Kestrel stared down and met Aramy’s scarlet eyes. His heartbeat thudded. “L-Lord Basquiale?”

Aramy tilted his head, smiling. “Just checking in. I’m aware that these events can get quite dull indeed. Wouldn’t want you dying of boredom on us.”

Once again he was being oddly informal, as if the two of them were having a private conversation. Such a change from his previous submissive behavior toward the prince—and Kestrel found he didn’t mind.

“It’s all right,” he said. Without realizing it, he found himself studying Aramy’s eyes, or rather how they were painted: a streak of silver on the upper lid, a softer dusting of red below, black kohl accentuating their elegant slant. This close, Kestrel saw that Aramy's irises were darker around the edges, almost the color of pomegranates.

"Your eyes," Kestrel blurted. "I've never seen—”

"Ah?" Aramy said. "The color, you mean? I have a dash of Ahui blood, from one...great-great-great grandmother? Perhaps add another great."

Kestrel had thought Aramy's beauty didn't seem quite human. The Ahui were one of the myriad magical races in the world, though they preferred to stay isolated on their southern continent rather than interact with humans. Kestrel had only seen them in drawings. Pale and willowy and red-eyed, they did resemble Aramy, though he was glad Aramy hadn't inherited his ancestor's six-fingered hands and noseless face.

"Oh, I like them," Kestrel said. "It makes you memorable."

"Is that so?" Aramy leaned closer to Kestrel’s chair. "I think you're quite memorable yourself. You've created quite a stir—a boy with Flamelander coloring wearing the Shanneray sash? We don't see that every day."

Kestrel squirmed. As if he needed more reminders that he didn't belong.

"Then again, this court is filled with small-minded imbeciles desperate for every shred of excitement they can get," Aramy said with a scoffing little laugh. "As I told His Highness earlier, there are many kinds of people in this world. Your birth, your aura, mean nothing. What matters is what you do."

The soft conviction in his voice startled Kestrel. He’d never heard anything like it from anyone before, let alone the Mountainlander ministra he’d known. Bundled in their woolen robes and never making eye contact with unfamiliar energi, they had a reputation for prudishness, but Kestrel felt Aramy’s behavior was odd even for a court ministra. And he liked it.

Suddenly Ilya was leaning forward, glaring at Aramy through the chair legs. “Lord Basquiale, shouldn’t you be attending your energos?”

“Alas, my energos appears well and truly engrossed in whatever Lord Pavos is telling him,” Aramy said, not even looking in Carnelio’s direction. “Now why don’t you heed your own advice?”

"I don't know what you're planning—"

"I'm not planning anything except which dishes to sample when the main course arrives," Aramy said with a sniff. “Meanwhile, Lord Thandemar seems quite lonesome without you warming his leg.”

Ilya made a noise halfway between a growl and hiss, and with a rustle of silk made to rise from the cushion—only for Dracen to catch him by the wrist. Dracen's face was stony, practically emotionless, but Kestrel saw how Ilya strained in his grip and realized just how much force he must be using.

"Tonight is an occasion to welcome our new arrival to the palace," Dracen said, his voice as blank as his expression. "It would behoove you not to spoil it with pointless conflicts."

Ilya bit his lip, dark eyes flashing. But he obeyed, sinking slowly, mutinously, back to his knees.

"As for you, Lord Knight—" The breath vanished from Kestrel's throat when Dracen faced him “—I'd advise you learn who your real allies are. Soon."

With that, he turned back to Ilya and began a whispered conversation that Kestrel couldn't hear, nor did he much want to. His insides had gone cold.

Until Aramy addressed him. "They're paranoid, you see, because they spend so much time locked in those stuffy Circle meetings. When you live like that, you can't help but find enemies and alliances everywhere. It would be a shame if you got infected with the same disease."

Can I trust you? Are you an enemy? Kestrel couldn't say it, though.

What he did say was, "Basquiale. I've never heard of that house."

Not wanting to see Aramy's reaction, Kestrel didn't dare look at the ministra, but it didn’t matter; he remained achingly aware of Aramy’s presence beneath him, the sweet smell of his moonflower perfume. And he heard Aramy's sharp intake of breath.

But when Aramy spoke, his voice was smooth as ever. "I'm not surprised. We are minor vassals to Aluana House."

