Amanvah bowed slightly, lowering her pristine white veil and undoing her headscarf. Sikvah followed suit. Unmarried, Kendall’s face was uncovered, but she wore her hair in a motley headscarf and removed it with a bow.

The salon was filled with ladies of the court by the time Araine shuffled up the steps and down the hall. Women drank and lounged, discussing art, music, theater, and poetry. Princess Lorain commanded a knot of women, as did the Duchess Melny, the tension between the groups palpable.

A trio of female Jongleurs in the court heraldic motley performed near the center. Two of them, young and beautiful, plucked harps, filling the rooms with soothing sound.

The third was older, tall and thickly set. The motley patchwork of her gown was made of smooth elegant lines of colored velvet, embroidered in gold. Her voice permeated the room, bounced expertly off walls and ceiling designed to amplify those in the center of the room. The high soprano aria from Scaletongue, the opera about the mythical Messenger Jak Scaletongue, who could speak to demons, and delighted in tricking them.

Amanvah’s eyes locked on the singer in that sharp, predatory way Krasian women had, Sikvah and Kendall’s heads swiveled as one to follow, like a flock of birds turning in unison.

Amanvah and Sikvah raised their hands slightly, wiggling fingers in their secret language while continuing to watch the Jongleur. Leesha still had no sense of what the movements meant, but she knew from experience the Krasian women could speak as intricate a conversation with fingers and facial expression as they could with words.

Pretending to adjust her hair, Leesha slipped on a warded earring. It was a tiny silver shell, molded around a curved bit of dried ear cartilage from a flame demon.

She tilted her head slightly, and caught Kendall’s whispered words, even amidst the music. “Who’s that?”

Sikvah leaned close to Kendall, her words the barest breath on the young woman’s ear, but Leesha’s earring caught them all. “She is the one who killed Master Jaycob.”

Leesha’s stomach tightened. She had written the report to the city watch after the crime. Leesha prided herself on a sharp memory, but it cut both ways, as the image of Jaycob’s swollen and bloody body flashed in her mind, bones broken like kindling. He had been beaten to death by someone using their bare hands.

From the size of the bruises, Leesha had always assumed the killer had been a man. There had been a purple handprint on Jaycob’s shoulder—where the assailant had gripped him to pull him into their blows. Leesha remembered measuring her own hand against it, like a child measuring against an adult.

One look at the singer’s big hands, though, and she knew.

“What do we do?” Kendall whispered.

“Nothing, save the dama’ting command it,” Sikvah said. “This woman owes our husband a blood debt, but until he calls it due, we must endure.”

The Core we must, Leesha thought.

“Creator, that singing is giving me a splitting headache,” she said. Not loudly, but not quietly, either.

Araine immediately picked up on it. “Sali, quit your warbling!”

The Jongleur had taken a great breath for her next verse, but choked on it instead, coughing with great convulsion. She punched herself in the chest, trying to regain composure, and behind her, Leesha head Kendall give a tiny giggle.

Leesha raised her voice. “If the ladies of your salon are as sick of another tired rendition of Scaletongue as I, Your Grace, perhaps the Princess Amanvah will bless us with something newer.” She glanced at Amanvah, whose eyes shone with gratitude.

At a nod from Araine, Amanvah and her Jiwah Sen swept in on the unfortunate royal troupe, forcing them to stumble awkwardly from the center of the room.

Kendall had her fiddle out, playing a few notes to warm the strings as Amanvah addressed the crowd.

“In days long past, my people used music to drive back the alagai, turning them from their unholy purpose.” Her trained voice easily mastered the acoustics of the room, and her accent, rolling and musical, sent shivers through the crowd, commanding the attention of all, even the displaced Jongleurs.

“It is time,” Amanvah said, “to return that power to all Everam’s children. Listen well.”

With that, she began to sing, Sikvah and Kendall rising to join her, the three of them nearly as powerful alone as with Rojer at their lead. The song was in Krasian, but the melody wrapped them all close, and soon she could see women around the room mouthing the refrain as best they could, excitement on their faces as they remembered childhood lessons in the desert tongue.

And in the corner, Sali stood with crossed arms, seething.

CHAPTER 20

SIBLING RIVALRY

333 AR WINTER

Rojer’s head was pounding when Sikvah shook him awake. He barely recalled stumbling into his chambers and crawling into bed with her. Amanvah and Kendall had their own rooms in the suite. Rojer looked to the window. It was still dark.

“Creator, what’s the ripping emergency?” he asked. “Unless the walls have been breached, I mean to sleep through till noontime.”

“You cannot,” Sikvah said. “The duke’s man is waiting outside. You leave at dawn for the hunt.”

“Night,” Rojer muttered, rubbing his face. He’d forgotten all about it. “Tell him I’ll join them shortly.”

By the time he pulled on his clothes a breakfast tray had been sent up, but Rojer only snatched a roll on his way to the door.

“You must eat, husband,” Sikvah said.

Rojer waved the thought away. “Going hunting with Duke Rhinebeck. Believe me when I say there will be food aplenty. Odds are I’ll return with a few extra pounds, and not from the game.”

Sikvah looked at him curiously. “When Sharum hunt, they take only water with them. It is a test of survival.”

Rojer laughed. “For many in the North, as well. But Royals hunt for sport. If the duke’s attendants chase a stag before his bow—and he manages to shoot it and not them—the cooks will turn it into a royal feast, ay, but the lodge will be stocked to feed an army in any event.”

He kissed her, leaving Amanvah and Kendall to their beds as he headed toward the stables in search of Gared.

He was fortunate to hear Jasin before he saw him, ducking into an alcove and hiding in the shadow of a statue of Rhinebeck I while he waited for them to pass.

“You cannot mean that Milnese fop and ripping Halfgrip are invited, and I am not,” Jasin growled.

“Lower your voice, boy,” Janson snapped. Gone was the obsequious tone he took with Royals and visitors. Rojer hadn’t heard that tone in some time, but he knew it well. Janson had used it often in the last days of Arrick’s service to the duke. “Rhinebeck doesn’t want you on the hunt, and that’s all you need to know. You’ll be lucky to keep your post at all after the mess you’ve made of your trip south.”

“You’re the one who told me to have the soldiers drive the vagrants from the caravan grounds,” Jasin said, dropping his voice to a harsh whisper.

“I didn’t tell you to brag about it to the Hollowers,” Janson said, “and if you so much as breathe a word about my order again, the black dress I have tailored for my sister will be a small price to pay to be free of the headaches you cause me.”

Jasin wisely kept his reply to himself, and a moment later the minister was called away to attend some matter of the duke’s departure. Rojer strolled out into the hall, whistling a bright tune. Jasin looked up and scowled.