She’s escorted down the receiving line, lowered into a waiting chair to my father’s right. The frothy gown she’s wearing, constructed from layer upon layer of white silk tulle, conceals her emaciation, but the dark circles beneath her eyes are hollows now. My father bends, whispers something I can’t catch as he repositions a pillow behind her. She nods at him, covering his hand with her own. Her skin is grey, almost translucent, her knuckles sharp against it. An amulet woven from sylvanmare hair, and infused with Briar’s life-giving blood, silvers her wrist.
That she’s here at all tonight, we owe to that bracelet. And to Carmentis and Tansy who made it for her. But their best efforts could only grant a reprieve, a little more time. They can’t heal the damage to her lungs. Carmentis thinks she has the space of half a sunring – give or take.
That’s how long I have to save her.
My father straightens, exchanges a look with Astrophel. A look that raises the hairs on the back of my neck. I lift a hand to my temple, shielding my face, as dots star my vision and my throat constricts.
Beware!
The warning is a scream this time rather than a whisper, but they’re standing too far away for me to read their thoughts. For while I’m working to extend the reach of my powers, I’ve only succeeded in plundering people’s minds if they’re within touching distance, and I can’t always manage even that.
Moon-lutes sound in the minstrels’ gallery, signalling the arrival of the Outrealmers. I swallow my unease as the Master of Ceremonies, an elderly man bent like a question mark, beats his staff on the floor, calling the room to silence.
‘Carmentis Vervale and Tansy Eldergrove.’
Liveried attendants shepherd them to the ballroom. They’re both wearing Estelian gowns lent to them for the occasion. The cut of the dresses is ill-suited to their shapely bodies, straining at the chest and hips. They advance slowly, struggling to walk in the tapering slippers. Carmentis embraces me. I flinch as a resinous fug of medicinal herbs envelops me. I’m not used to the familiarity, but my respect for the sallow hands enfolding me has risen, sure and steady as the moons, after the careful way they tended my mother. Still, being indebted to our enemies stirs uncomfortable emotions in my chest; emotions I’m not ready to probe yet.
‘Maris Casparo and… Delphine.’ The Master of Ceremonies so nearly quells his grimace as he announces a pearlsprite’s presence in the palace ballroom.
Delphine is pale. The blue cast to her skin is not as prominent tonight against the silvery-green of the waterweft tunic she’s wearing. Maris is clad near-identically. Their pleated skirts billow as they sashay across the room. I’m not surprised they’ve refused to wear Estelian gowns. Would I wear their garb were the situation reversed?
Maris’ lapis eyes flash as she takes in the room. Delphine, glued to her side, affects similar defiance, but her hair, braided atop her head to resemble a crown, shines onyx. It betrays her. Assuming my observations are correct, and the pearlsprite’s shifting hues do correlate to mortal auras, this shade is a sign of distress.
They circle a hand across their faces as they approach. An island greeting: the ward of the wave. I reciprocate, registering Maris’ slight sneer as they swish past. The breeze in their wake carries a sharp scent of salt and snowberries.
I glance towards the door, crane my neck, scanning left and right. Blayze must have decided not to come. Thank the Stars.
And then he appears in the doorway, darkening it like a moon sliding across the sun during an eclipse. His heavy-lidded eyes widen as he strides into the ballroom, taking in the splendour of his surroundings, but shutter just as quickly, reverting to their habitual belligerence.
He’s not only come, but he is wearing the brocaded tunic and matching breeches lent him for the occasion. The Sacred Flame pin, worn tonight over his heart, gleams in the candlelight, though I doubt anyone needs reminding where he’s from – the golden lustre of his skin, the burnished copper of hair, rather give the game away.
I’ve never seen Blayze wearing so many clothes. Despite the cold, and his evident struggle with it, he’s remained shirtless beneath his cloak at all our meetings, for every one of our climbing lessons, as if determined to impress those hard-earnt muscles on us; to ram them down our throats. All his inkings are concealed tonight, but both tunic and breeches fit like a second skin. His frame is not one Estelian tailors have previously catered for: Oralian bones are denser, their muscles larger, and every one undulates as Blayze saunters towards me with his usual lazy strut. He’s preening, revelling in the courtiers’ pursed lips and scowls, enjoying the knowledge his presence is making everyone uncomfortable.
Blayze halts before me, brushes a stray copper curl behind his ear. It’s strange to see him without his emberwing at his shoulder, but it appears he’s also acquiesced to my father’s order barring the non-humanoid Guardians from tonight’s festivities. Does it bode well that he’s being this accommodating?
The Clanschief’s eyes travel my body with insolent familiarity as he extends a large, sinewy hand in greeting. I hesitate, but have no choice but to reciprocate. His fingers are rough and oddly warm, flecked with scars, so large they swallow mine. I can’t help but contrast the feel of his broad, calloused hand with Astrophel’s smooth, long-fingered one. Blayze ekes out the handshake, crushing my fingers with a minimal increase of pressure. Remembering the savage way he handled a blade in the Armoury, I dread to think what those hands are capable of in combat. I meet his fierce gaze. Hateful brute.
I tug my hand away. The movement causes my sleeve to ride up, my brand momentarily exposed. Blayze’s eyes harden as his gaze flicks to my wrist. His upper lip twists.
‘Good evening.’ I bite out each word, and the bitterness in my voice doesn’t go unnoticed, either by Blayze, who smirks, gloating in his perceived small victory, or by Astrophel, who glares down his long nose at him. I’m so tired of their continual bickering. How am I going to endure moons of their one-upmanship without losing my mind?
Greetings over, my father takes my mother’s hand, helps her from her chair and leads her towards the high table. A signal for the other guests to assume their places.
I’m seated between Blayze and Astrophel – a waking nightmare. To my right, Astrophel holds himself bone-straight, limbs drawn rigid against his body, features equally puckered. He shuffles his chair away and avoids meeting my gaze – almost as if he knows I want to rifle his mind, discover what he and my father are up to tonight. I’m grateful to him for interceding with my father about the healers, but I’m in his debt now, and I hate that. Once again, the scant inches between us might as well be a cavernous abyss.
Blayze sprawls in his seat, limbs splayed. His arms are three times the size of mine. My chest feels like it’s been bound into one of the full-corseted gowns my grandmother used to wear, Blayze consuming all the available air. The only saving grace is that Tansy is seated across from me. With any luck, I can enjoy her company all evening, and I won’t have to talk to either of them. I doubt Blayze or Astrophel would feel the deprivation.
However, in accordance with feasting etiquette, my mother immediately turns to her left and claims Tansy’s ear, meaning I’ll have to wait for a change in courses to engage her in conversation. Izarius strikes up conversation with Astrophel, discussing likely weather conditions over the coming moons.
That leaves Blayze and me. And awkward silence. I fight the compulsion to fill it, and instead take a large sip of shimmerwine. The warmth trickles through my body as I swallow it. I don’t usually drink, too afraid I’ll lose control, but tonight, I need something to take the edge off. Even the reassuring pulse of the starstone concealed beneath my bodice is not enough to smooth my jagged nerves. Hopefully Blayze will converse with Maris instead.
But in this, as in everything else, he proves himself disobliging.
‘So, what’s all this in aid of?’ Blayze jerks his thumb at the floral swags overhead. ‘Your peacock told Mar it’s something to do with the harvest.’
I ignore the tightening in my stomach when Blayze uses his pet-name for Maris. Perhaps Elvi’s right about them.
‘Thawtide used to mark the start of our growing season.’And Astrophel’s not ‘my’ anything.‘Surely, you’ve similar festivals?’
