I: The Man Beneath the Throne

The roar pounded in Kestrel’s bones, growing louder with every step he took. It rumbled like thunder, or perhaps a distant, enormous creature—one he’d be wise to stay away from. Yet he was heading straight toward it.

After all, he didn’t have a choice. He’d had no choice from the moment he had received the fateful message over a month ago.

In the mountains, everything was solid, the ground hard and rocky beneath his feet, the air crisp and clear. Not like here, the royal palace. As the two escorting guards led him through courtyards and corridors, images and sensations flickered like snatches of a dream. Scarlet-plumed birds flitting between blossoming trees. A shell-paved path. The scent of citrus and fresh water. They felt strange, cloaked in an unreal haze.

No, not a haze, but the air. Heavy and damp and hot, like it was suffering a fever.

Air wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn’t supposed to be here.

None of this was supposed to be happening.

“Do keep up, my lord.” The deep, croaking voice startled Kestrel. He realized he’d fallen behind the woman who’d been walking with him. Short and squat, like a frog, and clad in the Shanneray colors of gray and bronze, she had introduced herself as Lady Alice Dulmer, retainer to the Mountainlands representative on the Circle of Magi. His retainer.

Kestrel swallowed and hurried to catch up. “Apologies, my lady.”

“Indeed, we haven’t got all day,” Lady Dulmer said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You wouldn’t want to be late for the audience, would you?”

This audience. Right. His first audience with the Queen of Senero. Just the thought made nausea grip his throat.

But he clenched his teeth and marched on ahead. He could already tell Lady Dulmer didn’t think much of him; there was no reason to lower her opinion any further.

By the time the guards stopped before two grand doors, the roar pounded inside Kestrel’s skull and crushed his lungs. It was like his dread given form. I can’t do this—

Too late. The guards turned toward him and nodded. One wore a high-collared jacket, his hair short and neat; the other was dressed in floor-length robes and had his hair gathered in an elaborate coif.

No doubt about it, they were a bonded pair. An energos and ministra. The way they moved, like one being instead of two, sent shivers down Kestrel's spine.

As he passed them, he took a deep breath through his nose, trying to detect something—anything. A hint of scent. The musk of an energos. The sweetness of a ministra.

Nothing. Just the rose perfume of the hall, and the faint smell of water that clung to every surface of the palace. A familiar disappointment reared inside him like an old, sick snake.

His boots clicked on the floor, honey marble veined with darker orange. The doors were mahogany inlaid with mother-of-pearl. He tried to make out the designs engraved on them, but couldn't before they swung open with a faint breeze that stirred his hair. The first wind he’d felt since arriving here.

The guards hefted their ceremonial swords and cried, "Announcing Lord Kestrel Knight, representative of Lady Lerette Shanneray, Heir to the Mountainlands and rightful holder of the Shanneray seat on the Circle of Magi."

The ferocious roar nearly swallowed their voices. At last, Kestrel had arrived at its source. His gaze swept across the long scarlet carpet, over the dais with its jewel-encrusted throne, and past the row of open columns at the back of the room.

Water spread across the entire horizon, rolling forward until it poured over a drop so sheer it was like the world had been cut off at the edge. Along its length ran a narrow bridge that seemed only moments from tumbling into the mist billowing beyond.

Like every Seneran, Kestrel knew the royal palace perched atop a rocky island above the Senriver Falls. But nothing had prepared him for seeing it in real life. He felt like a boat adrift in the ocean. So monumentally small.

“Enter and make your bows.” When Lady Dulmer spoke, sense snapped back into his body. He took two steps inside before dropping to his knees. The floor’s chill seeped through his trousers. He lowered himself from the waist, pressing his hands to the marble, his forehead at his knuckles. One breath. Another.

And another. Kestrel’s heart pounded. This didn’t make sense; according to proper etiquette, the Queen should have ordered him to rise by now.

Five seconds went by, then ten. Sweat poured down the back of his neck, sticking his high collar to his skin. He began to regret wearing his dress uniform, made of heavy wool for harsh mountain winters, but it was the best he had.

Unable to take it any longer, Kestrel darted a glance up through his eyelashes. His heart jolted.

