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Chapter Text

A month after Arlu was initiated as a novice of the Athmaz'are, the Adremaza called her to speak with him.

Arlu's situation was what her father would have called delicate. She had willingly taken the oaths of a novice, binding herself to the Athmaz'are until she either completed her education or was dismissed. She was not yet of age, but at fourteen she was old enough to speak for herself, and her father had given his blessing very enthusiastically—her sister had said he was 'living vicariously'. Arlu belonged to the Athmaz'are until such time as her novitiate was completed; even if, like all novices, she was still technically a member of her father's house, it was not meant to matter.

But her father's house was Drazhada, and if there was one thing Arlu had known since she was a little girl, it was that that made all the difference.

Arlu had thought once she entered the Athmaz'are, all her dreams would essentially be fulfilled. Her mentor had warned her many times against that sort of thinking, but she had once again made the mistake of being so focused on the climb she failed to see what lay at the summit—in this case, a whole new cliff-face to scale.

Well, there were worse things to find. Her grandmother had traveled an entire continent to find scorn and ridicule, and never given up her principles. Her father had maintained the strength of his heart against countless cruelties. Her namesake had survived forty years of exile. She was Arlu Drazhin, and she would not be cowed by a foolish old man's disapproval, Adremaza or no.

She set her jaw, and knocked on the office door.

"Come in."

The Adremaza's office was a round room with four moon-shaped windows, each facing one of the four cardinal directions. In the center of the room was a round table with a gilt inlay of an eight-pointed star. Sehalis Adremaza, an elderly man with the colorless features ubiquitous among well-bred elves, stood by the east window, hands clasped behind his back.

Arlu curtsied properly, her court manners too ingrained to be forgotten. "Adremaza."

"Arlu." Sehalis turned to her. He smiled, but his eyes were tense. Arlu wondered, but did not ask, if he had had to remind himself not to call her by the title she had relinquished one month prior.

"We hope you have been adjusting well to life in the Mazan'theileian," Sehalis said. "It must be very different from what you are used to."

It had indeed been a shocking transition, but Arlu was not about to tell Sehalis so—she had not even said so in her letter to her brother.

"We have not found it a hardship," she said.

"That is good," Sehalis said distantly. "We have called you here because… there are some things we think you ought to know."

Arlu had learned that there were times where the best thing to say was nothing. She held Sehalis's gaze steadily.

Sehalis cleared his throat. "Well… the point of the matter is… we think you ought not write to your father. Or certainly not so often."

There it was. Arlu had been expecting something of this sort, although perhaps not put quite so brazenly. She bit back the urge to protest that she had only written to her father once—the other letters had been to her brother and her mother, and one to her mentor, but she supposed to someone like Sehalis any letter to her father's household counted as writing to him.

"Many of the other novices write to their families weekly," she said instead.

Sehalis grimaced. "So they may," he said. "Your situation is… unique."

Unique indeed. She was not the first scion of the Drazhada to enter the Athmaz'are—the Mazan'theileian's Head Librarian, Cora Athmaza, was some degree of cousin of hers—nor the first woman—she had known Kiru Athmaza, first-ever dachenmazo and nohecharo, quite literally since her birth, having been delivered by her—but she was the first to be both, and to come from the main branch of the Drazhada at that.

No one at court had been much interested in the youngest, quiet, pious archduchess until she had decided not to be archduchess anymore, and then they were all so very concerned. Sehalis Adremaza certainly had never cared until now.

"We aren't breaking any rules," Arlu said. "We have not written of any of the secrets of the Athmaz'are. We write only of what is ours to speak of, and truly we ask more questions than we answer."

"Arlu," Sehalis said slowly. "You are young, and idealistic—a good thing! But there are many things you do not understand. You are a member of the Athmaz'are, even if you are not yet athmaza. What is of you is then also of the Athmaz'are—do you understand?"

"Yes, Adremaza," Arlu said. "But—"

"Arlu," Sehalis said again. "We may allow novices to write of some of the business of the Athmaz'are—that which is not confidential—because it is not the concern of those reading. It is only natural that there are additional restrictions when it is that person's concern."

Arlu found her fingers had clenched, and deliberately relaxed them. "How is the business of the Athmaz'are our father's concern?"

Sehalis sighed. "Everything in the Ethuveraz is your father's concern."

Sehalis could not be convinced—Arlu began to think he had made up his mind before she even arrived, and was barely listening to what she said—and while he did not quite order her to cut off all connection with her family, he made it entirely clear that he wanted and expected her to do so. Trapped in the fissures of her cliff face, Arlu 'yes, Adremaza'd her way thought the rest of the meeting, feeling she was rather making progress downwards than up.

She returned to the dormitories showing perhaps more of her frustration than she knew better to, her face hot and her hands balling into her skirts. She was the only girl among the novices, and so blissfully had her own room, which she was never so grateful for as now, sinking heavily into her creaky little cot and covering her face with the rough wool blanket.

Archduchesses did not cry, but Arlu was not an archduchess anymore, and so she supposed she could allow herself a few tears.

