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Prince Carnelio Azed sank to his knees, sucking in a deep breath that didn't quite fill his lungs. Sweat dripped from his dark curls, blurring the dolphins inlaid in blue glass tiles on the training floor.
Irritated, Carnelio wiped at his eyes. The sweat left a cold, stinging trail on his palm.
Water, this is water, he told himself, staring at the wet streak across his skin. Pathetic, is this the only way you can produce water?
No, no it wasn't. Carnelio took two steps backward, positioning himself so the moonlight streaming between the pillars splashed his body. Standing in the light made him feel powerful, sure.
He extended his hands, palms up and fingers outstretched as if cupping an invisible bowl, and chanted a spell. It was one of the first he'd learned, a basic exercise meant to call his aura and gather it in his palms. As the well-worn syllables rolled over his tongue, he focused on the warm, humid air brushing his face, tinged by mist from the Senriver Falls below the palace. If he concentrated, he could hear the waterfall's dull, constant roar.
His tutors had often explained how lucky he was to born a water magus in the city of Azed Court, where water was in everything and everywhere - thundering down the falls, thickening the air, flowing around the island. You are truly a child of the city, Lord Kannan, the vizier, had once said.
That had been years ago. These days, Lord Kannan was more apt to shake his head and sigh when he saw Carnelio, and his questions about training no longer seemed so fatherly, just urgent and strained. Carnelio knew what they all thought of him, what they said behind closed doors.
Already twenty-three and he still couldn't produce more than a spurt of water. I'm concerned for you, Your Highness, Lord Kannan said in his reedy whine. You are already of bonding age. His grandfather, Chair of the Circle of Magi, reassured him that it was all right, Every magus grows at his own pace.
Shut up, all of you, Carnelio thought, grinding his teeth. How dare you condescend to the Crown Prince of Senero. I'll show you all.
Yes, this time, this time, when he finished the chant he would produce a great roaring flood. It would arc from his hands all the way to the Senriver, and it would rain over everyone's heads and drive them out their apartments, blinking blearily in the night. And they'd see the surging water cut the sky in half and they'd understand, they'd know -
He felt the familiar wrenching sensation his veins, the aura spilling free from his blood now that his spell had unshackled it. Eager, trembling, he stared at his upturned palms. Any moment now...
Drip, drip. Lukewarm liquid pooled across his palms, spilling over the sides and hitting the tiles in forlorn dark blots. Disbelief thudded in Carnelio's chest like a second heartbeat, but was soon overcome by a blazing rage.
"Damn it!" He kicked at the tiles, but unbalanced and pitched to the side. Instinctively he threw out his arm to catch himself, and pain seared through his palm up to his shoulder. His head spun. The blood chugging in his veins felt slow and sluggish.
He'd already used too much of his aura tonight, but the moon was still high. It wasn't that late. He couldn't give up.
"I can do it," he growled, grinding his knuckles into the grooves between the tiles. "I'm Prince Carnelio Azed, next in line for the Golden Throne of Senero. I'm descended from the First Magi themselves. I have the aura. I have the power. I know I do."
It was probably just an illusion, but the words seemed to clear his dizzy head, speed up his pulse. How hilarious. The only spell Carnelio could cast wasn't really magic.
When his manservant Ralf awoke him the next morning, Carnelio unleashed a storm of cursing and struck the man across the face. He felt bad about it later, but then again, he didn't appreciate being shaken out of a deep slumber.
Besides, most days Ralf let him sleep in. It wasn't as if Carnelio had much to do. His lessons had ended years ago, though he still sometimes visited the fencing and archery masters when he got bored. Lord Kannan and the advisers handled the dull political business, and Carnelio didn't even have to show up for Circle of Magi meetings because he could count on his grandfather to represent his interests. Carnelio's only significant responsibilities were presiding over court every now and then and hosting parties and dances.
Today was special, though. After a few cups of coffee, Carnelio calmed down enough to let Ralf dress him in formal regalia: high-collared jacket in royal blue, floor-length scarlet cape trimmed with the golden dragons-and-staves of Azed House, and finally the Azed House sash draped over his shoulder, also red silk with gold embroidery. The dragon's eyes were rubies the size of pomegranate seeds.
He paced before the mirror, admiring the fine tailoring, the way the cape emphasized his tall, spare frame, how the jacket contrasted with his marble-pale skin. He looked like a true prince. A proper magus. And with a little carefully applied powder, the dark shadows under his eyes were rendered invisible.
