Wicked Throne, page 10
Salhy says, “How interesting that their pirates came from the Fringe.”
“Why?”
“No reason, sir. But . . . I wonder how pirates from the Fringe knew the goblin king would send a gold shipment, and where.”
I make a noncommittal noise.
“I only thought it strange because Ivar de Ryeleth had several contacts in the Fringe. He used to lead raids against illegal magic users there. Now his weirghasts are on the rise, yet pirates from his past hunting ground have sent our allies right to our table. Some might take that for an omen.”
I ignore that. “And you, Councilor? Do you take that for an omen?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Good.”
He says, “We will see Ivar defeated. Almathea will rip him limb from limb.”
“Ivar is dead,” I insist.
“His plot grows, even after his death.” On that happy note, Salhy strides to join the goblin party, who, along with our court, gather around the bread bowl.
I sit down to eat plain white crusts from a clay bowl while the staff drags the enchanted songbirds, waterships, animals, and other wooden treasures back to Nyrene’s fake jungle room. Meanwhile, down the hall leading to the furnace, I imagine there’s a hasty rush to hurl the rethawed feast onto the fire. Ten resurrection cycles between the freezer and the dining tables have congealed every last crumb except the bread bowl into rock-hard ice.
Gwynnestri says, “Maybe it is that he meant for Deercat to succeed him as emperor.”
“I can’t say. But, my dear, I am not unsettled by eunuchs or whether my father loved Deercat or me more than the other. I am unsettled by—and I dare say—disappointed that you would rather talk about the past than the future we have together. My father is dead. I—or, yes, Deercat—will become emperor. Ivar de Ryeleth is gone.” Thank holy hell. “Your daughter, Lashti, is still unwed.”
“Yes?” Her nose wrinkles in shock.
I suppress an evil grin. “Deercat is also unwed. Whatever business my father left behind was not my doing, I promise. It is time my half brother found duties to attend beyond breaking things with his sword.”
The elf queen entwines her left arm through my right. “A royal wedding?”
“No less.”
“You are filled with surprises today!”
I raise one of our emptied wineglasses to her in wobbly salute. “Many more than you would think.”
“A royal wedding.” She pets my elbow with her free hand. “Our peoples will love you for this. What better way to alleviate all this darkness and gloom? I can just hear the happy voices now. . . .”
The privy council watches me intently.
My palms grow cold. Sweat blurs my vision. “What proof,” I repeat under the city’s hateful stare, “do I have to offer that Ivar spoke truth when he told me the ghasts mean to summon a dragon?”
Beurnock’s triumphant little smile fries me from above.
Pausing for what looks like an imperious survey of my kingdom, I cast about for anything that might convince them. Anything at all. How can Prince Razanhi have a personal rapport with a dark sorcerer? Or weirghasts? He can’t. Not if I want to protect his image. I need his image. What I need is a . . . scapegoat.
Brittle heat floods my veins. That’s it. I know exactly what to say to convince them. I know how to rig the game.
If I do this, I will be wiped from every history book. I will be cursed.
On the other hand, I can have fun exploring the limits of personal endurance with a dragon.
“What proof do I have of this?” I glare at the waiting masses, hating them all so much I can’t speak. I declare in Razanhi’s ages-hard, indomitable voice, “Who do you think I followed from the Black Tower to Vorsmad? Who do you think I saw? Vorsmad’s location is a secret known only to the emperor and the gatekeepers . . . and one exiled dark wizard who used to work in the Black Tower, who told me himself he meant to unleash a dragon.”
A moment passes as what I’ve said sinks in. Then it’s over.
Men and women scream from their seats. Fists pound the stifling air, feet stamp. Beurnock gapes down at me, wide-eyed. Chieftain Krovi jumps to old feet and shouts for peace in the face of a hurricane. I want to seek out Nyrene in the gallery, but I can’t bear to see the look on her face.
I ball my fists. “The attack on our fleet at Eorha was only the beginning. He stole my likeness to wreck our fleet, and it was only Deercat’s fast actions that prevented him from murdering my half-brother as well. He means to destroy us. He means to summon a monster from the Dreamland. Who will stand with me against this evil?”
