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Where I have no bedroom to myself? No, thank you,Kel thought. But that was not fair. Conor required him close by. It would be that way until Conor himself was married. Which reminded him—

“So were you really thinking of getting married? Malgasi, Kutani, Hanse…”

Conor set his glass down with a thump. “Gods, no. What’s gotten into you?”

He really doesn’t remember,Kel thought. It was both a relief and an annoyance. He would have liked to know what had bothered Conor so much he’d put his hand through a window. Perhaps whatever Falconet had done with Audeta had been very,verypeculiar.

“Iwasthinking,” Conor said, his eyes bright. “Before I get married, I’d like to see more of the world. I’m the Crown Prince of Castellane and I’ve never been farther away than Valderan. And Valderan is mostly horses.”

“Excellent horses,” Kel pointed out. Asti and Matix had been gifts from the King of Valderan. “And arable land.”

Conor chuckled. So he remembered that, at any rate. “I recall I promised you travel, a long time ago,” he said. “An extraordinary life.”

You would see things hardly anyone ever sees. You would travel the whole world.

They’d often spoken of the places and things they’d like to see—the floating markets of Shenzhou, the towers of Aquila, the silver bridges that connected the six hills of Favár, the Malgasi capital—but it had always been in a distant, theoretical sense. The little travel he had actually done with Conor had not been much like his dreams of ships and blue water, gulls flying overhead.Traveling with royalty was an organizational nightmare of horses and caravans, trunks and soldiers, cooks and bathtubs, and rarely managing to go more than a few hours a day before having to stop and set up camp.

“My life is already fairly extraordinary,” said Kel. “More than most people know.”

Conor leaned forward. “I was thinking,” he said. “What about Marakand?”

“Marakand? Over the Gold Roads?”

Conor dipped his left shoulder in an elegant shrug. “Why not? Marakand is half my heritage, is it not?”

Kel bit thoughtfully into an apricot. Lilibet had been insistent that her son remain conscious of the roots that bound him to her home country. He—and Kel, of course—had been tutored in the language of Marakand until they were both fluent. They knew the history of the royal family of Marakand and the Twin Thrones, now occupied by Lilibet’s brothers. They knew the history of the place, the names of its most significant families. But Conor had never expressed interest in traveling there before. Kel had always suspected that Lilibet’s passion for the place had left Conor feeling ambivalent about a country that would, despite his connections there, always regard him as a foreign Prince.

“Darling!” The Queen swept into the courtyard, dressed in rich emerald satin, the waist of her dress lashed tight, long skirts brushing the dusty ground. With her were two of her Court ladies. Their dark hair was tucked up under fern-green caps, their eyes downcast. “How are you? How was yesterday?”

She was speaking to Conor, of course. She preferred to go on as though Kel didn’t exist unless it was necessary to acknowledge him. It was much the way she treated her ladies, who stood at a polite distance, pretending to admire the sundial.

“Kel gave a very fine speech,” said Conor. “The populace was duly impressed.”

“That must have been disappointing for you, darling. Jolivet isso over-cautious.” She had come around behind Conor’s seat and ruffled her ringed hand through his hair as she spoke, the emeralds on her fingers shining among his black curls. “I am sure no one wishes you harm. No one could.”

A muscle in Conor’s cheek twitched. Kel knew he was holding himself back; there was no point correcting Lilibet, or telling her that no member of a royal family was likely to be universally beloved. Lilibet preferred her own version of the world, and disagreement only sparked sulking or anger.

“What have you just been speaking of, my dear? You did seem quite animated, just now.”

“Marakand,” Conor said. “Specifically, my desire to pay the land a visit. It’s ridiculous that I’ve never been there, considering the connection I have to the place. You and Father represent the alliance of Marakand and Castellane, but I am the one who must carry it on. They should know my face.”

“The satraps know your face. They visit every year,” Lilibet said, a bit absently. The satraps were the Marakandi Ambassadors, and their visits tended to be among the highlights of the Queen’s schedule. She would gather with them to hear gossip from the faraway Court in Jahan, and afterward, for weeks, she would talk of little but Marakand: how everything was better there, more cleverly done, more beautiful. Yet in all the years since her marriage, she had never returned. Kel wondered if she knew that her memories were more idealistic fantasy than reality, and did not want them spoiled. “But it’s a lovely idea.”

“I’m glad you approve,” said Conor. “We could leave as early as next week.”

Kel choked on his apricot. “Next week?” Just readying a royal convoy—with its tents and bedding, horses and pack mules, gifts for the Court at Jahan, and food that would not spoil on the road—would take longer than that.

“Conor, don’t be ridiculous. You can’t leave next week. We have a reception for the Malgasi Ambassador. And after that, there is the Spring Festival, and the Solstice Ball—”

Conor’s expression had shut like a door. “There is always some festivity or another,Mehrabaan,” he said, deliberately using the formal Marakandi word for “mother.” “Surely I must be allowed to miss a few of them in pursuit of such a valuable goal.”

But Lilibet’s lips had pursed—a sign that she was digging in her low, pointed heels. It was true that there was always a festivity on the horizon; the one thing Lilibet truly seemed to enjoy about being Queen was planning parties. She would obsess for weeks or months over the decorations, the color scheme, dancing and fireworks, food and music. The night Kel had come to Marivent as a child, he had thought he had arrived at a rare magical banquet. Now he knew they happened every month, which took some of the enchantment out of the whole thing.

“Conor,” Lilibet said, “it is admirable that you wish to strengthen Castellane’s international ties, but your father and I would appreciate it if you saw to your responsibilities at home first.”

“Father said that?” Conor’s voice was brittle.

Lilibet ignored the question. “In point of fact, I would like to see you oversee the Dial Chamber meeting tomorrow. You’ve sat in on enough of them; you ought to know how they’re handled.”