Conor. He was on his feet and out in the corridor before he’d shaken the sleep from his brain.
He’d half expected Lilibet to be there, but the hall was deserted, ghostly. He crossed it quickly and entered the room he shared with Conor. The light here was softer, laying a pale gold glaze over the odd tableau that met his gaze.
Lin was asleep in the chair beside Conor’s bed, her arms hugging her satchel like a child with its arms around a pillow. Conor’s bed was empty, a mess of tangled sheets, mud and blood. It glittered as if dusted with sequins. As Kel approached, incredulous, he saw that the shining spangles were Ashkari healing talismans, scattered across the coverlet.
“Lin.” He shook her shoulder and she bolted awake, the satchel slipping out of her hands. He caught it before it hit the floor, tossing it onto the bed. “Where’s Conor?”
She scrubbed at her eyes, blinking. A great deal of her red hair had escaped from its braids and curled in a halo of fiery strands around her face. “The Prince?” She stared at the empty bed. “He was here—at dawn, he was here, I looked—” She said something else, a blur of words in Ashkar, her face creasing with worry.
The door of the tepidarium opened then, and Conor came into the room.
He was barefoot and shirtless, a towel over his shoulders. Loose linen trousers were cinched at his hips. He had clearly washed, for his hair was damp, and his face clean of blood and kohl.
“Conor,” Kel said. He was furious—at Conor, for not treating his injuries as serious. At Lin, unreasonably, for falling asleep. And behind the fury, beneath it, was puzzlement. He had seen Conor’s wounds; how had Conor managed to get out of bed, much less walk across the room at all? “What are you doing? You should be—”
Conor put a finger to his lips, as if to say, Hush. There was a glint in his eyes, almost mischievous. Kel and Lin exchanged a baffled glance. Lin looked as if she were about to jump out of her skin. There was real fear in her eyes, and worry; it moved Kel’s own anxiety up a notch.
“Prince Conor,” Lin began, her voice shaking slightly, and Conor drew the towel from his neck and turned around, presenting his back to them. Kel heard Lin give a little gasp; her hand flew to her chest, just above her heart.
Conor’s back was a broad, smooth unblemished expanse of skin stretched over flexible muscle. No mark remained there, not even a healed scar. There was no sign of any wound. No sign he had ever been whipped at all.
And in that moment of the Queen’s great despair, her magic seemed to falter. She could no longer hold back the armies on the plains. The walls began to splinter, and as the enemies of Aram poured through, the city began to burn. All was flame: the sky, the rivers and lands of Aram, the palace itself. Soon Aram would be only ashes.
She turned to Suleman. “You have left me no choice,” she said.
Flame burned in his eyes. “What can you do to me? I will always be more powerful than you, as long as there is magic.”
“But now,” Adassa said, “there will be no more magic.”
And she reached out with all the strength that had been gifted her by her people, with the power of each word they had sacrificed in her name. She reached beyond the stars, and she tore free the Great Word of Power, without which no spell could be cast, and she cast it into the void. And she herself followed it into the void, for the power of the Word was so great, it burned away all about her that was mortal. The Queen was no longer the Queen; she was magic itself, and magic was gone.
—Tales of the Sorcerer-Kings, Laocantus Aurus Iovit III
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was the day of the Sarthian Princess’s arrival in Castellane, and Kel wished he had not been seated among the Charter Families. Their chairs had been ranged upon a raised platform in the middle of Valerian Square, and he could not help but feel that everyone who had gathered to see the Princess arrive was staring at them curiously: from Montfaucon, resplendent in a yellow brocade doublet with vertical stripes of black silk, to Charlon and his father, both glowering in fury, to Gremont: richly dressed but asleep as usual, and snoring at the sky.
Falconet, seated next to Kel, wore dark-blue velvet and a pleased expression. Kel recalled Polidor Sardou’s words during the last Dial Chamber meeting he’d attended. It seemed long ago now. Joss, your sister is married to a Sarthian duke. You are not objective in this matter. An alliance with Sarthe would likely benefit your family.
As always happened with Falconet, beneficial things seemed to simply fall into his lap. He waved languidly at the crowd in the square, clearly not bothered by the attention, before turning to Kel. “And how is our mutual friend, the Prince?” he murmured. “I have heard little from Conor since news broke of his felicitious engagement. But then, it has not been long, has it?”
Falconet’s expression was blandly curious, but mischief lurked in his eyes. Kel did not believe it was a malicious sort of mischief, but it was clear Falconet found the situation slightly amusing, as he found so many things.
“No,” Kel murmured back. “It has been just a fortnight.” It was hard for him to believe himself—it seemed a lifetime, not two weeks, since Conor’s engagement had been discovered. Now Princess Aimada was due to arrive in Valerian Square and be presented to the people of Castellane in less than an hour’s time.
Even Conor seemed stunned by the rapidity with which everything had been arranged. Sena Anessa, clearly furious that the King and Queen were not more pleased about their son’s marital plans, had left Marivent with a dark determination in her eyes. During the weeks since, each day had brought a new whirlwind of developments: arrangements for the Princess’s arrival, for her welcoming ceremony, for the drawing up of contracts between Sarthe and Castellane. Each day, royal guards from both Courts galloped back and forth through the Narrow Pass, messages in hand. Should the wedding be held inside or outside? How many ladies-in-waiting would the Sarthian Princess require? How well did she speak Castellani? Would she need a tutor? Would she prefer to decorate her own apartments or have Queen Lilibet do it for her?
Kel had somewhat hesitantly asked Conor whether this meant it was time for Kel to move into his own rooms in the Castel Mitat. Conor’s eyes had blazed for a moment before he said, “Why bother with that? Most married royal couples keep to their separate rooms. I don’t see why things need to change.”
“Because,” Kel had said, “you’ll need an heir, Conor. And that means—”
“I’m familiar with the process.” Conor’s tone was dry. “I suppose it’s a matter of asking Aimada whether she wishes that process to take place in her apartments or mine. Either way, there seems no reason to consider moving you now.”
So Kel had let it go, while hoping that if he were to be ejected from the room he shared with Conor, he would at least be given enough notice to relocate his things. He understood Conor’s desire that things not change, but Conor’s desires were often at cross purposes with what was practical.
Meanwhile, Lilibet had set herself to calming the Charter Families, who were predictably enraged that Conor had gotten engaged without consulting them. Not all of them had turned up for this, the official welcoming of the Princess. Falconet was here, and the Roverges; Cazalet, always politic, had come, as had Gremont, Montfaucon, and Uzec. Lady Alleyne was conspicuously absent, as was Raspail, furious at the spurning of Kutani. Esteve and Sardou were also pointed in their absence.