Airlean Tales S2E7: Grand Ball (2)

Karis was quite satisfied with her handiwork, if she did say so herself.

Ordinarily, she cared little for nobles. In this day and age, just about any family with wealth and holdings for more than three generations were considered nobility. There were just far too many stuffed birds strutting about with gravy for brains.

Only four noble houses really mattered: the high houses conceived at the birth of the kingdom. Geppett, Irlisse, Quintrell, and Sylvester, formed by four of Aster Arthus’s most trusted knights of the Round Table, were the Eminent Houses and the reigning power of the aristocracy.

Which makes it all the more satisfying, Karis thought smugly, enjoying the display before her, to see the scion of a high house so thoroughly enraptured by a scheme of my own making.

For Wesley Geppett, scion of the Heavensward Tree, was gawking openly at Azalea Fairwen as if she were the Lady of the Lake herself, come to bestow Excalibur unto his undeserving hands.

If Karis was honest with herself, she had turned Azalea into quite the vision. Little Fairwen was a humble girl, but it seemed that even she could not help but preen under the gaze of her beloved. She smiled shyly at him with a candy-sweet blush, tucking her hair behind her ear.

Karis heard a soft oh drift from Wes’s lips, and he stepped in her direction as if hypnotized.

“Wessie!”

Karis’s mouth pressed together thinly, and she felt an involuntary twitch of her right hand towards her hip, where her rapier usually lay waiting. Not tonight, of course. But the habit remained.

Lady Charlene of House Penrose came bustling across the floor in what could only be described as a dress made of waffles. Endless ruffles spluttered from gaudy panels of patterned strawberries. It was in slightly better taste than the vogue, those starforbidden fist-sized flowers that swooped in gross opulence down the bodice and across the skirt—but not by much.

She latched onto Wes’s arm and beamed in a show of either incredible obliviousness or malicious possession. (Karis was quite certain it was the latter.) “Wessie,” she cooed, “isn’t it wonderful? A ball at the palace, after all these years! I’ve not seen such finery since the Midwinter Gala at House Irlisse!”

“Pardon me,” Wes said firmly, “but first, I saw—there’s someone I—”

But when he turned back to the staircase, he saw nothing. For Azalea had vanished.

Karis bit back an unladylike curse. At the critical moment, the little flower’s courage had died. Oh, how Karis wished to find her and haul her back by the scruff of the neck like a wayward kitten, but she had vanished noiselessly like a hummingbird.

With no other reason to delay, Wes guided Charlene onto the dance floor, looking disappointed, but unsurprised. Most likely he thought that his eyes had conjured the entire image.

Karis seethed quietly as the strings swelled into a lively waltz. A few suitors—she could not even bother to recall what families they hailed from—shouldered through the crowd to ask for a dance, and she was barely able to turn them down with her usual grace and tact. For some inexplicable reason, she was boiling within. How dare Azalea, when given the perfect opportunity, simply flee from her feelings? How could such an ordinarily brave girl be so cowardly in the ways that actually mattered?

(Karis could have also wondered why it all incensed her so, but that was inconvenient.)

“Lady Karis!” pealed a voice from behind her. “Pardon, have you—have you seen Wes?”

Karis turned abruptly and found herself face-to-face with the object of her temporary ire. Azalea Fairwen’s eyes were wide and guileless, pleading as a little fawn’s, and suddenly Karis found it quite hard to stay angry at her.

“He was swept up by some meddlesome wench and now is on the dance floor,” Karis said curtly. “Little flower, just where did you go? He was looking for you.”

Azalea blanched. “I had to. It was—Hunter duties.”

“Nicolina?”

“No, it was Lady Amelia.” At Karis’s confused frown, she continued. “Amelia Sutton? Startaler? The Fifth Hunter, Former of starlight mana. She—I mean, she’s been the Fifth for quite a while, you don’t remember her?”

“Oh,” Karis said. Truthfully, she didn’t really pay attention to the Hunter’s Guild outside of—outside of nobody in particular.

