Survive

by Vera Nazarian

  Gentle, calming music emanates from live musicians playing stringed instruments in tandem, from various nooks along the walls. It creates marvelous harmonies, and does not intrude upon the many conversations.

  Gracie’s birthday cake! I suddenly recall as we continue moving. It’s supposed to be brought in a little later. I scan the room in the direction where the servants are supposed to set up the cake station, as planned. Meanwhile I notice many of the ladies giving me subtle looks as soon as I move past them. Now that the formalities are over, they are permitted to stare more overtly at the Imperial Bride.

  “Gwen, there you are! And so’s our Birthday Girl, look at you both!” Laronda sneaks up behind me. Dawn is with her, with a mischievous smile. Laronda is wearing a form-hugging little purple dress and high heels, and Dawn has a similar black number, with a wide Egyptian style gold collar.

  “It bears repeating, but you look amazing,” Dawn says to me and Gracie. “Even better than I thought when I first saw those dresses.”

  “You too, gorgeous!” I point to the buffet. “Okay, food?”

  “Count me in.” Brie approaches, followed by Chiyoko, Manala, and Hasmik.

  Did I mention? Brie is dressed in a slinky dark green skirt and glittering top of some kind of micro-sequin fabric, and is sporting five-inch stiletto heels. Her purple-tinted hair is up in a spiral crown of braids, threaded with gold. I’ve never seen Brie wear a skirt before, and she looks both femme-ethereal and boy-tough at the same time, and the sum effect is kind of fragile and beautiful.

  For some reason, I’ve never thought of Brie as beautiful—striking, yes, and definitely provocative—but she really is. And for the first time I’m really seeing it.

  “Whatcha staring at, Lark?” she says with a smirk, turning her head sideways.

  “You look great, Walton,” I say nicely.

  She snorts. “And you clean up pretty well yourself. Your little sis, too. Pretty family, you make good princesses.”

  I laugh.

  And then I happen to glance to my right and see Lady Tiri approaching, followed by several of her retinue. In fact, Lady Zua is carrying a large plate of appetizers, on her behalf, because Tiri turns to take one bite-sized piece and delicately pops it in her mouth without disturbing her perfect lip-gloss. Then, once again showing her back to her friend-turned-lackey, she continues toward me. And in the next moment, she receives a slim fluted chalice with a sparkling drink that is being held by Lady Irana, on her behalf.

  “Who’s that fancy cow?” Brie whispers in my ear.

  Hasmik, Dawn, and Laronda exchange curious glances, while Chiyoko stares nervously from me to the approaching group headed by Lady Tiri.

  Gracie sees Tiri and immediately frowns. I’ve told her everything, so she knows enough to dislike Lady Tiri as much as necessary, on my behalf. “Is that her?” Gracie asks in a very quiet voice.

  I nod.

  Gracie looks in my eyes. “This could get ugly.”

  “I hope not.” I barely breathe the words out.

  Lady Tiri comes to a stop before us, with a thin, vicious smile. She curtsies again, just barely, and holds her glass like an elegant accessory that matches her outfit, turning it slightly. “My dear Imperial Lady Gwen, may I offer my humble congratulations on such a charming event—especially considering it is your first such Court endeavor. You’re going to make a splendid Hostess—with a few more seasons of practice. Naturally we are all delighted with your early effort. Aren’t we, my dears?” She glances to her side where Lady Irana inclines her head immediately, and then to the other side where Lady Zua holds the large plate and tries to execute a curtsey at the same time.

  “Thank you,” I say, looking at Tiri and ignoring her barb clothed in flattery. “Glad you are all enjoying yourselves.”

  Tiri swirls the deep amber contents of her glass and glances at it negligently, then returns her smiling attention to me. “The selection of refreshments is such a fine art, and these are so very well paired,” she continues, taking a delicate sip of her drink and then reaching for a little puff ball from Zua’s plate. “Though I would have chosen the kru berries instead of goyro fruit sauce for the filling, to balance the tang of this pale Northern qvaali. Naturally, I would be happy to share the subtleties of my own favorite dea banquet recipes when we have the pleasure of your company next time . . . in the gardens perhaps, or at a more intimate meeting with just our nearest and dearest companions. . . .”

