Twenty-one
Dancing at a royal celebration wasn’t as bad as I might have imagined, if I’d ever had the opportunity to imagine dancing at a royal celebration. Which I hadn’t.
I said yes to a few requests, mostly from gray-haired gentlemen who enjoyed moving around the room with a pretty girl. But my feet had begun to hurt, and I was getting a headache from the combined perfumes and oils aristocrats apparently bathed in. When a group of jesters began to move through the room turning flips and making jokes along the way, Wren and I escaped to the courtyard.
“Thank the gods,” she said quietly when we’d made it to the pond where the air was fresher and cooler, the darkness soothing, the noise diminished. Torches had been set around the boardwalk, their reflections on the water like new stars.
“Why do they wear so much scent?” I sniffed at my sleeve, which smelled like musk and overripe flowers.
“They rarely bathe.”
“Why? They’re rich. They have all the hot water they could want and plenty of clothing.”
“They think it’s dangerous to be clean. Opens the pores to vapors and sickness.”
I paused, considered my soaking time. “That’s not right, is it?”
She gave me a look.
“Just checking.” But I glanced down at my arm to reassure myself nothing had sprouted there.
We crossed the arched wooden bridge, found the pavilion empty, and took seats along the bench. I sat sideways, propping my elbows on the rail and my chin on my hands so I could watch the goings-on. The palace gleamed like jade lit from the inside, the wealthy in their costumes dotted through the courtyard like complementary jewels.
“It’s strange to be here like this,” Wren said.
“Completely bizarre. We should probably be grabbing paintings or stealing gold bullion.”
“Bullion is heavier than you think.” She gave me a wicked look. “But you were very near to the crown jewels.”
“I’m going to assume you mean the treasury and not the prince.”
She snorted.
There were footsteps on the arched wooden bridge that led from the pavilion to this part of the grounds. It was the prince, apparently done for the moment with his crush of dance partners. And with him was Savaadh, the Zephyrii from the Vhranian caravanserai. (And Galen, of course. Always Galen.)
Savaadh was dressed more formally than he’d been the last time I’d seen him. He wore a pale tunic, leggings, and boots beneath a fluid overrobe of brilliant orange and crimson, the fabric sweeping behind him as he walked. His hair was pulled back at the temples, enhancing the lines of his face. He was beautiful in a different way than the prince, but no less attractive.
They stepped onto the pavilion. I rose. Wren, who’d been leaning against one of the pavilion’s support beams, stood up straight.
“Ensi,” I said.
“Savaadh, please.” He gave Wren and me each a very gallant bow. “You both look stunning.”
“Thank the prince. He gave us the dresses.”
Savaadh looked at the prince, brows lifted. “Did he?”
“Why are you here?” I asked. “I thought you were traveling north?”
“We decided to wait,” he said. “The cold has not yet diminished north of the caravanserai, which would stress the animals.” His eyes twinkled. “I understand your return trip was…interesting.”
“Enlightening,” I agreed. “You played along with the ruse about the prince’s identity.”
“Not a ruse so much as a cloak. Much in the same way a thief might find her way into the palace.”
“Not to steal,” I pointed out.
“I do not judge you, Little Fox. The world is dangerous. We must protect ourselves in the ways that we can.”
