I’m about to offer the translation, when Iano replies in accented Eastern—I’ve forgotten he’s nearly fluent. Both of us have forgotten, apparently. “The word is aquagii, and yes, it is quite a significant decision.”
I almost jump in surprise, but Eloise doesn’t flinch. “Yes, of course,” she says coolly, still smiling. “Perhaps you could tell Veran about the audition process.”
“And why, I wonder, is the Eastern delegation suddenly so interested in the choosing of the ashoki?” Iano looks from Eloise to me, his lips set in a thin line.
I’m not sure how to respond. The other courtiers shift with a false front of cheerfulness—none of them can speak Eastern, but it must be obvious we’ve irritated the prince.
“We . . . have just heard of their importance in court,” I stammer. “I read all about them at home.”
His eyes narrow, and he looks away, back to the empty stage at the front of the hall. His free hand fingers the gold fringe hanging from his rapier hilt.
After the silence stretches out too long, the bubbly courtier from before jumps to strike up conversation again. She reaches for my lapel.
“Oh, how lovely!” she exclaims. “And look how it matches the new si!”
I look down to where her fingers are brushing the silver filigree firefly pinned to my jacket. The Lumeni pearl in its abdomen does have a turquoise color to it, to mimic the blue ghost fireflies that swarm around the palace in the summer. It was a gift from Mama on the steps of the Alcoran Senate building as we were about to depart in June.
“To remember your roots,” she’d said, stabbing the pin through my tunic like she had a grudge against the fabric.
“I’m not going to forget, Mama,” I’d said, holding still lest I be stabbed, too.
“I hope not, because Colm will have to answer to me if you do.” She’d capped the pin and started absently neatening my tunic laces. “You listen to Rou. And do your best to help Eloise.”
“I will.”
“Remember to drink more water than you think. Stick to the shade—and don’t be afraid to ask the others to take a rest. They’ll listen—”
My face had flushed. “I know, Mama.”
“I know you know. Just . . .” She’d taken a breath, her hands pressing my shoulders, grounding me. “Earth and sky, just be careful, Veran. Listen to your body.”
I tear my attention back to the group of courtiers around me, trying to keep my collar from growing hot like it did that day in Alcoro. The bubbly girl—I need to ask Eloise her name—just said something that I didn’t catch.
“Sorry?” I say.
“I said, your pin—it’s the ernduk, the light beetle that is holy to your people, yes?”
“Uh, yes. It’s firefly season back home.”
This is hilarious for some strange reason, sending everyone—except Iano and Eloise—into fits of delighted laughter. At least I think it’s delighted. My collar heats despite my best efforts.
“I wonder if it will glow at the Bakkonso Ball next week,” says another. “Wouldn’t that be charming!”
“You are coming to Bakkonso, aren’t you?” the first asks.
Eloise gives our confirmation that we are, in fact, coming to the fabled ball, though neither of us are sure we understand it. The name translates to “indigo lamp,” and the information we’ve cobbled together involves a mineral powder that glows bright white under a particular kind of blue-shielded lantern. I haven’t quite figured out what one does with the powder, or how it figures in with the dancing, but the younger echelon of the court has been chatting about it nonstop for several days.
“And do you have an ernduk pin as well?” our friend asks Eloise.
“We are not from the same country,” Eloise begins, but neither of us have the chance to elaborate on the differentiation between Lumen Lake and the Silverwood Mountains before a series of chimes sound from the end of the hall. A few excited murmurs go up, and folk press toward the soaring curtains hanging over the stage, the fabric changed from green to turquoise overnight. The courtiers around us start to jostle and whisper.
“Excuse me,” Iano says, setting his tea down—he must be about to make his announcement. But instead of moving directly for the stage, he takes a short, sharp step toward us. I step quickly to one side, but I run into Eloise. My wooden heel wobbles and my ankle turns awkwardly. I feel a blister burst.
I bite back a grimace as Iano leans in close, so quickly it must only look like a nod of his head to an outside observer.
“I have people watching you,” he murmurs in Eastern through gritted teeth. Then he straightens, turns, and strides effortlessly through the turquoise crowds. They part like ocean currents around him.
“What?” I say aloud.
“What?” Eloise echoes. “What did he say?”
I straighten off her shoulder, watching him walk toward the stage, the golden pin in his black hair glinting.
“I’m . . . not sure,” I say. I try to process his words again—had he gotten his translation wrong? Why would he say something so ominous out of the blue? Was it directed to both of us . . . or just to me?
People watching me?
I shift on my sore feet and wince at the torn blister on the pad of my foot. I lean too heavily on my walking cane, my stomach turning at both the pain and the uncomfortable end to our interaction with Iano. “Eloise, I’m going to sit down for a second.”
She turns to me, her face instantly changing from puzzled to concerned. “Why? Are you all right?” She hurries to thread her arm under mine, getting her weight under my shoulder, but I wave her away.
“Not like that. It’s these damned shoes—they’re eating my feet.”
She glances down, still holding me under my shoulder, fully prepared for me to buckle on the spot. “Oh. Well, can you make it closer to the front? I want to be with Papa when Iano makes the announcement.”
I get an image of me studiously observing my weeping blisters in the midst of the elegant Moquoian court. “No, let me just . . . I’m going to sit back there, just for a moment. I’ll come find you.”
She looks doubtful, but the crowd is pressing eagerly toward the stage, jostling for the best vantage points. I slide out of her grip, smiling as robustly as I can to convince her I’m not about to collapse. After another moment of scrutiny, she turns and hurries to join the tide of courtiers. I draw in a breath and walk as normally as I can in the other direction, toward the back of the hall. I pass a giant statue of a woman with ribbons flying from her hair and holding a tambourine, and then I spy a small bench next to a black-clothed block. The block is an odd shape and height, too tall to be a table, but it doesn’t concern me now—it’s the bench I’m after. I teeter toward it and collapse, discarding my cane on the floor.
I wriggle my cursed shoe off my foot and sigh in relief as it pops off. The blister stings in the open air, and carefully I set it down on the cool hardwood floor. I’m going to need to start wrapping my feet in bandages to stave off infection.
It’s going to be a long walk back up six flights of stairs.
Queen Isme is making her way onto the stage, gems glittering in her hair like raindrops. I lean down to slide my other shoe off, just for good measure, when I catch sight of the object underneath the black shroud beside my bench—it’s not a table as I first assumed, but solid white stone, like the statues in the hall. I reach forward and twitch the shroud back a few inches, revealing the same tiled pattern along the bases of the ashoki statues. It’s another pedestal . . . but with nobody on top.