"Then why..." Kestrel bit down the rest of the question before it could crawl out.

There was a clicking sound, like Aramy tapping his nails together. "I suspect you’ll come to see soon enough. Now, why don’t you try some of the wine? It’s the finest Forestlands vintage.”

An obvious deflection. Then again, what had Kestrel expected? Everyone, all the way up to the Crown Prince, seemed to be spinning their own plans he wasn't privy to. And he shouldn't be. He had no business getting into court politics in the first place, especially at this court that had killed his mother.

But he had no choice.

With trembling hands, he took a great gulp from the wineglass.

Well, Aramy hadn’t lied about the wine.

In the mountains wine was reserved for special occasions, but Kestrel had never thought much of the weak, sour stuff. Now he understood. True Forestlander wine, the kind poets wrote odes to, slid down his throat like liquid gold.

By the time the food arrived, a pleasant buzz filled his head. It took all his effort not to gasp as the servants placed the dishes down. At Shanneray Castle, feasts mostly consisted of roast meats and root vegetables. Here there were whole peacocks with their tails fanned behind them, fish decorated with paper-thin lemon slices and glistening sea salt, tiny packets of rice wrapped in grape leaves, platters of artfully sliced fresh fruit and cheese, even grilled octopuses with tentacles overflowing from their plates.

Kestrel dug in with gusto, but he couldn’t help noticing Aramy beside him—how the ministra leaned up to nuzzle his energos’ hand each time Carnelio finished feeding him, how his throat jumped when he swallowed. When Aramy started licking sauce off Carnelio’s fingers, Kestrel forced himself to look away.

In the lull between the main course and sweet course, Carnelio called a toast for Kestrel, then—much to his embarrassment—had him stand and shake hands with all the Circle energi at the table. When he sat down, he only remembered one of his new colleagues. She was the only one who hadn't shaken his hand. Instead, she'd spread the skirts of her ministra robes, bowed, and said in an icy voice, "Teresa Urchkas, High Lady of the Heathlands.”

Dracen whispered into his ear, “Lady Teresa is the only surviving Urchkas from the massacre twelve years ago. That’s why she represents her house, even though she is a ministra. From the beginning, the Circle has been anchored by the same six names. It must stay eternal.”

How must it feel, Kestrel wondered, to know you were the last of your name? To hold a responsibility you hadn’t been born into and never trained for?

Suddenly he wished he’d exchanged a few more words with Lady Teresa.

"Have any questions?" Dracen kept whispering. Kestrel shook his head, even though he did. Like where the Queen and Consort were. Shouldn't they be overseeing the banquet instead of their son?

I'll find out tomorrow, Kestrel vowed as he drained his wineglass once more.

When the sweet course came, he joined the others in oohing and aahing as servants carried sugar sculptures to the high table. The largest was a dragon twined around the Azed House staff, taller than Carnelio himself. Kestrel had never seen so much sugar in his life.

He sampled the honey-soaked pastries, molded cream puddings, wine-poached fruits until his stomach felt ready to burst. At least one good thing had come out of court.

Throughout the night, flutes and mandolins had played a sweet melody above the waterfall’s steady roar. So when silence fell, it hit Kestrel like a blow. He sat upright, every nerve taut.

Carnelio stood up and spread his arms. The audience turned toward him like flowers to the sun.

"Good evening, magi of Azed Court. I trust you've had an excellent time?"

"Yes, Your Highness!" roared the lower tables, and Carnelio laughed.

"I'm happy to hear that. Of course, I didn't throw this banquet because I felt like it. While tonight is an occasion of joy, we must not forget the tragedy that struck within the White Wall but a month ago. I refer, of course, to the demise of Lady Mia Shanneray, former Heir to the Mountainlands and holder of the Shanneray seat on the Circle of Magi. Let us join in a moment of silence to her memory."

Heads bowed around the pavilion, but as he stared at his lap Kestrel couldn't help but think that these people were just putting on a show, that they had no real feeling for Mia.

Then again, neither did Kestrel.

The silence ended when Carnelio clapped. "But we must not lose ourselves to grief. Instead, we are here to welcome Lord Kestrel Knight to our glorious city, the crown jewel of Senero. With that in mind, why don't we show Lord Knight what our magi can do?"

The tables cheered.

"I'm glad we're in agreement!" Carnelio shouted. "Let the show begin!"