Flint nods and walks away from me, towards the ring of Harglades. ‘That includes dancing,’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘At least one dance. Non-negotiable.’
My smile becomes a scowl. I linger for a moment as our aunts kiss him in turn, then I circle back towards the banquet table in search of Renly.
Maybe I’m just tired, I tell myself, as Queen Aspen of the Terrathian and her Court of Leaves begin to filter into the ballroom, dressed in numerous shades of green, their gowns bedecked with foliage, their hair threaded with wildflowers. Maybe I just need to eat something. Maybe stuffing my own face with cake doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.
I’m halfway through a slice of blueberry sponge when a thunderous sound fills the hall, reverberating off the stone walls.
I freeze. If they’re blowing the horns, that can mean only one thing.
For a moment there is complete and utter silence.
Then, there is gold.
3
They walk into the hall, together and yet separately, each moving within their own sphere, commanding their own space. Their gowns are stiff with flakes of gold, their doublets embellished with gilded braid. Golden gloves conceal their brandmarks, and round their necks they wear gleaming chains, as thick and heavy as armour.
The Court of Eyes.
It’s said they have eyes tattooed into the napes of their necks with needle and liquid gold, so they can watch you even when their backs are turned.
Through the centre of them, in a billowing golden cloak, strides the emperor himself, His Imperial Majesty, Alvar Castellion. He who is possessed of all four elemental gifts, and the one which only the firstborn Castellion sons have the ability to wield – light.
I recognize him immediately. Not just from his portrait, but because of how remarkably similar he and his younger brother look. Both King Balen and the emperor have that same unearthly paleness and those deep-set raven eyes.
My gaze lands on the Imperial Crown. It is an amalgamation of the crowns of the Crowned Council, an intricate meldingof flames, feathers, leaves and waves. At the forefront sits a golden eye carved into the centre of a glimmering sun. While the Council must win their crowns, the Imperial Crown is inherited only by the firstborn son of House Castellion. The Castellions have ruled Ostacre since Dawnday, their line sired by the Maker himself. After the Choosing Rite, in exchange for their thrones, the new kings and queens bind their power with that of the new emperor. From that day forward, he draws from their gifts, thus possessing them all.
Behind the emperor walks a woman wearing a gown of golden silk, her mouth stretched into a glacial smile. That must be his wife, Empress Goneril. And at her side is a handsome dark-haired boy who can only be their son, Haldyn Castellion, the light-wielding Crown Prince of Ostacre.
As one, the Etheri sink to their knees. Only the four Council members remain standing, though each of them bows their head.
‘Rise,’ commands the emperor, holding out his arms as if to embrace the crowd before him. ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen. My subjects. My friends.’
I watch Grandmother move forward, her stick tapping on the stone floor. ‘Your Imperial Majesty,’ she says, sinking into a low curtsy. ‘You honour us with your presence.’
‘Lady Harglade, a pleasure, as always.’ The emperor looks beyond her, scanning the room. ‘She’s here, I take it?’
Grandmother nods. ‘Yes, sire. She and her brother both.’
I feel as though I’ve just swallowed a stone. No, a boulder.
‘Well, then.’ The ground trembles as the emperor clasps his hands together. ‘Bring them forward. I wish to lay eyes upon the Storm Weaver.’
I take a small step back, panic roiling in my stomach. I can already see Flint making his way through the crowd, wearing his usual easy smile. The Etheri are beginning to glance around the ballroom. Next to me, a group of Ignitia courtiers are murmuring to one another, shooting pointed glances in my direction. Heat prickles at my cheeks. Before I know what I’m doing, I duck under a red tablecloth and crouch beneath the banquet table.
I listen as Flint graciously accepts the emperor’s blessings and apologizes for his sister’s temporary absence. After a few painful minutes, music starts up and the ballroom is once again filled with the sounds of string instruments and voices.
Underneath the table, I eat the rest of my cake and wallow in self-loathing. I keep expecting Grandmother’s ruby-encrusted stick to poke through the tablecloth and jab me in the ribs. If it did, I’d deserve it.
It’s difficult crawling in a dress. I bunch up the beautifully embroidered silk and throw it behind me, exposing my knees to the rough stone floor. If I can just make it to the far end of the ballroom, I can slip out of one of the concealed doors used by the attendants and escape down the back stairs. But then, out the corner of my eye, I spot a pair of slightly scuffed little shoes with carefully double-knotted laces.
Renly.
I grab his ankle and hear him yelp in surprise. A moment later he lifts the tablecloth, laughs with delight, and crawls under the table beside me.
‘Blaze! What are you doing? Are we playing a game?’
‘Where have you been?’ I ask him peevishly, wiping chocolate from round his mouth with the sleeve of my dress.
