Kites shaped like silver sea serpents had been twisting in the serene blue skies all day, dripping with gold tassels and navy flags. The air smelled of honey and summer berries, spiced wine and cool blossom tea, and music drifted through the city from sunup. It mingled with the continuous cooing of the glass tubular bells that caught the magical arias in the atmosphere and played their melodies for the masses. Children shrieked in the fountains and the shallows of the riverbanks in Veridia’s glorious streets, and mothers fanned their faces while anxious fathers scooped too-small toddlers away from the promise of the cool water. Everyone was wearing their best, faces painted, smiles aglow.
The royal palace, too, was decked out for the occasion in a way only the royal palace could ever be. Streamers of navy and silver trickled artfully down from tree branches and lantern posts, and bunting that shimmered in the summer sun played tricks on every onlooker’s eyes; the giant’s tulips were in full and magnificent bloom, placed along every walkway, and the Queen’s favourite sculptures were artfully recreated in ice, protected from the heat with glittering gold nets of weaver magic. In the pink coral marble, everything looked like it was plucked from a dream. Court had not met. Instead, the giant doors were closed, and the courtiers and their attendants and extended families were spending the holiday roaming the royal gardens, riding horses and hunting, or otherwise attending to the spectacle that was Queen Cressida Naga’s birthday.
For his part, Idris had done his best to stay out of the way. He was not particularly artfully minded and had little understanding of décor, so all of Cressida’s questions about napkins and tablecloths had fallen on deaf ears, as usual. Besides that, he was still officially indisposed. When the party preparations became tiresome, he feigned exhaustion or a headache and the Queen pouted at him and told him he was being rude and unfair. She, of course, knew he was trying out his new prosthetics at night, and she told him he would be less tired if he did as he was meant to and stayed in bed. None of this excused him from being at the party.
Lila had dressed him immaculately, as was her wont, in a subtle green – a nod to his family colours that he was no longer permitted to claim – and fussed over his accessories.
“If you are insisting that you will make an appearance,” she said, affixing his cufflinks, “then you will at least look like you intended to be seen, sir.”
“It is all business,” he said.
“You are too sick for business.”
“I am well. Well enough,” he corrected, when she pursed her lips and gave him her hard look. “Well enough to stand in a corner and smile at the birthday girl. She will not forgive me if I do not go.”
“I think it’s too soon, sir,” said Lila, sighing and looking at her creation in the mirror. “How is the fit? Are you comfortable?”
“Most comfortable, Lila. Thank you.”
“Will you take your cane?”
“I will.”
“Please try to relax, Sir Idris.”
“I will drink one cup of wine, and eat a piece of cake, and come right back before the dancing has even begun,” he assured her.
He meant it, too. He did not dance, and he loathed being under the scrutiny of his noble counterparts. Everything to do with his official position was a show he was forced to perform in, his own comfort be damned. In a perfect world, he would shun court life without a care.
The world was not perfect. Idris knew that all too well.
Lila accompanied him to the royal ballroom. It was odd, seeing her back in her attendant’s clothes after the time they had spent on the road. Her nut-brown hair was neatly pinned to the back of her head, without the sun-kissed blonde that had streaked it weeks before, and the tan of her skin was fading. The old pinafores and skirt-and-blouse combinations did not suit her as much as riding breeches and her sword buckled to her hip. Willard still told her she was more beautiful than all the glitter of the fae treasury, and she still told him he was talking nonsense, but the hedge witch meant every word.
Lila cleared the way for Idris’s cane through the shady walkways of the royal veranda. Mercifully, the new prosthetic attached to Idris’s right leg felt comfortable and he limped less than he expected. Other courtiers paused as he passed, giving double-takes, hushing their companions as if a rogue word might trouble him. It was less the former fear and derision of his position than it had been only a month before, though, and some braver souls actually inquired of his health and stated how glad they were to see him.
“I can take it from here, Lila,” said a familiar voice.
Standing with a drink already in his gloved hand was Judge Kurellan. Lila instantly bowed for him; Idris dipped his head respectfully.
“Your Honour, it is good to see you,” he said.
Kurellan’s sharp, dark eyes looked Idris up and down. “And you. You’re thin. Are they not feeding you?”
“I would claim it is a growth spurt, but nobody believes that anymore, truthfully,” said Idris. To Lila, “It is quite all right, Lila. You can go. Judge Kurellan will be my eyes and ears for a minute or two. Did you not have plans of your own?”
Lila blushed and bowed. “Thank you kindly, Sir Idris. Judge Kurellan.”
“Plans?” said Kurellan, watching Lila go.
“She and Willard are going stargazing. It is a beautiful night for it,” said Idris. “And she deserves a break. Willard did get an invite to the party, but I do not think he is ready for noble occasions, yet.”
“That’s probably wise,” said Kurellan, his thick eyebrows knotted in thought. “Are you?”
“Hmm?”
“Ready for noble occasions?”
“How can I not go to my best friend’s birthday party, Kurellan?” sighed Idris.
Kurellan tutted, held out his thick arm. “Come, then.”