It would be easier to accept that she should not write her family if she had any friends in the Mazan'theileian. She had been prepared for rejection—she had rehearsed what she would say to anyone who told her girls could not be mazei, or mocked her for her broad shoulders and steel-gray complexion, or laughed at a petite, noble girl-child worshipping Ulis—but instead she was simply politely ignored; no one would speak to her unless she spoke first, and then they would answer only in hesitant monosyllables. It was as impossible to make friends as it was to make enemies.

She wondered if she could still write to her mentor. His position was as delicate as hers, if not more so, though it was not nearly so unique. She yearned for his kind advice, but she also thought she knew what he would say—he had solved the question of conflicting loyalties by choosing to devote himself wholly to a single calling. Arlu still stubbornly wanted to hold onto both.

There was a knock at her door. Arlu jumped to her feet, wondering with dread if it was another summons from Sehalis—if he had decided there was something else she must listen to him lecture her about. She splashed her face quickly with water to wash off the tears, and opened the door.

It was one of the other novices—not unusual, all of them had to take turns as messengers or scribes or librarians' assistants—an elven boy maybe a year younger than her, with a face covered in freckles.

"L-letter for you, ahh…" He paused, staring at her a bit as he evidently tried to figure out how to address her. It took all of Arlu's etiquette training not to groan.

"Arlu," she supplied, more shortly than she ought to. "Thank you."

"Oh," the boy said, which meant he probably had never had any etiquette training. "I'm Brenet. Uh, you're welcome."

Arlu nodded with her best attempt at politeness, and took the stack of letters he was still vaguely offering.

"Thank you, Brenet," she said again, and when he showed no signs of either responding or leaving, she ignored etiquette to close the door in his face.

There were three letters—one had Csevro's signet, one was marked with the general Drazhada seal, which could be from either her little brother Maraiis or some member of the staff. The last was not of the smooth white paper used in court, but a rough yellowish papyrus, and it was sealed Barizheise style with a thumbprint. Arlu raised her eyebrows, and selected that one to read first.

To Dach'osmin Arlu Drazhin, was the rather stiff salutation. Arlu rolled her eyes, but moved on; dach'osmin was not precisely correct, but at least it was not archduchess.

The letter was perfectly polite, written in precise and impersonal court language with the formal we. The writer congratulated Arlu on her acceptance into the Athmaz'are—evidently the news had reached Barizhan—and wished her luck with her studies, but otherwise the bland questions about recent events and court life could have been intended for anyone. It ended with:

We and our husband are thinking about visiting Cetho for Winternight. We would be pleased to introduce him to you then, if it would not be too inconvenient.

With respectful regards,

Cheneän Kerekharad

Arlu made a very unladylike sound, and crumpled the letter between her hands.

What a thing for Cheneän to write. Respectful regards, indeed. Arlu almost wanted to write back saying Cheneän should not waste her time to return for Winternight—but that was not her permission to rescind. She hoped desperately that she had not been the only person to receive such a letter, even as she abhorred the idea of Cheneän writing thusly to her father.

She stuffed the now ruined paper between her mattress and the bedframe and resolved not to think of it again.

She tore open Csevro's letter more viciously than perhaps it deserved. It was more along the lines of what she had expected—full of gossip from her circles, which was not anything Arlu had ever been interested in, but it was settling to read her sister's chaotically informal chicken-scratch handwriting, the exact opposite of the elegant misery of Cheneän's immaculate secretary's hand. Arlu wondered whether replying to Csevro's letter would be too close to home for the Adremaza's liking, and sighed heavily.

She stared at the letter from home, with its ambiguous Drazhadeise seal, and decided she would not open it, for on the chance it were from Maraiis she would have to picture the dejected look on his face not to hear back, and she could not bear to think of her baby brother unhappy.

She flopped down on the bed, staring up at the crisscrossing water pipes and spiderwebbed support beams. She thought of her room in the nursery back home, with its immaculately whitewashed domed ceiling, and the little chandelier of glass crickets she had received for her tenth birthday—a consolation, she had asked for a terrarium to keep real crickets, but Merrem Esaran had strictly forbidden bringing live insects into the Alcethmeret.

That had been one of many compromises. She had complained once to her father—"But Papa, thou hast never made compromises!" He had smiled and said that everything he did was some sort of compromise.

"The trick is," he had told her, "to know what can and cannot be allowed to be negotiable. Truly, most things can—but that is to thy benefit as much as anything, if thou knowest how to negotiate."

She had not been able to negotiate with the Adremaza. And now she might never ask her father for advice again.

She closed her eyes and murmured the words of a prayer for acceptance until she fell asleep.

Chapter Text

Arlu quickly found her favorite days were those she had library duty. Many of the other novices hated it, for the library was cold and dry, lacking the steam heating system most of the Mazan'theileian had, and the head librarian Cora Athmaza was extremely strict about enforcing complete quiet within its walls.

Arlu had been born under the favor of Ulis, and she was not disturbed either by cold or silence. Rather, it was comforting to her, to be alone in the deep shadows of the huge labyrinth of knowledge.

Library duty meant sweeping the floors or dusting the bookshelves as needed—for the Mazan'theileian employed no servants, and novices were meant to learn humility and self-sufficiency—and assisting with the catalogue, a huge cabinet full of index cards ordered by category and author.

Recently, several crates of books had been moved up from the archives. As it turned out, the archive records from this period were woefully spotty, owing to the sudden death of the then-head archivist Saraithu Athmaza, who had, Arlu gleaned, been doing the vast majority of the archival work, and had left behind few notes to his successors.

