Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

HAMLET  [...] I loved you not.

OPHELIA I was the more deceived.

HAMLET  Get thee to a nunnery. Why wouldst thou be
a breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest,
but yet I could accuse me of such things that it
were better my mother had not borne me: I am
very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offenses
at my beck than I have thoughts to put them
in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act
them in. What should such fellows as I do crawling
between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves
all; believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery.
Where’s your father?

OPHELIA  At home, my lord.

HAMLET  Let the doors be shut upon him that he may
play the fool nowhere but in ’s own house. Farewell.

(Hamlet 3.1.127-144)

Chenelo woke just before the dawn, and lit her customary candle for the dead, whom she could not reach— and for the living, whom she was not permitted to.

She blew out the match when it started to catch her fingers, and sat with her hands in her lap, watching the smoke curl. She inhaled, caught the hot, sweet smell of the burning wick, and pressed her hands flat together to meditate.

She caught the rhythm of her breathing, the mantra, with the speed thirty years of practice could bring. By the time she opened her eyes, the light of Anmura had stained the sky with streaks of purple-pink, and the surrounding cells were shuffling with the subtle scuffles of the other women waking up, making prayers, washing. The bell for lauds would go soon, but she would not take it with the rest of the sisters.

Chenelo got up, stretched, and went to wash and dress, taking out a fresh outer robe and veil. She did not, she considered as she put on her talismans, entirely miss the interminable fuss of dressing that had come with being a noblewoman— but she did rather miss frivolous jewellery, from time to time. Well, she was only mortal. 

She secured her robe with the belt that clasped with the interlocking moons of Ulis, then bent over her candle and cupped the flame in her hands. She murmured a platitude, then pinched it out with her thumb and index finger. Between the sewing and the candlewicks, she had really quite limited feeling in some of her fingertips, these days.

She pulled her veil down, emerged from her cell, and walked at a brisk pace to the outer ring of the convent where the Dach'osmerrem’s chamber was, letting her sleeves trail so they covered her hands. It was bitingly cold this morning— autumn coming to call at last— and she regretted leaving her stole behind. Some of the sisters, the elven northerners, never seemed to be cold— but Chenelo had never truly adjusted well to the unforgiving chill of the Ethuveraz. She comforted herself with the knowledge that the visiting pilgrim's chambers were always heated better than the sister’s cells, since they often took in elderly widows.

Like all the other pilgrims, Chenelo knew no name for the Dach'osmerrem she was currently seeing to— such was the standard for all the widows, grieving mothers, pious noblewomen, and disgraced family members that came to do worship of Ulis. According to the notes given to her by the Dach’othalo, this particular woman had been on a tour of several Thu-Tetar nunneries, and at each of them she had requested a Barizheise sister to teach her a little of the custom of prayer. Not unusual, since the practice was popular in Thu-Tetar, and it had plenty of Barizheise sisters— here, Chenelo had been dispatched for the task. Or at least, she was there for the Dach’osmerrem to watch, since they were not permitted to speak to one another, in observance of the silence of Ulis. Chenelo did not particularly mind being stared at in prayer— the rites were relatively simple, and being observed by a few women was not enough to put her off, not when she had once been mocked by an entire court for her piety. 

She slipped out of the promenade and into the chilly, still-shadowed kitchen garden to check on her herbs— not something she had known much about before coming here, but she had liked to learn. The Great Avar’s daughters did not cook for themselves, and Empresses certainly didn’t, but sisters of Ulis were required to be largely self-sufficient, and Chenelo had found she enjoyed spending time with the plants. 

She pinched a little of the dew-damp mint from the stalk and rubbed it between her hands as she walked, thinking of Isvaroë and the great bushels of the stuff that had grown unchecked along the eastern wall of the house. She had often sat on the lawn and crushed it or chewed on it, while Maia tottered precariously on unstable toddler legs nearby. She had never worried about him going particularly far from her, for he never did; even if he saw something he wanted to investigate, he would simply stay very still and stare vehemently, until Chenelo came to see what he was so interested in. The peculiar intensity of his toddler stare had been badly exacerbated by the Drazhada grey eyes, and Chenelo’s maid Nerinu had once whispered that he scared her a little. Chenelo had just laughed, and said he was only curious.

Now, Chenelo gathered up her skirt and went up the side steps into the pilgrim’s wing, making a silent prayer to Csaivo to protect her son, who had now spent longer in this world without his mother than he had with her. She had probably made thousands of appeals over the last almost-twelve years— but even if Csaivo heeded her, she certainly never would know. And yet she made them still.

As she approached the Dach'osmerrem’s chamber, she wondered again what manner of woman she was. An elvish noblewoman, yes— but Chenelo suspected a rather magnificent one, even for the Dach’ prefix. She had only two waiting-women, she wore no jewellery except her oath-ring, and her hands were calloused in a way that most noblewomen’s weren’t— which Chenelo knew, because she too pinched out wicks without the slightest suggestion of pain— but nobility was always obvious. Perhaps a fine widow, but Chenelo thought not; widows often swapped their oath rings to the left hand, and hers was on the correct side. Besides, she was young, her ladies were young, and she didn’t have the weariness or the stress pressed into her posture that most widows had. A young bride, then? Perhaps she had been dispatched to marry one of the minor Avarsin in northern Barizhan, and that was why she had taken up Barizheise prayer? Or she was an ambassador’s wife? It would require Ethuveraz tensions with Barizhan to have eased considerably, but certainly Chenelo wouldn’t know. The votaries of Ulis lived in perpetual stillness and silence, in honour of their cold god, not disturbed by the outside world. Sometimes Chenelo doubted she would even hear if Varenechibel died. Perhaps it would be better if she didn’t.

As Chenelo came down the corridor, she realised the door to the Dach’osmerrem’s room was slightly ajar, presumably anticipating her arrival— but also that the women inside were whispering. 

It was so strange to hear any voices here, except the Dach’othalo’s or visiting prelates’, that Chenelo paused in surprise, only able to hear the odd snatch of conversation:

“...undeniable, in my view…” 

“...only seeing what thou wishest… for the sake of the…”

“...Maia's…”

Maia. Would the grace of Csaivo work so quickly?

Chenelo clamped her hand tightly over her mouth before she could do anything foolish, like make a noise— then was smothered by the lingering smell of the mint she had crushed. Her heart tried to sink and leap at the same time, and she felt as if she had been punched. 

“...admittedly… anyone would be able to convince…”

“...not the crash, nor the conspiracy—” 

“...so how can we be sure…?”

A pause. Someone said quietly.

“...we cannot. Yet.”

They went silent. Chenelo stayed frozen, her hand still to her mouth. It was plain the Untheileneise Court— and it had to be at court, for these were noblewomen, and they had spoken with Cetho accents— had seen turmoil, and a conspiracy was plain, if bleak, in its meaning. But what crash? A coach? An airship? 

Anything so dire was sure to have had an effect on the royal family— and someone in there had mentioned Maia by name.

She stood outside for a moment longer, pulse beating in her throat, ears pinned so flat to her head that they were beginning to hurt— then, hastily, shook herself and went to stand outside the door, deliberately letting her footfalls echo. She would not find out this way; they had ceased to talk, and, expecting her, they would not start again. 

Someone must have heard her, this time, because a moment later the door was pulled open for her, and the elven Dach’osmerrem was where she had been every day this last week— waiting in the outer chamber, kneeling patiently on the stone floor while her women fidgeted about her. 

She was a tall young lady with strong white hands and a long stride— veiled, of course, as they all were, but Chenelo felt very distinctly this morning that she was being watched closely by her. She did not entirely like it, though she didn’t think it was exactly hostile— but it was an intense sort of attention. Overly interested. 

The bell rang for lauds, and Chenelo sat down opposite the Dach’osmerrem, who bowed her head to her politely. Unnecessary, but a kind courtesy. Veiled and silent as they both were, it wasn’t as if they had ever spoken to each other, but Chenelo liked her anyway, despite her staring habit. There was a brisk confidence in her stride and posture, and she always waited politely for the votaries to pass before moving on herself. 

Discipline seemed to come easily to her, too; today, as each previous day, she was very still in the Devotion of Folded Hands. While Chenelo did not think she was deeply pious— she moved without any real reverence about the place, and it seemed to Chenelo that her attention sometimes drifted— she was very dutiful, and whatever she thought about while she sat, it seemed to bring some calm to her. She and her ladies blew the candles out, then were surprisingly dutiful to the set of prayers offered to the Emperor at the end of lauds. Chenelo watched them out of the corner of her eye while she got the excess candles out, surprised— but perhaps at court, one got used to doing it properly, for fear of what would happen if you were not seen to wish good health and fortune upon the Emperor. She couldn’t imagine Varenechibel and his disdain for women had won many genuine loyalists among the young women of the Untheileneise Court. At Isvaroë, Maia had used to race through the obligatory prayers for Varenechibel so he could go to have breakfast sooner, and Chenelo had never quite had the heart to tell him to slow down, like she did with everything else. The Emperor was perhaps the only man in the Ethuveraz who had enough prayers in his name. 

She turned her attention to the personal candle-lighting, watching as the Dach’osmerrem lit her customary two. Chenelo could only assume she was making observances to both her husband’s house, and the house she had been born into. She herself had long given up making prayers for her husband. 

She would rather make no prayers at all, than false ones.

But despite the observances, there was still no calm to be had in Chenelo— she left the Dach’osmerrem soon afterwards to go to the taper-chapel attached to the Ulistheileian.

She slipped inside, relieved there was no one else there, and sank down on the cool stone floor, smooth and knobbled in places with dried candlewax. The chapel was dim, fitted with only a few narrow vent-like windows— but perpetually glimmered with candlelight, and smelled of smoke and beeswax, and the hot swell of hundreds of tiny flames.

And where art thou now, Maia ? She thought, crossing her legs and settling on the floor. She couldn’t know, of course, and likely never would— the logic behind sending her here had been to isolate her from the world, after all. At one time, she had been almost happy to slip into the insensibility of isolated prayer and mindless routine. But as the years had gone on, she had begun to worry as violently as she had when she had first been brought here. She had invented increasingly implausible ideas as to how Maia might have been done wrong, hurt, maligned, or even assassinated— and she would never know. And now here were court women, mentioning him in tandem with disaster.

Feeling the rising spike of panic again, Chenelo pressed her palms to the floor hard, squeezing her eyes shut. She had thought to search for the Cairazhasan mantra, but instead she found herself following a memory of Maia, as he had been the first time she had ever properly discussed Varenechibel with him. She had known she was ill again, though not how ill; how could she? She certainly hadn't thought poisoned.

But that night it had stormed terribly, and the noise of the thunder and the pain in her limbs had kept Chenelo awake. She had lain and sewn slowly by candlelight, until she heard the expected patter of feet, and the door creaking open.

“Well now, I think thou’rt supposed to be in thy bed,” said Chenelo gently. She tucked in her needle and put her embroidery hoop away, watching Maia trot across the floor and scrabble onto her bed beside her. 

“Art afraid?” she said.

“No,” said Maia, wriggling down under her duvet and pressing himself along her hip and leg. Chenelo tried to shift subtly against the twinge it caused, but Maia must have noticed, because he went very still. “But awake,” he added.

“As am I,” said Chenelo, wincing as another great grumble of thunder shook the windows. “Anmura and Osreian must be quarrelling very badly.”

“What do they quarrel about?” said Maia.

“What do any husband and wife quarrel about? Perhaps he is inconsiderate of her. Perhaps she leaves her stockings about. Perhaps she does not like his brother, or he does not like her mother. Perhaps he embarrassed her at a party.”

Maia smiled, but he looked thoughtful. He hesitated, then said: 

“Didst— didst thou quarrel with the Emperor? Is that why he does not like us?”

Chenelo looked down at him. He was staring fixedly at her, ears flattened slightly, mouth tense. She knew why he was asking; the Emperor and his elder sons had these last few weeks formed a hunting party at Csedo, the closest the Imperial household had come to Isvaroë for years. There had been no messenger, no calls, and no proposal that the Empress and the youngest Archduke attend on them. Chenelo had not expected one, but she had noticed Maia listening to the servant's chatter about the proximity of the Emperor’s household. Perhaps he had hoped for one— or at least thought to wonder why they did not come.

When she did not answer, Maia pressed: “He does not like us, does he? That is why no one comes to see us, and we never go to court. All my brothers and sisters live at court, but not I.”

“Well, thou'rt much younger than thy siblings…” Chenelo mumbled. Maia gazed solemnly at her, not at all fooled. 

Chenelo looked at her hands in her lap for a moment, then sighed. She leant over and pinched out the candle, then lay down opposite Maia, pulling him carefully to her.

“Thy father, though he is the Emperor and must be obeyed,” she said, “May not always do as he wishes— for he has a great many responsibilities and considerations that weigh upon him, and often they stop him doing as he actually desires. ‘Tis so with great rulers. It is as if there are two men in one— the Emperor Varenechibel Zhas is the first, and he must often win against the man Nemera Drazhar, the second. Seest thou?”

Maia nodded, though Chenelo was not really sure if he did or not. She said:

“Nemera Drazhar still mourned very badly for his old wife, Empress Pazhiro, whom he loved— but Varenechibel Zhas needed a new wife and an alliance with Barizhan, and therefore he married me. But I was not to Nemera Drazhar’s tastes, for he has no religion, knows little of Barizhan, and still desires above all else his late wife, and it made him—” she hesitated. “Sad and cross, to remember that I was not the wife he wanted.”

“But ‘tis not thy fault,” said Maia stoutly.

“To be sure,” said Chenelo, who had nonetheless sometimes wondered if it was her fault– if she had been more verbose and less pious, would things have been different? “But ‘tis the case nonetheless. And so, in order for him to be Varenechibel Zhas, and not Nemera Drazhar… he finds it best that I am not at court, so then he might not think of me, and he might get on with the business of ruling.”

“Why does he not send thee back home to Barizhan, then?” said Maia. “Thou desirest to go home, I know thou dost.”

“...I am the Empress of the Ethuveraz,” said Chenelo, who hadn’t realised he had intiuted that so closely. “And so I must be here. I am Chenelo Zhasan now, not Chenelo Sevraseched.”

“Is that why thy father dost not answer thy letters?” said Maia quietly.

Chenelo thought, I do not know why he does not answer my letters. She smoothed Maia’s hair, noticed that he had braided it very badly, and leant over him to fix it. She said, fiddling with where he had knotted it: “Yes— he is very busy, and he knows I am well taken care of in my new life. He does not need to worry about me. He knows we are safe here.”

“Oh,” said Maia. He did not seem quite convinced, but he waited until she was done with his hair to say; “So then… as I am thy son, it also displeases my father to see me, for he wants none of me.” He shifted. “He has three sons and no need for a fourth.” 

“Tis not thy fault or thy matter, and most men should recognise that,” said Chenelo tersely. She sighed. “We should do thy father the respect he is due, Maia, as the Ethuverazid Zhas— but as he thinks not of us, think not of him. He may bring thee to court when thou'rt at thy majority, or he may not, but that's all one. What thou must remember is that I—” she kissed one of his cheeks— “love thee—” she kissed the other, and he giggled. “And thou'rt mine, as I am thine, so ‘tis no matter if we are not his.”

Maia pressed his head into her neck and locked his skinny arms around her waist. He is lonely, thought Chenelo— he is lonely, and starting to understand why.

She wrapped her arms around his narrow shoulders and kissed the crown of his head— and she thought he had fallen asleep, when he said suddenly:

“Could not Varenechibel Zhas and Nemera Drazhar be as one man? Instead of two? It seems so… complicated.”

“Perhaps,” said Chenelo, slightly surprised. “But I do not know if many Emperors can think how to do such a thing. But I suppose they might at least come… closer. If a man could understand how to do it.”

“Like the eclipses of Ulis,” said Maia sleepily.

“Yes,” said Chenelo. “Like that, I suppose.”

Now, Chenelo looked up at the statue of Ulis, rendered strange and umbral in the firelight, his extended hands almost seeming to tremble in the flickering light. Maia had been lonely then; she was not sure he could not be any better, now. And loneliness was easily exploitable. Those women had known him by name; perhaps he was at court. But it did not seem as if the court was either safe or stable.

Unspoken Lord, help me to know I cannot help him, she prayed. Help me to have faith he can survive alone— that he has survived alone.

The dinner bell rang, but she did not move, staring beseechingly up at the blank stone face of Ulis, waiting for something to come from those great open palms; but nothing came, as ever. Perhaps he thought she did not need it. She could only hope that was the reason.

It was not as if it was the first time her appeals to a great man had been ignored, but she had faith in Ulis. She could not say the same for the mortal men who had failed her.

The Dach’osmerrem took her leave the next day, when all the comings and goings of the convent happened; prelates and pilgrims arrived and departed, deliveries came in, the sisters went out to forage for the week’s firewood and provisions. 

Chenelo saw her off at the inner gate, not failing to notice the unusual sounds of guards in armour lurking outside. A very fine woman indeed. Perhaps she was from one of the great elven houses, like the Tethimada or the Rohethada. Perhaps she was even married to one of the Princes.

Surprised at her shyness, Chenelo hesitated at some length before she presented she and her women with the gloves she had embroidered with the moons of Ulis. She embroidered something for all of her postulants, but this time, she felt abashed— though she hadn't the faintest idea why, her work being just as satisfactory as all her other pieces. But they took them promptly and looked at them with some seeming interest— then the Dach'osmerrem reached out and pressed Chenelo’s hand tightly in thanks. She had a very firm grip, and though her face was nothing but the most indistinct white oval through her veil, Chenelo fancied that she smiled.

The Dach’osmerrem bowed to Chenelo, in another unnecessary courtesy, then turned and made her way across the courtyard, her ladies trailing her. There was a prelate at the gates, a man about Chenelo’s age with fine, curly white hair and brass rings in his ears, presenting his papers to the Dach’othalo. Chenelo supposed he must have been one of the visiting othalei; it was almost time for the ritual question, the tradition upon the changing of the month that allowed the sisters to ask one question of the outside world to a sanctified prelate of Ulis.

The Dach’osmerrem bowed her head to him as she passed him, and the prelate returned the gesture, shooting her a slightly unreadable look before they proceeded past one another— and the Dach’osmerrem was gone.

The prelates who took the ritual questions had to be visiting othalei; none of the prelates who lived at the convent could possibly have known enough about the world to answer. It was meant to be quieting, an opportunity for sisters to put to rest things that had been bothering them, give them the opportunity to let go. Chenelo knew some of the younger or newer sisters asked questions as frequently as they could, given to nervousness about war or pestilence, but she herself had never made a habit of asking. All she knew was it could not be frivolous, and it could not compromise your ability to wholly devote yourself to Ulis— no distracting questions about previous acquaintances or political investments. Besides, most prelates would not know anything so specific as a family member’s health or the state of those left behind, so it would have been fruitless anyway. She had rarely asked anything, not sure how to do it without risking revealing her identity— besides, most of her questions would have been frivolous. And she had never been particularly fond of many of the visiting prelates, who often had something objectionable about them. But Othala Celehar, as this prelate was called, just looked weary. It was a weariness of the soul rather than the body, Chenelo thought— he moved and stood in some ways like the widows who came to their seclusion; beaten and creased, but too early in life. Whatever he bore, he bore it heavily. It was a pity for a prelate of Ulis to struggle to let go. Chenelo hoped his god could take it from his hands in time. 

“We— were a clerical Witness for the Dead,” Celehar said quietly, when she was shown in to see him. It was odd to hear someone other than the Dach’othalo speak in this silent chapel, and his voice was incredibly damaged; Chenelo suspected he had survived a sessiva. Were suggested he had burnt out, too, and she was sorry for him; they often had the older Witnesses here, bereft after being robbed of their calling. He was perhaps a little young for it, but who knew when, or why, Ulis withdrew his hand from the Witnesses for the Dead? “We have served in Amalo, and in Lohaiso, and Aveio. And we were at the court for a time, a year or two ago.”

Chenelo’s heart leapt. The court. She could put something to him, and he might actually know. She had come to him with a feeble expectation of asking something roundabout or vague about the welfare of the imperial family, but this was hope of a real answer. And it would be so easy. All she needed to do was ask.  She could not hope for stillness or tranquility in honour of Ulis, not when she had no closure. The conversation of the elven court women had scared her badly. If something terrible had befallen the royal house, she had no way of knowing if it had taken Maia with it, and she could not be quieted until she knew. 

"If you have a question for us, Sister, we will answer it," said Othala Celehar.

Chenelo was silent for a long moment. She had let go of everything else; hope of a retrieval, hope of an apology, hope of seeing her sisters or her son again. It would be enough to know. She did not have to do anything with the knowledge. Ulis would understand. Surely he would.

She said, in a voice hoarse from disuse: “Othala, take our burden from us in the name of Ulis. Answer us this question to the best of your knowledge, so that we may continue in our silence and our solitude with renewed spirit.”

But Varenechibel certainly would not be so understanding, and she did not know how to ask the question without risking revealing herself. There was no one here who knew who she really was; the current Dach’othalo had not been the Dach’othalo when Chenelo had been brought here. Her predecessor had died of a bronchine three winters ago, and Chenelo had always assumed that the secret of her identity had died with her. She had not been an unkind woman, but she had been loyal to the Emperor, and her god. She would never have permitted Chenelo to do anything that might have led to a discovery. They had not admitted pilgrims or prelates when she had been the Dach’othalo; she had foreseen the risk, possibly. But now…

There was every possibility that Othala Celehar would merely consider it a strange, if innocuous, question. There was no reason he should have a suspicion of Chenelo surviving, let alone being a Sister of Ulis in Thu-Tetar. He had been at court, yes, but there was no indication he had been in Varenechibel's confidence. Perhaps from a Barizheise sister, it would read as lingering nationalism, or a sort of misguided sympathetic sentiment. What she did risk, was that the asking of it would get back to the Witness for the Prelacy. But she had faced him once— if he came to her in person again, she would not be afraid of him.

As if recognising the reason for her hesitation, the Othala said:

“Sister, we would not put you at risk by disclosing your query. We are bound not to lie when asked a direct question, but we do not volunteer information carelessly.”

Chenelo found herself believing him, even though there was really no good reason she should have. She glanced up, and found Othala Celehar looking directly at her, eyes very intense, all of a sudden. She thought, in a blur of confusion and paranoia; he suspects.  

But how could he ever?

And so she reached up and took his hand, and prepared to pin all of her hopes on this young, weary prelate. If he told no one, it would be well— but only if he told no one. If it got back to Varenechibel, she did not want to know what would happen to Maia. No matter that he was almost twenty, and old enough for his own household. If Varenechibel wanted to make him miserable, he could. 

And, she knew, he probably still did.

Chenelo whispered: “To the best of your knowledge, Othala— is the Archduke Maia alive and safe?” 

Thara Celehar stared at her for a very long moment, his grip on her trembling fingers very firm. Then he said;

“Sister— he is.”

Nothing came of it. 

Chenelo had not expected anything to, and was honestly relieved when Thara Celehar left without another word to her. She knew; it was enough. She stayed in her cell, prayed for her son, and began to sew a twelfth level of detail onto the cover of the prayer-book she had kept for him. She tried to finish a new embellishment by every Winternight— and she had not failed to notice when the Winternights she had been with Maia, outnumbered the ones she hadn't. She went to prayers, swept wax from the floor of the taper chapel, saw to her plants, read, sewed, mended, fed the mousing cats and guiltily gave special attention to the little stripling tomcat which had been the runt of the litter, and— 

Then, very early one morning, Dach’othalo was at her cell door.

“Sister,” she said. “Come with us.”

She offered no explanation, just turned and left. Chenelo got up and followed her, trailing after her in mute bewilderment— 

Then bewilderment caved abruptly and dropped her into panic, when she entered the Dach’othala’s office and saw the Imperial messenger standing there.

He was a young man in his early twenties, wearing courier’s leathers— but also the baldric with the Drazhada seal which entitled him to Alcethmeret business. He had a fair, sweet face with the classic colourless elvish features, but it was a face that seemed to hold almost no expression; the same way fine hair kept no curl or braid, his features washed away most expressions as soon as they came, settling back to a mildly blank mask. Chenelo found him rather prim for a courier; he stood very rigidly, with his hands clasped before him. He did not look like a man who had ever slouched in his life. He wore no rings and limited jewellery on his ears and hair, and his dispatch case was on the table behind him. He turned and bowed to her as she came in, and though he gave no hint of disapproval or admonishment, Chenelo's heart was slamming as she bowed back. An imperial messenger, three weeks after she had asked Thara Celehar if Maia was alive. 

“This is most unusual, you understand,” the Dach’othalo was saying uneasily. “We are aware there have been imperial— informants in the convent as of late, and in deference to the Emperor we allowed it— but we personally know nothing of the matter you raise.”

Informants? Thought Chenelo. Spies? She felt rapidly sick, and even more so, when the Dach’othalo said: 

“Our sisters’ birth names are not known to us, and the files—”

“Are kept in the Untheileneise’meire’s records, as are all matters relating to votaries in the Ethuveraz.” said the courier. “We are aware. We thank you, Dach’othalo, but we have the appropriate file with us. It was accessed by the Archprelate at the Emperor’s personal request.”

Chenelo gripped her hands together to stop them visibly trembling. Thara Celehar had told the Emperor. He must have. Had he lied to her? Or had he been apprehended and questioned, and unable to lie due to his oaths? If it had been under duress, she was sorry for him. If it had been purposeful, she had never hated anyone more.

The messenger drew from his dispatch case a sealed file, which he handed to the Dach’othalo. She examined it for a long, long time, while Chenelo stared at the messenger in unbanked horror. Then the Dach’othalo looked up at Chenelo, and said;

“Is’t true, Sister? Did you enter this place as Chenelo Drazharan?”

It had been so long since she’d heard her name— even mispronounced, and with her married surname attached— that Chenelo could only nod weakly. 

“We see,” was all the Dach’othalo had to say to that. She looked back at the file unhappily. “Well, the messenger here seems most legitimate, but—”

As if he had been expecting this, the messenger held something out wordlessly. It was a seal; Chenelo could not see it from where she was standing, but the Dach’othalo said stiffly;

“This is not the seal of Varenechibel Zhas.”

“No,” agreed the courier pleasantly, mildly. “This is the seal of our master, Edrehasivar Zhas, seventh of his name. Isolated as you may be, Dach’othalo, we find it hard to believe you have not heard of the death of one Emperor and the accession of the other, even if you have not shared the information with the sisters by command of the Ulineise Mysteries.”

It took every bit of Chenelo’s will not to move; she closed her eyes briefly, pressed her hands together. Varenechibel was dead. She would burn the wick for him, but she could not be sorry. He was gone to Ulis; she could be a widow, finally. She had felt like one for nearly as long as she had been here— longer, even— but now it was official. She wondered if he had died in that crash the Dach’osmerrem’s women had mentioned, or in that conspiracy; neither sounded like a peaceful death. She mentally recited the prayer of compassion for the dead to herself, the first prayer she’d made for Varenechibel in years— then, remembering, she offered a prayer of apology for Thara Celehar, who had known more than she could have hoped to, and had not given her up to Varenechibel as she had thought.

This interference then, these spies— they were from Nemolis? Edrehasivar was a radical choice of regnal name… but who knew what sort of man the rigidly proper teenaged Prince had become? He had been a nice boy, polite to her and kind about the baby brother he surely hadn’t really wanted, but she found it hard to see him caring so much about her memory that he would have stumbled over a conspiracy. Nemolis had practically been the same age as her; she would have expected him to be embarrassed to remember her at all. And she found it equally hard to believe Varenechibel would ever have told Nemolis what had happened to her. A deathbed confession, maybe, but it hardly seemed likely. Varenechibel never admitted when he was wrong, and he hadn't been so pious he might have feared Ulis's wrath for matters left untouched.

Pure hopeful delusion made Chenelo search for Maia’s hand in this, somehow, somewhere— she had no idea how it could be so, but surely Nemolis would not have cared so much without some kind of thought for, or supplication from, his half-brother? 

“We had heard of the ascension,” agreed the Dach’othalo tightly. "Very little else, however."

“Then you will hear us when we say we have been commanded by the Emperor to put a suit to Chenelo Zhasanai,” said the courier. Chenelo noted the correct pronunciation of her name and started, taken aback. “If she wishes it, she may leave her seclusion immediately and go where she will, when she will, with the Emperor’s blessing. If she does not wish to depart, however, we will leave her in peace, and not return unless she wishes us to. She risks nothing— and no one— by doing this, and the initial terms of her seclusion are null, since the men she agreed to it with are all dead, and Varenechibel’s will on the matter was never constrained to writing.”

The Dach’othalo was very quiet. The courier added, mildly, but with a distinct edge to it; 

“And, Dach’othalo, if she wishes to go and you do not let her, we tell you quite frankly we shall make such a scene that you will simply be forced to throw us both out, for disturbing the silence of Ulis.”

Chenelo bit down the bizarre urge to laugh— both at the declaration, and the look on the Dach’othalo’s face.

“That will not be necessary, Master Secretary,” the Dach’othalo said tersely, “Though we do admire your— tenacity in this matter. Your loyalty to your master must be commended.”

Master Secretary? Then surely he was only pretending at being a courier; but he looked and stood and spoke exactly like all the Imperial couriers Chenelo remembered. He bowed solemnly in response to the Dach’othalo’s words. 

“Well,” she said, standing. “You may unveil and speak with the Emperor’s man, Sister, if you wish it. Make your decision in your time. We will not press you on the matter.”

She left briskly, frowning, leaving Chenelo alone with the Secretary.

Chenelo stared at him, wringing her veil hesitantly in her hands. Why had Nemolis wasted his personal secretary’s time with the matter of his barely-familiar stepmother? It was a shock and an embarrassment for the court, to be sure, but that did not truly account for it. Perhaps her father had threatened some retribution, if it was not dealt with immediately? She found that hard to believe. He was too old to be war-mongering, these days. 

“We are sorry you have come so far on our account, Master Secretary,” she said, and found her voice scratchy with disuse. “And we are sorry this seems to have caused so much… difficulty.”

Awkwardly, she drew off her veil and folded it ineffectively in her clammy hands, unused to being visible. She did not think she would appear much like a Zhasanai, or even a Barizheise princess. She was diminished, thin and tired, she knew that well enough. 

But it was rude not to meet his eyes, and so she resolved herself, looked at him, and said: “Would you tell us your name, so we might address you properly?”

Something about her— what she said, how she looked— seemed to surprise him a little, because his ears lifted— then he smiled, and bowed.

“There is no need to apologise to us, Zhasanai. It is our job. We are Csevet Aisava, and we are entirely at your service.”

He did seem to be in earnest, though Chenelo did not understand why he appeared to amuse himself with the response.

“Do not do us honours we are not entitled to, Osmer Aisava,” she said hesitantly. “We do not think our late husband would have liked us to be styled Zhasanai.”

“Dach’osmerrem, then, until we find something more fitting. But surely you will do us the same courtesy— for we are only entitled to Mer.”

“But you are Master Secretary,” said Chenelo, sure that Varenechibel’s secretary had been Osmer.

“Less than two years ago we were a Chancery courier,” said Csevet. “We have been… created, and we have no noble house to our name.” 

Chenelo had to admit that she had never heard of an Aisavada— apparently there was not much of an Aisavada to hear of. She had forgotten that terrible Ethuveraz class tell— - ar for the noblemen and the gentry and the learned men, -a for the common men. 

Mer Aisava shook his head slightly, and straightened. “Dach’osmerrem,” he said, folding his hands before him. “A grievous wrong has been done to you—”

“We are well aware, Mer Aisava,” said Chenelo, a tad primly. “Our husband allowed us to be mistreated, poisoned, separated from our son and cast aside in a ridiculous plot that belongs in a blue-back novel. We are old friends with indignity, but we have spent ten years with the god of letting go. We have made peace with the matter the best that we can. We will cherish our freedom, and do not think us insensible to the implications of the situation, but please— we have no interest in rehashing the matter. It is not ours to be shocked by any longer. Will you not instead tell us of our son, the Archduke Maia?”

Csevet just looked at her for a moment, his eyes very alert and his ears very high. He opened his mouth— he hesitated, then shut it again. Then he said;

“Dach’osmerrem, the situation with your son is… unexpected.”

Chenelo’s heart stumbled. “...unexpected?” 

But Thara Celehar had told her Maia was alive and safe. Unless, of course, he had been stripped of his titles and barred from the succession, in which case Chenelo would rend the Witness for the Prelacy’s eyes with her nails for daring to lie to her, but—

Wordlessly, Csevet held out the seal he had shown the Dach’othalo. Chenelo took it and stared at it, bewildered. It was no Emperor’s seal she had ever seen; it was the half-cat half-serpent she had originally commissioned for her own signet, the one Varenechibel had vetoed. One of the first signs to her naive sixteen year old self that her marriage was unsalvageable, that her bridegroom truly resented her and scorned his alliance with the Sevrasecheds.

“But this isn’t the Emperor’s seal at all,” Chenelo said, perplexed. “This is ours. Or— it is the one we wanted, but Varenechibel refused us. Why would you—”

Csevet said, firmly but quite calmly; “Dach’osmerrem— Varenechibel IV died in an airship crash a little under two years ago. Prince Nemolis, Archduke Nazhira, and Archduke Ciris died with him. They were returning from a wedding and the ship was sabotaged by a conspiracy. This is the Emperor’s seal— the seal of Edrehasivar VII Zhas, who inherited the throne as the only remaining son of the Emperor.” He paused, and seeing that she did not understand, added, very gently: “Born Archduke Maia Drazhar, the fourth son of Varenechibel IV— and yourself, Chenelo Zhasanai.” And he said: “Zhas’maro, we were sent here by your son, the Emperor.”

They stood, staring at each other, for a bare few seconds. Chenelo thought, vaguely, of the courtesy Zhas’maro; an old title, unfashionable, a little too righteous, a very literal portmanteau. Still, it did well to distinguish the Emperor’s mother from the late Emperor’s first wife, Arbelan—

The Emperor’s mother.

Slightly hysterically, Chenelo laughed. It echoed, and she clamped her hands over her mouth.

She stood there for a second, struggling to regain herself, to put meaning to what she had just heard. Slowly, she drew her hands away from her face, pressed them together, and took a deep breath. 

She said, in a voice which was rather less strong than she had hoped for:

“You are not— making fun of us, Mer Aisava?”

“Zhas’maro,” said Csevet gravely, “We would not. We were the courier originally sent to tell the Emperor of his accession, and we have been at his service ever since that night.”

“Forgive us for doubting you,” murmured Chenelo vaguely. Emperor at a scant eighteen, Maia? Csevet sent to him in the middle of the night, Maia no doubt dragged out of bed to be told he was Emperor— he had always been so mild, and with three older brothers he hardly could have been coached for the burden. How could he possibly have borne it? 

Abruptly, Chenelo felt very light-headed— she remembered belatedly that she had fasted last night, and had not broken it when she should have. She moved very hastily to sit down, and her knees buckled slightly; Csevet caught her arm gently and guided her carefully to the nearest chair.

“Our apologies, Zhas’maro. We should have advised you to sit down first. We were warned by your son that you might not believe us.”

“You're Maia's secretary,” said Chenelo faintly, even though that had very much been established.

Csevet bowed. “Yes, and we are sorry for the deliberate omission. We had to be sure of the situation.”

“How might you be sure? You have not interrogated us. We could be an imposter yet.” It was foolish talk, enabled only by the persistent buzzing in her head and the feeling that she was about to cough up her heart, but Csevet just smiled.

“Forgive us for the lapse, Zhas’maro, but we personally eliminated that possibility the second you took off your veil and asked us our name. You are very like your son.”

“Everyone said he looked like Varenechibel,” Chenelo mumbled through numb lips, gripping the edge of the seat. “He is very Drazhada— in his face—”

“Perhaps,” said Csevet. “But your manners are, if you will permit us to say, nearly identical. And we think it would be difficult for a cloistered votary of Ulis to have made such an effective study of the Emperor that she could mimic his mannerisms so completely.”

Chenelo smiled weakly, but her hands were trembling so hard she was struggling to keep a grip on the side of the pew.

“We might ask, however, when you feel yourself equal to the task— to hear from you what exactly happened,” said Csevet. “We have had spies in this convent for weeks, who have all been satisfied that you are who we suspected— Othala Celehar, who took your ritual question, was sent here by the Emperor, and the ladies who met you a few weeks ago were also from the court— but our understanding of this matter is pieced together from faulty witness statements and hearsay, and the Emperor had no inkling of it. He was, like everyone else, quite sure you had died in his eighth year.”

“Ah,” said Chenelo. She took a deep breath and sat up, trying to compose herself. Spies— that explained everything about the Dach’osmerrem and her ladies’ conversation, except for the impulse to call Maia by his given name. Perhaps they had been Drazhada women— or perhaps they had been trying to get her attention. “Well… it is very simple, really, Mer Aisava. The Witness for the Prelacy tried to kill us.”

Chapter Text

“It had been close to ten years since Varenechibel had married us, and the court, which had always been displeased with us, now were entirely sick of us,” Chenelo began. She had no difficulty with this part; she had spent most of her adult life quite aware of the Unthelienese Court’s hatred for her. She would have been remiss in her worship of Ulis if she had not been able to let that, at least, go. “We were unpopular and thought mad, and there was no sign we would be brought back into favour. General feeling began to mount that Varenechibel should petition for a separation from us, and marry again. There were plenty of young women at court who were more… appealing to him, we have no doubt, and it was not as if we were fulfilling the social or societal duties of an Empress, in isolation with our son.” She glanced at Csevet, who appeared to be transcribing her explanation, albeit in some kind of cypher. “We suppose you know the general picture, even if you do not remember much of it— Maia was only young at the time, and you cannot be much older, surely?”

Csevet said, noncommittally; “We became an Imperial Courier at thirteen, and we are a handful of years the Emperor’s senior.”

“A carefully vague answer, Master Secretary,” said Chenelo. She knew couriers often lied about their ages; they would be however old they needed to be for the job they did. You had to be thirteen to be an Imperial Courier, but that didn’t mean they were always thirteen. If you were eleven or twelve, but needed the money, the safety, the security, the place to sleep… it was no difficulty to lie. “Well— we think, quite honestly, that Varenechibel was waiting for us to die. The amount of Emperor’s men about us always increased when we were ill, which was often—”

“And your health now?” said Csevet sharply.

Chenelo raised an amused eyebrow. “What, are you a cleric as well?”

“Apologies, Zhas’maro, but we were— entreated to find out,” said Csevet. Chenelo mentally translated that to commanded, or perhaps pleaded with.

“You might tell our son that we are still susceptible to megryms and joint pain in the winter, and our lungs are not what they were— but we have not taken pleurisy or wasting sicknesses for almost a decade.”

“And quarten fevers?”

“By Anmura, you have been lectured.”

“Most profoundly,” said Csevet neutrally.

“None for years.” She spread her hands. “We have been under less direct stress, and Isvaroë was very damp. It’s likely that if we had been kept there long enough, we would have succumbed to one of our many illnesses. We’re sure Varenechibel saw no reason to offend our father and go through the whole process of separation again— not when he could just wait for time to take its course. He was quite good at waiting, Varenechibel. But some of his men got tired of it… and decided to take things into their own hands. And that is where the most profound of our symptoms came from.”

Chenelo hesitated.

“Now— we never were very well acquainted with Varenechibel's court, so let us get this right. We think one of the Tethimadeise cousins— the eldest son on the paternal aunt’s side?— the Witness for the Prelacy, and Varenechibel’s secretary were the chief instigators,” she said. “They all had daughters or nieces they wished to promote as Varenechibel’s new wife. And they feared— as Varenechibel also feared, we think— that if we were left to influence Maia, he would grow to resent the court and his father. A child Archduke is one thing; an adult Archduke taught to hate his father is quite another. They could have separated us and sent Maia elsewhere, of course, but that was more expenditure, and it might have merely exacerbated Maia’s inclination to hate Varenechibel. Or it might have moved people to pity, and given him free support. Better no one was obviously at fault. Besides— these were extreme and ridiculous men, given to extreme and ridiculous solutions to problems they hadn’t been told to solve.”

Csevet had pursed his lips in extreme disapproval at Varenechibel’s secretary, but now he said; “Everyone you have listed is dead, Zhas’maro.”

“All of them?” said Chenelo, startled.

“Varenechibel’s Master Secretary died in the crash of the Wisdom of Choharo; the men of the Tethimada were implicated in a conspiracy last year and those found guilty were executed, including the Dach’osmer you named; and the deathbed confession of the former Witness for the Prelacy to a Prelate of Ulis was what led us to discover this scheme.”

Chenelo leant forward. “A Tethimadeise conspiracy? Against Maia?”

Csevet smiled a small, tight smile. “Perhaps one treasonous conspiracy at a time, Zhas’maro.”

“Yes, but was the Canon Tethimar—”

“Ah. No. Teru Tethimar is now Archprelate, and he was acquitted of his family's wrongdoings. We do not think he was ever much involved with his house in the first place, to be quite honest.”

Chenelo exhaled. To know that the one person who had been kind to her at court had not been implicated was a dizzying relief.

“Oh— well, that's— yes. Good. Alright.” She smoothed her skirt uneasily. “Where was I? Oh, yes; well, as we understand it, these men hired one of the kitchen staff at Isvaroë to dose us with Pennavar, a wildly expensive and quite rare poison which mimics very closely the symptoms of wasting fever. It was, we admit, chosen well. We had already suffered a long spate of illnesses, as we say— even we did not think it suspicious. We cannot be surprised it was not discovered— no one at Isvaroë was a cleric or a doctor. And we cannot expect poor Maia to have noticed anything amiss. We had tried our best to explain the concept to him when we believed we were dying, but he was eight years old. They would have shown our body to him briefly, then had it taken by the Emperor’s men.”

“As is protocol,” said Csevet gravely.

“Yes,” said Chenelo. “Frigid protocol. The issue with Pennavar, however, is that if the doses are not very carefully curated… the body is capable of building an immunity to it, and eventually overcoming it. Have you ever seen Thormedo performed, Mer Aisava?”

Csevet frowned. “We are familiar with the plot, and we have heard a few of the arias sung at court.”

“Then you will recall it as the poison used to smuggle the Lieutenant out of the stronghold?”

“Yes,” said Csevet slowly. “For at a specific point, we believe, it so clearly mimics the appearance of death upon the Lieutenant, that the prelates are not stopped when they carry out his body— and once recovered, he is free to run away with the Archduchess.”

Chenelo inclined her head. “Quite right. And it is not poetic license, for it has been used in the past to fake deaths; this time, however, it was an accident. Whomever the Witness hired to dose us with the poison miscalculated, and put us into a coma much resembling death, but did not actually kill us. Sometimes we wonder if they had a crisis of conscience at the last moment, and did it on purpose, but— well, we will likely never know. We are not sure we care to know, either.” 

She said, wryly; “They took our body, of course. But somewhere around Sevezho… we woke up. We are told it terrified and befuddled the Witness’s men, but someone had the presence of mind to send a messenger to the Emperor, and the Witness for the Prelacy intercepted it. He confessed all to Varenechibel. We are told Varenechibel was incandescently furious.”

“Then he did not know—?”

“No. As we say, this was done in an ill-attempt to solve a problem that they had not actually been presented with. Varenechibel did not tell them to do it. He had no love for us, and did not afford us much dignity, but a failed attempt to kill us was too harsh even for him— and far too much embarrassment for him to bear. He could not abide being embroiled in it himself, and he feared my father would declare war if it got out. He could claim ignorance all he wanted, but he was the Emperor. How did it look if the Emperor could not control his councillors? His secretary? And everyone knew he hated us. There was no chance our father would listen to reason, and we are not even really sure we would have blamed him.” She paused, suddenly. “Mer Aisava—”

“Maru Sevraseched is still the Great Avar of Barizhan, Zhas’maro,” said Csevet, anticipating the question.

“He must be very elderly now,” Chenelo mumbled. “Two and eighty, surely?”

“Not so elderly that it stopped him executing a desire to visit his grandson’s court for Winternight,” said Csevet.

“He— he came here?” spluttered Chenelo. “To the Ethuveraz? But he never leaves Barizhan!”

“The very precedent that made the entire court panic, but no matter,” said Csevet. “It was managed.”

“What on earth did he say to Maia?”

“We do not know, Zhas’maro. You shall have to ask them that.”

Chenelo did not believe for a second that he didn’t know— but putting it politely, elven imperial servants were inclined to discretion. Putting it more rudely, they were as tight-fisted with information as misers were with coin. 

“Yes, of course.” The concept of asking her father anything made her feel rather dizzy. Certainly she had not expected to ever get answers from him again; the idea she could confront him now, and he would have to hear her, was overwhelming. But regardless, she could not fathom the Maru’var considering any elven court, even his grandson’s, worth such a long trip. Had he changed so very much in his old age? Or had something else pushed him to impose his presence upon Maia—?

She saw Csevet’s expectant face. 

“Oh— very well. We will stop veering off-track. You can imagine that when we came round, we were far too ill to properly comprehend anything— by the time we were fully back to our capacities, we had already been brought here.” She added drily; “We must commend the Dach’osmers’ quick-thinking. Our death had already been proclaimed; certainly Varenechibel could not go back on it, not when it meant admitting to an attempt to kill us by some of his closest councillors. So— what to do with us? The obvious answer was to kill us properly, this time— but for whatever reason, they bungled it. Perhaps they panicked, and it simply didn’t occur to them to try again until it was too late; perhaps they tried to wait and see if we might still succumb; perhaps the men hired to take our body simply could not bring themselves to do it. Perhaps Varenechibel even directly gave orders to the contrary. Certainly no one bothered to tell us, whatever the case— but once we were brought here, there was no opportunity. Witnesses for the Dead are two for a half-zhashan in a Uliseian nunnery, and they would have been immediately implicated if a Witness identified us. So you understand, we have never been afraid for our life— only Maia’s.”

Csevet inclined his head slightly, gaze moving unblinkingly between her and his parchment. 

“Hence, the solution was a cloister; and a cloister where we wore veils, and did not speak. It was an apparently perfect choice… though evidently it is not completely impenetrable to very determined espionage attempts,” she added drolly. Csevet smiled to himself. “The only difficulty would be… well, us. And so we were kept in isolation for a few days, until we could meet with the Witness for the Prelacy, who had obviously been commanded to fix this mess, and was all too eager to. He presented the offer to us, and made no pretensions about what they had tried to do. Put mildly… we were not much pleased.” 

She crossed her ankles distractedly. “Put less mildly, we were hysterical. We wept and shouted at him, and told him we did not care to be Empress, that we would accept even the worst case of annulment if it was offered, and return to Barizhan with no argument— but if he did not take us back to our son immediately, he would find out firsthand why our father’s sigil is called the cruelty of water.”

“And did he find out?” said Csevet.

“He sneered at us and called us hobgoblin, and so, to our shame, we… ah, we lost our head entirely. We do not really remember what we shrieked at him, but it was probably unrepeatable. And we threw a vase at him.” 

Csevet’s eyebrows rose a half-inch, but he otherwise did not react. Chenelo winced. “We have long been resistant to our father's temper, but it surfaced entirely that day. We assume we only exacerbated the assumption that we were mad, but we could not care for that. He had tried to kill us— and, perhaps what we considered more damning, he had separated us from our young son and left him entirely at the mercy of a father that hated him. We could have strangled him if we had not been seized by his men. The Witness—” Chenelo’s voice faltered slightly. “Realistically, he was there to threaten us into compliance. Varenechibel had not necessarily told him what to say, we do not think, but he had told him to fix it, and we do not think he would have cared what he said, so long as it freed him from us and solved the problem. He was not necessarily always cruel himself, but he would turn a blind eye when people were cruel on his behalf, or to his benefit.”

Csevet’s face hardened slightly, but he made no comment. Chenelo continued; 

“And so he told us that Varenechibel was considering making Maia a bastard and barring him from the line of succession, on the grounds that we were both mad, and he could not be permitted to… well, the phrase he used was to pollute the Drazhada line. Our marriage would be delegitimized, on the grounds that we had not been of sound mind when it was agreed. We don't know how on earth he intended to prove that to a court, but it frightened us badly. Maia already had no protections and barely any household, and we could not see that anything at all would be provided for him if he was bastardised— nor could we hope our family would take pity on him, having not heard from our father in almost ten years. The Witness said— he said that if we cooperated, Varenechibel might look more kindly upon Maia, for our influence would be removed. He said he might eventually bring Maia to court and raise him with his brothers. We doubted that immensely— but we were promised he would, at least, be provided for. We were warned that should we reveal ourselves to anyone, or cause trouble, it would reflect on our son. We could have gone and begged for help from the Dach’othalo or a prelate, but our son was in these mens’ power now— and we were terrified that if we did not cooperate, they would make an attempt on his life, too. It would have been easy to pretend what we had supposedly died of was either contagious or genetic. And so we agreed to the terms, and here we have stayed, making no attempts at escape or questioning— at least until your court women made themselves overheard. How could we not?”

She stared for a while at her hands, skinny, ringless fingers pressed flat on her knees– then looked up, and said; “Were we very badly lied to, Mer Aisava?” 

Csevet was silent for a moment. Then he said;

“We… did hear rumours, at the very start of our career, that Varenechibel had expressed some pettish desire to make a bastard of the Emperor. You must understand, Zhas’maro, that the courier fleet hears every rumour, true or untrue— but also that this one was exceedingly unpopular. We think that you were wise to fear the possibility… but if Varenechibel had tried to go through with it, we suspect he would have faced considerable opposition, and he did not want to bring so much attention to the matter. Not only would he have dangerously offended your father, he would have given an impossible task to his lawyers and Lord Pashavar, in trying to falsify evidence of nonexistent insanity— and bastardising your child son after your supposed death would have been exceedingly cruel. Not to mention, it was said that Prince Nemolis opposed the idea. In the end, we think Varenechibel found it easier to simply forget his fourth son existed.”

“He was not brought back into favour, then,” Chenelo said quietly. She had hoped that Varenechibel might have been capable of extending some scant piece of empathy to his youngest son. Apparently it was not so; Csevet winced.

“No, Zhas’maro. Immediately after your funeral he was relegated to a hunting lodge in Thu-Evresar, under the guardianship of Setheris Nelar, a distant kinsman of the Drazhada.”

“We have never heard of a Nelar,” frowned Chenelo, thinking it was surely intentional that she and Maia had been sent to opposite sides of the Ethuveraz. 

“A lawyer, with… political aspirations. We do not see any reason you should have known him.”

“Why him, then?”

Even Csevet’s impeccable training was struggling against this. His ears flattened slightly, then he regained himself, and managed;

“Zhas’maro— it was a punishment. He had attempted to sway Varenechibel against a political rival, and Varenechibel hated to be manipulated. It was not treason, but it came too close. Varenechibel saw an opportunity to get rid of him, and relegated him with your son as his charge.”

It sounded to Chenelo as if Maia had been sent into worse isolation after her death than he had been before. She said, aware she was grasping at straws:

“Did they ever— move around? Take more company? Visit court?”

Csevet looked horribly uncomfortable now, but to his great credit, he persisted: “Zhas’maro, we believe the Emperor was at the lodge at Edonomee for ten years without seeing anyone except the four or five servants, Nelar, and the occasional courier or trapper.”

“But— what did he do? Nelar was— what, a tutor?”

“...sporadically, we believe.”

“Sporadically?”

“We… hear that he maintained your son's etiquette and occasionally taught him a smattering of rhetoric, or law. He has— some training befitting a barrister.”

“Occasionally? A smattering?” Chenelo stood up, and started to pace. “Are we to be satisfied with that, when as we understand it, the court’s side of the deal has been kept at the very minimum amount of effort? No doubt they assumed we would never hear of it— but had Varenechibel no shame at all?”

“Very little, we think,” murmured Csevet, but Chenelo was hardly listening. How could she have been so foolish as to assume they might have conceded anything to Maia's upkeep beyond what was completely necessary? Had she really thought he would ever be counted among Varenechibel's other sons—?

She turned around suddenly, considering. “Did he marry again?”

“We beg your pardon?”

“Varenechibel. Did he marry and have other children?”

“He did… marry again,” said Csevet uncomfortably. “Two years before his death, he married a very young lady, named Csoru Celehin. We believe she was not one of the women being championed by the men who arranged your attempted murder, which is rather ironic.”

“No shame at all, then, but at least a bit of superiority,” murmured Chenelo. “Did he get another child upon the girl?”

“No, Zhas'maro. The Emperor remained his youngest child.”

“Ah.” So Maia had no younger half-siblings to contend with, just his older sisters Nemriän and Vedero…

Chenelo paused for a minute, thinking of Varenechibel's other sons. It was not as if she had seen them very often, but nonetheless it seemed exceedingly cruel for three young men to have died horribly, for the mere crime of being their father's sons. Some of them must have had wives by that stage. Children, even.

