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“I can make it better now,” Conor said stubbornly. “Switch with me.”
Kel expelled a breath. “Fine.Fine.”
Conor yanked off his cloak. His jacket. Kel could not remember the last time he had seen Conor dressed so plainly. He wore more elaborate clothes to practice fencing in the Hayloft. Kel drew off his overrobe and rings, lifted the crown from his head. It was a relief, not wearing it.
He handed them over to Conor, who flung them on hastily. “Trousers—” Conor began, doing up the clasps on the robe.
“I’m not taking my trousers off,” Kel said firmly as he took off his amulet and slipped it into the pocket of the jacket he was now wearing. “No one looks at trousers, anyway.”
“Of course they do.” Conor slid on the last of the rings. The circlet glittered in his dark hair: It was amazing, Kel thought, what a difference a thin gold band made. It transformed Conor, not into what he wasn’t, but back into what he was. “Otherwise, how do you know what’s in fashion?” He looked down at Kel’s feet. “Boots—”
But there was no chance to swap either trousers or footwear. From the other side of the tapestry, a sound cut through the music. A scream, high and terrible, and then another. The music stuttered, faltering.
Kel raced to the arras, twitched back the corner.
“What—?” Conor said, at his elbow, and they both stared: The doors of the Shining Gallery had been flung open wide, and dark figures were pouring through. Behind them, Kel glimpsed the night outside, the brilliance of stars, the lights of the Hill, and for a moment, he wondered if this was some sort of play, a part of the evening’s entertainment.
Then he saw the flash of torchlight on steel, and saw a Castelguard crumple, a blade in his belly. One of the dark figures stood over him, a bloody sword in hand. Another sword flashed, and another, like stars coming out at nightfall, and Kel realized: This was no entertainment. Marivent was under attack.
Maharam,
You have asked me where your responsibility lies in the matter of the return of the Goddess. You ask if you will look into her eyes and see the flame of her soul. You yearn for wisdom and the gift of certitude, as do we all.
Be at rest, Maharam. This is not your burden. The Exilarch is not merely a title passed down through the sons of Makabi, it is a soul that is passed down, and the soul of the Exilarch will recognize the soul of the Goddess when she returns. In this matter there need be no question.
Your burden will be of a different sort. For when the Goddess returns, you must gather our people to rise up with their swords, for it will mean a great threat has come, not just to the Ashkar, but to all of the world.
—Letter from Dael Benjudah to Maharam Izak Kishon
As Lin stepped out into the garlanded streets of the Sault, the air was heavy with the fragrance of roses and lilies. She paused a moment on the front step of the Etse Kebeth, nervously adjusting the lace at her cuffs and collar, smoothing down the lines of her blue dress. She touched the silk sachet at her throat, hoping it would distract from the pulse she was sure was beating visibly in her throat.
She had never been so nervous.
The door of the Women’s House opened behind her, releasing a flood of laughing young women. Arelle Dorin smiled at her as the group went by, headed to the festival. Their excitement was warm and palpable; on another night, Lin would have found it infectious. Now she only clenched her right hand into a fist. Silently, she said to herself:You can always change your mind, Lin. Up until the last moment, you can change your mind.
The door opened again, and this time Mariam joined Lin on the steps. Her dress was a magnificent creation of pale-blue Shenzan silk, the cuffs turned back to show saffron-yellowsetinolining, striped with black. Her hair, like Lin’s, had been twisted into a thick braid dotted with flowers. Against the richness of her dress, herfragility stood out starkly: Rouge circles spotted the pale tops of her jutting cheekbones, and the stiff collar rose high around her thin neck. But the smile she gave Lin was as strong as ever.
“Our last Festival,” she said, linking her hand with Lin’s. “After this we will be officially old maids, I think.”
“Good,” Lin said. “Once one is an old maid, one can stop making an effort to be charming.”
“I am astonished.” It was Chana Dorin, joining them on the stairs. She wore her usual uniform: a gray tunic and trousers, and thick boots one could garden in. Her only concession to the importance of the evening was a silvery shawl Josit had brought back for her from the Gold Roads. “I had no idea you were making an effort to be charming, Lin.”
“Outrageous,” Lin said. “I am outraged.”
Mariam giggled, and they set off together for the Kathot, Lin detailing as they went the many ways she planned to cease making an effort to be “maidenly” once this night was through. She would dress in only torn clothes, she told her companions, and wear only muddy boots. She would buy a pet rat at the market and walk it on a silk lead. She might get some chickens as well, and she would name them all individually, and tell anyone who inquired that she sometimes sat on the eggs to see if they would hatch.
“I am impressed,” Chana said. “Thisisworse than your current behavior. Though not by much,” she added.
“You should talk,” Mariam said. “Your boots are always muddy, Chana.”
Lin smiled at the good-natured squabbling, but only half her attention was on it. As they neared the center of the Sault, Marivent seemed to loom above them, hovering against the darkness of the sky, white as a second moon.
Tonight, Lin knew, was the welcoming banquet for the child Princess from Sarthe; it was why Mayesh would not be attending the Festival. In past years, this would have angered Lin—that her grandfather could not even be bothered to turn up for the mostimportant religious event of the year in the Sault because his loyalty was to Marivent and not his people.
Now she was only glad he would not be there. She was not sure she could go through with her plan if he was watching.
They had reached the illuminated Kathot, brilliant as a live ember among banked coals. Lamps of hammered silver swayed among the branches of the trees, and candles burned in cups of colored wax paper all up and down the long tables with their coverings of white cloth.
