Palace of Silver Page 7

  But I had groaned. I had recently completed my tenure at the elicromancer academy in Arna and wanted to do nothing but host celebratory parties and gossip with the daughters of favored courtiers.

  “The staff shouldn’t need us breathing down their necks to do their jobs, and Devorian’s nearly a man,” I had argued, shrugging against Father’s farewell embrace. I scowled as Mother brushed a loving kiss on my cheek. “I’m no one’s governess teaching them their letters.”

  Too often, I staved away my regret over that final farewell by dreaming that Mother and Father looked down upon us from the land of light.

  But if that were true, they would see Ambrosine as well. They would know that her tendencies toward cunning and vanity had trampled her virtues. They would know she had afflicted our people with poverty and starvation. And it would break their hearts.

  At last we entered the city of Halithenica, coasting under an arched stone gate with a marble relief of eight celestial figures in rippling robes. The inbound road diverted around a plaza with a fountain sculpted into the likeness of a broad-shouldered man tipping a pitcher, which gushed forth water for children to drink and splash at one another.

  “That’s Orico, the Holy of Generosity,” Perennia explained. “His statue was placed here at the entry to make visitors feel welcome. The other seven Holies are scattered throughout the—”

  I cut her a look that said I would fling her beloved book out the door.

  “Sorry,” she finished.

  The buildings were arranged in a tight but orderly grid, and a network of bridges intersected a river meandering through the city. Many people swept bows and curtsies as we passed. Young children skipped around, tossing sunflowers into our path.

  “How kind!” Perennia waved at them.

  “It’s a relief to be shown a bit of respect,” I muttered, donning a neutral smile.

  The cheerful crowd lined the streets all the way to the palace, where purple flags embroidered with the kingdom’s tree symbol flapped in the breeze. Before long, guards in elegant purple livery summoned us through the gates. When I stepped out of the carriage, I looked up at a façade of clean white and glossy black stones. Spiraling columns, niches for gaudy statues, and domed towers gave the palace an outlandish grandeur.

  But nothing was quite as gaudy as our sister who awaited us.

  Ambrosine stood in a billowing crimson gown with two straight, solemn rows of guards branching out before her. The seams of the close-fitting bodice cut around her hips and exploded into layers of fiery skirts, with an endless train furling out behind her like a tulip petal. She wore a gold necklace so large it was nearly a mantle, and her luxurious blond waves had been smoothed into a dramatic high plait and topped by a coronet. Her lips gleamed the startling red of a fresh blood drop.

  “Dear sisters!” she called, splaying her hands in greeting. She perched on the final step, and it took a few beats for me to realize she meant for us to approach her.

  Perennia smiled encouragingly. Together, we crossed the courtyard while the attendants transported our luggage. Ambrosine bent to bestow kisses near our cheeks, more sound than substance.

  “I trust you received a friendly reception from my people,” she said over the distant thunder of approaching hooves. She looked over our heads. “Ah! The huntsmen have returned!”

  I turned to find a small band of riders accompanied by panting hounds. Braces of rabbits and fat pheasants bounced from the saddles, as well as bags of packed and quartered game meat. Three men dismounted upon entry to the courtyard and led away the hounds and horses.

  But the dark-haired leader cantered onward and slung down from the saddle to approach us, his shoulders rigid. Bold brows, black as coal smudges, gave emphasis to brown eyes that skimmed over me with what felt like anger held in deep reserve. Why a stranger from a foreign land would regard me with such cold disdain, I couldn’t fathom.

  “What did you bring us, Severo?” Ambrosine asked gleefully.

  The young man took a square stance and met her giddiness with proud stoicism. “A red hart for the upcoming Sun’s Benediction festivities,” he declared. “And, as you see, fowl and rabbits for tonight.” He spoke in a rolling, rustic accent that revealed only an intermediate grasp on Nisseran—how I might sound trying to speak Perispi after not having lessons since my parents died. Without a trace of emotion, he added, almost too late, “My queen.”