“Who is Maia’s heir, then?” she said finally. “Unless—” She looked down at Csevet very abruptly, wondering why she hadn’t thought to ask this until now. Maia was almost twenty years old. There was no chance they would have allowed him to— “Is Maia married?”

“Yes, Zhas’maro. The Emperor married the Dach’osmin Csethiro Ceredin a fivemonth ago.”

“Oh! Oh, then— not long enough—”

“Prince Idra, the son of Prince Nemolis, is your son’s heir, Zhas’maro,” said Csevet mildly, saving her from having to actually ask. “He will be sixteen early in the spring, and there are plans to present him at court.”

“Ah. We see.” Chenelo frowned. “Poor child.” He had lost father, uncles, grandfather, and a certain life all in one fell swoop— and until Maia had children, he was the tether maintaining the Drazhada line. Even with the grooming that came with being the Prince’s heir, he would have to be remarkably stalwart.

She glanced at Csevet, hoping for more on Csethiro Zhasan; Csevet looked back with a placid, completely impenetrable expression. She probably should have asked something more opportune, like how old is she, but instead what came out of her mouth was:

“Do you— like her? The Empress?” 

Csevet looked appalled. “Zhas’maro, it is certainly not our place to tell you what to think of our mistress.”

“No, of course it is not. Forgive us.” Csevet probably thought he was being polite by not telling her anything about her daughter-in-law, but Chenelo missed the cheerful, semi-disrespectful gossip of Barizheise davs. No doubt she would have to either wait for him to let something slip, or ask other people— or wait until she met her.

“...well,” said Chenelo, feeling slightly cowed at the immensity of the idea. “We have told you our part. Are you convinced?”

“It certainly lines up with what we have discovered at court,” said Csevet, getting to his feet and scattering pounce across his notes to dry the ink. “We might explain our understanding to you as we ride, if you wish. It is probably best we get to accommodation before nightfall, regardless of—”

“We’re leaving? Now?”

Csevet blinked uncomprehendingly at her. “Forgive us, Zhas’maro, but we did assume you would wish to leave, considering you were put here by force. But if you do wish to stay—”

“No! No, no, it is not that,” said Chenelo hastily. “We just— did not expect our freedom when we woke up this morning.” She added, rather feebly: “Nor our son to be the Emperor.”

But if Maia had gotten up and gone directly to the court in the middle of the night to be Emperor, Chenelo told herself, certainly she would not waste time dithering here.

She drew herself up, picked up her veil, and said:

“...give us ten minutes to gather what little we have and make some prayers, Mer Aisava.”

“At your leisure, Zhas’maro.” 

She went to her cell and flung her meager possessions into a valise Csevet had procured for her— devotional tokens, her sewing, a few basic underclothes and nightclothes, her cloaks, the prayer-book she’d been embroidering for Maia—

It occurred to her that she would be able to give it to him, and the realisation made her so dizzy she had to sit on the floor for a moment and put her head on her knees. Maia, Emperor at eighteen. Edrehasivar VII, Csevet had said. It was a cumbersome name for a boy— and she could not stop herself from thinking of him as a boy, though he was really a young man. Not legally a boy-emperor, but practically one, in his lack of experience and allies and education— it was a wonder he was still alive. She suspected he almost hadn’t been, based on whatever conspiracy Csevet was currently dancing around. She knew very little about the cognomens of the elven Emperors, but it was obvious he had rejected out of hand his father’s name, and even the Vare- prefix. She wondered if that had made him unpopular. Probably he would have been criticised for whatever name he had picked, and so he had dug his heels in and done his will, no matter the outcome, as he sometimes had liked to do as a child. But he clearly had faced plenty of… dissent. 

Chenelo rubbed her face hard, muttered a few ritual prayers in a feeble attempt to make herself feel better, then rummaged under her cot for her better winter boots— where she found, shoved in a box in the corner, her oath-ring. She had quite forgotten, but the Witness for the Prelacy had left it with her, no doubt as a reminder that she was being watched.

She sat back on her heels and looked at it for a moment, brow drawn. As a widow, it would be expected she wore it on her other hand— but would anyone question her, if she said it had been taken from her when she entered the cloister?

Minutes later found her in the Ulistheilean courtyard, before the great obsidian statue of the god of letting go, ringed by a low, still pool of glassy water. The only real light was coming from the brazier burning at the opposite end of the courtyard, and in the dimness the water seemed to run deep and dark— as did so many things sacred to Ulis.

Chenelo made, once more, a silent prayer of compassion for the dead— then put out her hand and threw her oath-ring into the basin, where it vanished silently, the sound of it hitting the water masked by the crackle of the brazier.

Ulis was a quiet god, and it would not do to make prayers out loud to him, especially not here. So Chenelo waited for the ripples to fade, then thought; thank you, Open-Handed one. For your hospitality— and for your help.

She picked up her valise, and the hem of her skirt, and went to find Csevet.

“We have to thank you for your reception, Dach’othalo,” Chenelo said at the gate, clutching her cloak around her shoulders. “We are sorry for the disturbance.”

“We are only sorry you could not have come here under better circumstances, Sister,” said the Dach’othalo, standing a little stiffly by the steps. “Nor of your own volition. We have always felt it wrong to make women come here against their will.”

Chenelo smiled tentatively. “We did not choose to come, no— but that does not mean we found no value in the time we spent here. We were— and are— very pious. We cannot think it was so very bad to be left to do worship in peace.”

She found it more likely that some part of Varenechibel had enjoyed the irony of sending the infamously pious Chenelo Zhasan to a nunnery, but she refused to allow his spite to colour her view of things. The Dach’othalo looked a little cheered, and said;

“Well— take this, and go with our blessing.”

She had used the plural our, and she held out to her a ring set with a thin moonstone shaped like a waning crescent— plain and unadorned, in deference to the vow of poverty all Ulis’s penitents took, but finely made. Chenelo accepted it from her, surprised and touched. 

“Thank you, Dach’othalo,” she said quietly. It was not as if she really had known any of the sisters— she could not speak to them, nor see them, aside from if she was assigned to tend to someone who had fallen very ill— and worship of Ulis was a solitary thing. But she had worked and prayed and walked alongside them, and it was gratifying to know that the Dach’othalo, at least, was sorry to see her leave. The Dach’othalo pressed her hand, then turned and bowed to Csevet. 

“Commend us to the Emperor, Master Secretary.”

“With pleasure, Dach’othalo,” said Csevet mildly.

Without further preamble, he bowed, and went off through the gate— and Chenelo followed him on trembling legs.

In what was possibly a contradictory continuation of the life she had just left, she took the first opportunity to kneel in the dewy, wet grass and pray fervently in thanks, not even caring that Csevet was about five steps behind her, saddling horses and making notes on his hand in more of that bizarre cypher.

Eventually, Chenelo got up, skirts sticking to her knees, and went to greet the horses, who met her patiently. It had been almost twenty years since she had last ridden, and she hoped she had not lost the knack; these were proper courier’s beasts, bred for speed and endurance. But they were gentle things, and didn’t seem as if they would be difficult to handle. 

She had her hand on the mare’s velvety forelock, when Csevet said:

“Zhas’maro, we were sent with a letter for you. From the Emperor.”

Chenelo spun, and nearly spooked the horses. Csevet added, “When it was written, we were not sure…” he paused. “It was much agonised over, and we do not think His Serenity was quite happy with it—”

It gave Chenelo a terrible chill to hear Maia called His Serenity, that awful title she had always associated so strongly with Varenechibel, but she said: “Mer Aisava. Please.”

Csevet nodded and rummaged in his dispatch case— from which he produced a sealed letter. 

Thou’rt still Zhas’maro if naught else, and thou wilt not snatch it from him, Chenelo reminded herself fiercely, and took it carefully from Csevet, mumbling her thanks.

The seal was the same one he had shown her earlier, the cat-serpent— the idea that Maia had deliberately picked it in her honour both amused and upset her, and she slit it carefully with the letter opener Csevet silently offered her. Chenelo smoothed the paper unsteadily, and found it was obviously in his own hand, too unrefined to be secretarial—

To my mother Chenelo Zhasanai, 

Firstly, I pray thou wilt forgive me on two counts. First for my absence— it is agonising to maintain my separation from thee, but I was told quite firmly there was no thought of me going to thee myself. Second, for the relative shortness of this note— I dare not write as freely as I desire on all the matters I wish to, for fear this letter could be intercepted. While I have every faith in Mer Aisava, I know the road is not always kind to couriers.

It seems greatly insufficient to say merely that I am terribly grieved by thy treatment at my father's hands— while it is true, I fear nothing I could say could possibly be adequate recognition of the immensity of the wrongs done to thee. Already resentful of thy isolation and maltreatment when I believed thee dead, I was bitterly angry at the discovery of the treachery my father enabled. I am desperate to see thee and be certain tis no further contrivance, but until then I must be satisfied to pray to Cstheio Caireizhasan daily for clarity, as thou didst teach me to. 

But I pray thee, do not take this as a command to return to court— know that from this point thou’rt afforded complete liberty. If thou dost not desire to return to the Untheileneise Court, I am resolute thou shouldst not think of doing so. I would of course have thee welcome and honoured; but while I desire above all else to see thee, I would sooner have thee go where thou wilt, not where thou feels obliged. I remember quite plainly it was always thy great wish to return to Barizhan, and I beg that thou dost not think to come back to the court— or indeed even the country— where thou wert so unhappy, if it is merely on my account. 

I have a state visit arranged to the Corat’ Dav Arhos at the end of next month— if thou’rt desirous of returning to Barizhan, we either will take thee there with us, or we will meet thee there in thy father's court, an it please thee.

Do what thou wilt, and Csevet will make the necessary arrangements entirely with my authority. In this matter my will is wholly thine.

I love thee still, and I pray I might soon be with thee, wherever that might be.

I remain, 

Thy son, 

Maia Drazhar 

Edrehasivar VII Zhas

Chenelo pressed her trembling fingers to the place where he had signed his name, then put the paper to her mouth, overcome. She had managed to keep her composure so far, but now she could not help herself— she sat down in the grass of the cold dawn field, and wept over Maia’s letter, Csevet hovering awkwardly a little way away.

“We are sorry, Mer Aisava,” she hiccupped after a while, trying to get her breath back. “We are not really helping the general court impression that we were unstable and given to bursting into tears at the mildest slight.”

“We do not think anyone could term this occasion mild, Zhas’maro,” said Csevet gently. Chenelo smiled shakily, rummaging about for her handkerchief. She could hardly believe it, but returning to Barizhan had not even occurred to her until this moment. Blindsided by Maia’s ascension, she had thought only of the court and the Ethuveraz— but Maia had not forgotten. And she had spent so much time here thinking of it, staring out at the endless grass plains and dreaming instead of the sea-wall markets and the sand-strewn paths near the coast of the Pelanra, the rival zhoän owners trying to undercut each other across the town squares, of her sisters and her ladies and her father, smirking in his council chamber while the avarsin squabbled. It had been warmer there, and the winds had come in harder, off the sea. 

But was she really to leave Maia in the cold-stone warren of the Untheileneise Court, in perpetual flight from the terriers sent down to flush him out? There had been conspiracy, Csevet said, and Varenechibel had been murdered—

“Mer Aisava,” she said, “Will you speak plainly, for a moment? What was the conspiracy levelled against my son?”

“...‘tis a very long story, Zhas’maro,” said Csevet uneasily.

“I cannot decide where to go, until I know whether or not Maia is actually safe on the throne,” said Chenelo plaintively. “Insofar as any— as any Emperor can be.”

Csevet looked assessingly at her for a moment, then said, “The situation is far more stable than it was at the start of his reign. There were two attempts to unseat His Serenity within six months— one forced abdication attempt, and one assassination attempt— but none since.” 

“Assasination,” repeatedly Chenelo numbly.

Csevet sat down next to her, and in good detail, but as quickly as he could, he laid out the plots; one attempted forced abdication by the Lord Chancellor, the Princess Sheveän, and Maia’s original second maza nohecharis— and one attempted murder at the Winternight Ball by Eshevis Tethimar, who had also been part of the plot which orchestrated Varenechibel’s death. He had been killed with a revethmaz by Maia’s first maza nohecharis, and his soldier counterpart had taken the knife.  

Chenelo was truly worried for a second that she might faint, and desperately cleared her head of anything except Cstheio Caireizhasan, hear me, Cstheio Caireizhasan, see me, Cstheio Caireizhasan, know me— despite the buzzing in the base of her skull, and the prickling clamminess at her cheeks and chest. It felt apt to pray to Cstheio, at once Maia’s patroness, and the goddess of the mazei. She had already made so many prayers today, and yet she suspected she would continue to do so—

Triflingly, she thought; it was his birthday. They tried to kill him on his nineteenth birthday.

At which point, she got to her feet, went to the treeline with as much dignity as she could possibly muster, and threw up.

“Were they all right?” she said eventually, hands pressed to her damp face.

“Who?” said Csevet, who had been trying to wrestle the lid back on his water-flask.

“The nohecharei. You said one took the knife— and the other certainly cannot have been well after casting a revethmaz.”

“Ah. Yes, they were all right. Lieutenant Beshelar had a minor arm wound to show for it, but he and his partner Cala Athmaza had to be directly ordered to go off duty before they would retreat.”

“Good.” Chenelo gripped her hands hard together— then noticed Csevet staring at the gesture and smiled weakly.

“What am I to do with this information, Mer Aisava?” she said, wandering back towards the horses, mostly just for something to do. “If it’s really been so unstable—”

“Zhas’maro, we in the Alcethmeret have made considerable… alterations to the way things are handled, in the time since,” said Csevet. “Know that it is in hand.”

Chenelo turned back to him, sure she was not imagining the stalking edge to his tone.

“...is the whole d— the whole Alcethmeret staff like you, Mer Aisava?”

“Dismayingly young?” 

“Well, we didn’t mean to—”

“‘No, it is a reasonable question— and indeed, the average age of the Alcethmeret was sunk considerably by the crash of the Wisdom of Choharo,” Csevet admitted. “But Merrem Esaran, and Dachensols Ebremis and Atterezh, keep us, ah, measured.”

“But you yourself are aggressively competent, and you cannot attribute that to your older peers,” said Chenelo. “We never remember Varenechibel’s secretaries— and there were several— doing anything except reading correspondence, and they were far older than you.”

“Previous secretaries have been barristers or clerks, not couriers,” said Csevet primly, flicking an ear. “We were not even literate until our teens. We have many ways of… seeing to things, and many friends in places previous secretaries would never have dreamed of seeking help from. Direct action is not beyond us. And we are a very quick study.”

Chenelo smiled at the boyishly pompous tone, the first betrayal of his immense youth he’d really made so far.

“We do not doubt you,” she said. One could not jump from courier to Imperial Secretary without an immense agility, both of mind and method. “We only wondered. We… think we remember Merrem Esaran, but we were never very well-acquainted with the workings of the Alcethmeret. We did not spend… much time there.” 

In all honesty, Chenelo was fairly sure she had been afraid of Varenechibel’s household steward, the few times she had seen her— but if Csevet gleaned this, he said nothing. 

“She keeps a wickedly competent household, we assure you,” he said neutrally. “It is not entirely a gaggle of young men who think they know best. And we have the Zhasan’s women to humble us, which they take great enthusiasm in doing.”

Chenelo shot him a bewildered glance, not missing the implication that Csethiro Zhasan apparently lived in the Alcethmeret. She had been told none of Varenechibel’s wives, not even his beloved Pazhiro, had lived there. Csevet clearly saw it, but ignored it elegantly. 

“And even the nohecharei have Kiru Athmaza to keep them sensible,” he added.

“A maza? What’s she?”

“A cleric of Csaivo, and second maza nohecharis to His Serenity.”

“We didn’t think women were allowed.”

“There are not enough dachenmazas in the Athmaz’are to afford quibbles,” said Csevet sniffily, which suggested people had tried to quibble. “His Serenity did not object, and Kiru Athmaza is very powerful. She is equally fond of reminding us all that she was training as a cleric while we were all, at best, in leading-strings.”

Chenelo thought, she is likely older than me, and was slightly cheered by the idea that Maia was guarded by more than just stern soldierly men. The nohecharei were no doubt not allowed to fuss, but she doubted Maia had had any kind attendance from anyone even remotely close to maternal since she had been taken from Isvaroë. 

“And if it pleases you to hear it, your father also left a eshpekh of the Hezhethoreise Guard at your son’s court after the failed attempt on his life,” Csevet said. “They are very magnificent and very competent.”

Of course he had. Most of her father’s responses to problems were military in fashion.

“We… do remember seeing the Hezhethora fight as a girl,” Chenelo said reluctantly. “Frankly, we were terrified of them, but certainly they were unbelievably competent soldiers.”

It wasn’t really about the soldiers, anyway; it was about the physical reminder that the Great Avar had an eye on Maia’s court. 

“To be sure,” said Csevet. He added, apparently considering that conversation over; “Well— it’s still a few hour’s ride to Ashedro, where we will have to break our journey, so—”

Chenelo blinked. “But— don’t we have to decide what we wish to do?”

“Not at this very moment. We will have to go to Ashedro either way.” He looked searchingly at her. “Although, we think…”

He hesitated. Chenelo said, “You think what?”

“That you should know your father, once informed, did express a hope you might come home,” said Csevet. “And certainly your son, as the head of the Drazhada, would allow you to.”

Chenelo thought for a little while of the hot earth smell and the low rumble of the underground rivers in the Corat' Dav Arhos— of how it would be to sleep once again in total pure darkness, and to listen to the faint laughter and shouts of her father's guards playing cards in the mess, some floors below. 

And there was some part of her— a fairly significant part, she could admit— that was simply too cowardly to return immediately to the Untheileneise Court, that hateful tangle of white-stone corridors where she had split her time between weeping, praying, and some interminable pursuit like taking awkward teas with women who clearly hated her. She was afraid of the court— and afraid she might no longer recognise the man who now ruled it. It did her no good to put it off, and it seemed ridiculous to shrink from her own son— but she was afraid, and so very tired of having to be brave, and above it all, she thought, very childishly: I want to go home.

It did not have to be forever. She could return to the Ethuveraz with Maia after the state visit, if she wished. She could do whatever she wanted. 

But she could go back to Barizhan. 

And for twenty years, she had been sure she’d never go home again.

She took a breath— then stopped, uncertain. 

Tis only a few more weeks, she reminded herself. And thou hast already waited over a decade.

But Csevet was still looking at her— and it was his mild, impartial expression that had Chenelo saying, with immense hesitation;

“We think we will… go home. To the Corat’ Dav Arhos. Is that— we mean, do you think we should—?”

She almost phrased it as a question, half-waiting waiting for him to tell her no— but Csevet smiled. He had a sweet face; Chenelo wondered where his mother was, and if she worried about him. She remembered from the ridiculous fuss over naming Maia that naming children with the Cse- prefix was considered lucky, auspicious. Perhaps Merrem Aisavan— Min Aisavin?— had thought he needed a little luck. Most women would not have let their sons enter the courier fleet if they had any other choice in the matter. 

“We think the Emperor desired most fervently that you would, Zhas'maro.” Csevet straightened, his face becoming businesslike again: “And that is well— for two of your sisters are currently in Ashedro, having come up the Istandaärtha from Barizhan, and are quite insistent they will not go home without you.”

“Our— sisters? How on earth—”

Csevet seemed to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “They claim they are sent by your father— though from inspecting the thumbprint on the warrant, we suspect the actual order came from your sister Thever, bending her authority as Avar’min. The wording was not technically wrong, but relied far more on the authority of the Corat’ Dav Arhos than the actual command of the Great Avar.”

Chenelo made a sort of strangled half-laugh, incredulous. Thever was addressed as Avar’min, and theoretically had the power that came with that, but she had never issued a serious order in the sixteen years Chenelo had lived with her. She had long worried Thever's fragile composure would not have survived her supposed death— but here she was, sending out her father's bastard daughters to retrieve her, an order which was surely issued on dubiously legitimate authority. “But how did she know? She must have sent them weeks ago.”

“Well, your survival has been suspected for over a month, now. We might presume your father told her, for he was informed very quickly when the matter came to light— but we have long suspected the Barizheise ambassador’s wife feeds your sister information separate from the official communiqués,” said Csevet. 

“And she is— well? Thever?”

“Your illegitimate sisters certainly tell us so, Zhas'maro.”

“Our illegitimate sisters being Shaleän and Ursu?”

“Yes, your elder sisters. We met them in a tavern last night and had a— spirited discussion with them on what should be done.”

Chenelo had a brief vision of prim, subtle Csevet arguing with her magnificent bastard sisters, who could shout like Hezhethoras, and could not entirely suppress a grin. Then—

“We are the youngest,” she said, frowning. “We only have elder sisters, legitimate or otherwise…” She added, with growing suspicion: “...do we not?”

Csevet looked shifty, which was all the answer Chenelo needed.

“That appalling old rogue,” she groaned. “How many younger sisters do we have then, dare we ask?”

“Two, Zhas'maro. Holitho is a votive at the Convent of the Lighthouse Keepers, and Nadeian is married to the Captain of the Hezhethora Guard stationed at your son’s court.”

“Anmura give us strength,” muttered Chenelo. It was easier to bemoan her father as a diabolical gallant, than to think about him as the man who had gotten her into this mess in the first place, so long ago. “Unacknowledged?”

“They are all acknowledged, Zhas'maro.”

Chenelo stared at him.

“All? Even Shaleän?”

“Yes, for some ten years now. We think your supposed death made your father— re-evaluate his priorities,” said Csevet stiffly. 

“Did it ever?” said Chenelo, bewildered. She did not think the Maru’var had ever re-evaluated a priority in his life. She shook her head. “Well… certainly we shall be able to interrogate him about it soon enough.”

She did not know how she felt about that, and cast off the feeling by turning back to the horses. “Should we— get going, then?”

“Considering Shaleän Sevraseched told us she would shake us upside down like a choking baby if we were late, we would encourage such a scheme,” muttered Csevet, putting his foot in the stirrup— and he politely pretended not to notice Chenelo’s startled laugh.

The ride to Ashedro was mild-weathered and populated with unremarkable grasslands and small hamlets; Csevet was obviously slowing his pace for her, but Chenelo had not lost the horsewoman’s instinct as badly as she feared, and was rather pleased to ride again. She suspected her joints would not be happy later, but she could not really care for the time being. 

The people they saw paid them almost no attention; Csevet had stowed the Imperial baldric somewhere away, so they merely looked like a courier and a Ulineise votive, neither of which were uncommon in Thu-Tetar. In places, Chenelo noticed— on the front of town halls, on wagons, banners— there was a noble houses’ crest, often half-concealed, destroyed, or scrubbed at. Csevet saw her looking, and said;

“We are close to the border of Thu-Athamar, and the Tethimada had begun to entrench across the border to acquire lands here, before their fall. It was not generally found to be a popular move, and they responded by trying to make their holdings very… visible. Of course, they have now been extirpated, and their lands have been split into dowries for the unmarried sisters— and a good chunk of them were in Uleviän Tethimin’s dowry when she married Prince Orchenis Clunethar.”

Chenelo did not think she imagined the distinct note of vicious satisfaction in his voice, and wondered if Csevet had history with the Tethimada beyond their political treachery. Somehow it didn’t seem polite to ask.

They saw almost no one else on the road until mid-afternoon, when they found another courier approaching on the south-east road, presumably heading to Puzhvarno. Csevet whistled to them, and they slowed their pace, revealing that they were a girl no older than sixteen. She looked awfully small on the back of the great sprinting horse; Chenelo thought worriedly of how many couriers were so very young. 

Csevet urged his horse forward to meet her, and they muttered together for a minute. The courier girl politely did not stare at Chenelo, but it was clear she wanted to.

“Go there, deliver it, and get the first airship back,” said Csevet eventually, after he had examined her dispatch. The girl snorted dismissively.

“Csevet, I can’t possibly afford—”

Csevet reached into his jerkin and produced a coin pouch. “And now?” He tossed it to her. “Send to Volsharezh immediately upon thy return, so we know thou’rt back safely.”

The girl tried to refuse, but Csevet held a hand up. She burst out:

“The Tethimada are gone, Csevet—”

“Their house is extirpated, Lerano. ‘Tis not the same as gone,” said Csevet sourly. “Loyalists may be looking to take out their new ill-fortune on someone.”

Lerano looked exasperated. “‘Twill be alright— ” 

“Yes, it will. Take the airship.”

“Canst not give me this much money,” Lerano mumbled, but Csevet folded his arms and sat expectantly until she’d pocketed it. “Thank you…”

“Mind thy way,” said Csevet. 

She stood up in her stirrups to give him a slightly guileless, childish hug, then looked at Chenelo and bowed solemnly.

“Zhas’maro…”

Chenelo smiled nervously. “Min Courier.”

Csevet said, “Keep that quiet, Lerano. Too many people know, already.”

Lerano saluted them, and went off at a canter down the path, whistling a folk song. Csevet watched her narrowly until she was out of his view, then turned his horse around to continue on their way.

“That was very kind of you,” said Chenelo.

“We are paid more than enough to afford the airship fare for a few of our old fellows,” said Csevet blankly.

“We didn’t really mean the coin,” said Chenelo gently.

“Thu-Tetar is notoriously unsafe for couriers,” Csevet said thinly— and would elaborate no more on the subject.

Ashedro was a charming market town of steep hills and narrow alleyways, a bungled mess of old town and new, lately modernised with barges and a tram system. The port was visible through the buildings by the tops of masts and pennants flapping in the wind— Chenelo sat on a low wall and stared wistfully at the trading cargo ships flying the Barizhan blue, while Csevet had their horses stabled nearby. She was not sure if it was a thought for her obvious tiredness, or an indulgence of her childish interest in the trams, that had Csevet buying them passage on the northern-running route, but Chenelo was quite pleased to sit and marvel at the mechanism— they had not been commonplace when she had left Barizhan, and certainly no one had been permitting the Zhasan to ride trams in the Ethuveraz. Besides, this way she did not have to contend with the hills on her painful knees. She had remembered the method to riding, yes, but she had been able to do nothing to stop herself aching after a full day in the saddle. 

The people of Ashedro paid her as little notice as the other Thu-Tetar natives had; there was a goblin cleric of Osreian asleep with his head bent at the other end of the carriage, and a gaggle of part-goblin girls playing a clapping game near the door. Several liveried messengers who must have belonged to the Prince of Thu-Tetar shot Csevet hostile looks, which Csevet ignored, sitting rigidly with his dispatch case on his knees and his saddlebags on his shoulder. 

“Principality pages and imperial couriers hate one another by tradition,” he told her as they got off at the Old Town Central stop and walked down a narrow, cobbled road shaded with beech trees. “They think we are corrupt and cheap and susceptible to bribes, because we are not liveried messengers. We think they do nothing so much as stroll through fancy houses to deliver love letters, bills, or summons.”

Chenelo noticed the plural we, and thought in some amusement, thou’rt still a courier at heart, Mer Aisava.

They came out into a stableyard around the back of an inn; which, from the sounds of a crowd inside, Csevet had chosen because it was busy. He set off at a purposeful clip for the back door, and Chenelo followed him, weary and wondering if it was very bad to hope Maia might have sent a stipend for her. He was her son, but he was also the Emperor, and until this morning she had been under a vow of poverty—

A sharp whistle broke into her thoughts, and they both turned to find someone sitting on the boundary wall, hat raised to them in salute.

Chenelo had not heard Barizhin for so long that she almost failed to comprehend it at first— but then again, it was hard to miss, since it was delivered so loudly.

Besides— she knew the voice.

“Well, sweet sister— well well! Thy son’s retriever-hound has brought thee back in one piece, I see, and I commend him!”

Chapter Text

The last time Chenelo had seen her father's oldest daughter, she had been fifteen, Shaleän had been somewhere in her thirties, and they had been hiding in Chenelo's washroom. 

“Have no fear, Captain— no men might come into the kani’dav uninvited,” she had whispered under the sound of shouts and boots thumping outside. “T’would be very bad and improper.” 

The young unmarried noblewomen of the Corat’ Dav Arhos tended to live in a ringed complex of connected doors, reception rooms, promenades and secret passages colloquially known as the kani’dav, the rabbit warren. The suites had not been originally built to connect, and officially, if anyone asked, they didn’t— but over the years walls had been knocked in, doors had been cut into adjoining walls, and the divisions between whose rooms were whose had blurred, and it had turned into semi-communal chaos. It was perpetually noisy, and wildly territorial; which was probably why Shaleän had immediately bolted to hide here. Chenelo would not flatter herself that it was for her especial shrewdness or intelligence, of which she really had very little. 

She peered up at Shaleän, who stood a head taller than her, fanning herself with her hat and frowning at the door. She added, hopefully: “What didst thou do?” 

Shaleän slowly put her hat back on, glancing around warily— but it was only Chenelo’s room, stuffed with devotional tokens, haphazard sewing projects, and shoes and jewellery she’d brought at the market. 

“I admit…” she said, slowly tucking her shirt back into her breeches and tightening her sword-belt, “That I have been rather unwise, and I have been caught doing something I rather should not have been doing— not that Frecho herself minded, but Frecho's betrothed is really rather angry with me now.”

“Avarsin Nevarchel? Oh— I hate him,” Chenelo had said eagerly, slightly starstruck. Shaleän had been so very splendid to the teenage girls of the Corat’ Dav Arhos, infinitely taller and stronger and more beautiful— and to be a pirate when only men were pirates, seemed very fine indeed. She had brought Chenelo a beautiful set of hair-combs back from Solunee-Over-The-Water for her twelfth birthday. No one had ever really explained why Shaleän, not part of the dav (or indeed, any dav), was permitted to make nice with the Great Avar's daughters, but Chenelo had her suspicions; no doubt it was the same reason that friendly Ursu who came to report from the shipyard was allowed to come and go as she pleased. And the same reason they were both tall, broad women who looked very similar to the Great Avar.

“Isn't he terrible?” said Shaleän. “Poor Frecho. He looks like a sand-toad and walks with that awful rooster-strut...”

Chenelo giggled. “Didst thou try to take her away to sea? Did she want to run away?” 

“I certainly tried to do something she was very amenable to,” Shaleän muttered— then they jumped, as someone distantly, but distinctly, pounded on the external door in the parlour.

“Avar’min Chenelo!”

Chenelo threw a frightened glance up at Shaleän, and Shaleän returned with a pleading look. Chenelo thought quickly, then whispered—

“The window.” 

“The window?”

“Hurry!”

Chenelo wriggled past her and opened the washroom door. She marched up to the parlour door and barked, with her best impression of her father's impatience:

“How now, man, at a time such as this? Who sent you?”

“Avar’min Chenelo, nobody has sent us.” The voice was Nevarchel’s, but from the sound of shuffling outside, he had several men with him. “We are looking for Shaleän Dav’nar. Is she with you?”

Chenelo said: “The Captain? With us? Why on earth should she be with us?”

There was a pause, as Nevarchel clearly tried to think of a way to word it without being accusatory. There was a scuffle and a curse from the washroom, and Chenelo threw a nervous look back— 

“Would you be so good as to let us in, Avar’min? We desire to check—”

He tried the handle. Chenelo shrieked in protest and flung herself flat against the door. 

“Avarsin Nevarchel! Trying to gain entry while we're seeing to our women's disorder? For shame!”

There was a spate of embarrassed spluttering outside.

“Avar’min, please,” said Nevarchel, sounding strangled. “Tis a— security matter.”

Chenelo hesitated, then announced loudly;

“Oh— very well. We will retreat to our washroom and you may search the rest of our apartment to your content. We suppose… but a moment, sir!”

She all but ran back to the washroom, slammed the door—

“What art thou doing?!” she whispered furiously, finding Shaleän leaning on the sill, peering down at the drop into the river. “Hurry up!” She raised her voice: “Very well, Avarsin!”

The external door opened. Chenelo whirled on Shaleän. “Quickly!”

Shaleän turned and gave her a giant hug, almost pulling her off her feet entirely, and whispered: “Thine augury of favour rain blessings upon thee, sweet sister.”

Chenelo froze— then beamed up at her, her suspicions finally confirmed. “Soothly?”

Shaleän winked and put her finger to her lips. “If asked, I ne’er said a word.”

Chenelo nodded eagerly. Shaleän let her go with a squeeze, then slithered over the frame, poised for a moment on the sill— then leapt like a cat, almost noiselessly, into the second of the underground rivers which circled the Corat' Dav Arhos. Chenelo craned nervously across the sill to see if she'd resurface—

A moment later, Shaleän broke the surface on the opposite bank, hauled herself out onto the ground, and shook herself like a dog. She turned to see Chenelo still watching, and blew her a kiss before vanishing into the tunnel opposite. 

Chenelo had closed the window as gently as possible, and collapsed into silent cackles on the floor, while the Avarsin’s men rattled around her parlour outside.

Less than a year later, Chenelo had been Empress of the Ethuveraz, and had quite presumed she would never see Shaleän again. Then again, Shaleän had never been good at sticking to what was presumed of her.

“And thou still alive, Shaleän?” marvelled Chenelo now, finding her Barizhin embarrassingly rusty. Shaleän raised her eyebrows, and spat into the grass.

“Os’lid, sister, I could say the same to thee!” 

If Shaleän had been splendid at thirty, she was nothing short of magnificent in her fifties. She was sitting atop the boundary wall with her cuffed boots propped on the stile, smoking and holding up her great cocked hat in salute. Even up there, it was clear she was much taller than Chenelo and Csevet, and she had obviously become immensely wealthy in the last two decades. Her Captain's coat was an aggressively expensive blue, the steel sailor’s earrings polished and burnished, her hair braided with gold— and Chenelo had not honestly known one woman could wear so many rings at once. A great duelling sword was strapped to her side, a weapon far superior to the old rapier she'd always used to drag about with her.

“Tis the very point with me,” said Chenelo. “But for thy part I am surprised thou hast not been killed in a duel over someone’s wife.”

“Now, be reasonable, Chenelo— I am a married woman these days,” said Shaleän primly, blowing smoke out of the corner of her mouth. “I no longer might sweep off other men's wives.”

“In which case, I congratulate thee— dare I ask how thee got this wife of thine?”

Shaleän grinned. “It is a good story, but for another time. But the ransom has been lifted now, if that is what thou’rt worried about…” She slung herself carelessly down from her perch and planted her hands on her hips.

“Thou’rt just like Father,” said Chenelo grumpily. 

They stared at one another for a second— then Chenelo shrieked like a schoolgirl and ran for her, and Shaleän half-picked her up with one arm. She planted a giant kiss on both cheeks, smelling distinctly of sailor's tobacco, and laughed in her ear— Chenelo clung to her sword baldric and tried not to cry in front of Csevet for the second time today. It had been so long since anyone had been so pleased to see her, let alone permitted to touch her or speak to her, and never in her own tongue. She was not sure she had hugged anyone since she had clung to Maia on her supposed deathbed— and she had not spoken Barizhin outside of prayers since she had left her ladies at the border. And she had always loved Shaleän, even when she had not known they were related. 

“Oshan’s teeth, Chenelo— were he not already dead, I should have pulled Varenechibel’s head off his skinny white neck!” Shaleän nodded over Chenelo's shoulder at Csevet, and, to Chenelo’s surprise, said in Ethuverazhin— sailor's accented, but fluent— “Right on time, Mer Aisava.”

“We are always punctual, Captain,” said Csevet neutrally.

“Oh, yes, well— you would be. Elves. Hm!” Shaleän dropped Chenelo and gave her a slightly too-hard clap on the back. “Well— won't the old man be pleased!” she said, sliding right back into Barizhin. “In a matter of weeks he will have all six of us to fuss over.” 

Chenelo had always believed Shaleän to be a little too forgiving of their father, in a way that she and Thever, the daughters in closer proximity, never had been, and she saw her inclination had not changed. As a natural daughter, she could not be faulted for wanting to avoid his enmity— but Chenelo had always feared it was unwise.

“I cannot believe he acknowledged thee.” 

“Papa has a guilty conscience,” sang Shaleän. “Myself and Ursu and Holitho and Nadeian, all might use the Sevraseched name and take places in Papa's court, should we wish’t— of course I always used the Sevraseched name, hah, even when I was not allowed— ay, ‘tis too cold to be standing out here, give me that valise, is that all thou hast—?”

Shaleän was apparently sleeping on her ship, but Ursu was, Shaleän explained, staying above the main bar— since Shaleän apparently perceived it as ‘ungentlemanly’ to make her sister sleep on a ship her first night out of a convent. Chenelo could own herself embarrassingly excited as they climbed the narrow stairs; though Shaleän loomed large in her memory (and just in general), she had seen Ursu more often. Shaleän had been an event, but Ursu had been a fact. She had been the shipyard’s favourite runner and lineswoman, and had spent a lot of time sharing gossip with Chenelo and Thever while she waited to deliver papers or receive orders. She eventually ended up working at the shipping offices, browbeating the bureaucrats and flirting with the shipfaring boys— when Chenelo had left, she had been eyeing up a sailor boy named Malhis Perenched, fast ascending from his lowly gunner status. Ursu had claimed he was handsome, Thever had said he was just all right, and they had had an argument about it while Chenelo watched over the top of her embroidery hoop, grinning. She wondered whether Malhis Perenched had ever noticed he was being pursued, or if Ursu had moved on to some other gentleman.

The room was a warm, narrow guest room with a good fire; Ursu was sitting in the corner, reading an obviously lurid pulp fiction, but when she saw Chenelo she leapt up and shrieked— then did what Shaleän had not actually gone as far to do, picked her up and spun her around, while Chenelo shrieked back. 

Beaming, Ursu put her down and gave her a big kiss on the cheek— “What sister, how now, sister—? Anmura, I cannot believe it—!”

Both Ursu and Shaleän took entirely after their father, with their fabulous height and strength, broadness of hip and shoulder, and wide, good-natured faces. They shared a mother— a dancer in the Urkevh’opera, if dav rumour was believed— and they looked more like twins than mere sisters, regardless of their age gap of almost a decade. Ursu was a little stouter than Shaleän, harder in the jaw, and wore her hair short at her chin, and Shaleän was scarred and chipped-toothed like a fighting dog, but they looked so similar in the face it was almost incredible. They both seemed well, Chenelo thought in relief— she looked even skinnier and greyer and more wan-faced, compared to her irrepressibly mighty sisters. But all three of them shared the telltale red-orange eyes of the Maru’var, and it was strangely comforting to see her own eyes staring back at her, after so long veiled, or in the company of elves.

“Well done, Mer Aisava,” Ursu said warmly. Both sisters had surprisingly good Ethuverazhin, though they rapped it out like sailors, with a strong Barizhin clip. Csevet bowed, but his colourless eyes were roaming the room furiously, clearly sweeping for threats or risks—

“We already ransacked it to check we’re not being spied on, you little neurotic,” said Shaleän to him. “I had my maza come and ward the place.” She pointed in a distinctly accusatory manner at Csevet— “We’ve had a nightmare with this one, sister. Turned up here with no warning, sopping wet from riding in the rain, saying he’d been sent by Edrehasivar— made him prove it, had an argument over our papers versus his papers, he said he was going to give you the choice, we had another argument after I said you wouldn’t go back to that fucking court without a fight…” Chenelo tried not to look at Csevet, imagining that would have gone down like a ton of bricks with Maia’s secretary. Shaleän paused, then peered suspiciously at her. “What didst thou decide?”

“I’m coming with thee,” said Chenelo. Her sisters exhaled, relieved. “But— I might go back to the Untheileneise Court with Maia, after the state visit—”

“Do what thou likest,” said Ursu, even though Shaleän had raised an eyebrow. “But Thever would have pitched a fit if thou hadst not come back to Barizhan at least briefly.”

“She sent thee?” said Chenelo, letting Ursu flap her into the chair next to the fire and take her cloak. “Tell me everything, I have heard nothing at all—”

“Oh, yes, she was very agitated— she wanted to come herself, but was forced to settle for sending us as her emissaries. She was prepared to bribe us on the matter— though we wouldn’t take any money, would we, Shaleän—”

“No,” said Shaleän, sounding as if she had wanted to take at least some.

“Is she… well?”

“Oh— yes, as she can be. Better than she was as a young woman. We have brought some of her clothes for thee, they will fit, I think— she said not to mind the stuff in the pockets.”

Chenelo smiled, remembering Thever’s endless handfuls of trinkets and paper. Ursu went on:

“I suggested she keep an eye on my children while I’m gone, they might eat their father alive if not—”

“Thy children?”

Ursu flashed her oath-ring. “Husband, two daughters. Elthevo and Laru, fourteen and ten. I made Malhis stay at home with them—”

“Malhis! Thy sailor boy? Oh, Ursu, that is very fine—” 

Ursu winked. “Got him eventually, eh? It’s usually him at sea, but frankly ‘twill do him good to be stuck at the girl’s beck and call for a week or two.” She added, in a stage-whisper; “Shaleän doesn’t like him.”

“I like him,” Shaleän said loudly. “I don’t like his profession.”

“He’s a real captain,” said Ursu.

“He’s an upstanding government trout,” said Shaleän. 

“Just because thou hast to be bribed massively to do jobs that aren’t underhanded—”

“Father bribes thee, Shaleän?” said Chenelo suspiciously.

“Now now, Chenelo, I am in high demand— sundry gentlemen of the Avarsin purchase my smuggling services—”

“And Papa,” said Ursu. “I know because I handle the invoices for’t.”

“Well, no use being a pirate if you don’t get paid, and he’s got the gold for’t…” muttered Shaleän. She brightened; “But in the name of the dav, Chenelo, I have not sunk imperial galleons since thy scrawny little son has sat the throne!” 

She folded her immense arms and looked pleased with herself.

“I thank thee for thy pains, Shaleän,” sighed Chenelo. She glanced at Csevet, who had been sitting, politely unobtrusive, near the window with his papers. If he spoke Barizhin, he was hiding it well— Chenelo thought he didn’t, or at the very least, he wasn't fluent enough to keep up with how quickly they were talking. He was clearly catching names, though, because he glanced at Ursu when she said:

“Ashevezhkho preserve us, thy son. Emperor Edrehasivar. That was a shock. Apparently the Avarsin all stared at the messenger like he had five heads, and the dav said that Papa laughed about it at length once he was in private. Several people got in trouble for terming it thy revenge, but we were really all thinking it.”

“I do not think I ever desired Maia to be Emperor,” Chenelo mumbled, but Shaleän was saying in Ethuverazhin: 

“Hear that, courier? In the spirit of being a good aunt, we no longer blow Ethuverazhin galleons to Anmura and take all their zhashan.”

Csevet said, drolly, “We are sure His Serenity will be pleased. But we humbly ask you to further your generosity, Captain, and hear our advice on how you might proceed upon The Glorious Dragon.”

Chenelo looked hopefully at Shaleän. “We’re going to Barizhan on thy ship?” She had always secretly wanted to see The Glorious Dragon, but it was not thought appropriate for noble girls, let alone Avar’min, to go gawking around pirate ships.

“So long as these impertinent elven lads allow it, apparently,” grumbled Shaleän. “How many more of the boy-emperor’s impositions must one woman be saddled with?”

“Tomorrow, you will be met with a— colleague of ours, an Imperial Courier named Amaru Derenzha,” Csevet said, ignoring Shaleän. “He will accompany you to Barizhan as an agent of the Ethuveraz.”

Chenelo saw nothing in this, but Shaleän raised a slashed eyebrow, suspicious. 

“We don't recall this being part of the deal, little boy.”

Csevet barely blinked. “It pleases not the Emperor to have no representative of the Untheilenese Court in attendance upon The Glorious Dragon, Captain. We doubt not your competence, nor your honesty— at least, not in this matter—” (Ursu chuckled.) “But it would be unwise for us to let you go unaccompanied through the Ethuveraz. Mer Derenzha will bring with him the Emperor’s seal and necessary papers, which should prevent you from being obstructed by Ethuverazhin means. And frankly, Captain, with all due respect— we are essentially putting the Emperor's mother on a pirate ship. An idea which, while accepted, nobody is entirely happy with.”

Chenelo had not thought about how returning to Barizhan would immediately take her back out of Maia's reach and quite possibly put her at unnecessary risk, and felt suddenly guilty. She opened her mouth to say they would be happy to take the courier, but Shaleän was already saying:

“Tell Chenelo's son not to wring his skinny little hands. The pirate ship—” she pronounced this with unnecessary displeasure, considering she was a pirate, it was a pirate ship, and she was currently dressed exactly like the pirates in the wonder-tales Chenelo had used to read to Maia— “Is currently flying the Corat' Arhos statant, which marks it as a peaceful ship on business for the Great Avar. It looks like a trader. We will not be harassed. And our crew is perfectly capable of defending—”

“Captain, do not look for a compromise— this is the compromise,” said Csevet pertly. “Had His Serenity had his initial desire, we should have been sent down-country with a prelate, a cleric, several waiting-women, half the Unthelienese Guard, and quite possibly the Emperor himself.”

Chenelo bit the inside of her lip; Ursu looked amused. Shaleän sat back, brow furrowed.

“Well,” she said gruffly. “Does young men good, to care about their mothers.”

“But if Mer Derenzha is a courier like you, Mer Aisava— well, that is not quite a guard,” observed Ursu neutrally.

“Mer Derenzha has plenty of… skills,” said Csevet vaguely. 

“All couriers learn to knife people, do they?” grumbled Shaleän, who had noticed she was losing.

“He's your stand-in,” realised Chenelo. 

“Our place and our duty are at court and with the Emperor,” said Csevet. “The majority of our travelling days are behind us. So— yes, functionally, he is our stand-in.”

“Must trust him a great deal, eh?” said Shaleän slyly. Csevet shot her a short, sharp look, and she smiled at him innocently—

Before they could scrap any further, Ursu said; “Damn, have you had anything to eat?”

“Not for hours,” admitted Chenelo.

“Ashevezhkho, you’ve been on the road all day—” Ursu stood up abruptly. “Stay there, I’ll go and bother the cook— you too, courier, don’t get up—”

“Merrem Perenched, we assure we are quite capable of—”

“You look about twelve, boy, we shan’t listen to a word you say,” said Ursu, and swept out in a great flurry of her green skirts. Csevet sighed and went back to his dispatch case. 

Out of a thought of preserving Csevet’s dignity, Chenelo turned her chair to Shaleän to hide her smile, and said; “I’m told I am no longer the youngest Sevraseched maid?”

“Oh, them,” said Shaleän. “We call them the lesser-sisters, and they call us the Dakenmeros, and we all get along like gunpowder and flint.”

“Tell me about them?”

“It will be badly biased,” said Shaleän, but her eyes were gleaming.

“All the better,” said Chenelo. “I haven't gossiped in ten years.”

Shaleän cackled, and said, “Oh, in that case—”

Later, while Shaleän and Ursu were poring over maps in the corner, Csevet said quietly;

“Zhas’maro, we will return to Cetho and the court tomorrow. If you have anything you wish us to convey to the Emperor, it may serve you well to write it now.”

Chenelo stared at him in sudden panic. “Well— we mean, of course, but—”

“You are, of course, not obliged to write anything,” Csevet added.

“No no, he will be disappointed if we do not—”

Csevet provided her writing-material, but almost immediately Chenelo dithered over the page, understanding Maia's reported agony over the perceived insufficiency of his letter. What did one write? And if it was circulated? Copied? 

She hesitated a long time before she dipped her pen, and wrote:

To his Imperial Serenity Edrehasivar VII, our son Maia Drazhar—

Soothly I cannot think what on earth I should write to thee, for I quite expected never to be able to address thee again— but I felt it would be very wrong to send thy good man Mer Aisava back without a missive in my own hand, and thus I persist. I suppose I want only to tell thee how desperately sorry I am that thou wast so badly lied to and unfairly treated with all these years. I thought always that I should try to escape, or use some means to contact thee, but I knew not how I should do it, and I badly feared what would happen to thee if I was caught. The Witness for the Prelacy was quite clear in his threats, and I was terrified they would make an attempt upon thy life and claim that thou hadst simply inherited my illness. Mer Aisava has been evasive about the circumstances of thy continued relegation in my absence, but I cannot see that thou wast treated kindly, and thy continued neglect despite my adherence to thy father’s terms makes me frankly sick with enmity. I am so sorry, and I can only think to beg thy forgiveness when I see thee, for having not the shrewdness nor the courage to be able to defend thee. 

I was astounded to hear thee named Emperor Edrehasivar, for our isolation allowed us to hear nothing of the outside world, not even the death of Varenechibel— and I was horrified to be informed of the Tethimada’s conspiracy. I will pray for all those killed, but especially thy half-brothers, whom I knew as amiable boys whose only crime was being born to the emperor. The throne is not perhaps the fate I wanted or envisioned for thee, but I am pleased regardless that thou’rt finally afforded the dignity long-denied to thee.

As thou surely wilt have been informed by the time this letter is in thy hands, I have warily decided to return to the Corat’ Dav Arhos for the time being— but know that hadst thou not mentioned the imminence of thy state visit, I should not have thought of staying apart from thee any longer, regardless of the appearance of my illegitimate sisters insisting they will take me home. Frankly I quite harassed thy poor Secretary to assure me of thy security before I felt I could decide at all. I might have asked for nothing more than to have some assurance of thy safety, for I have prayed for thee daily and will continue to do so always. 

I thank thee earnestly for the assertion of my liberty and for the letter in thy own hand, which I will keep on my person until I might see thee again. You do me stubborn credit by thy choice of signet.

Commend me wholeheartedly to thy wife the Zhasan, the Drazhada if they will hear it, and to thy household.

I love thee as I have always loved thee, and I will see thee soon,

May the Lady of Stars protect thee until I might watch over thee again,

I am, foremost,

Thy devoted mother,

Chenelo Drazharan 

Lacking any kind of signet, she returned to the Barizheise manner, and pressed her thumbprint into the wax. She handed it to Csevet, who kindly pretended not to notice her trembling hands. It did not, she thought, seem sufficient— after a second of thought, she went to her valise.

“Would you mind terribly if we also asked you to take this?” she said, and proffered him the prayer-book she had been working on. “We have not finished the latest addition, but we have added a piece to it every year on his birthday, and we hoped…” She shook her head helplessly. Maia had mentioned the mantra to Cstheio, but that meant nothing, really; a platitude to a pious mother recently in a convent. “He does not have to use it. We do not blame him if he is not very observant, we know it never was fashionable to be pious. Tis only— only the sentiment.”

But Csevet smiled as he took it from her. “Not in your day, perhaps— but it is becoming fashionable again at the court to be pious, Zhas'maro, for there is no example higher than the emperor.”

“Oh!” said Chenelo, relieved. “Oh— yes, good—” It occurred to her then to ask, “Would it be advisable to also address a note to the Barizheise ambassador? We do not wish to impose, but we imagine it must be rather— chaotic for him, at the moment. If it would be useful to smooth things over, or offer him assurances…?”

“Actually, Zhas’maro, it would be most fitting,” said Csevet. “Vorzhis Gormened is your kinsman by marriage.”

“Is he?”

“We presume you remember Nadaro Pel-Tetramel?” said Csevet. Chenelo blinked, amazed.

Nadaro had been the daughter of Laris Pel-Tetramel, her maternal uncle; Chenelo had played with her when they were young, but once Avar’an Kalmiro had died, Laris’s loyalty to the Maru’var had fractured, and he had vanished from court, taking Nadaro with him. 

“Oh! Nadaro, we had no idea… well, of course we did not.” It pleased her a little to think of Nadaro at Maia’s court— at least he had one Barizheise relation present, even if a first cousin once removed was not a wholly close link. “Then we should write to her, as our cousin. We can at least try to provide some… clarity. We are sure poor Gormened must have had a very unusual few weeks.”

Csevet murmured, “Frankly, Zhas’maro, it has been an unusual few years.”

Once Shaleän had returned to her ship, and Csevet had taken his leave of them, Chenelo and Ursu wasted at least another hour gossiping, reading the fashion periodicals, and braiding Chenelo’s hair— generally behaving like girls, despite both being mothers and far too old for such conduct. Chenelo had no idea where Csevet had slunk off to, but she sincerely doubted it was anywhere very far. She was pleased Maia had sent him; he was mild and efficient and patient, and she would have been frightened by imperial guardsmen or diplomats— the sorts of men who had fetched her from the border, and that had taken her to Isvaroë. She supposed he had guessed that much. 

She and Ursu shared the bed, but sleep evaded her for a few hours, her brain running fitfully with the day’s staggering overload of information— when she eventually slept, she dreamed incoherently and fitfully of the child Maia being crowned with the Ethuverazhid Mura. She woke abruptly in a panic, thought, I do not know what he looks like now— and burst into tears, finally overwhelmed.

She tried not to wake up Ursu, but was unsuccessful, and ended up trying to explain between sobs the slightly hysterical distress of no longer recognising her son.

