solstice ball
Everything I am, everything I will be, is because of my father. So, let’s start there, at the beginning, before everything became so complicated.
It was the evening of Solstice Ball, and Esteria, the dauphine of Fargarde, hadn’t yelled at anybody yet.
Crystal gasoliers cast fractals upon her midnight-blue gown as swirling couples danced around her, caught up in the splendor of the palace ballroom, eyes glittering as brightly as the champagne in their coupes and the décolletage of their conquests.
Esteria’s feet itched to fall into step with them, to lose herself in the pulse and rhythm of a celebration alive, but there were more important matters to attend to tonight. They started and ended with the man on the other side of the room—King Aelius, the Predestined Avatar, the leader of the Arcane Church, her father—who was currently cooing over a baby.
Around him stood several disgruntled government officials who’d been pandering for his attention all day. Solstice was nothing if not a chance to cavort with the king. They bore anxious frowns, glancing at the clock as their time ran out.
Esteria could empathize with the shameless courtiers, for she too sought an audience with her father, and if it didn’t happen soon, she’d lose the growing battle with her temper.
Five, Six, Seven, Eight.
She matched each count to a breath, slowly inhaling and exhaling until the flames cooled. It was a trick she’d learned from Linnie. Your temper could make a stone cower, her friend had teased, but Esteria didn’t have outbursts anymore, couldn’t have them rather, so she’d been mentally reciting these blasted half-eight-counts all day.
She took a hearty sip of her drink, readying herself to approach her father, but then a chill bled down her spine. The shadows around her lengthened, dimming the alcove where she stood though the braziers remained lit. She knew this feeling, knew it too well.
“Princess,” a cool voice said. “No dancing tonight?”
Her hackles rose at the nickname only he deigned to use, and she turned, finding herself face to face—or face to chest, rather—with the last person in all of Fargarde that she wanted to see.
Dacre Nightingale, the King’s Raven.
Tall and broad-shouldered, hair a stark white, Dacre was swathed in his signature black cloak. His shadow stretched long behind him, even taller than he was, with great wings jutting from its shoulders, draping down at its sides.
His physical form bore no such wings.
“What do you want now, Nightingale?” she hissed.
His winged shadow rustled, and the overdressed ballgoers visibly shied away from it. Dacre smirked, swirling the amber liquid in his crystal tumbler. “I thought you could use the supervision. I assume that’s why you haven’t reported to your father yet.”
She was twenty-six years old. She didn’t need supervision. “Isn’t it enough that you completely sabotaged my mission today? Must you continue to torment me?” She pushed her hair behind her ear, though a few violet strands resisted the effort.
“Mission?” His eyebrow quirked. “Is that what you’re calling it now? How quaint.”
She refused to let on that he’d hit his mark. This had been her first assignment from her father, a mission she’d begged and pleaded for. She hadn’t been listening at doors this time or holding letters to bright windows. This had been for real, and she was supposed to have done it alone. But Dacre bloody Nightingale had shown up. “I don’t need your commentary or your help, for that matter. Step aside,” she said.
But Dacre did the opposite, stepping closer, using his size to his advantage. A subtle scent of alcohol laced his words. “Still upset about your little pets? I never figured you to be a champion for the Raze.”
She ground her teeth. “I’m not. It’s more complicated than that.”
That was an understatement. The anarchist group from the Wildes had been bleeding through Fargarde’s borders for years, but they’d grown bolder in recent months, their propaganda campaign catching like wildfire. Their latest hit to the coastal town of Brinewell had proved that even Fargarde’s wealthiest towns weren’t immune to discontent.
Dacre sneered. “You were sent to deal with the rebels. What did you think that meant?”
“Rebels?” Esteria laughed. “The miners called off their coup immediately. That overseer would have died if it not for their remorse—I realize that’s a foreign concept to you. While violence can’t go unpunished, compassion likewise shouldn’t go unacknowledged.”
“Spoken like somebody who’s never had blood on their hands.”
Esteria raised her chin. “Well, I’m a diplomat, not an executioner.”
Dacre snagged a bottle of liquor from a passing tray, topping himself off before handing it back to the baffled bartender. “Assuage yourself with semantics all you want. I did what needed to be done. You should be thanking me.”
“For what? You killed them. Behind my back. I couldn’t even recover the bodies thanks to your ruddy cave-in. It wasn’t supposed to be that way.” She stepped closer, her face hot as venom sluiced her words. “I’m the one who was sent, I’m the one who argued for leniency, and I’m the king’s daughter. I outrank you.”
His eyes turned thunderous, but his voice dropped to a whisper. “I’d check that again if I were you, princess. Not all of us can play twinkle toes and dress up and remain in your father’s good graces. I have years of experience over you, a whole decade. What do you have besides being fourth in line behind a man who’s never going to die?”
Oh, he was the worst, really, truly he was. “You are the most egotistical, self-righteous piece of—”
Dacre scoffed. “Yelling at me won’t bring back the dead, you know.”
