Prologue
Kalalitani.
One year, ten months ago.
“Sir, you’re not listening to what I’m saying.” A woman’s voice cut through the chatter inside an assembly room as Kas loped by. “What led you to your conclusion?”
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He was on his way to meet a friend for lunch but found himself intrigued by the woman, half-shouting, beyond the cracked doorway.
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“The statements of believable men!” a man yelled.
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“Thank you,” the distracting woman called. “Statements are hearsay. You can’t base a scientific argument on the hearsay of men.”
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“You need to ask women, too!” another voice shouted, male.
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“No. Well, yes, but that’s not my point,” the woman grumbled, and Kas realized she stood just inside the door, her back to him. He’d been looking right over her head.
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A tangle of brown hair bobbed before him as she went on. “You’ve provided no tangible evidence, no proof that there were ever temples in Selwas, or an established belief system, at any point in the past. There are stories and lore. Your conclusion that the declining birthrate is the result of abandonment by the gods is based on the false premise that there were gods to abandon us in the first place.”
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The crowd erupted into pandemonium, and Kas chuckled as the woman stomped her foot and tossed her hands in the air. There was at least one temple in Selwas, at his estate. But he was late to lunch, so he hurried away for his meeting.
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That evening, at the closing gala of the annual Symposium of Prodigious Minds, he skulked beside a potted plant. It took time to locate a palm taller than himself, but he found one that provided sufficient cover. He was sick of the crowd.
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It had been a rough year, losing his parents and taking over the family’s titles, but the little distractions, like sipping whiskey in a corner while fronds tickled his forehead, were the perfect escape from his many duties.
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He’d love to find that woman from earlier, the one who was ranting about scientific inquiry. What would the look on her face be when he told her he had a temple? Still, she was right: Conclusions could not be drawn based on hearsay alone. Clearly, whoever had been presenting, hadn’t done their research.
With a sigh, Kas swirled his glass and lifted it, catching light from the chandeliers. It was good stuff: a rich, golden whiskey. Imported from Domos, most likely.
Through the undulating glass, he spotted her swirling around the dance floor in a dress the color of his drink. It was her; he was positive. Petite, with a nest of brown curls atop her head. Her gown flowed with her graceful movements, like whiskey down his throat. The highlights in her hair glowed tawny like a good vintage, and something about her warmed his stomach in much the same way.
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I need a new metaphor. He took a long swig, never once losing sight of his new distraction.
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She could be anyone, although Kas didn’t think she was from a titled family. To be fair, it was hard to tell. The annual symposium was a place for scholars from every background to convene and discuss the year’s greatest advancements on various topics of inquiry. Magical sciences, physical sciences, metaphysical sciences, metaphorical sciences; it was all presented, discussed, and torn to shreds by fellow academics. He’d come every year for the past decade, and each proved to be a mentally and socially stimulating affair.
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New ideas from the presentations, brilliant and idiotic alike, pranced through his mind while the woman twirled beneath the raised hand of her dance partner.
Tavid Nithim. Kas recognized the young buck, a son of the Baron of Turkhane. The enchanting woman in a gown of gold twirled again as she rested her palm on Tavid’s chest.
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Kas shivered as a frisson of frustration shot through him. And when the song came to an end, and Tavid tugged her out to the terrace, Kas followed them into the starlit night.
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It only took a moment to locate her. Clad in metallic, she was a beacon under the flickering torches. Ensnared by the sour, rising tide of envy, Kas watched Tavid lean in, his chin touching the side of her face as he whispered something.
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She giggled, prompting the young man to slink his gangly arm around her body, grasping her bottom and giving it a jiggle. Again, he spoke in her ear, making her blush and swat at his chest.
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Kas half wished he’d sent his magic out to call their voices closer so he could listen, but he didn’t need to add to the consortium in his mind.
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When Tavid tilted his head toward the woman, Kas sneered, sending a strong gust of wind to smack him in the face and whip at his jacket. Drawing back in alarm, Tavid abandoned his mission to kiss her, and hurried her back inside.
