His face is strange, drained of color as well as life. His smooth brown skin, barely wrinkled despite his age, has a pale undertone, the sickly kind. I wish he were only sick, not dead. Mother puts her hands on either side of his face, staring down at him with a strength I can’t fathom. Her tears continue to hover like a swarm of glittering insects. After a long moment, she kisses his closed eyelids, fingers trailing through his long iron-gray hair. Then she cups her hands over his face, forming a bowl. The tears collect, flowing into her fingers. Finally she lets them go.
I almost expect him to flinch. But Father doesn’t move. He can’t anymore.
Tiora follows, using her hands to scoop water from the bay and trace it over his face. She lingers, studying him. She was always closer to our mother, as her position demands. It doesn’t lessen her pain, though. Her composure wavers and she turns away, holding up a hand to hide her face.
The world seems to shrink as I move through the water, my limbs sluggish and distant. Mother hovers, one hand on the sheet covering the rest of the body. She eyes me across him, her countenance still and empty. I know that look. I use it myself whenever I need to mask the storm of emotions beneath. I wore it on my wedding day. But then I was hiding fear, not pain.
Not like this.
I copy Tiora, pouring the water over my father. The droplets roll off his aquiline nose and down his cheekbones, pooling in the hair beneath his head. I brush away a strand of gray, suddenly wishing I could cut a lock for myself. Back in Archeon, I have a small temple—a shrine, more than anything—filled with candles and worn emblems of the nameless gods. Cramped as it may be, the tiny corner of the palace is the only spot I feel myself. I would like to keep him with me there.
An impossible wish.
When I pull back, Mother steps forward again. She puts her hands to the wooden board, palms flat. Tiora and I follow her lead. I’ve never done this before, and I wish I didn’t have to. But it is as the gods command. Return, they bid. To what you are, to your ability. Bury a greenwarden. Entomb a stoneskin in marble and granite. Drown a nymph.
If I am alive when Maven dies, will I be permitted to burn his corpse?
We push, lowering the board with our hands and our ability. Using our own muscles and the weight of our current to sink the body. Even in the shallows, the water distorts his face. Dawn breaks to my left, the sun rising over the low hills. It flashes on the surface, blinding me for a moment.
I shut my eyes and remember Father as he was.
He returns to the water’s embrace.
Detraon is a city of canals, nymph-cut into the bedrock on the western edge of Clear Bay. The ancient city that used to sit here is no more, washed away by floods more than a thousand years ago. There are still massive fields of debris downriver, choked with the rotted ruins of another time. Rust-eaten iron dust turns the earth red to this day, and magnetrons harvest those stretches like farmers do wheat. When the waters receded, the land here was still the perfect spot for our capital, sitting well beside Lake Eris, with easy access to Lake Neron through a short strait, and the rest of the lakes beyond. From Detraon, over both natural and nymph-made waterways, we can quickly reach almost every corner of our kingdom. All the way from the Hud in the north to the disputed borders along the Great River in the west and the Ohius in the south. No nymph lord could resist, and so here we stay, drawing our strength and safety from the waters.
The canals make for easy division, cutting the city into quarter sectors surrounding our central temples. Most Reds live in the southeast, farthest from the blissful waterfront, while the palace quarter and noble quarter sit on the bay itself, overlooking the waters we love so well. The Whirlpool Quarter, as it’s commonly known, occupies the northeast, where both wealthier Reds and less important Silvers live in close proximity. It’s merchants, mostly, businessmen, lower officers and soldiers, poor students from the university in the noble quarter. As well as Reds of quality and necessity. Skilled workers—independent, usually. Servants wealthy or important enough to live in Silver households, not their own. City governance is not my strong suit, and better left to Tiora, but I do what I can to acquaint myself with such things. Even if they bore me, I must know, at the very least. Ignorance is a burden I do not intend to carry.
We don’t use the canals today, as the palace is close enough to the bayfront. Good, I think, enjoying the familiar walk. Arches span the turquoise-and-gold walls of the noble sector, so fluid and smooth they can only be the work of Silvers. Family homes I know by heart peek up over the walls, their windows thrown open to the morning, dynastic colors streaming proudly in the breeze. The bloodred flag of the Renarde Line, jade green for the peerless, ancient storm line of Sielle—I name each in my head. Their sons and daughters fought for the new alliance. How many died alongside Father? How many that I knew?
It looks to be a beautiful day, with the sun rising through a sky of sparse clouds. The wind off Eris continues, pawing through my hair with light fingers. I expect the smell of decay, destruction, defeat to come out of the east. But all I smell are the lake waters, wet and green with summer. No sign of the army limping toward us, its blood spent on the walls of Corvium.
Our escort fans out, flint-eyed soldiers of the Lakelands paired with Maven’s own contingent. Most of his nobles are still with the army, moving as fast as the rest will allow. But he still has his Sentinel guards. They hang close, as do two of his high-ranking generals, each with aides and guards of their own. The lord general from House Greco is gray-haired, deceptively lean for a strongarm, but there’s no mistaking the garish yellow-and-blue emblem on her shoulder. Tiora made sure I memorized the great lines of Norta, their houses, until I knew them as well as our own. The other, Lord General Macanthos—blue and gray—is young, with sandy hair and nervous eyes. Too young for his position. I suspect his rank is new, and he replaced a relative who died recently.
Maven is smart enough to give my mother deference in her own country, and he walks a few steps behind her. I do as is expected, keeping pace at his side. We don’t touch. Not even the harmless link of arms or hands. It is his rule, not mine. He won’t touch me, not since the day he lost his grip on Mare Barrow. The last we felt of each other was a cold kiss beneath a gathering storm.
For that I am quietly thankful. I know what my duty is as a Silver, as a queen, as a bridge between our countries. It’s his duty too, a burden we are both supposed to bear. But if he won’t push the subject of heirs, I’m certainly not going to. For one thing, I’m only nineteen. Of age, surely, but I have plenty of time. And for another—if Maven fails, if his brother wins back the crown, I won’t have a reason to stay. Without children, I’ll be free to come home. I don’t want any kind of anchor to Norta if I don’t need one.
Our gowns trail, leaving wet paths along the wide street abutting the water’s edge. Sunlight gleams off the white stone. My eyes flit back and forth, taking in the sight of a summer day in my old capital. I wish I could stop as I used to. Perch on the low wall dividing the avenue from the bay. Practice my abilities with lazy attention. Maybe even tempt Tiora into a little friendly competition. But there isn’t time, nor opportunity. I don’t know how long we’ll stay, or how long I have with what remains of my family. All I can do is stretch the moments. Memorize them. Tattoo them on my mind like the swirling waves inked on my back.