That’s when she noticed the stares. Though the music continued to croon, the dancers gave them a wide berth, whispering behind their hands. Esteria’s face was hot, a familiar fire burning in her chest. Dacre, on the other hand, looked cool, collected, and—most importantly—calm.
So much for not losing her temper.
She took a step back, composing herself. “Well, I haven’t the boon of resurrection in my pocket, so we’ll just have to see what my father says about this.”
“Then I suppose I’m no longer needed here.”
“You were never needed here.”
His dark blue eyes cut to hers, piercing her. “Just remember, princess, because of me, you got to remain a diplomat today.”
She lifted her chin. “And what does that make you?”
A muscle in his jaw flexed, and he spoke so only she could hear. “You already know the answer to that.”
She didn’t say a word as she watched him go, sweeping away with a swirl of his cloak and taking his darkness with him.
“What was that about?” Linnie appeared at her side, pressing a drink into her hand.
Esteria admired her friend for a moment, noting how her golden dress complemented her dark complexion, how it was remarkably free of her usual paint splatters.
Esteria was just about to tell her exactly how annoying a certain assassin was when something caught her eye. “Later,” she said. “Look, Lord Saltree’s suddenly remembered his date.”
“Huh—?”
Esteria grabbed Linnie by the wrist and dragged her across the room, moving so swiftly that, nearly as soon as the aging Lord stepped from her father, she plopped herself and Linnie squarely in front of the King, to the grumbling of several nobles.
“Father.” Esteria dipped her head, slightly out of breath.
King Aelius was not a large man, but he made up for his lack of stature with sheer gravitas. Handsome, his silver hair was neatly coiffed, and his gray eyes held a wisdom that few could claim in a lifespan. Though of course, he was well into his third one of those. His sage doublet was unadorned save for the thick gold medallions hanging from his neck in tiers. He wore no crown.
Smiling when he saw her, he said, “Esteria, Linnie, have you met General Cord’s son? Only four months old and already wearing his older cousin’s clothes. I’ll need to give Cord a raise to pay for their tailor.”
Her eyes dipped from her father’s goofy grin and fell to the baby, who was gripping Aelius’s gold chain and rattling the medallions together. Linnie crouched to stroke the baby’s cheek, and Esteria cleared her throat. “Actually, I was hoping we could discuss my assignment.”
The man next to her father sneered. “Hardly the topic for such a holy occasion.”
Esteria spared a glance for her father’s loathsome vizier. Wearing overlarge red robes that did nothing to hide his bony frame, Bhaltair Denarius had a face that was perpetually twisted in distaste. His disapproval was something of a point of pride for her.
To her father’s left stood Malakai, chief of spies, a wiry man with slicked back hair. His eyes glittered when their gaze met, and Esteria blushed, hastily looking away. “Father, it’s about Nightingale—”
“Dauphine.” Bhaltair’s lips pinched together. “While you may think nothing of disregarding me, you’ll find it harder to ignore the fires of oblivion when you—”
Aelius raised a hand. “Bhaltair, please. I’d prefer if we didn’t damn my only daughter for all eternity before they serve dessert”—Esteria didn’t bother to hide her triumphant grin—“but whatever it is Esteria wishes to speak to me about can wait until after Solstice.”
Esteria’s smile vanished. “But Father—”
“Peace, my starfire.” Though firm, Aelius’s eyes twinkled with warmth. “I promise to hear you out once the gods demand less of our attention.”
The anger she’d tried so diligently to cool rose up again. Her father never would have treated her brothers this way.
But her brothers had been arcana, like Dacre, like the king—unlike her—and the chosen avatars of the twenty-one gods were the only ones who had any real respect in Fargarde.
Bhaltair looked like he was about to ignore her father’s wishes, opening his mouth to scold more, but Linnie stood from admiring Theus and stepped forward. “Lord Denarius, I thought perhaps you could join me to hear the elder’s recitation? If we go now, we should be able to get a spot at the front.”
Bhaltair blinked at being addressed with such kindness, and Esteria marveled at her friend’s ability to be pleasant to someone as detestable as Bhaltair. The vizier cleared his throat. “Of course, Miss Poole.”
He offered his arm, which Linnie took without so much as a grimace and gave Esteria a significant look, her meaning obvious. Keep pushing.
Esteria nodded and turned back to the king. “Father—“
“Your Highness,” Malakai said suddenly, ignoring Esteria’s scowl. “Might I remind you about the guard changeover tonight? You and the dauphine may want to consider retiring earlier than usual.”
Aelius nodded. “Quite right. It’s past little Theus’s bedtime too, I’d wager. Best to get him back to his parents.” He turned to his daughter. “Esteria, far be it for me to tell you what to do, but I would highly advise you to follow Theus’s example.”
