I hold back a snort. Volatile. And he hasn’t even met me yet.
But my snort gets caught on what he called Angra—the Shadow of the Seasons. I’d forgotten that’s what the Rhythms call him. Like he’s nothing more than a gray haze cast by the rest of us, and maybe if we move the right way, he’ll disappear.
Sir steps into Noam’s line of sight and I blow a sigh of relief.
“I’d hoped we could discuss it in a more private setting.” Sir looks at Mather. “My king said you had already spoken with him, but I have some matters I would like to discuss as well.”
Sir’s never called Mather “king” before. Future king, yes. Royalty, yes. But never king. King Mather Dynam. A flutter of unease rushes through me. I know he’s our king, and I knew this would happen. I just thought I’d have more time, until we found the other locket half, at least. Not . . . now.
Noam waves over two servants. “Get Lady Meira settled. We need her looking her best for tonight.”
Both Sir and I blanch. Sir, blanching. I don’t think I like Bithai anymore.
“Excuse me?” Sir grunts.
Noam smirks. “The ball. My court has been waiting in Bithai for two days, expecting a celebration. Now it can begin. Surely your king has told you.”
The way he says the word king makes my skin crawl. I look to Mather, whose face is as red as the azaleas outside, and his jaw set so hard his teeth have to be completely flattened.
The servants move toward me. “Come this way, please,” one says.
Sir nods at me. But there’s something behind his eyes, something he’s barely holding on to, that makes me want to set my chakram to work ruining Noam’s pretty foyer.
The servants start off and, after another pause, I follow. This must be what sheep feel like before we cut their heads off and roast them over open fires.
Noam’s voice carries as we leave the foyer. Like everything else in Bithai, it’s intentional. “Yes,” he says. “We may yet come to an arrangement.”
I whip around but Sir, Mather, and Noam have already gone into what I can only assume is Noam’s study. The door shuts, cutting off anything else I might hear.
“Lady Meira, this way, please.”
Lady. Really?
I surrender to following the servants. The foyer ends in a ballroom—the ballroom, I’m sure, where whatever party Noam’s planned will happen tonight. It’s big, opulent, with marble and chandeliers and lush green plants and lots of gold. I’m a little sick of Cordell’s wealth.
Two staircases wrap around the room, one on each side. The servants take me up the left one, circling around so I have a 180-degree view of the ballroom. I make a point not to look at it, focusing instead on the mud caked on my boots.
We get to the second floor and commence to weave through so many identical halls that I begin to think Noam’s plan was to get me lost in a maze of annoyingly expensive finery. Wood paneling so polished I can see my filthy reflection as we pass, crystal chandeliers that throw shifting dots of light across my body, maroon carpet so plush and velvety that my boots leave indentations. The same dark accents and expensive yet comfortable feel as the foyer.
Finally the servants stop in front of a door. Its polished surface lets me watch my scared expression swing inward as it opens, and behind the door is, I hate to say it, exactly the bedchamber I’d design if I had endless resources and nothing more to worry about than room furnishings.
It’s simple and pretty. Where I had expected it to be as over-the-top as Noam’s gate, it’s nothing but a canopy bed (a really nice canopy bed), an armoire (a really nice armoire), and an intricate lavender rug stretched over a wood floor. Balcony doors stand open opposite me, heavy white curtains rippling in the wind as I walk into the center of the room.
Both servants are only a few years older than me, dressed in plain but simple dresses made of cloth in Cordell’s hunter green. Brown-blond hair hangs in smooth strands down their backs and one of them, her wide brown eyes giving the illusion that she sees everything, steps up to me. “Is this to your liking, Lady Meira?”
“Meira.”
“Yes, that’s what I said. Lady Meira.”
I frown. “No, just Meira. No lady.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Lady Meira.”
I grind my teeth and turn back to the servants. “Fine. What are your names?”
“Mona.”
“Rose.”
“Well, Mona and Rose, what can you tell me about what Noam’s planning?”
Mona keeps her head bowed meekly and Rose simply shrugs.
“We know nothing except that we are to have you dressed and ready by eight.”
I squint at them. “And if I refuse?”
Mona’s eyes widen. Rose, clearly the one in charge, puts a hand on Mona’s. “I hope you don’t. King Noam made it clear that our future in his service depends on you being at the ball.”
One of my eyebrows shoots up. “And you always do exactly what your king demands?”
Rose bobs her head slowly like she isn’t sure why I’d even ask such a question. I expect the same from Mona, but when I notice her hesitating, wringing her hands, I can’t stop a curious grin. Rose sees my sudden change in expression and faces Mona, who throws up her hands and nods so violently that I fear her hair will shake right off her head.
“Of course I obey him!” Mona declares. “I just—it would be nice, wouldn’t it? If we, I don’t know, had our own magic?”
Rose’s face turns as red as her namesake flower. “No Cordellan wants for anything, and you stand here, in front of a guest, and say such things?” She whips to me. “I apologize, Lady Meira—Mona is new to her position.”
Mona relents, dropping her hands and bowing her chin against her chest. But she doesn’t respond to Rose—she turns to me, her eyes on the floor. “Forgive me, Lady Meira.”
I almost forget to bristle at being called “Lady” when I see her small flicker of fire snuffed out. I can’t get the surprise off my face—the only time she spoke up was at the thought of having her own magic? Of not being indebted and linked to Noam?
I hold on to the thought, trying to figure out how to place it in my mind. I’m reminded of the lapis lazuli ball in my pocket, the small circular stone pressing into my thigh. Mather wanted to believe that it was magic, that anyone could just pick it up off the ground. It would make the world much simpler—no one would have to depend on their king or queen to help them. No one would have to stay within the boundaries of their kingdoms to partake in their bloodline’s magic. We’d be much less . . . trapped? That doesn’t feel like the right word, at least as someone who’s been fighting her entire life to get this kind of magic. But maybe in other kingdoms, kingdoms that have had magic for centuries, they ask these questions. They wonder what it would be like to be free of our world’s strict lines.