"To make matters worse, his death created something of a power vacuum," Cora told her. "In the five years after Saraithu's death, there were thirteen head archivists. It has been over a decade and a half since Teviris took over, and he still has headaches from this."

What that meant for Arlu was that she must individually go through each book in the crate, compare it to the apologetically sparse notes Teviris Athmaza had sent, and then give it its own card in the catalogue. It should have been very boring work, but Arlu found it peaceful, and strangely satisfying every time she finally placed a fresh card in the cabinet and transferred a book to the carts to be shelved.

She had just finished going through the first crate when she looked up to see her mentor had appeared at the door to the library. She stood at once and exclaimed "Cala Athmaza!"

Cora glared at her. "Arlu! Quiet in the library," he told her in an aggrieved whisper.

"Sorry, Cora Athmaza," Arlu whispered back sheepishly. To Cala, at a more appropriate subdued volume, she said, "what brings you to the Mazan'theileian?"

He was clearly off-duty today—for one, there was no sign of Lieutenant Beshelar anywhere nearby, and for another, Arlu did not think her father had ever entered any room unannounced.

Cala smiled. "Actually, I'm here to see you. Cora, may I borrow Arlu?"

Cora flicked an ear. "Oh, very well. Is it ah… important?"

"It has nothing whatsoever to do with His Serenity, if that if what you mean," Cala said.

"Hmph." Cora looked slightly pink as he turned back to the cataloguing.

"Come," Cala said, "let us go somewhere where we shall not offend Cora Athmaza's sensitive ears."

He took Arlu up several flights of library stairs, to a small dusty room with old books piled around haphazardly. By the skylight at the top, Arlu guessed they were at the very tip of the Mazan'theileian library's tower, the highest point in the compound.

Cala grinned. "I used to come here when I was a novice. I think most of the mazei have forgotten this room exists."

Arlu peered up through the skylight, noting the shining dome of the Alcethmeret's tower, rising above all else as always. Even the Mazan'theileian, separate as it was, was not exempt from deference to its status as the tallest building in the court.

"Cora Athmaza certainly has," she said, noting the thick layers of dust on both books and floor. He would have had a fit to see any book allowed to molder thus.

Cala picked up a book off one of the tallest piles, and shook off the dust. A handful of pages came loose, tumbling to the floor.

He laughed. "I guess I should tell him. It really has gotten bad in here. But," he said, carefully gathering the pages and placing the book back on its slightly unstable-looking pile, "I didn't just come here to give the librarians more work! Arlu, how have you been?"

Arlu tried not to let her ears flatten. "Fine," she said. "There is a lot to learn. I've been busy."

"Hopefully not so busy you don't have time to read my letters?" Cala's tone was light, but slightly chiding.

"Ah?" Arlu blinked, and then remembered that letter with the Drazhada seal. It had been a week since it had arrived, and she had rather guiltily continued to ignore it.

"That was you?" She drooped a little. "I'm sorry, I thought it was Maraiis… And, ah…" She sighed. "I don't know if it makes a difference. The Adremaza forbid me to write home. He thinks it is not right for my father to be told of even the most minor aspects of Athmaz'are business."

"The Adremaza said so?" Cala frowned. "That has never been a rule before. I suppose he is concerned about the politics of it?"

Arlu nodded glumly. "Something about… it would be his concern, as the emperor, and so it must be kept secret."

It dawned on her as she explained that this was something of a gray area. The Athmaz'are were not part of the court, and their mysteries had always been closely guarded, but placing restrictions upon what the emperor in particular could or could not know came very close to overstepping, she thought. She glanced cautiously at Cala, wondering if she should not have told him of this.

"Well," Cala said, "I suppose he may have a point—well, he may and he may not. The emperor's power over the Athmaz'are is limited, but individual mazei are subjects of the crown the same as anyone else. It is not an entirely unreasonable concern…

"But he cannot make you not be the emperor's daughter, whatever he may do—and he cannot possibly expect that Edrehasivar will simply fail to notice that you haven't written—oh, maybe for a week, but for a month? a year?"

Arlu sighed. "I shall have to give up my family sooner or later, if I wish to remain here… I suppose this just means it will just end up being sooner."

"It's not quite like that," Cala said. "Your family name, of course, and your house, will be relinquished when you become athmaza, but your father is still your father, and your mother still your mother, and you will not—or should not—be prevented from visiting them."

"Mm…" Arlu grimaced. "I can't imagine the Adremaza would like that."

"Maybe he wouldn't," Cala said. "He can't erase the bonds of blood, nor can he keep you captive. You will have more freedom once you are initiated of course, but even novices have holidays. And, well, not to be disrespectful, but he won't be Adremaza forever."

An Adremaza typically served for life, although in rare cases they might resign. Arlu could not quite imagine Sehalis either dying or resigning anytime soon; he was old but not decrepit, and from her experience, utterly unwilling to back down.

