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Is Camilla on a hunt today? She’d be in the oak forests northeast of the Sun Capital, not near the tower. I unlatch the lock and swing open the window. The falcon hops in, chirping. A note is tied to its leg.
I remember now: Cyrus hand-raised a bird like this. Hetook it on his tour, and I haven’t seen it since. Its feathers used to be scraggly and dark.
I untie the paper. The falcon cocks its head to and fro until I give it a nibble of jerky and a short scratch under its beak, then it flies away.
The note only has two neatly penned lines:
I don’t think I thanked you for yesterday, but I should have.
Thank you.
I snort, smiling. Leave it to Cyrus to be so completely aloof and to the point.
He went through the trouble of sending this, though, I guess. I crumple the note out of reflex but hesitate before flinging it into the fire grate.
Smoothing it out again, I fold it and slide it into the pages ofTraditions & Magics of the Woodas a marker. A piece of sentiment, tucked away.
I have a prophecy to tell him today.
Navigating the maze of the palace courtyards and hallways takes delicate footwork if you’re trying to get around quickly. One too-hasty step around the corner, and you’ll be dragged into an undertow of scuttling servants or peering gossips.
I slip through conversation circles doing my usual round of half-hearted greetings, eavesdropping on talk of the Fairywood rot. News of it quietly spread over the last fewweeks, downplayed as a nuisance that local patrols have already curbed.
But this latest round of whispers speaks of the Tenth Dominion instead of the Eleventh, where rot was first reported. Lord Fidare hasn’t raised excessive alarm, as this new patch was easily burnt away, but clearly some advisors feel differently; they’re concerned over the rot having jumped to a new location without warning or reason. I don’t hear anyone speak of spontaneously spawning roses yet; the lack of a clear link to the prophecy might be all that’s keeping these worries muted at the moment.
Outside of chatter, all else seems normal at lunch bell: no blood, no roses, no godly voices. Staring at the spread in the dining hall, I don’t have an appetite, but I never deny a chance at food, so I tear off the soft parts from a loaf of bread and eat them with jam.
Cyrus usually has meetings with the Council around this time. I wander the halls looking for him as my thoughts bounce betweenMaybe Sighted Mistress Felicita went mad from hearing gods, too,andIf I had a better idea than listening to voices in my head, I’d be doing it.
I peek into the grand ballroom, where the final preparations for the Masked Menagerie are underway. Wine barrels are stacked tall next to sculpture centerpieces. Ladders scale the walls and sparkling decorations drape from the ceiling. The palace probably employed half the artisans in the city, making this ball. The treasury is bursting at the moment; the Thirteenth’s Dragonsguard raided a string of wealthy lairs during spring and the haul’s caravan finally made it into the capital early this month.
Out of place and getting in the way of servants is a cluster of girls wandering the room. I recognize some from the group that chased down Cyrus. Their leader—I assume by how she walks ahead of the rest like a tour guide—is the Lord of the Thirteenth’s quick-scheming daughter, Lady Mirabel.
“Remember this space.Inhalethe space,” she declares. “In a matter of days, this is to be your battleground, where you’ll make your last stand to win the prince’s heart, and all your hard work pays off. You’ll need the whole package to survive: brains, beauty, and backstabbing.” She must have spent all week coming up with that. “Keep insurance. Blackmail in your clutch. The wrong whisper around the room, and that’s it—to the gutters you go!”
I try to keep a low profile as I cross the room, but one of the girls in the back starts waving frantically at me. “Seer!”
I cringe, recalling her bubbly face from a past reading. “Hello…Sicene, is it?” Reluctantly—it’d be more awkward if I don’t—I move away from my hiding place by the coatracks.
“Yes! Have you any new foreshadowings about the ball?”
Mirabel scowls as attention turns away from her. “The Seer wouldn’t know a frog from a prince if one kissed her! The unprofessional services I suffered—she’ll tell you nasty things just because she’s jealous!”
“Jealous of what?” I say coolly. “I’d take the frog over Cyrus. Unless the frog was you.”
“Aha! A-ha!” She points vigorously at me, as if I’ve drawn a bull’s-eye on myself. “She’s proved it just now!”
“Mira.” One of her frowning friends pulls her back before she throws herself at me.
“This courttoleratesyou, Seer. And that’s generous!”
“I don’t care,” I say. “I would never exist just to be enjoyed.” That’s what porcelain plates are for, and sunrises and honey cakes and baby animals with heads too big for them to lift.
The girls sputter into gasps and giggles, and I’m puzzling out if what I said was really that funny when I hear footsteps behind me.
Followed by the silvery voice of the very person I was searching for: “What’s going on?”
Wonderful—Cyrus caught me being petty for sport. He’ll hold this over me for, oh, a decade.