“Malhis always worries when he puts out to sea that the girls will grow too fast, in the weeks and months he is away, and that he will miss something crucial— or that they will not know him when he comes back,” said Ursu eventually, having squashed her in such a tight hug that Chenelo was being forced to put most of her attention to breathing, which might have been a deliberate tactic. “But he never does— and they always know him again, even when they were very little. People have a funny way of picking up where they left off. Twill be well. Thou wilt know him, and he thee.” 

“But he is the Emperor,” heaved Chenelo. “He is Ethuverazhid Zhas.”

“Chills one to the bone, doesn’t it?” said Ursu darkly. She gave her a squeeze, and said; “Have faith, dear one. Thou wast always the best at that.”

Csaivo, Chenelo thought incoherently, too tired and frayed to pray properly. Oh Csaivo, mother, healer— please.

Amaru Derenzha turned out to be a goblin, which was possibly a purposeful choice; besides his courier's leathers, he would fit right in with the rest of Shaleän's crew. He and Csevet were whispering at a corner table, heads bent close together, when Chenelo and Ursu came down the next morning— they saw them and broke off, and Amaru smiled at her and bowed his head discreetly in salute. He wore cheerful ribbons in his hair, and had a habit of idly kicking whoever he was sitting next to, which was invariably Csevet. He was cheerier and less fastidious than Csevet, though he still sported the impeccable court accent and impenetrable manners.

They took porridge and dried fruit from the friendly barmaid, a goblin woman who had obviously identified them as Barizheize and called them both Barizhin pet-names— and despite her complete weariness, Chenelo found herself in a decent mood when she sat down to eat with the couriers. Even without Ursu telling her, Chenelo would have been able to tell that the clothes she’d been given were Thever’s; her sister had always compulsively picked at her sleeve stitching, so all of her gowns had repaired cuffs, including this one. The pockets were, as promised, strewn with an absentminded collection of notes, thread, stones from the beach, and deconstructed pieces of pomanders. The prevailing belief in the court was that Thever’s affliction was a result of bad air and weak lungs— an impotent theory which most people stuck to because it was easier than trying anything else— and she was forever being foisted with smelling-salts and pomanders and tonics. She tended to regift them, break them on purpose, or leave them in high places. 

Chenelo smoothed out the notes, and found them all written in Thever’s tremulous and unstable hand— a brace of calculations, unsteady doodled lines, a list of fabric types all crossed out, a fragment of a star-map ripped out of a book, showing a corner of the constellation the elves called Starsannover’s Bow. There were a few lines of a libretto from a Barizheise opera, naming the emperors of the Ethuveraz: Thever had aggressively circled Edrehasivar, then made a seemingly unconnected note in support of the disputed translation of Untheileian as ‘wisdom’. It was recent, then; there was no other reason she would have been interested in the cognomen. It was hard to tell which of these were simply from the day-to-day running of the dav, and which were symptomatic of one of her fancies or hallucinations. Just in case she’d want them, Chenelo tied them all carefully together with some of the embroidery thread and put them in her inside pocket, with Maia’s letter.

Csevet nudged a pot of tea towards her as they ate, and when Chenelo poured it, she found it was chamomile. 

“A guess,” he said, when she looked with raised eyebrows at him.

“An astute one,” said Chenelo, settling happily in the corner of the booth.

Shaleän arrived not long after, proclaiming the day had great promise for sailing and they were to leave as soon as they could. She eyed Amaru suspiciously, but he bowed respectfully and addressed her in fluent Barizhin, and she seemed to decide he was acceptable. 

They readied themselves to leave soon after finishing breakfast, and by the time they emerged, Csevet had retrieved his horse from the stables, and was preparing it in the yard.

“We are riding a few miles downriver,” he said, checking saddle fastenings briskly. “There is an airship mooring mast near the Ceredada manor of Belomee, and from there we can get direct passage to Cetho just after noon. Should we run into difficulty, we can beg hospitality from our mistress’s kinsmen.” 

“Tis no easy ride, Csevet,” said Amaru uneasily.

Csevet flicked an ear dismissively. “We are never unarmed, as you know, and we were the most reliable courier in the fleet, as you know. We have our ways.” He checked his pocketwatch and frowned. “We will take our leave from you all. It will take the best part of today to get back to Cetho.”

But he looked very young, standing in front of the great horse in the stark light of day, and possibly that was what buckled Chenelo’s judgement: 

“Saleheizo protect thee, dear heart,” said Chenelo, and she had swooped and kissed both of his cheeks before she realised she was treating him like a Barizheise servant. She winced and retreated. “...apologies, Mer Aisava. We are overtired. You are not our man to command or to be overfamiliar with, and we should not diminish you. We wish you safe travels.”

Csevet did not seem to mind, however— he blushed profusely, but covered it with a hasty bow. “Zhas'maro, even if we were not commanded to take orders from you as we would take them from the Emperor— which, we note, we were— we would be happy to serve you nonetheless.”

He mounted smoothly, slinging his dispatch case in front of him. Chenelo skittered back to stand next to Ursu, who slung an arm around her.

“Captain,” said Csevet, turning to a lurking Shaleän. “We do not wish to fearmonger, but this matter is already a hastily spreading rumour, and it may have already reached Thu-Tetar. A goblin woman in the company of an imperial courier is likely to have drawn notice, and the appearance of Barizheise pirates more so. It would pay to be— vigilant.” He glanced at Ursu and Chenelo. “We only address this to the Captain because we saw her knock two brawling men together like skittles at the bar last night.”

Ursu laughed. Shaleän saluted him ironically, but said: “We take your point.”

Chenelo smiled weakly, watching him gather up the reins. “Good luck, Mer Aisava.”

“Until the month is out, Zhas’maro. Amaru—”

They muttered and passed notes for a second, and if they pressed hands rather tightly, they all pretended not to notice. Csevet bowed to them, then gathered up the reins and urged the horse forward— in a second he was gone, leaning low over the horse’s neck.

“Ah, these young Ethuveraz men,” sighed Ursu. “Makes our father’s messengers look like real lazy bastards, doesn’t it? You’re all very good, Mer Derenzha.” 

“Cs— Mer Aisava is a steep example,” said Amaru, still staring the way he’d gone. “He’s ambitious and married to the job, as we’re sure you have noticed.” If it was a tad bitterly delivered, no one mentioned it. “He was the perfect courier, and now he is the perfect secretary.” He glanced between them and smiled, sweeping away some of that narrow nervousness. “So good that you’d almost think he and the Emperor had been trained for it, no?”

“Speaking of being trained for things,” said Shaleän. “If I ask thee to help my maza with a mazwind, Derenzha— canst manage that?”

Amaru blinked— then his brows drew together slightly. Shaleän added; “Was‘t not what thou didst there? Put thy hand on the horse’s flank to cast a petty stabilising cantrip on’t?” She chortled at the look on his face. “I know what mazei techniques look like, boy. I’ve met enough.”

“You’re a maza, Mer Derenzha?” said Chenelo in amazement. 

“Of very little skill and learning, and of no scholar’s rank,” said Amaru reluctantly. “We would rather use the title petty conjurer. We mostly use our meagre talent to entertain our friends and make some extra coins while we’re out drinking.”

“Aisava, the sly little bastard,” said Ursu. “He sent you on purpose. As a bodyguard.”

Amaru shrugged sheepishly. “It seemed best. We are also very capable of shoving a dagger between someone’s ribs, but an extra set of skills never hurt anybody. We couldn’t cast a revethmaz, but we could do some… damage. Some very creative damage, depending on what we used.”

“But your ribbons,” said Chenelo. “Are they not alike to scholar’s ribbons?”

“It is our… little joke,” said Amaru, putting a slightly self-conscious hand to his head. “We never did have the education, money, or time to be able to go to university. We have been a courier since we were ten.”

“Well, at least you’re honest about your age,” said Chenelo. Amaru smiled thinly.

“Mer Aisava has his official line,” he said. “He doesn’t think he’s lying. He thinks he’s… being professional. The rest of us have fewer delusions, but the rest of us do not serve the emperor directly.” 

“Probably for the best,” said Shaleän. “Proximity to the Ethuverazhid Zhas doesn’t seem to do wonders for the life expectancy. Shall we go?”

“GET OFF THE RIGGING, LAZY WHORESON, WHO RAISED THEE—”

“To be honest, Captain, thou didst most of it—”

“DON’T GIVE ME LIP, BOY!”

Chenelo was not in the slightest bit disappointed by The Glorious Dragon— she was a brigantine just as magnificent as her captain, masquerading not entirely convincingly as a trader. She sat in a corner of the stern and clutched her valise on her knees, doing her best to not look obviously, embarrassingly, thrilled, or be in the way. Pirates! Real pirates, like the ones in the wonder-tales she'd read to Maia. And if the scorch marks and hasty repairs along the hull screamed piracy, Shaleän’s crew absolutely bellowed it. They were a motley gaggle of sailors, a great many of them women— their accents wandered from the Pelanra to Neschonori and all the way up to Thu-Tetar, and some of them even sported the black eyes and rolling accents of the natives of Solunee-Over-The-Water. They all wore sailor’s steel earrings, broad-brimmed hats or elaborately tied scarves, and plenty were missing teeth, limbs or parts of limbs, or were as broadly scarred as Shaleän. They rocketed across the deck with coats flying and jewellery rattling, scrambling up the rigging to loose the topsails or hauling lines across the deck. Ursu, who had worked in shipyards since she could toddle, immediately fell to carrying coils of rope and slinging lines— Shaleän did twenty jobs at once, interspersed between bellowed orders and insults. From the rattling somewhere below, Chenelo assumed they were raising anchor.

“Is this, ah— very typical, do you imagine?” she said to Amaru.

“We think so,” said Amaru, standing with his hands behind his back nearby, eyeing the sailors thoughtfully. “All our dealings with sailors have been… similar. And frankly we do not always behave much better in the courier’s barracks.” 

Chenelo amused herself trying to imagine Csevet involved in such brawling chaos, and found she couldn’t do it. She said in Ethuverazhin: “Mer Derenzha, our native tongue is Barizhin.” Then, in her mother tongue: “Please. We will not be offended if you leave aside your imperial training. You do not have to address us in Ethuverazhin.”

Amaru smiled and bowed, and switched his language flawlessly. “Sorry, Avar’min. Force of habit.”

Shaleän was still shouting: “...FIFTY TIMES MORE USELESS WHEN IT’S ACTUALLY IMPORTANT, ACTING LIKE YOU’RE STILL WET BEHIND THE EARS WHEN WE’RE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR THE GREAT AVAR’S DAUGHTER—”

“Thou’rt the Avar’s daughter too, Captain,” said someone.

“Shame I’m a bastard then, eh? Else thou wouldst have to treat me with some proper respect, perish the thought!” barked Shaleän.

Chenelo decided it was best to continue sitting quietly.

Once they were successfully on their way, most of Shaleän’s crew came by to gawk at her— depending on where they came from, they either knew her as Avar’min, Zhas’maro, or simply as Shaleän’s dead sister. Shaleän’s first mate sauntered up— a short, sun-beaten half-elven woman in her late fifties or sixties named Tarazhin, who turned out to be much better-dispositioned than her scrunched-up, frowning face suggested. 

“All right on boats?” she said shortly, chewing a wodge of reddish Tan Okhrana tobacco that was staining her teeth pink. Chenelo nodded; she had spent very little time on ships this big, but the Corat' Dav Arhos was typically traversed by rowboats or punts on the underground rivers that circled the fortress. 

“All right, good.” Tarazhin smiled, which made her creased face suddenly lively. “We’ll get thee home, Avar’min, don’t worry thyself… and if the boys are rude to you, tell thy sister and she’ll shake them by the ankles over the side.”

She didn’t need to worry; the crew were all friendly and vaguely disrespectful in the Barizheise way that cheered Chenelo up immensely— elves were so proper— and all had a tumble of impertinent questions. 

“The Ashedro sailors are saying that the emperor thy son is going to make Othala Celehar the Witness for the Dead raise Varenechibel from the grave, to stand trial for thy mistreatment,” one of the youngest boys said, his unusual pinkish eyes very wide. “They said the emperor will personally behead his father’s corpse with a sunblade for his crime.”

“We… do not think that is likely,” Chenelo said diplomatically, while Amaru chuckled. A handful of the youngest sailors made her anxious; goblin or part-goblin teenage boys, all with unruly curly hair and faces not quite settled into manhood. Chenelo watched them, and fielded their silly questions, and thought— does Maia look like him? Or him? She tried to overlay his solemn childhood features over the faces of these young men, and struggled miserably to satisfy her imagination. They were too careless, too striding and smiling. Maia had been, and surely remained, watchful and careful.

They dropped anchor just north of Cairado that night, aided by both the maz-wind provided by Amaru and Shaleän’s maza (a broad, unflappable young man called Geremis) and the fine, cool weather. The party which had been left in Cairado to buy up supplies came to meet them by longboat, whistling and shouting as they rowed across. And with them, came—

“There’s Merrem Sevraseched!” said Hara, the boy who had repeated the rumours; he had seemed to take a shine to Chenelo, and was telling her absolutely everything he could about life on The Glorious Dragon. Chenelo got the impression he missed his mother; he was probably about twelve, and on his first voyage with Shaleän’s crew. “Isn’t she so very beautiful? Wait until she turns around, she makes men so stupid—” 

“Zeveran!” Ursu shouted from across the deck— presumably her given name. Zeveran glanced over her shoulder— and, even after a life in two royal courts, she was still one of the most beautiful women Chenelo had ever seen. She was tall and generously built and absolutely dripping in gold jewellery, her hair and skin and eyes all of a flawless, deep black. She seemed to daze Shaleän's sailors into inaction— they stood in useless little huddles until a shout from their Captain had them scurrying again. Chenelo took a moment to marvel at her hair— past her waist and braided closely with gold embellishments, a habit Shaleän must have copied— and the fine shiny quality to her skin and hair, before Hara was chattering again:

“Merrem Sevraseched was widowed very young with no children, and she returned to live with her brothers in Solunee-Over-The-Water, where everyone wanted to marry her. But she didn’t like any of them, and she hadn’t even liked her old husband, so she said she would never marry again— but then Captain Sevraseched saw her at dinner with her brothers and within a month she’d swept her off to sea, with Merrem’s dowry in a dispatch case— Lucanis says that it was full of emeralds and diamonds— and her brothers were so cross they put a ransom on the Captain’s head!” He looked thoughtful. “But I think they gave up after a few years. No one can catch us if we don’t want them to.”

“My word,” said Chenelo, half-amused, and half-wondering if the Maru’var’s gallivanting was genetic. “How— thrilling.”

“Merrem tells it better,” said Hara, hopping up and going over to see her. Chenelo got up to follow him, where Zeveran was handing off salon bags to anyone who was standing close enough.

“Fascinating people, the elves!” She had a rolling, plummy way of talking— the Soluneise accent, Chenelo knew— and seemed to like to address everyone in the vague vicinity. “Very cold, but they'll light right up if one spends some money. Interesting fashions, some really fabulous pieces... I'm told the elven empress apparently wore slit sleeves and a net caul with threaded amber at her wedding, and if all the fine ladies do not do the same, they will, quite positively, die.” She turned— her face lit up. “I say! Tis true! How now, Avar'min, and hail thee, sister!”

She had descended like a storm of gold jewellery and amber-like perfume on Chenelo, and kissed both of her cheeks enthusiastically before she seemed to remember herself— she stepped back, frowned, curtsied badly, and said in a hesitant tone: “Might we call you sister, Avar’min?”

“Of course,” said Chenelo weakly, slightly overwhelmed. Zeveran beamed in every appearance of genuine excitement, exposing slightly gappy teeth. 

“Been spending my money again, wife?” said Shaleän loudly, still looking over the maps nearby. 

“I’ve been supporting Chenelo’s son’s economy, darling,” said Zeveran, winding poor Geremis with a bag to his chest. 

“That’s almost as bad as thy excuse for the emeralds,” said Shaleän.

“Oh,” said Zeveran. “Those old things? But that was so long ago.”

“They weren’t those old things when thou wast shoving them down thy bodice to steal them at the Anvernal shipmaster’s dinner,” said Shaleän. 

Zeveran grinned shamelessly— Chenelo thought wryly that she and Shaleän were very well-matched.

It became obvious quickly that Zeveran had been brought along to keep Chenelo company.  Perhaps it was because she was also a widow to a husband she had hated, or perhaps she just felt sorry for her— but she put in excessive effort to keep Chenelo involved and engaged, which was very kind, if perhaps over-concerned. Chenelo wondered if they had expected her to be completely bereft of sense, exaggeratedly unwell, or perhaps so nervous she couldn’t really be left alone; in that, she could only disappoint them. Still, Ursu and Shaleän were sailors, and had jobs to be done which Chenelo would just get in the way of— and while Amaru often sat and told them tales of the courier fleet, he kept being hauled off to see to petty maz-jobs. Zeveran was, she owned, entirely useless on ships— she was ‘the worst Captain’s wife in the world,’ as she put it. They sat belowdecks and drank strong sailor’s tea and played Pakh'palar, and Zeveran related a more sensational and more detailed, but possibly not more true, version of her elopement; she claimed that she had played cat-and-mouse with Shaleän for months, and across several of Shaleän’s absences— Shaleän playing a great gallant, and Zeveran insisting on being coy— until Zeveran finally climbed out of her window and ran away with her. Her brothers were furious, but waived the ransom eventually, once they worked out that Shaleän was disgustingly rich. The Maru’var was so amused he sent Shaleän the money that, had she been legitimate, would have been her bride-price. Chenelo could not own herself very surprised.

“They like to chat about thy son, thou knowest? These people in Cairado,” Zeveran said later, sitting on the quarterdeck with her legs slung across Shaleän’s lap. “They get very defensive when a foreigner asks them questions, but if you seem interested they will become very braggy. Oh, the economy— the widow empresses— the Zhasan— the bridge—”

“The bridge?” said Chenelo blankly.

There was a slight pause.

“Hast no one told her? Eh?” barked Shaleän. “Anmur’s’foot, I thought one of his little dogs would have blurted it out immediately—” She bellowed across the deck: “Courier! Why didst thou not mention the bridge to thine emperor’s mother?”

“We were not commanded to provide a political laundry list, Captain,” returned Amaru drolly. “We apologise for the apparent oversight.”
“The Bridge-Builder, Chenelo,” effused Shaleän, turning back to her with a huff. “Thy boy has bridged the Istandaärtha!”

“Bridged the—?” Chenelo stopped, disbelieving. “But even Varenechibel could not.”

“Oh, Varenechibel, pish. They do not call thy son Edrehasivar the Obstinate for nothing.”

“Do they?” said Chenelo weakly.

“Yes! Two attempts to overthrow him, and he still kept trying to build the damn bridge. Something to be said for bull-headedness— well, either that or stupidity—”

“But how?” said Chenelo, still several points behind in this conversation. “We remember it was said Varenechibel considered it, but everyone said it was impossible, even the Corazhas.”

“It moves, Avar’min,” said Amaru, wandering over to them. 

“Moves?” said Chenelo.

“Tis very ingenious,” said Amaru happily. “Steam-powered, largely, designed by the Clockmaker's Guild and a handful of mazei. The arms are a little like a tangrishi, so we understand… or that is how it was explained to the Corazhas, anyway.” 

“Thy son pushed very hard for it,” agreed Ursu. “No one really understands why, but who knows why great men do what they do…”

“He has always held on very tightly to ideas that make an impression on him,” said Chenelo wistfully. “It made him exceptionally devout for a small child— but it also made him impossible to reason with when he was cross. Which was almost never, but spectacular when it happened.”

Shaleän coughed, and muttered: “Well, as for the idea, I hear—”

“Shaleän,” snarled Ursu, with some vicious warning behind it. She added, after a second: “Stop trying to impress thy faulty understanding of Ethuverazin politics onto us all, we care not for’t.” 

Shaleän smiled and held her hands up in surrender. Chenelo looked between them, perplexed, but Ursu looked blank, and Shaleän did not appear about to continue. 

“We-ell,” said Zeveran vaguely, rifling in a bag. “We will pass it tomorrow, so we can all have a good gawk…” She seemed finally to have found what she was looking for, and suddenly whipped out a fistful of paper, and said; “Aha! Here, Chenelo, I gathered these for thee— they are mighty indistinct but they’re something, no—?”

They were a rifle of woodcuts bound hastily together, all sliced out of fashion pamphlets or newspapers— and all of them featured either the emperor, the empress, or both.

Chenelo stammered a thank-you, but Zeveran wasn’t listening— she turned one over and pointed proudly. 

“There! Elf-maids in the bridal salon I passed were all over that.”

It was a reproduction of an original from some five months ago; a woodcut of the imperial wedding in the summer, Maia and Csethiro Ceredin at the dachenmeire in the Untheileian. It was a lovely piece, but like most woodcuts, it was heavily stylised— cut more to illustrate the fashions than the people wearing them. And they were beautiful fashions— Chenelo took a helpless moment to admire the gorgeous goldwork on Maia’s sleeves and the amber threading in Csethiro’s caul and across her brow— but Zhas and Zhasan were so heavily veiled it was almost useless to try to pick out their features.

“But he’s gotten so tall…” mumbled Chenelo, staring at Maia’s grey hand in the unknowable Csethiro Zhasan’s. Though no doubt helped by the Ethuverazhid Mura and the veiling, he was taller than both his bride and the Archprelate, and would no doubt be taller than her, now. Last time she had seen him, he had barely reached her upper arm. She glanced again at his face, but it was only an indistinct grey profile, nothing true to life.

“Is she a young lady, the Zhasan?” said Chenelo, giving up and turning to admiring the fine beadwork on Csethiro Zhasan’s bodice. 

“Three and twenty now, I think?” said Ursu.

“Oh,” said Chenelo in relief, who had been paranoid they would have married Maia off to a girl even more of a child than him. Or to a much older woman, perhaps a widow. “Well, that is not so much of a gap…”

Admittedly, no one except Ursu was really listening. Amaru had wandered off to lean over the side and watch the riverbank; Shaleän was trying to catch Zeveran’s eye; Zeveran was ignoring her, preening at her hair and swinging a foot idly. Chenelo smiled wryly and got up to go and walk with Ursu, taking the pamphlets and leaving them to it.

“Art all right?” she said to her second sister. “Seemst— preoccupied.”

“Oh, I'm— fine,” said Ursu, but she was frowning. She looked at her, then said; “Well— I just need to talk to thee, actually. I think.” 

“What? But—”

Ursu looked around, saw no one nearby except Shaleän and Zeveran, who had ended up in each other’s arms and did not look likely to surface imminently, and said, “I am telling thee because I am worried Shaleän is going to blurt it out. I told her not to, but I don't trust that old sea-hag, she almost did it there— and if she does, she’ll laugh, and thou wilt want to kill her.”

Chenelo blinked. “I’m not sure I—” 

“The Untheilenese Court rumour is that thy son bedded an opera singer in exchange for considering the bridge proposal.” Ursu said in a rush. “‘Twas before he was married, and the only actual evidence is that they were seen leaving a party together, and that he was clearly infatuated with her.” She paused. “And that apparently the Zhasan— or the Dach’osmin Ceredin, as she was then— was of the opinion this lady was using him.”

Chenelo stared at her. “He—” She stopped. “What?”

“I felt someone should tell thee, before one of the damn pirates makes a joke about it,” said Ursu helplessly. “I'm not saying it's true— I think it's run its course in the Untheilenese Court, thou must know how quickly they get bored of rumours over there… it probably isn't true. But it came back to Barizhan with Papa’s entourage after the state visit, so thou mightst— hear it.”

Chenelo swallowed. “But he…” 

“One would prefer not to think it true, I know—”

“No— well, yes— but I prefer not to think he might have been manipulated,” said Chenelo dully. “One might hope he doesn’t… take after his Grandfather…” Ursu snorted inadvertently, then looked guilty. “...but he is an adult and can do as he likes. If he as the emperor wishes to have an opera singer for a mistress… and if the young lady was happy to go along with it… that is his business.” She looked out over the river, which in the lowering light was grey and flat, uninspiringly boring. “I hope more specifically that he's not being— used.”

“Ah,” said Ursu. “Do you think he’s apt to be manipulated?”

“Yes,” Chenelo said, in an embarrassingly small voice. “He’s not stupid, but he’s not— I don't think he's ever—”

“Had any sort of kind attention from anyone except thee?”

Chenelo’s ears sank. “Exactly.” Csevet had not been able to convince her that Maia had been sufficiently cared for at Edonomee, and she doubted extremely he had been done any kindness until he had ascended the throne— and kindnesses done to the emperor were rarely just that.

“I suppose that seems… more likely,” said Ursu. “But, well— mayhaps he is not so exploited. The Drazhada are a stubborn bunch, so I hear. Whatever the provenance of the idea… the bridge is still a testament to that.”

Chenelo was jerked out of a restless, unhappy doze the next morning by a shout from the crow's nest: 

“BRIDGE IS DOWN— GOING UP IN TEN.”

“How do they know?” said Chenelo, once she’d dressed hastily and gone onto the deck. 

“There’s regular mirror-signals to ships from the towers,” said Shaleän, smoking in her shirtsleeves at the prow. She scowled. “Anmurs’lid, we’ll get stuck behind everything else that’s waiting… stupid thing.”

Ursu said, mildly: “Tis very good for trade between the East and West Ethuveraz.”

“What do I care for legitimate trade?” demanded Shaleän. She went marching off, shouting for her linesmen; the others waited at the prow to see the bridge. Amaru’s ears were very high with curiosity; it hadn't occurred to Chenelo that he might not have seen it, either.

When they rounded the side of the bank, his eyes widened— Chenelo murmured an involuntary invocation of Csaivo. 

The Wisdom Bridge towered over everything else around it— an elegant, but distinctly robust, brass and iron bridge, built of linking arms from four immense towers. It did indeed have an element of the tangrisha about it; the towers designed like the gormless heads, the spars clawed like their feet. It was almost charming, but something about it was deeply imposing— its potential for massive power, Chenelo supposed. She couldn’t possibly imagine how it was meant to move; the deck was immense.  

They drew alongside other boats dotted along the Istandaärtha, Shaleän bellowing at her pilots not to ram anything— mostly traders and fishers, though there were a few elven passenger liners. Chenelo thought they were drawing stares from other people abovedecks, which was vaguely funny, in a nerve-wracking way—

Then there was a low boom, like the doors of some great hall slamming, so deep Chenelo felt the thrum of it in her chest. She turned back— and saw the two sides of the bridge slowly, but distinctly, began to separate, the arms starting to rise and retract into the towers, creaking distantly like sails in the wind. It did not take as long as it seemed it should; pair by pair they folded slowly back and vanished into their assigned towers, in a neat, almost stately manner— until even the spars lifted and vanished. There was another low thrum as something sealed— and the deck was gone as if it had never been there at all. Chenelo gawked, amazed; so did everyone else, none of whom had seen it move until now.

“Ashevez’s’blood,” murmured Ursu.

“MOVE HER ON, THEN,” shouted Shaleän— but while everyone was scrambling, she whistled lowly and said to Chenelo: “Have to admit; it's really something.”

“It's fantastic,” said Chenelo softly. Shaleän gave her arm a squeeze and stamped off, leaving her to stare as they passed under it, beneath the immense shadows of the towers. Chenelo looked up at the white imperial standards hung from them— stamped with Maia’s signet, her signet— and thought, with a sudden, violent wash of relief, it would not take so much to convince him of this. He had always loved stories about mazei and clockmakers and inventors, and the Wisdom Bridge was pure magic— a gift from his patron goddess, if indeed she had ever seen one. 

Whose child art thou? she thought— and she heard him say, the star’s child, and smiled. 

Chapter Text

The Istandaärtha was not, for the most part, an attractive river; at its widest points it was brown and aggressive and foamed rabidly at the banks. It fretted inexperienced sailors terribly, and Chenelo knew there were dozens of drowning or capsizing deaths every year. But Shaleän, who had sailed the Maw of Ashevezehkho multiple times, acted as if it was a mildly bad-tempered cat, and called it rowdy with a twinkling admonishment which suggested it was perfectly within its rights to be so. 

By the time they crossed the border to Barizhan, it had calmed to a blank taupe ribbon which wove underneath the Arh’minnoi, the immense and ancient stone statues of Csaivo and Ashevezhkho which marked the border division. They guarded a side of the bank each— Csaivo on the Ethuverazhin side and Ashevezhkho on Barizhan’s— but they had clasped and held aloft the other’s hand across the divide. 

Shaleän’s crew were singing a Barizhin shanty; Chenelo sat under Shaleän’s greatcoat and watched Csaivo and Ashevezhkho emerge out of the fog, and listened to them sing;

Fare thee well, elf-maids 

elf-maids, goodbye 

thy jewels and thy white braids 

we’ll no more come by; 

we’re back to the cedars, 

the wide southern sky 

no elf-maid’ll keep us

from where our hearts lie...

Travellers and border patrols had left devotions at the goddess’s immense feet; the plinth of Ashevezhko’s statue was streaked with candlewax, soot, and smoke, and a few candles flickered determinedly in the low light. Csaivo was tied with ribbons and her plinth was scattered with pilgrimage tokens. They had aged and weathered with the constant rain and mist over the river, but were clearly being maintained from total deterioration. Ashevezhkho was rendered in her aspect of the goblin-maid, and Chenelo fancied that she looked kindly upon them as they passed under her. She had not had much to do with the goddess of the sea these last twenty years, and it was hard to feel her near when the sea was so very far away— but she had prayed to her anyway, even when she was sure she had forgotten her. She was the Sevraseched’s patron goddess, and Chenelo’s augury of favour.

The only markers of the change in country were the statues, and, further along, the border-houses that kept the patrols and the soldiers, hung with the two standards; Maia’s and the Maru’var’s. All else was farmland and forest. The landscape would change as they pressed further south; hotter and rockier, cedar and cypress, the industrialised elven cities replaced with the jumbling old towns of Barizhan. Chenelo remembered watching the landscape become greener and colder and damper as she had approached the border, and how she had wondered slightly hysterically how the people that lived here didn’t simply rot away with the damp and chill.

She glanced back at the retreating bank, and tried to settle the concept with herself; she had left. She had been allowed to leave. She was in Barizhan. But it was a thought as flat and colourless as the river— she could not conceptualise it, and she doubted she would until they skirted the Pelanra. She had felt distinctly as a teenager, crossing the border, that she would never pass back over it again.

The Maru'var had assumed that Varenechibel would treat her well. This was an assumption that was built, at least in part, on his dubious understanding of what counted as treating your wife well. Chenelo did not doubt that he had loved and respected her mother, but he did not seem to consider infidelity a deal-breaker so long as it was discreet. Kalmiro Sevraseched had never said anything about it— at least, not within the hearing of her daughters— but Chenelo had always suspected that the almost ten-year age gap between Thever and herself was the statement. 

“Varenechibel loved his last wife,” the Maru’var had told her, and Chenelo did not ask, how old was she? “And the one before that. And he has two daughters who are said to be good girls.”

“What about the first Empress?” said Chenelo. “The one he sent away?”

“Didn't mean he didn't like her,” said the Maru'var. “She was an astute and dignified lady, so they say. But rulers need heirs. Thou seest, Chenelo.”

Chenelo, second legitimate daughter of only daughters, had certainly seen. And after that, her father looked sour, and quickly changed the subject.

The agreement had been signed with great pomp, and the bride-price had been settled after an immense amount of haggling. Chenelo was worth, according to the papers, two hundred thousand zhashan in elf-coins; a trousseau composed of ten bolts of cloth-of-gold, three of damask and five of brocade; two original Kezmered oils, priceless; and five and ten very valuable jewellery pieces of ruby, opal, and pearls, including the Pelan’mura, the famous ancient pearls of the Pelanra’s bays. In return, Varenechibel would settle upon his father in law a brace of arable farmland northeast of the border, and Barizhan and the Ethuveraz would be allied against their common enemies. The Maru’var would also allow for Ethuverazhin trade to pass through Barizhan and access the Chadavean Sea unharassed.

On paper it was a happy arrangement; the border-raids that had lately fretted the north would be suppressed, and everyone benefitted. In practice, it was less so. Varenechibel was generally thought to still be obsessed with his late wife, who had died some years ago, and was not predisposed to a new one. He was an old man, too, with children almost Chenelo’s age; apparently he was elegant and not unhandsome, but the ambassadors said he was severe in both mein and temperament. 

Chenelo’s ladies had tried their best to make light of it; she did not have to see him very often— she could spend all her time with them— and perhaps his daughters would be nice companions— and at least he was not ugly— and he was not so very old— and he was very rich, and that would be fine.

Chenelo tried to be consoled; Thever, however, would not be. Angry that her callow little sister was being, as she considered it, sold off under her nose, and unsettled by the idea that she would be so far away, she had refused to hear of it until it was atop of them— on the morning of Chenelo’s departure, she had cried herself into a megrym, and had been too ill to come to see her off. Chenelo had let herself into her dark chamber and kissed her goodbye, and Thever had flung herself down and clutched Chenelo’s knees and said, “They will be cruel to thee, Chenelo, they will be cruel,” and had wept bitterly. Thever had fits of paranoia, and periods of assuming everybody was acting against her, so Chenelo was not unused to this— but she could not deny it had the ring of real conviction to it. Still, freshly sixteen and foolish, she had said they would not be cruel, for their father was so mighty that it would be a terrible mistake. But Thever had sobbed and sobbed, and Chenelo had to beg her sister to let go of her. Chenelo remembered looking back at her, crumpled on the floor of her dark chamber, her golden eyes wide and terrified through her fingers— and then the door had shut between them, and that had been the last she had seen of Thever.

Chenelo had not cried when she took her leave of her father and the dav, and had been proud of herself for it. Her father was stalwart; she could be, too. She had tried not to look at the Hezhethora and the attendants behind her father, all of whom had looked grim-faced.

She had not cried on the long horrible journey, plagued with high winds and uncomfortable roads. Nor had she cried when they had met the Emperor’s stern men at the border, and found that Varenechibel himself had not bothered to come to greet her. She had not cried when they had taken her Barizheise clothes and jewellery from her, and given her an elf-maid’s gown and jewels to wear instead; nor when they had addressed her as Dach’osmin Sevraseched, instead of Avar’min; nor at the dreadful idea of travelling in an airship, the monstrous death-traps that had never caught on in Barizhan.

Then, a brace of arguing from the officials, head-shaking from the emperor’s men, and—

“They are saying we cannot come with thee,” Mero had whispered, clutching her scarf to her as the wind whipped around her. “They are saying thou must have the court’s women. Thou cannot bring thine own ladies.”

“But—” Chenelo had looked at the elvish gentleman, the Witness for Foreigners. He shook his head, mouth a thin line. She tried; “Dach’osmer, we entreat you—”

“It is the Emperor’s desire that you have only elvish women about you, Dach’osmin,” said the Witness for Foreigners. He looked a little sympathetic, and Chenelo wondered if he had a daughter— but the set of his face was grimly determined, and it was clear he would carry out his instructions to the letter.

And so she was separated with very little fanfare from a grim-faced Mero, a horrified Larian, and a sobbing Peru— she kissed them all hastily and bade them attach themselves to Thever, and gave them hasty presents of her Barizheise jewels she had been told to take off— but then she was being handed into a carriage, the door was slammed, and the horses had jerked and bourne them forwards, leaving her alone and cold in the Zhasan’s coach.

And then she had cried, and after that she had not often been able to stop herself.

They spent much of the journey down the coast to the Pelanra playing Bokh. Ursu was very good, and so was Tarazhin; Shaleän was given to cheating; Geremis was average; Hara had the finicky beginner’s luck of all children first attempting card games… and Amaru was so good Shaleän started forcing him to deal ‘before she had to pay him a month’s wage’. Gambling had been very popular at the court during previous empress’s tenures, but Chenelo hadn’t been an avid enough or skilled enough player to curry any favour on that front. Still, almost anyone was better than Zeveran, who was utterly terrible, but at least found her own uselessness very amusing. 

Amaru told them about the couriers’ card-parties (which frequently ended in physical fights, breakups, and a few people in so much profit they didn’t work for a month, so he said) and was led on to talk more freely about the fleet;

“We are meant to be thirteen before we join, but we don't know a single courier who was,” he said, shuffling Shaleän’s deck of cards— a cheap satirical set she’d bought at a dockside market in the Versheleen Islands, all painted to look like caricatures of folk figures or political leaders. The Maru’var was the King of Clubs, and Varenechibel was the King of Diamonds. “The recruiters don’t care, and don’t check; often they can’t check. Lots of families are illiterate and don’t keep records. Even if their local Csaiv’meire had reliable records— and lots of rural ones don’t— it would depend upon them having petitioned a cleric of Csaivo to attend the birth in the first place, and then on the recruiters matching the records. Which they don’t have the time or care to do. Some couriers who are orphans don’t even know for sure how old they are.”

“Sounds like sailors,” said Shaleän. “I've known a lad or two like that, lying about their age or their origin…”

“Thou wert that lad, Shaleän,” said Tarazhin, who had come up with Shaleän through service on several ships. Shaleän just grinned and shrugged.  

At other times, Ursu told Chenelo about her daughters; Elthevo was apprenticed to the local pearl-divers, and Laru, though really too little to be apprenticed anywhere, liked to help at the fishmongers and the local zhoäns. But they spent their weekends at the Corat' Dav Arhos, and had done so since Ursu had been acknowledged. 

“They're very excited to think they're cousins with the elf-emperor,” said Ursu. “Since he’s Drazhada they want to show him the cat— giant tabby, followed us home once they wouldn’t stop feeding it. They call him Big Cat, which says nothing for originality, but plenty for enthusiasm…”

“I’m sure he’d like that.” Privately, Chenelo had always thought there was something catlike about the Drazhada; Varenechibel had stalked like a hunting panther, and Maia’s pale eyes and sharp face and habit of staring solemnly lent to him something slightly feline. It was why she had been fond of the stripling mousing cats at the cloister. 

Ursu also updated her on gossip from the Corat’ Dav Arhos; who had fallen out of favour, who had come in, who had gotten married. And, eventually, she admitted it;

“Shouldst… probably know Thever is married.”

“What?” said Chenelo sharply, looking up. “Father promised me he would never marry her off. I was married off so she would not have to be, ‘twas our agreement—”

“Ay, ay, yes, but— firstly, she married herself off. Thirty-seven and suddenly decided she should like to be married after all. It took some browbeating, and eventually she told Papa she'd elope if he didn't sign the agreement, so he had to. And secondly— hah— her bridegroom is Kelru Erizmed.”

“Handsome Kelru?!” said Chenelo shrilly— so loudly that Shaleän looked over from where she’d been mending sailcloth and snorted.

“Probably should have brought this up sooner,” Ursu murmured. She nodded solemnly; “Yes, she bagged Handsome Kelru, the jammy heifer. Everyone thought he'd have been snapped up by then, but we think he was waiting for her, all this time—”

Kelru Erizmed, third son of one of the richer but less martial Avarsin, had been dubbed Handsome Kelru since the dav’s adolescent population had been old enough to think of it, and it had stuck so badly that even the Maru’var called him that. 

“I got Varenechibel, and she got to marry Handsome Kelru?” Chenelo practically wailed. “Damned unfair!”

“Careful, little sister, thy good breeding is slipping,” snorted Ursu. “But ay, well— consider that Thever doesn't have an Emperor-son with unlimited political power at her disposal? Or any children at all—” She saw Chenelo’s face and gave up. “But yes. Tis unfair.”

Chenelo ground her teeth for a moment, then said; “But why is Thever still at the Corat’ Dav Arhos? If she married into the Erizmeds?”

“Papa's relationship with Erizmed broke down a few years before they married, and Kelru defected and came to the Sevraseched’s dav,” said Ursu. “He’s not exactly politick, but he noticed which way the wind was blowing—”

“Must have been blowing a gale if he noticed,” put in Shaleän from across the deck. 

“...and got out quick before Erizmed permanently put himself in Papa’s bad books and they’d be separated forever. Rode miles in the rain with his father’s men at his heels, fell at Thever’s feet once he got to court. So dramatic. We all loved it. Still think Thever might have engineered it, somehow.”

“He really likes her that much?” Chenelo cast back, trying to think if Kelru had really spent so much time hovering around Thever. He had just generally been around. She had thought it was simply because most of the minor avarsin sent their children to squabble about the Avar’min, or seconded them to the Maru’var’s service. No one had complained. He could dance and play cards and was very earnestly polite to the girls, and he was nice to look at.

“Oh, yes,” snorted Ursu. “Wouldst not believe how many people cried at the wedding. Mostly out of jealousy, mind, but still.” She nodded at her— “Thou lookst jealous.”

“No, no, ‘tis good she’s happy…” said Chenelo, who was jealous not so much of Handsome Kelru (who admittedly deserved his name), but more simply that Thever and Ursu had gotten to marry men they actually liked. She got the uneasy feeling that her disastrous marriage had been a catalyst to many of the Maru’var’s previous non-negotiables suddenly becoming very negotiable indeed.

“Couldst always marry again,” offered Ursu. “There'd be any number of handsome elf or goblin lords who'd have thee.”

Chenelo shook her head uneasily. “I do not think I want another husband. I will be… content to be a Drazhada widow. Tis less fraught when my son is the head of my house.” 

“I had not thought of that,” said Ursu. “Legally, thou’rt subject to the rule of thy son, not our father any longer…”

“Tis preferable,” muttered Chenelo. “My son has already granted me a general release and sent me a letter, two things Father did not do.” She saw Ursu eyeing her, and added; “I know it does not befit me to be bitter…”

“Be as bitter as thou likest, we’re the bastard daughters,” said Ursu. “We know the score.”

“Thou know'st, anyway,” muttered Chenelo, flicking a quick glance over at Shaleän. 

“Don’t think her insensible,” said Ursu quietly.

“I don’t, and I know ‘tis just her way to be glib. But...”

“I know.” Ursu shrugged. “Sometimes I wonder if Shaleän remembers a different man. She was seven when he won the throne, and I know she saw him more often than I ever did, for a while. T’would… explain some things.”

Chenelo liked the sea, but she had to admit she was not really made to be a sailor. The further into Barizhan they got, the warmer the air became, but the damp and the unpredictable weather were not helping her joint pain. Sometimes she wondered if having a baby at seventeen years old had permanently put something in her pelvis wrong. She and Ursu had been sharing Shaleän’s bed on the ship— Shaleän had insisted upon it, in a gallantry towards her younger sisters, and as an excuse to sleep on-deck, which Chenelo suspected she preferred. It had helped slightly— and when Chenelo couldn’t sleep, she shamelessly examined the festoon of treasures, paraphernalia, and oddities that had collected about Shaleän’s cabin. Shark’s teeth, pearls, obviously stolen crates of wines and silks, Zeveran’s shoes and jewellery, old ransom notes… and a brace of Shaleän’s wanted posters, tacked above her desk. If a region bordered the Chadevan Sea— and sometimes even if it did not— Shaleän would have been wanted there at some point. The sketches and photographs of her quite effectively tracked her from a swabbie boy (she had gone by ‘Marevis Polmarel’ for years) to a poster that had to only be about six months old;

700 PELORI REWARD FOR INFORMATION ON THE WHEREABOUTS OF ‘CAPTAIN’ SHALEÄN SEVRASECHED, WANTED BY THE LOCAL KENKRATOK ADVOCACY ON CHARGES OF PIRACY, SMUGGLING, THEFT, AND IMPERSONATING A MAN

“She escaped about ten minutes after they took that,” Ursu had said, nodding at the custody photograph. “She was grinning because she’d realised how the door mechanism worked.”

Varenechibel, change-averse and conservative, had banned both photography and newspapers in the Untheileneise Court, so Chenelo had never really seen it used. Maia had not left the court since he had inherited the throne, and thus had never been photographed at all— a fact that Chenelo selfishly resented while examining, again, the indistinct woodcuts.

Then, one day, she came above deck and knew from the smack of salt in the air that they were on open sea. She went to stand with Zeveran at the stern, and found, for the first time since she was sixteen, that she was looking at the Chadevan Sea, blue-black and shimmering. Shaleän was at the wheel on the other side of the deck, smoking (again) and singing a shanty about Neschonorieise women which was markedly less romantic than the last one, though no less enthusiastic. She had an unsurprisingly powerful voice, but she carried the tune markedly well, and it made Chenelo smile.

“Here’s our fine mistress at last!” said Zeveran happily. She hadn’t bound her hair, and it was being whipped behind her by the wind, jingling the gold adornments merrily. “I’ve always lived on the coast,” she said. “I used to dive for oysters when I was a girl. I’m useless at sailing, but by Ashevezhkho, I do love the sea.”

“Have you travelled with Shaleän all this time?”

“Oh— no, only sometimes. I made her buy me a house in Solunee,” said Zeveran. “Once my brothers removed the ransom on her head, anyway…”

“How long did that take?”

“Mm, oh, about— three years? It was a dreadful nuisance. We got shot at on Little Versheleen because they’d sent men after us… I said, well, really! I’d already buried my bride-price in a chest, so they would never have found it if they’d shot me…”

Chenelo smiled, and looked out over the Chadevan, and felt, for the first time in twenty years, that perhaps her augury of favour had not forgotten her after all.

The first clue that they were coming into dock was that they had taken down the Avar’s trading banner. 

The second was that the coastline of the Pelanra was suddenly very, very visible. 

Chenelo ran to the prow and clung to the railing above the figurehead of Ashevezhkho, shading her eyes against the sudden aggression of the sun. It looked exactly as she remembered; the cragged coastline scrawled with cedar and olive groves, the sleek seaside manors that belonged to the Avarsin. The coastal city of Urvekh’ sat in a great sprawling heap in the main cove, crawling up the cliffs and spilling out over the hills, boasting the same timber-frame houses and ancient stone fortifications and walls that it always had. Somewhere over the main hill, would be the central road to the Corat’ Dav Arhos— and just above it, Osreian’s Point, the cliffs where a watch was kept for approaching ships— and there, in the distance, the first of the Urvekh’ lighthouses— and the Pelanra harbour, already busy with jostling traders and flapping pennants. 

Even as Chenelo watched, a flare went up from Osreian’s Point, and indistinct smears of people took off running down the cliff path.

“Ah, they’ve seen us,” said Shaleän, rubbing her hands together. “Shouldst make an entrance then, eh?” She raised her voice; “DROP IT, BOYS!”

The sail fell in a furl of scarlet canvas, and caught, revealing the device that was obviously Shaleän’s usual war-banner; the dragon rampant, rendered with some detail in gold patterning. It had an element of the Corat’ Arhos about it that was obviously intentional, but it did not resemble the Maru’var’s device so closely that it was derivative. Ursu snorted and rolled her eyes, but Chenelo couldn’t help but be impressed.

“Did you ever live in Barizhan, Mer Derenzha?” She said to Amaru, who had come to peer over the prow too. 

“Not since we were very small,” said Amaru, his eyes very wide and his ears very high. “And we lived much further north. We never had cause to visit the capital.”

“How does it compare to Cetho?” said Ursu. Amaru shook his head.

“Cetho is swallowed by the court. Urvekh’, we think, would eat the court alive.”

Chenelo could not help but agree.

The Urvekhara region was infamous for rocks and treacherous currents— part of the reason the Pelanra was so wealthy was because it boasted one of the only safe harbours for miles. That also made it a busy, popular, and chaotic harbour, and it took them a while to get clearance to dock; Chenelo displaced her agitation to be on-land by watching the crowds on the dock and, further up the coastline, the Urvekh’market, the maze of street vendors and stall holders who sold everything; street food, nail lacquer, fake jewellery, real jewellery…

They left a good chunk of the crew behind to settle the ship once they docked— several of them kissed Chenelo, offered her tokens or said a blessing for her, or made her promise she’d come and see them while they were still in port. A few went with them down the gangplank, but Chenelo followed Ursu onto the dock in a daze, without paying overmuch attention to where they were going or what they were doing. Amaru paced silently beside her, eyes bright and vigilant and interested. Shaleän had a brief conference with the docksmaster, but her head was turned by shouting—

“Arh’avar! Arh’avar!” 

A gaggle of children, jostling at the top of the jetty; they cheered when she turned around, and hooted when she waved, then went absolutely mad when Shaleän tossed a combined handful of coins and sweets over the railing.

“Arh’avar?” Chenelo said to Ursu, who glanced narrowly at their sister.

“She didn’t come up with the name, but she answers to it. She’s a bit of a… folk figure, to the people of the coastlines. They think she’s good luck for sailors.”

There was an undertone to the words; Chenelo looked at her in interest, but she shook her head. “Shaleän has been… busy, here. I’ll tell thee later.” 

Nearby, Tarazhin had been trying to keep a hold on Hara— now, he finally squirrelled out from under her arm and rattled off down the dock. “Mama! Mama, we went all the way up the Istandaärtha—”

He flung himself into the arms of the woman waiting at the railing, and let her kiss him and fuss over him while he tried to explain everything he had seen in the Ethuveraz at once.

“Captain,” said Tarazhin, slightly reproachfully. “He’s not technically been dismissed, yet.”

“Aw, leave him,” said Shaleän. “He’s been so good, little lad.” 

Chenelo watched them until she teared up, and had to look away. 

They went through the jetty gate and onto the main dock, stopping at the shrine to Ashevezhko— a great heap of candles upon a sandstone shrine, streaked at every point with coloured wax and incense. Chenelo lit a candle with shaking, disbelieving hands, listening to the Barizhin chatter around her— she was being paid very little attention, just another goblin woman in hundreds. It was so bizarre to actually be back on Barizheise land at last that she had to pause and lean on the altar for a moment, a little dizzy—

There was a sudden tussle at the main gate, people shouting and scuffling. Shaleän seized Chenelo's shoulder to stop her moving forward. Amaru stood on his toes a little, eyes narrowed.

“What's toward?” said Chenelo nervously. Shaleän shook her head.

“Not certain, but—”

Then someone shouted, Avar'min Sevraseched—! and a woman burst out of the crowd and ran towards them, skirts and veil in a complete tangle. 

“Anmurs’lid, ‘tis the mad one,” marvelled one of Shaleän's lineswomen. “I didn’t think she ever left the—”

“Thever!” shrieked Chenelo, and heard a fragment of Shaleän’s response— “She's not mad, Techo—” before she twisted out of Shaleän's grip to bolt off down the dockside towards her.  

Thever stopped abruptly as Chenelo came running towards her, tearing at her veil, crying; “Chenelo, Chenelo— is’t true?” 

Chenelo staggered to a stop— and then immediately had to lunge as Thever’s knees gave out, and suddenly she was rather preoccupied with breaking her fall. Several people cried out in dismay, and Chenelo found herself half-kneeling on the floor, propping her sister up by the forearms.

“Thever,” she said again. “Thever?”

Thever looked up at her, and Chenelo was a little shocked to find that she was not really much changed at all— a little more lined, a little weary, and she had grown out her hair— but no less recognizable. She had always boasted the very extraordinary golden eyes of their mother’s family, and been as grey and round-faced as Chenelo, if a little wider in the hip and shoulder. 

“Thou’rt no taller,” she said, “And I did not write to thee.” 

Quite promptly, she burst into tears.

“Thou’rt not—” Chenelo attempted through the hot burn of tears in her own throat, but Thever persisted;

“I wanted to, but they would not let me,” she sobbed, clutching at the sides of Chenelo’s arms, “And I never had a good hand for letters, thou knowest, I tremor— and they took thee away, and I did not know where they had put thee—”

“It’s not— Thever—”  

“I tried— thy son— I wanted to bring him here, at least for a little while, because I thought the elves would be cruel to him— but they laughed at me and said I was paranoid—” Thever tried to wipe her face with her veil, but her hands were shaking so badly she couldn't. “And they did not listen— they left him in Thu-Evresar with no dav to speak of, and I was so sorry, for I could not help him— I kept trying but they just ignored me and mocked me and I fought with Papa but he would not hear me— but thy little son— I thought thou wouldst be so upset—”

She suddenly gathered her up and hugged her as tightly as she could, letting Chenelo sniffle wearily somewhere around her collarbone. “Little sister, Chenelo, Chenelo— how they misused thee…”

Chenelo buried her face in Thever’s shoulder and did not say anything at all for a good few minutes, throat too painful. Eventually, she managed;

“It is— not thy burden, Thever, but I thank thee for trying, sweet sister— for I fear no one else did.”

“I sent him a birthday present, with Papa,” said Thever, her sharp chin digging into the top of Chenelo’s head. Chenelo shook her gently off and looked up.

“Didst thou?”

Thever flapped a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Twas some— jewellery, I forget— combs? I was sorry for him.”

“That was very kind of thee,” said Chenelo quietly.

“Ay, not the floor… the two of thee are legitimate, how does that look?” Ursu materialised above them, and hauled them both up by an elbow. “Hello, darling—” She gave Thever’s cheek a kiss and adjusted her veil for her. “Have my brats been very bad for thee?”

