“That boat’s for the spectators,” he says. “The contenders are over here.”
III
FOR a moment, all the sound leaves the world. I’m sure I’ve misheard him. Or perhaps panicked my way into a subconscious state, where things mean the opposite of what they are.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I think you’re confused.”
His orange eyes narrow. This close up, I can see his pupils are slit like a cat’s. “You are Lia, daughter of Rai?”
I swallow. “Yes.”
“Then I think you need to learn to read. All elite Masters your age qualify for contention. It was written in the first line of your invitation.”
The heat is like a fist around my throat. He thinks I’m a Master. I don’t know how he could think that, but I have a dreadful, sinking feeling that Hen missed something when she added my name to the list.
“Is there a problem?” Hen says, popping up at my side.
“I’ve qualified for contention!” I say too joyfully. “Because I’m a Master. Isn’t that great?”
All the confidence blanches from Hen’s face. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her afraid before, and it scares me more than what the priest is saying.
“Oh,” she says weakly. “Because Lia was—” She coughs. “Are you sure? I’m really certain the invitation didn’t say she was eligible.”
Because Lia—my mother—was a Master. The heat pushes into my gut. Hen assured me they wouldn’t look at the names again this late in the process, but it seems very much like someone did, and sweat beads my neck as the priest checks the ledger.
“Hmm.” He frowns. “Yes, there was something strange with your name. It was out of order, so it must have been added last minute. But my contact at the capital confirmed you’re eligible. You must have gotten the wrong scroll.” He mimes tossing a handful of confetti. “Sorry, surprise, and congratulations. Say goodbye, and let’s go.”
“Um, actually—” I start.
“She’ll be right there!” Hen says before the priest can turn around.
“What are you doing?” I hiss as she pulls me aside. “We need to confess now. I can’t be in the contention pool!”
“Do you remember when I mentioned eternal shame and your name being stripped for people who lie about being contenders?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what this is.”
“That’s not what this was supposed to be!”
“I know!” Hen pulls on the braids in her hair, eyes watering. If she cries, I will lose it entirely. “I’m sorry. Gods, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened! Even if he checked your name, I thought—whoever looked at the records should have seen you were way too young to be your mother. End of story, you go on as a spectator. They must be so busy, they didn’t look at her birthday—”
“What am I going to do?”
People are muttering and eyeing us. We’re delaying too long, and now they aren’t simply curious to see the boats off, but to see why this girl they don’t recognize is holding up the glass boat. If I run, would they let me through?
“You can’t run,” Hen says, practically reading my mind. “I’m sorry, but you can’t. Those guards will catch you in a second, and the contending families take this really seriously. If they think you’re trying to sabotage their chances, they might hurt you, Zahru. They might hurt Fara.”
“That’s unsurprisingly not helpful!”
“I know! But listen, this can still be all right.” She squeezes my shoulders, and I might’ve been encouraged by the calm settling over her face if I weren’t imagining a mob descending on the stable. “I know this seems bad, but the proving part of the evening is done. The next step is the banquets. You know enough about potions to be passable, so as long as you’re not bragging about it, you should be fine. And if you have to, faint. No heir’s going to pick someone who can’t even handle the stress of a banquet.”
I exhale, trying to regain control of my nerves. Hen’s right. No one has any reason to believe I’m not who I say I am, and the biggest danger now is actually being chosen for a team, for which my odds were low even if I was my mother. I can be a sparkling conversationalist. Then all I need to worry about is not drawing royal attention, and everything should be fine.
“All right,” I say, swallowing. “Lie to people, faint if necessary. I can do that.”
A tap on my shoulder makes me jump.
“Would you like me to announce you to the Mestrah as the reason we’re late,” the priest growls, “or would you like the chance to do it yourself?”
I turn at once. “Coming! Sorry.”
I cast one more panicked look at Hen, who watches me with something between guilt and helplessness, not even flinching when Galena touches her arm to guide her up the plank. The distance between us grows like a chasm. I know we’re only going to be separated for a few hours, but this feels like a warning from the gods; a crack on the wrist for daring to want something above my station.
I move up the plank, feeling like I’ve crossed into the wrong side of a dream.
Hen watches me from the other side, her hands on the rail, reassurance in her eyes. The servants blow long, curved oxen horns, the sound vibrating through the glass in a dangerous hum, and the crowd bellows as the contenders cluster beside me on the rail. The boat shifts back from the shore. My home slides away bit by bit, faster and faster, and I’m even able to fake a smile and wave—until we slip past the rise where Fara’s stable sits, and two familiar figures wave goodbye.
* * *
As the shoreline slips by, I think of Mora.
Hen’s mother has many different strategies for dealing with stress. Some are as simple as a breathing exercise, and some involve plotting a cold revenge over many months until the customer who wronged her is sorry they ever lived. I’ve decided to employ my own strategy by embracing this as just another part of my tale. This is, after all, exactly the kind of unlucky circumstance that starts off the best of the travelers’ stories, and just when it seems the hero is doomed to a tragic end, they’re rescued by a brilliant twist of fate or gorgeous newcomer. I’d happily settle for being rescued by Hen, though I wouldn’t mind the gorgeous newcomer, either. I just need to let the tale play out as it will.
And so I’ve found a place along the rail, beneath the misting fabric of the blue canopy and out of the way of the contenders, where I can stand and take in everything I thought I’d only ever experience in dreams. The gentle sway of the boat, the feel of a river breeze in my hair. The smooth glass under my fingers, rippling with bursts of reflected sunlight. Fish dart beneath the deck like jewels, and crocodiles swim like black fissures, alive and incredible below my feet. Even the desert seems more mysterious and infinite here, its low plateaus stretching to the horizon in every direction. When we pass a town, people cluster the banks to shout wishes of luck. I can almost believe I’m supposed to be here.