III: Aether

Turned out he needed every one of those three hours. Though Kestrel protested every step of the way, the servant forced him into a tub, dumped steaming water over his head, scrubbed his skin until it was raw and stinging, and even shaved his stubble and rubbed aromatic oils into his skin. Kestrel felt like a rock being polished.

At least the servant drew the line at dressing him. Kestrel polished his buttons, belt buckle, and boots himself, but as he settled his uniform cap atop his head, a squat woman poked her head into his room.

Kestrel started. It was the first time he’d seen Lady Dulmer all day. He wanted to ask what she’d been doing, but worried it might come across as rude. And before he could get in a word, she bustled her way inside, squinting at him in the same critical way as the drill masters on the training grounds.

“Don’t you have anything better?” she said, clicking her tongue, and Kestrel’s face burned. Of course his Mount Jaeg dress uniform was the best he owned; he’d never needed anything more.

“Oh well, it can’t be helped,” Lady Dulmer went on breezily, then held out something to him. “Here you go, put this on.”

It was a silk sash, pearly gray and embroidered in bronze thread with an eagle in full flight. The Shanneray House eagle.

“It’s traditional,” she said. “Since you’re the Shanneray representative.”

Kestrel swallowed a painful block in his throat. His grandmother had explicitly forbidden him to wear the eagle emblem—but as with everything else, the rules were different here. So he didn’t protest when the servant slipped in and draped the sash from his left shoulder down to his right hip, securing it beneath his belt. The silk was light as air, but the eagle pressed on his chest as if it was made of lead.

He and Lady Dulmer headed down paths of crushed stone, passing beneath strings of glass spheres aglow with fire and light aura. Their progress was slow, as Lady Dulmer often paused to exchange greetings with passing energi. Kestrel tried to remember their names, but all he could focus on were their fine costumes, adorned with glittering braid and extravagant epaulets. It made his embarrassment deepen; Lady Dulmer had been right.

His heart had squeezed into a tight knot by the time they approached the pavilion. Tucked onto the southern edge of the island, it stood on a platform that overlooked the falls. Above it loomed the main palace building. From here, Kestrel could see heavy curtains had been drawn across the open back of the throne room, blocking the view inside.

Already the long tables bustled with chattering magi, their glasses clinking and twinkling like stars. As Kestrel crossed the shell-paved floor, he was exquisitely conscious of the heads that turned toward him, the whispers that trailed in his wake.

Halfway to the dais where the high table stood, Lady Dulmer separated from Kestrel with a bow and hurried to another table. She didn’t even glance back his way.

Ignoring the sting in his heart, Kestrel walked alone to the high table. A servant directed him to the seat at the prince’s right, which made his nerves snap to high alert. It didn’t help when he looked down and saw the prince’s ministra kneeling on a cushion beside his energos.

The man smiled at Kestrel, his red eyes bright. “Lord Knight. You look well.”

"Uh..." Kestrel scrambled for words. "Um, thank you?"

Could he sound any stupider? The prince's ministra didn't seem offended, for he laughed and said, "Ah, where are my manners? I don't believe I've yet introduced myself. I am Lord Aramy Basquiale, bonded to His Highness Carnelio Azed. My deepest condolences for your loss."

"Thank you," Kestrel said again, but meanwhile he was trying to place the name Basquiale. He'd never heard it before, and it certainly wasn't one of the Six High Houses—which made no sense. Only blooded members of the Six were allowed to bond into the royal family.

“Aramy, here.” The prince’s harsh voice hit Kestrel like a slap, then he reached down and carelessly turned his ministra’s face toward him. As he held a slice of peach to Aramy’s lips, Aramy bowed his head to accept it. The delicate silver chains and rubies threaded through his hair jingled.

When his full red lips curved around the fruit, Kestrel realized he shouldn’t be watching. Heart pounding, he tore his eyes away.

But it was hard not to focus on the prince and his bonded. Carnelio lounged in his seat, legs wide apart, indolently confident. Aramy leaned toward him, accepting the gift with rapt, worshipful attention. The perfect picture of an energos and ministra—which discomfited Kestrel. He couldn’t square it with Aramy’s brazen behavior back in the throne room.