“Seems unfair to call thy daughters brats,” said Thever. 

“They've always been brats,” said Ursu amiably.

“Well, I like having my nieces to stay,” said Thever, fingers still locked firmly around Chenelo's arm. Chenelo didn’t protest, cognizant that Thever preferred to find tactile proof of what she was seeing. “I like having something to do, and they do not think I am insane and suggest I have a tonic.” She looked around at the politely disinterested dockworkers. “I suppose I did not help that impression, just then, but no matter… oh. Laru wants to show thee all manner of things. Bones and bits.”

“Has she been in the fishmarket debris again?” said Ursu. “Filthy habit. Interesting, though. I should get home. Now, I will see thee—” She kissed both of Chenelo’s cheeks— “Tomorrow, because I’ll come up to court for breakfast with Malhis and the girls.” She pointed at an approaching Shaleän, and said, which Chenelo did not quite understand; “Careful, Shaleän.”

“Now sister, when am I not?”

“The fact thou’rt missing two teeth and almost lost an eye is testament to when thou’rt not. Zeveran, goodbye darling—”

“Didst give thy women the slip, Thever?” said Shaleän, looking about. “Papa never lets thee go out alone.”

“No, but I left Kelru in the curricle,” said Thever.

Shaleän sighed. “Of course thou didst.”

Chenelo only noticed that Amaru was following them up the hill, when Thever said; “Imperial man, are you?”

Amaru bowed. “Avar’min Sevraseched, we are. We were sent by the emperor.”

“Oh. We thought so. You have that…” Thever wiggled a hand vaguely. “Fastidiousness, that the Ethuverazhin courtiers have.”

“An you say so, Avar’min.”

Chenelo said; “What exactly were your orders, Mer Derenzha?”

“Simply put, Avar’min, to follow you doggedly, at least until you were delivered back to the Corat’ Dav Arhos or your father’s soldiers. We are not sure what we will do after that. Until we can rejoin the couriers with the Ethuverazhin delegation, we mean.” He shrugged. “We can run messages for you, if you wish’t? It will not take us long to learn the layout of the court. We are all trained to have excellent recall.”

Chenelo smiled. “We would be happy to keep you in our service, an it suits you.”

“Thy boy is the most exciting thing to happen to the dav in about ten years,” said Thever. “Everyone is having worries and hysterics about fabric. I look sane in comparison. ‘Tis very becoming.” 

“Most people call him Emperor Edrehasivar or Maia Chenel’mera, Thever, not Chenelo's boy,” said Shaleän drolly. Chenelo bit her lip at the maternal epithet— she knew it was Barizheise habit to claim people by whatever link they had to the Avar’s line, but she still had not expected to hear him defined by his relation to her, not Varenechibel. 

“I know well what he is, but I'll have none of that,” Thever said. “He is my sister's son, not my lord.”

“Something to be said for thy sense of filial loyalty, Thever,” said Shaleän.

“And for thy rudeness,” said Thever, nodding past her. “Thou hast not introduced me to thy wife.”

Chenelo was reminded forcefully of being twelve and repeatedly failing to steal or conceal things from Thever; even seeing things that weren’t there, Thever could still point at her and say those are my earrings, and they always were.

Zeveran baulked, and looked, for the first time since Chenelo had known her, nervous. And Chenelo knew, then— she has never been to the Corat’ Dav Arhos before.  She tossed Shaleän a disbelieving look— she was bringing her for the first time, now?— but Shaleän wasn’t looking at her. 

Thever was saying, “When Shaleän went on and on about how beautiful thou wert, Merrem, I assumed she was exaggerating. But I see every terrible liar has to tell the truth sometimes…”

Shaleän scowled. Zeveran laughed slightly pitchily, then clapped a hand over her mouth, then said; “Are you all terrible flirts, all six?”

“All except Chenelo, she’s got sense and dignity,” said Thever. Hooves echoed up the flagstoned road they were walking beside; she turned and said, “Ah, there thou art!”

Handsome Kelru was still exactly that: beautiful and affable and placid. He came galloping up on a chestnut mare like a hero from a Pel-Teramed operetta, and reined in beside them casually. He wasn’t dressed like he’d been intending to go riding; he was wearing court clothes, a half-open jerkin of green velvet and tight hose, his loose mane of black curls dressed in jade beads. He had ended up riding in court slippers, which wasn't ideal, but he didn't seem to mind. 

He really was still gorgeous, Chenelo thought in grudging amusement, though he was far into his forties; he had the dark, strong-boned face typical of goblins, with high round cheeks and big yellow eyes like a suncat’s. Combined with his long lashes, a fine, full mouth that was perpetually smiling, and his habit of leaning his arm on his sword pommel to perfectly display the elegant line of his hand, the girls in the Kani’dav had used to physically fight in order to dance with him. 

He dismounted with a much younger man’s vigour, and said, “I parked the curricle just up the road. The gentleman with the dogs didn’t want me to, but I played stupid until he let me— Chenelo! Chenelo, really, now—”

He bounded across to hug her. Chenelo had honestly thought she'd be displeased to be reminded of her luckless marriage compared to Thever's— but she had forgotten how smiley and affable Kelru was, and how tightly he hugged. He gave her a little pat on the back, and said earnestly when he drew away, “Thou’rt still very beautiful, sister.”

“Thou’rt still a lovely silly fop, brother,” said Chenelo fondly. Handsome Kelru just laughed.

“Well, well, they weren’t lying,” said Zeveran, craning amusedly around Chenelo. She extended a hand with some aplomb to Kelru, who took it and kissed it solemnly. 

“Merrem Sevraseched,” he inferred smoothly.

“Mer Erizmed, charmed—”

“Watch it, Kelru,” said Shaleän, but it was purely reflexive. She shook her head. “It’s like telling a fish not to swim, really ‘tis. If he doesn’t peacock, he’ll die.” 

Shaleän was probably not an ideal choice to drive the curricle, being both impatient and shouty, but Kelru was even worse at it— “We almost killed a goat on the way,” said Thever brightly— and so they had no choice but to let Thever and Kelru ride, and Zeveran and Chenelo and Amaru take the curricle— well, Amaru stood on the footbox at the back, despite Chenelo’s attempts to get him to sit down.

Chenelo eyed Thever and Handsome Kelru curiously, still unable to remember if she had ever seen them together when she had been a teenager; now, he took her by the waist, apparently intending to pick her up and put her on the horse, but she caught his arm and said something under her breath— he nodded, said ay, ay, tis so, gave her a kiss, then hoisted her up by the waist onto the back of the saddle in one damnably elegant movement.

“Thou knowst very well how to get on a horse thyself,” Chenelo told Thever sternly, as he swung himself up in front of her. Thever wound a lock of her hair coquettishly about her finger, settled an arm extremely smugly and rather firmly around Kelru’s waist, and shrugged. 

“Oh, but he likes to be useful…”

The Corat' Dav Arhos had been the Great Avar's palace for at least five hundred years, and though it was renamed every time a new Avar ascended, the basic structure had always remained the same. Two subterranean rivers, tributaries of the Chadevan Sea, ran through what had originally been a cave system the third Great Avar had been driven into during a siege. Discovering the extent of the caves and the numerous entrances and exits, Pela’var, as he had been known, had found it functioned as a perfect stronghold— and had simply never left. 

Into the cliff face which held the entry to the system, he had built a limestone keep of infinitesimal complexity and pointless flummery— like most warlords, the Pela’var had been vain, and wanted a monument to his vanity. He had been, however, tasteful. Chenelo sat with her heart in her mouth, watching as the jutting baileys with their beautifully carved promenades came into view for the first time in twenty years—

A hand on her arm made her jump, and she turned to find Zeveran, looking beseechingly at her.

“I haven’t… er, we were not sure— that is, we have met many courtiers and men of thy father's, but—”

“Thou hast never been to court before,” Chenelo said, her suspicion confirmed. “Wouldst like me to tell thee about it?” She would rather have something simple to think about, at any rate.

“Oh— yes, please.”

Beside the basic fact of it, which Chenelo recounted, countless tunnels, chambers, and escape routes had been added over the years, as well as the exterior above-ground structure of gatehouses, gardens and promenades. But two stalwart underground rings remained from the original conception, laid out by the path of the rivers. The first circled the outer ring, where the majority of the dav lived— it also housed the secretaries, the offices, the kitchens, and so on. The barracks were housed above-ground, since it was hard to mobilise soldiers underground quickly, though the Hezhethora had a mess in the interior circle. This interior circle, split from the exterior by the second river (though the two ran into one another at numerous points), was the Avar's personal seat, where he and his family lived, as well as where dignitaries were hosted, and where the major halls and council chambers were found. In the centre was the Corat’theziar, the Avar's war-room. It did not seem entirely safe, or entirely sustainable, but Chenelo thought it very likely that maz-work had been involved heavily in its construction and its maintenance. 

Chenelo explained all of this to Zeveran (and Amaru, who leant across the back to listen) as they rode; neither seemed to have no objections to being underground, even though Chenelo asserted that a lot of the exterior ring had windows or vents which faced outward, and even the interior ring had quick ways out into open air, if you knew where to look for them.

“And thy father?” Zeveran said. It was a sensible question, but Chenelo’s chest tightened anyway. 

“In temperament?” she said. “Or political position?”

“I can guess at his temperament quite well,” said Zeveran, with an ironical glance at her wife’s back. Chenelo smiled weakly. 

The Great Avar, the Avar of Avarsin, was not necessarily a hereditary position like the elven emperors— the throne was claimed by winning support from, and often battles against, the other Avarsin. Many times the throne had passed from father to son— when the son had proved himself worthy, had enough support, or otherwise crushed dissenters— but it was not always so. The Maru’var had been on the throne for over fifty years at this point, owing to his indomitable reputation as a warlord, tactician, and general. He had won many triumphs in the Archipelagar Wars as a very young man, and had turned the tide in Barizhan’s favour so effectively that when the Vola’var had died and Maru Sevraseched had declared an intent to fight for the throne, very few had thought it wise to stand in his way. Some had, of course. Most of them were long dead. The last man had been, apparently, literally shaken into submission, though Chenelo had never been honestly sure if that was true.

“The only thing not in Father's favour,” said Chenelo. “Is that he has no sons and no stable succession. Had he any, their claim would be mighty. But the only male descendant of his direct line—”

“Is thy son, Emperor Edrehasivar,” said Zeveran. Chenelo nodded. 

“He has six daughters, two granddaughters, and a single grandson. He does not even have a nephew he might nominate as his heir. T’will remain that way unless Merrem Nadiean Vizhenka has a son. And even then, the child certainly would not be of an age to fight for the position when Father dies.” 

“Yes,” said Zeveran. She seemed familiar with this point— Chenelo suspected Shaleän had complained of it before. She said: “Does that explain the affairs? Any son, even an illegitimate one?” She winced. “Sorry. Twas very blunt.”

Chenelo curled her lip slightly. “It would make sense, but… no. He has affairs because he has always had affairs— he is unfortunately quite charismatic, and does not see anything in tumbling a few noblewomen or dancers. I do not think my mother often cared so long as he kept it mostly discreet, but ‘tis very bad, and there were a… few specific women I think irked her.”

“Merrem Polmarel?” guessed Zeveran.

“Well… I suppose so,” said Chenelo, who had not intended to actually name Shaleän and Ursu’s mother. “Have you met her?”

“Ye-es,” said Zeveran. “She is a... friendly enough lady, to be sure, but she and Shaleän do not always… er, get along? She is very given to… critical remarks. Last time we were there, they fought so badly that Shaleän towed me out two days early, and then she got herself arrested in Tan Okhrana and escaped. And then I was cross at her.”

“Oh,” said Chenelo, since she did not see what else there was to say, and Zeveran laughed at the look on her face.

The guards at the three successive gatehouses were all too young to recognise her, which Chenelo was admittedly grateful for— but they stared in awe and slight terror at Shaleän, which seemed to amuse her. It was proper, Chenelo thought, that the illegitimate daughters were at last afforded the honour they had long been denied by the fact of their sex and the matter of their birth. Shaleän and Ursu had been permitted to do as they would, but it didn’t mean they hadn’t been disdained for a very long time. The people of the Corat’ Dav Arhos had called Shaleän by the epithet Dav’nar— the name usually given to uncared-for orphans, cast-off bastards, or exiles. Perhaps they still were disdained, by some people; but the Maru’var’s desire was generally obeyed, if not necessarily always liked.

They finally passed through the third gate and into the main thoroughfare, a mighty road of limestone shaded by lemon trees, which broke off into one direction for the stables and another for pedestrians; the walkway being met with a final guarded door, carved elaborately with the Pela’var’s standard, a diving albatross. Two staircases bracketed it— one up to the promenades and one up to the gardens— but Chenelo knew and remembered the great, cool, stone-carved corridor beyond those doors.

The guards at the door said, declare yourselves, as was standard; Chenelo thought, which name do I use? She was only Drazharan because of Varenechibel— and had she not a son, she would have returned to Sevraseched without a thought— but Drazhar was Maia’s name too, and he was lord of the Drazhada these days. Neither of them had wanted to be Drazhada, but Maia could not escape it, and Chenelo would not leave him there alone.

And so when Chenelo named herself, she declared herself Chenelo Drazharan, and the guards turned and stared at her, agog. Apparently the objective of Shaleän's voyage had not been widely known in the court.

“What, gentlemen, didst pay us no heed?” said Thever crossly. “Did we not tell you where we were going? We are quite certain we did.”

“Avar’min,” said one of the young men, avoiding her eyes uncomfortably— Thever’s eyes, in their uniquely aggressive gold sheen and their ability to pin one like a spear, were not always easy to meet— “We were not certain… whether you knew what it was you spoke…”

“Yes, Joris, you thought we were having a fancy— we were not. An we were, you are still obliged to heed us and not obstruct us unless we are in overt danger,” said Thever pertly. “Kindly open the door.”

Joris and his companion, sheepish, did as they were told— with a great thrum of hinges and the booming weight of the stone, the doors to the Corat’ Dav Arhos opened.

Behind Chenelo, Zeveran made a quiet little intake of breath between her teeth. 

It was exactly as Chenelo remembered it; a great hall that stretched far away in both length and height— the ceiling painted with thousands of stars, the arches striped and the niches carved with peering gargoyles and goddesses and folk figures. Lit with torches rather than gaslight, the statues seemed to stoop down, the light reflecting from the river’s surface making the stars dance— for at the end of the hall, a wide set of steps led down to the bank of the first river, busy with punts and rowboats and small paddle steamers. Other halls would lead to corridors that bypassed the river entirely, but it had been fashionable in Chenelo's day to travel by narrow barges or punts, so she was not very surprised to find that was still the favoured way. The sound of the river and the boats and the shouting gondoliers merged into a pleasant burr in the echoing eaves, and it smelled as it always had, too— of cold stone and the chill damp of the river, but also of the incense being burned in the niches, left by diplomats or travellers. Chenelo stood and looked up at the carving of Cstheio on the opposite wall— and did not notice that everyone else had overtaken her, until Thever came back to get her.

“I assume,” she said, taking Thever’s proffered hand, “That Father will send for me.”

“He already has,” said Thever, towing her down the steps to the riverbank, where Handsome Kelru was waiting to hand them into a barge. “He had a runner sent to me on the way up, to say he’d wait for thee in the Peru’var’s War Closet. He has been very—” Thever stopped. “That is, thou—” She stopped again. “Actually, I will not tell thee what thou shouldst do. And it is not as if I have not had plenty of scraps with Papa.” 

She squeezed her arm and accepted Kelru’s hand into the boat.

Peru’var’s War Closet, despite its name, had not actually been used for war councils for decades. It was just a reception room, popular because it was on the outer wall of the court, and hence had latticed window shutters and windows that let in actual sunlight. It was one of the ones Chenelo had liked as a girl, because the floor was a mosaic of a unicorn-hunt.

The guards on the door were wearing the spiked and crested ceremonial helmets of the Hezhethora, which obscured most of their faces, but Chenelo could tell as they approached that they were ones she’d recognise; the Great Avar had about ten or twelve Hezhethoreise guardsmen assigned to him, usually older captains no longer suited to the borders or frontline work, but nonetheless in good shape. Unlike the young guards outside, it was certain that she had known these men since she was very small, and there was no doubt that they recognised her; their heads had turned slightly, and one of them had shifted their weight.

They stood there for a second; three daughters of the Maru’var, Zeveran, Handsome Kelru, and Amaru, silent and watchful. Shaleän, for once, said nothing. Chenelo stared at the door and did not move.

“We’ll be in the court downstairs,” said Thever presently, from behind Chenelo. “Thou knowst where. And I’ll have thy things taken to some rooms for thee.”

“Thank thee,” Chenelo said vaguely. “I do not have much, shouldst not be hard...”

“We’ll wait here, Avar’min,” said Amaru quietly.

“Thank you, Mer Derenzha.”

Thever squeezed her hand tightly, and Chenelo listened to the hiss of she and Zeveran’s skirts as they hurried off, trailed by the jingle of Kelru’s jewellery and Shaleän’s ringing stride. Chenelo moved her head and caught Shaleän’s eye before she turned the corner— Shaleän shot her an unreadable look and vanished around the corner, her coat snapping in her wake.

The Hezhethora stared at her, waiting for the order. Chenelo looked at them for a moment, at the eyes under the helmets, then said;

“Rozena. Hanet.” They were two of her father’s longest-serving men; Hanet had probably spent a lifetime lifting her in and out of boats, and Rozena had stood at the border with a stone face lined with tear-tracks when they had sent Chenelo to the Ethuveraz.

“Very good, Avar’min,” said Hanet softly. Rozena, unprompted, knelt, took her hand, and kissed it. Chenelo smiled ruefully at him, suspecting he was probably crying again, and squeezed his hand as he got stiffly to his feet. They were younger than her father, but they weren’t young men. 

“Well,” she said. “I suppose I must.”

Like good Hezhethora, they said nothing on that point. Chenelo said; “If you please.”

Hanet yanked the door open, and announced;

“Chenelo Drazharan, Avar’min and Ethuverazhid Zhas’maro.”

Chenelo swept in, stopped on the accustomed spot— atop the hunter with the boar-spear– curtsied with ordath, and held it, listening to the door shut behind her. She kept her eyes on the fleeing unicorn in the centre of the mosaic, her hands clenched so tightly at her chest that her knuckles were losing colour. 

She could see him in her peripheral vision, sitting at the round, sea-glass-topped table that dominated most of the room. He was alone; the Great Avar did not have nohecharei like the Emperor of the Elflands. The Barizheisei generally held it was dishonourable— and, perhaps more damningly, lazy— to kill a ruler from behind, by deceit, or unexpectedly. They liked their fights fair, bloody, and face-to-face. Which was why everyone in the Corat’ Dav Arhos carried swords, and no one in the Unthelieneise Court did. 

“Father,” Chenelo said. 

The Maru’var did not say anything, for a long, long time. She could feel his eyes on her— he had a peculiar talent for making his attention very, very obvious— but he gave her no order, nor did he make any move to signal she should straighten up. He was unfathomably still. 

It was just beginning to hurt her knees to hold the curtsey— when he said, quite abruptly;

“Come and sit down, Chenelo.”

It was tonelessly delivered, flat. Chenelo thought about saying no, just to see what he’d do, but it seemed hopelessly petty and pointless. Audacity was only useful when it served a purpose.  

She straightened up, and finally raised her eyes to her father.

Sitting in the sunlight filtered through the window lattice, Maru Sevraseched looked old. Plenty of men, including her father, had seemed old to her when she was so very young— but twenty years on, he seemed impossibly aged. The strong light picked out the white in his hair and moustache and deepened the lines of his face, and the hands which had so famously shaken the Ira’var into submission had furrowed and spotted. Age, however, had done almost nothing to the irrepressible might of his height and breadth; she had somehow managed to forget just how large he was.

She sat down opposite him, not quite able to stop her legs from trembling. If he noticed, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he said;

“We take it your sister did not get you all tangled in a scrap with a rival schooner.”

“Our journey was almost faultless,” said Chenelo. Hearing the Maru’var finally acknowledge his bastard daughters as her sisters was deeply strange. “Shaleän was as good as the orders she was given.”

The Maru’var snorted. “The orders she was given by Thever, yes.” It was delivered sardonically, but they both know if he truly had not wanted it done, he would have intervened. He looked towards the windows, and said; “We admit, we thought you would go to your son's court.”

Chenelo had forgotten how far his voice carried, how deep it fell, even when he was only addressing one other person. He seemed to fill the room with a paltry few sentences. 

“We felt, since he was already coming here, we should precede him and see our sisters,” said Chenelo. “And our homeland. We wanted nothing so much as to go home, when we were in relegation.” She added, a little bitterly, “But we suppose you would not have known that—”

“We knew’t,” said the Maru'var, a trifle stiffly.

So he had read them. Perhaps not all of them, and perhaps not then— but at least some of them, at some point. Chenelo could not decide if that made it better or worse.

“We should thank you for— keeping an eye on him, we think,” she said, in a tone she forced unconvincingly into casual.  

The Maru’var shrugged. “We were curious, and we know the elven court is not kind to boy-emperors.” 

“We suppose it would not look well if your only male heir was murdered before his twentieth birthday,” said Chenelo. 

The Maru’var did not take the bait, surprisingly. He blinked those startling orange eyes, and said only, “Have you seen many of his men?”

“Only the Master Secretary, and the courier Mer Derenzha.”

“The pen-pusher secretary with the feral stare?” snorted the Maru’var. “Then you have not heard any reliable information about what sort of man he is.”

“We have had very little information at all.”

The Maru'var took that as the invitation it obviously was. “Interesting boy. Unsettling Drazhada elf-eyes. Tall, though he has not a scrap of meat on his bones, and we didn't think we could give him a proper thump without killing him. He resembles you in his colouring and his mouth and his mannerisms. He's as skittish as a new colt and green as a new lily— but his spine's like a steel rod, and he's about as moveable as a stone wall. He stares like a Steppes panther and remembers everything you say to him.” He shook his head. “He is a thoughtful politician and a tactful diplomat— when you are not concerned, at least. We had barely been there a half-hour, and he took the first opportunity to demand of us— why did you not answer her letters?”

Osreian’s teeth, Maia— Chenelo closed her eyes briefly, slightly horrified. What had he been thinking? The first cordial meeting of goblin and elven rulers in fifty years, and he'd been willing to blow it all to shreds immediately over the dignity of his dead mother? The Maru'var awarded audacity when he approved of it, but he hardly could have been happy to find his teenage grandson hounding him in front of his dav.

She opened her eyes, found her father had turned back, and was looking at her. Chenelo avoided his eyes, staring at the window lattice— she would not ask him why he had not, because she knew why. As a teenager scrawling letters over the top of the infant Maia’s curly head, she had not been able to fathom it; but she had slowly begun to understand, as she had gotten older. Varenechibel had been well within his rights to do whatever he wanted with the wife he had barely asked for in the first place. The Maru’var could not possibly confront him on the matter without seeming at best, ridiculous— for had he not signed the contract?— and at worst, as if he was actively in opposition to the Ethuverazhid Zhas. Neither suited the Great Avar’s dignity, or his purposes— besides, he would have been far too old to ride to war for her, even then. It was politically sensible and personally brutal to cut her off. And no one, not even Varenechibel, had expected a murder attempt to be made on her. 

“He does thee credit,” added the Maru'var.

“We never raised him in the manner of an emperor,” said Chenelo. “We are sure we could not take credit for the manner of man that Edrehasivar is.”

“We are not so sure,” said her father. He nodded at her; “You are currently looking at us exactly how he did, when he pointed out mulishly that we took as little interest in his education as Varenechibel had.” Chenelo hastily tried to neutralise her expression, but he waved a hand. “It was not a criticism.”

Chenelo said nothing. The Maru’var stared at her oddly, then frowned and sat back. “Were Varenechibel not already dead, we should have declared war upon him—”

“If he was not dead, we never would have been found, and Maia would still be in relegation in Thu-Evresar,” said Chenelo pertly. She stood up abruptly and paced to the window, opening the lattice with some force—  irritated at his willingness to retroactively play at heroics. It was only because her back was turned, that she had the foolhardiness to add; “And considering you would not even answer a letter from us for fear of seeming ridiculous, you will forgive us for finding it hard to believe you would have mustered an army.”

The Maru’var was silent. It was probably for the best.

“We didn’t want you to ride down the elf-patrols at the Thu-Istandathaar border, storm Isvaroë, and take us back to Barizhan by force,” Chenelo said stiffly. “We didn't want you to meet Varenechibel in the field. We just wanted— something. A reply. An acknowledgement that we had not been sold off so entirely that we had left your thoughts altogether.”

“You had not,” said the Maru’var quietly.

No, she knew she had not. “You acknowledged the others once we— died?”

“We did.”

“And you left an eshpekh at Maia’s court.”

“We did.”

Chenelo kept her eyes firmly on the window, but she could see his indistinct reflection in the glass. She said; “What did you tell him? When he asked?”

She was not even watching him directly, but the Great Avar looked away, down at the tabletop.

“It seemed better,” he said. “She was not ours. We could not help her. What else was there to say?”

The Maru'var was a warlord, a man of action; of single combats and skirmishes and declaring sudden intents to go somewhere and do something. To go to his grandson’s court, to leave a brace of soldiers, to suddenly acknowledge his bastard daughters. He did not deliberate and he did not mince his words, and he had no practical use for sentiment. What was there to say? He could not help her, and he would not let her think that he could. He would rather give her nothing, than false hope or the disappointment of promises coming to inaction. To him, it had been better. 

And something made Chenelo think that it had hurt his pride, to think of admitting that he could do nothing at all for his teenage daughter. And that it was entirely his fault.

Chenelo’s joints hurt. And her chest. She was so tired.

She said, at last; “Why did you acknowledge them?” 

“Because I was wrong. And because I had done wrong by thee, I did not want to do wrong by them also.”

Chenelo turned around so quickly she almost tripped on her hem.

“Yes, thou heardst me correctly,” her father said, almost ironically. Then he said, with great deliberate intent, and with a burr in his voice; “And I am sorry, Chenelo.”

Very slowly and very stiffly, but purposefully, he got up— and then went to his knees before her. Chenelo clutched her skirt in disbelief, staring at him.

“Father— don’t—”

The Maru’var ploughed on; “I do not expect thee to forgive me, nor do I particularly want thee to. It is not becoming of any scion of the Sevrasecheds to treat lightly with offences done to them. But I am— glad that thou hast come home. Even if only for a time.”

An imprudent part of Chenelo, the same part which had kept on writing and writing with no response, thought, I do forgive thee. But that was not helpful, and she did not even think it was true. Their relationship would never be the same again— it had been irrevocably changed the second the Maru’var had signed the marriage contract that made Chenelo Sevraseched into Chenelo Drazharan, Ethuverazhid Zhasan.

“Get up, Papa,” she said. “Thou wilt destroy thy knees.”

“Osreian, woman, I’m not that old,” said the Maru’var techily, even though he was. But he did accept her hands up, and once he was standing at his full height again, Chenelo said what was true, which was, simply;

“I missed thee.”

And based on his smile, that was good enough for him.

Chapter Text

Restoring the Great Avar's second daughter to his household was no small undertaking, but it could not be said that the dav were inefficient. A new generation of girls now lived in the Kani'dav, of course, and so Chenelo was assigned apartments close to Thever's. Like most of the rooms in the Corat Dav’ Arhos, it was a cool, tile-floored suite painted with frescoes— the parlour had a parade of Ashevezhkheise demigods on the far wall, the bedroom a pastoral scene above the hearth. And like her old room in the Kani’dav, the far walls had windows which opened onto the subterrane through which one of the rivers ran. Chenelo amused herself by watching several young noblemen crash a punt into the bank and then argue about it, while Selthevis, the Maru'var's Master of the Dav, commanded his small army of attendants noisily behind her. 

“Wilt need a personal dav, of course,” he said briskly, flicking through papers. “Twas very shrewd of thy son the emperor to send one of his men with thee—” he pointed without looking at Amaru, who was making himself useful by taking dust covers off of things— “But t’will need some women, a few pages, I can find people for thee…”

Chenelo perched on the arm of the settee, uncertain. At Isvaroë she had lived with nobody but Maia and a very limited staff; at the cloister she had been no one of consequence, for none of them were. She had forgotten how many people were involved in… well, everything about being a noblewoman, and she was not honestly sure if she wanted—

It was at that point Mero Delvarezen practically broke the door down.

Mero, Larian and Peru might have been Thever's women for the last twenty years, but it seemed they still privileged their original loyalty— and indeed were pleased to resume it from exactly where it had been left off. Peru sat down at Chenelo's feet and cried into her knee, even more spectacularly than she had when Chenelo had left them at the border, and Larian kept mumbling disbelieving invocations of Cstheio, clinging tightly to Chenelo’s elbow. Mero, still given to merciless practicality— partially because she was about seven years older than the rest of them, partially because she was simply like that— marched in, shouted, “Why is it so dark in here?” and started lighting lamps ruthlessly. Chenelo turned in bewilderment to Larian. 

“Did any of thee… know Shaleän had been sent for me?”

“No,” said Larian, and Chenelo realised she was a little out of breath; had they run here? “No, no— no one knew— except Thever and Kelru and the Maru’var. We were— downstairs… came to tell us… oh, Chenelo, thou hast been so ill used!”

She made a fervent warding sign over her and hugged her tightly. Chenelo returned it with the arm that wasn’t holding onto a still-inconsolable Peru, and said, “Tis all done with, now…” 

“Oh, ay, now, but shouldst have seen the chaos when the the poor Ethuverazhin ambassador had to tell thy father! He was sweating like a hog— flung himself at the Maru’var’s feet, stammered it out like he couldn’t get his teeth around it— oh, how thy father shouted. He would have rowed over the River of Tears to strangle Varenechibel an it was possible…”

“No doubt he would have liked that very much,” Chenelo said, half-amused despite herself— “Mero, it does not need to look like the Anmur’theziar in here. Leave the lamps?”

Mero stopped pacing, and stared at her for a moment— her expression teetered on the edge of crumpling—

“Merciful goddesses, we thought we'd never see thee again,” she said, a little hoarsely. She gave her a very hard kiss on the cheek— and then said, brusquely, “For Anmura's sake, stop crying, Peru.” (Peru did not.) 

They all looked older, wearier— Larian had hesitant, childish embroidery on her sleeves that suggested she had at least one young daughter just learning needlework— but they were all still wearing the jewels Chenelo had given them at the border, and all bore the burnished look of jewellery that was not often taken off. Mero and Larian unpacked Chenelo's meager belongings; Mero told her that it was entirely unbecoming that her stockings were darned like a fisherwoman’s, but she was betrayed entirely by the tears dripping from her chin, which had been the case the entire time she'd been rifling around in Chenelo's valise.

“Thou art the daughter of the Maru’var!” she sniffed, flapping Chenelo’s subpar stockings at her. “These are unsalvageable!”

“Mero, I’ve been under a vow of poverty for over a decade,” said Chenelo, taking the stockings firmly from her. She squeezed her hand tightly and said, “And I was supposed to be dead, darling. Dead women don’t have new stockings.”

Mero sighed crossly and swiped at her face, then turned remorselessly on a lurking Amaru;

“And who’s this?”

“This is Mer Derenzha,” said Chenelo. Amaru bowed calmly. “He’s an imperial courier and an agent of my son’s.”

Mero shook her head. “And thy son is Emperor Edrehasivar. Anmura! Everything is beyond belief these days…”

“If thou'rt a nonbeliever and a sceptic, maybe,” murmured Larian. Mero swatted distractedly at her. 

“Hast seen him?” sniffed Peru, putting her head up and finally deciding to contribute to this conversation. “Edrehasivar?” When Chenelo shook her head, she gasped; “And not since he was a little boy? Oh, but Chenelo, they say he is so fine and handsome— the dav is all a-flutter trying to prepare for the state visit—” She looked a little sheepish, then, and put a hand on her knee. “Thou dost not like hearing him called Edrehasivar?”

“I named him Maia,” said Chenelo, slightly hopelessly.

“Ay, so thou didst,” said Mero. “After the lad from Velzhorno?”

“I— yes,” said Chenelo, slightly embarrassed it had been noticed. She had spent a lot of time reading wonder-tales and mythology in her confinement. “Somewhat. But it was supposed to be an honour-name for Father, too…”

Patriarchs had the right to insist their sons or grandsons receive their name’s prefix, if not to be named after them entirely. Varenechibel, Nemera Drazhar, already had his heir Nemolis and his daughter Nemriän, and she could not see him being impressed if she tried to name his half-goblin son after him in any degree; so she had moved up and named him Maia, in a feeble thought at flattering Maru Sevraseched enough to send her a personal missive. He had not, of course. Still, it had not been entirely with her father in mind; Maia was unassuming and often cropped up in southern wonder-tales, most famously as the kindly carpenter’s ward in Velzhorno, who had saved the titular swan-princess from dogs and had been astonished when she had turned into an elf-maid at sundown. Most importantly, Chenelo had thought, he survived with very little of the immense suffering typical of wonder-tales, married the princess, and became the prince of the unnamed principality.

“Mightst have accidentally overdone the implications,” said Larian, amused. Chenelo sighed.

“Ay. Perhaps the dreaming lady of the stars just has a peculiar sense of humour…”

They helped Selthevis for a little while, running taps and folding up dust-covers— but once it became clear Chenelo had practically no possessions with which to decorate, Peru checked her pocket-watch, and said, a little slyly, “I know where we should go…”

“That wouldn't match.”

“Oh, no, that's awful—”

“Handsome Kelru could carry it off though, no?”

“Ay, only because he barely wears his doublets at the best of times—”

The Urvekh’market was a maze of stalls and vendors set along a seafront promenade; perpetually breezy, noisy, and overcrowded, it made for challenging shopping, but if you knew where to go, you could get most anything. Chenelo and her ladies spent the best part of the afternoon in their favourite pastime; arguing over shoes and watching tourists get lost. They probably looked disgraceful— a gaggle of middle-aged goblin women cackling over fabrics like girls half their age, Chenelo’s hair bound half-heartedly and Peru’s maquillage still smudged— but Chenelo could not bring herself to care.

The Urvekh’garrison’s guardsmen tended to patrol the market regularly, so Chenelo had talked her way out of having to take Hezhethora with them (the Maru’var had not been impressed), and substituted them for Amaru— which had only worked once Amaru had opened his jerkin and shown the Maru’var a quite remarkable dagger that Chenelo had not known he carried. He dutifully hung about them for the most part, but Chenelo saw him dart off to buy things once or twice, and based on the furtivity of the action, she did not think they were for him. It was nice to know Csevet was thought of.

“One would think they'd buy a map,” said Peru, watching the same bewildered elven man making yet another loop of the fishmonger's row. “Everyone knows the ones in the guidebooks are terrible.”

“Or just ask someone,” said Larian. “Why do elves never ask anybody?”

“The elves don't trust strangers like we do,” said Chenelo. “They’d never ask a stranger for help unless they were truly desperate. The court in particular are paranoid people.”

Amaru murmured an affirmative, perched on the wall behind them.

“Were they very awful?” said Peru, looking up from examining bolts of crushed velvet. She whispered; “Was Varenechibel very cruel?”

“He wasn't really... cruel,” said Chenelo carefully. “Mostly cold.”

Mero grunted. “There are many types of cruelty.” She wandered off to look at shoes; Chenelo followed her, feeling inclined to frivolity and less inclined to discuss Varenechibel any further. 

She quizzed them about the dav the rest of the way around, eager to know what the Barizheise court looked like from the perspective of Avarsin’s daughters. All three of their fathers were, or had been, men loyal to the Maru’var; Ursu knew a lot of the gossip, but she and Shaleän spent too much time out of the Corat Dav’ Arhos to really know everything.

“It’s been mostly… uneventful,” said Larian honestly, swinging her basket of fabric samples. “Everyone’s too old to be fighting, these days. Our papas spend most of their time napping and arguing about the bets put on the jousts. We had some issues with Vershelneisei pirates conducting raids along the Pelanra about a decade ago, until thy father summoned back Shaleän from Solunee to deal with them. It was quite extraordinarily fierce. She sent thy father the bloodstained coat of the slain pirate captain.” 

“Of course she did.”

“And to be sure it was tense for a few years after thou wast married and then relegated— Thever was in a cold war with thy father for a very long time. No one felt much like celebrating anything— though when we got the news about thy son, we lit candles in the name of thy little Archduke and thy safe recovery!”

“And got drunk,” said Mero. “Also in thy name.”

“And that,” said Larian. “Peru cried.”

“Is’t any wonder, with companions such as the two of thee?” sulked Peru, but she didn’t seem to really mind when they all laughed.

A fisherwoman and her son passed them, going up the ramp that led to the square; the boy was probably in his late teens or early twenties, leading his mother on his arm and chattering eagerly about some trifle or another while she laughed; Chenelo stopped to stare, and Mero had to yanked her by the hand before she’d follow them.

They gathered a bagful of ridiculous frivolities; Chenelo had always had a weakness for fancy shoes, and bought at least three pairs. They chose bolts for gowns that they could take to the Maru’var’s tailor Desheret, cloaks, a set of devotional tokens to Ashevezhkho to replace the ones Chenelo had left at Isvaroë, earrings— and a markedly silly lamp with the base set like a toad, which reminded them of the Maru’var’s travelling coach and was hence purchased with some glee.

Browsing trinkets, Chenelo came across an icon to Noranamaro at the bottom of a case— a curled-up cat, carved in a silvery agate, peering over its tail at its observer. The minor goddess of good luck, and success against long odds. Certainly she owed something to Noranamaro as of late— and she was not the only one, she felt.

Besides, all cats were prelates of Noranamaro, so it was said— and in all their heraldry, Drazhada were cats. 

“I will take thee as an auspicious omen,” Chenelo whispered to the cat’s solemn little face as she dug out her coin purse, “And give thee to my son when I see him again.” 

Upon their return to the Corat Dav’ Arhos, they left Amaru with a gaggle of nosey court runners in the kitchens while Chenelo reassured Frechelis, the slightly obsessive kitchen master, that they had eaten at the market and he did not need to worry about catering for her. The Maru’var’s runners were fascinated to have an Ethuverazhin courier handed over to them— Amaru assured Chenelo he would have learned the court layout by the afternoon of the following day, and Chenelo was inclined to believe him. 

It took some half an hour to get back to her rooms; they were stared at and waylaid repeatedly in the halls by the fascinated dav. Many of her friends she had had as a teenager had married and moved away to different parts of the Pelanra or to avarsin’s estates, but several men who had played gallant when she had been a teenager came bounding up to present themselves as actual soldiers nowadays, not just aspiring ones, and were terribly proud of themselves for it. Her father’s dav— his edocharei, his secretaries, his soldiers and grooms— came sidling up to press her hand or pay their respects, and Larian’s twin daughters, both twelve and very proud of it, came to be nosey and ask what it had been like, being dead? Larian winced and said Chenian, twas not like that.

There was a snowdrift of calling-cards piled on the side table when she at last got back and bid her ladies goodnight— she sat and sifted half-heartedly through them, until a particularly bizarre note caught her eye.

To Chenelo Drazharan, Avar’min and Zhas’maro, continued well-wishes for thy health and happiness,

We extend our greatest happiness at your return to the Corat’ Dav Arhos and to your homeland— and we are sure we speak for all of us, thy father the Maru’var included, when we say it is a great relief and unexpected joy to have discovered your survival. It is good tidings indeed that Emperor Edrehasivar permitted your return to your kinsmen. 

With very best wishes, and the truest hope of making your better acquaintance,

Verian Pel-Murniar

Chenelo stared at the note, perplexed. She was sure she did not know the woman— the Pel-Murniars were an old family who had made their fortune from fishing, and the patriarch was loyal to the Maru’var— but thinking to speak for the Great Avar, who was quite, quite happy to express his own sentiments, was deeply presumptuous.

Beneath it was an almost identical and similarly pushy note from an Iliru Pel-Murniar, and the coloured waxes on the thumbprint seals suggested they were indeed from the same house… but neither note acknowledged the other’s existence in the slightest. If they were kinswomen, as they seemed to be, they did not get along. 

Bewildered and frankly fed–up with politicking, she left them on the settee and got up to wash— halfway there, she found a neat stack of boxes in the corner. A note in Thever’s half-legible scrawl informed her they were things she had saved from her old room.   

Chenelo stared at them for a moment, put a hand half-out to the boxes, then thought— I cannot face them yet. 

She went to wash and undress for bed, and when she put out the lamps, it was a warm sort of dark, almost physically heavy, punctuated only with the occasional smudge of dim orange warming— a boat bearing tapers, people passing with an oil-lamp. The noise of oars thunked from out on the river, and the distant clanking of the Hezhethora patrols echoed somewhere above. Chenelo stood very still for a moment, inhaled the slightly damp earthen smell of the underground fortress— 

And went to bed, where she slept well, and dreamt not at all.

In the morning, she rose very early, and went alone to the coast-chapel, which had always been her favourite; high up in the outer circle, it took tides from the sea, and in bad weather the waves thundered up the hall and streaked the floor and walls with dried salt. Apparently it was maz-worked to stop it flooding excessively, but it was stylish work.

The tide was in, and the chapel was ankle-deep in mild, swirling water, dappled slightly by the distant hole in the ceiling that was letting in the early morning sun. Chenelo knew her father considered himself too old for this chapel, and Thever didn't like the feel of the salt, but she had half-expected to see her seafaring sisters. Instead, there was a woman she had never seen before standing at the altar, holding a libation bowl and whistling between her teeth— she heard Chenelo come in, and turned to smile at her. She was narrow-faced, dressed in the deep blue robe and seafoam-embroidered veil of the votaries of Ashevezhkho, ears jingling with unrefined pearl and shell adornments. From her belt hung a series of small mirrors, compasses, flints, and a sheathed dagger wrapped in oilcloth— Chenelo thought, lighthouse-keeper.

“Well— I wondered if I might see you here,” she said. She added, cheekily; “Sister.”

“You must be Holitho,” said Chenelo. Holitho Sevraseched, yet another of her illegitimate sisters, grinned and curtsied. 

“Avar’min, I am she.” Like Thever, she had golden Pelanra eyes, which must have helped to hide her paternal descent for a long time. She was slate-grey and slender like Chenelo, but her short stature made her almost girlish in a way her sisters— all middle aged, mothers, or both— weren't. Her hair under the veil was a little lighter, and finer. She had a certain aspect of the Maru’var about her nose and brow, but it was subtle enough that Chenelo could not be surprised she had not known about her when she had been at court as a child. “Came back to court to see what was toward. I’m terribly nosey, you must forgive me…”

“I cannot blame thee,” said Chenelo, taking the cue to return in the informal. “It has been very… unusual.”

Holitho laughed in a great crack of amusement, and said, “A little, perhaps. I learned thou wast a votary and presumed to wonder if I might be useful, but Ulis is a sterner master than my lady of the tides.”

“Twas not so very bad,” said Chenelo. “We could not leave or speak, of course, but… I do not mind contemplation.”

Holitho grinned. “Nor I, though Ashevezhkho does not demand it quite so often. We are made of sterner stuff than our frivolous, easily-bored sisters, eh?”

Chenelo smiled, and remembered Shaleän declaring laughingly that a girl that facetious has no business being a holy woman .

She sat herself on one of the side benches, mentally repeating one of the mantras to Ashevezhkho and focusing on the damp hang of her skirts and the cool water receding and advancing around her feet. Holitho pottered about quietly but purposefully, doing something presumably ritual with a knife and a libation bowl. Chenelo had heard wonder-tales about the Votaries of Ashevezhkho being sea-maids, witches, half-dolphin, even sirens, but looking at Holitho, wiry with muscle and scarred at her shins and calves and forearms, she could only see that she was an experienced diver and rower.

The sisters of Ashevezhkho, Holitho explained, were not cloistered, nor given to very strict vows. The duties of the votaries were such a great ask, that it was safer not to breed resentment or boredom, and to allow them more freedom. Besides, they needed it; they tended the coastal lighthouses, frequently went out to rescue people in distress or ships run aground, operated lifeboats, and sometimes acted as diplomats in disputes between sailors or matters of shipworking, the navy, or trade. 

A little like the clerical Witnesses for the Dead, they also had certain abilities; an implicit awareness of tidal patterns, a superior lung capacity and vision underwater, a resistance to things like water pressure or jellyfish stings. Ashevezhkho was not lavish with her gifts, but they were all deeply practical. Holitho had gone to the convent when she had been seventeen, and they had realised she was capable of spending far longer underwater than most people. 

“I could have been an excellent pearl-diver like Ursu’s girl, or a prelate, but I needed to get away from this place,” sighed Holitho. 

“From the court?”

“From my mother and my mother’s family, who are at court,” said Holitho. “Nothing much the matter with my paternal line, I have plenty in common with the seafaring sisters— although Shaleän’s crew are forever turning up at the convent with a ship half-blown to pieces and the gunners dripping blood all over the steps. We’re obliged to help, of course, but Shaleän always comes to me, because it amuses her.”

She did not mention who her mother was, and Chenelo did not ask. Perhaps she thought she’d offend Chenelo; perhaps she did not care to mention it.

They went and wrung out their skirts and returned to the public corridors, trying not to drip too much brine on the tiles and not generally succeeding. It wasn’t long before they heard;

“Good morrow, sisters!”

It was Handsome Kelru, bounding down the stairs behind them, hair and shirt in their perpetual state of purposeful unbound dishevelment. At least Chenelo thought it was purposeful, but Kelru was so devoid of calculation it was really very hard to tell if he ever did anything much on purpose.

“Ay, tis a good morrow…” said Holitho under her breath. Chenelo snorted.

“Wouldst take breakfast with Thever?” said Kelru, trotting up to them hopefully. “Chenelo, she has been so worried she fancied the entire thing, I am asked constantly to reassure her it was not imagined— everyone’s going to come by—”

Holitho appeared to have the hereditary interest in gossip; she perked up and said, “Will Shaleän bring her wife? I’ve been dying to see her…”

The rattle of the shuttle as they approached Thever's suite suggested she was at the loom, and indeed when they entered she was frowning and fiddling with the cloth beam. Thever’s hands were too unsteady for embroidery, and she was too impatient for it besides— and she liked the noise of the loom, which tended to drown out people she didn't want to talk to. The Maru’var was standing by the hearth with Sethevis, poring over papers, but he raised his hand distractedly to greet them when they came in. Kelru bowed; Holitho and Chenelo did not bother.

Chenelo peeked over Thever’s shoulder at what she was working on, then, when Thever glanced uncertainly at her, squeezed her about the waist and said “I’m real, I promise’t. Thou'rt fine. What’s this?”

“It's for the Zhasan,” Thever said, gripping her wrist for a moment, then letting go. “We remain the lady of the court, so it falls to us to make something for her. Wilt embroider it?”

“In two weeks?” said Chenelo.

“Art very slow now thou'rt an old Dachenmero?” Thever pulled it off the cloth beam and flapped it at her. “When thou wast young thou couldst sew a neckline border in two days.”

Chenelo frowned. “I'm not slow.”

Thever smiled and thrust the fabric into her arms. “Then thou canst embroider it, no?”

Chenelo rolled her eyes and folded it, then went to help herself to breakfast. It was not long before the door banged open again, and Shaleän and Zeveran made a magnificent entrance, trailed by a yawning Ursu, a stout gentleman with sailor’s steel earrings who must have been Captain Malhis Perenched— and her daughters, who looked immensely like her, though only Elthevo seemed to have inherited her height. They were obliged to greet the Maru’var first (Grandpapa, look, I found a turtle skull! said Laru, in lieu of a real greeting), but once they were unbound by convention, Chenelo’s nieces stared at her, fascinated. Malhis Perenched noticed, and said, firmly but not unkindly, “Either say something to thy aunt or go and get something to eat, eh?”

Chenelo shot him an amused look, and he shook his head in fond exasperation, bowed slightly, and followed his wife over to Thever and Kelru. 

Laru began; “Wert thou really kidnapped— mmf—” 

“Good morning, Auntie Chenelo,” said Elthevo determinedly, hand clamped firmly across her younger sister’s mouth. “I’m Elthevo. This is Laru. Don’t mind her, she’s nosey.”

“No harm in being a little nosey,” said Chenelo. “I’m pleased to meet the both of thee— and I was not really very kidnapped. It was not as exciting as all that.”

Elthevo glared at her sister; Chenelo said to her, by means of diverting the brewing fight, “What happened to thy arm?”

“Oh— a rock,” said Elthevo, releasing her sister and examining the long gash in her elbow and lower arm. She invited herself to sit down, with a certain dash of Ursu’s unflappable confidence about her. Her sister hovered half-behind the Maru’var, a little shy but also, quite obviously, dying with curiosity. “I misjudged a dive badly— I dive for pearls, I think Mama told thee— and caught my arm. It looks worse than it was, but Papa would not let me swim for a week, though perhaps 'twas for the best. Stung like a bastard.”

She was, above all things, a sailors’ daughter— the Maru’var glanced up from the turtle skull to shoot her an amused look— but Elthevo did not seem very concerned with offending anyone.

Shaleän swept her hat off and made a proper bow with ordath to her father— the bow which kept arms away from weapons. The Maru’var snorted. 

“Making obeisance to keep me happy, Shaleän? Thou never usually makest so much of’t.” He hauled himself to his feet; “Let’s see her, then—” 

Zeveran took his proffered hand and curtsied deeply— someone had obviously taught her to do it properly, but Chenelo’s money was on Ursu, not Shaleän. She kept her composure well under the Maru’var’s stare— not one which was not known for being particularly comforting. But Zeveran was certainly not a woman of meagre character, and so they stared at one another for a moment, sizing one another up like prize fighters. It was, as usual, impossible to tell what the Great Avar was thinking; Zeveran’s unusual black eyes were bottomless and thoughtful. Shaleän did not move or speak, but she was standing quite closely behind Zeveran, her eyes slightly narrowed— Chenelo wondered what she had told her wife about her father.

“Well now, Merrem,” said the Maru’var, “We very much hope you were worth all the trouble.”

“We own it was a troublesome business,” said Zeveran mildly. “Indeed we could have gotten ourselves shot or arrested before we could spend the considerable bride-price you kindly bestowed upon us, and that would have been a pity.”

Thever snorted; Holitho raised an eyebrow, and Malhis and Kelru exchanged a look of disbelief. Chenelo sincerely doubted either of them would have dared.

But, as she had expected, the Maru’var started laughing, and clapped her hand in both of his. 

“That’s more like it!” he proclaimed to the room at large. “Not like these diffident lads Thever and Ursu have presented me with—” (Handsome Kelru and Malhis Perenched both took the barb with good grace.) “Sit down, Merrem, and tell me about Solunee. I have not been there since I was two and thirty, and Shaleän tells me they have torn down the old fortress? A bad business…”

Chenelo sat and listened to the Perencheds arguing good-naturedly over cold oslov, egg-tart, and the sweet green olives that only grew properly in the south of the country, and enjoyed herself quietly until Laru said, apparently incensed enough to address Chenelo without shyness;

“Auntie Chenelo, tell Papa that we can bring Big Cat to meet the emperor thy son.”

“Well... we cannot vouch for the temperament of the cat in question, but we do not think it would be considered an impertinence where the Drazhada are concerned. Surely it is more likely to amuse than offend. If there is an opportunity, we are sure our son would not mind being presented with Big Cat.”

Malhis smiled— he had a scar at his temple and over his eyebrow that made his eye squint peculiarly— then put a hand hastily out to rescue Laru when she nearly fell out of her chair from excitement. “That’s me told, is’t not?” he said to her.

He was well-looking, a little grizzled, and with something of the bow-legged gait many sailors had. He was a man of relatively few words, seeming content to let Ursu do the talking— but he held all of Laru’s gruesome trinkets for her (mostly animal bones, Chenelo found) and put up with being bullied by Shaleän nobly. 

Thever was agitated when she joined them at the table, yanking Handsome Kelru's arm and muttering urgently to him— she wouldn't let him eat for a good few minutes, and when she finally did, she seemed to wait anxiously for him to try everything before she ate it herself. Chenelo thought she might have fallen back on one of her older worries about being poisoned— it was fair to suppose that the violent upending of Thever's normal routine and the reveal of a terrible lie would have had a knock-on effect on her sense of reality. But Kelru was patient and unflappable and sunny, and somehow managed to talk her into eating about half a plate's worth. Chenelo stared at him, impressed— the girls in the Kani’dav and Thever's attending ladies had never been able to convince her to eat a thing.