Idris took it, and they walked together.
It was a heady, balmy evening, still light and airy despite the later hour. It struck Idris as particularly funny that he was wandering towards the ballroom with stoic, stubborn old Kurellan, arm-in-arm like two promenading lovers, but he would not dare to laugh at the old man and realistically he was grateful for the quiet assistance. Recent events had rather shifted Kurellan’s view of Idris; it was good to have him on-side.
“I did not know you liked parties, Your Honour,” Idris said. Kurellan tutted.
“I do not.” He set his jaw. “Duty requires it. My wife enjoys them. My daughters, too.”
“It is a wonder the cost of gowns does not bankrupt you.”
“Quite.”
“Is that why you were lurking on the lawn, drinking alone?” said Idris mildly.
“I don’t care for your jokes, whelp.”
“My apologies, Your Honour. Only in jest.”
“I am glad you are well enough to mock me,” said Kurellan as they approached the crowds before the stairs. “How are you with stairs?”
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“Oh, I can manage from here. You go ahead. Is that your wife?” Idris said, glancing a black-and-white clad matriarch with the most miraculous hat. “Did you have to sell your grandfather’s bust for that wonder of structural engineering?”
“You are not too sick for a good clip around the ear,” said Kurellan. “I hope you trip.”
Idris smiled as he watched the old man return to his family, and when one of the daughters waved jovially to Idris, he bowed in response.
Idris had no family to greet, nor a fine lady to accompany him, so he was the only attending guest who climbed the steps alone. That was fine. He would be leaving within the hour, anyway. The summer warmth was already making him sweat and he found he was quickly out of breath climbing the stairs, and he took a second to compose himself before braving the ballroom. Perhaps he should have stayed in bed. It would have been nice to join Willard and Lila’s constellation-seeking enterprise, but he knew he was not welcome there. One hour, and he could return to his rooms.
The ballroom sat atop a sweeping semi-circular set of stairs, laid with navy-and-silver carpet. It was crafted from coral marble, each doorframe and window arch adorned with lapis draconis and blue mosaic from the Salt Lands, carved with conch shells and mermaid tails. It dominated the southern-most wing of the palace complex, receiving full sun all summer long on the ballroom side. On the approach, however, it cast a long, cool shadow all down the stairs.
Idris paused to wipe his face, nod to a few of his peers. Family colours and crests flourished on all sides; he felt poor indeed in his jade coat and he tugged at the black clematis embroidery on the hems as if the flowers would fall, freshly plucked, from his fingers.
As he entered, the criers called his official title: “Court Necromancer for House Naga, Sir Idris of Gleesdale.”
Idris nodded once to the crier and doggedly walked the atrium to the ballroom, ignoring the quiet stares and shuffling feet of the other guests. The debacle at Braemar was no doubt the first thing on their lips and he had no desire to discuss it. The table in the centre of the atrium was piled high with gifts for the Queen, offerings from neighbouring counties and dukedoms, chests of tea from the Imperial Kingdom and sea serpent candelabra expertly smithed from the Crescent Mountains. He paused before it, removed the box from inside his coat and nudged it onto a spare square of table. It sat dwarfed, a pressed black flower tied to the top.
The plan for surviving the party was simple: find a corner, find a cup, wait it out. As soon as he saw Cressida and gave her his blessings for another prosperous year, he could leave.
The scene inside the ballroom was daunting, though.
Magical fireworks pinged harmlessly above the revellers’ heads in the high ceiling, showering sparks of silver and green. A gigantic orchestra played delightfully on the left balcony; on the right, private tables and seats for the guests of honour, flanked by silver sea serpents with opals held in their mouths. Guests were still arriving but it already seemed as if the entire kingdom had crammed itself into the space. Acrobats and fire-eaters pranced through the people, juggling bottles of wine and crafting dragons from the embers of their acts, letting the magical silhouettes dance above the nobles’ heads to much mirth. The dresses were wild, the suits elegant. The noise was deafening.
Idris caught his breath, groaned inwardly and crept down the edge of the room to the tables where the more ancient members of the noble houses sat and snoozed, and he hid himself behind the platters of pate and toast and took the wine when it was offered to him. This was his favoured perch – he could see the whole room from there and there was little chance of anyone bumping into him, or worse, asking if he would take them to the dance floor.
There was Kurellan and his wife and daughters, their black-and-white magpie clothes quietly graceful in the riot of colour. There was Magus Arundale, smiling pleasantly in his scarlet robe as he tapped his foot to the music. There was the famous lady of Harran Pass in her bronze-and-emerald attire, which dazzled Idris every time she turned and laughed raucously at one of her many suitors. There was the young Duke of Braemar, nervously accepting a dance from the daughter of Lord Istabrook.
The great and the good, all together. It was… nice.
Idris felt his shoulders loosen. This was a good reintroduction to his court life. He had worries and troubles, but they did not matter here. All he had to do tonight was wish his best and oldest friend a happy birthday, kiss her cheeks, coo over her dress and behave himself.