“She said there was an urgent mission,” Azalea continued. “All Hunters on duty this evening must prioritize the safety of the Crown Prince, then the lords of the Eminent Houses, then the remaining attendees. The Atlanteans apparently gave a very big tribute, and that means something big will happen at this gala.”

Karis’s brows knotted. “And that is your problem because?”

“Because I’m a Hunter?”

“No,” Karis said sharply. “Because the Royal Guard are doing what they always do, which is nothing.”

Azalea’s eyes wandered to the dance floor, where Wesley Geppett was swirling around with Lady Charlene on his arm, green suit glittering like dew beneath the chandeliers. She was very clearly seething, even if she wouldn’t admit it—lips pressed, brows drawn, the very picture of a petulant child.

“He, he didn’t wait,” she mumbled, twisting her hands in her dress. The plaintive tone wrenched at Karis’s heart.

“I thought you ran away,” Karis confessed, “or I would have told him you were delayed.”

“No,” Azalea said firmly. She turned her back, lifting her chin despite the sheen of unshed tears coating her big eyes. “It’s better like this. He shouldn’t, anyway. I shouldn’t.”

“You shouldn’t what, now? I don’t recall shouldn’t ever stopping you before.”

Azalea turned and promptly clapped her hands with delight. A noble towered over her dressed starkly in white with noble, wolflike streaks of black and bronze. An ornate silver patch covered one of his eyes; the other gleamed a brilliant, vicious crimson. To Karis, this was a keen threat indeed: the Lone Wolf, feared mercenary of the underworld, conveniently born with the heritage of House Valence to further his gains. He played in both the upper echelons of society as well as the dregs, gathering unsavory allies of every economic level under his banner.

He was also, somehow, inconceivably, Azalea Fairwen’s treasured friend.

“Aron!” she chirped. “What are you doing here?”

Aron, Echo, the Lone Wolf, Lord Magnum Valence—whoever stood before them and his thousand names gave a grandiose, mocking bow. “It’s the party of the century. I’d be rather put out to miss it.”

“Do you have an invitation?” said Azalea, and Karis would have laughed if the girl didn’t look so terribly serious.

Echo whipped out a letter from the folds of his cloak with two fingers. “You forget, Little Red, that I am Lord Valence. An actual noble.”

“I didn’t forget,” Azalea said. “I just didn’t think anyone would want to invite you to a gala.”

Echo burst out laughing, which was odd, considering how gravely he’d been insulted. Then Karis looked at Azalea’s face, which was only distantly puzzled. And…had she not even realized how terribly she’d insulted her friend?

What a pure-hearted child with not an ounce of deceit in her bones.

“I’ll have to remember that one,” Echo said, wiping away fake tears of laughter. “Brutal. Absolutely vicious.”

“Vicious?” said Azalea confusedly, but Echo only waved her away, continuing to chuckle as he slid towards the refreshments table.

Karis frowned as he left. For all his illusions of jovial humor, she still did not trust him one whit. Azalea regarded him well, but he was still a thief, a liar, a killer. Such people simply did not change.

Azalea’s good humor had faded. The little flower’s eyes were back on Wes, trailing after his figure as he swept Charlene around the room. Her gaze was sharp and focused as a cat, a sour tint to the smile frozen on her face.

Karis leaned in. “Go on,” she whispered.

“I can’t,” Azalea said stiffly, drawing herself upright. “I’m on duty.”

“Go take the poor boy outside for a breath of fresh air, Azalea. He looks positively miserable.”

“He’s not,” she said, a touch sullen. “Look at how he’s smiling. I’ve never gotten him to smile like that.”

What, politely? Woodenly? Karis stifled an uncultured snort. She knew a false smile when she saw one. The young lord Geppett was just better at hiding it than others.