Chenelo wondered what her father made of his sons in law, the closest he would ever get to actual sons; but when she looked at him, he seemed more interested in his granddaughters than any of his adult dav members. It crashed up against her bitterness to admit it, but Chenelo had never found him lacking as a father, when she had been small. Barizheise fathers tended to be much more benevolent towards their children than Ethuverazhin patriarchs. Once she had become a woman, and therefore a political bargaining chip, that had been another story; but the Maru’var was patient and amiable with children, and he had rarely refused his daughters anything material or frivolous or fun.

Presently, conversation turned to the state visit— Selthevis, at a nod from the Great Avar, produced a draft itinerary for them to peruse. It was almost a month of endless dances, performances, promenades, sports events, and outings, and Chenelo was tired just reading it. Thever frowned, apparently recognising that she was expected to go to the vast majority of them— the illegitimate sisters glanced dubiously at each other, none entirely used to being included in court functions. They were tolerated, but Chenelo knew the majority of the avarsin and the Avar’s ministers tried to avoid discussing them formally, at least in context of them being their father’s daughters. Flaunting them at state events in front of the elvish emperor was unusual, even pressing scandalous— but perhaps the Maru’var knew that there was enough chaos for it to be subsumed into. Or perhaps he was simply at the point where he was too old to care.

“Is this entirely necessary?” said Handsome Kelru, scratching his jaw doubtfully.

“He’s not exactly hard to impress, Father,” agreed Chenelo. 

“Tis about proving our worth as hosts, not how easily impressed thy skittering colt of a son is,” said the Maru’var. “Though thou’rt right, it is easy…”

“Besides, we don’t know how high-maintenance the new bride is,” said Selthevis, smoothing over that flippant remark hastily. “Perhaps if she’s not so demanding that her reception be very elaborate, we can reconsider.”

Chenelo prayed briefly to Csaivo that Maia’s wife was a reasonable girl, and would see the sense in not promenading every day.

“Provided she is an amiable sort of woman, and brings with her some women of a similar temperament, we should all get along nicely,” said Selthevis. 

“When have we ever been known to do that?” said Holitho, amused. Shaleän coughed, and someone must have been kicked, because the table jolted slightly. 

Chenelo saw Selthevis sneaking papers onto the table, and said, “Oh, no, don’t ask me a festoon of pointless questions—”

Selthevis looked sternly at her over the top of his pince-nez. “Chenelo, if I cannot ask thee—”

“Ask whichever Ethuverazhin court correspondent thou hast!” insisted Chenelo. “I presume thou hast been in contact with one, these last months?” 

“Yes, but it takes so long to get messages across, and Mer Aisava keeps meddling, and we only thought, if thou hadst been told something useful—”

“Like what?”

Promptly, Selthevis presented her with an extensive list weighing up the pros and cons of where to house the emperor. After flicking through the most mind-numbing set of considerations that seemed completely alien to her understanding of her son, Chenelo said;

“We do not think he should complain regardless, but if you really want our opinion, and if you do believe he has inherited my piety, perhaps you should put him near the thoroughfare to the exterior ring, and the coast-chapel.” 

Piety aside, Maia had used to trot behind her and ask endless questions about the Chadevan Sea; Did it go on forever? Were there real pirates? Had she ever seen one? But how salty? She had not thought it would be well to tell him about her bastard sisters— but she had told him she had met a real pirate, and described Shaleän, and he had giggled and not believed her. But it had pleased him, and that had been enough for her. 

Selthevis nodded and took the paper back. “And we could not ascertain if the emperor has any Barizhin—” 

“He doesn't speak it,” said Chenelo. “At least, I never taught him anything on purpose, except prayers. He might have learned to read or comprehend a little from my Barizheise picture-books or my prayers, but— I was forbidden.”

Someone— the Maru’var? Malhis? Shaleän?— tutted disapprovingly. Despite Varenechibel's lack of care for his son, Merrem Lurenan, the housemistress at Isvaroë, had sat Chenelo down and laid out the rules— one of which had been that the Archduke was not to be taught Barizhin. It was done as kindly as she knew how, but Chenelo had still bridled.

“Ah— all right. And…” Selthevis considered his papers. “It is understood that the Zhas and the Zhasan are satisfied to share quarters, but we are not certain how many women the Zhasan has attending on her—”

“I have not the slightest idea.”

“The Alcethmeret mentions she has five ladies of the bedchamber, but—”

“Well then, believe them. And what’s this?” Chenelo plucked another sheet from his hand exasperatedly and scanned it— “Selthevis, I have not seen my son since he was eight years old! I cannot answer on wine preferences!” 

She shook her head for a moment, staring at question upon question of ridiculously minute detail; fabric types, wine, flowers, which sort of frescoes might be preferred, even water temperature. It was not fair to deride the agonies of the dav over this matter— which were considerable, and only came from a desire to please— but though it wounded her to admit it, she had no idea what to tell them.

“I never saw red wine served at the emperor’s table, the imperial family wears white— and he's mildly allergic to yellow Pelanra incense, because he used to sneeze on me when I burned it for prayer.” She sat back, frowning, and returned the paper. “There. Those are two meagre things. I might give thee the answers that suited my child son sufficiently, but how am I to know those that suit the adult Emperor? Seek out Mer Derenzha, he will know better than I.”

It stung her to admit that there were probably plenty of people who now knew more about her son than she did, and she picked crossly at the corner of her apricot tart, appetite dampened. Selthevis— Maru Sevraseched’s man, and hence entirely used to bad tempers— merely nodded and made a few notes, unconcerned.

Once everyone had returned to conversations, Ursu leant across to her, and said in a low voice; “He won’t have changed so very much, Chenelo, as I told thee. Not beyond reason.”

Chenelo nodded glumly, thinking of Maia’s letter still stuffed in her sleeve. She had read and re-read it so many times the edges had gone ragged, and had overanalysed every phrase to the point that she thought she could probably recite it— trying to drag every piece of meaning out of it. It was useless and unproductive, but she found it hard to resist the urge.

“No, really,” said Ursu, and gave her leg a pat. “Here, pass thy cup, the chamomile is down this end…”

“She's his favourite,” said Chenelo, later. 

She and Thever were ostensibly at the loom, but really watching Shaleän and their father muttering at a side table, pointing to something in one of Shaleän’s nautical logbooks. Standing together, their resemblance was almost comical; Chenelo could not blame Shaleän for never even attempting to pretend at a different parentage.

“Oh, yes,” snorted Thever. She shook her head. “Oh yes, she always was. But that's all right. She's our favourite too.”

Chenelo chuckled and went back to stitch swatches.

Thever said, “When Papa dies, she will fight to be Great Avar.”

Chenelo's head snapped around. “Shaleän?”

Thever threw the shuttle back. “Yes.”

“She has said so?”

“Not to me— perhaps she thinks ‘tis impertinent to say so to the eldest legitimate daughter, or maybe she thinks I’d raise a banner right back, hah— but ‘tis clear. She is always at court, now, and she claims it is her age, but it is none of that. There are coastal families here who never usually come until next month. She is currying support, and people are giving it to her. She knows that Papa is getting weaker in his old age, and she has moved to put herself in the place she needst be, when he dies.”

“But Thever, women— especially marnis women— cannot be Great Avar.”

“I know’t, but she does not care— she argues there is no ruling on’t, only common law and precedent. She thinks it is her right to be allowed to compete for it. It is not as if the Great Avar is really a hereditary position, so what does it matter if she has no children? So long as she doesn’t dither like Papa on deciding on an heir… well! And she has loyalty from all the coastal families, which is a good half, including all the Pel’avarsin. She has blackmail on most of the other half, so I hear. Certainly I would have no issue with my sister inheriting my father’s throne, no matter that she is a bastard...”

“I heard her called the Arh’avar,” said Chenelo thoughtfully. “At the docks.”

“Ay— and the coastal people will fight for her,” said Thever. “Their water-duke. They think she’s good luck, auspicious. And she would certainly be a mighty deterrent for naval invasions, no?”

“But— it cannot possibly be so easy?”

“Oh, no, I suppose not,” said Thever. “But I do think she could win, thou knowst…”

They turned around to stare at Shaleän, who saw them looking, and winked.

Chenelo did not get much chance to consider the reality of Shaleän’s bid for the throne in the weeks that followed, because anything that was not related to the preparation for the state visit of the Ethuverazhin Emperor was suddenly considered irrelevant. Chenelo endured several formal dinners in the Corat’theziar, the formal hall of the Great Avar, all of which were full of agog courtiers. She sifted through her mountain of calling cards, and tried to get her dav back into some sort of order— besides her ladies and Amaru, she had two wide-eyed page boys, who, once they got over the peculiarity of a resurrected mistress, made themselves chatty and obliging, and were quick to bring her all the court gossip.

Chenelo, Zeveran, and Thever made endless visits to various noblewomen’s apartments. immediately yanked back into the spiral of calls and return calls that counted as socialising. Zeveran and Chenelo vacillated for relevance; sometimes Chenelo was the guest of most interest, especially in the households of women she’d grown up with, eager to show off their children or their husbands or their wealth— or simply to chat. Other times, she was ignored for Zeveran— the fact of Shaleän’s marriage had been common knowledge a long time, really too long to still have the same impact it might have once had, but certainly some women made attempts to be scandalised, even though Zeveran, obliging and charming as she was, was difficult to object to.  There was a handful of refusals to address her as Merrem Sevraseched, and attempts to discover her maiden name, or even her dead husband’s name, but Zeveran would not answer to anything except her current married name, and Thever kept pretending not to understand, when attempts were made to name her differently— so it was defanged quickly. Neither Zeveran nor Shaleän seemed particularly surprised by the attempts; Chenelo honestly thought they had been expecting it. 

She would not have minded being left to settle quietly back into her old role and her old habits— going to the market, observing prayers in both the coast-chapel and the Sevraseched’s family othasmeire, taking meals more often with Thever, Kelru and her ladies than with the court, going to shoot or ride or walk in the woodland east of the barracks— but across the weeks, she noticed corridors became glutted with more and more courtiers. Dozens of families returned to Urvekh’, opening up the family apartments so that they could be there to gawk at Edrehasivar Zhas, and Chenelo knew nothing of many of them. Some of the older families she’d been used to seeing had fallen out of favour— most prominently the Erizmeds, save Kelru. She had not particularly liked them, but it was unsettling to be in a dav with strangers, with new habits; many of the younger women dressed in elven-style court-gowns, these days, but Thever had just grumbled unintelligibly when Chenelo asked about it. It made her slightly uneasy, and as a result Chenelo spent more time with her ladies and sisters, rather than trying to make new connections. She knew it was cowardly, and was a habit which had hindered her extremely as Ethuverazhid Zhasan, but she struggled to shed it. And at any rate, every time she went to a salon or a dinner or a promenade, she was barraged with impertinent questions. The Corat’ Dav Arhos were not as subtle as the Untheileneise Court, and Chenelo had forgotten what it was to be overtly confronted on matters you wished to avoid.

It came to a head a day before Maia’s arrival, when the women of the Corat’ Dav Arhos were entirely beginning to panic. No elven emperor had visited Barizhan for over a century, and not only was it undeniably interesting, it was a chance to show off, and to curry favour with the Maru’var— no one would pass up those opportunities. But the questions! How were they expected to behave with the elves? Did she think the elvish court would be hostile to the goblins? What sort of a woman was the Zhasan? Was it a good family? Rich? Was she handsome? Would the emperor bring his sister and his nieces? Or the other Zhasanais? (That, Chenelo could answer; she had seen the lists of attendants, and the answer appeared to be no. The only female Drazhada member on the list was Csethiro Drazharan.) Were the elves really so very cruel? Was Edrehasivar more like an elf or more like a goblin? Was he planning to conquer Barizhan when the Maru’var died, and absorb them into the Ethuverazhin empire?

Chenelo was so bewildered by that last question that she stopped walking, and stared, flummoxed, at the asker— Hechero, whom had never much liked even when they had been teenagers. “We sincerely doubt that, Hechero.”

“But he has claims to both thrones,” persisted Hechero. “And there were rumours the Maru’var thought of making Edrehasivar his heir.”

“We cannot see Edr— our son raising a banner,” said Chenelo, hastily resuming her pace. 

“No offence meant, Avar’min,” said Hechero, “But we do not think you can speak on his political policy, considering you have not seen him since he was but a boy.”

Then why didst thou ask me? Chenelo thought crossly. But it wasn’t so much for the answer,  as the asking of it. The men of the Corat’ Dav Arhos were always duelling and scrapping and arguing for the upper hand, but so were the women. They just did it differently.

“The political situation in the Ethuveraz does not seem primed to be invading other countries, considering they can barely keep a grip on their own,” said Alaro dismissively. She had married into the previous Great Avar’s line, and the family had their own ideas about who should be in charge; Chenelo had no idea why Thever kept letting these sorts of women come to her promenades, since she clearly didn’t like them. She was ahead with her back to them, chattering away to Handsome Kelru. “I would not trade on Edrehasivar. Some of the elvish courtiers were taking bets he would be dead before he was on the throne a year.”

“He is my son, Alaro, not a jousting match!” snapped Chenelo. 

“Ay, but you’re thinking as if he’s just your son, Avar’min,” said Alaro, half-sympathetically. “But he's not yours anymore. He was yours when he was a boy; now, he’s theirs. He's Ethuverazhid Zhas. It’s the fate of all mothers, but you most of all. So, Chenelo— wilt have to get used to dealing politically with the elven Emperor. He may not be what thou rememberest.”

Chenelo drew back, ears flattening. She could see her ladies and Zeveran looking at her, and from the set of Thever’s ears, she was listening. “...all the same, we would prefer not to hear his chances of survival discussed like a market haggle.”

“Then by all means,” said Alaro coolly. “Go on ahead. There is no need to listen.”

“He's only a lad, Alaro,” said Mero snappishly, as Chenelo, petulantly, snatched her shawl up her shoulders and stalked off— Larian made a move to follow her, but Chenelo flicked a hand at her and she dropped back, though she was obviously displeased. It did not befit her, nor was it entirely wise, to sulk like a girl over the matter; but she was sick of being entirely agreeable, and did not think it really mattered whether she was or not. It had hardly saved her from misfortune or scorn last time.

“My husband is under no delusions, and I shan't be either…” was the last thing Chenelo heard before she slipped down a side path and left them all behind.

Chenelo stormed to the east-roof orangery, kicked a plant-pot, broke it, felt foolish, then cried bitterly on a bench for a half-hour. 

Eventually, she heard someone approaching, and pressed her palms to her face, trying to compose herself. When she finally looked up— 

“I didn’t expect thee,” she sniffed.

“Rather, someone more tactful?” said Shaleän. Zeveran must have sent her. “Ay, yes— well, I know I am very bad and take great delight in being insensitive…” She stood up on the bench and rifled around in a tree. “But I do not like seeing thee upset.” She hopped down, orange in hand, and pointed to the plant pot. “Was that thee?” When Chenelo looked guilty, she chuckled. “What didst thou do, throw it?”

“Kicked it.”

“Some ankle!” Shaleän sat down and started peeling the orange she’d dug out of the branches. “Come now, pet, I know they are despicable biddies, but canst not put too much stock by them.”

“He was all I had,” said Chenelo glumly, half-heartedly accepting a small pile of orange segments. “For eight years, he was all I had in the world. I had no family and no friends and no society, no hope of a different life, but I had my little son, my Maia— and they took me away from him, for no better reason than that they despised me and they wanted another girl in Varenechibel's bed. And now they will tell me that he is not mine, when the only person in the world who ever wanted him before he was Ethuverazhid Zhas was me.”

“Fuckers,” agreed Shaleän amiably, and ignored the look Chenelo threw her.

“They would have left him to rot in Thu-Evresar forever until Varenechibel had finally gone and died on his own, I know’t. Maybe even after that. I know not what Nemolis might have done with him.”

“To give the dead Prince his dues, we cannot be sure he would not have recalled him,” said Shaleän, biting orange pith out from under her nails. “But generally yes, I suppose thou'rt correct…”

“They might be right,” Chenelo said hopelessly. “They might be right. It has been over a decade. He is the Emperor. Can I be sure that I will know him again? Or that he will know me?”

“Thou hast a letter in his hand,” said Shaleän. “Thou knowest he risked blowing a meeting with Papa to shreds just to try and defend thy honour.”

“Tis only principle…” said Chenelo hopelessly. After a moment's thought, she extracted Maia's letter and held it out to Shaleän, who wiped her sticky hands on her breeches before taking it. She hadn't let anyone else see it— and was not honestly sure why she was giving it to Shaleän now— but Shaleän read it thoughtfully.

“Aww,” she said, and chuckled. “Poor thing, canst practically see him trembling...”

“Shaleän.”

“Tis not so very constrained,” Shaleän said. “Tis a nice letter. Clearly his hand. No flummery. It's a little evasive on some matters, but he says himself he thought it might be intercepted.”

Chenelo exhaled. “No, no, thou'rt right. I had… convinced myself otherwise. That it was somehow... aloof.”

“Silly girl,” said Shaleän cheerfully. “Trust thyself a little more.”

She handed the letter back and went to packing her pipe with tobacco— she saw Chenelo staring at her and said, “Match?”

“Sorry.”

“Thou well bred ladies never have one...” Shaleän dug around in her coat for a while, found one, and struck it on the sole of her boot. Chenelo sat and stared at the ragged corners of the letter while Shaleän lit her pipe and smoked quietly for a while.

“Chenelo,” she said, gnawing thoughtfully on the stem. “Thou wilt not like me weaponizing this, but considering the age gap between me and thee is bigger than the age gap between thee and thy emperor-son, I think thou shouldst heed me.”

“By a year or so. Barely.”

“But enough, no?”

“No reason at all, sea-hag,” muttered Chenelo. Shaleän cackled.

“Well, thou'rt a captive audience, so hear’t anyway. I have had my ear to the ground, and I do not think Edrehasivar's hold on the throne is all that flimsy. And he certainly has not become a despot. Parsing the truth out of sailor's gossip is a bit of a… learned skill, but nothing I have heard from the Ethuveraz has been particularly troubling. Everyone is confused and conflicted, tis naturally going to be so, but the foundations of his rule are nice and stable now, even if they had a, er, wobbly start. He's popular enough where it matters. And apparently the court and the common people both enjoyed themselves greatly at Lord Chavar’s expense when they found out that he had been outmanoeuvred by the boy-emperor he'd kidnapped and tried to force to abdicate. Apparently he told them to either let him speak with Prince Idra, or kill him, and they simply did not have the stomach to off him, so—”

“That was what he said to them?” said Chenelo, horrified. “Csevet only said he demanded to speak with Idra!”

“Well, he would shave off a few distressing details, wouldn't he, the sly little bastard?” said Shaleän. “Can't wait to see how Aisava acts in his actual role. Bet he's a perfect terror. The dav seem to think they've bitten off more than they can chew, letting the Alcethmeret busybodies come here.” She said; “I know I have not said anything overmuch comforting, but take courage, sister! I do not think t’will be a disaster.”

“Thou'rt right,” said Chenelo. “But I still feel sick at the thought of tomorrow.”

“Well, one would.”

They sat in silence for a while; Chenelo finished her orange, Shaleän smoked.

Chenelo said, eventually; “Thou dost not want it, Shaleän.”

Shaleän obviously knew what she was talking about— she sat back with a sigh and crossed her ankles.

“Chenelo— I am five and fifty. I have seen more of the world than a hundred men will see in their lives. I know what it is that I am staring in the face of. And soothly, sister— he's asked me to fight for it. And I have said yes.”

Chenelo started. “He's— he's named thee heir?”

“In private. I have sworn to him. I think there are writings, but he is keeping them hidden for the moment.”

“But—” Chenelo spluttered for a moment, then said, “Shaleän, thou dost not owe him thy loyalty. He pretended thou didst not exist for years, would not acknowledge thee until I went and died— but suddenly thy sex is no object, when he sees a way to use thee to make trouble for his enemies beyond the grave?”

“I'm used to an ungrateful overlord,” said Shaleän. “The sea never thanks her daughters, eh? But more pertinently, Chenelo, I would not suffer to see my sisters under the thumb of a new Great Avar I think naught of, and there are no men in the running who I can truly expect to do well by Thever. Thou knowst what happens to the old dav when the new one arrives.”

“But Father didn't…” Chenelo trailed off, knowing it was a naive point to make.

“Papa was exceptionally charismatic and sufficiently intimidating,” said Shaleän. “He didn't need to… cull the old guard. And his men are good men, but they are all old men. Their sons are either weak or power hungry. It’s been a complacent court for a long time, and that breeds men with no urgency and no dignity. It seems likely they will resort to— er, measures, when they are concerned they may not get their way. And so, it becomes necessary I am prepared to fight for’t, not just something I am desirous of. Ideally, all of thee will flee north to thy son when everything gets ugly.”

“Shaleän— I understand, and I am not saying I think thou wouldst not be good at it, because truly I think thou wouldst be diabolically good for’t, but… thy ship. Solunee. Zeveran. The throne is the opposite of that sort of freedom. Is there no one else Father would name?”

Shaleän smiled a little sadly. “Well, the oldest Avars were navalmen first. And I can't sail forever. I've been at it for— well, closing in on fifty years, now. I ran away when I was nine. And I've got a fucked-up knee, these days...”

“From age?”

“Ay, no, I got shot in the back of the bastarding thing,” said Shaleän dismissively. “As for Zeveran, she is terribly vain and would enjoy making people pay obeisance to her. She would like even more to see the looks on her brother's faces…”

“But you cannot think it is safe to declare her thy legal consort— I know tis not illegal, but—”

“It has been considered, Chenelo, do not think it has not,” said Shaleän, a tad sharply. She did not elaborate on what had been decided.

“...so, tis duty?” said Chenelo, at last.

“Tis also a healthy dose of arrogance and a great love for violence, if that helps,” said Shaleän. 

Chenelo stared at her for a moment, then said: “...thou’rt the only one who was born before he was the Great Avar.” 

“Sometimes he'd come to Mama's dressing room in the Urvekh’opera and entertain me while she was on stage,” said Shaleän. “He'd come wearing his navy uniform and his sword and his guns, and we'd play pirates, or wooden soldiers, or something similarly aggressive. Sometimes we snuck around into the cheap seats to watch Mama dancing, and he used to whistle at her in the curtain call, which made her laugh.”

Before the Maru'var had been the Maru'var, he had been Lieutenant Sevraseched, a second son of one of the old naval families. His father and brother had been much older men than he, and disinterested in politics; bored of them and displeased with the rule of the Vola’var, whose slapdash leadership had led to a Barizheise naval massacre at Anvernal Maru had barely escaped from, he had prepared to make a bid for the throne the second the Vola’var so much as coughed. Chenelo remembered one of the old men saying once that it had seemed as if Maru Sevraseched had come from nowhere— and come with a vengeance, at that. The Maru'var had always maintained they had simply been looking in the wrong direction.

“Mama and I were angry when he won,” said Shaleän. “She had imagined she might be Avar’an, but Mama was an Urvekh’opera dancer who flashed her garters on stage, shrieked when she laughed, and kicked like a horse— that was why Papa loved her, but it was also why he couldn't marry her. No genteel lady is she, and she had no beneficial political connections or great dowry, which he so needed. Thy fabulous mama was both connected and rich. But I was only angry because he stopped coming to see us. And Mama was always touring and performing, she had no time for me— especially if it wouldn't bring him back . So I thought, I should get their attention somehow, do something very… drastic.” She shrugged. “I ran away. I used the Sevraseched name as a taunt, I own— but twas not as if I was not entitled to it, I reasoned. Somewhere along the way, I forgot that I was trying to get their attention, and I started working for myself. I only came back sometimes. I heard about Thever, and assumed Papa would not go back to my mother— so when he did, when Mama sent me the letter about Ursu, I could've killed both of them. But I went back for a while— then came back every year on Ursu's birthday.”

Chenelo remembered; Ursu had used to go and look for Shaleän's sail at Osreian's Point. 

Shaleän said; “When I was twelve, I was beaten bloody by a few local guardsmen in a tavern for using the Sevraseched name, and thus for slandering the Maru'var. A man from the Corat' Dav Arhos came by the next day; he set my shoulder, gave me a pouch of gold and a wooden soldier, and wrote me a warrant letting me onto any ship, for my trouble. I told him to tell my father to fucking well decide if he wanted me or not, which made him laugh.” She shook her head. “Of course, he didn't claim me until thy death. But he’d been hiring me for decades by then. I knew it was him. It was government business, and every chest of cash came with a wooden soldier in it. I did it. How could I refuse? The fucker turned his back on us once he’d won the throne, but I knew he still loved me— it helped that it was always fun.” She grinned. “And he claimed me first, when he did it. Didst know that? He had the other three right there, but he sent out the summons for me.” She nodded to herself; “He wishes I was a son. He wishes it so badly. But I am none, and so he has to decide; does he want a son— or does he want a worthy heir?”  

“It seems he has decided,” said Chenelo. “At long last.” She shook her head. “If thou wilt persist, I think thou shouldst be very fine as the Arh'avar. I would be the first to swear fealty to thee.”

“Good!” said Shaleän. “I need thee, so thou canst tell thy lovely obedient son to let Auntie Shaleän manipulate him terribly.”

They laughed, but Chenelo sighed soon after. “He will never be just my son again.”

“I know,” said Shaleän. “But he still is thy son.” She got up. “Let's go and get drunk and laugh at Kelru.”

“I can’t have a headache tomorrow,” said Chenelo. “I already might throw up as it is.”

“Thou canst vomit discreetly in my hat, then,” said Shaleän, offering her elbow. “Never say I am no gentleman.”

The Corat’ Dav Arhos had never panicked so spectacularly in Chenelo’s memory. 

The day of Maia's arrival was sunny and mild— which Chenelo decided to read as a good omen— but punctuated with pure chaos. In every corner, the dav argued, nitpicked, ran to fetch something that they had forgotten, second-thought every decision. Even though the outriders had said the imperial party would not arrive til dusk, they spent most of the day arguing in the second-floor baths and fighting about hair. Chenelo had no idea how Desheret, the Maru'var's tailor, had managed to run her up a court gown so quickly, but she had had it within three days— heavily embroidered with a low waist and trailing sleeves, lighter and less structured than anything she had ever been given in the Ethuveraz. It was a lovely rich red— Urvekh’scarlet, extracted from the molluscs on the coast— but these were the sorts of things they almost never wore unless it was a truly important event. Which, Chenelo assumed, this was.

She and her ladies spent hours agonising over her insufficient clothes and jewellery— she had not been able to replace her entire wardrobe so quickly, and she was suddenly very conscious she was supposed to appear in a manner appropriate to the mother of the emperor, and that she very likely would not. She hastily replaced some of her own stitching on her skirts, suddenly dissatisfied with it; Mero and Larian had an argument about rings. Elsewhere, Zeveran could be seen physically running between the tailor and her own rooms; Thever kept sending Handsome Kelru out to borrow random frippery from various people. 

The emperor’s household had been designated almost an entire wing close to the thoroughfare between inner and outer rings; they brought relatively few nobles and courtiers with them, to Chenelo’s relief, but nonetheless between the emperor’s dav, the ambassadors, diplomats, soldiers, and couriers, the delegation was some seventy or eighty people, and everyone had to sleep somewhere. Chenelo was hauled off by Selthevis to pass judgement on the suites, and watched with some bemusement as pages hauled in fresh flowers, polished everything that was possible to polish, swept fireplaces, swapped decor, and argued in little huddles. The only disadvantage of the dav, she supposed, was that everything felt personal. 

The day slipped by startlingly quickly; Amaru rode out to meet the first outriders, and Chenelo saw him in the exterior courtyard leading a gaggle of tired and dusty imperial couriers. It felt like no time at all before they were being hustled out of their apartments to go and collect at the main dock before the doors of the Corat’theziar, and the halls were crammed with the dav, preening in their finery. The Ethuverazhin delegation would ride through the city and into the main square of the external keep— giving the people of Urvekh’ ample time to gawk— before taking boats to the heart of the Corat’ Dav Arhos. It was considered poor form to make the emperor and empress walk, though as Chenelo remembered from the pageantry of her wedding to Varenechibel, it had been slightly uncomfortable to wear an elven court dress in a boat.

“I’m sure I don’t understand why we have to dress up to just go and stare at the poor lad,” said Shaleän grumpily. 

“Think of it as making it fair,” said Zeveran, adjusting her lapels for her. “Poor thing is bound to be done up like an opera diva in jewels and suchlike, so we can show solidarity…”

Handsome Kelru and Thever always wore frippery, but at least Kelru had bothered to tie up his doublet, and Thever had found a fabulously expensive looking necklace Chenelo had never seen before. Holitho was not technically allowed to wear finery beyond her office, but had polished her ritual jewellery; Shaleän and Malhis had dug out ceremonial naval coats (Malhis’s official, Shaleän’s stolen, and she was still insisting on wearing her hat) and Ursu had produced a court gown from— somewhere. She saw Chenelo’s look and said, “I didn’t formally have a dowry, but I got an unmarked wedding present from court, which was bride-price and trousseau combined. This was in it. I took it as a sign that he planned to acknowledge us at some point, though at that point I kept my mouth shut…”

The only person who had a designated place at the dock was the Maru’var, before the Corat’theziar doors; everyone else, no matter how important, would scrum for a good standing spot elsewhere. They took an abrupt side-passage before they reached the main entrance and, between Thever’s self-importance and Shaleän’s ability to shoulder-check people, found themselves a place to stand on a portico above the dock, along the left side. 

“Dost not want to stand with Father?” said Holitho. “We shan’t be very visible, up here…”

Looking down at the crowd, Chenelo could see almost everyone had turned out to gawk; the Maru’var was already there, simply dressed as was his wont, though he had on the ceremonial drape of the Great Avar over his robe, the great heavy silk piece with centuries worth of goldwork upon it. The dock was busy with avarsin, Hezhethora, the dav... Chenelo swallowed, and dried her damp hands hastily on the inside of her sleeves. It was growing darker and darker, and the lighting came from torches and the odd gas-light; the shifting orange light was warm and slightly surreal, and it made the water look sable and velveteen, the crowd an eager, indistinct mass. Only the Maru’var and the great carved stone doors of the Corat’theziar, some twenty feet tall and engraved with battle scenes, were truly visible.

“No,” she said. “I would prefer not to meet him here. I do not wish to be…”

She trailed off, unsure of the word.

“A spectacle,” said Thever. 

“Yes,” said Chenelo gratefully. She glanced at Thever and found the hammered-gold colour of her stare mercilessly clear. “Yes, that.”

“Mama! Mama, Papa—” It was Laru; she and Elthevo had run up through the servant’s passages to stand on one of the parapets and look out at the approach, and now they came worming through the crowd, still almost at a run. They rattled up the side steps and burst into the portico, thrilled. “He’s here, he’s here! Auntie Chenelo, we saw— th— all the—”

Laru petered off into incoherence and doubled over, out of breath, but Elthevo took over:

“There are so many people outside, everyone has come to see the goblin-emperor. There were more courier outriders like Mer Derenza in their leathers, don't they ride so fast—?”

Her sister cut her off, having gotten her breath back; “Then there were stern elven guards, great big scary knights of Anmura in their sun masks— lots on horseback, bearing torches for it is getting dark, then the brace of coaches— eight or ten white horses, I could not count… it was so noisy with all the cheering, the hooves—”

“People are cheering?” said Chenelo.

“Oh yes, cheering and stamping and chanting— they are saying son of ours, Maia Chenel’mera, kin of ours, blood of ours!” said Elthevo. “They are shouting it inside, too.”

Barizhan and the Ethuveraz, both laying claim like he was a desirable plot of land, as she had known they would— these men who had abandoned and laughed at Maia Drazhar, who would have none of him— they would claim him now he was Edrehasivar and he had the means with which he could reward their sycophancy.

Laru said; “The coachmen and the footmen have such lovely shiny livery with the Drazhada cats on them, t’would be very fine to have a cat as thy house sigil— oh Mama, can we bring Big Cat tomorrow? We saw the emperor, he looks lovely, we think he would not mind—” 

“You saw him?” said Chenelo, a touch abruptly. Her nieces nodded furiously.

Elthevo said, “He got out of the coach when we were there, and everyone cheered, I thought he seemed a little surprised at that— but he waved, and they roared. He is wearing a veil but it is see-through, and you can see he is grey and thin like thee, Auntie— he is very tall, though not as tall as Grandpapa or Shaleän, and he wears such jewellery! He sparkled when he moved, he must be wearing diamonds…”

Laru said: “He has his elf-wife the Zhasan with him, and she has hair that is so white it shines, look’st so fine— people were giving her flowers over the barrier—”

Chenelo was saved from answering as the crowd noise rose into an sudden buzz; there were distant approaching lights on the water, and the approaching thunk-slap of oars. Chenelo gripped the barrier of the portico, then realised she had to look desperate and clenched her hands together instead. She could feel her pulse thudding in her throat like a trapped bird flailing, beating futilely wall-to-wall. Thever was gripping her arms and peering past her, chin on her shoulder, and Shaleän had picked up Laru so she could see better. 

A sudden clatter at the water's edge heralded the appearance of the Maru'var's men, rushing in with torches and tapers to light the way. The crowd murmured and pressed and stood on their toes, eager to look. Between the dav and the approaching boats, it was becoming clamorously noisy— and Thever said, “What’s that?”, ear flicking in slight distaste.

“Elf-horns,” said Shaleän, who must have heard them in battle. And below, on the water, someone was singing something; not as inappropriate as a shanty, but an old folk-song, something about Starstannover. They had a fine, sweet voice that carried above the buzz, a young voice; perhaps a courier or a page.

It was far too dark to see the boats properly, but they caught glimpses; the light snagged on pale elvish hair and skin, or glanced off of jewels, caught the gleam of armour— and Chenelo thought, somewhere central, slightly ahead, reflected the faint lambency of white silk in the dark.

It became evident that there was one particular boat that had been privileged with a lead— before Chenelo’s eyes could adjust, a voice bellowed, “Up the oars!” and there was a great ruckus of rattling oars, the hiss of water-spray, and the Avar’s men scrambling to moor the boats. 

A baldricked imperial soldier jumped briskly from the prow onto the dock, and offered a white hand down— the one it was met with in return, was grey and heavily beringed.

The crowd thundered; Laru said, “Oh, look, look—!”

Emperor Edrehasivar VII, Ethuverazhid Zhas, emerged into the torchlight.

Chenelo's vision blurred with overwhelmed tears— someone was holding her hand, but she truly had no idea if it was Thever or Ursu. For a second, between blinks, she could only see all the white; white brocade over white lace and silk, bedecked in opal and diamonds and pearls; braided into his carefully arranged hair, strung from his ears, on his neck and hands, sewn onto his clothes. He was veiled in fine white organza, and it had a sheen to it which put a hazy obscurity to the grey oval of his face— the distance and the veil kept his expression and his features tinged to the indistinct. 

Despite what must have been the immense weight of his clothes and jewellery, he stepped surefootedly onto the dock, and bowed his head in thanks at the soldier, who must have been one of the nohecharei. More of the boats were sliding into dock, the other elves thronging in behind, following their emperor— but they were still in the shadows, pale faces flitting in and out of focus in torchlight, their fine jewellery and brocaded clothes winking.

The emperor turned his head, she saw him in profile— and for one heart-stopping moment, Chenelo did not recognise him. He had her grey skin, her hair, but it was nothing— the stern-profiled creature in white brocade was so much the Drazhada’s creature that Chenelo's throat closed in panic. He was not hers; he was theirs— 

Then he swept his robe behind him in a neat, but not entirely elegant gesture, and turned back to the boat. He bent and offered his hands carefully, almost tentatively— but the Zhasan’s return grip on him was firm as he helped her up, and she slid her hold from his hand to his arm once she was on the dock. She tilted her face up and said something to him— and even under the veil, it was clear he smiled, might have laughed. 

And then Chenelo recognised him, and she knew him so well that her knees buckled slightly, and Thever and Ursu seized her under the arms. She thought— Varenechibel would have left any of us behind and gone on ahead, and she thought— I know that expression, I remember’t— and she thought Maia, Maia—

The crowd roared; they raised hands in acknowledgement and it redoubled. Perhaps it was merely Chenelo's blurred vision, but for a moment, Maia was the only truly visible thing in the hall. He stood very straight, practically luminous in white and amber that glowed in the light from the tapers. 

From the doors, the Maru’var shouted, “Well, Grandson, present to us your wife!” and broke the spell; suddenly it was the scufflings of etiquette and practical consideration again, as the Hezhethora hustled the crowd backwards and the elvish knights of Anmura came to make an avenue for their emperor, swords drawn. Zhas and Zhasan went off towards the Maru’var, trailed by the silent nohecharei and a train of other attendants, appearing from nowhere in the unobtrusive manner favoured by Ethuverazhin servants. The Zhasan was on the wrong side of Maia and too far away for Chenelo to see her very well, and veiled like her husband besides— but she had an immense dignity for such a very young lady, and a long stride. Chenelo thought she was holding Maia's arm very tightly, though she wasn't sure whose benefit it was for.

They reached the Maru’var; just behind Maia, a goblin gentleman that Chenelo thought must have been the ambassador, Vorzhis Gormened, called out in carrying Barizhin; “The emperor Edrehasivar the Seventh Zhas and his wife Csethiro Zhasan thank the Great Avar of Barizhan and the Corat’ Dav Arhos for their hospitality and generosity, upon this most auspicious of occasions.”

The first Ethuverazhin state visit in hundreds of years, he meant. The crowd cheered and whistled, slightly inappropriately— the Maru’var took Csethiro’s hand and kissed it gallantly, and thumped Maia hard enough on the shoulders that Chenelo winced, though Maia seemed to have been expecting it. Standing before the Maru’var, their youth was apparent; the Maru’var laughed, and said, in Ethuverazhin—

“Well now, grandson— granddaughter— it is late, we are old, and you all look tired, so we shan't waste time making obeisances. Come on in!”

He shouted an order in Barizhin, making several of the elven train jump; promptly, and with a certain ceremony, the doors to the Corat’thezhiar boomed open. The Zhasan craned her neck interestedly; Maia watched politely, then turned his head slightly, glancing around with a certain furtiveness that did not entirely befit the Ethuverazhid Zhas. Chenelo realised, with a pang that was almost painful, what— or rather, who— he was looking for.

“Go to your beds!” the Maru’var called to the crowd. “We might behave abominably in celebration tomorrow, no?” In Ethuverazhin; “Where's your little pen-pusher, grandson—? Ah, always where you look for him—” Indeed, there was Csevet, out of his courier's leathers into secretarial dress, materialised at Maia's shoulder in an instant. “And where in Anmura’s name are our daughters? Wast not the whole motivation? Chenelo! Where's she gone? Selthevis, find her—”

He went marching off into the Corat’theziar, and it took a gentle prod from the Zhasan to get Maia to follow him; he went, with a last glance behind him, before he was flanked inside.

She herself didn’t move, rooted to the spot— it took Thever yanking on her arm to get her to stumble on shaking legs towards the side door. The dav parted for her— blurry-faced people she could hardly focus on squeezed her hand or mumbled some encouragement as she passed, and they had barely fumbled down a handful of halls before they ran into Selthevis halfway, shouting;

“Has anyone seen— there thou art! Come on, come on—” he caught a glimpse of her face. “Oh, pet, don't be frightened.”

He seized her hand and dragged her after him, leaving her sisters to shout well-wishes after her— she understood and was grateful that they would not attempt to come with her, but in a wild second of panic she wished that they would.

After a few minutes, she realised Selthevis was taking her to the apartments which had been assigned to the emperor; they were passing an increasing number of curious elvish faces, and a few of them, either fast off the mark, or old enough to remember her stint as empress, recognised her and bowed. Chenelo tracked Selthevis anxiously, nervous of so many representatives of the court which had despised her— then nearly ran into her father, who was just leaving, 

“Ah!” he said. “About time, where did the five of thee—” He looked down, saw her obviously terrified face, and shook his head, amused. “Don’t look so, Chenelo. In you go, dear—”

He kissed her cheek and more or less shoved her through the door. Selthevis announced, “Chenelo Drazharan, Barizheise Avar’min and Ethuverazhid Zhas’maro,” then shut the door behind him. 

Chenelo immediately had to resist the urge to press herself against it; the rooms were full of Untheileneise Court attendants, most wearing the Drazhada livery, unpacking and arranging and inspecting, and they were all immediately looking at her. Her stomach dropped— she could not see Maia. He had to be further within, somewhere.

Total panic was only abated by turning and finding the mild, patient face of Csevet Aisava suddenly at her elbow.

“Csevet,” she whispered, almost desperately glad to see someone she recognised. 

Csevet bowed and smiled. “Zhas’maro.” He offered her his elbow, and without preamble led her further back into the parlour.

He had been sitting tensely on the edge of an armchair in the corner, hands knotted in his lap— he lurched to his feet when he saw her, and gripped the back of the chair with thin, heavily beringed hands. 

Csevet said, softly; “Serenity,” and drew back. 

Dizzy with anxiety and relief and the confused constraints of having to make obeisances to her teenage son, Chenelo sank to her knees before him, and said, in a voice that trembled horribly: “Your Imperial Serenity.”

He did not move, or speak, for a long moment. Chenelo kept her eyes on the floor, but she said— “Whose child art thou?”

She was ashamed by how small, how thin her voice sounded. It sounded like a plea. It was a plea. 

Chenelo had no idea for how much longer he was silent, but it felt like forever. She thought, he does not remember, and felt at last the cold knife-edge of despair—

And then he moved, very abruptly; she heard the silken fabric hiss and saw his veil fall, knew he had cast it aside— and suddenly his hands were on hers, and Chenelo found herself looking at his signet ring, the feline serpent, her ring.

He said, in a trembling voice: “The star’s child.” 

She looked up into his face at last , and found he had started to cry. 

Maia said, “Thy child.” Then, raggedly, disbelievingly: “Mama.”

Chenelo burst into tears.

She thought he had initially meant to draw her to her feet, to stop her kneeling— but now he simply sank to the floor and into her arms. Chenelo flung her arms around his neck and kissed his temple and his cheeks and his head, holding him so tightly she could feel the prominent line of his spine. He is too thin, she thought, and swallowed the urge to say something about it. 

Maia had clamped his arms around her waist in the same way he had done when he was very small, when she had hugged him or held him to her side, or he had wanted her attention— his rings were digging into Chenelo’s side uncomfortably, but she did not care, could not care. He was weeping silently— the only evidence his shaking shoulders and his hot, damp face against her neck. It was a terrible thing for a young man to have perfected unobtrusive misery. She clutched him at the back of his head and his shoulders, thinking, they have had thee so well-subdued these years— and for a second was so rabidly angry she had to fight not to increase her grip painfully. She clutched him defensively with her head pressed to his, unfairly resenting the pallid, blurry elven faces that were lurking around them, a respectful distance away.

Eventually, she found herself staring at the embroidery on Maia’s shoulder and neck, the beautiful lace tambour work gathered with tiny pearls— it was a fine, pure white, though not quite the aggressive gleam of Sharadansho silk, and it almost glowed against the grey of his skin and the shiny black of his hair. Unforgiving as it must be for him to be dressed so every day, and ridiculous as the pageantry of the emperors was, she could not really be sorry to see him esteemed enough for lovely clothes and fine jewels. It was all well-made, well tailored, well chosen— yes, a little too far, yes a little too much… and yet she found it hard to truly resent proof that someone, even if it was his edocharei alone, had cared enough to find something that would suit him. 

“Let me… Maia—” She gently tried to pry his head from her neck, and only partially succeeded. “Canst breathe?”

Maia half-laughed and finally put his head up, letting her cup his face. He smiled disbelievingly at her; it was sweet and guileless and exactly how she remembered, and she beamed back through her tears. The careful features of his childhood had nuanced into the narrow, finely-drawn face of a young man— and it was every mother's lot to think her son handsome, but his solemn, slightly feline face had turned noble and winsome, even if he looked a little careworn, and his nose was running. From a distance, he had seemed stately and imposing. Up close, his face still had a boyish softness to it at the cheeks, a few of his sundry earrings were crooked, and he had dislodged his carefully arranged hair when he had put his head against her shoulder— he was shedding hairpins like a porcupine. He looked so different, but far more familiar than she had hoped; he was still hers, and she still knew him. She laughed slightly pitchily, and pressed an unsteady hand to her mouth.

“Maia,” she said, again. “Maia. Oh, I know I should not call thee that…”

“Who can, an not thee?” said Maia. It startled her, how deep his voice had gotten, even wobbly and unstable as it was. “Thou shouldst. Thou gavest it to me.” He sniffed. “An thou tried to Serenity me I should pitch a fit.”

“Thou wert never one for fits,” said Chenelo. “Wilful disobedience and stubbornness, yes— ay, I was told what thou saidst to my father, thou damnable loyalty.”

“What?” said Maia. “Oh— asking why he did not answer thy letters?” His jaw jutted slightly, in the exact familiar stubbornness she had meant— it was enough to almost disarm Chenelo’s attempt to tell him off. “An he did not want to be confronted, he should not have invited himself to the Ethuveraz.”

“Maia, twas such a gamble,” she persisted. “And in front of his dav— I think he was impressed at the sheer gall thou hadst to blurt it out, but didst not have to confront him at all—”

“I did,” said Maia stoutly. Chenelo hesitated— perhaps he was right. Perhaps he really had needed to. Certainly he seemed to have done… something to her father’s point of view. “It was very abrupt, though, I know. And I did not think much of his answer, but…” He trailed off, and glanced around, bewildered. “Did Csevet throw everybody out?”

“We would term it dismissed, Serenity,” called Csevet from the next room. Regardless of what he termed it, his banishment of the rest of the emperor’s train had been a masterclass in ruthless efficiency; Chenelo realised in some surprise that he had silently cleared the room of everyone but himself and the nohecharei by the door, and he was tactfully staying away by stalking the rest of the suite, in a professional and slightly remorseless inspection. She could hear his shoe heels rattling on the tiles.

Maia huffed in amused disbelief— but his attention swung back to her almost instantly. “Mama, tell me what happened,” he begged, “Please, I know thou must have told it over and over, but I want to hear it from thee—”

He gathered her to her feet with disturbing ease, and Chenelo let out a slightly hysterical snort when she realised he was at least a head and a bit taller than her. He pushed her gently towards one of the settees, but he himself seemed determined to sit at her feet— Chenelo tried several times, but he stubbornly remained on the floor, with his arms propped on her knees, for her entire recounting of it. It had been his typical boyhood sitting-spot, but he was far too elevated in rank (and too tall) for it now. Very clearly he did not care. 

Chenelo did her best not to cry— again— in the telling of it, but recounting it to the solemn grey stare she remembered so well meant she came close a few times, and she felt sick with guilt and resentment by the end— faced with Maia himself, it was horribly easy to picture how miserable he must have been for over a decade.

Maia listened diligently and silently to her account, staring almost unblinkingly at her, reacting almost not at all. It was a non-judgemental attentiveness suited to an emperor— but to her it seemed he had not grown out of his childhood habit of intense scrutiny. When she had finished, he said quietly after a moment, ears flat and tense— “Wast most terribly disrespected.”

“As I told Mer Aisava,” Chenelo said, “My own treatment I have long come to terms with, with Ulis and in my isolation. Thy treatment, however—”

“Twas mostly boring and shabby, Mama,” said Maia softly.

He was not a natural liar; he usually shrank into forced nonchalance, and he had not learned to drop the slightly thin tone his untruths had. Chenelo said, warningly, “Maia.”

He shook his head, then after a moment, he said— “I lived in ignorance and indignity, and it made me callow and the victim of mockery when I took the throne. As emperor, I exist in a perpetual state of catch-up. That is the extent of my father’s cruelty— if one can call complete apathy cruelty.”

Chenelo stared unhappily at him, thinking of how the court had laughed at her in a similar manner— then, incongruously, Maia suddenly perked up.

“I brought thee presents.”

“Presents?” Chenelo thought about saying needst not give me anything, but Maia looked so proud of himself she couldn't possibly. And had she not been agonising over her insufficient jewellery and wardrobe? “Didst not already have enough to bring with thee?” 

“No, not truly—” Chenelo was sure she had seen the baggage train, and it had been staggering, but she would forgive him an attempt at flippancy. “We went to Barizheise merchants in Cetho, I did not think thou wouldst want elven clothes, I got thee shawls in the manner thou likest— I do not know where Merrem Esaran and Avris put most everything, but— er—”

A slightly bewildered how much didst thou buy? was halfway to Chenelo’s mouth, but Maia was scrabbling to his feet eagerly. He called, “Csevet, where did—” and he had barely turned around before Csevet materialised behind him, box in hand. “Oh! Thank you. Mama, here—”

He finally sat down next to her, rather than on the floor, and presented her with what was obviously a box for jewellery. Chenelo took it and opened it, and found a fine pair of Ilinverieise glass and pearl earrings, almost identical to the pair of hers she had given him for his eighth birthday.

“Oh! These were some of my favourites,” she said. She kissed his damp cheek. “Thank thee, sweet— it must have taken thee forever to find a pair like to them.”

He smiled— but then it buckled, and he looked suddenly nervous. “I— lost thine original pair—” He stopped abruptly, then revised the claim, in a voice wobbly with guilt; “Well, not… lost. They were… auctioned. For our upkeep at Edonomee, along with all of our other belongings of worth. For it was thought frivolous for us to keep luxuries when the cost could go to the household’s maintenance...” His mouth turned down at the corners and he looked unhappily at his clenched hands, where his lacquered nails were digging into his flesh. His voice cracked, a little; “I am sorry, Mama, I tried to keep them, they would not— let me—”

Chenelo did not question who they were— she reached out and pried his hands carefully apart, and smoothed the little indents he’d stabbed into his skin. 

“Don’t do that. It’s all right, sweetheart— oh, Maia, don’t look so, I can’t bear it when thou lookst so sad. It’s all right.”

The knowledge that Varenechibel had made Nelar and Maia auction off their valuables, rather than allocating enough money for their relegation, which was happening at his command, was a needle of resentment— but she told herself she would not focus on it now. Maia made a valiant effort at pinning his ears back, and seemed to wrestle himself from the verge of tears— but he still looked guilty, and with his eyes swollen and his face still damp, he did look horribly wretched. Chenelo said, “Oh, pet, lookst like the cloister cats left out in the rain.”

“The cats?” Maia said feebly. 

“I had to let them into the kitchens to dry off, and they looked so horribly forlorn. I used to feed all the stripling toms more because they reminded me of thee. Have that. Don’t drip snot, thy clothes look very expensive.” Maia managed a watery laugh and took her handkerchief. “Mightst be Ethuverazhid Zhas first and foremost, but thou’rt still my son.”

“I’d sooner be thy son than emperor,” Maia said stoutly.

“Don’t thou say that in front of anybody,” said Chenelo, but she squeezed his knee in acknowledgement. “Where is thy wife?”

“The Zhasan seemed rather happy commanding the chaos, last we saw,” said Csevet. 

“If that is how you want to phrase Csethiro went to go and have a good snoop,” said Maia. “Her excuse was that she was checking on her ladies and her sisters, but she will take the excuse to gawk.”

Chenelo got the surprising impression that Csethiro Zhasan had absented herself on purpose, and was guiltily grateful. She was not sure she could have coped with being presented with Maia and Maia’s wife at the same time.

“Has she brought family with her?”

“Two of her sisters, one in her train and one with the Doreshada,” said Maia. He blinked. “Actually—”

The clock behind them chimed after midnight, and Maia started in surprise. 

“Is’t so late?” said Chenelo. “I had not noticed— shouldst go to bed, thou hast been travelling all day—”

She tried to get up, but Maia clung to her slightly petulantly. “Maia—” She stopped. “I know. But I am not going very far. Tis a five minute walk to my rooms, if that. And— no, listen—” She got gently but firmly to her feet, put her hands on his shoulders to keep him in his seat, and said, “I will meet thee for lauds tomorrow. The coast-chapel. All right?”

Maia did not look entirely sure, but his grip had loosened reluctantly. 

“Is't really the sea?” he said, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Wilt be flooded. I will show thee.”

He brightened, a little. “I will walk thee back.”

The soldier-nohecharis coughed slightly. “Serenity. Unless you wish us to call for your edocharei, you do not look quite— presentable, to go wandering the halls.”

They both looked an utter mess, he was right. Maia frowned, but Chenelo retrieved one of his tashin sticks that was making an escape and said, “You do have a point, Lieutenant— Lieutenant Beshelar, no?”

He saluted acquiesce. “Zhas’maro.”

“And your partner is Cala Athmaza?”

The maza bowed— she smiled a little to see him looking as damp and red-eyed as his emperor. “We are he, Zhas’maro.”

“Thy maza is a soft touch, Maia,” Chenelo said amusedly. Cala did not look very abashed, and merely smiled and shrugged. “Gentlemen— we thank you.”

