Maybe this time, I’ll be the one to get the scraps.
It’s all I’ve wanted. Acceptance. Approval.
I meet Astrophel’s steely gaze and try to keep my voice level. ‘Just as you say, my lord.’
A smirk tugs at Astrophel’s lips, deepening the slight cleft of his chin.
If I had any residual qualms about telling my father about the prophecy, they melt away at the sight of those curling lips. Orthriel was right. They’re always right. Even if Noelani’s bequest proves false, even if all comes to naught, it can at least offer me this: a way out of this binding. A stay of execution.
The space of a sunring.
Four hundred moonsrisings where Astrophel won’t be sharing my bed.
He tightens his grip on my arm.
I could tell him right now, break the bad news that he won’t be joining the family – won’t be receiving the seal of legitimacy he so desperately craves. Not tonight anyway. Nor any night if I have anything to say about it. Stars know, I’d love to wipe that self-righteous expression off his face. But I hug my secret close, press my palm tighter around the concealed starstone.
Vengeance is a dish best served cold. And, as the pariah heir to a dying ice-bound realm, if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s withstanding a chill. I’ve known nothing but cold shoulders my whole life.
I nod at Astrophel, then stare at the points of my slippers to hide my smile.
Just you wait, little lordling. Just you wait.
ONE LUXURY I CAN’T AFFORD
LEILANI
MOON-LUTESSTRIKEUP, doors open to receive us. The murmur of the gathered throng assaults my ears as we step into the Watching Chamber. Diamonds glitter across the fan-vaulted ceiling, mimicking the spill of stars.
Astrophel leads me down the central aisle. Courtiers on either side. Behind the scent of starflowers, vinegar burns the back of my throat. Every member of the assembly wears a pomander, some around the neck, others the wrist. Tonight is the first time my father has relaxed the plague laws to allow a gathering of this size since Meissa’s last outbreak of Flamefever twelve sunrings ago – the one that claimed my mother as victim. I can’t help but search the faces swimming past for signs of infection. But the Sister is merciful tonight. There’s not a beaded brow, weeping pustule, nor angry burn-rash in sight.
The lords incline their heads as we pass, the ladies’ skirts whisper and sigh as they curtsy, but suspicious eyes drill into my back, lingering on my star-cursed hair, as we process towards my parents.
I wish I’d been permitted a veil. I wish the ground would swallow me whole.
Elvi and Izarius are in the crowd, their smiles strained. For their sake, I slow my stride and roll my shoulders back, try to look like a queen-in-waiting. I cling to the starstone.
My way out. My way back in.
Orthriel hovers towards the front of the chamber. The courtiers give them a wide berth – partly out of respect, partly out of fear. Before the Sickening, each of The Nine, and those occupying important civic positions, were assigned a Guardian. But for many sunrings, Orthriel has been the only cielsylph seen at court. Most of the coterie families followed my father’s example, dissolving their bonds of Guardianship, not wanting star-cursed magic anywhere near them, despite the cielsylphs’ inability to wield Shadow. And later, the Sickening left the remaining Guardians too weak to navigate the breezes, unable to leave their floating isle and its dwindling supply of vital Star-Aether for long. Orthriel continues to make the journey, but even their visits are becoming less frequent.
Thank the Stars, my Guardian’s here tonight. I’ll need all the support I can get when I destroy my father’s carefully laid plans.
Our eyes lock, Orthriel’s unblinking. A reminder that their corporeal form is a mirage.
‘You’ve decided then?’
I nod as Astrophel drives me forwards.
My parents sit on elaborate wooden thrones before the larger Crystal Throne – left empty, save for coronations, since Noelani’s retreat to the Silent Isle, when governance of the realm passed to her brother and the Regency was established. My mother, Queen Twila, wears a mauve silk gown. Its bodice gapes. She’s lost even more weight since her last fitting; breastbone and collarbones jut sharp through papery skin. A jewel-studded hairnet conceals thinning hair. Her smile is slightly puckered, but only those closest to her would guess it’s forced. There’s no hiding the way she’s clawing the armrests of her throne though. Blanched knuckles reveal how much pain she’s in, what it’s costing her to sit here.
My father watches her. Concern brackets his mouth and shadows his eyes. She looks older, shrunken. He, on the other hand, is more statuesque than ever. Opulent silver robes, edged and lined with frostfang fur, drape around him, and he wears his crown tonight: a circlet of nine-pointed stars wrought in silver, studded liberally with diamonds. Together with the Regent’s Ring, it serves as a reminder of his absolute power. He sits straight in his throne but not stiff. There’s nonchalance to his posture – an entitlement that allows him to be easy with his gait. But his eyes are sharpened flints. There’s nothing relaxed about them.
Astrophel falls to one knee with an exaggerated flourish. I mentally roll my eyes at him, as I too genuflect to my parents, my ridiculously long sleeves sweeping the floor. Our movements are sinuous, harmonious, practised and dancelike. To the gathered assembly, we must present as perfectly complementary partners: the desired effect. A couple of show ponies.
‘Don’t be petty,’Orthriel cautions.‘It’s beneath you.’
I glance back at my Guardian.‘Time to call this travesty off?’