I! screams the hurricane.
“Who?”
I!
“Will Almathea fight, or will we shame our fathers?”
No!
“I will lead the full might of our great empire against Vorsmad!”
Yes!
“I will marshal elves and goblins under our one banner!”
Yes!
“Our banner!”
Yes!
“I will defeat Ivar de Ryeleth and cast him down upon the pit of hell!”
Razanhi! Razanhi! King!
The crowd surges to its feet. Their screams mutate into deafening cheers. I lift my arms to embrace them all. I catch sight of myself on a telescreen’s display in the hall’s center: noble, proud Razanhi in his magnificent crimson and white, grim sharp-cheekboned face glowing in the ferocious lights. I am Prometheus. I am Nab himself.
The cheers are all for me.
12
"WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?” Nyrene snarls. She shoves Razanhi’s study door shut and twists the lock. “If you wanted to commit suicide, you could have just taken off your glamour in front of the citadel. They’d have cut your throat for you. You’d have gotten a great big cheer.”
I put down my paperwork. “I’m not committing—”
The violent look on her face shuts me up. Nyrene says, “I don’t know what to say to you. What’s the matter with you? You’re your own worst enemy. I wouldn’t want you for an enemy.”
“The Shade is my worst enemy. He won’t want me for an enemy, either.”
“You destroyed your reputation!”
“My reputation was already destroyed,” I point out.
She edges into the study, eyes dark. “You’re going to stand trial. Don’t do that. Why would you do that? Are you completely insane?”
“Yes.”
She puts her head back and gazes at me.
I quirk a smile. “What was I supposed to say to that question?”
“You must take it back. You can’t take it back.”
“I’ve got them all on my side. They’ve given me permission to meet with Queen Gwynnestri and Archaret Zhossyr Eska. I’ve set appointments for them to visit Almathea next week.”
She totters toward the desk. “What are you going to say to your king?”
“I’ll figure it out.” I clear off a space on the corner, and Nyrene sits down, gathering her long organza skirts around her legs.
“Like the stunt you pulled at the citadel?” She gazes at me as though I’m a stranger.
“No, not like that.” I hold up a letter entrusted with Razanhi’s name in vibrant sapphire ink to distract her. “May I ask you a question?”
“I don’t know. What?”
“Do you think I should send Jikiri home?”
She frowns. “The concubine?”
“I don’t think she likes being here. I think I should send her home with a title and some funds.”
Nyrene shifts onto her hip to stare at the letter. “Momaggos’s private belongings.”
I explain, “Razanhi is liquidating his father’s assets.”
Nyrene reads the note from the emperor’s steward, and an unstable quiet sneaks over us. She pulls back, blinking. “All right, send her home.” Her night-black eyes dip down to study mine. “Thank you. That’s very generous.”
Generous. “What do you think we should do with the others?”
“Honestly?”
“Yes.”
She says, “You’re nice, sometimes. Maybe this is just you being goblin again.”
“I don’t follow.”
Nyrene stares at the paper. “What do you think Azan would do with his father’s concubines?”
“Banish them. Except for Clarine; he’d start a war with Deercat if he banished his mother.”
“Yes,” she drawls.
“Strip them and banish them.”
“We’re not going to do that.”
I say, “Let’s give the newer ones a financial settlement and then send them all home. Clarine may stay. She’ll retain her honorary title and monthly stipend.”
A small smile nips at her mouth. “God, Azan wanted to do that for years. He hated them all so much. I think he blamed them for his mother’s suicide.”
I think Azan caused Queen Ivar’s suicide. “Well, she was sick.”
“Yes, but he was a child. He didn’t know any—” Her mouth freezes tight, and she drops her gaze to the rug.
“Momaggos caused Queen Ivar’s suicide,” I say.
“Stop it.”
“I’d have killed myself if I were married to Momaggos.”
“Stop it.” Nyrene exhales a long, low breath. “Razanhi takes lunch at two in his private dining room. He likes listening to music, so you’ll ask the poet to sing ‘Leshak Poora Ta Rasinga.’ And sit up straight.”
