glare from Kasta and nods. “I’ll be around. Possibly helping confused guests identify food, as is my specialty.”
>
He winks and slips away, and despite my nerves, I snicker at this reference to my clueless self at the Crossing’s banquet. But just as I’m starting to take comfort in this, that maybe it’s just the stress of these weeks that’s been pulling us apart, Kasta’s keen gaze slides to me.
“Hmm,” he says, offering me his wrist.
I shoot him a glare. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop. Can you put this on yourself?”
“No.” Not that he even tries. “I’m just wondering if I was wrong about something.”
“The safe assumption there is yes.” My first attempt at fastening the bracelet fails, possibly because I’m trying not to touch him. And then I realize that in the effort to provide a snappy reply, I have no idea what I’ve actually answered. “Wait, what are you talking about?”
His wrist twitches under my fingers. “I think I believe you.”
“What?”
“In the Crossing. You said you weren’t his. I believe you now.”
My fingers still on the bracelet. I don’t like this conversation, and I don’t like what it seems to be saying about something I’m not even sure about myself. “I wasn’t his, but I could be at some point, and we are absolutely not talking about this.”
He pulls his wrist away before I’ve finished—and ties the bracelet in two deft twists. “If you insist. Either way, I think he’s mad at you for something.”
My blood chills. “What? How would you even get that from”—I gesture to where Jet just was—“that?”
He shrugs. “No touch to your arm, no kiss.” He smiles. “And he put your bracelet on the same way you just did to me.”
Like he was trying not to touch me. I remember the way Jet looked at me in the closet when I accidentally read his anger, and my gut twists. Is that what’s going on? Is he worried I’ll read something from him without meaning to, or is he just wary of Influence in general? Except when I glance over to find him, Jet’s chatting with a group of high-collared Nadessans, and when I catch his eye, he smiles and raises his drink. Like nothing’s wrong.
I grit my teeth. “You’re just bitter I threw out your idea. And probably jealous.”
I don’t know why I just said that last part. I really should not have said that last part.
“Jealous?” Kasta snickers, and grabs two glasses of sparkling juice when a servant moves past. “By all means, please, gods, turn your charms on him. I’d love to see him destroyed.”
Considering I’m still planning to trap Kasta in eternal Shifter servitude, I am very ready to respond to this with You have no idea, except that will oddly prove him right, and also, he hands me one of the drinks. “I . . . Why did you get me a drink like we’re having a civilized conversation?”
He leans closer. “Because even when we’re arguing in public, we can’t look like we’re arguing in public.” He toasts me. “Something I learned well from my parents. Are you ready for Amian?”
Well, I was before this entire conversation, and I would also like to avoid all future references to being like his parents, but I force myself to shove it aside; I won’t think about this until later, if I even find it worth coming back to. What Kasta thinks of Jet and me doesn’t matter in the least. I turn to the couple standing beneath the nearest palm tree column: the brown-haired Konge of Amian and his attractive fiancé, the same boy Hen had marked for me as my backup plan, both in cream-hued tunics as airy as gossamer, their arms bangled. Tall, horned necklaces climb their throats. The Konge himself is young, maybe only five years our elder, with fair skin and green eyes and oversized features that don’t fit his boyish face. A great smile, though—at least until he sees us looking, and then it vanishes.
I rest the tip of the glass against my lips, wondering if we look like the jackals now. “It’s the Pe who don’t have any magical blood, right? Not even rarely, like the Enchanters born to Greka?”
Kasta nods. “Right. The same for Nadessa. Amian has a rare few from all specialties, but—”
“Their elders consider magicians to be demons. Yes, that I remember.” I take a sip. “But the Konge is open-minded?”
“He’s unsure, which means he’s swayable.” Kasta finishes his drink, and a servant slips over in a second to collect it. “Not that you need to worry about any of this, if you plan on following any part of our strategy from yesterday.”
I shift the weight of the mantle on my shoulders and smile. “Oh, right. You do all the talking now.”
His eyes narrow like he doesn’t trust that answer in the least, which he shouldn’t. But he has no time to get in anything else. I’ve already started forward, and the Konge has turned to us, and all Kasta can do is follow.
“Konge,” Kasta says, with a warning glance at me. “How are you finding your stay?”
“Questionable,” the Konge answers, and I snort on a sip of juice before I can stop myself. This earns me a disapproving glare from Kasta, but the barest smile from the king. “You boast of placing us on equal ground,” he says, though his eyes are light on me. “And yet each of your decorations is a reminder that we are not?”