“It’s good,” Azalea was saying firmly, nodding to herself. “This is his path. He’ll meet a lovely noble girl and forge connections with a good family. If she supports him properly, he’ll have the freedom to do what he loves. And she’ll be beautiful and proper, just what he would need—”

Karis reached out her hands, gripped Azalea’s shoulders, and shoved. Hard.

Azalea careened right into the crowd, arms pinwheeling for balance, eyes blown wide and mouth slack with shock. Karis almost laughed at the exaggerated sight, but made do with a pleasant smile.

She watched with great satisfaction as Azalea, who should have crashed gracelessly, was instead caught securely by the waist. “Lady Fairwen?” Wes said, with just the perfect hint of surprise coloring his voice. Mythics, that boy was good. It was just as if he hadn’t been tossing glances in Azalea’s direction every time his angle so permitted. Really, these two were so obvious.

“Ah, um. Yes. Lord Geppett. Lady Penrose.” Azalea nearly snapped into a salute, then faltered. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, it’s alright,” Charlene said warmly. “Why, all this spinning about nearly has me in a tizzy! It’s a wonder more people aren’t bumping into each other.”

Damn her. She was so silly and nice that it was actually quite difficult for Karis to hate her. But not impossible.

“Would you like to dance with Wessie?” Charlene asked brightly. “The song’s nearly up, I wager the next one will start soon.”

Mythics, had this woman no notion of competition?

“Oh!” Azalea stammered. “I mean, only if it isn’t—I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“Nonsense! Everyone should have a splendid time.” And with a magnanimous wave of her hand, Charlene was bustling off, waffles flouncing wildly with each step.

Wes ducked in and whispered something, and Azalea blushed and nodded. As they wove through the crowd to the privacy of the garden, she shot one final look over her shoulder in Karis’s direction: utter betrayal.

Karis waggled her fingers with a little smile.

The two little ones disappeared into the garden, and she rolled her shoulders with a satisfied sigh.

“I didn’t take you for the meddling type,” came a dry voice by her ear. A gloved hand offered her a flute of champagne.

Karis accepted it and sipped delicately. The light hint of alcohol burned down her throat with a tinge of peach. “No Class Fives to be found here. I must take what little entertainment I can find.”

“And are you satisfied?”

“Oh, yes. Supremely.” She lowered the flute. “So few tales of a warm and steadfast love nowadays. I thought I might help this one along.”

She finally turned to regard her conversation partner and faltered. It was Halcyon, of course—but this time, dressed for battle. An elegant coat embroidered with oceanic Yueraian patterns laid over his figure in flattering lines. Fitted trousers, sharp shoes, and slicked hair pulled together in a sleek and biting silhouette. He looked good in formalwear, and he wore it like he knew it.

Karis tilted her head, her smile much less charitable. “How many requests have you turned down tonight?”

“Requests for?”

“Dances.” She crooked a brow. “Oh, don’t tell me you’ve been playing ignorant.”

He shrugged. “I’m on duty.”

“The poor women.”

“They’ll get over it.” He sipped at his own drink. “It takes five minutes for people to move on to the next shiny thing.”

“Yet it takes five years to recover from a broken heart. Love is a cruel mistress indeed, Hal.”

“Then don’t live under her roof.” He extended a hand and nodded into the crowd, all of their swirling silks and rich, vibrant colors. “Shall we?”

Karis rested her hand atop his and stepped onto the dance floor. Warmth crawled up her arm and lay somewhere above her breastbone, fluttering rapidly like the wings of a hummingbird. She wished to slap it away.

Violins swelled in her ears, lush and evocative, as they turned about the room. Karis kept her gaze fixed over Halcyon’s shoulder. Unfortunately, it did not distract from the texture of his hands—somehow both callused and silken, warm like embers.

Halcyon’s head dipped in a little, which nearly made Karis jump. “Who should we be looking out for?” he murmured.

Get ahold of yourself, fool. Karis cleared her throat. “As in, who might like to partner with the Atlanteans to stir up trouble?”

“Exactly.”

