She left, even as carriage wheels sounded on the gravel outside. The Malgasi delegation departing, no doubt.
Kel was conscious, very conscious, of the vambraces on his wrists; of the blades hidden therein. They had been no use to him this night. There had been danger, but not the kind that daggers could disarm.
“Father,” Conor said, setting down his wineglass. “I can explain—”
But the King was not looking at his son. He was rising to his feet, his gaze fixed on Fausten, who had frozen where he was, a beetle pinned to a board.
“Was any of what you told me true?” the King demanded hoarsely. “Could you read the stars? Did they speak to you? Or were you only reciting to me scripts that had been written for you by the Malgasi Court?”
“N-no,” Fausten whispered. “It was written—it may not come to pass now, but that does not mean it will never come to pass—”
Markus slammed a fist down on the table and Fausten cowered back. The King said, “Lies. Sarany called you a traitor. She believed you loyal to her—because you were. Everything you told me was what the Malgasi would have me believe. That is treason. You will go to the Trick. There, you will think on what you have done.”
Terror flashed across Fausten’s face. Kel could not help but pity him, even as he recalled that Fausten had threatened him with the same imprisonment. It was an awful irony, but not one he could enjoy. “No, no, I have always been loyal. If it were not for me you would have died in Malgasi when you were a boy. I made them understand how they would benefit, if they let you go—”
“Silence.” Markus snapped his fingers, gesturing for Jolivet, who approached the table swiftly, flanked by two Castelguards. Fausten seemed to have shrunk in on himself, like a mouse under an eagle’s gaze. He made no protest as Jolivet ordered the Castelguards to seize him; they dragged him from the room as he hung limp between them, his elaborate cloak trailing on the ground behind him like the tail of a dead serpent.
There was a sour heat in Kel’s belly; he felt as if he might be sick. He tried to catch Conor’s eye, but Conor’s gaze was flat, unseeing. He had gone inside himself, as he had when he cut his hand open at the Caravel.
“I never did trust Fausten,” said Lilibet. “Horrid little man.” She looked at her husband with a sort of puzzlement; Kel could not help but wonder what she truly thought. Was she glad that Markus had been disabused of his dreams about the stars? Did she hope he might return, speak sense again, as he had tonight? Or did she hope otherwise? “Malgasi should not have approached this through Fausten, nor tried to twist your will, my dear,” she said. “But the situation is not a disaster. A Princess of Sarthe is a perfectly rational choice for Conor—”
The King did not seem to hear her. Abruptly he caught his son’s face in his hand, forcing Conor’s gaze up to meet his own. “You may think you belong to yourself,” he said, “but you do not. I thought you knew it. Nevertheless, you will learn it now.”
He dropped his hand. Kel was on his feet, but Conor, bruises rising on his skin where his father had gripped him, shook his head minutely. No. Stay.
“Jolivet,” the King said. “Take my son. You know what to do.”
“Chana must be thrilled that you’re helping with the festival after all,” Mariam said.
They were in Mariam’s bedroom. Seated on a pile of cushions, Mariam was embroidering a micromosaic of seed pearls onto the bodice of a sea-blue dress that spread out around her like a pool of water. Lin, at Mariam’s small worktable, was fulfilling her promise to Chana Dorin—carefully tying off small packets of herbs with ribbons, creating the luck sachets carried by eligible young girls on the night of the Goddess Festival.
“What do you mean, after all?” Lin scoffed. “I was always going to help. It’s my last Tevath.”
“You were always going to hide in the physick garden until Chana gave up,” said Mariam. “You only agreed because she made you feel guilty. I can tell because you make a horrid face every time you finish one of those sachets.”
“I’m just so bad at it,” Lin said ruefully. “And I’m not used to being awful at things.” Because you choose to only do the things you think you’ll be good at, said a small voice in her head. “I’m already dreading the Goddess dance. You know I’m not graceful.”
Part of the Festival’s ceremony required the eligible girls—all unmarried women between the ages of sixteen and twenty-three—to participate in a silent, complex, ritual dance. It was actually quite beautiful: As children in the Women’s House, they had practiced its fluid movements each week. Lin was sure she could do it blindfolded, entirely from memory. Which didn’t mean she could do it justice.
“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re a fine dancer,” Mariam said. “Anyway, your grandfather will be pleased, won’t he? Now that you’re getting along with him better, I’m sure he’ll be proud—”
“He won’t see any of it,” Lin interrupted. “Tevath falls on the same date as Ascension Day this year. They’re having a massive banquet up at the Palace, which I gather Mayesh is required to attend. He won’t even be in the Sault.”
“Oh,” Mariam said softly. “Lin—”
But before she could say anything else, there was a knock at the door. When Lin went to answer it, she found Chana Dorin there, wearing a worried expression. “There’s someone at the gates for you, Lin,” she said.
“A patient?” Lin demanded. But of course, it must be a patient; who else could it be? Her mind raced. She had not been expecting any emergencies, any babies being born. She’d have to get her medical satchel, change her clothes if there was a chance. She was wearing an ordinary day dress, spring green and slightly worn around the sleeves and hem. She’d had it for years.
Chana’s eyes darted to Mariam, and back to Lin. “Yes, a patient,” she said, though Lin was puzzled—what had that look been about? She was even more puzzled when Chana bundled her out of the room and placed a satchel in her arms, draping a shawl around her shoulders. “You’ll have to hurry,” she said. “Everything you need ought to be in there.”
“Chana,” Lin hissed, looping the strap of the bag over her shoulder, “what’s this about? Why the secrecy?”
Chana gave her a dark look. “You ought to blame your grandfather. Now go. Hurry along.”
Lin hurried, feeling slightly resentful. Blame your grandfather? This must have something to do with the Palace, then. Had Kel fallen ill? Gotten injured again? It was all very odd.
She found Mez at the gates, with Levi Ancel, a good-natured young man who’d grown up in the House of Men with Josit. “You lead an exciting life,” Mez noted as she ducked through the gates. He was laughing, but Lin fretted a little, inside. To be summoned to the Palace once had already attracted the attention of the Maharam. For it to happen twice . . .
But then she saw Kel, and those worries faded. He was standing in the shadow of the Sault walls, near the old cistern. He seemed unharmed, at least, but looked ragged around the edges somehow, like a smudged drawing. She was instantly worried.