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The woman’s lilting laughter sent a pulse of heat skittering through Kas’s abdomen. Lost in thoughts of scientific inquiry and golden gowns, he stared at nothing, sipping his drink, and trying to convince himself to go find her for an introduction before the symposium came to a close.
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“Brother.”
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A hand on his arm jolted him from his reverie, and he found his sister eyeing him mirthfully.
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“Come, the king and I would like to talk about tutors.”
Chapter One
Nesrina goes to the capital.
Clutching the summons in her cloak pocket, Nesrina shuffled along with the line, her fingertips tracing the ridges and divots of the king’s seal. Craning her neck to see past the ox-drawn cart ahead, she blinked at a sliver of Kirce Palace visible through the great arched gateway.
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So close.
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She’d never been inside the second wall of the capital, but she’d heard all about it, aggrandized tales from Papa’s glossy memories: “the beating heart of Selwas” ensconced behind double walls in the center of Serkath, with “one-hundred-foot ceilings and fifty-foot doors.” Surely, he’d exaggerated, and she was finally going to find out.
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The line moved forward again, and a man clad in the green garb of a soldier leaned out from his stone hut. “Name and business,” he said, sounding affronted he’d even had to prompt.
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Brilliant. Her first faux pas.
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“Nesrina Kiappa, responding to a summons from the king.” The letter crinkled when she smoothed it and held it up for perusal.
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The guard hardly glanced at the honey gold seal, then ushered her through.
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A whoosh escaped her as she stepped beneath the portcullis and into the palace proper. Her halting steps on the cobbled street, the few jangling coins in her pocket, and the anxious rhythm of her heart came together in an orchestral disaster that further fueled her discomfort. No, her excitement. No, it was mainly discomfort, with a sprinkling of hope.
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The palace outbuildings were regal, and everything sparkled, coated in a sheen of salt from the nearby sea. She felt dull in comparison, her boots and cloak blending with the stones in the road rather than the opulence of the architecture.
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It was fine. She had a duty to fulfill, and she needed this lened job.
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A tight band of melancholy squeezed Nesrina’s throat as a blast of painful nostalgia stole her breath. Lened, or “damn” in the Old Tongue, was Papa’s go-to swear. It was her favorite, too, but using it always brought his face to mind. He’d walked these streets years before, stepped on the same cobbles as a “Guest of the King,” and she was here now to do the same—doing the same—attempting to do the same.
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Nes considered herself intelligent enough to recognize her own shortcomings. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to interact with royalty, but she did know how to teach, like her papa, and she was here to make his memory proud. He always said a person learned “more at the helm than reading books about boats,” and that adage proved to be true time and again.
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She’d figure it out—the whole speaking to nobility thing—like she always did. She only needed time. Holding her duty close and her head high, Nesrina continued up the long, cobbled drive to Kirce Palace to turn up in place of her father.
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***
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Standing in the marble foyer, or grand hall, she supposed, Nes felt like a fish out of water. Flailing her hands, her mouth flapping with unspoken words, she tried to get someone’s attention, and failed time and again.
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Liveried footmen and maids bustled through, crisscrossing the cavernous space in every direction, some carrying cloched trays. She’d lost track of time near the end of her journey, when the skies clouded over, but assumed it was just before, or after, luncheon. Her stomach confirmed her suspicion.
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Giving up as a new wave of fast-moving servants pushed through, Nesrina considered the architecture and kept an eye out for someone moving with less purpose. A few stoic guards were stationed at regular intervals around the foyer, but she got the distinct impression they were not to be spoken to.
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Kirce wasn’t exactly as her father had described. The ceilings were grand, but certainly not one hundred feet high. They seemed appropriately sized for the ostentatious space—making every sound louder and every person look smaller as they moved from corridor to corridor. From the moldings to the mages, it was clear everything was intentional here.