It was a small comfort to think the end of her novitiate would bring more freedom; that felt impossibly far from her reach. Her first month as a novice had been filled with realizations that her gift, as miraculous as it had seemed back home, was entirely unremarkable here, and that Cala's instruction only barely managed to catch her up with the boys who had had private maz tutors since the age of six or even younger. As their instructor Lochavet Athmaza had said, to have an exceptional talent was the prerequisite to acceptance into the Athmaz'are, and they would succeed or fail on the quality of their work, not the strength of their maz.

Cala seemed to notice her discouragement. "I can speak to the Adremaza, if you wish… Or, if you would like me to talk to your family…?"

Arlu shook her head. "No, ah… I appreciate it, but… I think I need to do this myself."

Cala looked thoughtful, and then nodded, and Arlu gave him a genuine smile.

They moved on to other topics, Arlu reasoning that it could not possibly be wrong for her to speak of her business to an athmaza, even being her father's man as he was. She explained the matter of the boxes from the archives, and the legacy of Saraithu Athmaza's death.

"Hmm…" Cala said. "I don't know if there's anything relevant, but I still have some of Saraithu's old journals in my possession. I can look to see if anything there could be helpful to the archives."

"His journals? Were you close with Saraithu Athmaza?" Cala had never mentioned the name before, but of course Saraithu had died several years before Arlu was born.

"Oh, no," Cala said. "I didn't know him personally. Cora didn't tell you? Archivist was Saraithu Athmaza's second job. He was First Nohecharis to Varenechibel IV."

Arlu turned this around in her mind.

"How did he do it?" she said after a moment.

"Become nohecharis?" Cala frowned. "Arlu… I am not sure that you should… or even could, aspire to such a thing."

"No of course not." Arlu shook her head vigorously. "I don't want to be a nohecharis! I meant… how did he manage to… balance his loyalties?"

"Hmm… I don't know," Cala admitted. "Like I said, I didn't know him. He kept extensive records on Varenechibel's reign, but from what I've seen, his writings are mostly moot as to his personal thoughts.

"But… he served as nohecharis for over forty years. It means a lot of different things to different people, but the oath we swear is absolute—loyalty and obedience to the emperor, above all, until death. If his position in the archives would ever have conflicted with that in any way, he likely would have resigned."

"Oh," Arlu said, the little bit of hope she had felt slipping away from her. "Of course. Thank you for answering." She tried to smile politely.

"It does not mean we have to give up everything else," Cala said firmly. "Our first priority is always our oathbound duty, but there are many things possible beyond that. Although we are bound to utter secrecy, as no doubt you know… "

"Ah," he added, "perhaps you should talk to Kiru. She has long split her time between her clinic and her duties as nohecharis. She might have an answer to offer that is less… theoretical."

"Perhaps," Arlu said. She was not sure if she exactly wanted Kiru Athmaza's practical advice on this topic at the moment, even if she probably should consider it.

"I will mention it to her, and see if she has time to drop by." Cala gave her a serious look, one that made the brightness of his eyes unnerving.

"Arlu," he said, "I respect your independence, of course. Still… perhaps it is overreaching for me to say this, but: mazei cannot form their own families, of course, but I have always thought of thee—and thy siblings—as if you were my own children. I am always glad to do anything I can to support thee. And that is without anything of thy father's wishes coming into it."

Such familiarity was not typical between them—not out of any particular lack of closeness, but out of respect, Arlu for Cala's seniority, and he, she thought, for her father's sake. Cala was, she realized, deadly serious. It was nearly as unnerving as his eyes.

She nodded, not knowing quite what to say, and hoped he could see that she understood.

After a little detour to discuss her studies, Cala sent her back to Cora and his catalogue with a smile and a (suitably quiet) promise to visit again before the end of the year.

Arlu organized books for another hour and a half before the clock struck five, and she was released for the evening meal. At some point in that time snow had begun to fall, light fluffy flakes pale against the half-twilight sky.

Arlu had been born on a night like this, although in early spring rather than late fall as it was now. Night snowstorms was sacred to the god of darkness and silence, and she took a moment to stare up at the darkening sky and make a brief prayer.

Arlu's hair had started to come loose from the twin braids she had put it in that morning—she was the only of her siblings to have inherited her mother's hair, white as pearl and so fine as to render hairpins entirely decorative—and by the time she arrived at the cafeteria it was damp and windblown, so that her face most likely resembled nothing more than the sky, stormy gray with wisps of snowy white.

A few heads turned when she entered, and most just as quickly turned back. Arlu ignored them, and served herself a portion of flatbread and thick lentil stew, telling herself that she did not mind eating alone.

Chapter Text

As the year drew steadily towards its close, the other novices started to grow antsy in anticipation of the upcoming holiday. Lessons would be interrupted by chatter about visiting home; who would be joining whose train compartment to Thu-Athamar or Thu-Evresar; where friends from the other side of the empire ought address their letters.

It was only two week's holiday, which was really not nearly enough for all this fuss, Arlu thought. She would not, of course, be taking the train home to family, either the Thu-Athamar line over the mountains or the Thu-Evresar line across the plains (although her family had estates in both provinces); she was not even sure if she would be allowed to visit home at all.

If I am to spend all the holiday in the library with Cora Athmaza, I shall relish the opportunity, she told herself. But Cora Athmaza informed her a week before Winternight that he would be off visiting his parents in Thu-Cethor, where they had a ski-lodge up in the mountains. She was too embarrassed to admit she had expected he would remain at court by virtue of being—having been—Drazhada. Of course his father had an appenage.

