The footman opened the door and Isabelle poured out in a cascade of lace, like the foam at the bottom of a waterfall. Her gown was trimmed with silver and vented to show layers of crimson beneath. Her wig was done up in an elaborate coiffure threaded through with strands of rubies and pearls. For her face, she had chosen the most diaphanous of all possible veils, barely more than a wisp of fabric, and, for the sake of the masquerade, a “mask” of paint in the form of a white Solar burst centered on the bridge of her nose, its rays spreading up to her hairline across her eyes, over her cheeks, and down to her chin. She must make the Aragothic court’s first, critical impression of her a good one. Tonight and forever hereafter, she represented not only herself, but all of l’Empire Céleste, and l’Empire did not trip over its own skirts.
Isabelle’s personal guard, Vincent’s men bedecked in l’Empire Céleste’s blue and gold, fell in behind her as she mounted the red-carpeted steps. She wished Jean-Claude were at her side. She clung to his assurance that she could manage her own affairs, despite all evidence to the contrary. If she couldn’t handle this social venue on her own, then she had no business being here no matter what Grand Leon’s, Margareta’s, or Kantelvar’s schemes required.
Her mind was still a whirlwind as she rearranged the facts surrounding her betrothal to fit the new context of Kantelvar’s breeding program. The emerging pattern was girded with corpses. Kantelvar had shoehorned Isabelle into this marriage by having her selected as an alternate to Lady Sonya de Zapetta—the less controversial choice—but in order to ensure that her wedding came to pass, Lady Sonya had to die. Kantelvar had blamed that on Thornscar but only after Isabelle’s ship had been attacked. Could Kantelvar have murdered Lady Sonya? Yet even that would not have been enough to secure this marriage.
Presumably Julio had been part of the conspiracy’s breeding plan, his history as distorted as hers. His birth had only come about because an artifex had helped arrange Margareta’s marriage to Carlemmo after his first wife died, and now Carlemmo himself was dying, a necessary prerequisite for Julio’s ascent and a civil war. Did Julio have any idea of the part selected for him? Did he approve of it?
If Kantelvar’s conspiracy was consolidating all the bloodlines, including those of the ghostbred saints, like Saint Céleste, they would have had to manipulate pairings going back hundreds of years at a minimum. How many other lives had they bent and twisted to this singular end? It was a great mural painted in blood, a great play choreographed to try to force the prophecy to come true. It turned Isabelle’s stomach, but she had not an iota of evidence to prove any of it, nothing except the book, and that could mean anything. If she tried to put it forward as evidence, Kantelvar could claim she’d stolen the book and modified it or even printed it herself.
No one outside the Temple knew what was in the Fragments, and she had no way of knowing who within the Temple was part of the conspiracy. She needed the blood ciphers. She would have to sneak back to Kantelvar’s sanctum and recover that chest of quondam clockworks. Jean-Claude would help her. He would have some idea of how to drag the conspiracy into the light of day.
With difficulty, she forced her attention to the matter at hand. She had a great deal of business to conduct this evening. First, she had to meet Carlemmo and plead with him to pick a successor. Surely if he cared about his grandchildren, he would not oblige his sons to fight each other. She also wanted to take Duque Diego’s measure. Kantelvar had pointed him out as an enemy, blamed him for Thornscar’s attack, but was it a true warning against a real enemy, or was he trying to cut her off from potential allies? It might possibly be both. But the most important meeting of the night, the one that held the most promise and terror, would be with Príncipe Julio.
The very thought of meeting a stranger and calling him betrothed filled her stomach with razor-edged butterflies. What would he be like? Why had he ignored her? Was he a dupe in Kantelvar’s scheme or a partner? Did he have any affection for the brother he seemed destined to fight? Too many questions. She levered herself forward with the knowledge that a single truth was less overwhelming than a thousand formless fears.
The two-story-tall, peaked double doors of the grand entrance had been thrown wide. Inside, every wall and pillar was lined with silvered glass, which made the vast space seem even larger and more crowded and distorted than the reality. The marble floors were done in a pleasing abstract design of white, black, and gold tile. Overhead, dozens of alchemical chandeliers blazed, their harsh light cutting night’s shadow into tiny slivers that scuttled about under the cover of ladies’ skirts.
As Isabelle crossed the threshold, her skin tingled with the light touch of sorcery. The building, she had been told, was warded against unauthorized magic; only those specifically permitted by the king could work their sorcery here. As a consequence, a mirrored hall full of Glasswalkers was actually one of the least sorcerous places in the kingdom.
A line of musicians in purple livery raised long trumpets with pennons bearing the symbol of the Aragothic crown and blew a silver-throated fanfare. A herald raised his voice. “La Princesa Isabelle des Zephyrs, of l’Empire Céleste!”
Inside, a hundred conversations hushed. Isabelle emerged into a wonderland of fantastic costumes, of glittering faeries and sulfurous demons, fiery dragons, fierce gryphons, and other rare beasts. The competition for most ostentatious display of wealth and talent had reached a sartorial crescendo, straining toward a climax of silk, satin, and stitches.
The Comte des Zephyrs had hosted his fair share of feasts, balls, and ceremonies, and Isabelle had thought them grand to the point of gaudy, but they were as nothing to the tableau before her. It was as if she had stepped into a world of demigods, where reality was rearranged at whim, and it was all she could do to keep from gawking like some provincial milkmaid. I am l’Empire, and l’Empire does not gawk.
The sea of fantastic frippery parted before Isabelle, and a pair of young ladies stepped into the aisle. They curtsied and then proceeded slowly and decorously before her, strewing flower petals from large baskets as they went. The crowd made a collective leg to Isabelle as she passed, as if she were a stiff breeze causing a field of grass to bend. When had she acquired such force? She fought to keep herself from scurrying forward to release the tension; l’Empire did not scurry. This courtesy wasn’t really directed at her, but rather at the powers she channeled through her blood and rank.
At the far end of her long walk, on his throne atop a broad dais, King Carlemmo waited. He was not a tall man, but he had a powerful frame that had been withered by disease, leaving a frail and bony husk. His skin—what she could see of it—which should have been swarthy, was a sickly shade of gray. From a gold chain about his neck hung a reliquary of Saint Cerberus, a quondam metal cylinder in which the living eyes of the first Glasswalker saint were held, a symbol of sorcerous divinity. Around his crown, he wore an elaborate headpiece in the shape of a skyship of the line, a calculated reminder of how Aragoth’s power and wealth derived from her formidable navy.