A prince must not look anything less than perfect while courting the ministra with whom he hoped to bond.
All magi came in two sorts: there were the energi who took the lead when casting spells, and the ministra who supported their partners with their aura. In the palace, the unbound ministra lived in their own walled compound, the Consort's Court. The only energi allowed within the Consort's Court were those of the royal house.
Carnelio had gone to the Consort's Court countless times, mostly to visit his father the Consort, but his visits these days had a more serious, official air compared to those childhood playdates. The prince was not here out of familial sentiment; no, he was seeking a ministra.
At the wall of coral stone, two Silent Guards bowed to him and opened the intricately filigreed bronze gates. They ought to have addressed him as "Your Highness," but could not as their tongues had been cut out.
Carnelio marched across the shell-paved avenue traversing the length of the Consort's Court, passing airy pavilions, aromatic pleasure gardens, ponds as smooth and still as glass. As always, ministra gathered along the avenue and bowed. As he passed, their keen eyes followed him, their whispers fluttered in and out of his hearing. He held his chin high, paying them no mind. That of course made them whisper harder. They liked his aloof pride, flocked to it like butterflies to nectar.
They looked like butterflies, too, swathed in colorful silks and dripping with jewels, faces painted to match. Their scents assaulted him in waves of rioting sweetness, making Carnelio's head ache, stirring his base energos instincts.
At last he reached the Lotus Mansion, the largest building in the Consort's Court. He crossed the bridge spanning a pool in which white lotus blossoms drifted placidly, impatient now, and at the door another Silent Guard bowed to him and led him through a warren of rooms until he reached the Consort's audience chamber.
Carnelio sank to one knee on the wooden floor, dipping his head. "You may rise," his father said after barely a breath, and Carnelio stood with much relief. He hated bowing to anyone, and rarely had occasion to do it.
Like all the Lotus Mansion, the audience hall was on the plainer side; the architecture was designed not to overpower the Mansion's true treasures, namely the ministra who lived within it. Carnelio's father knelt amidst his customary pile of cushions on a long, carpeted dais along the back wall, flanked by his child attendants. The soft notes of lute and dulcimer music trickled around the room like water.
Water. Carnelio bit down a scowl.
"My son," the Consort said with a soft smile. Everything about him was soft, from his layers of pearl-white and dawn-pink silks, to his skin still smooth as caramel candy even though he was in his late forties. With his slight stature and dark southern coloring, he looked nothing like Carnelio, but no surprise; the blood of Azed House ran stronger than that of every House in Senero.
"Father," Carnelio said. "How are you?"
"I'm well," the Consort said, as expected. "Is there any news from beyond the Coral Wall? What of Her Majesty?"
If you really want to know, why don't you go out there yourself? It wasn't like the Consort was forbidden from accessing the rest of court. But Carnelio's father might as well have grown roots beneath the floor of the Lotus Mansion.
"We received a letter yesterday," Carnelio reported dutifully. "Mother has made good time on her journey to put down the riots in Thandelrise. She has already reached Fenyon Gate."
"That's good. I hope she will return soon."
She won't. She leaves for months at an end, maybe years, and only shows her face here for a couple of weeks at best.
But Carnelio hated talking about Mother with Father, so he strove to change the subject. "Now, Father, I'm running short on time," (He wasn't, but how would Father know any different?) "So if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to be able to see Lady Philomel before I go?"
"Of course." The Consort looked relieved. "Philomel," he called, his high, musical voice carrying over the lutes. "The Crown Prince is here."
A painted screen in the corner of the dais folded shut, and from behind it stepped a figure draped in emerald silk.
Carnelio strode up the shallow steps to the dais, bowing to the girl and kissing her hand. Her skin was as smooth as his father's, and smelled like a ministra's floral sweetness. She knelt on a cushion before the Consort, Carnelio knelt opposite her, and the Consort busied himself preparing them tea.
As the girl lowered her head, sunlight flashed on the pin securing her flaxen hair, an intricately enameled piece shaped like a peacock's fan. It matched the feather motif embroidered on her robes, the eyes rendered in glinting iridescent thread.
How gauche of her, to flaunt her House's sigil so. No doubt Philomel Pavos wanted to remind Carnelio of what he stood to gain if he bonded with her. Pavos House were rulers of the fertile forests of Senero, and their wood magi were renowned as the strongest in the land.
