“You’re worried,” said Arris. “I understand. But for some reason, I find myself… at peace. There is only so much I can control, but my hopes are—”
“I still have a knife in my hand, Brother,” said Yvlle, shutting him up. “This competition is not simply about a bride, but a queen for the Isle. I will not see your first life ended by some reckless, violent creature that I will then have to endure across the breakfast table for several decades. If you must choose from a set of murderers then at the very least this spell will present the very best of them.”
“I love your optimism,” said Arris.
Yvlle grumbled. “If only you had a little less, then maybe…”
But she couldn’t finish her sentence. If Arris had a little less optimism, then what? It wouldn’t increase the likelihood that he would live any longer. All optimism could do was make the life he had worth living. It was why he liked walking barefoot, so he could appreciate the way the grass folded beneath his feet. It was why he listened to music with his eyes closed, so he could imagine the notes glossing hisskin and translating him to song. Just because something was brief did not mean it shouldn’t be beautiful too.
“What if you choose wrong?” asked Yvlle, not looking at him. “What if she takes your life anyway?”
Arris shrugged. “If my betrothed must be the death of me, then may she make these final weeks worth several lives.”
10An Assortment of Brides
Rathe Castle sat upon a cliff, the size of which varied based on the whims of the royal family. Sometimes the cliff was a slender needle of rock, closer to the sky than the sea and impossible for enemies to scale. Sometimes, when the cliff was in a languorous mood, it was a jetty stretching into the Famishing so that it might be tickled by the white-capped waves. And sometimes, like today, the cliff and the Castle conspired to become something else entirely.
Arris understood that all he had done was step outside… but it didn’t seem like that. It was as if he had stepped into another world altogether. A world of winter.
The familiar gardens and fountains had vanished, paved over with acres and acres of cold wonder. A maze of white roses bloomed out of the snow. An iced-over lake—which had not existed yesterday—reflected the dark branches of the cliff’s scarlet elms and honey oaks. Atop the lake, a glass dining boat carved in the shape of a wyvern effortlessly carried a shining feast. Towering sculptures of frostyswans and crystalline peacocks held lanterns in their beaks and strutted along a welcome path that stretched from the castle gates. All of this was encircled by slender diamond trees, each branch sleeved in snowy seed pearls that braided through the air.
Arris looked around in awe. Followed by mild horror. The horror was not, as one would imagine, about the imminent tournament where his life hung in the balance. His horror was of a more sartorial nature.
Yvlle loved to mock how long it took her brother to get ready. Arris had a process. There was the morning’s diary entry, the focusing of one’s intentions upon a lit candle, his daily olfactory journey to discern the day’s fragrance, his constitutional walk, his hour-long bath.
And that was what he didbeforehe selected his clothing, the process of which required an evaluation of the day’s requirements, his mood, the dream from last night, the whims of the weather and the cook’s menu for the day.
“You are the fussiest peacock on the whole of the Isle,” his sister often said.
Yvlle had no such qualms about her wardrobe, considering that she wore black at morning, day and night. There were no exceptions.
“I consider my morning ritual as an act of communion with the world around me,” Arris had tried to explain. “It allows me to appreciate the length of the day to the fullest extent—”
At this point in the conversation, his sister had lobbed a fruit at his head.
Today, Arris settled on a pair of cream felt trousers, a long-sleeved tunic with an embroidered fox that slunk from one corner of cloth to the next and finally a cloak woven from moonlight reflecting off the sea. It billowed behind him, flashing silver and indigo, and was attached to his tunic by a pair of lustreel brooches shaped like branches.
Arris had the sinking realization that he matched the scenery. Was this some kind of omen? And most importantly:
Should he change?
Arris would have done so immediately, but just then a silver staircase spiraled down from the balcony several stories above him. It was a summons he could not ignore.
At the top of the staircase, Arris saw his parents sitting on velvet chaises. On a low table before them was a pair of binoculars—ostensibly for watching the parade of brides—and a rich spread of figs, porridge, spiced tea and egg tarts.
Queen Yzara was dressed in a morning robe of blue silk embroidered with silver and encrusted with sapphires at the cuffs. King Eustis had disregarded protocol as usual and still wore his sleeping tunic and night cap. He was thoroughly ignoring his bowl of porridge for a brand-new book. Arris watched as his mother sipped her tea, reached into a pouch at her side and dropped a scorpion into his father’s breakfast.
When Yzara looked up and saw her son, a huge grin broke across her face. “There you are, darling! Doesn’t theCastle look splendid? My inspiration was”—Yzara paused to sweep her hands through the air—“a new season of life.”
“It’s lovely,” said Arris.
Yzara beamed. “Speaking of lovely, you look—”
“Like a sacrificial goat,” said Yvlle, stepping out of the Castle stones in a swirl of shadows. “Did you have to wear white?”
“I thought it conveyed a sense of new beginnings…” said Arris. “It is the color of hope.”
“It’s the color of boring.”
