Page 52

Iriset took comfort in Diaa when they first met, for Diaa made her feel welcome in the palace, with a falling energy that drew Iriset’s old maternal wounds closed ever so slightly.

She expects that Diaa will be just as welcoming to her son’s actual wife as she inexplicably was to the nobody handmaiden daughter of the Little Cat.

How incorrect her expectations turn out to be! Diaa is rather cool toward her—toward Singix.

Blinking away her surprise when Diaa merely nods greeting, brushing her fingers to one eye in a half-respectful, slightly dismissive gesture, Iriset leans nearer to Lyric. Both to remind Diaa of her loyalties and discover if Lyric noticed.

He doesn’t seem to, but touches her back, between her shoulder blades, and leads her to a low, cushioned chair around the long brazier-table.

Instead of coals in the iron center of the table, chunks of ice melt, releasing the cold smell of mint leaves that were frozen into the ice.

A charge of ecstatic force refreezes the drops of water where they collect in a basin.

Diaa kneels across from her and smiles slightly—but it’s a smile for a stranger.

Lyric reclines across several pillows with his shoulder touching Iriset’s elbow, and Diaa’s gaze slides between them. “How is the bond taking?”

“Mother,” Lyric says with gentle censure.

Iriset ducks her face, though she would prefer to narrow her eyes and reply with a biting observation.

“I remember the intensity and disorientation, loves,” Diaa says, reaching for the narrow crystal pitcher of pear wine.

She pours two small cups, then some water.

“There are few who can understand your situation, and I thought”—here she sets the water cup before her son—“that you might like to speak of it before the arrival of your overwhelming sister.”

The explanation seems acceptable to Lyric, who plucks the water up and sips, then says, “I feel strong, not disoriented.”

Iriset nods, leaning her arm against his. She wants to kiss his hair, for it shines, waving softly around his ears, and there are small curls stuck to the back of his neck. Her pulse quickens and Lyric tilts his face up to meet her eyes with an understanding smile.

“I see,” Diaa says, amused. She raises her cup of wine. “And I am glad of it. I was concerned the match would be too overtly political for the binding to reach your hearts so quickly.”

“An unnecessary concern, Mother,” Lyric says, command in his low tone.

She hums an unconvinced note, and Iriset murmurs, “I will be what he needs me to be, Your Glory.”

“Of course, child,” Diaa says, nodding at the second cup of wine.

Iriset takes it and drinks, saved from further conversation by Amaranth’s arrival.

The Moon-Eater’s Mistress blows in like a thunderstorm, billowing and determined. She kisses her mother’s hand and sits with a groan, arms stretching above her. “What a long day this always is,” she complains.

“And must be,” Lyric says.

“And must be,” Amaranth echoes, not quite mocking.

She looks to Iriset, who says, “I’ve never witnessed anything like it. The empire is truly great.”

Amaranth’s mouth opens as if to laugh, but instead she snaps her lips shut and snorts.

Diaa pours Amaranth a cup of wine. “When will Iriset be unraveled?”

Iriset can’t stop the stiffening of her entire body.

Amaranth and Lyric stare at their mother for a moment, and Diaa purses her lips. “I quite liked her, you know.”

“I have arranged with the Silent priests and Raia mér Omorose for the ritual tomorrow morning,” Amaranth admits.

The Vertex Seal slowly sets his cup down, and his fingers linger against it before he draws a deep breath. “I will attend.”

“The body has waited too long already,” Amaranth says, almost apologetic. “And tomorrow is our only chance before… Well, there will be other unravelings to concern us after the executions and whatever mercy is or is not granted.”

“I know,” Lyric says.

“Poor girl,” Diaa of Moonshadow murmurs.

Iriset closes her eyes, her stomach grown tight and cold.

Thinking not of the ritual but of her father.

Tomorrow she needs to find time to analyze the state of the anchors for her distraction array, and find out where exactly she’ll be during the execution in case she can still set the trigger, and hope, hope, hope Bittor manages to save him.

He must. Then Iriset can flee, too. Iriset whispers, “She died for me. Allow me to attend with you, husband.”

Lyric touches her knee. “You are my wife, not my subordinate. You may go and do as you prefer.”

“Has there been some progress discovering who placed the poison?” Iriset asks both her husband and Amaranth.

The latter shakes her head. “The people with access are being narrowed down and questioned, and we have a list of suspects, but nothing for you to worry about right now. Focus on the start of your marriage.”

