Page 265 of Burn of the Everflame

Tonight, I’d face the most important of them all.

59

DIEM

“Blessed drinks for the Blessed mates!”

A cheer rang out through the post-ceremony reception in the palace gardens, wine-filled glasses dancing high above heads. The tinkling of their toasting rims was joined by scattershot explosions in the clouds, the result of Guardian bombs that had been modified to burst into colorful embers. With each one that peppered the sky with glowing sparks, the dazzled spectators cheered louder, until I was certain that all of Lumnos heard our mirth.

Their mirth.

“We can’t let a bunch of lawless rebel rats outdo us, can we?” Luther said loudly. A swirling cloud of magic formed in his palm, and he hurled it over his head. A few seconds later, the sky became a glittering sea of Lumnos light.

From any other Descended, the words would have ignited a brawl, but the Guardians in the crowd let out a laugh. Luther had made himself one of them, as much as any Descended could ever be. He’d lived with them, trained them, fought alongside them, ensured they wanted for nothing, be it food or medicine or an ear to hear their rage. He’d worked closely with my mother, deferring to her command as loyally as he did with mine, and word of how he’d stood up to the Twenty Houses had spread throughout camp. Though he wasn’t as easy to love as Taran had been, the slow and serious way Luther earned the mortals’ respect had made it all the more powerful.

“Can you do better than that?” he said to the two Guardians firing off the mortars, baiting them with a wink. They grinned and dug through their pile to snatch their largest bomb, then loaded it into a catapult and lit its fuse before launching it high. The explosion was massive, sending loosened pebbles rattling down the palace’s stone walls. Rainbow light speckled their upturned faces as the crowd roared its approval.

“What do you think?” Luther called out to a group of Unhoused Descended standing nearby. “Shall we outdo them?”

He’d been making inroads with them as well, and the “we” was brilliantly strategic. The Unhoused had never been welcome in Lumnos City or Mortal City, let alone invited guests of the royals. To have a prince—the Prince—so publicly claim them as allies in front of the Twenty Houses and mortals alike, even in a silly duel of light, sent a strong message.

Luther had handed them a chance to shine, and they weren’t going to waste it. Their hands shot up and set the sky awash with shimmering plumes and twinkling orbs, earning a gasp from the delighted guests.

“Brothers and Sisters,” my mother barked, a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes, “it’s time to show everyone what the Guardians of the Everflame can do.” Fuse after fuse was lit, and bomb after bomb was launched, turning the evening sky into a sparkling battleground.

“Don’t just sit there,” Luther shouted to Eleanor and Lily. “Defend the Corbois name!”

They giggled and added their magic to the fray. Other Descended joined in, and soon the evening stars vanished behind a curtain of sparks that stretched as far as the eye could see. At the center of the crowd, a newly mated Taran held Zalaric against his chest, heads tipped together, watching the world glow for their love.

Luther nudged my side. “I don’t think all our guests are enjoying the show,” he said, glancing toward the palace, where a small group watched with disapproving scowls.

“That’s why they shouldn’t be guests,” I muttered. When Luther made a last-minute suggestion to invite everyone living in the palace to the reception, the proposition had not been popular, especially with me. I trusted the Corbois not to cause trouble, for fear of me if nothing else. I couldn’t say the same for the other Descended who’d moved in after losing their homes in Ophiucae’s attack—especially the Hanoverres. They were always scheming for a fight, and the mating of a half-mortal son they’d thrown away was a tempting lure.

If Luther’s conspirator had been anyone but Zalaric, I would have refused it, but tensions with his paternal family had been brewing, and I sensed he was ready to face them at last.

“Marthe looks particularly irate, don’t you think?” Luther teased. She’d vehemently refused to attend, though her narrowed, blazing blue eyes were a permanent fixture in a palace window.

“I wonder why,” I said dryly. I tossed a pointed look at the cascade of roses flowing over the garden walls and forming a fluffy river that wove throughout the golden mirrored floor. There must have been thousands of them, each one perfectly half white and half red in a nod to Zalaric’s Hanoverre lineage and mortal blood. If he was trying to provoke them, there was no bolder way to do it.

“Enness made the roses himself,” Luther said. “Drained his magic every day for a week.” His fingers grazed up and down my spine, lingering in the places where my skin could be felt beneath the bodice’s sheer mesh. “He did it for you, you know.”

“It’s not my reception.”

“He knows how close you are with them. He wanted to show his gratitude for freeing him from prison. Zalaric insisted on paying him—out of the royal coffers, of course.”

I surveyed the extravagant event: the overflowing tables of food, the full orchestra of musicians, the custom pavilion made of ice-crystal pillars and draped with miles of gossamer chiffon. Sculptures of Ignios fire danced in time with the music atop scattered marble pedestals, while platters of bubbling wine and colorful liqueurs floated on currents of Meros wind. The fragrant roses perfumed the air, along with crisp neroli and rich, smoky sandalwood. Painted in gold onto every plate, table, and chair was the heart-and-dagger symbol of the mating mark.

My chest was aflame in recognition.

“Did I pay for all of this?” I asked.

“Only the services provided by people in your army. Zalaric paid for the rest, though he haggled them down to coppers. You, on the other hand, were very generous. Especially with the mortals.”

Clever, I thought. A just redistribution of unjust wealth, masquerading as a royal indulgence that no Descended would give a second thought.

“I don’t remember approving that,” I joked.

“I’m certain you wrote the grant of funds.” Luther leaned in, setting a kiss beneath my ear. “Pay no attention if your handwriting looks a great deal like mine.”