Yet still, he felt a prickle at the back of his neck—as if the force of old memory had sent a shiver up his spine. He turned and saw a flicker of movement at the back of the hall. A cloaked figure had come in through the golden doors and stood regarding the room. His hood was up, shadowing his face, yet Kel knew his step, his gait, as he knew his own.
Conor.
Kel could only stare as the Prince made his way into the room. The dancers were still moving about, as were a few servants carrying bronze bowls of rosewater, apparently needed for the performance. Up in the gallery, the musicians tuned their instruments. No one—not even Jolivet or Mayesh—seemed to have noticed Conor save Kel.
All his life, Kel had been trained to do as Conor would do, anticipate his actions, guess his likely responses. Conor was in the shadows, but to Kel he was plain enough. He could tell that Conor was drunk—drunk enough to require a hand against the wall as he walked, steadying him.
But not so drunk that he did not know where he was, or what he was doing. He was making his way determinedly toward the high table, as if he intended to take his place there.
Kel could not bear to think what would happen then. He could excuse himself, he thought; he could slip into the Victory Hall, but even then—
Conor had reached the arras, was walking alongside it, one bare hand trailing along the tapestry of The Marriage to the Sea. Above him, the fast strumming of the lior signaled that the dance was about to begin. Luisa gave a gasp of delight as the lamps dimmed. Silver and black gauze scarves began to tumble from a hidden opening in the ceiling. The room was no longer a forest. It was the night: the iron of stars, the obsidian of the sky. The dancers, in their shining finery, began to move across the floor. It was a dance of constellations, Kel realized: The dancers would be comets, meteors, and asteroids. They would be the air that caught fire between the planets, the brilliant and unexplained debris of the universe.
They would be a distraction.
Murmuring something to Luisa, he slipped out of his seat, leaped silently down from the dais, and crept behind the high table. He slid along the length of the wall beneath the gallery, his every sense on high alert. Music poured through the room; the air was full of glittering scarves, and the dancers spun a glimmering path across the floor. Conor had paused, his back to the tapestry, to stare at them. Kel sped up, caught hold of him by the jacket he wore beneath his cloak, and dragged him behind the arras.
One carcel lamp illuminated the bare stone alcove behind the arras; the tapestry fell into place, concealing them, as Conor struggled for a moment.
“Con,” Kel hissed. “It’s me. It’s me.”
Conor went limp. He sagged back against the wall, his hood falling away to reveal his face. He wore no crown, and his eyes were bloodshot.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He wasn’t slurring his words—he wasn’t drunk enough for that—but he was half whispering. It was hard for Kel to hear him over the music. “I left you. I thought I was leaving them, but I left you.”
Kel, still holding on to the front of Conor’s jacket, said, “What did you think would happen? Though I suppose you didn’t think. Conor—”
“I thought they’d cancel this fucking party,” Conor hissed. “I thought they’d realize—I know this has to happen, it’s politics, it can’t be changed, but all this pretense, these lies that we’re happy about it—that anyone is besides whoever stands to profit: a few politicians and merchants—” Kel saw the motion of his throat as he swallowed. “I didn’t think they’d make you do this.”
“This is my duty, Conor,” Kel said, wearily. “My charge. I pretend to be you. Of course they’d make me do this. And you shouldn’t be here.”
Conor put his hands flat against Kel’s chest. “I want to make it right,” he said. “Let me switch places with you. I’ll go out. Do my duty.”
Kel wanted to ask him what had happened, why he’d left so abruptly and come back the same way. Why now, today? But now was so incredibly, utterly not the time. He said, “Con, you’re drunk. Go back to the Mitat. Go to sleep. I’ll tell you what happens. It won’t be much.”
Conor set his jaw. “Switch with me.”
“It’ll make everything worse,” said Kel.
Conor flinched. And for a moment, Kel remembered back down the years, the boy with the light behind his eyes, who’d said to him playfully: What was it like, then, being me?
When had that light gone out? Had he noticed the moment? Conor’s eyes looked like bruises in his face now, and there was a pinched tightness to his mouth. Half of Kel wanted to shake Conor, to scream at him; the other half wanted to stand in front of him, protecting him from every dangerous thing in the world. Not just blades, but lies and cruelty, disappointment and despair.
“I can make it better now,” Conor said stubbornly. “Switch with me.”
Kel expelled a breath. “Fine. Fine.”
Conor yanked off his cloak. His jacket. Kel could not remember the last time he had seen Conor dressed so plainly. He wore more elaborate clothes to practice fencing in the Hayloft. Kel drew off his overrobe and rings, lifted the crown from his head. It was a relief, not wearing it.
He handed them over to Conor, who flung them on hastily. “Trousers—” Conor began, doing up the clasps on the robe.
“I’m not taking my trousers off,” Kel said firmly as he took off his amulet and slipped it into the pocket of the jacket he was now wearing. “No one looks at trousers, anyway.”
“Of course they do.” Conor slid on the last of the rings. The circlet glittered in his dark hair: It was amazing, Kel thought, what a difference a thin gold band made. It transformed Conor, not into what he wasn’t, but back into what he was. “Otherwise, how do you know what’s in fashion?” He looked down at Kel’s feet. “Boots—”
But there was no chance to swap either trousers or footwear. From the other side of the tapestry, a sound cut through the music. A scream, high and terrible, and then another. The music stuttered, faltering.
Kel raced to the arras, twitched back the corner.
“What—？” Conor said, at his elbow, and they both stared: The doors of the Shining Gallery had been flung open wide, and dark figures were pouring through. Behind them, Kel glimpsed the night outside, the brilliance of stars, the lights of the Hill, and for a moment, he wondered if this was some sort of play, a part of the evening’s entertainment.
Then he saw the flash of torchlight on steel, and saw a Castelguard crumple, a blade in his belly. One of the dark figures stood over him, a bloody sword in hand. Another sword flashed, and another, like stars coming out at nightfall, and Kel realized: This was no entertainment. Marivent was under attack.
Maharam,
You have asked me where your responsibility lies in the matter of the return of the Goddess. You ask if you will look into her eyes and see the flame of her soul. You yearn for wisdom and the gift of certitude, as do we all.
Be at rest, Maharam. This is not your burden. The Exilarch is not merely a title passed down through the sons of Makabi, it is a soul that is passed down, and the soul of the Exilarch will recognize the soul of the Goddess when she returns. In this matter there need be no question.