They bowed; they obviously knew what she meant. They were a classic pair, the starched soldier and the shabby dachenmaza, but they had a little gaucheness about them that Varenechibel’s had not had— a coltishness to Cala and a slightly strained dignity to Beshelar. They were visible and present in a way Varenechibel’s had not been, either. And she did not think she imagined the diligence with which they watched their emperor.

“Stay here, Maia,” said Chenelo firmly, “Go to bed. I will see thee in the morning.” She kissed the top of his head and removed another errant hairpin. “I promise.”

“All right,” said Maia reluctantly, but he insisted on at least seeing her to the door— Chenelo turned around and found the four of them crammed slightly unsophisticatedly in the doorway behind her; Csevet peering over Beshelar's shoulder and Cala lurking directly behind Maia, emphasising how coltish they both were. 

“Good night, boys,” she said, because frankly she could not help herself.

Csevet said a little primly, “Zhas'maro,” and the nohecharei saluted her with some limited success, considering Cala was wedged between his emperor and the open door.

“Good night, Mama,” said Maia softly, almost wonderingly. 

Chapter Text

“I am not interrupting thee?” 

Chenelo looked up from what had been a vague contemplation to find Maia standing over her, and almost jumped— still half-asleep and mostly in her own head, she had heard him wading up to her, but had been thinking of him again as an eight year old, not a man. 

“Oh— no.” Chenelo held her hand out to him, and he took it very carefully. Chenelo thought sadly that it was probably a lingering habit from when she had been so ill. “I was only sitting. An unusual sort of chapel, no?”

Maia crouched and dipped a hand into the water carefully, then touched his fingertip to his tongue, and Chenelo laughed at his scrunched expression. “...so it is.”

He came and sat beside her, and Chenelo peeked sideways at him, still slightly disbelieving that yesterday had happened. He— or whoever had dressed him— had the good sense to pick loose trousers and a fine, lightly embroidered white-on-white shirt, his feet bare— but it was very early, and Chenelo got the impression he was not officially up for the day. He was only wearing his oath-ring and his signet ring, for one thing, and his hair was still braided for sleep. It gave Chenelo a violent pang to see him looking boyish and sleep-rumpled, not impenetrably trussed up in jewellery and brocade as he had been last night. He looked familiar, and ordinary— she remembered the cluster of tiny birthmarks on the back of his neck, and that his braid had always slid to the right when he got up in the mornings. He had not been very good at doing it himself; she suspected it was done for him. She wondered how on earth he had convinced his edocharei that he could leave his chambers without so much as a set of earrings.

She gave him a kiss, finding he smelled of the same basil-like balm she’d noticed last night, and something a little sharper. Maia leant into her side and pressed his cheek into her shoulder; Chenelo put an arm about him, noticing he was holding the prayer-book she had sent to him with Csevet.

“Art still tired?” she said.

“A little,” said Maia softly. “But— more honestly, Mama, very few people are allowed to touch me, now.”

“...but I had not even thought of that.” It ashamed her that she hadn’t, and she took quick stock; only his edocharei and the Zhasan, surely. She put her other arm across him and kissed the top of his head again. “Then I shall have to be very fussy with thee to make up for’t, no?”

Maia smiled. “An I am not too old.”

“Thou’rt still my baby. Albeit a very tall one.” She winced slightly, considering. “Thou shouldst probably expect to be further patronised, as it happens. My sisters and my dav are more interested in the fact that thou’rt my son, not that thou’rt Ethuverazhid Zhas. ”

Maia’s face brightened a little. “I do not mind.”

“No,” said Chenelo, with a glance at the nohecharei by the door. “I imagine thou dost not.”

“Are all of them here? Thy sisters?”

“If Merrem Vizhenka came with thee, then, yes.”

Maia nodded. “Csethiro is utterly desperate to see Captain Sevraseched.”

Chenelo half-raised an eyebrow. “That is well, for she in return wants to show you all the Glorious Dragon, but I do not know if she will be allowed.”

“Csethiro would like that extremely,” said Maia. Before Chenelo could chase the matter of where on earth is your wife, and what sort of a woman is she, anyhow, he said eagerly, sitting up a little; “Is Shaleän really a pirate? Everyone’s very circuitous on the matter.” 

“She is,” said Chenelo, amused. “But good society claims she is a privateer. I’m sure she’ll be happy to tell thee all about it. She is not… overmuch concerned with what is or is not appropriate to say to a ruler.” 

“Oh,” said Maia grumpily. “I care not for that.”

“Evidently.”

Maia said, a trifle primly, “Mama, I already said I was not sorry for what I said to thy father, canst not make me be.”

They prayed the all-gods, since they supposed Chenelo had spent enough time with Ulis for the present moment. Maia, with an obvious tinge of childish pride for remembering it, had used the prayer-book, but resisted Chenelo’s attempts to take it from him so that she could finish the embroidery in time for his birthday.

“It is half-finished,” Chenelo insisted, over his protests that it was perfectly nice and that he didn’t mind. His grip on it was proving hard to break, until she suddenly remembered the Noranamaro token— and, reminded of attempting to negotiate with him as a very obtuse toddler, said; “Then I’ll swap thee, here—” 

Maia at last let go, and took the little silvery cat eagerly. He cradled it carefully in his palm, and said, “Noranamareise?”

“The same. It looks like thy sigil, so I thought.”

“It does. Thank thee, Mama.” It felt like paltry recompense for the excessive cases of finery she’d found her ladies going through when she’d returned last night, but he was smiling as he turned it over and over, swishing a foot idly through the water. She recognised the expression; pleased to be thought of, pleased to be noticed and remembered. “We have much to thank Luck’s Lady for.”

“We do indeed.”

He sat quietly while she made offerings to Ashevezhkho as her patroness; he was not quite meditating, but he seemed to be in contemplation, at least, sitting with his eyes closed and his hands on his knees, ears unguarded. Chenelo put her candles away and sat on the altar steps with her feet and shins in the water to watch him. She had only noticed it now it was absent, but there had been a tension about his face last night; squeezed hard around his eyes and his cheeks. Nerves, or strain, or both. It relieved her beyond words that he still seemed to be capable of finding some kind of peace in observance. At least he could have found comfort somewhere— for she doubted it would have been in excess at the Untheilneise Court.

“Dost have an othasameire?” she asked when he looked up.

“Now, yes,” said Maia. “And a chaplain. But for the first year, I admit, I was not able to observe… often.”

He came and sat next to her, and splayed his legs out a little childishly, and told her about the Vigil Chapel under the Untheileneise Court, the stark little room where the emperor was sent from sunrise to sundown on the day of his coronation.

“All day?” said Chenelo. “It cannot have been very pleasant.”

“It was not so bad,” said Maia. “It was—” His eyes slid to the nohecharei by the door— a different pair than last night, which meant that the maza was surely Kiru Athmaza, but Chenelo was too far away and too near-sighted these days to be able to tell for sure. He continued doggedly; “The only time since the Wisdom of Choharo came down that I have been totally alone. And will remain the only time.”

“Oh,” said Chenelo, dismayed. “Yes.” The idea that he was guarded constantly should perhaps have been comforting, but instead it made her feel hollow and uneasy. She scraped her feet uneasily on the salt-crust on the steps.

“I imagine not every emperor that has ever sat the throne finds it useful,” said Maia. “It must have terrified the boy-emperors. But it gave me time to calm down, for I had several fits of hysterics— and time to meditate.”

He peered a little expectantly at her; Chenelo said, because she thought he wanted to hear it acknowledged, “As I taught thee?”

Maia beamed. “As thou taught me.”

She explained the punishing social schedule that had been laid out for them over the next few weeks as they made ready to return to the public halls; still quiet enough for them not to be seen wandering around soggy and half dressed. Maia looked duly resigned.

“It does not sound so different to the opposing state visit… though I have heard the Barizheise opera is very different.”

“Ay, I’ve been told thou likest the Ethuverazhin opera well enough,” said Chenelo, in a tone she was not sure she quite pitched correctly. Maia stared at her for a bewildered second, ears pinned— Chenelo got a half-glance of the shocked face of Lieutenant Telimezh and the amused eyebrow raise of Kiru Athmaza, before Maia laughed in pitchy, startled panic, and covered his mouth. He said, between his fingers; 

“Merciful goddesses, Mama, who told thee about that—”

“Ursu— but only so Shaleän would not do it first,” said Chenelo, noting the lack of denial. “What of’t?”

Maia had not often been in trouble with her as a child, and did not look as if he liked it any better now. “Well—” He sighed, and dropped his arm. “There was nothing,” he said ruefully, “And ‘tis best there was not— but I wanted to. I was very lonely, and she was kind to me.” 

Chenelo gazed at him, surprised he’d admitted that much. Maia added, petulantly;

“I am not like grandfather in that respect.”

Chenelo snorted ruefully and dropped her head. “No. I know. I am sorry, darling. T’would be thy business all the same, but I only thought—”

“That I was being used?” 

Chenelo winced. “Maybe.”

“Yes— Csethiro thought the same, and took it upon herself to tell me so...”

“I imagine that went well,” said Chenelo, slightly shocked that Csethiro Ceredin had dared.

“Not very,” Maia said drolly. “But I was— I was just allowing it. Her primary object was to introduce me to her sister and her brother-in-law, who worked in the Clocksmith’s Guild, so that they could propose—”

“The bridge,” said Chenelo, realising. “So twas partially true?”

Maia shrugged unhappily. “In a fashion. It was the only way she could see of getting the Clocksmiths heard. And she did come to apologise.” He added, in an attempt at levity, “And she really was very talented.” 

Chenelo looked at him for a moment, then said; “I saw’t, when we sailed from Ashedro.”

Maia lit up instantly. “Didst thou? Didst like it? We went to see it opened, it was fantastic, Beshelar was in conniptions all day because he thought it was going to explode, but Kiru and Cala told him it wouldn’t—“

“Technically, Serenity, we told Lieutenant Beshelar it was unlikely to explode, which was not quite the same thing,” said Kiru Athmaza, amused. She was a stout, short middle aged woman some years older than Chenelo; Chenelo looked at her, and she winked conspiratorially behind her emperor’s back. Lieutenant Telimezh, probably a little younger than Beshelar, bowed solemnly and risked a half-smile when her eyes skipped to him.

“Oh, yes, well— it didn’t. So we're planning more, up and down the river, now we know it's possible…”

“I have never seen anything like it,” said Chenelo. 

Maia nodded happily. “Csethiro said it was terrifying, but that’s usually a compliment when it comes from—”

“Maia, where is this supposed wife of thine?” cut in Chenelo, a tad impatiently.

Maia blinked. “She went to the drilling field, I think she said.”

“The drilling field?” said Chenelo, perplexed. “What was she wanting to do in the drilling field?”

Maia smiled, slowly. “Well…” 

The drilling field was a slight misnomer; it might have been a field at some point, many years ago, but now it was a great colonnaded courtyard out to the east of the palace, where the Hezhethora trained. It was deserted at this hour— the soldiers all being at the Anmur’theilean— which may well have been the point, for the south quarter was occupied only by an elven noblewoman and two Untheileneise guardsmen at the entrance. 

The guardsmen saw Chenelo as she came up the steps, and stood to attention, but they did not seem to recognise her. But they were young men, and how could they? 

A little pleased to be anonymous, Chenelo stopped by a pillar painted with the Corat’ Arhos, and looked across to where their mistress stood— drilling with a Ethuverazhin cavalier’s blade, wearing a formal duelling jerkin and a shirt that was too long for her underneath it. It had been hastily rolled up to expose sturdy white forearms, but Chenelo could see the white-work on the neckline that marked it as imperial. From a distance, the only particularly exceptional thing about her was her pursuit; she was of average height and unexceptional build, broader in the shoulder than the hip, and as yet unadorned with any jewellery to speak of, the fine white sheet of her hair scraped into twin plaits. 

It wasn’t fair to sneak up on her, but Chenelo was familiar with the pitfalls of interrupting swordsmen mid-drill. She went along the portico and waited until she had stopped for a moment, then said, not particularly loudly; “Good morrow, Csethiro Zhasan.”

The turn she made was sharp and soldierly; the expression was not. Maia’s wife seemed startled for a second— then dropped into a beautiful curtsey with a crisp precision, sword held at her breast.

“Zhas’maro, good morning. It seems you have the advantage of us. Forgive us for the… state in which you find us.” Her voice was surprisingly deep; the sort of voice Chenelo’s father called a commander’s tone. If she shouted, it would probably carry very far indeed. But at the minute, it was a little thin with what Chenelo thought was either irritation or embarrassment.

“Think nothing of it,” said Chenelo hastily, wondering if she had made a mistake. “We are— sorry for sneaking up on you.”

“Well, it does not befit us to be devoid of vigilance.” Csethiro straightened up, returning the sword to its sheath in a sharp, slightly sudden gesture, and considered her mother-in-law with a peculiar clarity of stare— lucid and absolute, if a little distant. She had the same unremarkable pointed face of most well-bred elven girls, complete with the pallid complexion, although hers was currently interrupted by the mottled flush of exertion. 

They stared at one another for a minute; Chenelo did not know what to say to her, and Csethiro’s face was stern and remote in neutrality; whatever she was thinking, it was well-hidden, not so much as a hint of tension in the carriage of her ears or the set of her face. Chenelo had never seen such intense blue eyes on an elf, and it made her a little nervous to be pinned so unwaveringly by them. Csethiro seemed an excellent fit for an elvish Zhasan, with her unexpressive face and ramrod posture, and no doubt had much better composure than the teenaged Chenelo had ever had, struggling along in Varenechibel’s wake. Unusual hobby besides, she seemed not markedly different to any other elvish noblewoman Chenelo had ever seen.

Chenelo clasped her hands uneasily behind her, then in front of her, not sure what to do with them. Csethiro’s gaze followed the motion; she tilted her head a little.

“He sent you,” she said, almost to herself. Then she looked back up; “Damn the man. How inglorious. We suppose he did it on purpose?”

“Our son… did ask us to retrieve you,” Chenelo said, half-apologetically, a little bewildered by her abrupt change in manner.

“Yes, for he had worked out we were avoiding you.” Csethiro stared at her for a second longer, then said, quite abruptly, “For our own embarrassment’s sake, you understand, nothing to your discredit. We… suppose we should admit to you that this is not the first time we have met.”

Chenelo blinked. “At court?” Even if Csethiro had been at court when she had been there— which was unlikely, considering most noble children were raised at country estates— she would have been a toddler at the oldest. 

“No, no. It was, the, er...” She waved a slightly awkward hand. “...amateur espionage that we referred to.”

She seemed to draw herself up for a confession— but it was unnecessary, because Chenelo had recognised the gloves she was wearing. Dark soft leather which had been embroidered, and she knew the work.

“It was you,” she said. “At the convent.”

Csethiro went pinker around the cheeks and ears; what Chenelo had initially chalked up to mere exhaustion appeared to actually be coupled with embarrassment. “Yes, it was us. We are very sorry for the… ham-handed methodology. The leaving doors open, and talking conspicuously, and trying to bait your interest. We were getting towards the end of the circuit, and we were sure it was you, but we did not know how to make certain, so we took to making wild swipes. But we are sure it was terribly—” She stopped. “You look surprised, Zhas’maro.”

“Only that… well, forgive us the disbelief, but our son sent his new wife on an espionage mission?”

“Actually, Maia tried quite hard to stop us, because he thought it would be both risky and tiresome.” Chenelo had never heard of an imperial wife calling her husband by his given name in conversation, and filed that away. “We… volunteered. More to the point, we said we were going, and trampled over all the arguments to the contrary.”

“...why?” said Chenelo. It seemed the only pertinent question. 

Csethiro seemed to have thawed, slightly; the remoteness had buckled, and though she did not smile, exactly, she now had a quickness, a keenness about her. “But who else could? It had to be a noblewoman with a good excuse to be ferreting around in the Thu-Tetar convents, and no one else has recently married a Barizheise mystic. And it had to be a woman who had even the slightest chance of identifying you as the Emperor's mother.” She looked at Chenelo’s hands again. “Did you teach him to clasp his hands like that? You both do it.”

“Not— on purpose, but we suppose he must have copied it. Apparently it is more telling than we thought.”

“Ah. Yes.” Csethiro looked away for a moment, then back— she tried to smile, but it was distinctly uncertain, and her ears were flattening. She fidgeted uncertainly with the hilt of her sword; a sturdy epée, antique, with mother-of-pearl set in the pommel and grip, and a lapis-edged scabbard. Chenelo had spent enough time around Barizheise fighting men to recognise an old, mighty weapon when she saw one; someone had once treasured it extremely. 

“That is a fine blade.”

Csethiro looked down as if she’d forgotten she was holding it. “It was a wedding present from your son, actually. The Verenada were auctioning their historical weapons, and Maia and Mer Aisava bid over everyone’s heads for it. Several people were most displeased to be outbid by the emperor, but there was nothing to be done for it.” She held it out to her; Chenelo took it and half-unsheathed it, to read the inscription, which was in the archaic Barzhad.

“Dachensol Merinar made this blade for Dach’avazar Cazhevar in the name of Anmura,” she read. “Historical indeed. That is a very archaic cavalier’s title, no?”

Finally, Csethiro managed a real smile; it made her look her age, and softened her severe elven face. “It is. Cazhevar was only so-so as a cavalier, but it is not him who is of interest, it is that the sword was kept for years and years by his daughters and their descendants, and… well.” She seemed to stop herself with some effort, and added, “You have handled blades before, we think?” 

Chenelo resheathed it carefully. “It would be hard to have been raised here and not have done so,” she said, returning it. “Every man here wears a sword, except the Great Avar, the implication being he does not need one.” 

“Lieutenant Beshelar is going to have fits,” murmured Csethiro.

“For his sake we hope no one decides to try and draw them,” Chenelo conceded. “But while Barizheisoi are certainly not trained as soldiers, our father did not entirely leave his daughters devoid of martial knowledge. Our military and folk tradition is full of wives taking up their husband’s swords at the crucial moment, or daughters plugging advancing generals full of arrows.” Csethiro looked, she thought, a little wistful. “We were not formally trained as a swordswoman, but we know where to stick a blade when it matters. We were taught needlework and languages and textiles and music, like any noble girls— we were just also taught to shoot, rig snares, butcher animals, ride astride and bareback, swim, and drive chariots. But they were not skills that were particularly… valued, in the Ethuveraz. Or needed.” 

Csethiro sighed. “We know’t. Would that they were.”

“Perhaps they may be yet. It seems nothing is as it was when we went into isolation— but we cannot help but think it is better that way.”

“Certainly there are high winds of change coming upon the north,” said Csethiro lightly. She looked thoughtful. “Forgive us for the impertinent observation, but you seem very calm, for a woman who has suffered so many violent upendings of circumstance as of late.”

“We do not know what else to do,” admitted Chenelo. “So we are simply… weathering it.”

“Hm! An inherited approach, then. Maia simply plods, like a beast of burden...” 

“Was that really how you identified us?” Chenelo said a little doubtfully, looking at her hands. “Inherited habits?”

“We are a swordswoman,” said Csethiro. “We have to watch how people move if we wish to survive bouts. You make the same gestures and have the same nervous tells. The hand-wringing and so on. You both tilt your head down a little when you are trying to look at something. And when you do not know what to do, you both stand like this.” She made a terribly eerie impression of Maia’s slightly duck-footed stance when he was caught off-guard. 

“Anmura,” said Chenelo, trying to subtly shift her feet. “You have made quite a profound study.” She considered this sharp, spirited girl she was to call daughter, then gave up entirely on the formal; “I thank thee for thy pains, Csethiro Zhasan. And thou wert a very good student.”

Csethiro dropped her an ironic curtsey. “Zhas’maro, I was not, but I will accept false praise with enthusiasm.”

“Who were thy attending women?” said Chenelo as they started back towards the gate.

“Oh— my eldest sisters. I borrowed Emiro, lately Dach'osmerrem Emiro Doresharan, from her husband who is too afraid of me to say no, and Hesiriän is one of my maids of honour. Maia's guards were entirely sick of us by the end.”

“I behaved equally badly with my sisters on the way here,” admitted Chenelo.

“Ah, upon the legendary Glorious Dragon!” said Csethiro. “Maia was very paranoid about that, but I think it sounded magnificent. Is she here? Thy sister?”

“Oh, yes, all of them are— although I think my father’s ministers would have it otherwise, lest Shaleän say something that might offend the emperor.”

Csethiro snorted. “Offended? Maia?”

“Tis an incongruity, I know…” 

The ensuing rotation of dinners, dances, promenades, events, and performances was, to the credit of Selthevis, Csevet, and the rest of the combined davs, perfectly organised… but it was relentless. Chenelo staggered back to her rooms every day exhausted, and Maia never looked much better, probing at his temples or his jaw or the bridge of his nose as they left the room. She had begun to get some understanding of his dav, albeit slowly, since Zhas and Zhasan were orbited by a vast variety of attendants; Csevet, of course, and Amaru, who had rejoined the imperial party as a runner between them and the Great Avar’s dav. There were Nemer, Avris, and Esha, Maia’s edocharei, three sweet but slightly fussy young men with a habit of squabbling about their emperor like geese. Nemer and Esha were part-goblin, and it pleased Chenelo to think that someone knew how to deal with his hair— then it embarrassed her that she had had such a coddling thought, but she had had it nonetheless. There were the nohecharei; Beshelar stiff and a little awkward, but rabidly defensive of Maia’s time, honour, and wellbeing; Telimezh overly careful and slightly eager to please, but conscientious and mild; Kiru easygoing and sensible, frequently amused by the gaggle of young men she was surrounded by; and Cala only ever seemed cheery and absentminded, but Chenelo remembered constantly that he had been the one to kill Dach’osmer Tethimar. 

Csethiro had the same two of her sisters with her; Dach’osmerrem Emiro Doresharan, a great character, and Hesiriän Ceredin, a shrinking violet— but both were friendly, and a little abashed by their roles in the nunnery investigation. Emiro was not usually in Csethiro’s train (too busy running around Thu-Athamar with Dach’osmer Doreshar, so Csethiro said) but could not resist the temptation of finding out what Barizhan was like. Hesiriän, however, had gone to the Alcethmeret with her sister and Csethiro’s other women— all noble girls, academics or sportswomen or both, and all diabolically competent. She did not have edocharei; it was presumed, if not outright expected, that the Zhasan had an interest in clothes, and between herself and her women she decided upon her own manner of dress. Chenelo, bewildered by Ethuverazhin fashions and unwilling to learn, had subjected herself to the dictation of her women, but Csethiro seemed more involved, albeit out of necessity; and she must have been conferring with the edocharei, for she was was constantly made to match Maia. In full-amber jewellery so lush it looked like honey, in chips of diamonds that gleamed like ice, in pearls and moonstones and opals… and always in a surfeit of white lace and silk, although she seemed to wear bone or pearl white, rather than the true snow white Maia was put in, perhaps so it would not wash her out. Her jewellery always looked as antique as her epée had been. Perhaps she’d been ferreting around in the Zhasan’mura, the empress’s jewels which Chenelo had never been invited to partake in. There were many traditions of the Zhasan’s which Chenelo had not been invited to partake in.

Chenelo was not sure how to parse her relationship with Maia. They were informal and friendly with one another, and Csethiro was fond of lightly teasing him, but she seemed a little exaggeratedly mindful of him in a way Chenelo did not quite understand; she could not tell if it was the Zhasan’s constant awareness of her duty to the Zhas, or if it was the paranoia of knowing one’s husband had had attempts on his life before. For his part, Maia liked to talk about her, and to her, and Chenelo thought he was almost abashed of how grateful he was to have at least one equal; on occasion he was almost clingy, before he remembered himself and looked embarrassed. Still, if Csethiro minded, there was no implication of it. Zhasan was not actually obliged to go everywhere with Zhas— Chenelo remembered that well enough— but more often than not one would see Csethiro marching gamely along on his arm, apparently disinterested in being left behind. 

Chenelo had presumed that the petty society war would now be waged between elven court and goblin court, as there were no more fights to be had in the Maru’var’s dav, with everyone alive and everyone back in court.

This was quickly proven a fancy.

Their final half-sister, Nadeian Vizhenka, had travelled back to the Corat’ Dav Arhos with the Ethuverazhin party, having been at Maia’s court since last Winternight. They met her at one of the first soirees once Maia arrived, when the Maru’var was marshalling all his sundry daughters to present them formally. Holitho had been thrilled to see her— Chenelo supposed they were the closest in age, although they did not much resemble one another superficially. Nadeian was immensely tall and ample-framed in a way Holitho wasn’t, with pale yellow eyes and a slightly arch turn to her mouth— although they had a distinct similarity in their brows and chins. 

Nadeian wore an Ethuverazhin court gown in a wine-dark mulberry, and an amiable manner when she kissed her father— and when she turned to Chenelo, even though etiquette technically dictated Thever was noted first. She smiled, curtsied and said, “Well, sister, now you have the set.”

“We do, and we are glad of’t,” Chenelo had said, her childhood danger instincts warning her that, down the line, Thever was about to explode. “And… we think we must thank you for keeping an eye on our son.”

“Oh, he is easy work,” said Nadeian, as if she was talking about looking after a mellow-tempered dog. “A dinner here, a note there, he’s happy as a clam. Pleased to be remembered. It’s Elret who has to do all the ugly work of making sure no one tries to kill him.”

At the base of the dais where he was making his obeisances to the Maru’var, Elret Vizhenka overheard, shot her a slightly wry look, and saluted. Chenelo smiled. “Then we thank you too, Captain.” 

He was a tall man— though not quite as tall as his wife— with a soldier’s topknot and a scratching of swordplay scars across his long nose. He said, “We could do no less, Avar’min, and we are pleased to do it.” 

“Ah, the lesser-sisters!” Shaleän had cut in, leaning down the line— apparently impervious to the  nearest courtiers staring in scandalised silence at her. “Flighty as ever, Nadeian. How do you like the enemy camp, my girl?”

“Very well, thou old sea-witch. My nephew and the ambassador give me the respect I am truly due,” said Nadeian, grinning. “I am treated with great aplomb.”

“By the elves?” said Ursu doubtfully.

“By the elves, Dakenmaro!”

Ursu chuckled, but her eyes were moving very quickly between Thever and Nadeian, and she did not appear to like what she was seeing.

There was, forthwith, a slightly tense pause. 

Without turning around, the Maru’var said, in tones of great warning; “Girls.”

Reluctantly, Nadeian and Thever turned and kissed one another— that was to say, they pressed cheeks and glowered over one another’s shoulders for a moment. The other three watched intently; Shaleän was smirking. Holitho and Ursu were not.

“We see thy stint with the elves has made thee forgetful of thy home court customs, sister,” said Thever, in the exact knife-edge tone which had used to make Chenelo try and crawl under the nearest piece of furniture. “But tis no matter, tis forgivable for the sake of our—” the singular our— “sister.”

“We are pleased that the lady of the Corat’ Dav Arhos remains benevolent,” said Nadeian coolly. “Even in her increasing middle age.”

Thever glowered. Nadeian said, “Sister, forgive us, we will find our place. We know we take lesser precedence.” She stepped past Thever and went to stand with Holitho— though not before she whispered to Chenelo: “She is your full sister and your childhood companion; we cannot fault you if you wish to choose her side.”

“Side?” Chenelo said. “What—”

But it was too late for her to probe that, because the great commotion at the east entrance was heralding the appearance of Maia and Csethiro. Thever, as the eldest legitimate daughter and hence the lady of the court, had smoothed the stole she’d made for Csethiro, shot her sisters a generally evil look, and minced off down the steps to follow her father.

“She’s such a tyrant,” said Shaleän admiringly.

The Maru’var, apparently getting to a point where he was too old to care about court procedure, presented them to their nephew in age order, rather than in order of legitimacy.

“He must think he’ll be dead before the consequences catch up with him, but what are we meant to do?” murmured Holitho.

“Plant our banners behind Shaleän and pray?” Chenelo said softly.

“Oh, didst thou hear about that?”

“Shaleän, our eldest—” Shaleän created general murmured consternation from the watching courtiers by bowing to the emperor, winking at the empress, and generally being present and visible, but Csethiro looked so childishly thrilled that Chenelo couldn’t be too worried about it. 

“Thever, thy mother’s full sister and lady of the court—”

Thever was now in an acid temper, so apparently could not resist clarifying, and rather loudly, at that; “We are the eldest legitimate daughter, Serenity, but we lose points by virtue of also being mad, you see.”

Maia looked slightly bewildered; the Maru’var threw Thever a look of warning, but she ignored it, bestowing upon a pleased Csethiro the stole she and Chenelo had made. But then Maia said something to her, and she brightened; he seemed to indicate something, put his hand to his head, and she beamed, surprised and pleased.

Well done, Maia, Chenelo thought with craven gratitude— and when Thever made her second curtsey to retreat, it was much less brusque.

“Ursu, Merrem Perenched— she is the mother of thy cousins, and brace thyself, boy, for the girls have three temperaments apiece to thy one—”

“We will not enforce them upon you unless you really wish’t, Serenity,” said Ursu half-ironically, but Maia smiled. 

“We would like very much to meet our cousins, an they desire’t.”

“Serenity,” said Ursu, with an elegant retreat and a wink, albeit more subtle than Shaleän’s. “We assure you, they have never been more curious in their lives.”

It was not as if Chenelo and Nadeian needed any presenting to the emperor, so the Maru’var glanced around for Holitho, and said, “Holitho, presumably being a holy woman does not forbid thee from making obeisances to the elf-emperor?” 

Holitho murmured in Barizhin, “Might have checked that beforehand, Father—” but she managed, in slightly stilted Ethuverazhin, “Not at all. Serenity, Zhasan—”

Her curtsey was good; her Ethuverazhin was not, and she seemed to focus extremely hard on what Maia said to her— when she returned to Chenelo’s side, Chenelo said, “I thought Father paid for all his daughter’s education?”

“He did,” said Holitho. “Whether or not I paid attention to the Ethuverazhin lessons is a different matter…”

Chenelo found out almost nothing more on Thever and Nadeian in the following week. Holitho and Ursu seemed reluctant to pass judgement, and Shaleän just snorted and said she’d been told not to share her opinion of it. Nadeian could not be convinced to speak more, and Thever’s presence at events was patchy depending on how she was feeling— and when she was up to them, Chenelo did not feel like aggravating her by asking. Her one tentative question was met with an immense scoff, and a;

“Chenelo, tis not thy matter. Women who were dead when it started needst not worry themselves about it. Needst not take a side. Tis ridiculous to even suggest thou wouldst… presumptuous girl, why would she say such a thing?”

After which Chenelo had thought it best to give up on her sisters. She even tried to ask her father, at an evening soiree, but he was evasive;

“I had hoped,” the Maru'var said thinly. “That their time apart might have improved their dispositions towards one another. Apparently that was optimistic of me.”

“But what is it about?”

The Maru’var had shrugged his massive shoulders. “They have their differences. Women’s matters are not my concern.”

“Women’s matters, Father, have always been thy concern,” Chenelo said tartly. 

The Maru’var seemed to concede to that. “These particular women’s matters, then, evade me…” He looked over her shoulder. “But, ah, speaking of women’s matters, go and save thy son from the Pel-Murniar sisters. They’ll strip his flesh off his bones, and there’s almost nothing of him to be starting with.”

“Who?” said Chenelo, but her father had shunted her in the direction of them before she could truly protest. 

The first woman to notice her approach was short, in her late middle-age, with a fine face and a taste for elaborate sleeve embellishments. 

“Ah, Avar’min Chenelo! Just the woman we were after!” She thrust out a hand— “Iliru Pel-Murniar, our pleasure. We sent a card to you when you arrived back at court, but we think it must have been lost in all the chaos.”

Chenelo took the hand a little guiltily, suddenly remembering the calling-cards she had ignored. “Oh. We are not sure we recall… we are sorry, you must forgive us. We have been very— busy.”

“Oh, we are sure,” said Iliru, with an expressive scrunch of the face that made Chenelo smile despite herself. “Being resurrected— an awful lot of paperwork, no? No fear, it will take more than that for you to offend us, we are quite— how now, sister?”

She was abruptly hip-checked out of the way by her sister— a little taller, perhaps a little older, with a great beehive of hair. “Verian Pel-Murniar, Avar’min, don’t let our damn’d sister monopolise all of your attention!”

Visible between them, Maia stared beseechingly at her for help; next to him, Ambassador Vorzhis Gormened, a youngish goblin man with a sword scar across his face, looked rather pained. Chenelo got the impression they had been cornered and Gormened had been forced to translate for the emperor.

Before Chenelo could muster up a reply, Verian said, “Now now, indulge us, stand here—” Chenelo was grabbed and physically hustled next to Maia, which seemed to make Beshelar and Cala bristle slightly on her behalf. “Ah! Yes, the two of you do have a very great resemblance, really very excellent— how nice!”

They nodded like twin bobbleheads; Gormened, apparently considering that Chenelo’s appearance meant a shift change, chose that moment to make his escape. Chenelo cursed him mentally until she heard the suppressed click in the back of Maia’s throat that suggested he was teetering on the edge of laughing, and decided not to look at him in case she set him off. 

“Our daughter, Nadeian, looks much more like her father than us, which we always felt wounded our pride as a mother,” said Verian. She feigned surprise, suddenly— “Oh— you do know that we are Nadeian’s mother, we suppose?”

Chenelo, who had not known that, suddenly understood why they had cornered her— and why her father had dispatched her in the first place. “We— confess we had no idea. We never had the pleasure of meeting Nadeian until this week, of course, but she seems an excellent woman that we should be pleased to call sister.”

Looking at Verian, of course she was; she had the same pale yellow eyes and the set of the nose and ears, but Chenelo had not been searching for mothers of illegitimate daughters. More fool her.

“She has not had her proper dues paid to her at this court,” said Verian, shaking her head sadly. “The youngest daughter of the Maru’var, and yet, forces conspire against her. Forces that should know better…” (Thever, thought Chenelo grimly) “Of course, that will have all bypassed you— but we are so pleased to see her honoured at your son’s court, instead. It is a shame that our niece, Iliru’s daughter Holitho, never had the incentive to travel north…”

“Hmph!” said Iliru, by way of reply— but they both looked expectantly at Chenelo, presumably for her to translate for her son, who was standing there looking a little lost. 

Chenelo made a physical effort to keep her jaw shut and her ears neutral. Our niece— well, this was a new outrage, even for her father. Had he courted them at the same time? No wonder Nadeian and Holitho were close. They were presumably united in every embarrassment that came with that.

“The sisters Verian and Iliru Pel-Murniar, Maia,” said Chenelo, trying to pin her nearby father's gaze and not accomplishing it. “Are the mothers of your youngest aunts. Verian is Nadeian’s mother. Iliru is Holitho’s.”

Maia visibly made the connection on that, hastily smoothed his expression over, smiled, and said, “We are pleased,” one of those simple but inane Ethuverazhin niceties. “It has been— a great comfort to have some of our mother’s family with us in the Ethuveraz,” he added, which pleased Verian exaggeratedly when Chenelo translated it, and she told him so at some length. 

It took them an agonisingly long while to escape, only eventually getting away when Ursu came and extracted them forcibly, her daughters trailing her like anxious ducklings. There was something suspiciously fluffy, tabby-coloured, and alive tucked in Laru’s arms. 

“Ah,” said Chenelo. “Is this…?”

Big Cat was held up for her inspection; a great old tabby cat with a ripped ear and intermittently missing claws. He dangled pliantly, and meowed. 

“He’s very nice,” said Chenelo, wondering how Ursu’s daughters had wrangled a giant stray tomcat into such placidity. “Wilt show him to thy cousin, then?”

“My Ethuverazhin is not good, auntie…” said Elthevo reluctantly.

“I can translate for thee if thou wishst, but I am sure it is good enough.”  

Elthevo looked very much as if she wanted to be struck shy, but, with her sister pressed against her side absolutely mute with terror, and her mother looking expectantly at her, she screwed up her courage, and made a good curtsey to her imperial cousin, her sister copying her slightly fumblingly. Her Ethuverazhin was better than she had given herself credit for, if rather schoolroom; but Maia stood patiently through it, smiling encouragingly, and seemed to pitch his response to the correct level— Elthevo looked deeply relieved when she understood.

Then Maia seemed to decide something, and said in hesitant and stilted, but perfectly accented, Barizhin; “And who is this?”— and had both the sense and tact to gesture to Big Cat.

“Thou damn liar!” Ursu said softly as Laru burst into a great big explanation of all things Big Cat and bundled him into Maia’s arms, Elthevo desperately trying to translate. “Chenelo, thou saidst he doesn’t speak Barizhin.”

“He doesn’t,” said Chenelo, bemused. “He must be stringing together words from hymns and picture-books, or has been getting someone to teach him. I never spoke it with him.”

“His accent is flawless.”

Chenelo sighed. “That I might claim credit for. Convincing him to adopt the court accent when he was small was a fight. I could hardly raise one of Varenechibel’s sons to speak Ethuverazhin with a Barizhin accent, but his hard head… I never spent enough time in the court to lose my accent, and he wanted to sound like me. He would not be told he could not. I begged him to slur his Z sounds and harden his Cs— and he simply would not do it. He was still pronouncing certain words with a Barizhin accent even when I— died. I had thought he had aged out of it.”

“Seems more like it was trained out of him,” said Ursu, as the grandchildren of the Great Avar managed to fumble along in a bizarre combination of Barizhin and Ethuverazhin words in the background.

“More possibly,” said Chenelo, wondering again about the household at Edonomee. Then she said; “Oh, Ursu, I met Verian and Iliru. Tell me he was not seeing them at the same time. It’s too dreadful.”

Ursu sighed. “Doesn’t it make one despair? No wonder Holitho ran away and became a votary. Unfortunately, I think there was either very little or no time between the affairs. Verian and Iliru have competed all their lives. This was their ultimate competition— would that they had some other occupation to concern themselves with, but thou knowst how boring life is here for noblewomen whose fathers give them little liberty. But he never would marry either of them. They are not without their attributes, but thou rememberest; no wife will I but Kalmiro.”

Nearby, Maia was saying, quite obviously taken with the immense tomcat, “I do not know why we do not have a cat, it does seem as if we should…”

“I never knew if he would really stick to that,” said Chenelo. “He liked my mother, but tis hardly as if he was loyal to her in her lifetime.”

“No,” said Ursu. “But certainly he meant it.”

To Chenelo’s relief, Maia did seem to enjoy himself amongst the chaos; he liked being shown the suncats on the coast especially, was fascinated by the craftsmen in the market, and they went once, with a surfeit of pre-planning and paranoid guard schedules, to a zhoän near Orshan’s Point. It had always been frequented by the royal family— Chenelo had a scar on her head from running into a windowsill there as a child— but it still treated its customers, royal or no, with vaguely amused disinterest. 

“See darling, this is a real zhoän,” Shaleän said to Zeveran, watching one of the serving-boys playing an aggressive game of pakh’palar outside, instead of getting their pitcher of rice-wine. “Some of the damn tourist zhoäns down the hill have lately taken to faking rivalries and even staging fights, thou knowst? Call me a traditionalist, but real zhoäns should be subtle about it. Poaching staff, stealing recipes, intercepting shipments… and the slow service because they’re too busy doing all of that.”

Zhoäns almost always developed intense rivalries with their neighbours, a historical hangover from their first incarnations as rival camps’ military messes during the Barizheise civil wars. The rivalries of the zhoäns did not end when the wars did, and their history buckled into a simple culture of enthusiastically despising the nearest establishment. They spent more time trying to sabotage their rivals than actually serving their patrons. Everyone hoped for a full-on street fight, though it was rare to get one. 

“And the get what food thou’rt given, when thou’rt given it, mentality,” said Zeveran. “Thou pirate, shouldst run one of these thyself. Wouldst be thine ideal.”

“Now there’s an idea! Maybe we should retire…”

By all appearances, Maia and Csethiro had fun; Chenelo wondered when Maia had last been to a real restaurant. Or indeed if he ever had. Csevet checked his watch compulsively and looked on the edge of an apoplexy all night, despite Amaru’s best attempts to soothe his malcontent. The cheerful lack of urgency in every Barizheise zhoän was not conducive to the effective running of an imperial household, and Chenelo tried her honest best not to be amused at his agony.

They went another night to the opera; an odd choice, Chenelo thought, given most elves thought Barizheise opera was bloody, boring, and archaic, but it made sense once she glimpsed the excitement on Csethiro’s face. Someone had inserted it into the schedule for the benefit of the Zhasan; Emiro muttered that she thought her sister was the only elf in the Ethuveraz to genuinely like Barizheise operas.

Chenelo did not mind attending, since the loudness and length of most Barizheise opera meant it was a social occasion as well as entertainment, and that the darkness meant a sly nap was possible. She didn't think Maia would get much socialising done, though, since Csethiro kept yanking on his arm to point things out. 

Tired of fielding events, people, and feuding sisters (and simply tired), Chenelo sat down behind Maia and Csethiro, and watched vaguely for a while as the actors in their towering chopines and trailing robes and great exaggerated masks gesticulated broadly. In the dark and the warmth there was a hypnotic, eerie quality to it all, she had to admit, and she had missed hearing opera sung in Barizhin…

“Wrung-out, cousin?”

Chenelo had not seen the face for some twenty-five years, but would have known it anywhere, even in the half dark.

“Nadaro!” She accepted the hug eagerly, a little caught off-guard. “I have not been able to pin thee down all this time, I am sorry— do sit, come on—”

“Don’t be sorry, Vorzhis has been in negotiation after negotiation, and I have had plenty of ridiculous family calls.” 

Chenelo had not seen Nadaro since they had been true girls, ten or eleven or twelve, but it hardly seemed to matter; Nadaro sat down with her, and told her in a half-whisper of how on earth she had ended up the Ethuverazhin ambassador’s wife. Laris Pel-Tetramel’s falling out with his brother-in-law had the side effect of his daughter being branded an utterly hopeless marriage prospect and spending most of her time away from court. Vorzhis Gormened, junior diplomat and runner for half the avarsin, had been in and out of the house for years as he conveyed the argument between Maru Sevraseched and Laris Pel-Tetramel; eventually he had gotten himself disgraced for cheating in duels, and sent to the border— since the Corat’ Dav Arhos’s idea of punishment was diplomacy with the elves. Before he went, he had proposed to Nadaro Pel-Tetramel that they make the best of being entirely undesirable prospects, and get married themselves.

“I said yes, for he amuses me and I liked him well enough,” said Nadaro. “We went north and lived near one of the militia encampments on the border, and once the old ambassador came back south after the disaster with— well, with thy marriage, Vorzhis was the replacement. Not exactly a desperately desirable post, but he took to it very gamely, and it comes with plenty of material perks. I had met Nadeian at the border when she married Vizhenka, so I think she convinced thy father that Vorzhis was capable of’t.”

“Dost thou happen to know…”

“No,” said Nadaro, guessing the question. “I have not been back to Urvekh’ for years, and when I was here, Thever was not likely to have a girl over ten years her junior in her confidence, cousin or no. I was friendly with Nadeian when she and Vizhenka were stationed in the north, but I could not be seen to be on her side, exactly, because I am Thever’s cousin— so I preserved my neutrality, but it meant I was not party to the… problems. Nadeian seems to try her best not to disparage Thever in front of anybody who is not involved. Thever will not talk about it at all.”

“I know,” said Chenelo thinly. 

“Hast heard she has been paying me for information?” said Nadaro. Chenelo twisted in her chair to stare at her.

“Thever has?”

“Even when Varenechibel was still emperor, she was sending me money for any information on thy son that I could possibly get. I have told her many times the payments are not necessary and I would give it to her anyway, the same way that Vorzhis writes to the Maru’var… but every letter stubbornly has a payment attached.”

“...surely she didn’t think she’d be able to influence anything,” said Chenelo, stunned.

“I think she just wanted to know,” said Nadaro. 

Thever had not come with them tonight; Chenelo did not know if she was ill or just did not want to come. Both seemed likely. She was not a great fan of the opera.

“Do you think she’ll deny it if thou dost mention it?” said Nadaro. 

“No,” said Chenelo. “But I think she’ll make very little of it. Less than it deserves.”

Thever was not at the next day’s hunt, either— but Handsome Kelru was, and so Chenelo cornered him as they waded through the grass to the shooting-grounds. Maia and Csethiro were in front somewhere, wearing blue hunting habits and furiously debating the merits of grouse, which Maia seemed to think was a perfectly acceptable meal and Csethiro thought was not worth it, because there was nothing on it. 

Chenelo attempted something else first, just to see how willing he was to talk; “Kelru, explain something to me?”

“Certainly I’ll try,” said Handsome Kelru easily, either ignoring or not seeing Hechero and Alaro trying to catch his eye at the end of the group. Funnily enough, plenty of the wives of the Corat’ Dav Arhos did not seem to share their husbands’ dislike for Kelru.

“How is it that Thever is still permitted to live in the Sevraseched’s dav, not the Erizmed’s? Shaleän and Ursu told me that thou hadst more or less abandoned thy dav, but I do not understand how that could possibly avoid the legal expectation she belongs to the Erizmeds. And Father, I am sure, would not have put a foot in the door. What didst thou do?”

“Ah! Just that? I swore a retorakh.”

“A—” Chenelo stopped walking. “Kelru, a retorakh?”

A retorakh was an ancient oath, a formal defection from one side to another—  it severed all ties from the former dav and secured absolute loyalty for the new, so absolute that you’d be killed if you tried to break it. They had abounded during the civil wars.

“It is a very long and boring story,” said Kelru. “But some years ago I worked out that my father was planning on turning traitor and breaking fealty with the Maru’var; he would always talk in front of me. I am sure thou must remember his opinion of me.” Chenelo did; as popular as Kelru had been as a marriage prospect, his brothers had considered him a useless dandy, and his father infamously thought he was a total halfwit. They had been in the habit of leaving him behind at events— it had not been unusual to see Handsome Kelru trudging unconcernedly across a field while everyone else rode or got into curricles on the way home from a hunt or a promenade or a swim. “To avoid being dragged down with him, I stole some papers as evidence, rode back to Urvekh’ to deliver them, then flung myself on my face at thy sister’s feet and swore a retorakh that I would rather be the least of the servants of the Sevrasecheds than a scion of the Erizmeds. So, I suppose, I moved davs instead! And at any rate thy father would not have let Thever move into a traitor dav, so my only option was to move out of the traitor dav, no?”

He smiled; Chenelo stared at him, aghast. The retorakh was also, crucially, viewed amongst most Barizheise men as a coward’s move. It had historically been used predominantly by women, fleeing from one house to another in desperation; outside of marriage, it was the only way to move. At best, it looked like cowardice— and there was nothing most goblin men hated more than cowardice. He hadn’t just moved dav, he’d thoroughly disgraced himself. 

“Thou madest thyself into a laughingstock on purpose... oh, Kelru.”

Kelru just smiled and shrugged, as if he made very little of it.

“In retrospect,” said Chenelo, watching the hunting spaniels come gambolling back on recall, much like how Kelru came trotting when Thever commanded him to. “I think I’m not so surprised after all, to come and find Thever Merrem Erizmed. I had forgotten… but didn’t she retrieve thee from near the bay? On the way back from the Spring auspices?”

Kelru chuckled. “Ay, after Father left me behind. She spotted me wandering back to the south entrance, made Darlis stop the carriage, and had an argument with him about whether or not he counted as a chaperone. I had forgotten thou wast there, I own.”

“I am sure thou madest very little notice of me at all,” said Chenelo, amused. “And I think she made thee sit next to her, of course…” 

Ahead of them, Maia was being given a crossbow, which Chenelo did not like in an abstracted way, until it became obvious that he knew how to use it, which she disliked in a more intent way, and made a mental note to ask who had been letting him play with weapons in relegation. She supposed it was better he knew how to use it, rather than not knowing, and shooting himself…

They walked in silence for a little while, Chenelo ruminating on Thever, and Kelru whistling a folk song. 

“Was she very ill?” said Chenelo, at last. “When— when our mother died, she was very unstable, and I worried…”

Handsome Kelru obviously knew what she meant.

“At times,” he said. “Badly, at first, when the messages came from Varenechibel. Then, intermittently. She has tried very hard to will herself better— she wants badly to be a good aunt and a good sister and a good daughter, and for her family to want to see her. And she gets angry and upset when that doesn't always… work.” He brightened. “But she has found things that do work, over the years. She is very good at planning, finding distractions, keeping routine…”

“I had noticed some of the changes for the better, yes,” Chenelo said gently. If Handsome Kelru noticed that she was trying to include him in that grouping, he did not heed it.

The party moved on, Csethiro stringing a hunting bow with some aplomb ahead of them.

Chenelo said, presently, “So— why does she hate Nadeian? I do not understand’t.” She saw his face fall and added, “Tell me honestly, Kelru. I know she will not.”

Handsome Kelru spread his hands helplessly. It probably strained his good nature to admit that his beloved wife was being a total beast, but to his credit he didn’t seem about to deny the ferocity of the feud.

“Two proud women, one legitimate and one illegitimate. One, the oldest of the daughters at court— the other, the youngest. Both given to being opinionated and nosey. Nadeian is also capable of making Thever… insecure. Younger, married sooner, not burdened with a reputation for instability… and Thever thinks she’s prettier, although—” He made a dismissive noise. Chenelo smiled. “They were bound to clash.”

“But she does not seem to mind the other illegitimate sisters. She’s fond of Ursu and Shaleän and Holitho, no?”

“Oh, yes, she is. It’s not the principle. Thever is not genuinely arrogant, thou knowst, but she hates her idea of things being upset, it distresses her badly— wilt remember. One picks their battles.”

“Profoundly well,” said Chenelo. 

“Well, Nadeian will pick every battle. And she was the only other daughter consistently at court, since Holitho was off to the cloister as soon as she was out of the nursery, so she was uniquely placed to… grate. She was forever contradicting Thever or scuppering her plans or arguing with her. Not always unfairly, I admit… but regardless, they competed like mad. Stole women from each other's davs. Ignored calling-cards. Shunned each other at events. Made their friends choose sides. The women who are on Thever’s side wear the old-style court gowns in lighter colours, and the women on Nadeian’s wear the new ones, the elvish type, in something darker. Nadeian is always complaining that Thever never does anything interesting or fun except on holidays, and that with her as the lady of the court, it is intolerably boring, full of old men and their middle-aged daughters who do nothing but weave and gossip— that she offers no promise of a new court or a new way of going about things.”

It was true that those were Thever’s favoured habits, but regardless, Chenelo was starting to see where this was going. “But— when she was younger, no one thought Thever would be able to run the dav at all. She almost never saw anybody, or went out, and when she did it was a gamble. Thou must remember. It was presumed that I would have to be the prominent lady of the court, at least before Father conceived the idea of an Ethuverazhin marriage…”

“I do, and thou dost— but Nadeian is too young to remember any of that. She has known Thever later in life, when she is more stable, and she would not listen when I tried to tell her it was not always so. Thever is proud of herself for running the dav at all, and it hurts her feelings that Nadeian has only ever had critiques for her. Of course, Thever's response to those critiques can sometimes be… a little bit unreasonable.”

“A little bit,” said Chenelo, amused. 

“Also, she hates that Captain Vizhenka does not really like me.”

“Poor fop,” said Chenelo. “All the military men hate thee, dear.”

“I know’t, I am used to it, but she still hates it. There’s a lot of hurt feelings on both sides. But the age gap, the circumstances… it is honestly just surprising there are not more fights between the six of thee.” He cocked his head to the side. “But— and she’s never said this— I think Thever also feels, somehow, that Nadeian was a poor replacement for thee. And that was why she never quite took to her.”

“Well, that is not fair,” said Chenelo quietly. 

“No,” said Kelru simply. “Just true. We have missed thee.”

“And I have missed the two of thee,” said Chenelo, smiling. “If thou wilt shoot her a turkey for dinner, brother, I will dine with the two of thee tonight. I am tired of courtiers.”

“A good proposal, but wilt have to help me, I am hopeless with bows.”

“Very well— thou canst stun it with the fabulous brightness of thy teeth and thy general looks, and I will kill it,” said Chenelo. Kelru laughed, and proffered her his bow with great aplomb.

Chapter Text

"A goodwill payment," said the Hari'var. "Not a formal dowry repayment. But the full value."

No one had ever bothered to bring Chenelo to negotiations concerning her matters previously; but now, she was stuck in between her father and her son in Peru’var’s War Closet, while the Barizheise and the Ethuverazeise delegations played tug-of-war with the matter of her long-paid dowry. She was not sure she was entirely sorry she had never been invited before. No one had actually asked her anything, so what difference did it make if she was here or not? Possibly the only person more bored than she was Csethiro, whose face was so blank it looked frankly as if she was asleep with her eyes open. Maybe she was. Chenelo would not have blamed her.