  My eyes strayed to the dark blood seeping through the game bags borne by his patient horse, then moved on to the many weapons arranged on his person: a bow and quiver lashed to his back, knives of various sizes fastened at his waist and thighs. He sported a weatherworn leather jerkin, and as he casually gripped the hilt of his hunting knife, I noticed rough calluses on his hands and dried blood under his fingernails. Back home, noblemen did their own hunting as a matter of sport and status while their servants performed the dirty work of field dressing their kills, but perhaps the lords of Perispos hired commoners to do both.

  “I would expect nothing less of the royal huntsman,” Ambrosine replied in an oily tone, as though she loved nothing more than lavishing praise upon this handsome yet prickly fellow. He stalked away to untether the bloody packs, saying nothing more.

  “Where is King Myron?” I asked Ambrosine.

  “And the princess?” Perennia couldn’t bring herself to say “your stepdaughter.” Judging by her recent conduct, Ambrosine was in no condition to care for anyone other than herself. But surely Princess Navara did not require my sister’s care anyway, not with her flocks of maids and tutors. From her perspective, Ambrosine was probably nothing but a porcelain figurine making frivolous, featherbrained demands from the king’s side.

  “Regrettably, my husband is ill with digestive woes today,” Ambrosine answered. “But you’ll meet the sweet little girl at dinner.”

  She lifted a finger wearing a gold filigree claw-tip ring and used it to stroke the scar that sliced down my cheek. She executed every movement with a strange self-awareness, as though she were sitting for a portrait and experimenting with gestures to find the most flattering pose. I resisted the urge to swerve from her cool touch.

  When she dropped her arm and straightened, I realized that she still had not dismounted the final stair. My instincts screamed a refusal to allow her to tower over me; I joined her at her level. With a tight smile, she immediately turned and ascended.

  “I’ve spared no expense arranging your accommodations,” she said as we followed her indoors, chaperoned by two guards and two servants. “And my court will feast tonight in your honor.”

  Perennia gasped as we entered the foyer. A richly colored mural sprawled across the domed ceiling. Shades of saturated purple created a velvety backdrop for countless stars that seemed to sparkle in the soft beams from the high windows. “The Eight Holies,” Perennia said, twirling in place to study the ring of divine figures in golden robes. “This is breathtaking work.”

  “Come, come!” Ambrosine said without looking up, ascending another set of black and white stairs, this one leading to a long hall of mirrors. Gilt moldings scrolled along the white walls and framed the silver glass panels. Mirror mosaics covered the arched ceiling like diamonds. “When I arrived, the palace sorely needed renovating. So many faded frescoes and chipped sculptures. This area, at least, has been much improved. Myron and I have been bickering over the foyer.”

  “Were these your personal touches?” I asked, gesturing at a mirror and meeting eyes with my reflection. I looked even more ill at ease than I felt.

  “Yes. They bring in more light than the drab paintings that had hung here before. You would have hated them, Glisette. So many bleak colors and morose deities no one in Perispos prays to anymore.”

  From the long corridor branched many others, and though I stole only glimpses of them, I realized all were lined with mirrors. My head whirled as my eyes tried to make sense of their optical tricks.

  “Your people know about your gift for mirror manipulati
on,” I said cautiously. “Might this intimidate them?”

  In a flurry of untamed skirts, Ambrosine stopped short. The servants and guards halted several steps behind us, their expressions blank. “Why would it intimidate them? I’m their sovereign. I care for them. My power is their power.”

  “Which I hope you’ve not found a way to use,” I said in a careful tone. “Considering it would take dark elicromancy to break the restriction we imposed.”

  “I haven’t,” Ambrosine said, jutting her chin in defiance. “I wouldn’t want to cross the Empress of Elicromancy who presides over us all.”

  “Valory?” I chuckled. “Don’t let her ego hear that.”

  “It’s hardly a joke.” Ambrosine clasped her hands and stepped back toward me, her gaze sharp and bright. Out of the corners of my eyes, I found fragmented reflections of us staring each other down. “Valory could destroy us all with the flutter of an eyelash. How do you sleep at night?”

