Page 40 of A Reign of Embers

I’m jerked out of my reverie by footsteps rapping against the cobblestones behind me. Marc is already marching off across the square again anyway. I swivel to where my guards are waiting.

One of the palace pages has just arrived, her hands clasped in front of her. She dips into a bow. “Your Imperial Highness, it’s time for the presentation of artworks. If you’d still like to participate.”

“Of course.” It was my idea, after all.

The palace staff have set up a wooden throne on my platform, the back and the boards around it festooned with orange blooms the same hue as my dress. As I settle onto the cushioned seat, a line of children forms in front of me, each holding an artistic offering they made for me to admire.

They approach me one by one. I ooh and ahh over every image formed out of paint or clay, remarking on my favorite details, and thanking the child for sharing it with me. Eachreceives an orange ribbon marked with the imperial crest and Inganne’s sigil. All that matters is that they createdsomethingand were willing to show it.

I’ve already applauded a couple dozen offerings when Lorenzo’s illusionary voice slips into my head.

“Be careful. Raul saw one of the parents fiddling with her kid’s craft, looking very intense about it, and now the mother’s staring daggers at you. We think she might have added an effect that’ll hurt you. It’s the girl with the long reddish-brown hair in pigtails, about five back in the line.”

My chest constricts. I spot the girl he described clutching a sculpture of colored paper and bits of wood, her brow knit as if she’s more worried than excited about meeting her empress.

Does she know what her mother did to her artwork? Is this Sabrelle’s influence working against me yet again?

The godlen inspired one of her dedicats to attackmychild, so I suppose I can’t be surprised that she’d rope other children into her cause, knowing or not.

Dread pools in my stomach. A trace of red seems to tinge the edges of my vision.

Is that Sabrelle’s influence cast over us, or am I simply imagining it in my unsettled state?

As I summon as much enthusiasm as I can for the next kids I greet, my mind scrambles for the best response.

How will it look to my huge audience if I have guards haul off the child with no clear provocation, before she even reaches me? How willshefeel about that treatment if she had no conscious part in her mother’s plans?

This festival is meant to be for Inganne and the childish innocence she so treasures. Can I uphold her principles even here?

One more child remains before the pig-tailed girl. I pull together a few bits of inspiration and pick out Lorenzo in thecrowd. Holding my hand where he’ll be able to see it, I sign a quick command.Bastien lift up.

A moment later, a trickle of breeze across the back of my neck tells me the prince of Rione passed on my message, and my master of wind is at the ready. The girl steps up to the platform, and I brace myself behind my smile.

“Wait,” I say brightly before she can reach me. “What you’ve made looks particularly special. I think Inganne herself might want it.”

With those last words, I twitch my fingers upward.

Bastien’s gust of wind sweeps across the platform and tosses the paper sculpture up toward the sky. Which is a good thing, because with the sudden jostling, it bursts apart in a shower of shards.

The wind whips those sharp fragments away across the rooftops. The audience gasps and claps, with no idea that what I’ve turned into a divine marvel was meant to be an assassination attempt.

The girl stares at the sky wide-eyed. “You did so well,” I tell her, just as a swarthy, sour-faced woman shoves over to us.

“What are you doing with her offering?” she demands, using her outrage as an excuse to push right up to the platform. “No empress of Dariu should?—”

“I hear you.” My mind scrambling, I flick at my ring as I stand and reach to interrupt her. My fingers graze the bare skin at the crook of her neck before resting on her shoulder.

My guards step closer, with a tingle of magical protection thick enough that it quivers against my skin. I look only at the woman who meant to aim that blast at me.

“Hasn’t it been a lovely day? Inganne thought your daughter’s creativity was beautiful enough to make it even lovelier. Let’s all celebrate the joy our godlen of play and art brings into our children’s lives—and our own!”

Amid the cheers that ripple through the crowd, the woman glares at me. “You don’t— I’m not going to?—”

The new hallucinogen I concocted acts as quickly as I hoped. Her legs sway under her, and then a dreamy smile crosses her face. “It is beautiful, isn’t it?”

Relief rushes through me. “Yes. Why don’t you and your daughter come up and dance with me and mine?”

The woman takes her daughter’s hand and spins the little girl around. Her giddy laughter mingles with the song the court musicians have just struck up.

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