With a tremendous amount of luck, they may just be my salvation, too.
So this is my life at present—four walls, a floor, a ceiling, a few muted objects, and the window to the world. Bats and air. When my head is clear, I sit and watch the colors turn in my little squint of sky. Pale pinks and yellows in the morning fade into a crystalline blue, to orange, to indigo, to bat-black, to night-black, and then back around again. Pretty soon I’ll be able to come up with brand-new names for each minute color change. I’ll be able to tell every breath and whisper of a different hue. I’ll be more intimate with every spot on the spectrum than any ashoki ever was.
Either that, or I’ll die of boredom.
If my escape plan doesn’t work out, I imagine that’s the more likely outcome.
Veran
The Hall of the Ashoki shimmers with every imaginable shade of turquoise, starting with pale robin’s-egg blue and going straight through to an iridescent green so dark it’s nearly black. I pause on the threshold with Eloise, taking in the sight of the room. Peppered throughout the excited crowd are larger-than-life statues on marble pedestals, their white stone garments frozen in flowing movement. Each one holds some type of instrument—a finger drum here, a harp there. The ashoki—the legendary wordsmiths that shape this country’s politics. Fragments of poetry and lyrics are carved into their pedestals—memories of their most beloved verses.
“Oh look,” Rou says cheerfully behind us. “Young’uns in their natural habitat.” He points to the long banquet table laden with an array of finger foods, where several older children of Moquoian ministers and a few young politicians are socializing—including Prince Iano. He shoos us in that direction. “Go on, make friends.”
I lean toward Eloise as he takes off toward Queen Isme. “He knows we’re adults, and not six, right?”
“I think he stopped making any distinction after about age ten. Don’t tell me your parents aren’t the same.”
“With five of us? They tend to group us into the older three and younger two. It lets them hover for other reasons.”
She gives a smile of commiseration. “Well, there’s certainly plenty to hover over between the two of us, isn’t there?”
I grimace. Eloise is the single direct heir to the throne of Lumen Lake, and her parents—Rou in particular—have always been protective of her. Being the fourth out of five children, I don’t have that excuse, but that doesn’t mean my childhood wasn’t as closely watched as hers.
Perhaps more.
We weave among the silk jackets, long skirts, and glittering hair jewels, catching snatches of conversation, all of it focused on speculation for the upcoming announcement.
“—heard that Oiko fellow can play sixteen different instruments, that’s got to count for something—”
“—amazed the queen is letting her son make the appointment, even with her upcoming abdication; it’s highly irregular—”
“—but the politics are the most important thing, of course. That Kimela, now, I’m told she’s a real champion of industry. If the prince hopes to preserve the traditional values of this country, he’d be wise to appoint her—”
I glance at this last voice—it belongs to Hetor Kobok in-Garnet, the minister of industry just returned from factory audits. It’s taken me a while to remember the color titles of various nobility in court, but Kobok’s isn’t difficult—he wears his traditional color bracelet over the sleeve of his turquoise jacket, the gold links studded with fat garnets that flash in the light. Even without this indicator of status, it’s not hard to tell that he’s an influential member of court—transfixed nobles stand around him in a half circle, hanging on his words.
“I didn’t think to do any inquiring about the candidates for ashoki, did you?” Eloise asks as we squeeze past the group of ministers. “I’ve been too wrapped up trying to make progress with the Ferinno Road.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it thorough, but I’ve picked up a little from listening to the queen’s attendants,” I say. “Of all our options, it sounds like Oiko—that one who can play a million instruments—is best for our interests. I heard one of the ladies on the Citizen Welfare Committee saying he’s in favor of phasing out the use of bond labor. I think the one we least want is Kimela—she sounds vocal about maintaining things as they are, including limiting Moquoia’s relations with its neighbors. I expect we’ll have a much harder time gaining any ground if she’s appointed.”
“Well, let’s hope Iano still upholds the same convictions he did in his letters,” Eloise says, eyeing the prince as we draw near the flock of young courtiers. “Even if he’s given us no indication of such since we’ve gotten here.”
We reach the skirts and jacket tails of several diplomats, and they make way excitedly for us, greeting Eloise warmly. She responds with seemingly effortless cordiality and introduces me to the handful of courtiers I haven’t met. All of them are positively brimming with excitement over the upcoming announcement. In fact, the only person not visibly enjoying themselves is Iano.
True to the first day of the si, the prince is decked in deep turquoise silk, his sleeves and collar piped with gold. Beads of jade and tourmaline flash from his embroidery and the lobes of his ears, and the gems down the legs of his trousers are each as big as the seal my father wears on his thumb. Gold winks from the jeweled pin holding his long black hair in a half tail, and it shines on the hilt of the ceremonial rapier on his belt. The only thing outside his Mokonnsi color scheme is his si bracelet, by comparison a much plainer band of stamped bronze, set with a cluster of lapis and worn with age. On our first day in court, I was surprised to see such a shabby token of his titular colors when so many other courtiers’ si-oque drip with gems, like Kobok’s, until I found out that it’s an heirloom piece several hundred years old, the colors replaced for every heir.
“Good morning and a bright Mokonnsi to you, Prince Iano,” Eloise says, careful to get the customary greeting right. “How exciting to be here for this day.”
Iano adjusts his grip on a glass cup of cream tea, his lips set in a frown. “Mm, I’ll bet it is.”
I can safely say that that’s not the proper response to the greeting on the first day of a new si, but Eloise doesn’t let him deter her. She fixes him with a warm smile, believable enough to look genuine to the untrained eye, and gestures to me. “You have already met our translator, Veran Greenbrier—as you can see, he is joining me for the announcement of the new ashoki this morning.”
I bow slightly, the shift in weight making my blisters sting. I rack my brain for the right thing to say. “We are very much looking forward to it.”
His eyes narrow just slightly, but a bubbly girl at his elbow is the first to reply. “We’ve tried everything to get him to tell us his choice, even a hint, but he hasn’t budged. What a surprise it’s going to be!”
“For most,” Iano says flatly, looking away toward the stage at the end of the hall.
I throw a quick glance at Eloise, but she’s still not deterred by the prince’s dour behavior. She gives the barest flick of her eyes in my direction, as if in warning, and then says, “I thought it would be beneficial to Veran if you were to share some of your process for choosing the ashoki. It must be such a . . .” She pauses, her brow furrowing. After a moment, she glances at me, lapsing into Eastern. “I can’t remember the word for ‘significant’—it’s not bengka, is it? That’s ‘loud’ . . .”