She nodded across the ballroom, where a young noblewoman was speaking with a Garrison captain.

“House Forsythe bears some claim to the throne through the departed Queen Esther Forsythe. Although Lilian Forsythe has declared her loyalty by joining the Royal Guard, her younger sister Violet Forsythe, though still youthful, is known to be particularly ambitious.”

Violet said something to the Garrison captain, who gave a bombastic laugh.

“Nor can we discount a potential military takeover,” Karis continued, focusing next on the captain. “Raymond Bannister is the rising star of the National Garrison and rapidly gaining popularity with citizens and nobility alike.”

“He doesn’t seem the scheming type,” Halcyon noted.

“He does not have to be.” Karis flinched as Violet dragged her fingers up Captain Ray’s arm, directing his gaze. “He only has to be used by someone else.”

The music jumped, and she turned swiftly, directing Halcyon to face a line of impressively dressed nobles, chatting languidly with exquisitely carved canes in tow.

“Then there are the four Eminent Houses, of course. Geppett, Irlisse, Quintrell, Sylvester. Should Airlea enter a vacuum of power, say in the face of a deposition or coup, one of them are sure to seize the reins.” Karis lightly gnawed at her lower lip. “Of the four, I’ve the closest eye on Quintrell.”

Halcyon quirked a brow. “Not Lord Roland Geppett? He commands the most martial power.”

“Lord Geppett is a powerful man. But he has also shown caution and insight. He is not known to be dangerously impulsive. Whereas…”

Karis nodded at a young nobleman lounging by the refreshments. He was decked in a gaudy plum suit, arms thrown over two voluptuous women, laughing loudly.

“The senior Lord and Lady Quintrell have just formally signed on their estate to their spoiled son.” Her lower lip curled in distaste. “I do not believe Jannes Quintrell has seen difficulty once in his life. He is a boastful brute, used to everything going his way, and tantrums when it does not.”

“Then there’s nothing to fear, no? He’d never come to power.”

“Alas, he’s loud. He prints garbage every week about tariffs and private ownership and blood purity. And his ideas are gaining popularity among the nobility.” She felt her temper flaring again, deep in her bones. “The aristocracy are weary of the growing middle class and the common guilds that threaten their monopoly, Hal. They miss the days when Airlean citizens were hardly more than slaves, paying their tolls, working their land—ha! Incompetent, entitled, selfish buffoons.”

Halcyon shrugged. “Everyone always wants more money and more power. That’s never changed.” His brow furrowed. “Though I don’t see what blood purity has to do with anything.”

“The idea is to arrange marriages between families of strong manacrafters, in the hopes of producing high-potential offspring. What nonsense, and vain attempts of humanity trying to play god.” Karis scoffed and jerked her chin at Halcyon. “See here—you are one of the greatest Formers in the country, and you come from the streets, no known lineage at all!”

Halcyon was oddly silent, and it took Karis a moment to realize her error.

“I mean, I don’t intend to offend.” Still, he said nothing. “It’s a remarkable feat, really, that you rose through the ranks. A show of hard effort and generational talent. Bloodline—it doesn’t matter, that’s the point I wish to make.”

He turned her without a response. Her only comfort was that he didn’t seem to be fuming or glaring; his gaze was distant, deep in thought.

Karis cleared her throat, cursing her fool tongue. Grasping for her train of thought, she turned them to the final target: lanky Prince Micah, arrayed in black velvet that stood out starkly against his ghost-white skin. Despite his deathly appearance, he was chatting amicably with several prestigious Observatorium sages.

“Lastly, we cannot forget the second prince,” Karis said. “Rarely does he surface at such social conventions, yet he has made great pains to be here.”

“How polite of him,” Halcyon said.

“And how convenient for seizing the crown from his elder brother.” Her gaze flickered back to Halcyon. “I do not trust anyone, Yuden. All have ample motive to betray if it is for wealth or prestige.”

“True enough.” His eyes turned dark. “Though I hope you can trust some of us.”

