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“An invitation to go riding with the proconsul of Taella—in addition to being proconsul, she’s also a friend of Marquin’s—and this one from Countess Duval, inviting you to have dinner with her at The Musicale House tomorrow evening.”
“I’m guessing by the name of the establishment that I don’t simply sit there and eat dinner?”
“Hardly. There are seven tables, and each table has to bring a musician. The House pits those musicians against each other. The rules for competition change each month, so no artist ever knows what they’re agreeing to when they attend one of these functions, and the results can be…varied. It’s the kind of establishment that can make or break an artist’s chance of finding good patrons. Especially because sometimes the challenges are set up to make a mockery of the artists.”
Clare raised her eyebrows. “The wealthy need their entertainment?”
“Something like that.”
“And I suppose I’ve been chosen because I recently made a spectacle of myself in the name of artistic competition?”
“Yes, and I don’t think you’ve been invited because the countess wants to further your career. She owns seventy-percent of the business, and was on the verge of buying out the Rival before your performance catapulted the theater back into prominence and likely drove the price up. If I had to guess, I’d say it’ll be a challenge they don’t think anyone can complete.”
Clare flashed her teeth. “Please write the countess that I would be honored to attend.”
“I said you couldn’t politely decline, not that you shouldn’t.”
“Well in that case,” Clare amended, “please write that I’m honored and looking forward to it, and make it sound like I’m ever-so-naive and very excited to have her attention.”
Alys shook her head and retrieved a pen and paper. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Of course. Rigged games are my favorite.”
Alys had barely finished writing out the responses when Verol came in, knocking on the side of the doorframe to announce himself. “We have to leave for the palace in an hour, so you might want to pack.”
She had forgotten, with everything that had happened, about the residency requirement the king imposed on the nobility. With what Verol and Marquin had told her last night, she finally understood why they’d been so worried about it.
Finally understood that simply being Verol’s apprentice was likely to make the king suspect she was exactly what he was looking for.
She contemplated her guitar as she packed clothing around it for buffer—she was going to need to buy a case that actually fit it. Last night, she’d used those strings and her voice to make the Jackal King cry. Today…today she was going to have to do something else. He would expect her to be afraid. Or, on the opposite side, expect her to try and charm him. To make him like her.
Which meant she needed to do something completely different. She needed to be obviously indifferent to him. It wasn’t the best option—kings, in her admittedly limited experience, did not take well to indifference—but it was the only option she saw.
And the best way to be indifferent to a man was to be loudly interested in someone else. She hoped Numair didn’t mind keeping her busy, because she was about to very publicly and animatedly become the best friend he’d ever had.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
A White Throne
Nothing in Clare’s life had prepared her for the Jackal King’s palace. Even calling it a palace seemed inept to describe what was more like a private city. The building itself rested against the cliffs of the ocean’s shoreline, and could only be reached via the two-mile High Road that stretched from Hightown directly to the King’s Gate. In the first mile between Veralna and the palace the land to either side of the road, stretching to the eastern and western shorelines, could only be owned by those of noble blood. The western side was dominated by mansions and natural forests, while the eastern gave way to the nobles who dabbled in orchards and vineyards, the latter tended to by the lower classes who could never hope to own what they worked by virtue of royal decree.
It was on the western side that the Arrendon’s estate lay and, by proximity, Numair’s. Since Clare had opted to ride Kialla, Verol and Marquin rode alongside her on Sky and Ginger respectively. Fitz had gone ahead with their luggage in the carriage, pulled by a pair of bay geldings Clare had never seen before. He’d said nothing to her, only shaken his head at her choice of clothing and driven off.
She had attired herself to draw notice. Instead of a riding outfit she’d chosen a lightweight green dress with no waist-boning and a long, flowing skirt with enough material to drape across Kialla’s back and sides like a decorative blanket. The hated cream cloak was tied at her neck and similarly draped. The small, hornless saddles favored in this part of the country made the task easy enough without fear of her clothing becoming entangled in the equipment—though she was fortunate she wouldn’t need to travel above a walk or her skin would chafe terribly against the saddle leather—and she was certain no one would mistake which horse she was riding once she’d drawn their gaze. Her flashy ensemble was meant to state clearly that she didn’t care what conclusions anyone might draw about the fact that she was riding Numair’s excessively expensive horse.
For her part, Kialla had taken the fluttering, flowing skirts in stride, without even so much as a hint of a spook, and her unshod hooves now clopped softly on the stone-paved road. They passed through the Outer Gate with only a brief pause at the stationed guards, and as they did so the Song retreated within Clare. It was abrupt, her sense of its departure, as if within the palace grounds it was unwilling to risk drawing notice.
She examined the high Outer Wall as they passed through its gate, marveling at the paranoia that had driven some past king to build it all the way from eastern to western shoreline. The land between here and the palace’s Inner Wall ahead was all riding trails and hunting grounds, the forest nearly undisturbed by human interference, save what was necessary to carve out trails here and there. It had a heavy, ominous sort of peace to it that settled in the empty spaces around Clare. She rested easy against its silent weight, lulled into an almost hypnotic contemplation by its companionship and the soothing steadiness of Kialla’s gait.
She was pulled from her reverie when the forest ended abruptly, the trees cleared two hundred feet back from the Inner Wall as far as the eye could see. The King’s Gate loomed ahead, a monstrosity of twisted iron painted a brilliant white, reflecting the sun’s rays so harshly it stung the eyes to look at. They halted at the gate, Kialla fidgeting impatiently while the Arrendons were greeted and cursory questions asked about Clare. The guards were well-trained, and the curious glances they gave her were only noticeable if one looked for them.
Her hands clenched tightly in Kialla’s mane as they rode through the gate. Though it did not close behind her, she had the sense of being trapped. She heard the clang of a cellar door, the sound of little insect feet skittering in absolute darkness; heard a soft, sibilant voice telling her that this was her own fault, and for her own good. Fingers traced down the curve of her back and her spine teased tight, her breath coming in harshly audible wheezes through the constriction in her throat.
Not now, she told herself, not Clare. The woman in the cellar had never been Clare. That woman had only hoped to become her.
Clare took the memories, shoved them into the darkest room in her soul, and slammed the door closed. The door rattled and shook from the force on the other side, threatened to fly open as she barred it shut. The bar held, and the shuddering eased. One day, she knew, the door would not hold, and everything on the other side would spill over into her present.
But that day wasn’t today.