She would not relish the opportunity to spend Winternight with the Adremaza looking over her shoulder, his disapproving looks ensuring she remained obedient to his mandate not to communicate with her parents.

The last day before the holiday began was a half-day of lessons, before everyone except Arlu (and a few other unfortunate stragglers who for one reason or another had no one to celebrate the new year with) began to pack their bags and head off to train station, mooring mast, or road. On the way back to her room, she was accosted by a very put-upon novice, who clearly would rather be heading home himself than delivering messages, who told her the Adremaza wished to see her.

Again? she did not say, biting her tongue and thanking the boy with only a tiny bit of unearned bitterness. What could Sehalis lecture her on this time?

When she arrived at his office, the door was ajar, and she could hear faint voices within. The Adremaza was one of them; the other was higher and sharper, a woman, she thought.

"…isn't fair to her, Sehalis," the woman was saying, and Arlu suddenly recognized her with a jolt. Kiru Athmaza, her father's Second Nohecharis.

Sehalis said something Arlu did not quite catch, although it sounded amusingly as if he were cowed by Kiru's stern tone. She knew that tone very well; she had often been on the receiving end of it herself, and was pleased to realize it inspired the same sheepishness in stubborn old men as it did in misbehaving girls.

Perhaps it was this thought that made her realize she was very rudely eavesdropping, and knock once on the door to announce her presence.

"Ah, Arlu," Sehalis said. He met Kiru's eyes briefly; she nodded and turned to leave the room, giving a small smile to Arlu as she passed. Arlu returned it eagerly, and then set her features into polite neutrality to face the Adremaza.

"Sit," Sehalis said, gesturing to a chair; he sat across from her. Arlu was not sure whether he meant to be reassuring or intimidating, but she resolved not to allow him the satisfaction of either reaction.

"We were wondering," he continued, "whether you were planning to visit home for the holiday?"

It took all of Arlu's effort to keep her face neutral.

"We have made no plans," she said. "We rather thought you would not allow us."

Something flashed across Sehalis's face, and his eyes flicked away. Arlu tried not to be too satisfied with the reaction, which she had not earned.

"If you would give us leave," she added stiffly, "we would go. It is an important day for our family."

He knew that, of course; everyone did. Part of the reason they were given two weeks off rather than one was as consolation for two major holidays on one night—Winternight, the spiritual celebration of the new year, and the emperor's birthday, the principal secular holiday of the calendar.

Sehalis nodded, annoyingly approvingly. "Of course you should go," he said. "But you will need to have a chaperone."

Arlu had expected something like that—she had a response prepared, and answered, half a beat too early to pass for spontaneity, "Cala Athmaza."

The Adremaza laughed, bending his head over nearly to his hands. "You are so like him," he muttered, half under his breath.

Arlu raised an eyebrow. "Like Cala Athmaza?"

Sehalis recovered himself, and fixed her with a stern glare. "No." He shook his head. "There are several reasons why that will not be possible."

He did not give Arlu any time to protest. "We believe Lochavet Athmaza will be willing and able to take the responsibility."

Lochavet, the instructor for the younger novices, was a man around her father's age who had been weakened by a childhood illness. He walked with a cane, and did not travel. Arlu was not sure how he would take to court, although she had to admit there were worse people to spend her holiday with than a mild-mannered tutor.

I only hope he will not lose his wits upon seeing my father. Arlu had seen sterner men do so.

The Adremaza muttered something in agreement with his own idea, and then ushered Arlu off to pack her things. She let him; she had gotten half of what she wanted at least, which was more a compromise in her favor than any of her previous interactions with Sehalis.

Still, this is not my negotiation, she thought half-bitterly. He is only relenting because Kiru gave him a piece of her mind. I have neither learned nor gained anything.

Novices were required to live the same ascetic lifestyle as mazei, and were expected to provide their own basic clothing to be worn under their uniform smocks. They were to have two sets of unadorned clothing in either brown or black, and a wool coat for winter. Many of Arlu's classmates had been taken off by their mothers and nurses to boutiques in Cetho to buy new wardrobes; others had clearly redyed or altered their old trousers.

Arlu had simply been presented with two pristine black dresses and a pair of shiny leather shoes by one of the Master of Wardrobe's apprentices. They were made perfectly to her measurements, and she had had no part whatsoever, or even any insight, into the manner of their design, creation, or selection.

That was, she thought as she shoved her spare dress into her luggage with her necessities, what it was to be Drazhada: to have no choice, and often not even any knowledge, in the essentials of one's life. It was evidently impossible to leave behind, however much she might want to.

Lochavet met her at Usharsu's Ladder with a wary smile. Arlu had a flash of imagination of what his meeting with Sehalis must have been like and had to disguise a laugh with a cough.

"Have you been to court before?" Arlu asked as they began the slow walk over the bridge, desperate for some topic.

"Once," Lochavet said. "A long time ago. We were called to assist in containing a mazeise threat."

They walked in silence for a few moments. Lochavet did not elaborate.

"A threat?" Arlu repeated, too curious not to ask.

"A rogue maza," Lochavet said gravely. "Part of a treasonous conspiracy."