Their faces were very close, Karis realized. She had been trying to ignore this fact by not looking at him, but now, she had no choice but to acknowledge it. At this distance, she could catch and detail every line of Halcyon’s jaw, the sheen of chandelier light on his bronze skin, the stormy blue swallowing his eyes. Much like the ocean waves, once he caught her attention, it was impossible to look away.

“You know I trust you,” Karis managed. She scrambled to recover from her momentary bout of weakness, ignoring the way his expression warmed. “What of the envoy?”

Halcyon turned Karis, surreptitiously offering her a better vantage point of Simon Kourios, who was chatting idly with an assortment of loitering nobles.

“Hasn’t made his move yet,” he said.

Karis’s lips twitched. “Bracklebrook. Clementine. Farsend. The Lord Envoy integrates himself into nobility with a known dissatisfaction with the ruling family.”

“Who isn’t dissatisfied with the king?”

“This is different. This may be the birth of an insurrection.” Karis nodded in their direction. “Get me closer. I need to dance with Simon Kourios.”

Halcyon’s fingers twitched where they held hers. “Dance?”

“He’s much too sly to let anything slip while he’s paying attention. I’ll need to direct his focus to his steps.”

“Oh,” Halcyon said.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

Karis examined his face, but his blank expression gave her no answers. “You’ve been acting odd ever since the delegation arrived. Would you tell me why?”

Halcyon paused before he gave his response. “I’d rather not.”

There was nothing caustic about his tone, but Karis still felt a light sting. She and Halcyon had drawn steel side by side countless times. But even though he trusted her with his life, it appeared that faith on the frontlines only went so far.

“Alright,” she said. She tried to sound gracious, like the prince, but she knew it came across as stiff.

Halcyon swept them deftly across the floor and closer to Simon. Karis pulled her hand back to disengage, but was surprised to feel a lingering trace of his fingers on her palm before he let her go. Had he not just pushed her away and set distance between them? Why linger? Why keep her for a moment longer?

She stared at him, an open question in the crook of her brow. He only bowed in response.

“Thanks for the dance,” he said crisply, and melted into the crowd.

Insufferable, inconceivable man.

Karis took a moment to rearrange her collar and smooth her hair, but it did little to assist her composure. Dancing with Halcyon had stirred up the barest hint of—dare she say it—nerves, and while she wished they were easy to dismiss, it turned out that they were not. Which was confounding. How could stepping around a room with a boy unsettle her more than fighting on the knife’s edge of death against monstrous behemoths? She would have stern words with her body at a later date.

One deep breath was all she would allow herself. Head high, Karis strode to meet the envoy.

The night air was fresh and cold, stinging Azalea’s cheeks as she and Wes broke out of the ballroom.

Even with a lack of regular visitors, the royal gardens were magnificent, a testament to the love and care of the groundskeepers. Winding pebble pathways sprawled through artistic hedges and flourishing blossoms. Had Azalea been of clearer mind, she surely would have enjoyed the bell-shaped honeydrops glowing softly as they drooped from the overhead vines, the pale blue starflowers dotting the shrubs, the rare cluster of chrysaie and their prismatic petals. But instead, all she could think about was how Wes’s arm was close enough to brush hers and how her knees wouldn’t stop shaking.

She sucked in a breath and summoned Karis’s words back to mind. She was a Royal Hunter. A warrior. A hero.

Until she’d quit, but that was not relevant.

Wes stopped when the garden path opened into a hedged clearing. When he turned, Azalea’s heart sank to see that it wasn’t excitement on his face, but concern.

“Are you alright, ’Zalie?” he asked gently. “You seem…on edge.”

Azalea stared at her shoes and twisted her fingers together. Her stomach was starting to tie in knots.

“Is something wrong?” Wes prompted. “Are you in danger?”

“No,” she blurted. “No, I…” She blushed. Because that was the shame of it, wasn’t it? There was no urgent situation, no danger.