  I listen to her talk and watch her movements silently, while Gracie and Laronda stare with icy expressions, and the rest of my friends are not sure how to react.

  Meanwhile Lady Tiri hands her half-empty glass back to Lady Irana. “Be a dear and refill this, sweetest,” she tells her.

  Irana nods, then moves away toward the drink fountains. Lady Hathora now steps forward to take her spot at Tiri’s side, followed by two other young girls whose names I’ve forgotten, and who both jostle closer.

  “May I offer congratulations on winning the Games of the Atlantis Grail,” Lady Hathora says unexpectedly in solid English, looking at me with an expression that bears no sarcasm, just an honest measure of respect. “Being Champion is quite an achievement. It was quite compelling to watch your progress, My Imperial Lady. And that of your teammates too—congratulations to you, Gabriella Walton.”

  Hathora turns politely to include Brie in her words.

  Brie raises her brows and says nothing for a moment, watching Lady Hathora in a way that’s hard to describe but which is very typical Brie. She gives me a quick side-eye look, then focuses back on Hathora and says only one word, “Thanks.”

  Am I imagining it, but did Brie just hold back and curb her tongue on my behalf?

  “But of course, how could we forget such a thing!” Lady Tiri says at once, loudly inserting herself in the exchange. “My Imperial Lady, your—dare I say, unique—performance as a Games Champion has demonstrated that the Earth refugees are quite capable of physical feats somewhat comparable to our own. You must forgive me, but I don’t make a habit of following the Games—our traditional Atlantida Green season pastime tends to be rather coarse and violent, not suitable for some of us of a certain degree of breeding. Truly, gives me a tedious headache and disrupts my nerves, if I ever try to watch—which is the natural downside to refinement.”

  She pauses, fanning herself gracefully with the palm of her hand, then suddenly focuses on my friends. “Indeed, these must be all your charming Earth friends gathered here—please do introduce them to us. Once again, forgive me if I do not recognize the Champions among them.”

  And Lady Tiri demonstrably looks around at all of us, this time including everyone in her thin smile.

  I keep my breathing even and open my mouth to begin the introductions . . . then suddenly recall from my Protocol lessons that, as the future Imperial Consort, introducing lesser ranking people to each other is considered inappropriate, and they are supposed to introduce themselves while I observe their interaction.

  Crap! Lady Tiri almost made me break basic Protocol in a stupid way at my first public event. And, judging by her continued mocking expression, I think she knows exactly what she’s doing, testing me this way, so that later she can gossip and spread word of my social incompetence.

  Catching myself before I commit the gaffe, I pause and then gesture with my hand, in an obvious way, to Gracie.

  My sister gets the hint, and starts speaking. “Grace Lark,” she says in a firm voice. “I am Gwen’s sister—sister of the Imperial Bride and Consort.”

  “How lovely to meet you,” Tiri practically coos, then proceeds to give her own pedigreed designation.

  She then turns to Brie, who simply stares back at her for several long uncomfortable moments, then finally says, “Gabriella Walton, Earthie, Games Champion. That okay for you?”

  Tiri raises one brow but her smile doesn’t change. “Ah, so you are the other delightful Champion of this year’s Games. How charming.”

  Brie lets
out some kind of stifled snort noise, but seeing my meaningful stare, relents. “Yes, charming. Very, very charming. So much charm coming out of every orifice—”

  “Laronda Aimes, Imperial Fleet, second year Cadet Pilot equivalent, from Earth.” Laronda interrupts just in time, speaking forcefully, in a cool, dignified voice.

  Lady Tiri barely nods to her.

  One by one my friends give their names and occupations. Tiri and her entourage listen but don’t offer corresponding introductions of their own.

  Instead, once poor Chiyoko is done telling them she is a Fleet Cadet, there is now awkward silence.

  Chiyoko, incidentally, is wearing a lovely mid-length pale blue dress with gold embroidery that goes really well with her black hair gathered in an elegant upswept hairdo. She has delicate makeup on, and is wearing short dangly pearl earrings and a matching pearl necklace, and she looks great.

  But Tiri gives her an up-and-down sweeping glance, and her fastidious expression reflects disdain, particularly when it comes to Chiyoko’s flat and sensible blue shoes.