  “I trust her. She loves Nissera and its people.”

  “But you don’t trust me.” Ambrosine arched a brow, challenging me. “That’s why you’re here.”

  “You’re right,” I said, my features icing over. “It is.”

  “I’m here to visit with my sisters,” Perennia insisted. She stepped between us and took each of our hands. “We haven’t been together in months, and you two are already fighting.”

  “Oh, Perennia, dear…” Ambrosine’s tight, angry smile returned, more of a sneer this time, exposing a glint of teeth as she held my gaze. “You’ll know a fight when you see it.”

  I sensed the presence of a baleful power, like sudden storm clouds slithering over a crystal summer sky. In the corner of my eye, Ambrosine’s mirrored face looked more sinister than taunting, its shadows deep and alive, racing off into an infinity of reflections. I feared that if I turned to face the image, I would be frightened by what I saw.

  “You were showing us to our rooms,” I reminded her, escaping Perennia’s grip to contain the shudder I could not allow either of them to notice.

  Ambrosine patted Perennia’s hand. “Yes. You will be impressed.”

  In strained silence, we continued down mirrored corridors, past servants who swept such obsequious bows that their noses nearly brushed the floor. My lip curled in disgust. We had banished Ambrosine to a foreign kingdom to quell her sense of entitlement, to make her feel small and force her to start over. Yes, she had wed into privilege and power, which was more than she deserved, but I thought she would be kept in check. King Myron loved his country and many of its traditions. Why hadn’t he resisted my sister’s imperious charm?

  “I’ll leave you to rest and tidy yourselves for dinner,” Ambrosine said, clasping her hands again—the sanctimonious gesture of a gracious host who had been slighted. “I do hope everything is to your liking.”

  With that, she swept away. Her guards followed. One of the servants opened the door and stepped aside for us to enter.

  First, I noticed the view of the back façade of the palace. Broad windows overlooked a sun-drenched hillside and a gradual staircase leading up to the Edifice of the Holies. Dozens of acolytes, mostly elderly and hobbling, some aided by younger hands, made their ascending pilgrimage.

  When I turned my focus to our quarters, the servants had already deposited our baggage and left us. I found an abundance of boxes with white ribbons.

  “Look,” Perennia said, lifting a box of pastries from the night table. “Your favorite.”

  “Rose-pear tartlets,” I said with surprise. I picked another package and untied the ribbon. A lace-embellished yellow ball gown moved like liquid through my fingers. “For you, I suppose,” I said. “Your favorite color.”

  “And for you.” Perennia held up a subdued blush-pink gown with brighter pink fabric lilies cascading down its train. She draped it over her forearm and opened another tiny box. “Oh! A figurine of Eulippa. These are sort of like charms. They’re supposed to help you exhibit the Holy virtues they represent. This one is Lovingkindness.”

  Disinterested in her trinket, I opened the lid of a box on the bed and nearly gasped. “Beaded white leather shoes.”

  I couldn’t bring myself to reminisce aloud about the final request I’d made of Mother and Father, but Perennia was well aware of the symbolic gesture. “Is she taunting me?” I asked.

  “You are relentless,” Perennia groaned. “Ambrosine is flawed, but this demonstrates thoughtfulness. She’s not so broken that she cannot be mended.”

  “A few gifts can’t undo what she’s done—”

  “I’m not saying they can, Glisette! But neither will your derision and suspicion.” She thrust the pink gown on the bed and tossed the cast-iron Eulippa figurine on top of it. “Take that. I think you need it more than I.”

  My younger sister scooped up her new yellow gown, marched to the lavatory, and slammed the door.

  NINE

  GLISETTE

  SUNSET seeped across the sky like spilled wine.

  A silent maid finished fastening the hooks along the back of my bodice with deft fingers. I faced the mirror to find a ludicrously billowy gown that belonged on a doll rather than a young woman. The flowery neckline cut too high for my liking, so high I could have inhaled fabric petals with one sharply drawn breath. My own face glared at me, scarred and grim and utterly at odds with the juvenile garment.

