“You look royal, girls,” he says. “But is everything all right? Did I hear the boat is boarding now?”
“Yes, Fara, sorry,” I say, darting to peck his cheek. “I love you. See you tomorrow!”
“Love you, too,” he calls.
I think he might also say something about making good choices, but we’re already out the door, me holding a hand to my head chain and Hen holding her skirt. The desert sun burns hot on our shoulders.
“Rie,” I swear. “I can’t believe we’re doing this. I can’t believe we’re actually going!” I laugh as we turn a corner, as fleet as antelope. “Can you even imagine what the contenders are going through? I’m nervous just to watch! I bet they’ll be judged on their every move. One wrong smile and that’s it, no eternal glory for them.”
Hen shrugs. “But also no untimely death.”
“Death?” We swerve to avoid a mother holding a baby. “The royal siblings aren’t supposed to kill each other, are they?”
“Oh, no. But I’ve been reading all about past contests, and sometimes death just happened. Rogue assassins, hungry hyenas, starvation . . .”
My stomach tightens in pity. I guess I assumed royalty would have divine protection against such things, especially considering the way people have been celebrating the contenders all week. Everyone seems much more concerned with the prizes for being chosen: their name in history, a suite at the palace. I never stopped to consider why the prizes were so grand.
“Gods, and they’re out there at least a week, right?”
“If they don’t get hopelessly lost.”
“That would be awful,” I say as we cross into the upper district. The road ahead is packed with people, and Hen tugs me toward a gap at the side. “Can you imagine? Going through all this fuss and stress, just to get buried under a sandstorm?”
“Well, they will have spells and such. But just think.” Hen’s eyes flash, and we press between a man in a brown tunic and a pigtailed girl. “If Gallus gets chosen, we can picture him being chased by all kinds of rabid things.”
I snicker at the thought of my ex pompously fighting a rattlesnake while trying to keep his hair perfect. “I hope something bites him in the rear while he’s sleeping.”
“I hope it bites him in the—”
“Shh,” I say, giggling and clasping my hand over her mouth. The ground under our feet has shifted from hot brick to cool wood. “You can’t say that here. At least wait until we’re on the boat.”
The mesh of people thickens as we excuse ourselves through, until it suddenly yields to the dock, a long structure of waterproof wood and iron posts, upon which ropes tether all sizes of boats to the shore. Guards stand in a wide semicircle around the priest and his assistants, giving them space. The nearest guard takes one look at our elaborate joles and nods us through. The crowd grumbles in envy. I admit the attention sends a shiver of satisfaction down my spine—I’m usually the one watching everyone else leave.
Galena stands at the base of a wide plank, and it takes me a moment to realize that plank doesn’t lead to the glass boat. It leads to one made of a strange wood instead, something swirled with black and golden tones that looks like an enormous version of the giraffe from Mora’s collection. A deep red canopy shades its deck, under which dozens of people mingle in their finest, their small crowns of gold and gemmed rings glinting like sparks in the sun. I recognize a young man who tutored Hen in writing, and the Gemsmith—no wonder her wife is tending her wares. The plank to the glass boat is by the priest instead, blocked by a particularly burly guard.
The Mestrah must have sent one boat to carry spectators and another for the contenders. I’m slightly disappointed Hen and I won’t be riding on glass, but honestly I’d be happy to take a leaky canoe at this point.
“Here’s something we didn’t think about,” I mutter, looping my arm through Hen’s. “The entire town is staring at us right now, including the Apothecarist I just bought salves from and your nemesis, who might remember handing me her shoes this morning. The punishment for getting caught is seriously ‘go away,’ right?”
“Don’t worry. No one’s going to recognize you. Your makeup has been done correctly for once.”
I snort. “I can do my makeup correctly.”
“Mm hmm.” She adjusts her hair and smooths a pleat near my hip. “Like I said, they don’t care about spectators. They only strip your name away and shame your family if you try to sneak in as a contender. So relax, you’re wrinkling the silk.”
I exhale, trying to draw on even a sliver of Hen’s confidence. I don’t need to be so nervous. This will either work or it won’t, and if it doesn’t, at least I will have tried. Maybe I’ll even gain some semblance of infamy. I think I’d like people looking at me sidelong, worried I might do something unexpected and daring at any moment.
“Cutting it close, aren’t we?” the priest says, his usual scowl in place. The words inked into his shoulders glisten with embedded gold. “Lucky for you, we’re all happy to stand around in the heat while you decide whether you’ll bother to show.”
“Apologies, adel,” Hen says, bowing with her arm over her chest. I do the same. “We lost track of time.”
“Which of you is Hen, and which is Lia?”
“I’m Hen,” Hen says.
Galena steps forward with a smile. She nods to me as well, but Hen must not be exaggerating about my makeup, because all Galena’s gaze holds is curiosity, thank the gods. She’s still shoeless, and I still have an undefinable urge to hug her.
“Hen, I’m Galena,” she says, nodding in greeting.
“I know who you are,” Hen says, crossing her arms. I clear my throat, and Hen mercifully says nothing more.
Galena raises a brow but gestures to the plank. “Would you come with me?”
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming Yes! I can’t believe we did it. After the uncertainty of this week, after all our worrying, now we can finally relax. We’re here. We’re here, and with Hen having already done . . . whatever she did . . . to get our identities cleared, there are no more hurdles. We’re going to the palace, and it’ll be a night that’s just ours; a treasure no one can take away.
A memory I can unfold anytime I’m missing her, and remember what we used to be.
We start for the plank—and the priest grabs my arm.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he says.
My heart lurches. He knows. Gods, he knows, and of course he’d wait until the worst possible moment to reveal it—