He gestures to the room, where red wine bursts like blood from the crane fountain in the center, and enchanted weapons spin beneath glass cases, their blades burning or crackling with lightning, and soldiers fill the enormous paintings along the walls, devastating faceless armies with bursts of wind and walls of sand.
“Wow. These really were poor choices,” I agree, studying the portrait of a soldier setting fire to a foreign general. “I wasn’t asked about the decorations, but I will be next time.”
Kasta gives me a look. “They are only to remind you of what we have to offer. I heard Wyrim approached you with a lot of bold promises, including Orkenian runes at half the current export tax. You realize to do that, they’d have to conquer all of Orkena and force our Runemasters to produce for them?”
“I do,” the Konge says, letting his answer sink in. “They’re also promising us half of northern Orkena. They’ve split your country into fifths, a generous slice for each ally. Can you do better than that?”
I stare, shocked at his bluntness, but Kasta doesn’t even blink.
“For a worthy ally, yes,” he says. “When we flatten Wyrim, their island kingdoms will be far more valuable than a section of northern desert. And I can promise that whoever does not commit to us tonight will also have land available. You’ll get a choice.”
A promise and a threat. The royal specialty. The Konge’s lips thin, but not in fear.
“And how will you flatten them, prince?” he asks, quieter. “I heard your expedition in the west didn’t go as planned. Odelig still lives, and your boat was destroyed. In fact, I haven’t heard you have an answer for forsvine at all.”
“Wyrim is a small annoyance, and temporarily lucky.” Kasta’s voice is the edge of glass. “We outnumber them, and our newest development is promising. You’ll understand if we don’t wish to share specifics.”
The Konge taps the side of his chalice. “Indeed. If I had nothing, I wouldn’t want to share specifics, either.”
“Call it nothing at your own peril. Even if that were true, our magic still works outside the short radius of that metal. Forsvine can’t stop an attack launched from a distance. Or a storm . . . or a wildfire.”
Now a flicker of fear darkens the Konge’s face. If Kasta had meant his threats for what might happen to Wyrim, a flood or a hurricane would have been more appropriate. This threat is for Amian.
“But we know it won’t come to that,” I say quickly, because this seems to be heading south, “because I’ve heard you’re most worried about the dwindling supply of Sapphirous trees on the western side of Amian. Beautiful, jewel-toned wood. I’d love to commission a dining set for my family. But they only grow there, yes?”
The Konge’s eyes slide to me, and I’d like to think the irritated look on Kasta’s face is f
or how queenly and educated I sound, and not because I’ve just derailed his strategy with the subject of trees.
“Their numbers have been dwindling, yes,” the Konge says, carefully.
“It’s also your most valuable export. What if we sent Gardeners to cultivate the plants and help repopulate them?”
The Konge looks to his fiancé, who covers his mouth, but just as I’m thinking I’ve gotten through to them on a brilliant, non-threatening level, the Konge bursts out laughing.
“You want to save the trees?” he says, between gasps of laughter. “Oh, Prince Kasta, and here I thought you were the pretty one and she was the brains.” He gives me a pitying look. “Dear heart, hasn’t your fiancé taught you anything about supply and demand? The less the supply, the greater the demand. Advertising our ‘concern’ for the trees only drives their price higher.”
I gape at him, both for the flippant way he rejected me—and for what he just said. “My . . . fiancé?”
“Oh.” The Konge glances at my and Kasta’s wrists, which are vehemently free of any engagement charms. “My mistake. Though I must admit you had us fooled, the way you look together. You’d be a charming couple.”
“This psychopath stabbed me with a knife,” I say before I can think better of it.
“After you poisoned me and left me to die!” Kasta presses a breath through his teeth. “I’m not going over this again. And by the way, this would be a critical time to come through on our original strategy.”
I tip my glass, flashing the wrist with the forsvine bracelet. “I can’t. And even if I could, I promised I wouldn’t.”
“Yes, except for the promise you made to me last night.”
The Konge grunts. “Ah, so you’re just not engaged yet.”
“We’re not engaged ever,” I snap, pressing my fingers between my eyes. I’m cursing that I even spoke up. I should have let Kasta handle this. I thought I could work with what I’d learned from my lessons, but I’m realizing now that’s only half the strategy. The rulers themselves are the other half, of which I’m lacking Kasta’s lifetime of knowledge. The Konge clearly can’t be won over with niceties, as Kasta knew, and whatever inclination the king felt earlier to take our side is certainly weakened now.