  “My dear Imperial Lady Gwen.” Lady Tiri turns to me, not deigning to spare Chiyoko even one additional moment of attention. “So, so quaint and charming—all of this, and such a lovely farewell to your former station that you’ve invited all of them here. But now of course, your previous life is behind you. And with it, all casual lesser interactions with lesser entities formerly of your acquaintance must fall by the wayside. As you come to experience more of Court’s finer circles, it will become naturally apparent that in your position you must be particularly discriminating in the kind of company you keep. I believe, the term one uses is rank-appropriate.”

  Seriously? Is she lecturing me?

  My lips part, and my mind starts churning with outrage. But before I say anything I will later regret, someone else does it for me. . . .

  “Gwen already keeps the best company one can ever hope to have.” Manala steps forward, past Hasmik, and looks directly at Tiri. All this time she’s been keeping back, almost obscuring herself in Hasmik’s shadow. Which is quite a feat, considering that Hasmik—wearing a nice, dark brown dress of pearly sheen fabric with gold thread around the modest collar and ankle-length hem, and matching brown pumps with tiny heels—manages to be the least flashy and most self-effacing of my friends.

  At once Lady Tiri turns to her. “Oh! Imperial Princess Manala! I didn’t see you there, begging all pardons! How clever of you to be hiding behind this—this person—”

  “This person’s name is Hasmik Tigranian,” I say in a voice with an edge. “She just introduced herself moments ago, and she is a dear friend of ours.”

  “Yes, she is my friend, and I’m not hiding,” Manala says, giving Hasmik a quick, intense look. “I just don’t want to speak to anyone else right now.”

  This is the closest that Manala has come to uttering a putdown. It’s obvious she almost said “you” instead of “anyone else,” and intended it for Lady Tiri.

  “But of course,” Lady Tiri says quickly, recovering herself, and her false smile does not falter. “My dear Imperial Princess, the exquisiteness of your sensibilities has always been admirable. It is what we adore so much about you. So precious that you might find amusement and curiosity in such a connection. I would never presume to interrupt your reveries. Please, do continue to indulge them with your new companion—”

  “Seriously, the name is Hasmik,” Brie says suddenly. “It’s not going to bite. You should try saying it. Also, Chiyoko and Laronda. And she’s Dawn. D-A-W-N.”

  Tiri raises one brow and looks at Brie. “Your Earth names are perfectly delightful.” And then she ignores Brie and once again directs her focus on me. “As we were saying, this is such a vital part of your experience, my dear Imperial Lady Gwen—the discovery of who your new social circle consists of. Come, let us walk outside through those grand doors into the park and get some fresh air, and we can continue our delightful conversation in privacy—”

  “Lady Tiri, some other time,” I say coldly. “Thank you for your advice, but I’m going to get something to eat and stay right here, indoors, with my friends. You might consider interacting with your friends too. I believe Lady Irana is back with your drink, and Lady Zua is tired of holding your food. Aren’t you, Lady Zua?”

  Lady Zua appears slightly flustered at my attention, shifts the plate in her fingers and tries to curtsey again, saying, “Oh, no, Imperial Lady Gwen, it is quite all right. . . .”

  “No, it’s not,” I say, and then take the platter away from Lady Zua.

  For one moment I consider thrusting the plate directly at Lady Tiri, making her keep it as intended. But then I have a better idea. Still holding the plate, I take a bite-sized, savory canape from it and put it in my mouth. “Oh, this is good,” I say, glancing around at everyone, and stop at Gracie. “Here, want to try?”

  “Sure,” says Gracie, and receives the plate from me. She takes one canape for herself and then hands the plate to Brie. Brie in turn takes two large pieces, stuffs them in her mouth until her cheeks swell, intentionally ugly-chews and smacks her lips loudly, then passes the plate to Laronda.

  As Lady Tiri watches with confusion and growing disapproval—and so do Lady Zua, and Lady Hathora, and the others of her entourage, who admittedly show more of an uncertain wonder than censure—my friends continue passing the plate around, taking pieces, until there is nothing left.

  Chiyoko gets the last piece, and then pauses, considering what to do next, as her slightly nervous look returns. I smile and take the empty platter from her.

  Suddenly, a familiar voice sounds behind me.