A good match. A logical match. Philomel, in particular, had quite a talent; Carnelio noticed that the Consort had prominently displayed several miniature trees in vases around the audience hall, including a lemon tree bearing teardrop-sized fruit. According to Father, they had all been grown from Philomel's aura.
Not that Philomel was bragging about it herself. She kept her eyes demurely downcast, only spoke in soft questions, made sure his teacup was always full. In every respect, she behaved like the perfect ministra.
She can't be older than sixteen, Carnelio thought, appraising her over his teacup. How is she so good at this already? What kind of coaching must she have received?
Those Pavoses would stop at nothing to bond one of their own into the royal line. A slow, hot wave of anger rolled upon Carnelio, and he tightened his grip on the teacup until his knuckles ached, not wanting to betray his tension to Philomel.
This was just the way life worked at court, but still, he wanted to ask Philomel what she really thought of him. Oh, she flattered him, nodding and smiling as he told her about his fencing lessons, how he'd defeate a member of the Royal Guard in single combat, but maybe in that scheming Pavos head of hers she wondered why he took so much pride in fighting like a commoner. Maybe she itched to showcase the full degree of her aura, bring to life the roses painted on the teapot, but knew she had been ordered not to.
Maybe her family had told her, He'll feel small if you remind him that you're stronger than him. As his ministra, you must support him.
Carnelio pressed his fingertips into the hot teacup until he no longer felt them. A crack split the white porcelain, and hot liquid splashed his fingertips.
"Ouch!" He flung the cup aside and it smashed into the carpet at the Consort's feet, spraying tea and porcelain shards over the silk cushions.
"Oh, dear." The Consort covered his mouth with his voluminous sleeves. "Oh, my. Carnelio, are you all right?"
"I'm fine, Father," Carnelio said, heart racing, shame twisting his stomach into knots. Great, now he'd gone and made a fool of himself in front of the ministra he was courting.
At least Philomel took his mistake in stride. She leaned across the table, holding out a handkerchief. "My prince, if you would let me wipe your hands?"
Carnelio grumpily submitted to her ministrations, but he refused to look at her, or his father, or the two attendants cleaning up the mess. A headache was throbbing in his skull. He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut and drift away from the scene, but Philomel's scent kept pressing against his face, sweet as roses, pulsing with worry and devotion. How very proper of her. They'd even taught her to control her scent.
But surely, as she rubbed the handkerchief over his fingers, she must be thinking that if he were a proper water magus, he'd have already cast a spell to dry the lukewarm tea staining his hands.
Aramy Basquiale stood behind a column supporting the pavilion roof, watching the Crown Prince leave the Consort's Court.
No, he wouldn't be so foolish or forward as to put on a ridiculous display as many of his fellows were doing. Like a flock of chattering magpies, they crowded as close to the avenue as they dared, batting their eyelashes, fluttering their fans, the most daring among them even deigning to open their robes a little.
Aramy rolled his eyes. Idiots all. Hadn't they realized that the Crown Prince gave not a shit about their pathetic seductions? Instead, he kept his chin up, his strides long and brisk, his dark blue eyes as distant as the night sky. Anyone could recognize that he wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible.
Or perhaps not. The magpies with whom Aramy lived weren't half so clever at reading people as they thought. All they cared for was fulfilling their - or their families' - base desires.
Perhaps Aramy wasn't so different than them in that regard, but his desires were not so base, and had a functioning mind behind them.
As the Crown Prince disappeared through the gate, haughtily ignoring the Silent Guards who bowed to him, the overbearing sweetness in the air lightened. Now Aramy could detect the scents of the Consort's Court's greenery, the perfume of the bougainvilleas and lemon blossoms.
"Ohh," groaned Elai Jacquan from the front of the pavilion. "His scent is amazing. So deep, so musky, so powerful! I felt like I was melting, I honestly did feel like I was going to melt."
"Can you imagine what it would be like to be bonded to him?" chirped Lyonna Ensinger, who couldn't be any older than thirteen. "To breathe that scent every day - to wear his collar - "
Their idiocy was too much; Aramy couldn't resist heaving a deep sigh. Instantly the two stooges whipped around to face him, their painted lips pursed in disapproving scowls.
"What are you doing here, Basquiale?" Elai said nastily. "Go back to the library and read about siege fortifications from the Eleventh Ransha War or something."
There haven't even been six Ransha Wars, let alone eleven, but Elai was not the sort of person who cared much about getting his history right. "Do I not have the right to lay my eyes upon His Highness when he pays his rare visits? I'm a ministra of the Consort's Court too."
