“You have... a busy mind, Galiva,” the Queen says, though the way she says it doesn’t seem disparaging. Not like how my own mother used to sound. She studies my face, her eyes sharply focused as she sorts through the information I’ve given her.
“And what would you call this... endeavor?” sheasks at last.
I’d wanted the name to convey so many things. A melding, a coming together. A heat and a passion. I’d been on the fence about it, even in the carriage this morning, but saying it now solidifies how right it feels.
“I’ve named it the Crucible, Your Majesty.”
The Queen hums thoughtfully before she finally pulls her hand from mine. Her sharp derision is absent as she looks at me now, replaced by a softer kind of interest. “I will admit that I am... curious to see how this will be received by the city.”
“Frankly, Your Majesty, I am too,” I admit, giving a slight smile. “But I think it’s an idea that’s worth attempting.”
The Queen reaches towards me, and I force myself to hold still as she gently takes the dark focus among my spells between her fingers. “Then it’s a good thing that denying you the chance to attempt it would not allow my curiosity to be satisfied. You have my approval to proceed.”
The focus falls back against my neck. Tramella’s smile is thin, but there's a gleam of interest in her eyes. “I hope to be surprised by your success.”
Synchronicity
There is still so much about magic that we have yet to discover. If you discount something as impossible, that simply means you have found the limits of our current understanding of magic.
Fundamentals of Magic by Eroland Lockhart
WITH MUCH PROTESTATIONfrom the Immen King, the peace talks begin. Apparently his heir still hasn’t arrived, and Luther Barclay is set on making that everyone else’s problem. In the week since their commencement, the talks have been a mess.
I haven’t made an appearance yet, but I’ve gathered more than enough of the proceedings by listening in the alcoves. So many places in the palace are designed to carry sound, and I use them to my advantage. From what I hear, frustrations are already mounting.
But I can’t avoid making an appearance any longer. My self-imposed isolation ends tonight. To close out the first week of the talks, the Shykhdar is hosting a ball to help ease tensions. I doubt they’ll succeed there, but it will be the perfect event to enact the first part of mine and Samira’s plan.
I’m going to prove that I’m the pariah the Shykhdar has already rumored me to be. And I dress the part.
The sunflower silk gown that Varice made is perfect for this. Formal enough for the occasion, but with its corset top and lack of sleeves, it’s overly revealing by Cairish standards. On top of all that, the Shykhdar will see nothing but a man wearing it.
I adorn it with some accessories Samira stole away from my old room, things that only my countrymen usually wear. Gold rings circle my fingers, and a web of thin gold chains hangs around my neck and shoulders. They’re befitting of my station as a Shykh’s heir, put on display against the bare skin of my collarbone. The outfit comes together in a perfect meld of masculine and feminine without belonging solely to either. It makes me feel powerful, but I hope that confidence holds fast when I step into view of the Shykhdar.
Yet as I leave for the main chamber of our wing, I’m met by Alix’s low, appreciative whistle. He’s smiling from ear to ear as he looks me over. “Gods, Olbric. That’s a hell of a statement.”
I chuckle, face heating. “Wanted to go with something simple and understated.”
“What a failure,” Alix snorts. “You look incredible.”
The King, his advisers, and Arlon are all huddled awkwardly in a corner near the King’s grand accommodations. They were having their little talks at the banquet table in the center of the room until I pointed out how easily their conversations carried into the courtyard outside. That corner is the one place that doesn’t echo, but with them all crammed into it, they look like hens hiding from a hawk. Yet over the King’s shoulder, Arlon catches sight of me, and a small, soft smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“I have a feeling the only people who would agree with you are in this room,” I mutter, though I can’t help but admire Alix’s own finery. He’s wearing a clean-cut obsidian tunic that’s bordered with silver rope, his spells draped proudly around his neck. The dark fabric against his bronzed skin is rather dashing.
“I doubt that. Your sisters will approve, I bet,” Alix says, giving me a knowing look. Even as quiet as I am, I’m sure I’ve woken him up a couple of times sneaking in and out to visit Samira.
“If they can be bothered to come,” I say. “These events are far less exciting when you have to go to one every Goddamn week.”
Remembering the endless lavish events I was forced to attend as a teenager makes me shudder. With the power of the majority of the continent in their halls, I’m sure the Shykhdar is doing everything they can to impress. The peace talks with Immenbach are the main reason for gathering here, but I have no doubt that the Shykhdar is using every trick to try and woo Straetham into allowing magic to be brought to Cairish.
The King’s conversation abruptly ends when he waves Arlon and his attendants away. Thermilious looks frustrated, and I can’t blame him, honestly. From what I’ve overheard, the Immen King is treating him like a punching bag with his demands. There are murmurs of him being a weak king for not executing Demica after her betrayal.
The cutthroat sensibilities honed in me by the Shykhdar even agree with that assessment, though I’m relieved it didn’t happen. As complicated as their relationship is, that would have destroyed Galiva.
Arlon breaks away from the King and his attendants, and Alix clears his throat as he gets to his feet.
“I’ll meet up with you in a bit,” he says, dipping away just as Arlon approaches.
Traitor.