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The servants’ uniforms were all the same style and structure but came in an array of colors, coding them according to their magic: blue for watercoursers, red for firebearers, brown for the earthshapers, and gray for the windshifters. What color would they give her, if she made it on the staff?
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There. A well-dressed man in a dark coat, not a servant, wandered into the expansive hall. The heavy door he’d come through swung closed with a slam, and he jolted, glancing over his shoulder like he hadn’t opened it himself.
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Now or never, Nes! “Excuse me. Excuse me, sir?” Her boots clacked on the marble tile as she hurried forward.
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The stranger stalled abruptly when she reached him, as if startled by her cacophonic and impossible to miss approach.
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A breeze, warm and balmy, fluttered Nes’s skirts and blew a clump of her hair into her mouth, gagging her. As she pulled strands free, she wondered if someone was using air magic, or if the palace hall was cavernous enough to have its own weather patterns.
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The gentleman eyed her strangely from way up high.
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Good gods.
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She was short, sure, but this man was enormous—height-wise. He had a rather slim build and wore a deep blue coat, fine enough to warrant assumptions about his aristocratic status. But his dark, tousled hair and the equally dark stubble shadowing his face did some damage to his credibility.
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“Yes?” Curtly, he spoke in a low baritone, his single word conveying how unimportant she was, a thorn in his side, a fly in his custard.
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This is a public space. Sputtering as that breeze picked up, she tugged new strands of hair from her mouth. One of them tickled the back of her throat, and she gagged again, nearly retching on the probably-a-gentleman before her.
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“Please”—she swallowed, willing her throat to relax and sending several choice words to the back of her tongue—“Do you know where I might find the king? I have a—”
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The not-such-a-gentleman stepped away, cutting her off with his silent action. His eyes raked over her from top to toe, taking in the entirety of her form.
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Defensively, Nes gripped her travel bag and forced her shoulders back.
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“Potential staff should use the service entrance at the rear.”
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Her brows popped so high they nearly flew off her face. The audacity of this man. The way he emphasized “potential” made it crystal clear, he thought she had none. And the fool didn’t even know why she was there! Steeling herself, she began again, “I have—”
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“Go out.” He pointed nonchalantly at the massive palace doors as he spoke. “Turn left. Go around back. Door’s by the kitchen.”
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With that, the dark-haired stranger turned and stalked away, disappearing through a set of doors.
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Handle biting into her palm where she gripped her bag, Nes trudged around the side of the—excessively, in her opinion—gigantic palace, and continued along the downslope beside the southwestern wing. At the base of the hill, the kitchen stood right where that horribly-mannered man said it would.
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On the heels of a frustrated grunt, she inhaled through her nose, held it a moment, then exhaled through rounded lips, willing herself to relax. Surely, she would find someone far kinder around back who would help her locate the king.
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Sniffing the heavy air again, Nes looked up at the billowing clouds and sighed. Her lips drooped as the first wave of torrential downpour crashed down. Creating an umbrella was futile at this point, but she did it anyway, weaving the portable canopy from thin air and holding it aloft as she trudged down the desolate cobbled path.
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With her luck bouncing between decent and abysmal, Nesrina hoped things were moving toward improvement when she spied a lone guard leaning against a sheltered stretch of wall by the kitchen.
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“How can I help you, miss?” The soldier grinned lazily.
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With his silky golden hair, cheerful wide mouth, and soft features, he was the light to that horrid-man-from-earlier’s darkness. Smiling, she produced her rain-spattered letter, seal side up.
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“Summons from the king?” He glanced at the wax circle. “You should’ve gone in the front.”
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“I tried.” She shrugged.
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“It’s lucky you found me.” He ushered her inside before taking the lead with a, “This way, m’lady.”
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“Miss Kiappa will do.” She giggled, picking a seam on her cloak, one step closer to meeting the king.
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The guard’s uniform gave no indication of his magical ability, and her particular type was rare, so she folded her umbrella and leaned it in a dark corner near the door. Hurrying to catch up, she released her hold on her magic, letting her creation vanish into the air.