“All right.”
Nyrene’s right index finger spasms against her knee. Normally, it’s an endearing tic, but right about now, it’s irritating. “If you pull this off with the goblin king and the elves, plan a ball.”
“For . . . ?”
“To celebrate lasting friendship between the Imperial Crown and our new allies. To celebrate the Vorsmad invasion.”
A ball. “I thought the idea was that I should keep a low profile. Sign Razanhi’s documents. Attend his father’s funeral. Don’t do anything stupid.”
She flicks hot, accusing eyes at me.
“Don’t do anything else stupid,” I try.
“Razanhi would plan a ball.”
“That sounds like a bad idea.”
She forces a sharp, braying laugh.
“Razanhi hates balls. So it’s in character not to have an invasion ball.”
“He’d still plan an invasion ball.”
I drop the letter. “So, in between the logistical puzzle of wooing three separate kingdoms, including Tes Ap Hanhga, and planning a four-army joint invasion of our long-lost homeland, when?”
“Mm. The eighth?”
“So soon?”
“You’ll want to invade as soon as the kings and queen agree and your analyst delivers a plan of attack. Probably aim for no later than the eleventh for the invasion. But give the cooks and sewing houses time to rush their spells, and give the guests time after the ball to sleep off their recovery.” Nyrene catches me gazing at her and her full lips flicker into a smile. “What?”
“You know, you’re good at this.”
She smiles. In the cool natural light from the windows, her red-brown skin glows like dawn fire, the soft summer flush in her cheeks rarer and more beautiful than the smile. Blue jewel-toned shadows kiss the hollow of her slender throat and gather under her high, lacy collar when she swallows.
I relent. “All right. Damn stupid invasion ball.”
The damn stupid invasion ball happens on the ninth. My talks with Eska, Gwynnestri, and Nyrene’s uncle go well except that Deercat’s now betrothed to a woman he’s hated since childhood, who upon first meeting him, tormented Deercat until he shoved her to the floor and almost caused a diplomatic catastrophe. But with him tied up in killing his sister-in-law’s people and Princess Lashti still safely in Pelay, neither have to face the other until their wedding day.
I wonder whether Deercat’s gotten over his human lover yet.
In the meantime, my days race past in endless war meetings, but my nights drag into silent agony. The upcoming invasion tears off a scab in my mind. I fall asleep on Nyrene’s daybed only to wake a few hours later shivering in sweat, unable to remember what I’d been dreaming. The dark stretches back and back into itself, growing deeper and darker than it should be. I shoot from the covers to stand in Razanhi’s dressing gown on the frigid naked floor in the suffocating Silence, knowing only I’ve got to get out get out get out.
My chest hurts. I can’t turn off the manic thrashing under my ribs. My heart’s involuntary pounding scares me as much as the darkness. I can’t breathe. My chest and brain have become a separate, monstrous, alien parasite inhabiting the space that used to be mine.
The parasite and the terror expand into a killing pressure under my skin like poison gas. I fling myself into a fast walk across the dayroom and back the other way just to get my legs working. It doesn’t matter where I go. The kitchenette. Around and around the bed. Put a few more feet between myself and the pressure. If I walk far enough, I might leave the poison gas behind and I’ll be free.
Can’t turn on the light. Shadows live in the light. That’s where the dragon is.
In the dark, life constricts to a single point. To hell with the invasion. To hell with Nyrene. Let it stop hurting, that’s all I ask.
I can’t let her know about this.
I can’t let anyone know about this.
Our prince shouldn’t be straw-faced from insomnia, trying to keep his heart from exploding. I’ve got to stop this. I’ve got to visit the healing tower.
I make up my mind to go while the seam master stitches me into a costume that’s supposed to resemble a moth.
“Almost done, Your Highness,” he says, yanking the needle through the fur and padding on my shoulder.
Nyrene’s maid sticks her head through the door.
“Thank you,” I tell the seam master. He ties off his knot and steps back, head down. I follow Apodegan’s tall, slim figure into Nyrene’s dressing room.
