It was a behemoth, more a palace than the mansion of a successful militant. Melded of black Sesharian marble and Jantari steel, the building curved around the mountainside like two great wings of some mythic beast.
“You put amountainin the middle of your house?” Yassen asked, turning to Samson.
“Welcome to Chand Mahal, Cass,” his friend replied.
The moon palace. Austere, cold, beautiful—Yassen could see it.
Twin towers, modest in height yet resplendent with their embellished ridges of lapis lazuli flowers, stood on the edges of the sprawling gardens. Soldiers stationed there lowered their pulse guns and saluted as they passed.
Pale-kissed roses and glowing, dancing tiger lilies swayed in the breeze, spreading their aroma across the grounds. Yassen spotted gardeners snipping away vines. Though they wore gloves, Yassen could tell by their raven-black hair that they were Sesharians. They each bowed as Samson approached, but he paid them no mind.
Eventually, they reached the black, yawning entrance of the palace, with its arched marble columns and rippling sculptures of dragons. The guards beside the entrance bowed, and Yassen watched Samson raise his hand, murmuring some command to put them at ease.
“They treat you like a king,” Yassen said mildly as they entered the foyer.
To say the outside of the palace was magnificent was an affront to its interior. Two spiraling staircases swept up and diverged in opposite directions toward two wings. A gem-encrusted dragon coiled across the marble floor. Above, a million tiny glass tiles reflected the sunshine, so it seemed that the very stars were within this room, within his reach. Yassen tried to stop himself from staring, but he couldn’t.
“Some say so, but it’s more out of respect than divine right,” Samson replied.
Yassen tried to compose himself, looking back out the doorway where the gardeners, relieved of their master’s presence, resumed their task of pruning.
“Do they know who I am?”
“A half-Ravani and half-Jantari mutt,” Samson teased, but then he slung his arm around Yassen’s neck, his voice lowering. “We’re more than orphans now, Cass.” He gazed up at the ceiling that captured the heavens. “That’s all they need to know.”
Yassen gazed around him. How different this was from the derelict ruins they had once slept in. Here, they could host and feed an entire army and still not know the pang of hunger. Perhaps this was what Samson had intended—to create a palace so grand that no one would ever think to mention his wayward upbringing.
Theirwayward upbringings.
Yassen felt a numbness in his right arm, and he flexed his fingers with some difficulty. Samson had chosen a different path, and this was what he had to show for it.
“Let’s eat. I know you must be starving,” Samson said.
As if on cue, a servant with lips stained blue from indigo snuff appeared from the adjoining wing.
“Sires,” he said, bowing. Yassen spotted the same bull tattoo on his hand.
“Yassen, this is Maru, my most trusted man. Maru, this is Yassen, my childhood friend,” Samson said. He gripped his shoulder, hands harder than Yassen remembered. “A brother, actually.”
Yassen warmed at the distinction, but he smiled warily. Though Samson appeared easy, he suspected his old friend still harbored doubts about Yassen’s loyalties. He would have to convince Samson that he was done with the Arohassin. That what he truly desired, above all else, was a quiet morning on this mountainside.
“A pleasure,” Maru said, his eyes lingering on Yassen’s rumpled clothes. “The refreshments are ready for you.”
“Splendid,” Samson said. He pulled Yassen closer, grinning. “A little bird told me that you still like Ravani tea.”
Maru led them down a long hall full of light and crystal. Yet another dragon coiled across the ceiling here, its scales fashioned with mirrors that reflected their steps.
They came to two great doors. A river curved along the edges of the gate and swirled inward toward the doorknobs. Samson stepped forward. A pale light scanned his hand. Another thin beam swept across his face. Samson blinked, and then the beam closed, the river hissed, and the door unlocked to reveal the mountain.
A pathway of metal and stone cut its way through a courtyard of carefully pruned palehearts. Above, a mountain peak glimmered in the glare of the sun, but Yassen did not squint. He could not appear weak before Samson.
The path led to a terrace furnished with ivory chaises. Samson motioned for them to sit as two Sesharian servants placed pots of tea and platters of sandwiches and sweets before them. As they poured tea into their cups, lazy wafts of steam uncurled in the air. Yassen drank in the rich smell of Vermi leaves and lemongrass. Arranged on a three-tier platter were an assortment of sandwiches filled with apricot jam, gingerberry beads, and smoked meat. Another servant brought out a selection of powdered dew nuts, syrup-coated figs, and cloud cookies that, when bitten, dissolved into honeyed air.
“They still your favorite, yes?” Samson smiled when he caught Yassen staring at the cloud cookies.
Yassen couldn’t help smiling in return. He nodded and sank back in his seat.
A flutter of color drew their attention, and Yassen caught the fleeting image of a clawed falcon diving into the canopy for unseen prey. Its descent set off a flurry of calls. Among them, Yassen recognized the flutelike voice of a mountain lark.
