Mayesh tucked the talisman back under Kel’s collar, and said, “I know you are worried for him.” As always there could be only one him. “Set it aside, for now. You can help him best that way.”
Kel nodded. His heart was beating hard; he could feel it in his fingertips, that sense of anticipatory tension he felt every time he faced the world as Conor. The last time it had been on the steps of the Convocat, with the crowd roaring for him. He wondered if this was what soldiers felt, the moment before stepping onto the field of battle: a mix of fear and a strange exhilaration?
Except his battlefield was the floor of the Shining Gallery, his foes any who might doubt that he was Conor. His strengths were not blades or couleuvrines, but pretense and careful obfuscation. Conor was not here, but he paused for a moment at the door as the guards announced him, his hand on the lintel, and spoke the words of the ritual silently in his mind.
I am the Prince’s shield. I am his unbreakable armor. I bleed that he might not bleed. I suffer that he might never suffer. I die that he might live forever.
Only Conor was not here to say: But you will not die.
Perhaps that was the reason that a sense of wrongness clung to Kel, like a spiderweb to his shoe, as he stepped into the Shining Gallery. He was aware of Mayesh, not far away, moving into the crowd toward the Queen; he was aware of the noise of the party, a roar of heightened chatter mixed with the tap of boots on marble and the clinking of glasses.
There was no reason for Kel to feel a sense of wrongness, at least none that he could see. He smiled automatically as the musicians in the gallery—a wide balcony of carved wood reached by a flight of marble stairs in the corner of the room—greeted his entry with a flourish of harp and violin.
He realized now why he’d seen waggons carrying trees across the Palace courtyards; Lilibet had transformed the center of the Shining Gallery into the secret heart of a forest. An irony, Kel thought, as no such forest grew in Castellane, nor among Marakand’s deserts and mountains. And yet it was such a forest as anyone might recognize immediately: the heart of an old tale of princesses and huntsmen—a place of curling leaves, strange flowers, and the harp-song of birds.
Living trees had been arranged throughout the room, their trunks and branches painted with lacquer until they shone like the polished goldenwood floor. The red apples that dangled from the trees were carved garnets; the berries that grew among the thickets of greenery artistically arranged about the room were lapis and onyx. The leaves that scattered the floor were green silk. Animals had been cunningly crafted of sugar pastillage, colored with royal icing—white ermine scampered among the leaves, sugar birds perched among the boughs, and a leopard, native to the island kingdom of Kutani, gazed from the shadows with eyes carved from jasper.
At the far end of the room, where the forest ended, the great carved table had been restored to its accustomed dais. It was empty, save for old Gremont—sitting wearily in a low chair—and, near the head of the table, Princess Luisa. Beside her was Vienne d’Este.
Apparently the Sarthians had decided not to risk Luisa mingling with the party guests. Dressed in white lace, her hair tied back with a ribbon, she was whispering to Vienne, who was no longer wearing the clothes of the Black Guard, but a simple dress of gray silk with pinked sleeves, through which silver-threaded linen was visible. Her hair was unbound, a riot of chestnut curls. She seemed to see Kel looking at her across the room and shot him a glare; it startled him for a moment until he recalled that she thought he was Conor.
He grinned at her; it was what Conor would have done. Luisa, glancing up, caught the tail end of the grin and smiled happily. Down the table from her, old Gremont snorted and settled more comfortably into his chair. For a moment, Kel seemed to hear Andreyen Morettus whispering in his ear: But the Council are not loyal, are they? Not save where it is expedient. Merren always keeps an eye on old Gremont; it seems he’s been attending a number of shady meetings in the Maze district.
Though it was hard to picture Gremont in the Maze district, or at a suspicious meeting. Especially when it came to staying awake for one. He wondered if Merren’s understandable obsession with the Gremont family was prejudicing the Ragpicker King. Gremont did not seem a credible threat, especially when compared with many of the other Council members—Sardou, Roverge . . . Alleyne.
He looked then for Antonetta. He did not know when she had become one of the first people he searched for when he entered a room, only that it had somehow happened. Nor did he have any trouble finding her in the Gallery: His eyes snapped to her as if he had been trained to discover her among crowds, the way he had in fact been trained to see the gleam of weapons, the shift of a suspicious movement.
She stood beneath the shadow of a tree that was hung with golden berries. Her dress, too, was gold, as were her high-heeled slippers. She was not wearing her locket.
His heart seemed to tighten under the layers of velvet and brocade that protected it. She always wore the locket. Where was it, and why had she chosen to leave it off? He desperately wanted to ask, but knew he could not. Conor would not have noticed the locket or the fact that it was missing: not because he was not observant in general, but because he spared little thought for Antonetta.
As for Antonetta, she looked, unusually for her, desperately sad. When she raised her eyes and looked at him directly, he saw a sort of relief in her gaze, and something that felt like a shared secret that passed between them.
His heart lifted, and fell again. It was not him she was sharing this secret with; she thought he was Conor. But what kind of secret could Conor have with Antonetta?
A crowd passed in front of him, cutting off his view of Antonetta. It was Lilibet and the entourage currently following her. Dripping wit and jewels, she was charming House Uzec, House Cazalet, House Raspail, and House Sardou with equal enthusiasm.
Kel knew his duty—or at least Conor’s duty. He flung himself into the flock of nobles, engaging with them as Lilibet did: asking Esteve about a team of horses he had just purchased, soliciting Uzec’s advice on what wine might be served at next season’s Solstice Ball, and listening to Benedict Roverge extol the virtues of his fleet of dye-ships, currently berthed in Castellane’s harbor.
Kel was conscious of the Queen’s eyes on him even as she went to speak with Jolivet, who wore his full Court uniform of red and gold, a sash of gold braid across his chest. He stood before a painted silk screen, which was no accident. Lilibet never liked shows of military force at celebrations; she felt it broke the mood of revelry. But the Legate insisted there be guards present. They had compromised. The Castelguard, when in attendance, remained concealed behind a screen, through which they watched the festivities unfold. Kel hoped someone brought them food on occasion.
“My Prince. Your mother has outdone herself with these decorations.” It was Lady Alleyne, swathed in silvery silk, a moon to her daughter’s sun. Was Liorada now following Antonetta’s fashions? Interesting, if so.
“Thank you, doyenne.” Kel bowed. “Though you should be telling her; she never tires of praise for her skills.”
“If one is skilled, one should be praised for it.” Lady Alleyne smiled, but her eyes were hard as the carved leopard’s. She leaned toward Kel, her voice conspiratorial. “Congratulations on the happy event to come.”