Arlu thought of the legend of Hanevis and Orava; imagined Lochavet locked in a duel with the traitor, like the vibrant painting of that famous clash that hung in the library's south wing. Was that the true origin behind his limp?

"What happened?" she asked, wide-eyed.

Lochavet hmmph'd. "Nothing as exciting as you may be thinking. We were called for our skills in warding and suppressing maz, to assist the Adremaza. The traitor was already defeated when we arrived, we simply sealed his abilities and escorted him to a holding cell at the Mazan'theileian."

Arlu nodded politely, despairing inwardly her image of a heroic duel shattered.

"We gather," Lochavet said, "that you have not heard the story of Dazhis Athmaza?"

If nothing else, Lochavet was a skilled lecturer. He occupied the walk back by explaining the circumstances and consequences of Dazhis's betrayal and subsequent death.

Arlu murmured the prayer for compassion as he finished. Lochavet gave her a long look.

"What compassion have you for His Serenity's would-be murderer?"

Arlu lowered her eyes. "Murderer or martyr, Ulis does not distinguish. We are all the same, in death."

Lochavet made a slight noise; Arlu could not tell if it was a sigh or a scoff.

"Your gift," Lochavet mused, "is in the realm of Ulis, no? Dreams, shadows, illusions…"

"…the soul, death," Arlu added. No one liked to speak much of either of those realms of maz, but they were as much a part of her gift—the mark of favor from her patron god—as her dream-walking. Lochavet glanced at her, and then away, and said nothing more.

The Adremaza must have sent a message, for they were greeted very soon by one of Arlu's father's page boys, who escorted them very briskly to the Alcethmeret. Lochavet glanced with trepidation at the great staircase, but to his luck they were taken to a receiving room on the ground floor, where, the page told them, Arlu's mother awaited them.

"The, er…" the page looked Arlu up and down. "The novice mazo Arlu Drazhin, and Lochavet Athmaza."

Lochavet began a magnificent bow; Arlu decided to ignore him, and rushed over to clasp her mother's hands.

"Arlu," her mother said. "It is lovely to see thee! They have kept thee very busy these past months." This last sentence was spoken loudly enough for Lochavet to hear, and Arlu thought she detected a hint of warning.

"This is Lochavet Athmaza, the instructor for the novices," Arlu said. "He is accompanying me for my return to court."

Her mother noted him. "Thank you for escorting our daughter, athmaza."

Lochavet made a proper graceful response. Arlu's mother gave him a gesture of dismissal, and he cleared his throat.

"Ah, zhasan," he said. "We are here as a chaperone, for the duration of Arlu's stay at court."

"Oh?" Arlu's mother's eyes narrowed. "That is not usual, is it?"

"No, zhasan," Lochavet said. "The Adremaza thought it wise in this circumstance."

"We see." She was clearly not happy with this arrangement, but, Arlu realized with great exhaustion, was disinclined to offend the Adremaza.

Politics, Arlu thought with disdain.

"Maraiis will be pleased to see thee," Arlu's mother told her quietly. "He is with thy father now. And do not forget to visit Csevro."

Arlu nodded. "Yes, Mama."

"Go on to thy room, then, and put thy things away," she said, and then raised her voice again. "Athmaza, we will find a place for you to stay while you are at court."

They departed, Lochavet insisting on walking Arlu to the nursery before he went to see about his own lodgings. Arlu stilled at the door, hearing the sound of voices.

"Is it really so difficult to imagine that I might be competent?" That was Maraiis, voice raised in anger. "That I might even handle it better?"

The response was too quiet for Arlu to make out the words. Suddenly, the door sprung open. Arlu stepped back just in time to avoid her father sweeping past, First Nohecharei two steps behind. She caught Cala's eye, but he shook his head, and left without speaking.

Arlu hesitantly pushed through the door and approached her brother.

"Maraiis," she said softly. "What's wrong? Pray do not quarrel with Papa."

Maraiis turned to her, eyes flaring like storm clouds. Arlu had never seen him so angry.

"Don't coddle me," he said acidly. "I am not a little boy anymore. Thou'rt only a year older than I, and thou hast left to go chase thy dreams!"

He shuddered. "I have never once had a dream! I know what my future is—I don't know why it is so impossible to think I have accepted it. I am sick of being protected."

That did not sound like something one who had accepted his future would say, but Arlu bit her tongue at the fire still in his eyes. Maraiis jerked his head in what might have been intended as a polite gesture, and disappeared into his own private room, closing the door with a dull thud.

Lochavet glanced at her. "Is that... typical?"

"No," Arlu said. "We think our brother is experiencing some… growing pains."

Chapter Text

Arlu woke the next morning among soft sheets and the shimmering of the winter sun through her glass crickets. The nostalgia was more chilling than it was comforting; the walls felt too bright, and she had forgotten how cold it got in the winter at court, lacking the modern heating of the Mazan'theileian's dormitories.

There was a knock at her door announcing breakfast. Arlu dressed quickly, forgoing her novice's smock, but putting on the spare dress from her luggage rather than calling someone to ask about her court gowns. The idea gave her too much dread to be considered; she avoiding thinking about what she would have to wear to the ball.

Maraiis was sitting morosely at the table when she arrived, although he smiled when she caught his eye. Annoyingly, Lochavet Athmaza was there as well; Arlu forced herself to acknowledge him politely.

