Flynn scoffs, disbelieving. “You claim you’ve never seen this before, yet you were able to correctly identify each of the aikkari and their sources except for Rilan. Either you’re an awful isha, or a terrible liar. Which is it?”
“I—” Kaidren’s sentence falters. He has no excuses. No explanations. All he knows is that the sense of victory he felt only moments ago is gone now. “I can prove it. Give me your hand, sir. I’ll tell you your source.”
“Of course you will. You’ve clearly done your research.”
“Ihaven’t.Give me any aikkari and I’ll prove it.”
Flynn gestures toward Rilan. “Him. Tell me his source. He is the only aikkari here whose source I don’t already know.”
Kaidren doesn’t have a response to that.
Scowling, Flynn raises his voice. We could all hear him before anyway, but now he addresses the crowd directly. “I apologize, everyone. Thank you for attending Eteria. Unfortunately”—here, he shoots Kaidren a sharp look, dripping fury—“it would seem we donothave an isha in Virdei after all.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CAPTIVE AUDIENCE
One Vale dead, one Vale a liar. I’m not sure which fate is worse. Or which Vale is more damned.
Two weeks since Arliss Vale was murdered. Five days since Bastard Vale revealed himself as a cheat in Eteria. And five days since anyone has seen or heard from the liar himself—from the shadows or otherwise.
Is Bastard Vale hiding his face because he is embarrassed? Or is he perhaps hiding a guilty conscience?
He showed the world he is eager to lie. Could he also be eager to kill? Arliss Vale was murdered, and this Queen of Shadows thinks it was Bastard Vale himself who poured the lethal dose.
He might not be set to stand trial for his crimes, but in this court of judgment, Bastard Vale is guilty on all charges. Clearly, there is no honor among thieves. Or murderers.
Fondly,
Shadow Queen
My teeth chatter as I stumble over the ice-coated roads to Mozeri Temple. I’m fighting a scowl as well as a chill.
The note Kaidren slipped under the doorway of each of our Petruvian guests’ rooms sears a hole in my pocket, taunting me.
You are cordially invited to come see the future of the great Republic of Virdei in person. Come to Mozeri Temple at midday to witness your next Praeceptor, Kaidren Vale, discuss his plans for the future.
Apparently, even after his failure in Eteria, his opinion of himself hasn’t dimmed at all.
I’d hoped public shame would be enough to prove to him that he is far out of his depth. No such luck. Despite the whispers, despite the Shadow Queen, despite the fact that all of Virdei thinks he’s a fraud, he seems as determined to frustrate my plans as ever.
I slip into the back of the temple, relieved to be inside, away from the blistering cold.
Virdeian temples are devoted to the stars. Many believe that each star is the soul of a god, dead or alive. The lonely god who supposedly gifted us magic is said to be the brightest of them all. Some believe he’s the only one still alive (hence the loneliness, hence the gifting us magic) and that he shines brighter because the other stars are the souls of gods that have long since died.
I don’t believe in the gods, but I know there’s magic in stars. I used to spend hours with my mother staring at the endless expanse above, feeling the weight of everything float away. She knew nothing of constellations, so she made them up. Said they were all different kinds of birds, and that one day, they’d fly us far, far away. Whenever I was sad, or scared, or angry, we’d watch the sky. It made everything better. Maybe believing in stars is just as foolish as believing in gods, but I do.
The bulk of Mozeri Temple is a wide, windowless room. Stained glass panes hang framed on the walls, but none of them actually look outside—an effort to trap in as much heat aspossible. The wooden benches that typically fill the space have been pushed to the side to provide room for people to stand.
The temple is packed. My nose is buried in the wool of someone else’s cloak, and all around me, people stretch on tiptoe to glimpse a peek of Kaidren. I rarely venture below the Collar. It feels different from the arena’s raucous crowds. The people who fill this temple are clearly eager, but they’re quiet, listening raptly.
I lean around attendees and peer over shoulders until I find Kaidren. He’s in the pulpit at the front of the chamber. He isn’t wearing the emerald green robes of an Honorate, or a thick cloak like someone of his status and recent inheritance can afford. Instead, he’s wearing thin layers and no sjaal.
People like us. It’s what he said when he tried to convince me we must be twin flames because we’re both Opheran. He’s doing the same thing now. Costuming himself as one of the people below the Collar so he can pretend he’s one of them and gain their support.
I grit my teeth against my irritation at the transparent act and watch him. He’s in the middle of a speech. It’s definitely rehearsed, but he doesn’t sound stilted, and there’s no sign that he’s reading from anything. He strikes an imposing figure, but his face is composed into an oily smile that makes him look approachable. Framed by six torches, he’s surrounded by a hazy stream of golden orange light that softens his features.
“I still have every intention of defeating the Praeceptor in the Tournament of Thrones,” Kaidren is saying. “I know there are people who doubt me and my word. But I am not walking away from the Tournament, or the Republic.”