How could she possibly explain that she’d pulled Wes away from a crucial event because of some childish whim? Surely he’d be disappointed in her selfishness.

“I just, um.” Hunter, warrior, hero. “I…I wanted to dance with you. That’s really all.”

Wes was silent for a long moment. Oh, how she wished she had her trusty cloak so she could pull the hood over her face. As it was, she could only hunch until her hair shrouded her crestfallen expression.

“I’m sorry,” she managed. “You should go back. I’m sorry—”

“Hey,” Wes said gently.

His thumb caught a lock of her hair and tucked it behind her ear, sending the strawberry gold spilling back on her shoulders. His fingers brushed her cheek in a soft whisper.

“It’d be my pleasure.”

Azalea swallowed as he took her hand and tugged her in. He was quite close, enough for her to feel the warmth radiating through his stiff suit, and—there was a pleasant scent too, welcoming and woodsy, like fresh pine with a sprinkle of herbs. She exhaled slowly, trying to quell the scuttling nervousness in her chest.

“I, I don’t really know how to dance,” she admitted. “Not ballroom style.”

Wes chuckled. “You’ll pick it up quick.”

“How do you know?”

“You can hit a bullseye in midair, you can slay something the size of a mountain—and you’re afraid you can’t copy a few steps?”

“Well,” Azalea mumbled, “I’ve done two of those before, but not the third one.”

Wes laughed. “You’ve had square dances at Maple Point all the time.”

“That’s—that’s different.”

“Why?”

Because square dances didn’t make her nervous. Square dances didn’t twist up her belly and make her heart race for miles. Wes was looking at her so gently that she felt cocooned by his gaze—wrapped up in warm hazel and flecks of pine. It pulled her in and made her dizzy, like peering over the edge of a cliff into a yawning abyss.

Azalea’s fingers trembled on his shoulder, and she barely contained the urge to yank away, to flee from their little garden ballroom—to flee from this new, terrifying feeling inside.

“Well,” Wes was saying, his voice as soft as the starlight, “it begins with the basic box step. Back, two, three, forward, two, three. Give it a try, mirror me. There you are. Good—”

He spoke too suddenly. Azalea stepped a half-beat early, planted her shoe right on his toes, and stumbled hard into him. His arms instinctively came up to brace her as her nose hit his shoulder, burying her face in the crook of his neck. For a blissful moment, she was surrounded in gentle warmth, as if she was hugging a blanket.

Then she realized she had been terribly clumsy and crushed his foot and he was probably very cross.

“Sorry,” she gasped, looking up at him. “I’m so sorry, your foot—”

“It’s alright.” His face was very close and he hadn’t tried to move away. She could see his chestnut lashes flicker as he blinked, feel the heat of his skin as their noses brushed. He exhaled in a shuddering way that made her spine tingle. “Did you twist anything?”

“No,” she breathed.

She thought he would say something, or react in some way, but he only stayed perilously close. Despite the silence of the garden, Azalea’s pulse thundered in her chest. She was exhilarated, like an acrobat on a high wire, yet captivated, unable to move.

Wes’s hand braced her lower back, coaxing a strange, breathy little noise from her.

Oh, would he kiss her? It sounded nice. His lips looked soft. He would probably kiss her lovingly, and he wouldn’t mind if she was clumsy and strange because she hadn’t kissed before. Yes, now that she thought about it, she wanted to kiss him. She wanted it quite badly.

Wes’s head tilted down closer, but then stopped, as if he’d hit a glass pane. There was a very minute tremble in his fingers. An odd sadness in his eyes that Azalea did not understand, that she wanted to wash away.

That boy loves you, Karis had said.

Azalea tilted up her face and pressed her lips to his.

His mouth was every bit as warm and gentle as she thought it would be. Sunlight, meadow grass, a bolt of fresh cotton. Her heart curled in her chest and cooed lightly. She liked this. She liked it very much.

