Page 38 of Between Smoke and Shadow
“He’s up to something,” I murmur. His eyes catch mine, just for a moment, and he grins before looking away.
“Well, obviously,” Tora snorts. “He’salwaysup to something. He’s trying to condemn all of Savoa, just because he’s an impatient brat. And, despite the fact he’s betrothed, he’s up there, openly flirting with that random woman. We’ll have to hear all about him bedding her at breakfast.”
“No, there’s something more,” I say, chewing the inside of my cheek. “He came to my quarters this morning to make sure I knew of tonight’s gathering.”
“Do you think he’s—” Tora cuts off, her attention suddenly at the door. She lets out a short groan. “Gods. I didn’t knowtheywere coming.”
I follow her glare to the entryway, where Nordan Kerr, Viana Llroy, and Malek’s betrothed Petra Renat stand. Nordan Kerr wears an emerald suit with dashes of red throughout the fabric—and yet, he looks entirely bland and unimportant. His face is a collection of unremarkable features, and his fidgeting fingers make him look like a lost child.
Viana is as beautiful as ever, dressed in a gown far too elegant for the occasion. Her attention is already locked on me. She grins, showing off teeth whiter and straighter than I remember them being. She’s probably using two hundred beryls of magic,just to look like that. Following a shy wave to me, she leans to whisper something to Petra.
Malek’s betrothed looks almost as out of place as Nordan. She shrinks behind Viana’s left shoulder, her red and green dress half-swallowing her. She hunches her shoulders, like she’s hoping it actually will.
“They’re without their servants,” I say. I cringe, realizing my mistake only after I’ve spoken. Servants don’t come to royal meetings, let alone to gatherings.
Luckily, Tora is too busy glaring at Nordan to notice. She picks him apart from where we stand, ranting about his hair and his poor posture and the way his fingers twitch against his thighs. I’m about to pull her attention back to me when an elite appears before us. She beckons us to the stage, and whatever theory Tora had about Malek vanishes between us.
The elite calls everyone to their seats. Over one hundred royals, dressed in every shade of purple, filter into place. Their voices quiet to whispers, but their eyes remain loud. They stare at us on the stage, expressions hungry for whatever drama Malek has prepared. They briefly look away to watch Viana, Petra, and Nordan find their places in the front row. Viana makes a show of blowing me a kiss.
I ignore her—I ignoreallof them—from my place on the stage. As usual, I sit between Mother and Malek with Tora to his left. The Architect’s throne sits empty on the stage’s far right, and I imagine that means he’ll have a special entrance. I don’t bother trying to get my sister’s attention from here. Instead, I look out at the mountains through the distant windows, trying but failing to distract myself.
The elongated room darkens and the crowd falls silent. One of the elites—the one who’d been flirting with Malek—comes to the stage and positions herself behind the glass podium. She looks back to smile at my brother before facing the crowd. Ifnothing else, Tora was right about Malek bragging tomorrow morning.
“Welcome all to a spectacular gathering, presented to you by Prince Malek Ademas and the Architect himself!” the woman calls. More than half the crowd claps and cheers, but I’m relieved to see some looking less than enthused. It eases the tension in my chest, and I manage a deep breath. If the upper royals are skeptical, maybe they’ll revolt against Malek’s idea. Maybe they’ll hate the Architect’s secrecy to the point they rebel against this plan of his.
More time. I’m supposed to have more time before I have to deal with this.
The elite continues to ramble, and I don’t realize I’ve zoned out until there’s heavy applause from the crowd. The white lights brighten as the Architect strides into the room. He’s dressed in his usual blood-red suit and wolf mask, but his walk somehow feels more purposeful, more dangerous. He doesn’t acknowledge anyone in the crowd—or even us—as he claims his macabre throne.
I sit forcibly straight, determined not to look at the Architect. I haven’t seen him since the infirmary, but I know he’s been keeping tabs on me. His guards linger after training sessions. My cousins ask thinly veiled questions. And I do my best to act unaffected by his increasing attention.
The elite curtsies to the Architect before leading the rest of the organizers from the room. After they’re gone, the lights soften and shadow most faces in the crowd. I can still sense their eagerness. Despite anything else they might feel, these people are hungry for information.
The Architect doesn’t often make appearances, and he rarely calls gatherings. If we’re here, everyone in the room will have a fresh piece of gossip to whisper in the corridors. I imagine even the servants will know by nightfall. I can’t help but wonder howthe Architect plans to keep people from storming his supply once they know—or if he’s even considered they will.
For now, he sits perfectly still, the room subdued in silence around us. After a painfully long wait, during which even Malek starts to twitch, the Architect finally rises and lifts his arms toward the sea of purple, the splashes of green and red. The crowd remains quiet, their attention unwavering.
“My greatest children,” he says. His voice echoes, and the purple sea leans into his words. “It brings me great pleasure to address you here today. Many of you have experienced hardships and heartaches in this violent land we call home. For countless cycles, I have hoped to find a way out for us, to find a way to escape this land and return to our Old World. Until recently, that has felt like nothing but a dream.”
The crowd is a mass of perplexed expressions and ravenous eyes. People look from the Architect to me to the Architect again. Sometimes they look at Malek or Mother or Tora, but I feel their gazes lingering on me. They think I have something to do with this gathering, this idea of escape.
“When I was approached with a plan that took evacuation from possible to plausible, I had a great realization. While I cannot yet tell you the details of our plan, I can admit I made a grievous error,” the Architect says. His voice hums through the anxious stillness. “Many cycles ago, I selected an heir for this kingdom. And ever since, I have questioned whether the correct choice was made. Today, I stand before you to correct what I now know was a mistake.”
No.
My heart thuds so loud I can hear it. They all must hear it, the way my body is rearranging beneath my ribcage. The crowd is unquestionably focused on me now. Meanwhile, I’ve finally turned to look at the Architect. I do not dare look at my brother.
This isn’t about leaving Savoa, not really. This is my worst fear realized. It is countless cycles of taunting and intimidation and mockery, all building to this one horrible moment. And for whatever reason, I still feel caught off guard.
He’s going to stealeverythingfrom me.
My body trembles, and without fully deciding to, I look at my sister. She’s already staring back at me, cheeks pale and lips parted in horror. She knows. Everyone in this gods-forsaken room knows now, and before long, the whole fucking kingdom will too.
I’m going to be the first heir ever stripped of his title.
The anticipation in the room sucks through my mouth, into my lungs, expanding until I hear the cartilage splitting my ribs. I am anxiety, everywhere, all at once. I want to freeze this moment, stop time long enough for me to flee the stage with what little dignity I still have. The Architect clears his throat, and though I can’t see his face, I know he is smiling.
Gods. Not here, not in front of everyone.
