Orthriel nods.
I face my parents again, but before I can request a private audience, my mother starts to cough, and the words thicken on my tongue. My father leans towards her, brow creased, signals for one of her liegeladies to fetch a goblet of water. Many of the courtiers raise pomanders to their faces. Others make the sign of the Star. It’s known she suffers from a mystery wasting disease – a curious after-effect of the Flamefever she survived – cureless but not contagious, but any sign of illness makes people wary.
My mother sips at the water until the coughing eases. While she composes herself, my father and Astrophel exchange a look that ends with a reciprocal nod and crooked smile – the smile of victory. A familiar, bitter stab of jealousy rises from the pit of my stomach.
My father thinks he’s about to get his fondest wish: Astrophel as his son.
He stands and strides towards us, his long, narrow features arched with disdain. Astrophel retreats two paces, leaving us to one another. My father places a hand to my lowered head, a gesture of benediction to commence tonight’s ceremonies.
I clutch the starstone, focus on its strange, anchoring pulse. The room dims.
I stumble. Sparks streak the darkness. Images storm my mind.
Hushed conversations behind locked doors. A handshake. Chinked goblets. A plan.
I don’t know how I’m seeing them, but I understand only too well what this flood of borrowed memories means. They’re going to force me to abdicate my claim to the Crystal Throne in Astrophel’s favour after the ceremonies are performed.
If they think I’ll roll over and agree to their schemes, they’ve another think coming. I won’t tell my father about Noelani’s prophecy. Not yet. I’ll let him perform the succession rites first; not even my father can revoke those. I’ll secure my position before I tell anyone anything.
The starstone’s pulse accelerates, thudding against my palm, as if signalling its agreement to this plan.
My father holds up his right hand, his thumb and first two fingers pointing to the heavens. A pregnant hush falls over the chamber.
‘I acknowledge my daughter, Leilani, first of her name, descendant of the star-blessed Stellarion bloodline, as heir apparent to the Crystal Throne.’ His words ring out, memorised by rote.
I lift my head to utter the solemn vows I’ve rehearsed so often.
‘I, Leilani, of the Stellarion bloodline, do swear myself your liegemaid, do accept the role of heir apparent, and vow to serve you and the Throne for the remainder of my life.’ My voice sounds all wrong, small and far away, not like my voice at all.
I hand the replica sceptre into his outstretched hand, but it’s as though I’m standing outside my body, watching proceedings. My father ushers me to a pedestal to the right of his throne where the Silver Book lies propped open. His fingers press hard against the small of my back. The bruising pressure brings me back to myself.
My father signs, then hands me the crystal dipping-pen. Despite my shaking fingers, I form my letters cleanly on the page.
And now for the final act.
My father resumes his throne, and I unwind the Celestial Chain from my wrist, slip it over his neck, carefully settling it beneath his robes, so the pendant is concealed. The moon-lutes sound again and my name echoes around the Watching Chamber. The cheers are muted; the courtiers resigned, but not joyful, at the prospect of a cursed future regent. But in this Ruined Age, a tainted heir is better than no heir at all.
A leer blooms on my father’s lips. He glances at Astrophel. ‘And now, let’s proceed to the Rotunda for the long-awaited binding ceremony.’
Thankfully, my trailing gown and pendant sleeves conceal my trembling limbs.
‘The binding can’t take place.’ My voice cracks, the words coming out as little more than a whisper, but the lofty chamber magnifies them for all to hear.
A collective intake of breath hisses through the room. Astrophel stiffens. The muscles bulge on my father’s neck. But I’ll not be cowed this time.
My way out. My way back in.
I only have to make the leap.
I stoop towards my father, tug lightly on the chain.
‘Look down,’ I murmur in his ear.
His lips thin, his eyes dip. All colour ebbs from his face as he registers the starstone that shouldn’t be there.
*
I’VENEVERBEENpermitted inside the Orbium before. Entry is restricted to the King and the advisors that make up his Conclave, a group that now includes Astrophel and excludes me. Silvered walls bear tapestries of the lunar phases; the floor is inlaid with glittering mosaics of the Dawn Sister’s creation of the moons from the amethyst in her troth ring; decorations so lavish, my eyes can’t process it all. I’m dizzied, and the cloying incense misting from a large thurible set before my father isn’t helping matters.