Because it wasn’t the Queen looming above him. Instead, a young man lounged upon the throne, tall and handsome, with a head of inky curls. The sash draped over his energos jacket was embroidered with the twined dragons and staff of the royal house, their eyes made of tiny rubies that gleamed just as bright as the gems upon the throne.

Beneath him knelt a man on a scarlet cushion, clad in court ministra robes of white, scarlet, and silver silk. As the energos stroked the ministra’s cheek, the ministra leaned into the touch with eyes closed, content as a pet cat.

A thousand questions raced through Kestrel’s head. Who were these people? Why weren’t they acknowledging him? Surely they had heard his entrance.

The energos slid his hand lower, tracing the ministra’s chin with gloved fingers almost the exact shade as his stark white skin. The fingers danced upward. Toward lips as crimson as blood on snow.

Don’t look, Kestrel screamed at himself, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away as the ministra’s bottom lip indented beneath his energos’ touch. Then the tip of a pink tongue darted out and flicked the energos’ finger.

Before he could stop himself, Kestrel’s breathing hitched. Heart twisting, he dropped his gaze back to the floor. But even beneath the waterfall’s relentless roar, he heard cloth rustling, bodies shifting.

A voice spoke, deep and smooth and lazily dismissive. “Ah, so you’re here. Rise.”

Kestrel felt sick, but wasn’t about to disobey an order from a royal. Fighting stiff muscles, he climbed up to his knees.

Like this, nothing shielded him from the energos’ gaze. His eyes were an intense dark blue, like the ocean, and belying his disinterested manner, they gleamed with a curiosity that made Kestrel want to squirm.

“Welcome to Azed Court, Lord Kestrel Knight,” the energos said. "I am Carnelio Azed, Heir to the Auric Throne and Crown Prince of Senero.”

The prince. Why him, and not the queen?

If only Lady Dulmer had come too; she might have been able to explain. The instant the thought crossed his mind, Kestrel recoiled. He wasn’t the ignorant child she thought he was—and all his life, he had only depended on himself. That would not change here.

The prince crossed one leg over another. Waiting. Embarrassed, Kestrel forced air into his lungs and stammered, “I’m honored to meet you, Your Highness.”

His voice came out thin and hoarse, almost swallowed beneath the waterfall. But miraculously, the prince heard. “The honor is mine.”

He sat up straighter, though one hand remained on his ministra’s head, carding through the locks of white hair. It discomfited Kestrel, but he strove to ignore the ministra. After all, unbound energi weren’t supposed to address bonded ministra.

“Now, I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time, Lord Knight,” the prince went on. “I’ve got a lot of questions to ask, you see.”

Perhaps Kestrel's nerves had finally snapped, or perhaps the prince's informal tone had unsettled him, because he blurted, "I'm sorry, Your Highness, but I don't know why my mother did what she did, I didn't know her that well..."

His voice faded, and heart thumping, he bowed lower. But to his surprise, the prince laughed.

"You don't mince words, do you? Delightful. No, of course I don't expect you to know, not when you spent all your life up in the mountains. Speaking of your mother, I offer my deepest condolences. She was a fine courtier."

"Thank you, Your Highness," Kestrel said hurriedly, glad the prince wasn't offended. But his words still left Kestrel cold. Kestrel could could on both hands the number of times he'd seen his mother; she had spent most of her time serving on the Circle of Magi at court. Surely the Crown Prince must have a better idea of who she was than Kestrel, so why had he offered such generic words, dry and brittle as autumn leaves?

"I am grateful you were able to arrive on such short notice," the prince said. "The Eternal Circle is strongest when it is complete, and when the Circle is strong, all of Senero is strong as well."

Complete? But he wasn't a true Shanneray; he couldn't complete it. Not even a true magus. His legs twitched with the sudden, desperate urge to run all the way back to the Mountainlands...

Shame on him. How could he abandon his duty?

Then a laugh, soft and sharp, filtered through the air. Not the prince’s. The voice was too light. The ministra beneath the throne had tilted his head toward the prince.

“What is it?” the prince asked.

"Nothing, Your Highness, but if I might be so bold as to suggest you give Lord Knight permission to stand? I know you like to see your subjects grovel, but that floor cannot be comfortable."