Wes did not pull away. His hands only tightened on her waist. Emboldened, she tiptoed up and wrapped her arms over his shoulders, which Wes met with enthusiasm, his lips sliding over hers with warmth. She nearly melted there. He did love her. He did want her.

“My lord—argh!”

The moment shattered. Azalea shoved away from Wes, nearly tripping over her own shoes in her haste. Every warm and soft feeling vanished, replaced with cold horror.

For just a few feet away, Grey Dismas, a retainer of House Geppett, was staring wide-eyed at them, a concoction of shock and disgust blending on his already sour features.

He’d seen everything. He would certainly scuttle back to Wes’s father and tell all.

The instinct to protect cut through the panic. Unable to look at Wes, Azalea bobbed into a quick curtsy, flushing deeply.

“Pardon me,” she stammered. “I—I’d stumbled, and—Lord Geppett here was kind enough to—to catch me.”

In that moment, Azalea was no hunter, no hero. She could only obey the deep-rooted instincts that had her ducking her head, grasping her skirt with both hands, and fleeing from the garden as quickly as she could—before Grey could avail upon her what exact kind of stumble could have led to so compromising a position.

She wouldn’t let her own selfishness ruin Wes’s future. That, at least, she knew for certain.

Karis swept around the ballroom with the Lord Envoy of Atlantis, but he did not appear dismayed at all. He kept up easily with the Airlean waltz and polka, graceful and spry as a deer.

“I hope you have been enjoying your time in Airlea,” Karis said smoothly.

“Indeed I have.” Simon smiled benignly. “Forgive my clumsiness. I am admittedly out of practice with the social dances of Airlea.”

“Hardly. Your steps are assured. You do your teacher proud.” Too proud, in fact. If he stumbled more, she would be able to wring more answers out of him. Alas, he was infuriatingly faultless.

The envoy’s gaze swept about the room, then landed on Halcyon Yuden, who was lurking rather ominously by the entryway. “How long has the First Hunter of Airlea held his prestigious position?” he said casually.

Searching for weakness, you rat? “I don’t quite remember,” Karis replied airily, as if she did not know for a fact that Halcyon had been the First Hunter for two years, ten months, and three days. It was nothing odd. Everybody knew the cataclysmic Battle of Havenport where he had earned his rank.

“Military strength is prized in Atlantis, so I admit to find myself curious,” Simon said. “Where did he train? Was it at one of your martial schools—the Knight’s Academy, perhaps?”

“I don’t believe it was,” Karis said, feeling quite miffed. She was not enjoying the envoy’s nosiness when it came to Halcyon. The interest felt far too…motivated. Like Simon knew something she did not.

Surely he did not intend to entice Halcyon to Atlantis and join the military there! Was that something one could do? Change countries like one changed clothes? Karis resented the very idea. Now that Halcyon was here, he ought to stay.

“I did not mean to offend, Lady Caelute,” Simon said, but he only looked amused at her tense expression. “Martial legends are always a source of curiosity for the Warmongers. If I overstepped, I apologize.”

He would continue this charade of niceties? Well, she was done with it. A proper noblewoman would have skillfully continued this song and dance until she extracted the information she needed—but Karis was not a proper noblewoman.

“Enough,” she hissed, dropping her voice until it barely sounded over the warbling violins. “There is no innocent motivation to eying our finest warriors, Lord Envoy. What is your true goal? Reconnaissance before invasion?”

Simon did not falter, but she swore that his eyes barely changed shades, the citrine hue muddling to a pale gold. “Oh, is that how you see it?”

“I despise these games, so now I bargain with you. One true answer for another true answer.”

The cellos swept into the melody, and Simon dipped her. He lowered his head to mouth in her ear: “You cannot offer me any answer that I do not already know.”

“Liar. Or your ruler would not have sent a scouting party. They would have merely dispatched their forces to conquer.”

“Oh, Lady Caelute, we do not want war.” Simon detached from her with a spry laugh, bowing politely as the music closed. “The very opposite, in fact.”