"So you're Lord Kestrel Knight, hmm?" said a deep voice to his left. Kestrel turned to face a broad-shouldered man wearing a midnight blue sash embroidered with a silver tiger.

Blue and silver. A tiger. The colors and sigil of Thandemar House, rulers of the Midlands and the masters of light magic. Glad for the distraction, Kestrel replied. "Yes, I am. And you, my lord?"

"Dracen Thandemar." The man didn't smile—he had a hard, severe face—but behind his spectacles his pale blue eyes held a friendly spark. "It's nice to meet you."

"You as well," Kestrel said hurriedly. Four Winds. If he wasn't mistaken, this Dracen Thandemar was the Midlander representative on the Circle of Magi.

An enemy? Had he killed Mia Shanneray?

"The boy looks like you punched him in the face, Dracen.” Kestrel boggled when the ministra on the cushion beside Dracen lifted his head. With purple-streaked hair and heavy dark makeup, he looked far more intimidating than pretty—despite being so tiny. Kneeling, his head barely cleared Dracen’s waist. “Have a little mercy on him.”

"I thought you were the unmerciful one, Ilya,” Dracen said, smiling softly.

"Uh...your bonded?" Kestrel addressed Dracen, since it was improper for unbound energi to approach bonded ministra. Dracen nodded.

"Name's Ilya," the small ministra said with a haughty tilt of his chin. "So you're the guest of honor? My deepest apologies. Hopefully you'll make it through the night alive."

A threat? Kestrel thought, his skin prickling, but one look at Dracen's indulgent smile made it clear the ministra had only been teasing him. Or they were both great actors.

Damn it, even if they were murderers it wasn't like they'd kill Kestrel here. He twisted his hands in his lap, pressing sweat-damp palms together. There was no point in fearing every interaction, jumping at imagined dangers.

First things first. He needed information. As it was, he knew next to nothing about the Circle of Magi. Only that it was composed of the heirs to the High Houses, and they decided on affairs that affected magi throughout Senero. This Dracen Thandemar and his bonded might be a good place to start. At least they seemed friendly.

"So, uh," Kestrel said, trying not to feel awkward, "my lords, could you two possibly introduce me to, uh, my future colleagues?"

Had he said it right? Perhaps not, judging by how Dracen and Ilya raised their eyebrows at the same time.

"Addressing me as well?" Ilya said. "I suppose I should be honored. Usually mountain energi never speak to ministra if they can help it, the prudes."

Shit. Kestrel had already messed up.

"Don't be rude, Ilya.” Dracen patted his ministra's head. "There's different kinds of people from every land. As for your question, Lord Knight, I believe His Highness intends to introduce you formally to the Circle members during the banquet."

"I see," Kestrel mumbled, staring at his empty wineglass.

"But that doesn't mean we can't give you a little primer first," Dracen said. Then he jerked his head toward the handsome golden-haired energos seated to Carnelio's left, who was gesturing expansively as he addressed the prince. The peacock blazon on his sash identified him as one of Pavos House.

"Look at him," Ilya said with great disgust. "From the way he's acting, you'd think Alexandir Pavos was Chair of the Circle already."

"He is second in precedence," Dracen said mildly. "Though, Lord Knight, I will inform you that means he essentially is the chair. Lord Urash Hazan, the actual chair, has been gravely ill for the past year, may the First oversee his swift recovery.”

"It's troublesome." Ilya picked up without missing a beat. "You could at least count on Hazan to be loyal to the royal house. His son bonded to Her Majesty, after all. But all Pavos cares about is filling their coffers and sticking their children and cousins into every bureaucratic position that exists."

"Ambition isn't a sin," Dracen said, still in that overly mild tone.

Already Kestrel's head was spinning. Could he possibly remember all of this? He only felt sicker as Dracen continued patting Ilya’s head and asked, “Is there anything you want right now?”

“There’s only fruit, right? No thanks.”

Dracen sighed, but not without affection. “It’s healthy, you know.”

Why did it hurt to watch them? Kestrel had already long accepted he’d never have this. But now, all by himself while bonded couples happily attended each other, he felt lonelier than he ever had since arriving at the palace.

Then a familiar smooth voice spoke. “So, Lord Knight, how are you holding up?”