‘I’m ready.’ I straighten my shoulders as we leave the relative safety of my apartment.
My clerk looks me up and down; his gaze is appreciative in a way I hadn’t expected, and I clear my throat, suddenly self-conscious. He inclines his head towards me. ‘You look … appropriate,’ he murmurs. ‘Letya has good taste.’
A spike of annoyance punctures my embarrassment. ‘You’re too kind, my lord. I’ll be sure to pass on the compliment.’
There are other nobles here, all moving towards the great hall, where the feast is to take place. Most are lords and ladies of Solanum. Some are visitors from other realms. Lucien tells me that a couple with vivid scarlet hair are members of an ibis family from the Kingdom of Gerda. A tall man with blue-tinged skin and green hair – a peacock apparently – makes eye contact with me and bows his head.
I grip my cane more tightly. ‘I don’t know who anyone is …’
‘It doesn’t matter. The king appears to have accepted you, and you outrank everyone but the royal family. Over the next few days, most, if not all, of the nobles here will approach me for an introduction. You don’t need to do anything.’ Two more men and a woman duck their heads as we pass, and Lucien’s lips twitch. ‘I suspect I’m about to become extremely popular.’
When we enter the hall I can’t help gasping. It’s by far the largest room I’ve ever been in, larger even than the throne room: double height, with a floor of red-and-white marble tiles. The ceiling is elaborately vaulted and surmounted by an octagonal glass lantern. Huge arched windows are set into the upper half of each wall, the glowing stained glass bearing the same symbols over and over. Symbols of power. The shield of the royal family of Cygnus sits in the centre, flanked by the shields of the families (my mother’s included), that have controlled Solanum for the last two hundred years: the seven Houses of Cygnus. The lower walls are covered in tapestries that show the history of the royal house. I spot an image of Tavin of Chenorys taking the throne as Cygnus I, after the War of the Raptors wiped out the House of Aquila (who could transform into eagles) and most of their related families. There are tables laid out in the other half of the hall, the embroidered cloths almost obscured under masses of silverware, but the courtiers are gathering here, nearer the entrance, talking in small groups and glancing towards the doorway. The ever-present mail-clad guards are dotted around the perimeter. Lucien guides me towards the centre, and people make space for us.
‘Why are we waiting here?’
‘After the second bell the royal family will process in; no one else can sit down until they are seated. And then we take our seats in order of rank. You’ll be seated at the highest table, with the prince and princess.’
‘But what about you?’ My voice comes out louder than I’d expected; the nobleman next to us raises an eyebrow. I move closer to Lucien. ‘You’re my clerk – can’t you sit with me?’
He smiles grimly. ‘My temporary status as your clerk doesn’t alter my rank.’ A bell sounds from somewhere up above us, and the people around me start to move, lining up either side of the pathway from the door to the high table. Lucien whispers, ‘After dinner there will be a concert in the long gallery; I’ll join you then. Just try your best not to say or do anything idiotic in the next couple of hours.’ The smile disappears; his expression is grave. ‘Remember, the most important thing here is not your future; it’s that of Atratys.’ He nods at me curtly and retreats into a crowd of lower-ranking nobles as the harpists in the gallery above the main door begin to play.
The king enters first, wearing white silk and a diamond coronet, a much younger woman on his arm – the new queen, I guess. She’s very beautiful. Her hair is white with one long black streak and her skin has the silvery-grey tint characteristic of heron families. In her white silk gown, she could almost be carved out of ice. Beneath her coronet her face is impassive, though a slight puckering of the skin between her brows suggests she takes little pleasure in her surroundings. Still, as she passes she notices me looking at her, and gives me a quick, tentative smile. The king and queen are followed by Odette, wearing a more ornate version of the white dress she had on earlier, and then by Aron, still in black. I expect the prince to go past, but he stops next to me, holds out his remaining arm.
‘Cousin.’ My eyes widen in surprise, and he smirks.
But I remember Lucien’s words.
For Atratys then.
‘Cousin.’ I bow my head – as small a gesture as I think I can get away with – and lay my hand lightly on his arm. Together we move towards the high table.
Four
The banquet is long and tedious. On one side of me is Aron, who once we are seated ignores me, either eating or chatting to the woman on his left. On my other side is a middle-aged, slightly jowly man who introduces himself as Patrus, Protector of the Dominion of Brithys. Like most of Cygnus I’s descendants he is blond, but his yellow, rounded eyes and the feathering of tawny hair at his temples and forehead indicate owl blood in his lineage. Patrus tells me first that he is widowed, secondly that he is struck dumb by my beauty, before proceeding to talk endlessly about his dominion: how many houses he has, how many hunting lodges, how many acres of land. How many noble families owe him fealty. I would be tempted to ask him how many of his people starve to death each year – the poverty I observed while travelling through Brithys is still fresh in my memory – if only he left any silence in which I might speak. At least the food is delicious and plentiful: dish after dish is placed before me, many of which I don’t recognise. But I know the fine, tall-stemmed crystal glasses from which we are drinking were made in Atratys. Proud of my dominion, I take a little more of the wine than I am used to. It makes my eyelids heavy, and I’m glad when the last course – sun-baked plums from southern Olorys – is finally removed, and the king and queen rise from the table.
Aron turns to me, interrupting the long-winded compliment Patrus has embarked upon. ‘Come, cousin.’
I take his arm with relief.
From the great hall we process to the long gallery. Even here, rank and etiquette still prevail. There seem to be divisions within the gallery marked by different coloured marble floor tiles – pale pink at the lower end of the room, deep purple at the upper – guarded by servants in black and silver. Lower-ranking nobles are applying to these servants; sometimes they are admitted into the next area of the room, nearer to the monarchs, sometimes they are not. At the furthest end of the room, where tall arched doors open onto a terrace, a quartet of flightless musicians are playing lutes. It’s hard to hear them over the hubbub of conversation as people mingle and stroll around.
Aron leads me to a small sofa near one of the doors. ‘Let us sit for a while, cousin; you seem weary. Besides, I don’t think either of us needs to worry about not using our legs enough.’
I glance at him, suspecting a veiled reference to my ability to fly – or my lack thereof – but his expression is neutral. We sit, and he turns to face me.
‘The sword belt is a nice touch. Is it merely jewellery, or is there an actual blade attached to that hilt?’
His tone takes me by surprise, and I answer more sharply than I intend.