The citizens of Saryenia throng the streets in a celebratory mood. Plays run twice a day in the Lantern District, and night performances are lit by oil donated at the order of the new king and queen. Rations are still in effect because regular shipments from the interior aren’t yet restored, but people wait in orderly lines at the Grain Market, confident they will get a share at a fair price. Efean workmen toil day and night to spruce up the awnings and balconies of the Royal Fives Court so they will be fitting for the highborn audience, since everyone is talking about how all the highborn clans must be in attendance lest they be seen as disloyal to the new regime.
On the third day of the festival, amid ribbons being waved for good fortune, I watch from the walls as part of the Royal Army marches out under the command of the much-lauded General Esladas to put down the rumored skirmishes in the north. The hero of the Eastern Reach and Maldine will sort out any unpleasantness, say the people around me, and yet they’re also happy that his firebird veterans have stayed behind to protect the city just in case there’s trouble. They don’t realize the rebellion is already here, that day by day more Efeans filter in through the gates in groups. It’s so easy for Commoners to arrive pushing carts filled with produce, hauling oysters and fish, in work gangs to repair roofs and walls damaged by the East Saroese catapults during the months-long siege. The ill-equipped Efean army meant to meet a battered enemy in battle has hidden its weapons and flooded the city.
The night before the trial I’m restless, so I walk the Avenue of Triumphs. At the base of the steep incline up to the king’s palace I pause. From high on the hill drift the sounds of revelry.
Our success rests on my gamble that Kal will do what is right for Efea, that he sees the justice in our cause. That he wants out and knows this is the only way. And if I’m honest, it rests in part on my belief that he still cares for me.
What if I’m wrong? What if he can’t do it and means to betray me as Father once betrayed Mother? Yet it isn’t the wine of power and the glitter of ambition that might weaken his resolve. It’s the enormity of what I’m asking of him, a repudiation of his entire life up to now, turning his back on his own family. What if he can’t go through with it? What if all I’ve done is walk the Efean rebellion into a trap? Will I be able to tell before it’s too late?
I won’t know until the trial. That’s the gamble we’re taking.
For the first time since I’ve returned to Saryenia I make my way to the eight-spouted spider fountain at the heart of the Warrens. Heart Tavern is crowded but eerily silent. People watch me without offering a single greeting although a couple of women touch their wrapped or braided heads with expressions I am sure show envy for my elaborate knots. By the oval terrace I enter the inner passages. At every turn I am inspected and allowed to pass by armed Efeans.
One soldier about my age can’t stop glancing at me so I finally acknowledge him.
“Honored Cousin?”
He whispers, “I love your hair. My grandmother used to wear hers like that.”
I flash him a kiss-off gesture, and he chuckles and flashes it back. Between one breath and the next a sharp and solid sense of comradeship soaks me like an unlooked-for cloudburst. We share a destiny. We are together, all of us.
A modest curtain separates the last passageway from a bowl-shaped courtyard surrounded by high walls and a circular terrace of seats: the heart of the Warrens. Beneath a mural depicting the Mother of All the seats are crowded with dames and elders and so many people that I’m dizzied at the energy pouring off them amid the flare of lamps. For an instant I think some of them have taken on the faces of animals and then I realize the officials are wearing masks.
I take a quick step sideways into an alcove to catch my breath and almost trip over a boy. He’s sleeping on a blanket on the ground. Three crows roost, one on his leg, one on his hip, and one on his thin shoulder. A cloth binds his sightless eyes.
“Jes?” A shape rises beyond him.
“Polodos! Is Maraya here?”
“Yes, and I don’t thank you for insisting she walk into such danger in her condition. But she was certain your message said for her to come to the city.”
“If we fail, every part of Efea will be dangerous for her.”
I step out to see what the dazzle of lamplight obscured from me. Seated upon boxy stools inlaid with faience, the Honored Protector and the Honored Custodian face the dame council and an assembly of elders and officials: Inarsis in his lion mask, Mother the butterfly in all its graceful colors, with ribbons stirring in the soft night breeze. The honored poet stands between them, holding a braided whip against his chest. Of course he isn’t wearing a mask, since it would conceal his handsome features, and Ro never passes up a chance to be the center of attention. He is the voice of the Mother of All.
The tiered aisles are lined with soldiers on guard, some wearing spider scout gear. I recognize Dagger’s silhouette, lean and honed. A tall woman at the top of the stairs turns as I step forward to get a better look.
“Jes,” she whispers, but she doesn’t step out of line; this isn’t the place or time for hugs.
“Mis? What are you doing here?”
“We had to sneak the general back into the city.”
“But Inarsis is already here.…”
That’s when I see him. He’s wearing the same humble spider scout’s gear as the others but he walks with the pride of a man who has nothing left to prove except that he can be trusted to protect the ones he loves. Among so many Efeans he stands out with his golden-brown complexion and stocky build laced with muscle from years of soldiering. His tightly clipped hair sticks straight up as if he’s just pulled a dusty desert scarf off it, one that would conceal his features. There’s a streak of dirt on his right cheek that he’s not had time or water to wash off.
The silence in the courtyard and the judgment of the Efeans settles into my bones.
Even the city beyond seems to have fallen away, as if nothing exists except the man who kneels and sets his sword on the ground. Inarsis nods regally in acknowledgment but Mother sits as still and stares as straight ahead as the figures painted on the wall.
He does not address himself to her but rather to Ro-emnu. His Efean is heavily accented by his Saroese birth but he knows the language even if he rarely spoke it at home.
“I ask for nothing except their honored permission to fight for Efea.”
Tears run down my face.
Even yet he does not look at Mother, makes no plea to her, asks for nothing in exchange. Perhaps he’s playing the long game, ever the strategist. Or maybe he really is fighting for Efea because it is the right thing rather than what he needs to do to get her back.
The Honored Protector picks up the sword and returns it hilt first, trusting Father not to stab him on the spot. “You are welcome among us. Our war council will begin.”
Dismissed as if he is a mere adjutant, Father retreats from the center and stands amid the Efean captains, hands clasped behind his back at parade rest. On the other side, three clerks are keeping an account of the proceedings, scribbling away, and I am not surprised to see Maraya among them. There’s a dab of ink on her nose, and she’s squinting at the page with prim satisfaction as she writes. I’m not sure if it is Father’s presence, Mother’s coldness, the general atmosphere, or my brilliant plan that pleases her.