  “Imperial Lady Gwen! My sincere apologies for being so late to your party!”

  I turn my head, and it’s Oalla Keigeri, and next to her, Erita Qwas.

  Both the astra daimon are dressed in spectacular outfits. Oalla wears a rust-orange clinging gown trimmed in metallic silver thread, and six-inch flaming orange block-heels. Her hair is coiled in a twist, and a spiked, bejeweled coronet circles her forehead like a bladed halo.

  Erita is wearing a flowing dress of many diaphanous layers, in earth tones of carnelian, sand, sienna and plum, offset with turquoise trim, and a wide golden belt cinched around her narrow waist, emphasizing her voluptuous curves, with matching golden ankle boots sporting mid-height curved heels.

  “My apologies likewise,” Erita says. “We came as fast as we could, straight from an urgent flight mission, but—”

  “Yes,” Oalla adds, stepping closer past Lady Tiri and her posse, and ignoring them completely. “But first we had to change.”

  “Oh, no problem!” I say with an immediate sensation of relief and dissipating tension. “Is everything okay?”

  Oalla and Erita exchange a swift glance, and then Oalla smiles at me. Instead of answering, she sinks into a graceful, slow curtsey, and then says to me formally, “Lady Oalla Keigeri, of the House Keigeri, of the Eastern Duinaat Province, two hundred and ninety-third generation, High Court.”

  Holy crap! Oalla is a Lady. And her noble rank is greater than Lady Tiri’s!

  I had no idea.

  And then Erita sinks in a similar curtsey and tells me, “Erita Qwas. Common birth. Honorary Low Court.”

  I have another startled moment of amazement. Erita is not a member of nobility, and possibly not even a citizen. “Honorary Low Court” is a designation given to non-ranking persons admitted to the Imperial Court for a one-time event or on a temporary basis, usually as a guest of a member of the nobility.

  In that moment, Lady Tiri’s voice sounds, intentionally bored and condescending. “Oh good. Finally, someone who is perfectly suited to hold that plate.”

  And as we all stare at her, Lady Tiri adds in a commanding voice, with a cool nod at Erita, “Unburden My Imperial Lady—go on, take that thing and dispose of it.”

  For one terrible moment Erita’s expression goes blank and she freezes. Then, slowly, she moves toward me and takes the empty plate from my ha
nds.

  My mouth falls open.

  But Oalla immediately grabs the plate from Erita and says, “That’s enough, Lady Tirinea Fuorai. This astra daimon is not your servant. Whatever game you’re playing today ends now.”

  And in the same breath she flicks her wrist and drops the plate, aiming it precisely at Lady Tiri’s feet.

  The plate shatters with a crash, sending small pieces of whatever glass, porcelain, or stone material it’s made of under our feet—but mostly under Lady Tiri’s skirt.

  “Oh, dear . . .” Oalla says with a tiny smile. “I do believe there’s been an accident.”

  Lady Tiri makes a startled sound and steps back, with an indescribable look of horror on her face.

  Everyone nearby turns in our direction, and there’s a moment of silence. Even the live musicians falter momentarily. At once several Imperial serving staff hurry toward us with concern.

  “Oops,” Brie says in the resulting lull of sound. And a wicked smile lights up her face.

  We all move back, allowing the poor servants to clean up the mess of shards on the polished floor—and yes, I feel terrible on their behalf, even though I also feel great for a whole different reason. Meanwhile, Lady Tiri stomps her feet and shakes out her skirt, then straightens and glares at Oalla, then at Erita, and even at me.

  “That was quite intentional, Lady Oalla. I do believe you threw that thing at me with intent to harm!”

  “Oh, please,” Brie mutters.

  I give Brie a meaningful stare.

  But Oalla raises one brow and exchanges a curious look with Erita. “Do you know what she’s talking about, Eri? I certainly don’t.”

  “No idea,” Erita says in a bland voice. And then adds with a sigh of resignation, “But—I knew I shouldn’t have come. . . .”

  She glances at me with a quick, sad look and says softly, “Apologies, My Imperial Lady. This whole thing was a bad move. I don’t belong here at Court, never have. Probably best if I leave.”

  “What? No!” I say. “Erita, I invited you! I don’t understand any of this, but I am so glad you’re here!”