Kel had imagined that everything inside would be white, as it was outside, but the walls were painted in marvelous colors of blue and ochre, sea green and lavender. The furniture was delicate and jewel-like, as if shiny beetles had been scattered about the rooms. Even the shutters, carved and painted with images of flowering gardens, were finely wrought. It had never occurred to Kel that the inside of a building, no matter how grand, could be as beautiful as a sunset. It calmed his racing heart, somehow. Surely terrible things could not happen in a place so lovely.
Unfortunately, he had little opportunity to stare. Bensimon seemed unaware he was escorting a child and did not slow his pace to match Kel’s. Instead, Kel had to run to keep up. It seemed ironic, considering he wasn’t the one who wanted to be wherever they were going.
Light blazed from torches bolted at intervals along the wall, each at a level higher than Kel could have reached. At length they came to a massive pair of double doors covered in gold-leaf panels, each carved with a scene from Castellane’s history: the fleet’s defeat of the Empire’s ships, the sinking of Tyndaris, the King presenting the first Charters to the Council, the building of the Windtower Clock, the fires of the Scarlet Plague.
Here, Bensimon finally paused. “We are entering the Shining Gallery,” he said. “Not quite the throne room, but a ceremonial place. Be respectful.”
Kel’s first impression on entering the Shining Gallery was of blinding whiteness. He had never seen snow, but he had heard talk of trade caravans trapped in thick drifts of the stuff when they tried to cross the icy peaks north of Hind. White, they had said—everywhere whiteness and a cold that could snap your bones.
In the Gallery, the walls were white, the floor was white, and the ceiling was white. Everything was made of the same white stone as the Palace walls. At the far end of the room, which seemed as vast as a cavern, was a raised dais on which a long table of carved and gilded wood groaned under the weight of crystal glasses, alabaster plates, and delicate porcelain cups.
Kel realized he was hungry. Blast.
Bensimon shut the doors behind them and turned to face Kel. “In an hour,” he said, “this room will be full of the noble families of Castellane.” He paused. “I assume you know of the Council of Twelve? The Charter Houses?”
Kel hesitated, despite his anger at being called ignorant. Maybe it would be better to let Bensimon think he was ignorant. Maybe they would send him back home. But Bensimon would likely guess he was pretending. Everyone in Castellane knew of the nobles on the Hill, and particularly the Charter Families. Their names and their positions were as much common knowledge as the names of the city’s streets.
“Cazalet,” he said. “Roverge. Alleyne. I can’t name them all, but everyone knows about them. They live on the Hill. They have Charters”—he remembered Sister Bonafilia’s lessons, screwing up his eyes as he reached for the words—“which are, um, special permissions from the King to control trade on the Gold Roads.” （He did not add that Bonafilia had described this as “a rotten plan to make the wealthy more wealthy, of no benefit to the common merchants of Castellane.”）
“And over the seas, yes,” said Bensimon. “Remember, each House has its own Charter—House Raspail runs the trade in timber, Alleyne in silk. A Charter is itself a valuable thing, granted by the King, or revoked at his pleasure.” He sighed, scrubbing his hands through his cropped hair. “We have no time for a lesson, though. I understand that you don’t want to be here. That is unfortunate. You are a citizen of Castellane, correct? But you have Marakandi heritage, perhaps, or Hindish?”
Kel shrugged. He’d often wondered the same, given that his light brown skin was a shade darker than the olive tone common in Castellane, but unlike some of the other children in the Orfelinat, who knew their backgrounds, he had no answers. “I was born here. I don’t know about my parents. Never met them.”
“If you were born here, then you owe the King and the city allegiance,” said Bensimon. “You are”—he wrinkled his brow—“ten years old, correct? You must be aware of the existence of the Crown Prince.”
From somewhere in the back of his mind, Kel dredged up the name. “Conor,” he said.
Bensimon’s eyebrows rose into his hairline of thick gray curls. “Prince Conor,” he corrected. “Tonight, a delegation from Sarthe will be visiting Marivent. As you may or may not know, there has been unrest between our kingdoms for quite some time.”
Sarthe and Castellane were neighbors and quarreled often over taxes, goods, and access to the Gold Roads. Most of the sailors at the docks referred to Sarthians as “those bastards on the border.”
Kel supposed that was what unrest meant.
“As always, the King—ever with the best interests of the citizens of Castellane at heart—is seeking peace with our neighbors. Among the political, ah, treasures of our city is our Crown Prince Conor. It is always possible that, at some point in the future, the King may wish to form an alliance between his son and one of the royal family of Sarthe. For that reason, it is important that, even at his young age, Prince Conor attend tonight’s banquet. Unfortunately, he is indisposed.” He looked closely at Kel. “Are you following me?”
“The Prince is sick, so he can’t go to a party,” said Kel. “But what’s that got to do with me?”
“The Prince cannot be seen to be absent from tonight’s affair. Therefore, you will take his place.”
The room seemed to turn upside down. “I’ll do what?”
“You will take his place. He isn’t expected to speak much. You are about his height, his age, his coloring—his mother the Queen is Marakandi, as you no doubt know. We will clean you up, dress you as a prince should be dressed. You will sit quietly through dinner. You will not speak or draw attention to yourself. You may eat as much as you like as long as you do not make yourself sick.” Bensimon crossed his arms over his chest. “At the end of the night, if you have performed satisfactorily, you will be given a purse of gold crowns to take back to the Sisters of Aigon. If not, you will earn nothing but a scolding. Do you understand the arrangement?”
Kel understood arrangements. He understood being given a coin or two to run a message for the Sisters, or the prize of an apple or candy for picking up a package from a tallship and delivering it to a merchant’s house. But the concept of a gold crown, much less a purse of them, was beyond comprehension.
“People will know what Con—Prince Conor—looks like,” said Kel. “They won’t be fooled.”
Bensimon slipped something out of his pocket. It was a hammered-silver oblong on a chain, not dissimilar to the one the adviser wore around his own neck. Etched into it and picked out by the flame of the firelight was a delicate pattern of numbers and letters. This was Ashkari magic. Only the Ashkar knew how to manipulate and combine letters and numbers in ways that wrung enchantment from their design; only the Ashkar, in fact, could perform any sort of magic at all. It had been that way since the Sundering.
With little ceremony, Bensimon dropped the chain over Kel’s head, letting the tablet slip below the collar of his ragged tunic.