“What does that mean?” She watched as he waved his fingers playfully, then vanished into the crowd. “Kourios!”

But he did not return. There was a high, gentle ring of silver against glass, the sort that cut through every conversation and captured the attentions of all. The music and chatter faded, and all heads turned to the raised stage at the end of the hall. There stood Sethis, crystal goblet raised high.

“Hail, fine lords and ladies of the gentry,” he called. “Blessings upon you on this starlit night.”

“The fortunes of the Asters are with us,” the audience intoned in response. Apparently, some traditions had survived the Storm. The stuffy ones.

“Many years it has been since we last opened the palace gates and freely welcomed such joyous festivities,” Sethis said. “The delay was regrettable, but it makes the fruits of tonight all the sweeter.”

Rather clever, Karis thought, for him to address the grumbling complaints of some nobles in the room that it really shouldn’t have taken this long for the royal family to host something. He mentioned it, yet did not snivel out apologies like a common servant.

As Sethis continued to mold the emotions of his audience like a potter molded clay—something about the Storm, thank you for your unity and contributions, huzzah, we are miraculously still alive—Karis glanced about the room. She met the eyes of Atlantean soldiers, who were searching for threats. She saw the envious gleams in the gazes of several wealthy bachelorettes, who no doubt had hounded the prince for a dance. Alas, Sethis had only danced with the safe, expected daughters of the high houses. But mostly, Karis saw the absence of someone important: the Royal Guard.

Fitting, she thought disgustedly. No doubt the king had selfishly summoned all of them to his side in preparation for the flood of strangers during the ball. They were probably all shut up in the throne room like toys in a dollhouse, while the prince was left defenseless.

“And now, my countrymen,” said the prince in question, “if you would please incline your ear as our esteemed guest, the illustrious Prime Consul from the ocean nation of Atlantis, imparts a few words.”

Simon Kourios ascended the stage, and Karis straightened, completely alert. Here it was; the reveal of his schemes. Whatever he had planned for his visit, she had no doubt that he would reveal it tonight, at this moment, while he had a captive audience.

“Esteemed guests and revered gentry of Airlea,” Simon began, voice deep and sonorous, yet laced with calm. “It is my honor and privilege to attend this magnificent gathering as an envoy of the grand civilization of magitech, Atlantis.”

Oh, get on with it, Karis thought impatiently.

“For ages our countries have lived in harmony, in symbiotic prosperity and respect, in valued friendship. We have treasured our relationship with the nation of bounty, Airlea, and seek to restore it.”

Laying it on thick, wasn’t he.

“And in the pursuit of that aim, we present a precious offer crafted after much thought and discussion, in the hopes that we may look upon each other with favor.”

Finally, here it was. Tension began to coil in the room, for every aristocrat knew that no political offer came without a matching price. Karis rolled her shoulders back, her skin prickling nervously.

“In the days before the Storm,” Simon said, “King Asher Melfor Lunaren, of the landwalking nation Airlea, forged an agreement with Senator Ilias Eneid Vascea, of the sea-dwelling nation Atlantis. To bring peace and unity between our nations, their offspring were promised to each other in marriage when they came of age.”

What? Karis thought disbelievingly. The declaration left the aristocracy equally stunned. Fervent whispers rippled through the crowd around her.

The only one who betrayed no sign of surprise was Sethis himself. He returned Simon’s unblinking gaze without flinching.

“Crown Prince Lunaren,” Simon continued, “Atlantis has come to make good on that promise. In an effort to strengthen our countries through mutual alliance, we put forward Vascea’s forebear, Senator Xiphia Kairhea Vascea, for a proposed match with the heir apparent of Airlea, Sethis Galen Lunaren.”

He raised his glass, a glittering smile of white teeth flashing across his face—as if he knew perfectly well the pyre he was lighting. He raised his voice so that it projected to every corner of the room.

“May the union,” he said fatally, “be fruitful.”

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