My heart jumps into my throat. “What do you mean, Gulla? Have you seen him? Did he come back? Where is he now?” I am wild with sudden hope or sudden horror; I’m not sure which.
But Gulla turns away. She says nothing more, and I am left without any answers to the questions that pound against my skull.
Saga’s gone again when I slip back into our room, as is Pala. I’m restless on my own, impatient. I wash in the sunken bath, but I can’t scrub away the torment of the children, my desperation to free themnow, not in three months. But with Tenebris still under Kallias’s control, where would they go? Vil and I would be suspected and treaty negotiations cut off. The Skaandan army would be stuck marching their slow way through the tunnels, leaving Daeros free to sweep into Skaanda and take it unhindered. No. I have to wait.
Saga returns as I’m stepping out of the bath, and she avoids my eyes when I ask her where she’s been, though she’s glad when I tell her I finally went to visit the great hall.
I’m expected at dinner tonight. Saga hurries me into a violet gown trimmed with fur, then threads strands of tiny working clocks into my curls. The whole ensemble is meant to evoke the Violet God—the god of time.
Vil comes to collect me at the thirteenth hour, and he looks in unhappily at Saga, who refuses to speak to him, still upset about him keeping the existence of the Iljaria weapon from her, and shoves me unceremoniously out into the hall.
I pace with Vil down the corridor, my arm tucked into his. Whatever weirdness has arisen between us on the subject of the Iljaria weapon, we are allies in this place. We have to be. I try not to let Saga’s unhappiness gnaw at me, and I vow to speak with her in earnest after dinner.
Right now I need to speak with Vil. “It doesn’t change anything, does it?” I ask him in an undertone. “What we ... discussed last night?” I’m being purposely vague in case the attendants are listening.
His dark eyes lock on mine. “No. Of course not.”
There is gold powder brushed across his temples, like he’s a gilded thing one ought not to touch. He smells of citrus and cedar.
He takes a breath. “I shouldn’t have kept it from either of you. And I shouldn’t have gotten so angry. I’m sorry.”
His pulse flutters in his wrist beneath my fingertips.
“Can you still trust me?” he says quietly.
“Yes,” I tell him. But this time, I’m not quite sure it’s true.
We walk a few paces more in silence. “How were negotiations this morning?” I ask then.
“An absolute joke. Kallias made his general push for us to relinquish practically all of Skaanda while he laughed at me behind his wineglass. Thank gods the Daerosian governors were there—they spoke earnestly, at least, and seemed grateful for the food coming from Skaanda.”
I nod. As a gesture of Skaanda’s good faith in pursuing true peace with Daeros, Vil preemptively ordered a shipment of food from Staltoria City that was only a few days behind us on the road, and should arrive very soon.
“I’ve set up meetings with each of the governors in the coming week—if I can win even a few of them over, it will help a lot toward our goal.”
A peaceful transition of power,I think. Is it truly possible? Saga doesn’t think so. Unease blooms in my gut.
We reach the dining hall far too soon for my liking, and to my extreme discomfort, the attendants seat me to the left of Kallias’s ivory chair, with Vil to my own left. The seat to Kallias’s right—the place of honor—is vacant. Lysandra isn’t here tonight, but Zopyros, Theron, and Alcaeus are. All three of them practically radiate anger, which I can’t see any concrete reason for.
Until Kallias sweeps in with a boy at his side.
A boy I once kissed in the dark.
My heart trips at the sight of him, striding tall across the room.Ballast, dressed in silk and fur, jewels in his ears and rings on every finger.Ballast, whom I never thought I’d see again,Ballast—
Belatedly, I notice the white silk patch tied around the left side of his head with an indigo ribbon. Angry red lines show from beneath the patch, half-healed wounds cruelly given.
Ballast, with only one eye.
I know I’m staring. I can’t wrench my gaze away. I feel flushed and frantic, my desire to flee the room at war with the draw of Ballast, who takes the seat of honor. The one across from me. His gaze locks on mine and he looks ill, sweat on his brow and a feverish gleam in his single eye.
I can’t think, can’t breathe. All is a roaring kind of numbness punctuated by the lodestone pull of him, four feet from where I’m sitting.
“Princess Astridur,” says Kallias, turning to me. He takes my hand and raises it, briefly, to ice-cold lips. “I was sorry to miss you at the proceedings this morning. I do hope you’re feeling better.”
I force myself not to recoil and stammer out something in return, but I have no idea what I actually say. Kallias follows my gaze to Ballast.
“Allow me to introduce my son, His Highness Ballast Heron Vallin,” Kallias says. “I do apologize for his regrettable appearance. He’s part Iljaria.”