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“Lovely to meet you, Miss Kiappa. I’m Rihan Sarma.”
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The way he punctuated his sentences with a quick little smile over his shoulder brought a genuine grin to her face.
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Was she terrified? Absolutely. But this man seemed nice, and common. She may be waltzing into a den of royalty, but the staff would all be like her.
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Winding through hallways and stairwells, each was more sumptuous than the last as they neared the family’s terrain. In a salon at the base of one of the spire-capped towers she’d seen from outside, Rihan paused to say, “The king’ll be in his study this time of day. I was heading here after my break, to relieve Aram.” He nodded toward a statuesque sentry who stood immediately to their left.
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The guard gave the pair an almost imperceptible nod that served as both a greeting and permission to pass.
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Rihan opened the door to a stone staircase, then ushered Nes up first. As she slipped past, she inhaled out of pure curiosity. He smelled like cedar with a hint of leather. It was quite nice—calming, even.
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On the third level, they stopped before a tall mahogany door, and he asked for her summons.
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As Nes handed over the parchment, Rihan knocked, and a shiver ran down her spine; the letter addressed to her father hadn’t left her person since she’d taken it from Mama’s hand four days earlier. This was it; she’d made it. Now it was time to put her best foot forward and hope the court would hire her in Papa’s stead.
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When a voice boomed for him to enter, Rihan whispered, “One moment,” before ducking inside.
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Gods, she hoped she got this position. Probably stupidly, she’d abandoned her low-paying but consistent tutoring post back in Napivol to come to the capital. Hopefully the king would hear her out, and maybe invite her to stay. They did have the same strange magic, after all.
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As her patience waned, she studied the spiraling staircase. Windowless and narrow, it climbed from landing to landing with one room on each level, giving no hint of what lay two feet beyond. Like the thick walls around the city, the fortified tower spoke of war, a time long-past in Selwas’s history. Once a stronghold, now a pleasure palace, hints of Kirce’s old life remained.
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Foot tapping, Nes was tracing mortar lines in the wall when Rihan finally opened the door and beckoned for her, his previous friendly demeanor replaced with a soldier’s stoicism.
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“The king will see you now.” He gave her a small nod, and his mouth quivered at the corner, his kind smile nearly breaking through his professional mask.
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Cheeks warm as the reality of her situation settled in, she inhaled one last steadying breath and stepped into the room.
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An echo of Papa’s resonant voice told her to hold her head high, read the room, and project quiet confidence. She attempted to do just that.
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King Hethtar rose from his seat at a massive desk that had to be larger than her bed back at home. He was huge, too, at least as tall as her father, with rich brown hair, a shade darker than hers and far more luxurious. Maybe fifteen or twenty years her senior, he was older, but not as haggard as she’d expected for someone whose role was to lead the kingdom.
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In contrast to the solidly built king, the room around them was sort of . . . puffy: well-decorated, but soft, in the literal sense of the word. The walls were covered in rich red and gold damask. The expansive, tiled floor, softened by a plush woven rug. Flowing draperies flanked the massive windows. And . . . was that a painting of a cat above the fire?
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What do I say?
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Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to answer the king’s summons in her father’s stead. But the alternative, writing back, could have led to a lost opportunity. This was better. Whatever this was.
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Behind her, Rihan coughed softly before closing the door, jolting Nesrina from her reverie.
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Curtsy!
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She dipped low, startled into respectful action. “Your Majesty.”
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“Sit.”
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The command drew her back to her full height, and she crossed the room, feeling a bit like a child intruding in her father’s private study. His desk was so tall it nearly reached her shoulders when she was seated, which didn’t help her feel any less infantilized by the situation.
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“Where’s Hothan?” King Hethtar’s voice was deep and resonant, attempting to echo off the walls.
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Guess this is why things are so padded. Gripping the arms of her chair, she steeled herself for the conversation ahead. “My father’s no longer with us, Your Majesty.”
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The king blinked, his mossy green eyes distant as he processed her words. “Hothan Tarisden has passed?”