He was settling into his vigil when, not fair away, he saw the swish of an ashen braid.
Catching his breath, Idris averted his gaze. Of course, Riette was here. She was a noble. Why would she not be here?
Cautiously, he glanced her way again. She was smiling, chatting animatedly with a man with hair like hers. Her strong shoulders were covered in a sheer purple chiffon capelet, adorned with golden stars; a gold mountain cat pranced along the hem. For a sturdy, muscled woman, she cut a surprisingly feminine figure that made Idris feel rather dazed.
The presence of noble ladies did not usually break Idris out into a cold sweat. He avoided them if he could help it for fear of scorn from their families or comments from Cressida, but he was not afraid of them, not in the way he was afraid of Riette; even then, fear was not the correct way to describe his feelings towards seeing her, but it was close enough. He scolded himself, gulped the last of his cup of wine and looked around for a waiter with another tray. By the time he had flagged one down, there was a hand on his upper arm, and there was Riette, her smile glorious and honest.
“You made it, Sir Idris,” she said, curtseying slightly.
Idris bowed. “Lady DeTrentaville, an honour.”
“Hush,” she said, nudging his shoulder with her knuckle. “My, green is a wonderful colour on you. What a handsome coat.”
“Thank you. Lila has a fine eye for these things and I am too fortunate to have her. Your gown is magnificent.”
“You have no idea how difficult it is to get bolts of silk long enough to make a dress for me,” she said, nervously smoothing the belt on her waist. Idris smiled.
“I have never had that problem, thankfully.” Riette was taller than most other women in the room, even accounting for their footwear; she stood a head taller than Kurellan, even, and while Idris was of a rather average height, he felt tiny beside her. “Is it how you imagined it?” he asked.
“The party?”
“Seeing a friend across the ballroom.”
She laughed, nodded. “It is better,” she said.
Idris swallowed, felt his cheeks warm, and turned his gaze to the room. “I expected to see a line of young nobles, fighting each other over the opportunity to ask you to dance. Did I miss it already?”
“Alas, it has not happened yet. There is still time.”
“More’s the pity. I do love a good party brawl.”
“And there is time for that, too.” Riette paused. “I promised I would not ask you to dance, but I do hate seeing you standing here alone. At least allow me to introduce you to my brother, Maximillian. He is already five cups deep and he does tell the most heinous stories. I think you would like him.”
“Oh, I…” Idris tried to think of a good excuse. “I am not staying. Honestly, I am meant to have taken my evening medicine by now and it is past my curfew. I am here to embrace my Queen and bid her many happy returns, as soon as she deigns to come down from her balcony.”
“Well, you look much recovered,” she said. “I am glad.”
“The lump in my nose betrays me,” he said, fingering it, and she laughed.
“I did not even notice it.”
“The scars in my cheek?”
“Oh, child’s scars. You can hardly see them, even in the light. Not like this one.”
She indicated the scar on her chin. Idris thought it made her look rather handsome.
“I thought you would have returned home,” he said.
“You did not hear?” she said. “With Commander Bartold in the dungeons… well, Her Majesty offered me the Castle Guard command.”
“Oh.” That was a surprise. A welcome surprise, but still a surprise. “Let me be among the first to congratulate you, Commander DeTrentaville.”
“It is Riette, Idris,” she said, with a wry smile, “but my thanks.” Another pause. Idris half-wished she would be gone so that he could stop crafting perfect sentences in his head. “Are you sure you won’t come and laugh at Maximillian with me?”
“I am certain. I do not wish to interrupt your family time, it must be seldom that you are able to spend such an uninterrupted stretch with your brothers. Please do give them my warmest regards, though.”
“I will.” She gripped his hand for a moment only. “I am much happier for seeing you well, Idris. If you get lonely, we are all wearing purple and taller than is good for us.”
Idris, as he was meant to for a noble lady, returned the grip and kissed her fingers in deference.
“A pleasure,” he said.
“It was mine,” she replied, a pink flush in her cheeks, and swept back across the floor to her flailing brother, who was entertaining a thick throng of purple-clad doppelgangers to musical laughter.
“Time to go,” Idris whispered to himself, surprised at how tired he felt all at once.
On his way back to the door, he paused to see if he could identify Cressida in the madness and, seeing no navy-and-silver train, he decided he would apologise in the morning instead of waiting for her. The box he had left on the gift table was already buried under more presents. The night air had not cooled.
Wooziness hit him like a runaway carriage. Idris steadied himself on the balcony rail at the top of the stairs, took medicinal breaths. It was not the wine – he had only had one. Maybe it was the heat, or the stuffy collar of his coat. He loosened the fasteners, pulled the buttons of his waistcoat open.
“Idris?”
He turned. Queen Cressida was at the ballroom door, her hair held in place with an opal crown made of a hundred sea serpents, her navy dress a cascade of silver ribbons and mesmerising velvet.
“Idris, I did not know you were coming,” she said, approaching.
Idris blinked. The scene span.
“Good evening, Majesty,” was all he managed before he dropped to his knees in a faint.