"Good morning," she muttered.

"Good morning," Maraiis said, blinking himself out of his moping. "Csevro is coming."

"For breakfast?"

"She wanted to see thee."

Arlu did not miss the slight petulance in his tone.

"It will be just like when we were michen, then," she said, stubbornly optimistic. Maraiis hummed noncommittally.

"Have you been introduced to Lochavet Athmaza?" she asked, raising formality for the guest's sake.

"Er," Maraiis said. He glanced nervously at Lochavet.

Arlu did not quite sigh. "Athmaza, this is our brother, the Prince Maraiis Drazhar. Maraiis, Lochavet Athmaza, the instructor for the novices."

"A pleasure to make Your Highness's acquaintance," Lochavet said, bowing.

"Likewise."

They were saved from any more such riveting conversation by the belated arrival of Csevro. As usual, she looked effortlessly elegant, even early in the morning, her dark curls dressed with glass beads the same brilliant blue as her eyes. She kissed Arlu's cheeks, and patted Maraiis, who looked vaguely embarrassed to receive affection in front of Lochavet.

"Good morning!" She said brightly, clearly meaning it. "It is so lovely to see thee, Arlu—and thee of course, little brother." She turned to Lochavet. "Oh, apologies, we don't believe we are acquainted… You are from the Athmaz'are, we presume?"

Csevro was properly introduced to Lochavet, who stood up to bow again to her, and Arlu explained the gist of the chaperone situation.

"We see," Csevro said, in much the same way their mother had.

"Don't worry too much about us," Lochavet said. "We don't wish to overstep." He looked, Arlu thought, very much like he wished he could just return to the Mazan'theileian immediately. She nearly felt sorry for him.

He has not even had to interact with Papa yet. Arlu credited herself that she did not laugh at that thought.

"Well, Arlu," Csevro was saying. "Thou must tell us"—meaning, her and Maraiis—"what thou hast been doing! Only one letter, for three months? Do they keep thee locked in the basement?"

Csevro read too many novels, Arlu thought.

"Nothing like that," she said. "Only I have been very busy." She told Csevro about the library, and the archives, and the shared chores the novices did in between lessons, and Cala's visit—carefully leaving out anything to do with her meetings with the Adremaza.

Csevro frowned, pursing her lips as she poured an excess of milk into her cup of overbrewed tea. Arlu felt vaguely uncomfortable with that look, as though Csevro could tell she was omitting something.

"Enough about me," Arlu said firmly. "What of you two? Has anything interesting happened in court of late?"

"Nothing interesting," Maraiis said, stabbing at his porridge with a spoon.

"What's got thee so tied up?" Csevro said. "Wast rejected by a girl?"

Maraiis glared at her. "No. Only…"

He took a long breath. "I am already thirteen, which is not too young to enter the court. My tutor says I have mastered his curriculum faster than all of his previous students, which means I am certainly better educated than—than some other people were when they entered politics. There is ample historical precedent for princes taking on some of their duties at thirteen or fourteen."

Csevro raised her eyebrows at Arlu, clearly as new to this concern of Maraiis's as she.

"But," Maraiis said bitterly, "Father will not allow it. He thinks I will crack under the pressure. Just because—" he sighed heavily. "It is not worth discussing. He does not trust me, and there is nothing I can do about it."

Having given his little speech, Maraiis began shoveling porridge into his mouth at an unforgiving pace. Out of the corner of her eye, Arlu saw Lochavet looking at every part of the room except her and her siblings.

"Just like when we were michen," she muttered under her breath.

A maid offered Csevro a second cup of tea, and hovered at her shoulder afterwards.

"Yes?" Csevro said sharply. "What is it?"

"Er," she said. "You have a visitor, Your Grace."

Csevro raised an eyebrow. "We are with family."

"Right," said the maid. "Only… Well, it is the Archduchess Cheneän."

"What?!" Arlu and Csevro said at once.

"Should we tell her to wait?"

"No, of course not," Csevro said. "See her in." Arlu glared at Csevro, but she pretended not to notice.

It had been five years since Arlu had seen her eldest sister. Cheneän had been the responsible one, a linguistic prodigy and diplomat. People had called her 'the little Witness for Foreigners', until they realized it was a terrifyingly possible idea that her father might actually give her a real position at court.

And then she had run away with the Great Avar's brother, and created so much scandal it made Csevro look respectable.

"Csevro, Arlu! Maraiis, thou hast grown so much! I have missed you all so dearly."

Cheneän looked remarkably unchanged compared to how Arlu remembered her, although she wore a trim blue riding suit rather than a gown, and her face was sun-darkened from its usual ash-gray to something closer to slate. She smiled at each of them, as if she had only been away for a few months rather than years.

"How dare you," Arlu said. Everyone turned towards her; she ignored Lochavet's disapproving shock. "After everything—after five years—you come right back here like nothing has changed? Like there is no one here you hurt?"

"Arlu—" Cheneän began.

"No," Arlu cut her off. "We know what you will say. Only it isn't true. If you had only asked, you could have married anyone you liked! You know Father would not begrudge you that."

"Arlu…" Cheneän pinched her nose. "Well, if we must do this: He could not—and if he did, it would not have mattered. Arer'var would never have allowed it."