  “Oh, Ambrosine,” I grumbled, smoothing down the voluminous sleeves to no avail. But the idea of Ambrosine giving me a gift, even one I despised, made my chest cramp with remorse.

  I shuffled to retrieve the figurine that had lain facedown on the bed since I’d yanked the gown out from under it. It was no bigger than a fairy charm that Nisserans might hang over a threshold or bury in a garden. But I could clearly make out a depiction of a woman holding a hand to her heart. Her other hand cradled a bird with a broken wing.

  “Look here.” The maid spoke Nisseran with a Perispi accent, pointing to a discreet pocket sewn into my waistline. “Every garment made by Perispi hands has at least one pouch sized for a Holy effigy.”

  I swallowed my pride and slid the effigy into the pouch. “Like this?” I asked.

  The quiet woman nodded, pleased. “Your Majesty, you look…”

  “Like strawberry frosting on a cake,” I filled in with a wry laugh.

  A friendly light flooded her formerly opaque gray eyes. “Cake is never a bad thing.”

  “How did you learn Nisseran?” I asked.

  “I’m a scholar. I was Princess Navara’s tutor in languages and diplomatic studies.” The woman’s smile flickered. I refrained from asking why she no longer held that post. “Some say that giving the effigy a rub every now and then makes it more effective.”

  “I’ll remember that. My elder sister tests the limits of my every virtue.”

  The lavatory door swung open. Perennia shuffled out. Her dress was also a bit much, with several draping tiers and a tie around her waist that erupted into a giant bow at the back. She turned around to show us the buttons she couldn’t reach. Before I could gather my skirts to go help, she looked over her shoulder and said, “Hesper, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” the maid answered.

  “Would you mind?”

  Hesper assisted while I marveled over Perennia’s ability to learn the woman’s name despite spending the better part of the last two hours sulking in the lavatory. I’d only managed to evict her for a quick refreshing.

  “It seems you overlooked a gift,” Hesper said as she slipped the last button through the eyelet. She nodded to another small box waiting on the table by the mirror. Perennia swished over to pick it up.

  “Another Holy figurine,” she said, showing us. I squinted to see a male figure bearing a sword and shield.

  “Atrelius,” Hesper said. “Holy of Courage.”

  “I had no idea Ambrosine was so interested in your faith,” Perennia mused as she studied the trinket.

  “Here.” I stepped forward to feel a
long her waist for a hidden pouch.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded. But when I snatched her figurine and slipped it snugly inside, she said, “Oh…thank you.”

  “Shall we?” I asked.

  In more companionable spirits, Perennia and I followed Hesper down several stories to the reception hall. The black-and-white-tile motif continued throughout the palace—as did Ambrosine’s mirrors along the walls. We entered a deep hall with arched ceilings and marble moldings of stern faces and flowers. At the far end, a set of stairs led up toward twin thrones bathed in moonlight from high clerestory windows.

  Before us stretched one endless table heaping with fresh food and festooned with olive branches. The guests bowed their heads and smiled as Hesper escorted us to the farthest end and seated us at the left and right hand of the head chair.

  “Glisette,” Perennia whispered over a platter holding fragrant roasted rabbit and leg of lamb. She indicated something over my shoulder.

  I’d been eyeing a rosemary loaf drizzled with olive oil, but I tore my attention away to follow her gaze. An enormous family portrait hung on the wall. Ambrosine alone commanded the eye. The artist portrayed a beauty so fierce it verged on formidable. She wore a coy smile and her eyes came alive as though animated by some sorcery. Her fluid silver gown with sparkling embroidery must have taken ages to render, but the skill applied to her perplexing expression was unmatched.

  An odd chill licked up my nape. Minutes seemed to pass before I could release her painted gaze and focus on the other subjects of the portrait.

  King Myron stood at a stately distance from his new wife. Grays were strewn through his black hair, and solemn wrinkles creased his handsome olive complexion. His daughter, Navara, sat in a chair at Ambrosine’s other side, her hands crossed primly in her lap, her brown eyes vacant.