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“Yes. Almost two years ago, he was mugged, alone on the road from Midlake to Napivol.” She matched the king’s clipped speech. Keeping it short also kept emotions at bay. Time helped, but she missed her papa.
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King Hethtar turned his gaze to the fireplace, losing himself in the flickering flames for a minute, two minutes, three. As she waited, Nesrina traced the spiral filigree on her chair arm and had a staredown with the engraved front panel of his desk.
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When the king turned back to her, his eyes glistened with unshed tears. “This news changes things.”
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She watched his hands, uncertain of proper etiquette. Did one make eye contact with the king? From her father’s stories, she gathered Ehmet Hethtar wasn’t a formal sort of person, in spite of his title and position over the land. But Papa’s stories were old, possibly embellished, and the prince was now a king.
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“Let me extend my sincere condolences to you and your mother. Hothan was a great man.”
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She gave him a small smile.
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“He taught me everything I know about being a naughtbirin.” After a long pause, he went on, “Eight years. Every day from when I was eight until I went off to the Institute. He never did care much for formal educations, did he? Never missed a damned symposium though. For all his talk of boats and books, he sure did love a good research paper. I’ve never met anyone else like him.”
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Frowning, despite her attempts not to, she nodded as he spoke. Hearing about Papa from someone who’d esteemed him too had her imagining his portly belly, his graying hair, and wondering if he’d ever sat in the chair she currently occupied.
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Lost in his own thoughts, the king’s face drooped until he looked positively morose, the shine was back in his eyes as he blinked at Nesrina. “I should have reached out when he wasn’t at the symposium last summer. I never corresponded enough, and I let our friendship fade. I’m sorry.”
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She nodded, not sure what else to do. It wasn’t as though his apology was for her. The distance between King Hethtar and her father was likely less of the king’s fault than he thought. According to Papa, it was fine to take their money, but fraternizing with the aristocracy was impermissible.
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“You know why I summoned your father.”
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She nodded, again, and the king stared back. Oh, that was a question. “To return to his former post as magic tutor, to instruct your children.”
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He dipped his chin. “Are you a naughtbirin, then?”
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“I am, yes.”
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“Are you as skilled as he is—was?”
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“Yes.” It felt strange to compare her own abilities to Papa’s. But the fact was, she’d grown to be as talented, if not more than him, by the time she’d come of age, years back.
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“What of teaching?”
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“What of it?” Oh, shit. Why’d I say that?
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He chuckled, and in that moment his demeanor shifted. It was like he’d been carrying a sack of bricks on his back, and the weight dropped away. Leaning forward lightly, King Hethtar intertwined his fingers and tapped his thumbs together. “Have you any experience? Would you consider yourself as skilled of an instructor as Hothan?”
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“He taught me well. Boats and books.”
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The king returned her smile.
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Bolstered, Nesrina continued, “What I lack in experience, I make up for by being a quick study. And as we both know, practical skills come quickly when one has a solid foundational knowledge. I’ve been instructing the watercourser and firebearer children of Kedran Rashooli, a—”
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“Honey merchant from Napivol. Yes. All right.” He leaned back casually. “Fantastic. Thank you, Miss . . .?” the king trailed off, unsure of her surname.
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In Selwas, men and women kept their last name and passed it to their sons and daughters, respectively. Her middle name was Tarisden, her father’s surname, but it wasn’t hers. King Hethtar clearly didn’t remember who Hothan had married, no matter how close they may have been in decades past.
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“Kiappa. Nesrina Kiappa,” she offered.
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“Miss Kiappa, you’re dismissed.” He gave her the smallest of smiles. “I must speak with my queen. We’ll summon you shortly.”
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***
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Rihan deposited her in a private sitting room where she waited impatiently for what felt like hours until a servant, an older man with livery that marked him as an earthshaper, retrieved her and escorted her to meet with the king and queen.
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Head high. Read the room. Quiet confidence. Her father’s old advice helped a bit, but Nes still found her thumb brushing circles over the smooth nail of her index finger as she stepped over the threshold into an enormous salon.