"So what?" Arlu's lip curled. "Does he keep his brother in his basement?"

Cheneän snorted. "What do you know? Don't speak of things you don't understand."

"Both of you, enough." Csevro had gotten to her feet. "Get over yourselves!"

Arlu closed her mouth firmly, and crossed her arms. Cheneän huffed.

"Cheneän," Csevro said, "what you did was very selfish"—she held up a hand to step Cheneän's retort—"but it has been five years, and"—she gave Arlu a stern look to rival Kiru Athmaza's—"we should not turn away an offer of reconciliation."

Arlu looked between her sisters. "Fine," she said, and to Cheneän, "Sister, we will accept your apology."

Cheneän raised her eyebrows at Arlu, and made no apology.

"Sometimes," Csevro muttered, "I think I am the only one in this family who understands consequences. You two have both all but abandoned us; even Maraiis has delusions of grandeur…"

Maraiis got to his feet with an affronted look. "Delusions of grandeur? I am the Prince of the Untheileneise Court."

"Maraiis," Csevro said. "Thou art thirteen. Sit down."

Maraiis sat, looking suitably chastised, and returned to his porridge.

Cheneän turned to Csevro. "Since when art thou so much more mature?"

"Oh, yes," Csevro said, "I had my own wild youth—then I grew up, and learned one cannot spend one's entire life at court being a notorious marno."

"Csevro!" Cheneän chided. "The children!"

"Oh," Csevro said flippantly, "am I not oblique enough for their sensitive ears? Should I say rather, a 'girl's girl'? A 'card carrying member of the astronomer's club'?"

She held up her first two fingers, as if there were an invisible membership card between them. Cheneän scoffed, but without much real anger, and Arlu noticed belatedly they had all dropped formality.

"Let me ask you," Csevro said, in the plural, "why are you here?"

"I live here," Maraiis said quietly.

Cheneän looked down, and stayed silent.

Arlu sighed, and spoke up. "Because you are my family, and it is a holiday."

"Yes, Arlu, exactly," Csevro said. "And why didst thou come to visit for this particular holiday?"

"Because it is Papa's birthday," Arlu said.

Csevro nodded. "Indeed. All of you"—she gave Cheneän a look—"are here for his sake, whether you say it or not. Can you really think he would be happy to see us fighting?"

"I suppose not," Cheneän said. She adjusted her skirts. "Oh, very well, Arlu, I am sorry I caused thee grief. I did not mean to hurt thee."

"Hmph," Arlu said. "Fine, I will forgive thee. For now."

Csevro shook her head. "Well, anyway, Cheneän," she said, tone suddenly light. "Where is that husband of thine?"

"Zheru?" Cheneän said. "Oh, he is staying in Cetho."

"Cetho?" Csevro raised an eyebrow. "Surely if Father could not host him, then the ambassador…"

Cheneän laughed bitterly. "If thou think'st Arer'var's ambassador will be willing to come within five hundred feet of Zheru, thou art ignorant indeed of the situation in Barizhan—not that I know much more. I have not been to Barizhan in five years."

"How can that be?" Arlu said. "If thou hast not been in Barizhan, then where?"

"Pencharn," Cheneän said. "Zheru is banished."

She looked between their shocked faces. "I thought you would know?"

"Maybe I should know," Maraiis said bitterly.

"He was that angry his brother married a half-elf?" Arlu asked dubiously.

"A half-elf?" Cheneän said. "No, why should he care for that? He was much more concerned with my father's line."

Csevro looked baffled. "Isn't it to his benefit to make alliance with the Drazhada?"

"If it worked for Maru'var…" Maraiis said, half-jokingly.

"Not the Drazhada," Cheneän said. "The Sevraseched. Do none of you know any history? What happened after Maru'var died?"

"During the war of succession from 6-7 EHV.7, Arer Kerekharad won the throne of Barizhan," Maraiis recited.

"Mostly correct," Cheneän said. "But incomplete. Maru'var had no clear heir—only Captain Perenched, who was his foster son, and married to an illegitimate daughter, and Captain Sevraseched, who was an illegitimate daughter.

"Arer'var defeated Perenched, and Sevraseched's claim was rejected, although she still styles herself Avar-in-exile. But the southern loyalists have never been happy with Arer on the throne."

"Oh," Maraiis said.

"Zheru is his brother's heir, and I am Maru'var's great-granddaughter, by Chenelo who was Princess Sevraseched. With our union, all the factions of Barizhan could unite under one banner—Zheru's banner."

Cheneän met each of their eyes in turn. "Don't misunderstand—ours is a love match; Zheru has no designs on the throne. But Arer'var did not see that, and he disowned and banished Zheru."

"Then," Arlu said slowly, thinking through the story, "is it… safe for you to be here?"

"I told Zheru not to come," Cheneän said with a sigh, "but he could not bear the thought of my making the journey alone. I cannot stay long, but… I did not want you all to think I was simply gone."

"Do you need safe harbor?" Csevro said, eyes wide. "Will Arer'var send assassins?"

Cheneän laughed. "Thou read'st too many novels. No, we are reasonably safe and… happy, together, in Pencharn."

"What is it like there?" Arlu asked, cautiously friendly.

"Oh, where should I begin…"