The Great Avar's ministers, seeing an opportunity, had insisted to the Ethuverazhin delegation that Chenelo's dowry should be returned, on the account of Varenechibel's treachery and the clause in the marriage contract they had dug up, which stipulated, should the arrangement be broken by ‘treachery, villainy, barrenness or disloyalty’, it should be dissolved. Maia's secretaries argued, reasonably enough, that tracking down the whole of a dowry paid some twenty years ago to an entirely separate emperor was nigh on impossible. Besides, it was impossible to repay without risking nullifying the marriage, and hence delegitimising their emperor— and surely they’d rather have an emperor on the throne that was more predisposed to treat with Barizhan as an ally? The Great Avar's ministers desired a payment of some equal value, then… (Gormened sat at the end of the table and looked exhausted.)

“Might we ask what the conversion rate of goodwill is, these days?” said Csevet tartly, who was really quite magnificent when he got into the weeds of it all. The Ethuveraz delegation had simply come in, sat down, and set him loose. Chenelo wanted him to win just because he was the most impressive to watch argue. “A figure, an it please you, Hari’var.”

As he had evidently guessed, no one had an exact figure, and most had been posturing for the sake of posturing. Before anyone could recover, Csevet snatched a paper from his files with a little flourish, and announced;

“Two hundred thousand zhashan; a trousseau composed of ten bolts of cloth-of-gold, three of damask and five of brocade; two original Kezmered oils, priceless; and five and ten jewellery pieces of ruby, opal, and pearls, including the Pelan’mura. Now, ‘tis simple to make a payment, and we might retrieve you the oils—” he turned to one of the endless under-secretaries. “Are they in the Ceth’gallery? Thank you, they are— but the trousseau cannot be reclaimed, and most of the garments constructed with it are lost or destroyed. It is the same with the jewels, which have been absorbed into the Zhasan’mura, the perpetual collection of jewels that each empress inherits. Some might be recovered, but others may have been re-set. And is it desired that the payment will be in pelori or zashanei? And are these payments worth their value twenty years ago, or their value now?” They stared at him; he smiled. “We only ask because it seems to us crucial to make a thorough job of the matter.”

The Great Avar remained silent, watching his ministers narrowly as they scrabbled for conversion rates and economic figures; Maia picked up his teacup and rubbed his jaw unhappily.

"We do not think our son should be forced to make repayment for the infelicitous decisions of his father," said Chenelo, since no one seemed to have pointed that out. "Which, we note, affected him as well."

"Infelicitious,” snorted the Dare’var, one of her least favourites of her father's ministers. He had been short and cross and distasteful when she was a child, and he was still short and cross and distasteful now.

“We can pick another word for it an it please you better,” snapped Chenelo, regretting saying anything at all. 

“That will not be necessary, we catch your meaning.” He leant across the table. “Avar'min, you cannot think to compare a genteel relegation of no particular agonies, to a an attempted murder and a forced cloister—"

"We find it interesting, Dare’var, that you presume to comment on the manner of the emperor's prior relegation." Beshelar— suddenly, and with immense feeling. "We were not aware that the Corat' Dav Arhos ever took a particular interest in the matter."

"Beshelar," said Maia hastily. But his point was made; everyone looked awkwardly in different directions.

“No, the Lieutenant is right,” said Chenelo. She cast an eye around the table; “On all points. It would be folly to act as if we were the only one who suffered under that scheme— and we do not think, gentlemen, that any of you have the right to affect concern or outrage on our behalf.”

Someone muttered something about her growing teeth in the Ethuveraz, but no one actually protested; another argument about conversion rates started up. The Maru’var sat with his fingers steepled, gaze distant.  

Amongst the fragmented parts of argument, Maia leant over; “Mama.”

“Hmm?”

“Dost thou want it?”

“Do I want it?” Chenelo said, perplexed. “The payment?”

“The document does not say to whom it should be repaid,” Maia said eagerly. 

"Surely the assumption in returned—" 

"Yes," said Maia. "But one does not make assumptions in legal documents. Tis great folly to allow anything to be assumed. And there is no precedent for this matter."

Chenelo thought it was likely that whoever had drawn up the contract had simply never dreamed that a legal suit might be brought against the imperial husband; the clause was insurance against Zhasans taking lovers, or against proving infertile like poor Arbelan Drazharan. It was about succession and heirs, not morality; they were vagaries which would allow a Zhas to get rid of a Zhasan on feeble pretexts. No amount of mistresses or ill-treatment from the Emperor would ever have been able to get her an annulment. Besides, even if she had had a real annulment, she would not have been released from her ties to the Drazhada. Only the money returned to her father; not the woman. Even the poor dead empresses Leshan and Pazhiro had been dead and Drazhada.

“I find it unlikely thou wilt be able to convince them of that,” she said.

“I do not need to convince them,” said Maia. “I only need to convince my grandfather.”

“And thy men.”

“Csevet will make it so it sounds as if it was their idea, and they had to convince him,” said Maia dismissively. “We already have to settle a household annuity upon thee anyway, when thou comest back to court with us—” Chenelo was not sure she successfully concealed the flash of panic she felt at the reminder she was to return to the Untheileneise Court, and Maia stopped uneasily. 

“...so it can go towards that,” Chenelo prompted, trying to control her ears.

“Yes,” said Maia, but his face had fallen.

“Well.” Chenelo looked down at her skirt. “Yes, that seems practical enough. But I do not know if my father will agree.”

“He will,” said Maia.

“Maia—”

“We are resolved to allocate an equivalent payment and any specific items we can locate, to our mother, an it please her,” Maia said, loudly and with no preamble. “Since it was paid for her, and it was the misconduct against her that is the source of the matter. There is no precedent in this matter, there is a lack of specificity in the document— if her father backs it, we will brook no objection from his ministers.”

A dozen voices tried to declaim at the same time, but the Great Avar himself said nothing; he sat back and looked thoughtfully at Maia, who stared back, ears tilted mulishly. Maia had made a close study of the Maru’var indeed, if he knew that sudden audacity from unexpected places, a clear opportunity to spite his ministers, and a chance to settle a lavish sum upon Chenelo out of guilt, would appeal to Maru Sevraseched—

And as Chenelo had suspected, Csethiro’s voice did carry when she shouted; 

“And further, we should be pleased to go through the Zhasan’mura and identify the pieces of Chenelo Zhas’maro’s dowry which were re-set for Csoru Zhasanai, and thence conveyed to us—” And, with a cheery malice to the last part, “…to be sure the full value is recaptured!”

"Tis a good notion, we will back it,” boomed the Maru’var, finally turning away from Maia. His voice carried over the noise easily; “We are too old to reap any particular benefit from it at this stage, and it is not as if we paid it with any expectation we would ever get it back.”

Chenelo realised slightly too late that both he and Maia were looking at her in expectation of some sort of agreement. She fumbled, not sure which language to speak in, and ended up in Barizhin;

“We— er, it seems well enough, though we are not sure what we should do with such a—”

“Settled!” barked the Maru’var. 

“...sum,” Chenelo finished irritably. It seemed the grooves of her father’s newfound progressivism had not been carved overly deeply.

The Maru’var got up grandly, and announced, expansively; “And we certainly don't want any of these old bastards to have't after we die!”

Laughing into the uproar, he went off towards the door, pausing only to touch Chenelo on the shoulder and give Maia a tremendous slap on the back that made Chenelo wince. Maia did not really react to it.

“Such measured negotiators," said Csethiro drolly, taking another cake from the tea service while everyone else got up, argued, or filtered out in bad spirits. She offered Chenelo one, but she shook her head.

“No thank you, dear.” They watched as Maia turned in his chair to confer with Csevet and Gormened. “Varenechibel’s last empress, his young wife— did she get provided for? In the will?”

“Csoru? Ay, a little too well, if you ask me,” said Csethiro. “Count Celehel would not have an agreement drawn up without a contingency for his precious princess; he is not wildly intelligent, you understand, but he was at least aware he was marrying his very young daughter to an old man likely to die while she was still in her prime. She was always going to be Csoru Zhasanai.” She smiled grimly. “She just imagined she would be the Zhasanai to Sheveän Zhasan, rather than Csethiro Zhasan…”

“You do not like Csoru Zhasanai,” realised Chenelo.

Csethiro’s face screwed up slightly. “You should not let me sway you…”

“...but?”

“But Csoru Zhasanai lost her first tooth because I punched it out of her mouth in a fight,” said Csethiro. “It would be hard to be older enemies than she and I.” She turned a little in her chair; “Say, if you come by tomorrow morning, before lauds, I’ll go through the jewellery I have with me and we can see if you recognise any of it.”

“I do not think I need all of that back,” Chenelo said honestly. She had always preferred fabrics and shoes and gloves as luxuries, which Maia had remembered when he had bought half a life’s wardrobe worth of clothes for her.

“But the principle,” said Csethiro. “I think your father’s ministers will all have heart attacks if you don’t at least make a show of having some of it. A number of them have already gone puce.” 

Amaru was sent to retrieve her the next morning, which was unnecessary, but Chenelo didn’t mind; she had not seen him for long since the Ethuverazhin delegation had arrived. He always seemed to be off on errands, or muttering to Csevet or the other couriers in a corner.

“We suppose you have not had much proximity to the imperial household before this point,” Chenelo said to him as they walked. Amaru lifted a shoulder easily.

“Not often. If there is not a courier immediately available, Csevet will typically just go himself, but sometimes he seconds us. We have run a few errands to and for the Alcethmeret, but we do not… spend much time there. ”

“Much?”

“None, actually,” said Amaru. He cast her a long, sideways look. “If we were to see our… former colleagues socially, it would be elsewhere.”

“Socially,” smiled Chenelo.

“We are only implying anything because it’s evident you’ve guessed, Avar’min,” Amaru said, sounding in that moment rather like Csevet. 

“We understand,” said Chenelo. “But it sounds rather inconvenient. Socially speaking.”

“Very few couriers or runners have access to the Alcethmeret,” said Amaru. “Unless one is in an attached household like Archduchess Vedero’s, or specifically on imperial business.”

“We see,” said Chenelo thoughtfully.

“And it would… not be risked,” said Amaru.

“That is regrettably prudent.”

“He is thus.”

They arrived while the household was still in the process of rising for the morning— it was the edocharei’s job to look unrumpled and perfect, and Csevet’s waistcoat was so crisp it could have been ironed on him, but there was an element of sleepy scuffling about in antechambers from the off-duty nohecharei and Csethiro’s ladies. It soothed Chenelo slightly that no one seemed anxious about being a little less than perfect; Csevet, however, frowned and muttered, “They would not act so if Merrem Esaran had come with us.”

Lieutenant Beshelar, naturally, was perfectly starched when he cracked open the bedchamber door with some aplomb, and announced; "Zhasan, Chenelo Zhas'maro is here."

"Oh, damn it, is it that time..." There was a thump, and Csethiro said; "Send her in— ay, come now, Beshelar, she is the emperor's mother and it makes no matter to me if I am running around in my nightdress in front of her—"

Beshelar reluctantly opened the door for her; the bedchamber was still mostly dark, although the skylight was spiralling weak morning sunlight onto the floor. For a moment, Chenelo could only see Maia, who looked very much as if he was still asleep— then Csethiro popped up from behind him.

"Sorry, we quite overslept—" she wriggled out determinedly from under Maia's arm and slung herself nimbly over the side of the bed. Cala, sitting peaceably in the corner, waved.

It seemed too intimate a scene, and Chenelo hesitated in the doorway— but Csethiro was flapping briskly at her to come in, so she stepped in and closed the door while Csethiro ferreted around for a robe, flung it on over her nightgown, and said, "Well! Let's see..."

She vanished into the antechamber and started rattling around in what seemed to be a great many cases. Chenelo sat down on the edge of the bed next to Maia, who was either still asleep, or wished he was. She laid a hand on his hot back, and decided not to comment on the fact he apparently always shared a bed with Csethiro. She saw the slit of a pale grey eye open— Maia muttered and turned over and did not get up.

"I think in this matter I am not entirely cross I did not have to contend with thee as a teenager," Chenelo said.

Maia mumbled something that was clearly meant to be a protest, but all Chenelo heard was something about heed thee.

"Thou'rt deluding thyself if thou thinkst thou wast never stubborn," said Chenelo, scraping his escaping hair behind his ear. He really did have her hair, which made her smile. "Thou hadst some mighty strops."

Maia half-opened an eye again. “Not very many…”

Chenelo squeezed his side. “Apart from when thou wert six and threw all thy etiquette on purpose, to try and irk me because I had not played with thee that day?”

Maia winced, eyes opening properly. “I hoped thou hadst forgotten about that.”

“Luckily for thee, thou wert cute, and very sorry about an hour later, so twas all one.”

Rarely had she ever had cause to be cross with Maia, but he was mulish at times— trying to drill etiquette into his stubborn little skull had tested every bit of the patience she had previously thought very good. He had been in a particularly sulky mood that day— probably because Chenelo had been too caught up with a megrym to play with him, and had instead sent him off with something boring and moralistic from the court-approved reading material— and he had been deliberately getting everything wrong as a result. Six year olds were not, as Chenelo had found out firsthand, given to being fair or reasonable. He had sat, scraping his knife in a way that made her temples throb, propping his elbows on the table and slouching, and every time she corrected him, he went back to doing it a few minutes later— he kept looking at her slyly and slightly sheepishly, out of the corner of his eye, but he kept doing it. Chenelo had no idea if it was a bid for attention, a simple attempt to control something that he could, or just because he felt contrary, but she had eventually calmly but very firmly kicked him out, to finish eating in his room. Later, he had crawled into her lap in timid apology, and Chenelo had kissed him and forgiven him, because it was impossible not to— and he hadn’t been so bad as all that, anyway. But he’d been clingy and obedient in obvious guilt for the next few days. He’d felt everything very keenly— even if he rarely cried and almost never pitched fits, the set of his ears and the look in his eye always betrayed him. She had tried very hard, and often failed, not to think about what believing she was dead might have done to Maia.

She turned her head and noticed Csethiro hovering in the antechamber doorway, watching them with a small, pinched sort of expression, clutching the boxes very tightly— though when she noticed Chenelo looking at her, she brightened and hustled over. 

"Now, now, let's see… hmm— we don’t seem to have any pearls with us, but—" 

“There’s a circle of islands,” Shaleän was saying at breakfast a few days later to Zhas and Zhasan, drawing on her napkin with the stub of a pencil. “Here, due east of Mich’Versheleen. They don’t have a formal name, but local sailors call them kerem’reveth’is, Marooner’s Peril, because they move, and they sink, and they rise again. You bury anything there, you’ll never see it again. Locals know the patterns, but they’re not sharing. Some sailors have been marooned there by clueless captains to teach them a lesson, and when they come back for them they’re gone. Have to assume the bodies get pulled down by the water pressure, they never find anyone.”

“How awful,” said Maia, but he did look interested. “Does anyone live there?”

“Some nomadic peoples sail between them; we once met a lady from one of the groups. She was most interesting, but she wouldn’t tell us how they knew which ones were due to sink or rise, even though we were very persuasive."

“She doesn’t mean met,” Zeveran said sniffily, buffing her nails. Csethiro chuckled.

“Did she at least tell you how they move?” she said. Shaleän shrugged.

“She gave us her theory, for what it was worth, but ask any sailor and they’ll all give you a different answer. The most sensible are about currents or volcanic pressure; the most fanciful say they get swallowed and then eventually spat back up by monstrous baleen whales. Your man likes the whales,” she added, spying Maia's expression.

“Surely it’s not possible,” said Maia, but he did look as if he would have liked it if it was.

“Probably not, but we’ve seen some of the most damn’d things, so Ashevezhkho knows we never rule anything out these days…”

Chenelo got up to pour another cup of tea from the samovar, smiling to herself. Apparently Maia’s liking for the impossible and the unreal of wonder-tales had not faded with Chenelo’s death, and she was glad of it. Then again, he would not have sponsored the Wisdom Bridge if it had.

“Well, we have arranged’t!” said Larian, suddenly behind her.

“Arranged what?” said Chenelo, sitting down in the nearest empty chair, near Thever.

“To go back to the Elflands with thee,” said Larian. “We’ve all three of us spoken to that little secretary of thy son’s, ‘tis in hand— isn’t he efficient! Steam-powered man—” She noted Chenelo’s face. “Canst not have expected us to let thee go back on thy own again, surely? Or replace us with some wretched elvenwomen who smile once a year?”

“I didn't want to presume…” Chenelo put her teacup down. “I mean, thy children—”

“I'm in need of a holiday,” pronounced Larian. “The girls are full of preteen stroppiness and could do with some time away from their Mama.” Chenelo did not contest the presumption that it would not be a permanent journey. She hardly knew herself what she would do. “And I want to do Winternight in the Ethuveraz like everybody else.” Of course; the three of them would have stayed in Barizhan with Thever last winter. “Not a critique, Thever,” Larian added hastily.

Thever, only half-listening, waved a hand vaguely, watching a conversation happening between Nadeian and the Maru’var with narrowed eyes.

“If thou’rt sure…” Chenelo said. 

“Sure?!” said Larian, so explosively that Chenelo laughed.

“All right. And I thank thee.” She paused. “Wilt need to bring a proper cloak, though.”

“What’s wrong with my cloak?” 

“Thy thin linen one? Larian, it’s far too northerly for that. Go to the market and get a proper wool piece.”

“Thou shouldst have come with me and Kelru to Mer Kerezehek’s,” Thever said, turning to them. “We got an excellent deal. I didn't even have to haggle.”

“Kerezehek’s? What art thou buying proper winter clothes for?” said Chenelo distractedly, picking tea leaves from the rim of her teacup.

“For the Ethuveraz,” said Thever.

Larian stopped with her glass halfway to her mouth. Ursu shuffled around in her chair to stare at them; their surrounding group went entirely silent.

“...what?” said Chenelo.

“What?” said Nadeian, at a much higher volume, turning around sharply. “Thever, don’t be ridiculous. You don't travel.”

Thever stirred her soup petulantly, eyes shifting between the table’s worth of people staring at her. “Ay… historically we were not allowed, on the grounds that we would embarrass the dignity of the dav, and of course we never want to go anywhere anyway…”

“That’s not the—” said Nadeian, at the same time the Maru'var said;

“Thever.” Chenelo winced at the tone of voice, but Thever merely raised her eyebrows at him. Their father said, “Thou’rt not permitted to travel. Do not pretend to have forgotten.”

“Ay, yes,” said Thever. “But, and do correct us if we are wrong, Father… but was that not when we still belonged to thee? Before we were married? Because, and we are quite certain of this, it says on the marriage-contract that both thyself and Kelru signed, that in domestic matters, we are ruled by our husband. And our husband will let us go.”

“Thever—” Chenelo tried, sure she was going to get herself, and Handsome Kelru, into some horrible trouble.

“Thou’rt still part of this dav, Thever, and we are still thy ruler and thy father,” said the Maru’var, talking over her. “This is not just domestic, it is diplomacy, and—”

Nadeian burst out; “Thever, hast thou even run this past anybody in the Ethuverazhin party?”

“We have spoken to our nephew, yes,” said Thever, unmoved. “And our niece. And Kiru Athmaza. And Mer Aisava.”

“That was the tea you took with them the other day, then,” said Nadeian darkly. 

“And we suppose the boy agreed?” said the Maru’var grimly. "Didst thou lie to him? Or just let him think you had approval?" Chenelo shot Maia a nervous look, but he was politely ignoring them. 

Nadeian said, “I will not argue with thee, Thever, but if thou regrettest it, it can only be thine own wretched fault. The Ethuverazhin court will not take to thee any kinder than thine own, thou knowst that?”

Thever eyed her, unimpressed. “Nadeian, we are aware thou thinkst us at best a spiteful hag, and at worst utterly insensible, but do believe that we have anticipated everything that could possibly go wrong. Regardless—”

The Maru’var cut across them, loudly. “Thever, we have tolerated all of this long enough. We have allowed thee far too much free rein— letting thee marry where thou likest and go where thou wilt, and never making thee take a proper court place—” Thever mouthed making to herself. “We will not—”

“Father,” said Shaleän forebodingly, from the other table. “No need to do this here, and tis not—” 

“We will not countenance going and running this ridiculous feud with thy sister, which is frankly beneath even thee, into something that is going to become a diplomatic matter—”

Thever stood up so abruptly that Chenelo jumped.

“Think’st thou so little of us that thou presumest this is the product of some petty women's feud?” she shouted, almost as loudly as her seafaring sisters could. Shaleän widened her eyes slightly and sat back in the manner of, I warned thee. “We will accompany Chenelo back to the Ethuveraz so that she will not be taken from us again, which thou allowed for last time— and attempt to forbid it all thou likest, old man, but we seem to recall that the last time one of thy daughters was married, thou wast far less eager to interfere with her circumstance!”

There was, forthwith, a pause. The Maru’var and Thever stared at each other; Shaleän was watching with a hand half-over her mouth, eyes narrowed; Ursu was looking at the ceiling as if it was very interesting. The Pel-Murniar daughters were both silent. Chenelo knew with a sudden certainty that this was how every argument had been for the last twenty years; Thever combative— Shaleän trying to keep a lid on their father— the other three knowing better than to interfere.

Chenelo half-opened her mouth to say something, then forebore, and sunk back into her chair. The Ethuverazhin delegation were too polite to stare, but Maia looked tense, and they were all quiet— Amaru was whispering furiously to Csevet, probably translating. 

At once, Thever seemed to decide she would not allow the Maru’var the dignity of getting in an answer to that; she turned away so sharply that she hit Ursu with her sleeve, and swept off, the dav scattering out of her path like startled pigeons. She slammed the side door with such a wham that Maia flinched and Beshelar’s hand went to his sword, leaving a bewildered silence behind her.

“Where’s Handsome Kelru?” shouted the Maru’var into the silent hall. “Someone find him, and tell him we’re going to talk to him—”

“Papa, it’s not Kelru’s artifice,” muttered Nadeian.

“I don’t care whose artifice it is, girl!” The Maru’var marched off, barking perfunctory orders to nearby Hezhethoreise guards, and leaving the rest of his daughters behind. 

Immediately, there was a squeal of chair legs as Shaleän and Zeveran got up, and they all converged around Chenelo’s chair;

“Old man,” said Zeveran in awe. 

“What was she thinking?” Chenelo whispered in horror to Ursu.

“Oh, so she didn’t run it past thee, either?” said Ursu. “Good. Excellent. Why would she? Why would she do anything?”

“Indeed it solves all of my personal agonies, I had not wanted to leave her, but I had heard nothing of’t! Why did she not tell me?”

“She probably intended on not telling any of us until we were leaving and it was too late to stop her, but couldn’t stop herself from getting one over me and Papa,” said Nadeian, arms folded tightly. Chenelo had to admit it was ungenerous, but not inaccurate.

“Ashevezh’s’tits,” huffed Shaleän, earning herself a glare from both Chenelo and Holitho. “The last time one of thy daughters was married off… she's been holding onto that one. I think she won that, surely?”

“If thou wantst to talk about winning, then certainly,” said Nadeian sourly. “At least I have the sense to never go head-to-head with her like that.”

“Why did he bait her?” said Ursu crossly, staring across the room at the Great Avar’s back. “When he wants to prove a point he’s always so mean to her, and then he acts offended when she bites his head off in response!”

“I hate this court,” said Holitho glumly, sitting back and fanning herself with a loose corner of her veil. “Why is it only Thever and thee—” She pointed at Shaleän— “That have no survival instinct about him?”

“We know how to handle the old man,” said Shaleän. 

“Not according to what just happened there!”

“Shaleän and Thever are the most like him,” said Nadeian. “That’s why.”

“Eugh,” said Shaleän, expansively. 

“What, dost thou deny it?”

“No, my girl, not in the slightest. But ‘tis a bad thought nonetheless.”

Maia came trundling over with Cala and Beshelar in tow, eyes wide and ears low. “What was all that about?”

Chenelo said, “Maia, what on earth did our sister tell thee about her travel plans?”

“Er…” Maia looked wrongfooted. “She did imply she had run it past the necessary personages…?”

“By which she meant Handsome Kelru, and not her father,” said Nadeian. “Or any of her sisters.”

Maia blinked. “But… ah. I thought she would have at least told all of thee?”

Chenelo took a deep breath, let go of the tablecloth she’d been holding bunched in her fist, and said, “Thever has been the only prominent woman in the Corat’ Dav Arhos for a very long time, Maia, and her approach to negotiations is always underhanded. She should not have misled thee, but her way of getting what she wants is always ruthless, because she has been obstructed so often. It was harmless, but petty, and I will make her apologise to thee.” 

“Wilt have to find her first,” said Holitho. “She always disappears after scuffles.”

“Old habit, that,” Ursu said. 

“Very old,” said Chenelo, getting up.

“I cannot believe,” Chenelo said loudly after a moment, trying to wedge her foot in the side of a carved pigeon in the latticed screenwork, “That thou canst still get up here.”

“Don’t fall.”

“I’m not going to fall.”

“Stay there.”

“Thever, ‘tis well, I’m just not as—”

There was an element of scrabbling, then a hand appeared over the side of the minstrel’s gallery and yanked her up over the barrier.

“I just can’t get my hips to do the right things these days,” said Chenelo, sitting down in a heap against the wall. 

“Art not so old,” said Thever, her gold eyes gleaming through the dusty half-light like a suncat’s. 

“Ay, but I had a baby with a big head,” muttered Chenelo. Thever smiled thinly, distractedly.

The room was largely only storage these days, but it had once been a ballroom, and sported a minstrel’s gallery concealed in the east wall. The staircase up to the gallery was too damaged to be usable, but it was accessible if you climbed up the side lattice and swung yourself over the low barrier. Perhaps their sisters and their father had never found any of Thever’s sitting-spots, but Thever had often found it easier to buy the toddler Chenelo’s silence by letting her come too. Clearly she still frequented this one, because there was a stack of Amu Carcethlened works and a drop spindle atop one of the ancient stools, and she was sitting on one of Kelru’s doublets.

They were girls no more, and so it was something of a task for them both to fit in the stable part of the floor in front of the fluting and the faded mural of the Gore’var; Thever was too wide in the hip and Chenelo was too long in the leg, and they ended up crammed in the corner with Chenelo’s foot under Thever’s calf. Thever did not seem to mind; she propped her cheek on Chenelo’s shoulder.  

“Say something,” she said, hands balled tightly in her lap. Her neck was tense, and her head slightly ducked. “Talk.”

“All right.” Chenelo hesitated, then said, “Shouldst know Father was looking for Kelru.”

“Kelru just has to let it wash over him until Father shouts himself out,” said Thever. 

“What does he do? Just stand there?”

“Yes. He tries to look neutral, but it just makes him look empty-headed, which annoys Father more.”

Chenelo chuckled. “I so wish I had been there when he asked Father for thy hand. What did he say?”

“Father? He said, what? Thever? And then he said, Anmur’s’blood, man, art thou sure? And then he said, Thever, stop making that infernal noise with the loom, come here and explain thyself…”

They laughed, though it was slightly bitter. 

“Horrid old man,” said Thever. “At least Shaleän tried to stop him.”

“I was surprised at that.”

“She might love him, but she’s the only one who’s truly positioned to fight with him,” said Thever. “If she hacks off the old man she can simply run off back to sea. Besides, I was her first little sister. She writes to me all the time, ever since Father tried to subtly introduce us when I was… oh, twelve? No, not twelve— well, maybe, wast thou born? I can’t remember. I thought thou wast, but Shaleän did not come to Barizhan a while after thou wast, so she says, and I must put more stock into her memories than mine… mine are poor, false sometimes… thou knowst. Well, Father had us both at the same event, clearly thinking I didn’t know who the boatswain he was presenting me with was supposed to be. I said something to the effect of how now sister, thou'rt too old to be the bastard Ursu, so thou must be the bastard Shaleän.”

“Thever.”

“Oh, but she laughed herself stupid,” said Thever. “I remember that—”

“Speaking of what thou rememberest,” said Chenelo pointedly.

“Mm?”

“Why didst thou not tell me?”

“Tell thee what?”

“That thou wast going to go with us to the Ethuveraz. I knew nothing of’t.”

“Oh?” said Thever vaguely, but her eyes had sharpened perceptively. “Perhaps I thought I had, or that thy son had said he would tell thee… as I say, I do not always remember.”

“Thou hast never been a good enough liar for me, Thever,” Chenelo said gently. It was true that Thever's memory was somewhat inconsistent— but she was accustomed to Thever weaving around the main point when she didn't want to approach it.

Thever looked stoutly at her for a second, then turned away in a huff and said nothing. 

Chenelo said, “Thou wast worried I wouldn’t want thee to come.”

“Tis none of my concern what my callow little sister thinks I should or should not do,” snapped Thever. Chenelo waited in reproachful silence. 

Thever said, “...in any case.” She picked up her spindle and fussed with it. “Given that the whole… mess was technically because of us…”

“Because of thee?”

“Yes, me!” Thever slammed the spindle down and whipped around so fast the opal beads in her hair rattled on the wall. “My fault, Chenelo, because I was too insane to ever be married off, so they sent thee instead! In a court gown too big for thy skinny little sixteen year old shoulders, to marry an old man and live amongst the elves who despised thee and tried to have thee and thy boy killed, when it— should— have— been— me!”

She shut her mouth abruptly and clenched her trembling fists atop her knees. A tear slid slowly down the edge of her nose and struck a jagged dark circle on the bright green of her skirt.

“Thever,” Chenelo said, stricken. “I never thought it was thy fault. Father did not have to marry either of us off to Varenechibel. That was his choice, not thine.”

Thever’s mouth was flat and wretched. “Fault or none, I know ‘tis very hard to be my sister. I'm sorry for’t.”

It was true, though Chenelo would never say so, that as a very small girl she had been slightly wary of her, so much older and sometimes unpredictable; and that Chenelo had been in part bartered off to Varenechibel because Thever never could be. And it was true that Chenelo had often found her tiring when they had been living together as young women; and that Chenelo was, in a small, shamefaced way, resentful of her being allowed to marry where she liked. And Thever was also frustratingly imperious, lazy and vain— but that was nothing at all do with her mind, and everything to do with simply being Thever.

Besides, it was also true that she frequently weaponised or exaggerated her reputation to other people's benefit; that she had used to carry Chenelo home when she was tired; that when Chenelo had been small, many of Thever’s delusions had centered around trying to protect her from perceived threats; that she had used to read her wonder-tales and buy her presents when Chenelo begged, and had spent years in a cold war with the Maru'var on her behalf— and had been paying Nadaro Gormened to feed her information about Chenelo's son.

“Tis not always easy to be Maia's mother, either,” said Chenelo. “But I love him all the same, as I love thee all the same.” She paused, judged the set of Thever’s ears, then laced her fingers carefully through hers, and looked for a moment at their almost identical hands. She added; “I will ask thee very nicely, and then we might be agreed; please, Thever, wilt thou come with me to the horrid Untheileneise Court, and help me spend all of my son's money on frippery and terrible excess?”

The corner of Thever's mouth curled. “When thou dost put it like that...”

“Very kind of thee to offer,” said Chenelo, which made her laugh. She kissed Thever's damp cheek, and said, “Wilt love scrapping with the elves. They'll give thee a run for thy money.”

“Like that guard of thy son's,” said Thever, wiping her nose. “Astoundingly purse-lipped.”

“Poor Lieutenant Beshelar,” said Chenelo. “Must be a very hard job.” She frowned. “On Maia, I am not entirely happy thou misled him. Thou must say thou’rt sorry, even if thou’rt not a bit.”

“He was letting himself be led,” said Thever. “Trotting along in my verbal wake and very markedly not noticing everything I was neglecting to mention. A champion enabler… mark me, he will be a very good husband for the Zhasan.”

They had not very much to do before the evening’s ball— which, given this morning’s performance, would be supremely awkward— so Chenelo had gone for a nap, anticipating being up until dawn, and Thever had gone to check that the Maru’var had not killed Handsome Kelru. 

She woke up some hours later from a loud, nonsensical dream with the sense that someone was leaning over her, and knew before she opened her eyes that it was Maia. She was not sure how she knew, but he some distant instinct, some half-intuited awareness of the way he stood or shifted or breathed, let her know he was there.

“Maia, if I open my eyes and thou’rt standing there like the oak-wights I used to try and terrorise thee into behaving with—” 

She opened her eyes; he was doing exactly that. His ears, which had been low, perked up a little, and he smiled sheepishly. “I didn’t want to shake thee.”

He had used to scare her half to death by standing next to her bed in silence and waiting for her to wake up, which had resulted a few times in him being sick on the floor. But it was a lot less disconcerting when he was an adult, and the imperial white practically glowed. Hardly subtle. She sat up and frowned. “What's the clock? Is everybody else out?” 

“Just after four,” said Maia, silvery eyes keeping a cat-like gleam in the half-light. She had hated for a while that he had inherited Varenechibel's eyes, but after a time she had stopped thinking of them as Varenechibel's eyes at all. She had not seen Varenechibel more than perhaps fifteen times; she saw Maia all the time, and it came to a point where they were his, not his father's. “Csethiro is fencing, and my edocharei and Csethiro’s women are at the market. I told Csevet to go out, but I don’t know where he went, or whether he’s just holed himself up to work elsewhere…” Chenelo thought she had a fairly shrewd idea of Csevet’s whereabouts. “Everyone else… elsewhere. I think a few of thy sisters went to the… waterfront, or the beach. Somewhere?” The wistful tone on that last one suggested he would have very much liked to do that, too.

“Then why art thou still here?”

Maia made a little, helpless gesture. It made the embellishments on his jacket jingle. “I can’t just… go out,” he said softly. 

Chenelo’s heart sank. She had not thought of it, but of course he couldn’t. His whole life was planned and scheduled and risk assessed; and his heir was his teenaged nephew. And that was besides the agonising Ethuverazeise preoccupation with propriety. He was not to be allowed to wander. He was attended every minute of every day by guards, for Osreian’s sake…

Chenelo glanced behind him, where Lieutenant Telimezh gave her a slightly regretful stare. “...I suppose thou canst not. I had not thought.”

Maia shook his head. He said; “Well— ah, thy women let me in. It took me ten minutes to get through the door because they all wanted to fuss.”

“Thou'rt lucky they did not pull thee apart like Mer Penthivar in Soleno.” Chenelo said, but noticed Maia trailed her oddly closely as she wandered into her antechamber. 

He said; “Art ill?”

“Ill? No, darling, just tired,” said Chenelo, trying to rescue her braids. “I—” she caught his eye in the mirror; saw Kiru Athmaza behind him, who shot her a flat, half-resigned look of immense significance. She let her hands drop. “Oh, I see.”

Had she not wondered what her death would do to him? Now she knew. Trailing her through doorways. Excessive presents. Watching. Following. No wonder he’d been leaning over her.

Maia tried to avoid her gaze as she turned around, embarrassed— Chenelo took his face gently between her palms, and said, “Look at me, Maia.” 

He did, though his ears were very low and his expression was wretched. “I have joint pain, and often I am weary— I know that Csevet has certainly told thee this. I had a baby very young and travelled too soon post-partum. I lived somewhere rather damp and never really took to the Ethuverazhin weather. I was poisoned. None of these things are conducive to making a woman feel quite well, hmm? But— but, Maia—” he had been trying to look away, and she tapped his face gently to keep his attention. He needed to shave. Or more accurately, she suspected, needed to be shaved. It was unlikely the emperor did it for himself. “I am not unwell in the manner I was at Isvaroë— an I was, I would have a pick of clerics and doctors and mazei, not just poor Merrem Ethervezh. I am not going to die—” she bit back an again— “Any time soon. I know all young men think their mothers are old, but I am not yet forty.”

Maia managed to look relieved and crushed at the same time. “I only—”

“I know, sweetheart.” Chenelo pulled his head down, kissed his cheeks and his brow. She eyed him, then said; “An thou wish't, I will submit myself to be examined by Kiru Athmaza when she is off-duty, but I do think t'would be a waste of her good time.”

“Well…” Maia hesitated, clearly reluctant to admit that had been his object from the first. 

Kiru, looking faintly amused, saved him from having to confess. “An that is your will Serenity, we will do so. We certainly have no objection.”

“There,” said Chenelo, and squeezed his upper arms tightly. “Come on, darling. I’ll teach thee to play argis, tis not so difficult, as long as thou dost not let Mero hide winnings in her sleeves…”

The ball in the Corat’theziar was as cheerfully unregimented as all Barizheise dances; no one had one specific place to be, there was no real schedule of events, and there was an immense amount to drink. The elves initially kept to the fringes, uncertain— but it wasn’t long before the couriers and the soldiers were filtering onto the floor, and soon more or less everyone else followed them. Chenelo skirted them as the music started up, and went along the east side beneath the great octagonal pillars which held up the muralled ceiling, where the Maru’var was regaling Csethiro and her sisters with war stories; 

“...rode twenty miles across the border and got himself struck off the horse over the river by archers upstream, staggered into camp looking like a Dakenmaro’s pincushion, somehow didn’t die, and was back in the saddle two days hence… we snapped all of the shafts out of his legs and he was sick all over the surgeon…”

Maia was standing a little way away, talking solemnly to Gormened and the Maru’var’s Ethuverazhin ambassador, Osmer Kederezh. She passed them and noticed some sort of card game happening in the corner, attended closely by a great many runners and couriers from both courts. She was fairly sure Amaru was one of the couriers playing—

Someone seized her from behind, and Chenelo jumped, but it was only Shaleän. “Come on, darling, the erkelezch! I want all six of us and I will have all six, oh yes, I don’t care if Thever and Nadeian try to trip one another—”

Chenelo suffered herself to be dragged towards the floor, laughing; the erkelezch, the end of summer, always danced in groups of six and almost always by the women of the court. They could dance the formal waltzes of the elves, and they did, but the Maru'var liked these better— older, less stringent, less staunch. The folk dances of the war camps and tiny coastal settlements; anyone would dance with anyone, and you left the floor or entered it at your own peril.

“Come on, there—!” Chenelo was more or less tossed into her place— tactically in-between Thever and Nadeian, and opposite Ursu, who winked at her. She was a little surprised that Thever had come at all— she seemed a little agitated, but she smiled when Chenelo looked at her. 

“I don’t know if I still remember it,” Chenelo said to her. 

“Thou certainly shouldst, for I am an excellent teacher,” Thever said, as they drew back into the starting stance. 

“We will certainly see if it is so…” The erkelezch was tough on fumbling children's feet and dizzying on the unpractised head, and she had taken months to learn it as a preteen, cross at her dancing masters and the other girls who learned it quicker than her. She had shrilled at Thever to go away when she had drifted into one of her practices— Thever had looked flatly at her, barely heard her, and gone up onto the mezzanine. Chenelo had bad-naturedly gone back to useless practicing, until she'd heard trotting footsteps behind her again, and Thever had said, “Chenelo, like this—” the first time she'd said anything in about three days. Chenelo had been so surprised she had stopped being cross, and had obeyed thoughtlessly when Thever had commanded; “One bends forward, makes a tripping step— seest thou?— tilts backwards, turns on their heel— sharply— there, thou seest—”

Now Chenelo tipped her face upwards, let her hair and the veil and the strands of pearls weigh her head back, felt the pendulum weight of her skirts and jewellery and hair swing with her as she turned. They split into three, crossed over, moved back— “There, thou seest—!” Thever called as she passed— and she could hear Holitho laughing, and Shaleän and Ursu singing. 

As she passed between Thever and Holitho, she caught sight of their father, leaning on the wall, watching them with an odd, glimmering little expression— Chenelo caught his eye, and he inclined his head the very slightest amount, before she was swept off by Ursu and lost sight of him. 

Shaleän had broken the dam; after that, even Thever would dance (although only with Kelru, or her sisters) and Chenelo stayed on the floor in spite of her aching knees. She was surprised when Maia came trotting eagerly up to claim her hand; she had not known he had ever been taught to dance, and she did not understand where he had learned it until she saw him dancing with Csethiro, conspicuous in white amongst all the red and purple and blue and green— she taught him, she realised, and was well pleased with the idea. He had been childish in his eagerness, and it reminded her of when she had used to ‘dance’ with him when he was very small, which mostly amounted to her whirling him around until they both fell to the rug dizzy and giggling, which made her giddy too. She danced with Maia three times; her father; Handsome Kelru; Shaleän; Thever; Rozena, who had used to dance with her when she was very small; Amaru; and Csevet, who was so good it was almost embarrassing for everyone else, and who told her about the Courier’s Artifice, the Summernight entertainment that took an immense amount of choreographing and arguing amongst the courier fleet.

Eventually, Chenelo staggered up onto the dais and sat on the top step, against a pillar, to watch the crowd. It had truly descended into chaos by now— Csethiro was a tad drunk, and pink in the ears and cheeks as a result, talking even more animatedly and gesturing furiously while Holitho nodded along. Zeveran and Shaleän were kissing fiercely and not very subtly behind a pillar— Handsome Kelru and Thever had disappeared entirely, which could have been either misbehaviour, or Thever just wanting to go home. Ursu, Malhis and Laru were watching Elthevo dancing with a Hezhethora’s son in an excessively amused manner which was absolutely going to get them in trouble. Also on the dance floor, a gaggle of young men were, frankly, showing off. Amongst them, she caught the flash of a familiar face, and recognised Csevet and Amaru, fast and ferocious in their courier's grace. One or both of them must have recognised or counted out the beats, because when they broke into a half-run, they were in time— and again, when Amaru almost threw him. He cast Csevet up, keeping only a hand locked in his and a grip on his elbow, at the same time Csevet jumped— he twisted nimbly mid-air, kicked out like a falling cat, and a ragged, slightly disbelieving cheer went up from the Alcethmeret dav, before he landed lightly and vanished again into the crowd with a toss of his head, Amaru at his side.

She was just wondering where Maia was, when she heard the Maru’var, somewhere behind her, say; “When I die, boy, the succession war will be bitter. There are men here who would stoop very low for a chance at victory.”

Chenelo was suddenly listening a lot more intently as Maia said, warily; “Yes.”

“There are often attempts to eliminate or subdue the old Avar's dav,” the Maru'var went on. “If their loyalty is unlikely to be guaranteed— which, for many of these men, will be the case. I want thy assurance that thou wilt give sanctuary to thy aunts and cousins, if they must flee the country. Especially Thever. She would be—” he hesitated. “The first, and easiest, target.”

“Of course,” said Maia uneasily.

“Thou couldst not be faulted for sheltering thy mother's family from a succession war, so long as thou dost not appear to favour a side. Assuming thou dost not intend to raise a banner in support of a… certain candidate. Which thou shouldst not do, as thy position is so precarious it would ruin thee and the Ethuverazhin naval power is next to nothing.” He added, apparently in response to some face Maia had pulled; “They'll snap thee like a twig, boy.”

“We do not intend to go to war, grandfather.”

“Good. Thou dost not even have promise of an heir yet— as far as I am aware, anyhow—” He paused expectantly. Maia said absolutely nothing. The Maru'var snorted and went on; “So t'would be a bad misstep to go and get thyself killed on the field when thine own country is barely stable.”

“As you say.”

“Good lad.” He paused, then said abruptly; “Where’s thy wife? Go and dance with thy wife, thou’rt still young yet— good woman, very martial, though she’s got that damned elven face, you never know what the elven women think about anything— off thou goest—”

Maia sighed, but Chenelo thought he smiled when he said, “Good night, grandfather. We will think on your— advice,” and went off down the steps, where he did promptly claim Csethiro’s hand and go off with her.

“The nerve of that boy,” the Avar muttered to himself, but he didn’t sound particularly reproachful— “Ah, there thou’rt.” 

Chenelo almost turned around, before she heard Thever say; “It’s too wretched hot in here.”

“Always is, girl. Where’s thy lapdog?”

“Dancing.”

“With who?” said the Maru’var suspiciously. Typical of him to assume all men took his lax approach to the sanctity of marriage. Chenelo was impressed that Thever held back a comment on it.

“Zeveran? Holitho? I’m sure I don’t care.” 

The Maru’var grunted. They stood in a tense silence for a moment— Chenelo could tell from the cadence of the Maru’var’s voice that he was drunk, and hopefully mellower as a result. Which was why it was no real surprise to her when he said, suddenly and petulantly;

“Oh, go to the wretched Ethuveraz if thou wish’t. At any rate I never have been able to stop thee doing as thou likest… and if thou didst jump off a cliff Handsome Kelru would jump too. Osreian’s’lud. Stupid boy. I was so surprised that a man had come treating for thy hand, let alone the most idiotic of Erizmed’s idiot sons, that I never wondered why thou wast suddenly so eager to marry him. I’d been turning a blind eye to thee letting him into thy rooms for years at that point. I should’ve realised thou wast trying to achieve liberty. Thou’rt just like Kalmiro.”

Their mother had gotten herself married to the Great Avar in part to have enough money to repay her gambling debts, and also to get out from under the thumb of her hateful father. Maru Sevraseched had been quite aware of what was going on, but Kalmiro had been beautiful, amazingly rude, well-dowried and well connected, and a fantastic hostess. There was simply no reason he would have turned her down; frankly, Chenelo thought he had been rather amused, if not outright impressed, by the audacity. 

“I will come back, Papa,” Thever said eventually, ignoring a large part of that rant. “I shouldn’t like to be stuck with those elves for a long time.”

“I suppose ‘twill be a practice journey of sorts, for when thou hast to flee this place and fling thyself onto the charity of the boy until thy sister wins the throne,” the Maru’var muttered. “Assuming thou didst think of that.” 

Chenelo watched Malhis and Laru dancing, and wondered how long this matter had been on their father’s mind.

“I assure thee I thought of’t,” said Thever tightly. “I spend a great deal of my time considering how best to prevent myself from being totally insane in front of people of import.”

“Facetiousness is one of thy worse traits, Thever.” Thever ignored him. “And thy sister? Will she be staying there?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Thever. “Tis less of an evil thought to leave her with that little scrap of a son, is’t not?”

“Perhaps,” said the Maru’var.

“Well, he has done a lot more in her interest than thou hast, of late,” said Thever waspishly. The Maru’var, to his dubious credit, did not upbraid her for that comment, probably because she was right. 

“Try to be civil with Nadeian,” he said at last. She must have frowned, because he said, “Now girl, I mean it. I care not at all for whatever injustices the two of thee have done to one another, but I do not want those elves thinking we are a fractured court. We are, as a people, known for the dav— and now of all times is not the moment to appear divided.”

Thever did not reply for a minute— then she said; "Most everything I might have forgiven her— certainly she was victim of my own petty disinterest, I will declare’t, and I am sure she truly does believe in my sanity, and merely despises me for my coldness and my banality— no doubt all of the lurid tales of my madness came from her Mama, and no one believes anything Verian says, not even her own daughter. But think only, Papa— it does not look well to disdain me upon grounds of my insanity… but it looks much better to think me merely a poor excuse for the lady of the Corat' Dav Arhos. She has given plenty of people a more palatable space in which to lay their disdain for me." She added dismally; "And I really have tried. I know thou dost not think it enough. But am I not here? Have I not been trying my best to be welcoming to the elves and Chenelo’s little son? Have I not come to sit through events while wanting to rip the skin off my arms, or without having eaten all day, or whilst seeing—” She stopped. “I have tried,” she said, again.

They were silent, a while. At last, the Maru’var sighed, and said, “Come and dance with thy old father, darling.” 

Chenelo knew an olive branch— and a restoration to public favour— when he offered one. So did Thever, although, she took an opportunity to have a bat at it, first;

“Go and ask Shaleän, she’s thy favourite.”

“A wretched handful, is what that woman is.”

“Which is why she’s thy favourite.”

“Thou’rt my favourite, Thever. Come now, come now, let us be friends again—” There was a slithering of heels as Thever apparently tried to stay in her seat, and failed, and then she laughed. They passed Chenelo’s sitting-spot and went down to the floor, the Maru’var leading her gently by the hand.

Chenelo wondered if he was actually telling the truth. She would not, she thought, have been entirely surprised if it was so. 

She sought out the closest chapel to the Corat’theziar much later, as the sun was rising and everyone had scattered through the halls and to antechambers. She picked her way over abandoned veils, lost earrings, and broken glasses— to find, when she shut the door against the clamour, that Holitho was in there too, leaning on the exposed balcony and looking out at the sea.

“Come to find somewhere quiet?” she said.

“Something of that sort.” Chenelo sat down wearily and took her shoes off, then got up to join her at the railing. “Thever and Father are friends again.” 

“Good,” said Holitho. “Twas ever thus. She would have been an excellent avarsin herself. Perpetual loyalty at the cost of constant petty scraps.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Chenelo, squinting into the rising sun. “I suppose thou wilt want me to look after Nadeian, when we go north?”

“I was going to tell Nadeian to keep an eye on thee, actually. She has been at the Untheileneise Court more recently than thou hast.”

“Oh.” Chenelo smiled uneasily. “We are all at cross purposes, then. We shall all have to keep an eye on one another. I suppose ‘tis better that way.” She paused. “Thou'rt not going to tell me to keep the other two civil?”

“No!” said Holitho. “Ay, no, absolutely not. Tis not thy job. I stay well out of that— I merely nod along while Nadeian rants. I have, however, given both of the husbands a serious talking-to… then again, I always bully Elret. Tis very easy, even if he talks back.”

“Poor Handsome Kelru,” said Chenelo. “He's had about ten talking-tos, as of late. And he doesn’t even retaliate.”

“One does wonder if it's going in,” Holitho said. “I can but hope.”

“They'll behave in front of Maia,” said Chenelo, somewhat doubtfully. “I think. I do not think they are so foolish as to not be cognizant they are in an entirely different court…”

“And they both think he’s the saddest puppy in the pound, so hence are not desirous of upsetting him with family feuds,” said Holitho. She saw Chenelo’s half-amused, half-exasperated stare. “I know he is an adult, but it is simply too tempting to fuss. He’s so… scrunched up, all the time.”

“I know,” said Chenelo heavily. “I feel—” She hesitated. “As if he’s traded his freedom for mine. A bargain of Ulis; I can only go and do as I like, because he cannot. He came to trail me this afternoon, because he cannot just go where he wishes on a whim like everybody else, and his face…” she stopped. “I suppose I should just be grateful we are both no longer relegated, but it is no sort of life to be surveilled every moment. Especially not for a young man.” 

“Ay, well,” said Holitho. “Sometimes…” 

She pointed down at the cove below them. Chenelo had noticed vaguely there were people in the surf; now, she noted the one conspicuous dark head amongst elves, the same time Csethiro's carrying shriek floated up to them, and several people fell over at the advent of a particularly big wave.

“I thought they’d all gone to bed,” Chenelo marvelled. She remembered Kiru and Telimezh’s expressions earlier, and thought she knew which set of nohecharei had come back on duty. Perhaps it had even been their idea.

A clamour down below; Csethiro threw something that looked suspiciously like either a crab or a chunk of seaweed at Csevet. Maia shouted, and several people fell over again; Chenelo, who knew the difference between Maia actually in danger and Maia mildly inconvenienced, decided that experience was his best teacher. 

“Officially, of course, I doubt this will have ever happened,” Holitho said.

“Naturally,” said Chenelo. “And no one will acknowledge it if it gets brought up.”

“I doubt that.”

“And we probably shouldn’t mention it to the firsts.”

“An they know already, I do not think the Lieutenant will be too happy to be reminded.”

Chapter Text

“When the old man dies, thou'rt out,” Shaleän said, underneath the roaring of the crowd watching the tiltyard matches. “Not just the court, but the country.” Pointing at Thever; “Thee and Handsome Kelru—” At Ursu; “Thee and thy girls, and Malhis if you can make him—” And between the remaining three of them; “And thee and thee and thee, if thou'rt here. The second the Reveth’avar’aiz rings, fucking run.”

It had been the conversation Chenelo had expected, albeit that it was being whispered in the corner of the Avar’s box at the joust, while Ursu’s daughters showed Maia and Csethiro how to bet on the matches (Csethiro was doing most of the actual betting), and Handsome Kelru and Captain Vizhenka fidgeted over in the competitor's lists. Perhaps Shaleän had chosen the location on purpose, though; the baying crowd and the skittish horses and the sweet woody tang of fresh sawdust over blood and vomit was supportive to her sense of urgency.

“So we are having it out in the open now, ay? He has named thee heir,” said Thever thinly. She was in a bad mood, prickly, evidently only here because Kelru was competing. She had co-opted Shaleän’s coat to cover her arms before she picked them bloody.

“Forgive me the subterfuge, my dear, I worried thou wouldst pitch a banner against me,” said Shaleän, only half joking.

“Perhaps if we were sounder of mind,” said Thever, also only half joking. A cheer went up as another man was unhorsed with a crash of armour; nearby, Maia winced.

Shaleän said; “Regardless of Thever’s traitorous intentions— there's a groom on standby in the East Stables, and another of my lads in the fifth court wine cellar. There's a third at The Sturgeon.”

“The zhoän?” said Holitho exasperatedly.