Razanhi’s wife looks up from the vanity. “Come see how pretty I am.”
I slip into her room, but I don’t need to get closer to see how pretty she is. Nyrene’s face seems to glow. Her hair floats above her head in all the colors of the ocean. Sapphires and amethysts drip from her throat to join the peacock feathers sliding across her bare shoulders to her chest. Violet silk flows from her trim waist in a ruffle and cascades in a wide bell to pool around her feet. A hundred more peacock feathers kiss her long, sweeping skirts and trickle up her bodice between tiny gold beads that peek from the weightless fabric like dewdrops.
“You’re a dream,” I say.
Nyrene blushes crimson, but she winks. She looks me over. “You look handsome, too.”
“Thank you.” I slide a hand into my costume’s breast pocket and pull out a small oblong, green velvet box. “I got you something.”
“Iv—” Nyrene starts to protest, and turns it into, “I’ve never expected. . . .” She flips the lid and unrolls the filmic paper inside. Nyrene raises an eyebrow. “It’s an architectural contract.”
“Queen Gwynnestri wants to gift her daughter a spring palace for the wedding. They need a designer. I recommended you. If you’re interested.”
Nyrene reads and rereads the scroll, holding it between her hands as though it’s delicate glass. When she looks up, the wonder in her eyes catches my breath. “Thank you.”
“I knew Lashti. She has an avant-garde sense of style. She’ll love your work. She’ll try to run away with you, too, but you’re married.”
“Oh, would she?” Nyrene coos. My heart skips a beat. The princess extends her arm. I loop Razanhi’s moth-dressed elbow through it, and she escorts me down the steps to his foyer. We leave the prince’s suite arm in arm and make our way to the Grand Theater, opposite the central gardens where I met with Gwynnestri. Nyrene’s touch fills me with vibrant intoxication. I’m half alive and half dead with her on my arm. We file in behind the upper balconies where we huddle together with the other royalty from Tes Ap Hanhga, Gadran Vei, and Pelay while the herald introduces us to the minor nobility downstairs in the mezzanine by ones or twos.
He calls Razanhi’s full address, and Nyrene’s. Trumpets skirl in the orchestra pit. We descend the grim stone steps to the front balcony as thunderous applause shakes the theater. I sit down in a golden chair between the gray arches and gargoyles, trying my hardest to keep a straight face.
Due to the emperor’s assassination, there is no item hunt to begin the ball —or a pageant, thank holy hell—so I get to be bored and hot watching follies rather than bored and impatient prowling around the palace grounds looking for whimsical nonsense. The theater lights dim. The Imperial anthem blasts, and I memorize the dainty shape Nyrene’s fingers make cupped together on her knees.
Our first act swims up through a stage tank on the stone floor above the orchestra. Colorful, whirling merfolk in traditional beadwork dive over, under, and in between each other in a fast-paced, high-precision dance. They flip their powerful tails and cut like razors through the illuminated tank, then flash jewel-colored fins to leap backward through the air. The audience claps. A swing rises from the surface carrying a rubfinned woman whose water aspect resembles a lionfish. She croons a low, self-mocking lament about her love for the sleek, silver-tailed beauty in the dance’s center. Other more glamorous men and women offer the beautiful mermaid flowers, and she rides around the tank in their arms instead. When the song ends, the dancers dive back under the stage, except for four fish-tailed men and a jellyfish woman who perform Prince Zandi’s descent into the Dreamland to rescue his beloved.
That one’s pretty good, except this version doesn’t have a dragon. No doubt for political reasons. Zandi swims around the stage killing fog-webbers and necromancers who’ve stolen Princess Ysam, rather than an all-powerful nightmare. The final show makes up for a lack in horror with an extra helping of goo: a so-funny-you’ll-stab-yourself morality play about a child who finds a wishing shell and almost destroys the world before her parents put things right. Parents always put things right in merfolk shows. Children always almost destroy the kingdom, unless they’re doting little ghosts who smile silently in awe at Mom and Dad. The only part of that travesty not an utter waste of time is Nyrene, whose sighs and fingers tapping on her armrest make little warm sparks rise under my skin.