"Suuuuuure you are." Elai scrunched up his face, which had the unfortunate effect of making it resemble a lump of dough. "Seriously, what do you hope to gain? You're never gonna bond to him. Hello, he's the crown prince, and you're - I forget? Who's even heard the name Basquiale before you came here?"
"Yeah!" shrieked Lyonna. "And you aren't even a proper magus!"
In a way, they were correct; even idiots were capable of understanding a kernel of truth. His parents were indeed of a house so minor their holdings didn't get marked on most maps, and he did not attend the same practical training sessions as the other ministra. But they were wrong in every other respect that mattered.
"Who says I intend to bond with His Highness?" Aramy said, keeping his voice mild and pleasant. "Perhaps I only want to see him."
"Of course you want to bond! But you're not going to!" Elai jabbed a ring-bloated finger in Aramy's face. "The prince will never bond with a no-name."
"The prince only wants to bond with strong magi!" Lyonna added. "Not fake magi with fake aura!"
"And have you ever given a thought as to why the prince wants a strong ministra?" Aramy said, fixing the two stooges with a poisonous smile. "Do you not hear a single word that drifts in through the Coral Wall? Do you not pay attention?"
He was clearly asking them to do more thinking than they had in their lifetimes. They fixed each other with perplexed looks, and it was all he could do to not burst into very unseemly giggles. But still.
The Consort's Court wasn't entirely cut off from the rest of the palace, not if you were clever. The servants who brought in food and swept the streets could be bribed with gold or mere flirtation, and the Silent Guards could be bribed with lessons on how to write. Put a pen in a man's hand and he was no longer silent, was he?
There was a reason the Crown Prince never demonstrated his aura before the Consort's Court, as past royals once had made a habit of doing. Perhaps if these idiots bothered to read the histories, they'd understand this was aberrant behavior. But only Aramy did.
And he'd use it as far as it would take him.
Finally, the gears in the stooges' minds stopped turning and they decided to riposte as best they could - which amounted to childish insults. "Oh, yeah?" Elai said, his face scrunching further. "At least we can sing. At least we can dance. At least we're pretty. We're not filthy half-breeds like you."
"Half-breed fake-magus!" Lyonna screamed as she ran after the fleeing Elai, hopping so she wouldn't trip over the hem of her robes. "He'll never want you!"
Ah, wrong again.
As Carnelio's next scheduled date with Philomel drew nearer, nervous thoughts wound inside his body like so many coarse gray threads, bunching and gathering into a ball that stuck painfully in his throat. It hurt to breathe, to move, to even think.
He didn't want to see her again. Not because he hated her, or because they didn't get along - no, each meeting passed without a single bump, without a hint of friction, like greased wheels gliding over a paved road. But it was a deception. There was nothing natural about it.
Even though Carnelio had never had a real friend in his life, somewhere deep inside he knew an actual intimate relationship didn't work like this. Him babbling about anything that might make him look good, while she nodded and smiled and demurred.
What would happen if they bonded? If they mingled their two souls into one, if they combined their two powers?
She'd walk all over him, of course. Pavos wouldn't have been so aggressive about pushing themselves onto him if they didn't think they could control him.
I must control my own destiny, Carnelio thought late at night, tracing the pomegranate tree engraved on his headboard. But I don't know how to do it when my aura is so weak. Mother, what would you do?
Like she could tell him, even if she was here. The Queen was always ill-at-ease around him, nervous and jumpy as if she feared making a mistake. And Mother would never understand his fears and insecurities. She was one of the strongest light magi of her generation; Carnelio had heard it said often enough.
Nobody would help him. Grandfather alone of all his family might be sympathetic, but he was too busy, and he kept acting like Carnelio was just a late bloomer.
Only Carnelio knew the truth.
It was with great dread that Carnelio dragged himself to the Consort's Court. Each step felt heavier than the last, as though his feet were transforming into leaden blocks. The humid air pressed against his face like a choking blanket; soon his underarms became damp with sweat, soaking the silk through. He hoped his energos' scent would cover the sour stench.
Under one arm, he gripped a silk-wrapped package: a bracelet he'd commissioned from his favorite jeweler in the city, wrought from gold inlaid with emeralds and zircons, and with a subtle dragon motif. Such gifts were traditional during the courting process; not as intimate as cuffs or collars, they nonetheless signaled that the energos was laying a serious claim on the ministra.
It should have made Carnelio feel powerful, but instead he wanted to chuck the damn present into the Senriver.