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“Miss Kiappa.” The king’s welcome carried over from where he stood beside a small round table set with four chairs. The queen was at his side, one slender hand resting on her chair back. “Please, join us.” He gestured to the table, and the queen stepped aside, revealing a delightful array of little biscuits and sandwiches beside a colorful pot of tea.
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Nesrina’s stomach grumbled, and she shushed the damn thing as she walked over to the royals. The portraits she’d seen of Queen Hevva didn’t do her justice. Her pale, almost silvery blue eyes appraised Nesrina kindly, and Nes found herself entranced by the woman’s welcoming nature—and her hair. She wished hers could look that good.
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Standing before them, she dropped into a low curtsy.
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“Please rise.” The queen’s voice rang out crisp and clear.
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Nesrina smiled at the couple who held her fate in their hands, and, in spite of the kindness on Queen Hevva’s face, and the king’s benevolence thus far, she couldn’t help the tightening of her chest and the pulsing in her fingertips. She needed this job. Mama and she were desperate for the income.
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“Sit.” King Hethar’s command felt friendlier than it had in his study.
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Nesrina selected the empty chair nearest the queen and glanced around quickly, wondering if there might be a servant nearby to pour their tea. Seeing no one, the panicked thought that she should be doing it raced through her mind; some sort of test of her abilities to read their needs. But before she could jump into action, the queen grasped the teapot and served them all.
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Nes’s eyes widened.
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“Do you take honey?”
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Of course, who doesn’t? “Please.” Nes pinched her leg beneath the table, double-checking she wasn’t dreaming as Queen Hevva drizzled a healthy helping of honey from a drip stick into the cup and passed it across the table.
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“We keep a casual household whenever possible. Help yourself,” King Hethtar voiced, explaining away her confusion while reaching forward to pluck a small sandwich from the tray between them. Downing the snack in two bites, he went on, “We’d like to ask you some questions.”
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With that, the meeting turned into an interview. The king and queen peppered her with a variety of inquiries pertaining to her upbringing, her character and morals, learning, teaching, management styles, and more. They didn’t ask how she performed under pressure, but then again, the situation made that question unnecessary.
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The hard edge of the interrogation was softened, somewhat, by the delicious mug of spiced tea she sipped on and the array of sandwiches she sampled. Her favorite was a light one with sliced cucumber, some sort of soft white cheese, and spices.
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The rulers seemed receptive to her presence and happy with her answers, but she wasn’t sure she was reading them right, especially not when they kept glancing at one another, sharing the sort of silent conversation only possible from spending years in another person’s company.
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Eventually, when she thought her rising anxiety would force out the tasty sandwiches she’d ingested, the king slapped a broad palm on the table and exclaimed, “Well!”
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“Well!” the queen echoed with a smile directed at Nes.
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King Hethtar grinned. “I think it goes without saying, we’re quite interested in bringing you on for a trial period to work with the children.”
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It did not go without saying. But his words served as a tonic that settled her nausea.
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“Given, of course,” he continued, “you’re still interested in the position after meeting them at dinner tonight.”
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Nes gulped. An interview she could handle, but a meal?
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“Yes,” the queen took over. “We’ll have you set up in a chamber and look forward to dining with you this evening.”
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“Thank you.” Nesrina managed graciousness in spite of her nerves as her fingernails tapped a little rhythm against her teacup.
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It did not go unnoticed by the queen. “Miss Kiappa, I assure you we don’t bite—”
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“Us adults at least,” the king boomed, laughing heartily at his own joke.
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“Neither do the twins . . . anymore.” Queen Hevva shrugged.
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Nesrina’s lips threatened to smile as she sipped her tea and tried to convince herself she had a handle on the situation. Her education was a point of pride. Her ability to learn and retain knowledge? Exquisite. Her skill in working with children? Passable. Her confidence in mingling with nobility? Miniscule. But still, she could do this. She could get through a dinner and secure her role.