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Chapter twenty-five

Nerys

“ M ore paint, Celine,” Qiana said to her maid, “she’s my ward, not a servant.” Celine nodded and proceeded to plaster another layer of the lightening cosmetics on Nery’s face.

This couldn’t be right. More ?

“I’ll shine in the dark at this rate,” Nerys quipped. “Father would never have let me wear this much paint at home.” Luckily the statement could’ve applied to both her and Callidora’s fathers.

“That’s the idea—you’re at court now,” Qiana said, motioning to her own perfectly painted and coiffed head.

A head with hair that threatened doorways and tonight contained an arrangement of dried mushrooms and glass orbs, as was a new style at court.

Luckily, Nerys’s hair was just her hair. For now.

“Any patches, Sun Holder?” the maid asked after she had stepped back to review her work.

Patches? Nerys’s eye drifted to a dark blotch on Qiana’s face, one of the fake moles made of silk that the aristocracy decided was an attractive feature. As if migrating moles were something to admire.

“I think not, Celine.” The maid nodded and went to fetch some other contraption from her cart of facial transformation. “I want her to stand out—a sign she’s not yet of the court.” Qiana crossed her arms and watched Celine return to work, spackling yet more paste on Nerys’s cheeks.

This was going to take forever—no wonder wealthy women took several hours to prepare for banquets.

Nerys’s eye roamed to her grandmother’s crystal rose, snugly placed on her dresser.

She would bear this. For her family, she would bear this.

They could cake her in plaster and roll her down a rose patch, and she’d bear it. What was a little rouge ?

Finally, it was done. If she was like a doll before, she was now like the painted effigy destined for the bonfire. With how wrapped she was in corsets and fabric, she had an effigy’s mobility as well. What would Idris think, if he saw her?

“Are you ready, Callidora?” Qiana asked. The maid had tried painting Nerys’s nipples with rouge as was apparently the style, but Nerys refused, and fortunately, Qiana did not push the issue. 149 A good thing, because that may have made Nerys leap out the window.

Compared to Qiana, Nerys looked demure. Qiana, with her breasts balancing on a bodice-shelf—there were birds who only dreamed of flying to such heights. Now, Qiana probably had painted nipples and painted who-knew-what-else.

“I’m ready,” Nerys said.

She wasn’t.

Qiana nodded, her lips set in a straight line. This was as important for Qiana as it was for her—Qiana’s own reputation was at stake. “Very well, then. Let’s go.”

The two of them made their way through the softly lit halls and up wide marble stairs, eventually emerging on a rooftop decorated as fine as any palace room, complete with upholstered furniture, stone columns, and satin draperies.

Courtiers milled around, their satin-and-silk clad bodies illuminated by flickering torches.

Nerys hugged her velvet cloak tighter. While the rooftop had couches and stools like any other room, it didn’t have the palace’s heat, despite the braziers placed throughout.

Periodically there were life-sized statues of nude women, some holding birds, others skulls, frozen in some permanent dance.

Musicians played their instruments from their place along the railing, on which rested evergreens in pots, though the court paid scant attention.

The musicians were probably just an excuse for drinking, and…

was that couple in the corner doing what she thought they were doing?

Yes, they definitely were. That’s…bold. And in front of royalty?

The noble men of course, in their tight breeches and gaudy jewels, were nothing compared to Idris—they seemed barely strong enough to lift a sword, much less use one in battle.

Did they even know how to fight? And their conversation…

from the glimpses Nerys caught they seemed obsessed with the superficial, without a single original thought to be found. Was all the court like this?

Kor’yitz Adelyna herself lounged on a couch on the far side of the roof, surrounded by a horde of courtiers like flies on a pie, with one woman practically on her lap.

Near her were columns of draped dark purple brocade, giving the illusion of a ancient courtyard as opposed to the roof of a palace in winter.

“Sun Holder Qiana,” one noblewoman called out shrilly, approaching them with a smile and an inquisitive eye.

Nerys tried her hardest not to stare at the woman’s unnaturally lifted chest, which heaved like quaking bread dough, revealing rouged nipples through the bodice’s lace edging.

Luckily, the ivy and eggs— eggs? —in her hair served as a distraction.