As his footsteps rang on the shell avenue, the usual audience gathered to fan their plumage. Their stares pierced Carnelio like daggers, dark and accusing, and their whispers sounded like fraud, fraud, fraud.
Somewhere nearby, maybe from that pavilion up ahead, a ministra was playing a slow, simple tune on the lute, like a lullaby.
None too special - the lutist was competent, nothing more - but something about the song tugged at Carnelio's heart anyway. Don't be maudlin, he told himself, and walked faster. Best get this over with quickly. It wasn't like he and Philomel were going to hold the bonding ceremony right there in the Lotus Mansion.
As Carnelio passed the pavilion, the lutist began to sing.
Carnelio froze in his tracks. The lute music was unremarkable, but the voice...it sliced through the humidity, smooth and clear as crystal, and rang with a confidence that resonated in Carnelio's bones. The words wrapped around and around his ears, meaning nothing - they must be in the ministra's magical language - but each was soft and comforting as a mother's embrace. Carnelio wouldn't know. He had no memories of such things.
His heart was throbbing, so painful, and he had no idea why he felt this way, why he was so impacted by a mere song. Ridiculous. He'd never cared for music.
Because it isn't a mere song, he realized with an icy jolt. It's a spell.
What kind of spell? Who was casting magic? Why couldn't he move? No, his entire world had become the ministra's song. Everything else fell away - the chattering ministra, their overbearing scents, the silk-wrapped bundle tucked under his arm.
But oddly enough, Carnelio didn't have a single thought of danger. He should have - somebody was performing magic on him without his permission - but instead, there was nothing but a strange sense of contentment, settling over his bones like a fine powder.
No, more than contentment. Something else was stirring inside him, deep in his core, flowing into his veins. Rushing, rushing, like snowmelt pouring from the mountains. Cold, crisp, clear, clean -
Water.
Carnelio gasped, his spine snapping taut as a bowstring. And the water inside him burst free, coalescing from thin air to form a slender stream that sparkled in the hot sunlight and twisted a loop around him.
Carnelio spun, awe pounding in his head, as more and more streams of water swirled into existence, twining with one another, weaving into a complicated, lattice-like sphere with him at the center. He spread his hands - they seemed to be glowing, pale and out of focus.
Is any of this happening? he wondered. Is this a dream?
He might have dismissed it as such, if it weren't for the power still surging violently inside him, scouring his veins raw. His aura. More aura than he'd summoned in his lifetime.
The song rose to a crescendo, holding a single trembling note, and descended into a series of trills before fading away. The lute strummed a few more times, each note delicate as a raindrop, and it too fell silent.
The water-sphere remaining swirling around Carnelio, shimmering with iridescent colors, before its tendrils loosened and dissolved. Water splashed his boots and the shell pavement, shockingly cold.
Carnelio jumped. Disappointment settled sick and sour in his stomach, but with it came a deep, dragging exhaustion, buckling his knees.
And that made him excited. If he really felt so tired, then it had really happened. He really had used his aura.
The watching ministra had fallen silent. Carnelio breathed in, savoring their surprise.
A burst of applause shattered the silence. Alarmed, Carnelio whipped to the right, and saw a ministra approaching from the pavilion.
The ministra had a lute tucked under his right arm. Carnelio's heart crawled into his throat.
"An excellent show, Your Highness," the ministra said, stopping in the middle of the shell avenue. "Please allow me to congratulate you."
Spreading out his robes, he sank to his knees, but he never once removed his gaze from Carnelio's face. A breach of protocol, but Carnelio didn't care. Not when the ministra's eyes were so amazing.
The ministra's skin and hair were so pale as to almost be white, but his eyes were the deep scarlet of spilled lifeblood. They were rimmed with silvery makeup and outlined with a streak of red, emphasizing their startling hue.
"Who," Carnelio breathed, "who are you?"
"My name is Lord Aramy Basquiale," the ministra said. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Highness."
Basquiale. Carnelio had never heard that name before, but he decided he didn't care. "You - what did you do? That, that, I was using my aura but I didn't chant or anything - "
"Ah." Aramy Basquiale splayed his fingers across his chest, his scarlet-painted nails a striking contrast to his white overrobe. "That was just a little spell I was trying out. I didn't expect it to have such a grand effect."
"But what kind of spell was it? To do something like that, I've never - "
"It's something of my own invention. You see, because of the way my aura works." A small, satisfied smile lifted Aramy's lush red lips. "I am an aether magus, Your Highness."
