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I hurried toward it, the sounds of the crowd growing louder, then halted as a row of white clothing on the wall caught my eye. If I didn’t look like a journalist, maybe I could at least pass for a server. I darted over, tying on an apron and tucking my wet hair under a cap. Lastly, I turned to the wine rack and grabbed one of the oldest bottles. Not only would it complete my look, but since I left my money with Cael, I liked the idea of carrying something valuable.
“Okay,” I whispered to myself to calm my nerves before taking the steps. “I can do this.” This was a significant deviation from my plan and uncertainty dominated my mind.
I emerged from the stairs to see a grand—and crowded—room.
Marble pillars extended to the high ceiling. Thick, patterned rugs cushioned the well-shined shoes of the room’s many inhabitants. Dark wood bookshelves lined the walls, and chairs dotted the perimeter of the room, all occupied by overeager men and women. I didn’t think there were this many journalists in Cambria. For the moment, I didn’t have to worry about anyone looking at me. Their attention was riveted on the main entrance.
A tall man with hollow cheekbones and lifeless eyes stood there: Sir Cardiff Pearce. He wore a black tailcoat, the lapels embroidered with shimmering green laurel leaves. He was the First Immortal, the most powerful person in Cambria besides the king.
The room of journalists bowed to him and I forced my back to bend to maintain appearances, as much as my body rebelled against it.
Pearce stood with his nose in the air and swept his haughty gaze over the room as if its fine carpets and carved mahogany weren’t good enough for him. Then he stepped through the crowd, climbed a raised stage, and took a seat in a tall-backed spindle chair.
I turned back to the main doors, watching for the reason I’d come.
I knew him as soon as he stepped through the entryway.
His neatly parted black hair matched his crisp ironed suit. The knot of his white silk tie was perfectly symmetrical, and his back seemed incapable of anything but its current rigid posture. He should’ve looked flawless, or at least respectable, but his furrowed eyebrows accented hesitant blue eyes that lent him a lonely expression. With those eyes, even the best tailors in the city couldn’t make him look powerful.
His name was Graham Brennin, heir of the Second House and first in line to rule the entire nation.
The crowd bowed again, but this time more heads remained up, out of lack of respect or curiosity, I wasn’t sure.
Beside the heir was a young dark-skinned man with a proud expression. A footman stepped up and took his coat, then the heir’s, before they went toward the stage. The heir joined the First Immortal on the platform while the other man stayed in the front row facing the stage expectantly.
The crowd watched with rapt attention, eyes gleaming with ambition and quills grasped tight.
“Good evening,” said Pearce, his voice dry. His eyes were sunken like tide pools in his wrinkled face. He’d held the most coveted position in the Academy since Imperator Brennin had appointed him twenty years ago. The other twenty-five Immortals were elected by the nobility, but this man was the sole member hand-selected by the reigning king or queen. As for the others, only death could remove them from their positions. It always struck me as funny that they were only called Immortals until they were dead.
Only now did I notice the royal guards lining the room. The one nearest to me turned his scowling face my way as if he’d felt my stare. I tugged my cap down lower and moved deeper into the crowd.
“Let us commence,” said Pearce from the stage. “By a raise of hands, please indicate your desire to propose a question to Sir Brennin.”
Almost every hand in the room shot up. Mine almost did until I remembered that I looked like a server, not a journalist. I’d have to find someone else willing to ask my question.
Pearce scanned the crowd. “Since it would veritably exhaust our dear heir were we to permit every question, I will select ten hands from the audience.”
The crowd buzzed.
“Only ten?” A man near me complained. “That’s nothing!”
“One.” Pearce pointed to someone in the crowd. “Two, three, four . . .” He continued selecting journalists slowly until he’d counted to ten. I stood tall, watching carefully to try to keep track of who he selected, but I was only sure of the fourth and the eighth.
“Question number one, please,” said Pearce.
I inched my way toward number four as the first journalist began to speak. Eager quills scribbled across their scrolls.
“In consideration of your youth and lack of experience, how do you expect to have the maturity and intellect to rule with the moral and intellectual fortitude your parents possess?” the journalist asked.
Graham Brennin’s face paled at the leading question that seemed aimed to tear him down more than anything. “Indeed, at eighteen, I . . . I have not yet had the opportunity to acquire all the knowledge I desire, but I assure you that my parents have schooled me from birth and employed the best scholars in my education.” He paused. “It is also my deepest hope that my father may yet recover and allow me ample time to prepare.”
His voice wasn’t what I’d expected for the son of a tyrant. Something in the sound made me pity him until I remembered who he’d become. With parents like his schooling him from birth, as he put it, he didn’t stand a chance of becoming a decent king, let alone a decent person.
“Thank you for the insightful question,” said Pearce. “Second question, please.”
A woman spoke up. “Do you intend to respect familial alliances and ensure a smooth transition by retaining Sir Pearce as First Immortal?”
I frowned. This question was even more biased than the last. I was beginning to suspect Pearce’s selections had been anything but random. I pushed through the crowd until I stood behind journalist number four. Reaching down, I pulled the paper from my boot.