Courtiers had far too much time on their hands.

“I didn’t know that Your Brilliance had returned.

” The woman’s curious eyes drifted over to Nerys.

“Yes, Your Gloriousness, I have,” Qiana said with curtsey which Nerys immediately copied. “And this is my dear ward, Sword Man Callidora.” Nerys curtsied once more.

“Ward? So, it’s true.”

“Indeed.”

The two women delved into social courtesies, all while Nerys did her best to be both attentive and unobtrusive. Finally, the woman said, “You’re lucky, My Lady. Not all have had such an accomplished advocate.” The woman’s words didn’t match her critical expression.

Nerys curtsied again.

She had been warned, but it was still surprising how quickly it had started—the fakery had begun in earnest.

Like a fattened pig pulled into a show pen, Nerys was then presented to more courtiers than she could hope to remember, a sea of “Gloriousnesses,” “Brilliances,” “Magnificences,” and more.

At least she recognized the titles, and greeted everyone appropriately.

Well, no one gave any disapproving glances, at any rate.

After the fourth fully exposed, rouged, and occasionally pierced bosom they became easy to ignore.

Was this really Nerys from Raven’s Crest, working her way through these courtiers?

It was as if she were watching from someplace else, anchored to Qiana amidst this sea of waiting scandal.

But as much as Qiana was seemingly adored based on how courtiers flocked to her, 150 Nerys was much less important, and soon she found herself separated from her guardian.

Should she return to Qiana? It would involve working her way through the flock of young men surrounding her guardian. Maybe it would be best to wait—Qiana would find her soon enough.

Nerys was just beginning to wonder if she could help herself to the goblets of wine being distributed by well-proportioned serving men, when a young woman near Nerys’s age approached, dressed in an unusual style.

The newcomer wore a long black dress that covered her arms entirely, leaving long wide sleeves that dangled to the ground, but the way it wrapped around her body appeared more like a tree trunk than the form-fitting Ca’mailian fashions.

Likely no maid had tried to paint her chest. The woman’s dark hair was wrapped in a tight bun which threatened to tug back her face.

There was something about her that seemed off, though it was so dark Nerys couldn’t tell what it was.

“You’re new,” the woman said in a choppy accent, giving her a closed-mouth smile.

“I am.” Nerys curtsied and introduced herself. When she rose, she said to the woman, “I am yours.” A safe—if odd—introduction, where one did not want to risk offense.

The woman laughed in a manner that—while not cruel—was as comforting as nettles on bare skin. “None of that. Not for me. I’m just a visitor, and a minor one at that.”

“Visitor? Where are you from?”

The woman smiled again, the movement making the skin around her eyes crinkle like tracing paper. “Oh, you are new. How delicious. You really don’t recognize me?”

“Um…no. I’m sorry, I don’t. I’ve not been to court before.”

The woman laughed, covering her mouth with a clenched fist. The sound reminded Nerys of cackling crows. Nerys fidgeted and checked to see if anyone was watching. They were. Great.

“Oh, I didn’t mean me in particular—I meant where I’m from .

” The woman moved her fist down and slowly clenched and unclenched her fingers.

“My name is Jesta. I am part of the Peliani ambassador’s retinue.

” Pelia—home of the Resurrected. “I thought you might have recognized my attire.” She gestured at her black somber dress. “We are known for it.”

“It’s a common Pelian style, then?”

“Oh, no. It’s just for those like me.”

“Those at court?”

Jesta barked out a laugh. “No silly. Those who are dead. Or used to be.” Jesta grimaced. “We’re not supposed to say ‘dead’—but we aren’t truly alive, either.”

Nerys took a step back, her face frozen.

A raised corpse. Here? No, it made sense that one of the Resurrected was here—she was at court—but for the former corpse to be so flagrant about it?

Jesta flagged down a servant and reached for wine—the raised dead drank wine?

Oh no, Nerys was staring, her mouth dropped open as if trapping flies.

This wasn’t good. Nerys clamped her mouth shut and stood straighter.

What were the courtiers going to think? At least Jesta did not seem offended—quite the opposite.

She watched Nerys like she had sprouted feathers out of her ass.