Before she could further object, Aelius was gone, pressing young Theus back into his mother’s arms. Esteria took several long deep breaths. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
“That’s the trouble with being a clever man, I should think,” Malakai said over her shoulder.
The music shifted to more somber tones, and a temple elder stood amongst the crowd. He gesticulated broadly, waxing poetic about the significance of Solstice, of how it was a time when the realms of gods and man drew close, of how Fargarde and Fargarde alone was ripe with the blessings of the gods. She’d heard this exact speech dozens of times.
“What do you mean?” Esteria muttered, still watching her father’s back.
Malakai exchanged his full drink for hers, which she accepted gratefully. He could always be relied upon for stuff like that. “Everyone wants to impress the clever man. All those voices… It can be hard to pick the stags from the carrion.”
His eyes glittered in that mischievous way of his. It was an expression she knew well, for she liked him quite a bit.
His cheeks were just on the side of sallow, and his nose was a tad large for him to be considered traditionally attractive, but when he smiled, it transformed his whole face, softening his features and making him slightly too handsome. Despite being over twenty years her senior, he looked younger—arcanas often did. If she didn’t know better, she’d have placed him somewhere in his mid-thirties, but she didn’t think about his age so much, not with what his glance could do to her heart rate.
Alright, perhaps she liked him more than quite a bit.
Esteria huffed a laugh. “I suppose I would consider my father a kind man before a clever one.”
“Ah, well, that’s even worse then.”
“How so?”
“A kind man would know the difference but treat everyone the same.”
She cocked her head. “Is that so awful?”
“For the stags.” His eyes cut to hers. They were the comforting deep brown of rich chocolate.
She struggled to keep her voice even. “And do you consider yourself a kind man or a clever one?”
“Oh, I’m the worst of them I’m afraid.”
“Oh?”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I’m a clever man who recognizes the utility of being kind.”
“That doesn’t sound so terrible.” She laughed.
“Then you haven’t thought about it hard enough.”
She found herself staring at him, and perhaps he too realized the conversation had taken a turn for the serious. He lifted her wrist and dipped his head, pressing his lips to the back of her hand. “Don’t be discouraged by the king’s distraction. I, for one, look forward to seeing what you’re capable of when not under your father’s thumb. I bid you good evening, Dauphine.” Her title slipped like silk from his lips, and she stared as he left the ballroom.
Esteria sat before her vanity, her fingers threading through her undone braid.
I, for one, look forward to seeing what you’re capable of when not under your father’s thumb.
Well, it was easy enough for Malakai to say that. Trying to push her father for more independence was like trying to row a warship with a hand paddle. She eyed the arrangement of roses beside the mirror. They were from the king. He’d been giving her roses for as long as she could remember. The scent of them clung to her clothes and hair.
The roses represented the crux of the issue really. She loved the flowers, but wasn’t she a little old to be doted upon like a child? She knew how much she meant to her father, but it didn’t change the fact that, if any of his other advisers had been sent to deal with a rebellion—if any of her brothers had been sent—he would have met with them immediately. What was it going to take for her father to see her as capable?
She’d never been meant to inherit the throne. No one was really, with her father being effectively immortal. But her three older brothers had been given the schooling and the training to be his second, and Esteria tried not to think of her brothers all that much. If she didn’t think about them, she wouldn’t be reminded of how they’d disappeared.
Oberon would know what to do. Her oldest brother never had trouble standing up to Father. She used to hate it when they fought, but now she’d give anything to hear one of their rows. It had been five years since he’d gone missing. Weaver, the second eldest, had disappeared the year after, and Cade the one after that. Three years without any of her brothers. Three years to be trained as a replacement, a training that had been given half-heartedly at best.
Her father was perhaps rightfully scared for her safety, scared to lose the last of his children, and she understood that, she really did, but she was almost twenty-seven years old, and the longer he stalled, the longer she spent just waiting for something to happen to her.
She fingered the trench lighter around her neck, a tarnished gold pendant the size of her palm; she’d had it for as long as she could remember. It was her mother’s, engraved with the goddess Regina’s symbol—a crown of twelve stars—but Esteria didn’t know what it meant to have a mother’s guidance.
She gazed at her reflection. She’d been told she looked like her, the same dark brown eyes—nearly black—though her complexion was a bit lighter with a smattering of freckles concentrated over her nose and trailing across her lips and her silvery violet hair—unusual but not unheard of—was a mixture of both parents, but she’d never know the truth of it. There were no pictures of her mother, no busts, no portraits, and her father didn’t like to talk about his late wife.
I, for one, look forward to seeing what you’re capable of when not under your father’s thumb.
She wasn’t getting anywhere letting her father put off their discussions, put off her training, and put off her questions. In the morning, she’d try again in earnest. She’d sit him down and give him her full report on Brinewell and demand further training. She was done waiting for responsibility, done waiting for trust. She had to seize it. And she could do it all while controlling her temper. She would. She had to. She—
The door to her chambers burst open.
Leave a Reply