Iriset frowns and doesn’t allow herself to toy with her cup. “It concerns me so greatly, Your Glory. If I can help in any way, I would like to.”

“Until we catch the criminal, you can help by not getting killed.”

“Ama,” Lyric chides.

“Sometimes frank conversation pins the right forces in place, brother, rather than elaborate knotting around the center.”

Iriset says, “It is all right, Lyric. I am fond of Her Glory’s… forthright… ways. And I must, if nothing else, remain alive for you—for the empire.”

“At least until you’ve given us a couple of heirs,” teases Amaranth. But the Vertex Seal ignores his sister, frowning at Iriset as if not liking something in her words. It bothers her not to know where her misstep was.

“I noticed some people yesterday who seemed to dislike me,” she says quickly, eyes downcast. “Two in particular. A young mirané woman with a plain but beautiful mask adorned with tiny gems in the shape of rain, and an older miran in almost all white, but a half-mask of copper and opals.”

“Those are good details to remember,” Lyric says.

“The masks are still quite a novelty, to me,” she tells him, glancing up at his approving nod.

“Ager mé Aialen,” Amaranth says. “The young one. Those were all diamonds.”

Diaa sighs sharply. “She dislikes that it wasn’t she on the wedding seat.”

Lyric grimaces, and Iriset nods. Jealousy was correct—and possibly a motive for murder.

“Is she on your list?” Lyric asks his sister, who answers no.

“Ager would need an ally with better access. Maybe one of her parents, though. But I think the woman in the half-mask was Naira mé Rinore.”

“Yes,” Diaa agrees. “Naira had it designed to connect with her sister’s mask.”

Iriset has heard that name. “Does she have reason to dislike me?”

“She was vociferously against your marriage,” Amaranth drawls.

“Oh Holy Silence,” Diaa says dismissively. “Naira would never stoop to something so vulgar as murder. And in such a sloppy way!”

Amaranth laughs with what sounds like true delight. “An excellent defense of your old crony, Mother.”

Diaa purses her lips. “May I summon our meal now, or will there be more unappetizing talk?”

“One thing, please, Your Glory.” It’s easy for Iriset to let her face fall into sorrow as she stares at the half-filled cup of wine before her. “Ambassador Erxan. Is he… his body…?”

“It’s being treated in the Ceres traditions,” Lyric says gently, touching her knuckles. He slides his fingers along hers to link them. “With help from the attendants you and he brought with you. We’ll send him home properly.”

“Did you determine how he died?” Diaa asks. “Non-miran are so susceptible to poison.”

“Heart attack,” Amaranth says. “No sign of poison, either mundane or architectural.”

Iriset squeezes her eyes shut. “May I have a moment with him before he goes? There are… prayers I would make.”

“Of course.” Lyric lifts Iriset’s hand and places it near her wine cup.

With a very slight smile, she takes his advice and drinks it.

The first chance she gets, she’ll corner Amaranth alone and make her explain more about this investigation.

Demand names. Who to look out for, the security measures they’re taking—surely they’ll give her a taster or something annoying, or extra Seal guards.

“Mother?” Lyric says.

Diaa sighs and claps her hands, summoning attendants with their meal.

For the rest of the evening, Iriset quietly listens to the conversation—mostly directed by Amaranth—absorbing the talk without participating.

Topics range from the usual mirané gossip to troop movements at the Bow border.

The latter Lyric shies away from, claiming it’s business for after the Days of Mercy, to be discussed with General Bey and his miran, not at dinner the night after his marriage.

Diaa and Amaranth share a look that clearly says they’ll speak of it alone later since he refuses.

Lyric says if they wish to discuss martial concerns, better to spend it speculating on where the rebels in the Rivermouth district are getting their money.

It can’t all be traced to the undermarket, especially given the recent abrupt changes to that undermarket.

Which suggests they have a patron wealthy enough to hide the losses or scheming enough to wash it.

Diaa makes an offhand comment about tax credits for the barges moving through that district, which begins an involved argument about repairs to the Crimson Canyon, necessary before the autumn rains, and designing a new channel for balance in the south.

Lyric is interested in a proposal from the Third School that balance might be achieved with a suspension bridge instead of a channel, if the bridge is designed precisely.

(“Aren’t they all designed precisely,” Amaranth drawls, rolling her eyes briefly to Iriset.)

Iriset, frustrated she can’t make her valuable architectural opinions known, stares hard at her pumpkinseed cake, glad there’s no need to grow used to a life cloistered by ignorance in return for good sex. There are two days until her father’s execution and then she’ll be gone, too.