“The same,” said Shaleän. “They've instructions to get thee horses, a coach, whatever they can manage, and to get thee up to the border as fast as possible. Keep a bag packed.” 

“Shaleän—” Nadeian tried—

“He's not ill,” said Shaleän. “But he's not so well either. And he's not young.” To Ursu; “I think Malhis would do better going with thee. Kelru is not as useless as he looks, and I know thou’rt a crack shot with a crossbow, but the more people who can fight the better.”

“He thinks thou wilt need his help,” said Ursu, not quite disagreeing.

“One ship more or less will make no matter,” said Shaleän coolly. 

“I will raise’t, but I can promise nothing..."

Holitho protested; “Twill be naval, I will have to go back to the votary—”

“Don't be a fool, Holitho, they'll haul thee out for ransom,” Nadeian said tightly.

Holitho said, “They have to get to the point where they would storm a votary, first.”

“Thou’rt bound to give sanctuary to any sailor who comes for help, someone could shoot himself in the foot and then haul thee off—”

“It is my calling,” said Holitho stonily. “And surely they would not infiltrate a votary for one hostage.”

Shaleän shot Chenelo a thin look. “One hears something similar has been done before, but let us imagine our countrymen have a scraping more honour than the elves.” She spread her hands. “Thou’rt a woman grown, Holitho. If thou must take the risk thou wilt, but—”

“Does the same not apply for Zeveran, then?” said Holitho, a little pertly. 

Shaleän blinked once. “Zeveran will go with the rest of thee.” 

“I’ve heard otherwise,” said Holitho, glancing at where she was sitting, talking to Malhis and Elthevo.

Shaleän flexed her jaw. “She will go with thee, or else flee back to Solunee.” Chenelo knew then that they had already had this argument— and that Zeveran had no intent of going anywhere. But nearby, the Maru’var was getting up to read out the pairs he had set to ride against one another, so Shaleän muttered hastily; “Understand me, sisters— and for pity’s sake, be ready.”

The Great Avar always paired up the fights, in some ancient posturing mechanic to prove that the Great Avars were still good strategists and judges of combat ability. For his part, Maru Sevraseched had usually used them to entertain himself, humiliate political rivals… or settle disputes. And in his usual ability to destroy people’s composure, even unwittingly, he distracted them immensely by announcing;

“Kelru Erizmed, riding against Elret Vizhenka—”

“Papa!” burst out Nadeian, horrified. A jeer and some laughter went up from courtiers familiar with that particular rivalry. Shaleän and Ursu both laughed immensely, then saw Nadeian glaring and stopped, although only Ursu had the sense to look even a little bit ashamed of herself. Thever merely smiled coldly.

“Why, does she think he’s going to lose?” she said, loudly. Nadeian glowered at her past Holitho’s head. 

“Thou didst not tell him to—” Chenelo began.

“I never,” said Thever, adjusting her earrings. “Father has his own way of managing things, does he not? He tries something like this every few months. It never works.”

“Thou dost not seem particularly concerned.”

“Why should I be concerned? Kelru is going to win.”

“Thever, I know thou lovest him, but Kelru is six and forty. Vizhenka is eight and twenty.”

“Twenty extra years of practice,” said Thever. Chenelo saw Maia turn around to stare at them, dismayed, and shook her head in resignation.

“No one dies, Serenity,” said Ursu, catching the look. “...very often, anyway. Vizhenka and Handsome Kelru will be all right, they're both very experienced. Vizhenka is younger, but Kelru has been doing this since he was about twelve. It's the only martial thing he's good at.”

“...twelve?” said Maia doubtfully, at the same time Csethiro said Maia, we want this unbanned at home, and distracted him. He turned back to her; “What? Tis so horrible…”

“Poor pet’s going to have a fight to get that reinstated,” said Shaleän, lighting her pipe. “Ah, well. Technically true that Kelru is a jammy bastard at this— which suits him, because it would be fucking useless in a real fight.”

Holitho said, “Has he ever been in a real fight?”

“Not to my memory,” said Ursu. 

“Papa almost didn’t sign off on the marriage contract because of’t,” Nadeian said nastily. Thever curled her lip and tucked herself more securely into Shaleän’s jacket. Chenelo composed a hasty and very hopeful prayer to Anmura that neither of her sisters’ husbands killed the other.

Vizhenka won one bout and Kelru won two, and no one died, which was probably the best reasonable outcome— Thever had been too tired to truly tip over the edge from pleased to insufferably smug, but it had cheered her up, and she had still kissed Kelru inappropriately over the barrier, giving no heed to his bleeding nose. (Nadeian was heard to mumble that she hoped Kelru’s nose set crooked, but it did not, typically.) At any rate, they had not the time to argue about it, as both Nadeian and Thever were drawn into the flurry of packing and arranging and arguing which counted for organising their passage back to the Ethuveraz. They would travel by carriage back through Barizhan over the border to Sevezho, from where they would take an airship back to court; the imperial household looked uncomfortable with the idea of travelling by airship, and Chenelo could not blame them, but they went about arrangements with grim determination.

They said their goodbyes at the Corat'theziar doors; Chenelo felt uneasy and vulnerable and skittish, reminded of the last time she had departed Barizhan for the Ethuveraz— but with Maia hovering over her shoulder, she tried not to show it. 

Between their clasped hands, Holitho slipped something into her palm; Chenelo glanced down and saw she’d handed her an Ashevezhkheise pendant, strung with varnished fragments of shells. 

“So the lady might come inland with thee,” Holitho said. She hugged her; “I have changed my mind— do look after Nadeian after all.”

“I will try,” Chenelo promised her. “I thank thee, sister...” 

“Goodbye nohech’zhasan!” Shaleän was saying nearby, giving Csethiro a very hard thump on the shoulders. “I have been very pleased to meet thee, my ducky. An everything goes very wrong, just thou write to Auntie Shaleän, and she'll sail up and kill people for thee.”

Csethiro beamed. “Aunt, we will do it even an nothing is wrong at all, and have thee slay our ladies’ salon…” 

Maia was holding Big Cat at the fringe of the group, scratching his ears a little mournfully, promising to send his cousins a present from Cetho. 

“I think he’s gotten a little too attached to that wretched cat,” Ursu said, coming to stand next to her. “Tis a mighty curse.” She smiled at her; it was not like Ursu to make a fuss. “I hope thou likest the Untheileneise Court a little better this time.”

“I hope so too,” Chenelo said, more pathetically than she had meant. Ursu’s face scrunched in kind sympathy, and she said; 

“I think thou hast better champions, now.”

“I have had a great many mighty champions these past months,” Chenelo said. She accepted Ursu’s hug, and said; “I hope I will not next see thee in dire circumstances.”

“Don’t let Shaleän fearmonger to thee,” said Ursu smilingly, but she squeezed her hard before she let her go.

Fearmongering or no, Chenelo was alarmed to find herself panicking a little at the prospect of being separated from Shaleän; she had been, she realised, the first familiar face she'd seen after the cloister. Shaleän must have noticed, because she yanked her immediately into her immense arms.

“Now, my pet, now Chenelo,” she said, not letting go of her with any haste. “Have fun spending thy lad’s money, eh? Send us something expensive from the elves— and all the gossip, of course. And then, so long as thou wilt come back at some point, we can all be satisfied, hmm?”

“I can promise thee all of that,” Chenelo said. “Oh— Shaleän, sister, I cannot thank thee enough.”

“Ay, none of that,” said Shaleän. “I only had to do a pleasure cruise for my part in the whole affair.” She released her, and kissed both of her hands with some aplomb. 

“Ordatech’ekh, Arh’avar,” Chenelo whispered. It was the formal blessing to the Great Avar, part respectful address and part wish for good luck and good health.

“Hm! Cart, horse…” said Shaleän— but it was not lost on her that she also kissed her brow in the ritual manner before she released her. 

“Don’t stay when the fighting starts,” Chenelo said when she bid goodbye to Zeveran. “Zeveran, please.”

“Ay, but I must,” Zeveran said stoutly, tucking in the lace at Chenelo’s cuff— and, based on the sudden pressure of something cold, sneaking either money or jewellery into her sleeve. “I could not countenance myself otherwise. Thou knowst I must, or else thou wouldst not be going back to the serpent’s den in thy little son’s wake.”

Chenelo pursed her lips, and found that Zeveran had snuck a pair of earrings made in the fashion of the glorious dragon into her cuff. “...Csaivo save thee, sister.”

“She’s smiled on me so far,” said Zeveran. She smiled herself, at Chenelo’s mournful face. “Goodbye, lovely Chenelo— I would have thee think no more on’t. I have had mighty fun with thee, and I absolutely command that thou wilt write to me and tell me of all the immense wickedness of the noble elves.”

She was immense in her certainty, and Chenelo did not feel she could, or would, disagree with her. 

She turned and found her father, looking right at her— old and severe and very slightly despairing. Chenelo wondered suddenly if this would be the last time she saw him; she searched her intuition, found nothing. Perhaps Ulis had not decided.

He announced, a little petulantly; “I have sent Rozena and Hanet with the three of thee.”

Chenelo glanced over her shoulder, and found the two old Hezhethoreise soldiers talking to Handsome Kelru near the boats. Hanet saw her staring and winked. “...because they’re familiar to Thever?”

“Because they’re familiar to both of thee,” said the Maru’var stiffly.

“Ah,” said Chenelo. “Yes. Tis well.”

They stood in silence for a moment.

“Well, Chenelo,” the Maru’var said, eventually. 

“Well, Father,” Chenelo said, a little weary. She paused for a second— then relented, and said, “Goodbye, Papa.” She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. “An thou wilt read them, I will write to thee.”

“Can’t go without a parting shot, the pair of thee,” muttered the Maru’var. “I’ve had some choice words from thy whelp… ay, but 'tis all one. Goodbye, my Chenelo.” He clasped her hand in both of his for a moment, then let her go. “Keep an eye on thy sister.”

Chenelo knew he did not mean Nadeian. “I will, but—” She stopped. “Yes, all right.”

She turned around and found Maia waiting for her at the bottom of the steps, and felt just a little better for it.

The journey back through Barizhan and up into the Ethuveraz was just as tiresome as it had been the first time. They stayed at a variety of hotels invariably extravagant, all of which the nohecharei and edocharei inspected with immense suspicion, but the journey itself was uneventful miles of countryside and rattling cobblestone roads, the occasional town; Chenelo thought they were deliberately avoiding major cities. People stared, but perhaps wisely, the imperial party was travelling with more subtlety than they usually would have. Chenelo had heard Amaru say the words trade delegation several times, and suspected they were travelling under a variety of fake pretences, with their livery covered up, lacking the usual surfeit of white. They appeared noble, rich… but not necessarily imperial. Maia seemed to enjoy his minimal anonymity, and kept trying to talk to people while Csevet was arguing (usually via Amaru) with concierges, or the Untheileneise Guard and the grooms were getting horses reshod. He was popular with elderly goblin women, which amused Chenelo— although she was quite sure that some of them were merely pretending not to recognise the young part-goblin travelling with a ridiculous confection of elves. But it cheered him up, and she could only be grateful for it.

The dedication to safety also meant that Csethiro and Maia had been separated for what amounted to most of the journey;

“Put bluntly,” Csethiro had said, as Chenelo wondered amusedly if Csethiro ever made statements any other way, “It is a security measure, so if Maia is assassinated, we might survive long enough for it to be ascertained whether or not we are pregnant, and therefore what the fate of the Drazhada line should be.” She saw Chenelo's face. “Isn't it horrid? ‘tis why we didn't bring Prince Idra.”

So Chenelo travelled with Maia for the majority of it; she spent much of it embroidering over his head (given that he spent most of it asleep), and talking— in a manner which she knew was improprietous, but did not care— to the nohecharei. The seconds were willing conversationalists; Kiru was pragmatic and easy-mannered, more sensible of herself and others than the young men were, and full of interesting anecdotes about the charity hospitals of Csaivo that Maia listened to attentively. Telimezh was shy, and self-conscious, but could be prevailed on when it came to a few topics; he liked to talk about his family and their home farm near Calestho; he had a lot of crossover with Csethiro, and Chenelo’s kinsmen, when it came to weaponry and sports; and he knew a lot of folk and wonder-tales which had passed Chenelo by, not making the jump between the Ethuveraz and Barizhan. 

Maia seemed eventually to realise there was about ten years worth of things he hadn’t told her, and suddenly it all appeared in a flood, out of order and fragmented. The midnight letter from the Lord Chancellor, carried by Csevet; his coronation; the first and second coup attempts; their belongings auctioned for their upkeep at Edonomee; and his one and only meeting with his father, the matter of which made Chenelo bitter and distractible for the rest of the afternoon, although he tried to balm it with the matter of Osmerrem Danivaran— which went the other way, and made Chenelo so grateful to the poor dead woman she felt almost ill. He skirted around his relegation when he could, but Chenelo could not tell if he did not want to talk about it, or just thought it was not worth telling. 

The firsts were harder; Chenelo wondered if it was simply how they were, or if being the pair which had actualised their duty and their oaths had made them perpetually restive. Cala was mild, but dreamy and apparently nebulously inattentive— though Csethiro muttered that if one did something embarrassing around him, he would always have invariably noticed— and Beshelar so uptight, that between them, Chenelo was a little afraid to try and engage them. But a few days in, ten years of religious silence and the fatal nosiness that she’d had ever since she was small buckled her resolve, and had her saying;

"...Cala Athmaza, might we ask an impertinent question?"

Cala’s magnified eyes swung abruptly to stare at her. It was vaguely disconcerting, even when he smiled; "By all means, Zhas'maro."

"Well..." Chenelo hesitated, trying to shift Maia’s weight to alleviate some pressure on her shoulder, and mostly failing. It was not entirely comfortable to be serving as his pillow, but she did not have the heart to reject him. "We do not understand the nature of the Athmaz'are in the Ethuveraz. In Barizhan, if a child has an affinity and wishes to be trained, they will have to find a tutor, who might take them for an apprentice. But there is no central body, and they seem much more numerous in the Ethuveraz.” She felt abruptly foolish, and added; “Nobody ever did explain it to us, last time.”

But Cala was nodding; “It is because of the emperors, Zhas’maro. We do not think any Great Avar has ever tried to establish a full control over the mazei, but Edretanthiar the First was very desirous of it— the mazei had been a thorn in the side of the Ethuverazhin emperors since Edrevenivar the Conqueror had died. They had sworn loyalty to him, but not to any successive emperors— it was irritating his sons and grandsons that they could not assure that loyalty again, because they had been such a powerful force in the conquest. Edretanthiar had the idea to provide education, bed, board, protection, and honour to any maza who would swear loyalty to the crown. It took barely three emperors before the Mazan’theilean was connected to the court proper and total dedication to the crown was secured." He added, "The Athmaz'are is nominally a separate institution to the government, and nominally retains its independence, but it is nominal indeed. The Adremaza still swears loyalty to the emperor."

“And it is the only way you can learn to use maz in the Ethuveraz?”

“It is the only way one might call themself Dachenmaza or Athmaza and be entitled to the robe,” said Cala, indicating the corner of his maza’s robe with a slight kick of a skinny leg, like a tottering colt. “It is not the only way to learn, but it is the only way of being, ah, official. We learned many things before we came to Cetho from Teralian, a mazo who lived a few miles from our village— but she never joined the Athmaz’are, because when she was young they did not accept women, and when she was old she did not want to go to Cetho.”

“And why did you go?” said Chenelo.

“Because they own all the good books,” said Cala. Beshelar rolled his eyes. “We do not pretend to always agree with the Adremaza or the way that the Athmaz’are is managed, but we wanted the run of the universities and libraries.”

“What do you not agree with?” said Chenelo, catching Maia’s head as it slid off her shoulder and replacing him before he fell off the seat, or woke up properly. Cala looked vaguely impressed by the speed at which she had done that, then said;

"There are certain... stipulations. They do not like taking very young novices, so one must be thirteen before one can join— and unlike the couriers, they check, and can tell. And you must be able to read and write, they will not teach you— and at any rate the admissions exam is a written one. And you must be able to afford the travel to the capital for the exam, they will not help you."

Chenelo thought of Amaru, who had learned his letters from the courier fleet, and certainly would not have had the money to pay for the travel. "We see. That seems..."

"Obstructive? It is," said Cala. "They complain often about having no mazei, but won't try to widen the pool. But a lot of their extraneous funding, outside of the necessary funds that come from the crown, is from the noble houses who send their children as novices, and they would not very well like lots of mere commoners mixing with the well-bred." He smiled. "Even scholar's children are just barely tolerated."

"Is that what you are?"

"Our mama was a scholar, but she has since changed to teaching in a michen-schoolhouse instead," said Cala. "We don't think many of her colleagues much forgave her for forsaking alchemical research for it, but never mind. She sold our donkey to send us to Cetho to take the exam. But now she gets to brag to all her friends, so she cannot be too sorry."

Chenelo smiled. “And you, Lieutenant? Your family?”

Beshelar looked uncomfortable, and surprised to be suddenly called on, but to her surprise he did not try and turn down the question entirely. “We… our family are merely… petty Cetho gentry, Zhas’maro. Nothing very exceptional. We ourself were dedicated to Anmura when we were sixteen. We did two years on the Steppes, two in the Principate Guard for the Prince of Thu-Cethor, and four in the Untheileneise Guard before we were recommended for the post of nohecharis.”

“Most impressive. Did your parents not mind your long absences?”

“Our mother has lots of… hobbies,” said Beshelar reluctantly. “And five other children besides. We would not consider her— bereft, in our absence. She has three daughters to concern herself with. And our father has a son in the military, a son in the judicate, and a son in the prelacy, so he cannot be dissatisfied. They are— well-contented.”

Chenelo got the distinct impression that neither Osmer nor Osmerrem Beshelaran were exactly over-attentive parents.

“That is… a way of looking at it, Lieutenant,” she said, not quite agreeing. Beshelar nodded stiffly, apparently unwilling to unspool it any further. He was saved by their arrival at the next rest-stop; the carriage jerked to a halt, and Chenelo could hear Csethiro talking impatiently outside, presumably to one of her sisters;

“...could’ve saved us some time by letting us relieve ourselves in the woods an hour ago, like the soldiers, but there’s no accounting for being priggish… how far are we away from Belcoree? By evening? Ay. Anmura, it’s like going to the reveth’atha… where’s Maia?” 

Beshelar got up stiffly and opened the door; Chenelo turned her head as the nohecharei got up, and muttered into Maia’s hair;

“I know thou wast not asleep.”

“Those are the sorts of questions I cannot ask,” Maia said, sitting up and trying to re-pin his braids.  

“I know,” said Chenelo, taking the pin from him. “Let Avris do it, thou’rt making a mess. And thy wife is looking for thee.”

Thever had not been as upset as Chenelo had feared, but today she was agitated and distracted. Typically, she kept to her rooms when she was like this— it had been taught to her long ago by a great many gentlemen of the Corat' Dav Arhos that her presence was not desired when she was in this manner. Chenelo had never been sure that it was such a good idea, but of course now, the option was not available to her. She paced unhappily with Chenelo while they waited for the horses to be re-shoed and almost everyone else sat in the grass or went into the tea-house; the elven soldiers watched her suspiciously, a tad deridingly. Chenelo was a little surprised to see Nadeian hovering by Vizhenka's mount, looking genuinely discomfited. A small part of her had wondered if Thever and Handsome Kelru's claims that Nadeian did not understand the exact nature of Thever's affliction were quite true, but apparently they had not exaggerated.

Thever saw her arrive with Maia, and said, "Ay, Maia, lovely Maia, thy wife is ill-tempered indeed today. I played a few hands of bokh with her and her sisters, but she was mighty distractible. Even worse than me." Chenelo had the impression that the noblewomen had been milling between carriages as they felt like it, and was not surprised that Thever had opted to gamble with the Ceredin sisters. They were probably giving Csevet an organisational headache, though.

Several of the Zhas-attendants frowned at the informal address, including Beshelar, but Maia smiled ruefully. "Is she? T'will be a consequence of our destination."

Even with her attention somewhat fragmented, Thever loved gossip, and she looked expectantly at him, even though she was still digging her nails into her opposite hand. Chenelo gently detached her hands from each other, and took her arm to separate them. 

Maia said, "Our stop tonight is Belcoree, the summer seat of Csethiro's family, the Ceredada."

"Well, what is wrong with that?" said Thever. "Dost thou have very wicked in-laws?"

“The Ceredada… no, they are not malicious in the slightest, and they remain very loyal. We are sure they will be, er, enthusiastic hosts…”

Thever said, delightedly, “Ah, they're fools!”

“Perhaps that might be... closer to the truth,” Maia reluctantly.

“Oh dear,” said Thever, not sounding as if she thought it was a shame in the slightest. “I must assure her we all will enjoy nothing more than to meet with her kinsmen.” She looked up with sparkling malice at the mounted soldiers. “Isn’t it terrible to have embarrassing relatives?”

Chenelo had long assumed that all arrivals at noble houses were meant to be very choreographed; the servants at Isvaroë had been gamely prepared, and had lined the steps rigidly when the teenaged Chenelo and her baby had staggered out of the carriage at last. 

At Belcoree… well, certainly everyone was on the steps, and there had been some intent of a formal welcome, but it had fallen apart quickly. Someone had left a door open, and dogs rushed the area immediately— they gambolled and barked until a loud command from Csethiro had them trotting over to sniff hopefully at her hem. Two girls around Elthevo and Laru’s ages, who could only have been the two remaining sisters, broke out of their nursemaid’s control and came charging down the steps, only remembering at the last minute they were supposed to curtsey to their sister— then were saved by Csethiro giving up, and seizing them in a hug so aggressive their heads nearly knocked together. Maia had already been cornered by an elven man who must have been the Marquess Ceredel;

“We do declare, Serenity, we have never been so honoured in all the long years of our family’s history—”

“Marquess, we thank you for your hospitality.”

Next to him, there was a commotion where the Marchioness was trying to keep hold of a quarrelling baby hand; “Bow to the emperor, darling— Csathis, bow—”

“Please do not trouble yourself, Marchioness, he is very small still…”

“That's the heir to the marquisate,” Amaru murmured to Chenelo. “Csathis Ceredar II. Quite the fuss when he was born.”

Chenelo glanced over at him, and saw twin pursed lips— Csevet's in immense and roiling disapproval, Amaru's in suppressed mirth.

The Ceredin sisters, nearby; “Anmura, what is Father wearing?”

“Don’t, I can’t bear it…”

“Where’s Merrem Heraran?”

“Dead from the shame?”

“Take them around the side!” someone yelled from the baggage train.

It was then that the Marquess Ceredel, an unimpressive man with Csethiro's weak chin, zeroed in on them like an eager dog. He was ensconced in a happy, but unflattering, bright yellow jerkin of watered silk, which reflected onto his elven complexion and and consequently made him look a little jaundiced.

“Dear ladies, please, welcome—” He seized Chenelo’s hand and kissed it, clearly inferring her identity from the fact she was the only one of the three goblin sisters not hanging onto a husband's arm in bewilderment. “Zhas’maro, tis a great pity we never had an opportunity to meet when we were first at court— allow us to be the first to tell you that we were shocked, nay, appalled, to hear of your terrible maltreatment. We are so pleased to find ourself kinsmen through marriage, and we can assure you we are eternally loyal to your son the emperor and the house of Drazh’.”

“...thank you, Marquess,” said Chenelo, a little bewildered. “That is very kind of you.”

“Stones and glass houses, I own… but what an odd man,” said Thever in amazement once he’d gone trotting off again. “Are they all like this?”

Belcoree itself was a charming manor of long galleries and winding square staircases, set around a sunny courtyard with an immense old oak tree in the centre, beginning to determinedly shed its amber leaves in great piles. The gardens were sweeping and manicured, and the promise of a lake glinted in the distance. It seemed to Chenelo that it should have been a peaceful summer retreat for Maia’s in-laws, and it would have been a very nice place for the Ceredin girls to grow up. But the more time they spent in Ceredel's company, the more she had increasingly little idea how he had possibly produced such mighty daughters; he was an affable enough man, but a total idiot. He insisted on personally giving them a tour of the estate, and kept making attempts at macho posturing, apparently for the benefits of his two sons in law. Chenelo had not had much chance to speak with Dach'osmer Doreshar, Emiro’s husband— partially because he did not appear to speak much at all— but he looked just as flummoxed as Maia did. Their wives looked variously agonised; Emiro seemed half-amused, but Csethiro ground her teeth and walked ahead of them at some speed.

Still, it endeared Chenelo to the Marquess that the obvious way to please him was to compliment his daughters— he lit up like a branded torch the second Chenelo expressed her admiration for Csethiro.

“Is she not so fine? We suppose we must say so, we are her father, but we were never so great or so clever—” At least, Chenelo thought amusedly, he was a little bit self-aware— “We have quite panicked without her, we thought everything would fall apart! But she cleverly had all the affairs she managed organised before she moved to the Alcethmeret, and she still remembers where all the files are, when we forget…” He nodded happily at Csethiro’s back. “She used to beat us around the knees with a stick and tell us she was killing giants, so we had always told Saleheio— her mother, our late first wife, you know— that we expected very mighty things for her even from when she was very small.”

Saleheio— they had named the youngest daughter after her mother. Chenelo knew then, in cold certainty, what it was the first Marchioness Ceredaran had died of. No one named children after the matriarchs, otherwise. 

Why had she not thought about where Csethiro's mother was? Perhaps because it was so common for aristocratic women to have none. She did not even remember her own mother particularly well, besides fragments— although it had been a seasonal sessiva, not childbirth, which had killed Kalmiro. 

She forced herself to smile; “In that matter you were certainly prescient.” 

Dinner was also light farce. Chenelo and her sisters were marooned at the other end of the table with the Marchioness and Csethiro, trapped in their places in the elven dining fashion. Csethiro's face became grimmer and grimmer with every minute, as she was battered with questions, anecdotes, suggestions, and arguments. Her little sisters wanted her attention— but so did her stepmother the Marchioness— but so did a number of her miscellaneous kinsmen— and she kept shooting desperate looks down the table, obviously worried about what Ceredel was saying to Maia.

“He won’t mind,” Chenelo said quietly to her while the Marchioness was talking to (flirting desperately with) a slightly askance Handsome Kelru. Thever did not appear to care.

“Csevet and Beshelar will,” muttered Csethiro. “Besides, it doesn’t matter if he minds, it matters that our father is making an ass of himself, again—” She snapped; “Iru.”

Iru, the elder of the two michen-Ceredin sisters, stopped whatever she had been doing, which had obviously been intended to menace Saleheio. “I wasn’t!”

“Thou wast.”

“They have fought so much, Zhasan!” said the Marchioness plaintively.

"Have they indeed?" 

“Min Lirein and ourself, we have said, now, we will tell thy sister, and they stop for a little while, but then—”

“Csethiro, we haven't!” Saleheio shouted over her. 

“We’ll talk about it later,” said Csethiro, with menace. Chenelo could not resist a certain sympathy with the younger sisters. The horror of being small and being passed over to the lawless disciplinary evil that was your older sister was truly vast— although she suspected Thever was markedly meaner than Csethiro.

“Well— the fighting is something that they grow out of, we are sure!” The Marchioness said, with the slightly thin note of a woman trying to convince herself of an untruth. “They will yet make a good model for Csathis, we hope…” 

The three sisters Sevraseched all found something different to interest them in the table arrangement. Csethiro refilled her wineglass.

“To be sure, Marchioness,” said Kelru kindly.

The second it was even remotely allowed, Csethiro flung down her napkin and announced, carryingly, “We are retiring, we have a megrym.”

With no further preamble she went sweeping off, leading to a certain scuffle as her ladies scrambled in her wake. Chenelo lingered for a minute— then, once the Marchioness was distracted with asking Nadeian about chopines, she got up and followed her. 

Chenelo eventually found Csethiro sitting in one of the long galleries, on a low bench against the wall, arms crossed tightly and feet splayed. She sprung up when she saw her, and looked a little embarrassed to be caught sulking.

“We must stop sneaking up on you.” Chenelo looked around, surprised she was alone, and allowed to be alone. Then again, she had grown up here.

Csethiro shook her head. “We think we must make an apology, for our kinsmen. We know they are... embarrassing." 

“Oh— no,” said Chenelo, not entirely convincingly. She added; “Well, they are not materially worse than ours.”

“Hah. We will not compete with you, but we know which we prefer.” Csethiro glanced at the opposite wall, and her face struggled. She stood very still for a moment, then said; “We are sorry that we have been… strange. Vacillating between over-familiar and distant. We know we have been.”

Chenelo could not think of a kind denial of that, so did not say anything. 

“The truth is we are— jealous,” said Csethiro. 

“...jealous,” said Chenelo, who had known that this was coming from the second Ceredel had said late wife.

Csethiro made an awkward, stiff little shrug. “Our mother is dead, and there is no chance that she will be found alive in a convent. We were there when she died— childbed fever, in the attempt to bear our father a son. As ever ‘tis for noblewomen. They noticed too late, too busy arguing when it was just another girl. But when the prelates left, we re-braided her hair because she hated those sorts of clerical braids— and we swapped her jewellery— and we made sure she was buried in her favourite house-dress, an utterly heinous orange number that she somehow made look magnificent. We know quite well there is no chance.” She smiled thinly. “So— yes, jealous. We own ourself surprised Maia has not told you. He guessed instantly.”

“We had not realised, until your father mentioned his late wife today,” said Chenelo. “Forgive us, we had not thought. Of course it must be… strange.”

Csethiro shook her head and made a vague noise of dismissal, then dragged her hand over her face wearily. Chenelo felt suddenly horribly sorry for her. She had become matriarch of a great house and a stand-in mother to her sisters at fifteen, and the second her father had had a chance, he had shuttled her off to do it all again in the greatest house of all. At least Chenelo had had a fairly idle childhood— although it had made the shock all the greater, she supposed.

“...is this her?” said Chenelo, looking up at the portrait Csethiro was in front of.

“Oh, yes. We wanted her in the entrance hall, so she could be a great big busybody and look at everyone coming in and out, but we were outvoted. So instead, we all go to her grave while we are here and tell her the season's gossip. We do it every year. We shall go tomorrow morning, before we leave.”

“It seems you may have rather a lot to tell her,” Chenelo said gently.

“Yes, rather…”

The portrait was of an elven woman perhaps only a little older than Csethiro was now, wearing a violet court gown of the sort that had been fashionable when Chenelo had been there— and, unusually for portraits, smiling. It was not a particularly demure smile, and probably could have been called a smirk. It gave the perpetual impression that she was about to start laughing, either at someone behind the frame, or the viewer. It was evident that she was Csethiro’s mother; the long nose and deep-set eyes were the same, and the round turn of the cheeks. She held one daughter, and had another, a little older, clinging to her skirts.

“It's the only good likeness of her,” said Csethiro. “The rest painted her thin and beautiful. We hated it, but she used to laugh at it and call her— the her in the paintings— Salezheio. She was stout and only a little lovely and very funny, and she was... my mother.” Chenelo had half expected her to cry— she didn’t, but her white aristocratic face was very pale, and very tense. Then she smiled with some effort, and pointed at the child clinging to Saleheio’s skirts. “That’s me.”

So it was; Chenelo smiled at the suspicious, part-hostile stare the painter was getting, and the defensive clutching of Saleheio’s leg.

“Trying to get me to stand still was, apparently, a task,” Csethiro said. “Mama bribed me in the end. She said she’d take me to the michen’opera if I stayed still for the nice Dachensol.”

“What is the michen’opera?”

“Operas staged specifically for children. All the quaint stories, like the garden bits of The Dream of the Empress Corivero.”

Chenelo thought with a pang that Maia would have liked that very much, but even if she had known about them, she never would have been allowed to take him out of Isvaroë. “I am sorry that I never saw her at court.”

“She hardly came to court when we were all small— she stayed here with us. She made her friends and her sisters send her the gossip. I believe she was at thy wedding, but, well. Everybody is at imperial weddings. I kept thinking about how many people would notice if I fainted under the weight of my veil, and if Maia would be fast enough to break my fall.”

Chenelo smiled ruefully. “So did I. I think thou hadst much better chances of being caught, though.” 

They laughed, a little bitterly; Csethiro looked up at the portrait again, and shook her head. 

“I know…” said Chenelo slowly, thinking of Csethiro’s coolness with the current Marchioness, “That nobody wants a replacement. Thever used to terrorise women who wanted to be our stepmother, then get away with it by saying no mother will I but Kalmiro to our father, which was hard for him to argue with, not that he ever had any intent to marry again, really. But for what it is worth— which is probably rather less than I would like— I always fancied that I might like a daughter, too.” 

To her immense surprise, wry, cool-faced Csethiro hugged her. What was less surprising was that she hugged in the same way that she did everything else— with immense brisk decisiveness, and no small amount of strength. 

“Thou’rt just like him,” Csethiro mumbled over her shoulder. 

“I think thou mean’st that he’s like me,” said Chenelo, which made her laugh. “He even stole my signet ring.”

“He’s sorry about that. He was trying to contrive a way to hand it back over.”

“Oh, no. I’ll use my barbarian thumbprint instead.”

Csethiro let go of her; “Well, I will very selfishly accept thy suit, and I shall go and tell Maia that I have stolen his mother in lieu of my own, and that I make no promises about giving her back, or indeed even sharing with any particular largesse.” She looked at the floor, then back up at the portrait, then snorted explosively. “She would have laughed herself senseless had she known Papa had bartered me off as Zhasan. Probably fallen to the floor theatrically, and made me help her up. But at least I do not have to stop her trying to treat Maia like a small damp animal. I know she would have tried to pinch his cheek like a Dachenmaro, and that is just far too much… you must have noticed women of a certain age love him.”

“I had seen something of that ilk occurring,” said Chenelo amusedly. She looked at Csethiro for a second, then said, “Will you show us? Thy mother's grave?”

Csethiro looked at her in surprise— then smiled. “Yes, all right.”

The Ceredada mausoleum was a typical pillared ulimeire in the elven style, sitting dourly in the lowering light, surrounded by a looming wooded area and a bank of determined yellow chrysanthemums, still clinging on before the first frosts.

Csethiro unlatched the gate and said, gamely, “How now, old woman. Brought the mother in law for thee.” She saw Chenelo's look; “She was actually only about thy age when she died, but she was vain and I liked to tease her…” 

The tomb of the Marchioness Saleheio was easily identifiable by the festoon of offerings around its base; flowers had come and gone, but wind and age-battered stuffed animals, colourful rocks, and trinkets sat in little piles along the base of the mausoleum. Some of them had probably been there since she had been buried. Chenelo counted back on how old her daughters would have been when she had died; fifteen, twelve, eight, three, and newborn. No doubt, in fact.

Chenelo made the warding sigil of Ulis and muttered the prayer of compassion for the dead— then, after a moment of thought, prayed to Csaivo as well. 

Csethiro was standing with her hands behind her back, squinting at the tomb— then she crouched and started rearranging the piles of offerings. Chenelo had the sense that she did this often.

“Was she very tidy?”

“With her things? No. With ours? Yes.” Csethiro arranged some toy geese, then said, abruptly; “I went to thy tomb, actually. Just before I was married. Paying my respects and suchlike. I can't say I did anything very interesting, but I lit thee a candle in the all-gods, and sat about.”

“...ah,” said Chenelo, the question she had not quite wanted to verbalise suddenly answered. She was a little grateful for it. She smiled weakly; “Well— I thank thee. I suppose there's… no body at all, in there?”

“I hope not,” said Csethiro. “I think they probably have checked.” She paused; “I admit I do not know what the candle is for. I was just copying Maia.”

“They are for lots of things,” said Chenelo, coming to kneel next to her, and help pick up the dead flowers. “For prayer, the light and the heat and the smoke are meant to draw the attention of the petitioned god or gods. For the dead, it's not so very different. In Barizhan we believe the land of the dead across the River of Tears is very dark; the candles are meant to be visible, to draw the attention of the shades back across the bank, and remind them that there are people in the world of the living who think of them, and love them still.”

“Oh,” said Csethiro, pausing to wedge a whittled turtle more securely into a niche. “I rather like that.”

Footsteps on the steps behind them made them both jump— but it was just Maia (and the seconds), looking startled and slightly guilty. 

“Ah,” he said. He looked, Chenelo thought, embarrassed to be caught. “I just thought I’d… well… thy mother…”

He trailed off, ears sinking a little. He had in the crook of his arm a slightly scraggly bouquet of damp chrysanthemums he had clearly just scrounged from the woodland, which he gestured weakly with. 

Csethiro got slowly to her feet and dusted her backside and knees down, staring at him for a long moment without actually saying anything. Maia threw Chenelo a slightly panicked look—

Csethiro took two strides of immense length, seized him, and kissed him directly on the mouth. Kiru Athmaza looked unfazed; Lieutenant Telimezh looked in embarrassment at the carved ceiling. Chenelo found herself glancing at the tomb of Saleheio Ceredaran in something between solidarity, and regret that she was not alive to be amused by this.

“Maia, thou'rt so good it's frankly intolerable," Csethiro said. "Go on, then. Old vanity, oh yes, she will be mightily pleased to have honours done to her by the emperor. Come on, Chenelo, we know when we are outdone—”

Smiling, Chenelo bowed her goodbye to the Marchioness, gave a slightly befuddled Maia a pat, and left him to make his offerings.

The Ceredada were, on the whole, ridiculous, but Chenelo found herself a little sorry to leave their overconfident and distracting company as they proceeded to Sevezho— and the airship boarding— especially as they left a few of Csethiro’s attendants, including Emiro, with them. Most of the more prominent courtiers were still at their country retreats, and would not return to court for another few weeks, when the season officially began at the end of October, with the recommencement of Parliament and the House of Blood. Chenelo did not think that this return date had been picked by accident, and added it to the already considerable list of things she should be grateful to Csevet for.

She stood anxiously out of the way as the nohecharei swept the cabin of the Veneration of Sevezhho and Maia’s echocharei skittered anxiously— Nemer in particular looked frightened, and trailed close to Maia’s hem. Chenelo doubted he had ever been on an airship before he had come into imperial service, and his predecessor had died on one. Csevet stood silent and cool-faced in the opposite corner, watching ceaselessly; Chenelo thought he was a little sorry to be separated from the pack of couriers and outriders he’d been riding with. He had claimed convenience, but Chenelo knew he had really just wanted to sit a horse and ride at ill-advised speeds again. 

The crew were anxious to assert their competence and caution, excessively so; Maia merely looked about once, then said calmly— “Captain, we have every confidence in the competence and good intent of yourself and your crew. Please do not trouble yourself.”

The pilot stared anxiously at him for an extra beat, then blinked, coloured, and bowed deeply. “Serenity.” He vanished into the cockpit; Beshelar frowned.

“Serenity, that was premature.”

“If anyone was going to blow us up, Lieutenant, it would be too late now,” said Avris testily. Chenelo made a warding gesture. “Apologies, Zhas’maro.”

“It’s all right.” Chenelo had been in an airship exactly once in her life, and she had spent all of it trying to soothe the infant Maia, who unsurprisingly had taken fright at the whole operation. She had made her original journey to court entirely by carriage. She glanced at the adult Maia, frowning over the news-sheet in his lap.

“I thought newspapers had been banned at court,” she said. “By thy father.”

“They were,” said Maia, folding over a page and looking up. Compared to everyone else, he seemed surprisingly— well, serene. But then, he had taken an airship to court, not twenty-four hours after his father's had come down. Perhaps he felt he would never take a risk that extreme again. “We overturned it a few months ago. Along with the photography ban.”

“Restrictions of my era,” said Chenelo thinly. “New technology in its infancy, but even an thy father had not been conservative, he did not want his disastrous marriage excessively publicised where the courtiers could access it. And he thought newspapermen to be charlatans.”

“I am told he was not a man who liked to be seen to be mistaken, so that does not surprise me.” Maia gave her a short, sideways look, thoughtful, then returned his eyes to the paper, but did not appear to read anything. Perhaps it was not advisable to give him new reasons to hate his father. “They will not become fashionable quickly, and we only import the Cetho broadsheets for now, but they’re permitted. It felt… tyrannical, to have them forbidden in court, but running everywhere else.”

“And the Zhasan wanted to read the satires and the academic periodicals,” said Csevet, scribbling in the corner, apparently unperturbed. “And did not feel that she could continue to… unlawfully obtain them, once she was Empress.”

“And that,” said Maia, the corner of his mouth curling slightly. 

The roar of the engines kicked in, severing any opportunity for further conversation. It would be at least two hours— but, too nervous to try and sleep, Chenelo settled for reading the augurs’ divinations for the Winter Solstice over Maia’s shoulder.

Chenelo had learned a great deal in preparation for her marriage to Varenechibel— chief amongst them the language, the culture, and the history of the Untheileneise Court. No one had ever bothered to give her the opportunity to use much of the knowledge, merely whisking her from event to event and then back to her rooms like an inconvenient child, sneering at her barbarian accent all the while— but her understanding had never been deficient, even if everything else had. Now, as the Veneration of Sevezho descended towards the citadel of the Ethuverazhin emperors, she fell to nervous mental re-runs of the information. It had been designed by Edrethelema III, and continued to be built during the consecutive reigns of his son, grandson, and great-grandson. It was ostensibly homogenous in its style, but only in the ‘new’ public corridors; the ancient servants’ corridors and the kitchens and the prisons, they were old, old stone— warrens, burrows. Some of the less fashionable corridors had hints at the ancient palace, too; staring caryatids, painted floors. Chenelo had talked to one of the goblin serving-girls during her lying-in, a girl from the Pelanra called Kelver, who had explained to her how all the major households excepting the Alcethmeret had a tunnel or two linking their servants’ quarters, and that a quick courier could get from the south-east wing Ceredada apartments to the north-west wing Bazhevada apartments in less than fifteen minutes, if they ran. Not longer after that, she had left the cycle of servants that had tended to her quarters; Chenelo had always suspected one of her ladies had told Varenechibel that she was being over-familiar, and she had hoped fervently that she had not gotten her in trouble. At Isvaroë the staff had cycled in and out, never there for more than six months at a time, and all cool, remote— largely disinterested and over-proprietous. 

The court looked, as she had always thought, like a great pale dragon from a wonder-tale, crouching on its plunder; it sprawled almost threateningly towards Cetho, which was dwarfed almost entirely by its bulk— looming its towers over the city like a hand held up in threat. Through the small, foggy windows of the cabin, it looked hazy and shifting, inarticulate. Maia watched the descent with staid, solemn eyes, betraying nothing and saying nothing, but when they stood up to disembark, Chenelo knew he offered her his arm for reasons beyond stability. 

Still Chenelo tried not to let her legs shake as they descended the staircase; Maia stopped at the bottom to thank the crew, and Chenelo echoed a similar, if vaguely inane, sentiment, watching with some relief the Fidelity of Sevezho replacing her sister ship, and hearing Csethiro’s carrying voice from somewhere up the mooring mast. Cala made a relieved sort of expression when she caught his eye; Beshelar was still looking hither and thither in immense suspicion, as if the covered walkway leading to the palace doors was suddenly going to launch an attack on them. They were the only ships disembarking; Chenelo assumed the airspace had been cleared for them.

It was a cold, gloomy sort of day, the clouds high but oppressive. If they sunk any lower, they would obscure the peaks of the towers, and Chenelo thought they might expect snow— she resigned herself glumly to the cold, echoing sort of winter that the elves always experienced. Just so long as thy knee joints do not seize up and maroon thee in thy room again, she thought. They had done so about five winters ago, at the cloister.

The palace doors were opened, and to Chenelo’s surprise, a lone woman emerged, hair in a severe servant’s crop, wearing the Drazhada livery; as she got closer, her stride brisk and perfectly measured, Chenelo realised it was Varenechibel’s— now Maia’s— household steward, Merrem Esaran. She had aged, naturally, but otherwise she looked very much the same. Chenelo reminded herself it was unlikely the woman had ever held her any personal ill will outside of mere duty, and further, she was certainly not going to be an obstacle to her when the emperor she served was Chenelo’s son who loved her, not her late husband who had hated her.

Nonetheless, she shrank back to stand with the seconds as Esaran approached Maia; Lieutenant Telimezh smiled at her, then looked up at the towers of the palace. “When we came to Cetho to join the Untheileneise Guard, we were fifteen, and our elder sister terrorised us by telling us that the court was haunted by the revenants of those who had gotten lost in the corridors and died. We would not go into the basements without a patrol partner for years.”

Chenelo smiled. “That sounds like something Thever would have said to us. Are they haunted?”

“No more than most ancient places,” said Kiru softly. “Not excessively. Or dangerously.”

“We are not sure if that makes us feel better,” said Telimezh.

Chenelo had never thought about how Kiru’s mazei gifts intersected with her religious calling, but now was not the time to ask; and at any rate Thever was approaching, dogged by Chenelo’s ladies, the Hezhethora, and Kelru.

“That was horrible,” she said. “It sounded like the revetharkarai. Papa was right about travelling by coaches.”

She seemed a little frayed, and was trailing Handsome Kelru behind her like a shawl, or a puppy on a leash, but Chenelo could not entirely fault her comparison to the demon-hounds of the dead. “No, I did not like it very much, either...”

Chenelo would not have gone so far as to say she was scurrying after Maia, but she did stick rather close to his hem as they proceeded down the stark white corridors; Merrem Esaran, Csevet, and the firsts flanking the imperial couple, Chenelo trotting nervously at her son’s heels. Thever and her ladies were all contriving to look bored, but Larian kept glancing up and about in interest; the Hezhethora bristled at any courtiers or messengers who passed too close to Chenelo. It was midday, but the noble families’ general absences made the halls emptier than they would have otherwise been— the people who did see them pressed themselves to the wall and made the appropriate obeisances. The only goblin faces were servants or couriers or clerks; the courtiers’ faces were invariably white, remote, their pallid eyes trailing the imperial party long after they’d passed. Chenelo tried not to meet anyone’s gaze, but it was hard; most of them seemed to be trained on her. The advantage of Maia’s household being almost entirely composed of young men was that they were all too young to remember her first stint in court; but Chenelo knew these glittering courtiers remembered the girl she had been. Thever promptly abandoned Kelru’s arm for her sister’s instead.

The Alcethmeret was as it had ever been; the opulent tower lined with iron grilles like champing black teeth. It had always disturbed her that the lower Alcethmeret grilles often stood open to all who wanted access, and she liked it even less now that it was her son who lived there.

“Showy…” Thever murmured, giving a bit of gilded wallpaper a flick. Nadeian made a vaguely affirmative noise.

“This whole court is,” whispered Peru.

Still, those who did live there seemed relieved to be home; Csethiro sighed and went off down the hall, presumably to her rooms or a sitting room, with her ladies following her. Csevet entered into a low-voiced discussion with Merrem Esaran, then accepted with some chagrin a pile of papers from one of many boys who had come scampering and flocked about him, which he flipped briskly and frowningly through. “Most of these could have been a pneumatic… please do take them to our office, Lazhis, we will look them over later.” 

“Csevet has been collecting couriers, making them his under-secretaries or household pages.” Amaru, suddenly at her elbow, low-voiced. “Boys who have had injuries, who were unhorsed, who were—” He looked a little grim, for a moment. “Ill-used. Who would not have had a living otherwise. But once they have the cat on their livery, they’re untouchable.”

“That is very— noble of him,” said Chenelo. There were boys in that group probably as young as fourteen. “How is he getting away with it? It cannot be a scheme entirely approved of.”

“Under-secretaries, couriers, pages… they are far below people’s notice at this court.” They both watched Maia listening patiently to one of Csevet's slightly stammering under-secretaries. “...most people’s, at any rate. We will go and inquire after where you all ought to be going.”

“Could you see to Thever first? We do not mind waiting.” He nodded. “Thank you, Amaru…”

He went, but almost as soon as he had retreated, Merrem Esaran approached her, and curtsied with crisp accuracy. “Zhas’maro. Until a steward is appointed for you, we will be managing your household at court.”

“Thank you, Merrem. Please do not overburden yourself, we do not— wish to be an inconvenience, and we know you must be very busy...”

She earned herself a flat, vaguely unimpressed look, although it was also deeply unsurprised. Chenelo internally winced. It was not the sort of thing one said to elven servants, and especially not Merrem Esaran.

“Do you have any specific wishes for who might make up your household?” said Esaran, disregarding her comment entirely. “His Serenity and Mer Aisava both made some recommendations on your behalf, and we realised you have brought with you your own women—” She made a vague gesture at Mero, who did not recognise the words but obviously didn’t like the tone— “But nonetheless we felt it would be proper to seek your input.”

Chenelo thought quickly— then, feigning innocence, said; “Oh, but— well, might we not have Mer Derenzha? In some capacity? We do not wish to steal him from the craftsmen, but he has been a great help to us these past few months…”

She had assumed it made no matter if Merrem Esaran thought she was an idiot, since she already had that reputation— but this time, the look was different. 

“...no doubt if a great house is desirous of his service, and he is willing, something can be decided with the courier office,” said Esaran, with something that almost looked like approval. She gave Chenelo a slow, thoughtful look, then turned to call Csevet over; “Mer Aisava? The Zhas’maro has requested Mer Derenzha for her household, might you see if it is feasible?”

It was truly incredible to watch Csevet’s brain work; within two glances— one at her, one at Esaran— he seemed to have worked out exactly what was happening. “We are sure an— arrangement can be made.”

“We do hope so,” said Chenelo. He vanished with a crisp bow, which Chenelo thought was more to hide his face than anything else. 

She looked around at the generalised flapping and fussing. Settling households was always a nightmare, no matter how well-oiled the machine. She wanted to go and sit down, but more than that, she wanted to be somewhere quiet… “Merrem, do you think it would be more convenient if we absented ourself to the Untheileneise’meire for an hour or so, while… while arrangements are made?” 

“We think,” said Merrem Esaran, watching Csevet and Amaru having some sort of very animated conversation through mostly eye contact, “That might be an idea of merit, Zhas’maro.”

Chenelo turned to Mero, but she was already waving a hand. “We’ll go with Thever. Send someone to retrieve us when we are needed.”

And so Chenelo went only with Rozena, a page, and two wide-eyed Untheileneise guardsmen to the Untheileneise’meire. It was the only place in the court she’d ever learned the route to, but the page, whose name was Deralis, looked so eager to take her that she could not have refused him— he marched happily at her elbow the whole way. The great white cavernous space, dotted with dark chapels, was almost entirely deserted, except for a few agog canons, who kept their distance with customary bows. She left her guards outside and settled herself back in her little all-gods chapel, and was gratified to find, from the boxes of candles wedged in the window-niche, and the candle stubs dotting the window ledges, that it had obviously seen use from Maia— and, based on the odd Anmureise augury dedications, from Csethiro as well. 

She sat for a long time in the cold chapel, sweet with the smell of burning wicks and melting beeswax, and meditated for as long as she dared, grounded by the languid drip of the Csaiveise water-clock in the corner. She did not know if it was entirely well for her to fall back into her old habit of praying when she was ill at ease, here, but there was something vaguely comforting in finding the little chapel as white and cool as it had ever been. The gods, at least, were something that did not change.

She felt a little better, or at least a little more still, as she left— which was possibly what gave her the confidence to stop before the ring of Drazhada tombs on the far side. After a moment of hesitation, she got up onto the lip, and followed the line of dead empresses, until she found Leshan Drazharan and Pazhiro Drazharan, and stopped for a moment, to pray over her predecessors, and say for Pazhiro the same rote words she had said for Saleheio, both women lost to childbirth. Then, beside them, at the end of the line; Chenelo Drazharan. 

There was a stubborn bunch of sewn silk flowers, tucked at the bottom of the step; Chenelo suspected they had been left by her daughter in law. Flowers were not the Barizheise fashion, so she doubted it had been Nadaro or Nadeian. But the tomb had been uneasily taped off; Chenelo was not sure they knew what to do with it. She was not sure she knew, either. She stepped over the ribbon and mounted the step at the edge of her own coffin. 

The bas-relief that was ostensibly meant to be her bore no resemblance to how she really looked, or indeed had ever looked. The dachensol who had carved it had evidently never seen her, or a portrait of her, and Chenelo did not think he had ever carved a goblin before. It was not her. It had never been her. Perhaps Varenechibel had had the job rushed, out of panic of being discovered; but somehow she thought that it would never have occurred to him to see if it was accurate— nor would he have seen any issue with the fact it was not.

“Well, Chenelo Zhasan, thou'rt long gone now,” she said softly. “And thy Archduke Maia with thee.”

She looked at the empty space beside her tomb— then stepped down, and touched her hands over her carved-self’s eyes. It was an archaism, not even really used by the modern Barizheisei, but she remembered seeing Thever doing it at their mother’s funeral, before they had lit the pyre. A wish for unblurred sight in the darkness over the river. Then she stepped off the dais, and left the dead empress to her silk flowers and her silence.