“We will make this kingdom great, Elena,” he murmured beside her. “That is my promise to you.”
The air grew warmer as the dancing couples rushed in.
“I hope so,” she whispered, parting from him.
When she found a moment, Elena excused herself and returned to the hall behind the ballroom, the train of her dress rustling behind her.
She slumped against the wall and closed her eyes, drinking in the cool darkness and savoring its still, muted silence.
But as she breathed, a gnawing sensation returned in her chest, and Elena knew it was her grief. In the emptiness of this hall, she felt it—the lack of Ferma’s presence—keenly. Her nose prickled. A heavy weight pulled down her shoulders, threatening to sink her like a pebble in quicksand. She clenched her fists, her throat tight. She could not cry. Ferma would not want this. Ferma would want her to put on a fresh face and return to the ballroom with grace.
But her vision blurred and suddenly, the necklace around her throat felt like a noose. Elena grasped her neck. Air, she needed air.
She stumbled away from the ballroom, away from the fake smiles and cloying laughter. The pain in her chest threatened to choke her. She staggered through the courtyard, her feet moving of their own accord. She found herself wandering down the guards’ quarters like she had done only a few days ago with Ferma. The hall was silent, empty.
Ferma’s door stood at the end, dark and bare. Elena gasped, clutching her chest. She wanted to rap on that door and see it open to reveal Ferma, her Ferma, smiling and inviting her to another spar. She could not bear it. She stumbled down another hall.
She did not know where his room was, but she wanted to see him. To feel his hand in hers and hear his voice. He was the only one who knew Ferma even half as well as herself.
Elena found Yassen’s room in the next wing, in the corner, his name floating above the door. She leaned against the doorway, calming her breath. Her hands trembled. Slowly, she rapped against the door. No one answered. She rapped again and again, and still, he did not come.
CHAPTER 30
YASSEN
Forever and forever, farewell, dear friend.
May the moons and the stars bless our parting.
—fromThe Odyssey of Goromount: A Play
It had been comically easy to steal out of the palace during the ball. Yassen simply slipped out from the servants’ side entrance, dressed in his guard uniform, and they had been too distracted by the guests to recognize him. Around the front of the palace, he watched hovercars pull up the long drive. Lords, ambassadors, ministers, and bureaucrats spilled out. Despite the attack in Rani, they still came with their glittering jewels and painted smiles. Even the neighboring monarchs weren’t thrown off by security concerns. For them, this was a night to take stock of the Ravani kingdom—to see how far it had fallen and how brutally it would rise.
Yassen donned his hood and tried to ignore the ache that traveled up his right arm. He had taken the pills and treated the infected skin on his elbow as the doctor had told him; but oddly, the markings on his wrist had begun to inch up to his fingers. He would need to put the ointment there too. With his left hand, Yassen found the holopod in his pocket. He squeezed it for good measure.
He had received a message earlier in the day.
Honey muffin.
Nothing else. Seconds after he opened the message, the holo dispersed in blue dust, but its meaning had been clear enough.
Yassen began to make his way to his hovercar when he saw a familiar face. The Verani king sweeping forward, his belly straining against the confines of his coat. Yassen froze. The king sniffed the air with distaste as palace servants bowed. Behind him, the Verani queen, a petite woman with eyes the color of amethysts, scowled.
They both wore leather, despite the desert heat. The king said something, and the queen shook her head, fanning herself. Yassen sucked in his breath as they entered, and only exhaled when they were out of sight. Then he slipped out from the shadows and was speeding into the city within seconds.
It began to drizzle as he veered down the overpass, winding through side streets until he came to a narrow alleyway. At its end, two shobus tussled over a scrap of meat. They looked up as Yassen stopped. He leaned down in his seat, ran his fingers along the smooth leather, and found the tracking device—a small black square with a tiny blinking light. Yassen detached it from its holder and got out of the car.
The shobus growled.
“Easy, boys,” he said. His hand found the gun tucked underneath his cloak. It was his father’s gun, a silver pistol of genuine iron and steel. The police were conducting sweeps, using sensors to locate the heat of pulse guns. His outdated firearm would go undetected.
Yassen wrapped his hand around the holster as he backed away from the shobus.
“Easy.”
One shobu barked, taking a few steps forward, but then stopped, its twin tails flicking. Yassen slipped out of the alley, walking quickly. A child in rags stood at the corner, and when he held out his hand, palm outstretched, Yassen dropped the tracking device along with two Ravani coppers.
“Stay off of the streets tonight,” he whispered to the boy. “The silver feathers are on their rounds.”