Aether. Carnelio breathed in, feeling dizzy. There were seven elemental attributes of aura, but the seventh type, aether, was vanishingly rare. He'd never known an aether magus had been living in the same court as him all this time.
Carnelio didn't know much about aether aura, but his tutors had told him that though its bearers could not summon power directly, they had the invaluable ability to amplify other auras.
"So you - you did that? You brought out my aura? You made that sphere?" Carnelio's voice rose to a squeak, but he no longer cared about how he sounded, what he said. Right now, the only two people in the world were himself and this beautiful aether magus, Aramy Basquiale.
"Not quite," Aramy said with a slight shake of his head. The tiny glass plum blossoms dangling from his hairpins jingled. "Think of it as me providing the spark to your kindling, Your Highness. You were the one with the potential all along."
Was he? Did he really have that sort of power slumbering inside him? Carnelio stepped closer to Aramy, his boots splashing in the water. He wanted to - he wanted to - he didn't know.
All he knew was that he would not ever go back to those endless nights on the training floor, struggling to summon so much as a puddle. Never.
"Please," he said, his voice trembling, "stand. Stand, Lord Basquiale."
Aramy straightened with a quicksilver-smooth motion, his white and scarlet robes billowing around him. Now that he was standing, Carnelio saw that Aramy was quite tall, almost reaching the prince's brow.
"Where did this power of yours come from?" he babbled. "Where do you come from? Your hair, eyes, I've never - "
Carnelio knew his questions were rude, but he couldn't stop himself. He needed every solid detail to anchor Aramy Basquiale securely in place, prevent him from drifting away into the winds like a phantom or a dream.
Thankfully, Aramy took everything in stride. "We Basquiales are minor vassals to Aluana House, in the Coastlands. I believe I look this way because I've a touch of Ahui blood in my ancestry, and who knows, that ancestor may well be responsible for my aether aura."
The Ahui were a secretive race from the southernmost continent, rumored to be the originators of magic. Carnelio didn't doubt that, if it resulted in the kind of power he'd just experienced.
I can't let it go, he thought with a shudder. I absolutely cannot let it go.
"Forgive me if I was being presumptuous, Your Highness," Aramy murmured, watching Carnelio through his long eyelashes. "I thought I might ease your nerves before your audience with Lady Philomel. Have I overstepped my place?"
He was deferring to Carnelio, showing the proper ministra submission, but in an astonishingly brazen way. Carnelio didn't know if he liked it or not. All he knew was that it was different, and he couldn't ignore the afterglow of the magic still pulsing through his body.
"You have not, Lord Basquiale," Carnelio declared, his deep voice ringing with practiced authority. "Come. Walk with me. I would like to know more about aether aura and the Basquiales."
He held out his hand, as clear an invitation as any, and the audience unleashed a collective gasp. One, a round-faced fellow in Jacquan colors, was brave enough to shout, "Your Highness, you can't - "
Carnelio flung up his hand, and to his satisfaction the ministra all quieted. They're in awe of me, he realized. Awe and fear. "Silence. Do not presume to give an energos orders, let alone the Crown Prince."
"Yes, Your Highness, I'm sorry, Your Highness," wailed the Jacquan ministra, grinding his forehead to his ground.
Carnelio found him manifestly uninteresting, so he marched on ahead until he stood right before Aramy. This close, Aramy's scent brushed his face, light and subtly sweet, reminding him of moonflowers and lavender. And with it came a silvery edge of triumph, harmonizing perfectly with Carnelio's.
To detect an emotion so similar to his own from another person, let alone someone he barely knew, shocked Carnelio. When had he ever felt something like this from Philomel Pavos? She forever emanated the same muted servility.
So it was with no fear, no hesitation, that Carnelio reached out and wrapped his arm around Aramy's. He squeezed tight, pulling Aramy close to him, until all he could breathe was the ministra's scent. Aramy didn't even stumble. He continued to smile that beautiful, inscrutable smile.
"Where shall we go, Your Highness?" he asked.
"Lead the way," Carnelio said. The words rang with the crisp assurance of an order, but he fancied it was an indulgent kind of order - not a prince to subject, but energos to ministra.
As he and Aramy walked, he reflected that a weight had vanished from beneath his other arm, and Aramy's other arm was empty too. Somewhere back near the water glistening upon the pavement, he had dropped his gift to Philomel, and Aramy had dropped his lute.
Ah, never matter. Neither needed such useless things any longer.