Page 28 of Requiem of Silence

A trill of anxiety rocked Zeli. What in that little book could frighten a deity? “Your Excellency, is the book dangerous?”

The Goddess sighed, a world-weary sound that also surprised Zeli. “It is a journal. A diary, a very old one, its origination—as old as I am. How it came to be here is a mystery, and the knowledge inside…” She closed Her eyes on a long blink. “I have no doubt the pages contain secrets hidden for centuries that are likely best left that way.”

She turned, looking to the window and the gardens beyond. Lights had been strung up among the trees, illuminating the paths in the darkness.

“Place it in the vault with the other thing. Ensure that both are safe. I do not… I do not want it near me.” Her voice almost broke there.

Zeli’s anxiety ratcheted. Certainly merely holding the book could not be hazardous. The Goddess had said so, but She, as itturned out, was not as infallible as everyone believed. This realization scared Zeli. She edged toward the desk and picked up the journal gingerly. It was just a book. Soft, weathered leather, inlaid with a border of vines. The strap tying it was loose, but she didn’t dare peek inside.

“Directly to the vault. Lock it away and ensure the caldera there is safe.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

Though the royal vault was perhaps the safest place in the country, Zeli still had to check on the other powerful object stored inside every few days to ensure it hadn’t been molested or stolen.

She tucked the journal against her chest and hovered, waiting. “Is that all, Your Excellency?”

“Yes,uli,that is all.”

Her voice was strong again, dismissive, as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened.

But even though it appeared Zeli’s secret thoughts were safe for the moment, a new fear creeped in. If this book was enough to make a goddess afraid, what in seed’s name could be written inside?

The Winter Ballroom had been decorated to live up to its name; Varten stood with a group of young men under a cluster of paper snowflakes hanging from the ceiling next to a pile of what smelled like soap shavings masquerading as snow. He’d been starched and creased into a formal suit, something he hadn’t counted on when the idea of the party was first broached. His hair was flattened with heavy pomade, and he felt entombed in the vest and jacket.

Every young aristocrat in Rosira had wrangled an invitation. They were gathered in thickets like weeds on the dance floor—notdancing—and snickering smugly at the tables. Lads and girls who didn’t know the twins at all chattered away in their posh accents, cutting their eyes at one another with judgmental glances.

Varten was doing his best to play his part. To act as though the world was the same place it had been yesterday, before he knew that some unknown enemy was intent on sending wraiths into the palace. But Jasminda had insisted that telling anyone—even Roshon—would only spread panic. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep a secret like this from his brother. As it turned out, he hadn’t even seen his twin until he’d stepped into the ballroom tonight.

He’d gotten a glimpse of Roshon and Ani earlier, but now a small phalanx of blue bloods had Varten penned in. Sons and grandsons of Council members, governors, aldermen, and anyone considered “old money.”

“If you ask me,” Hyllard Dursall said around a mouthful of birthday pie, “the umpire should be fired and never allowed to judge a match again if his vision is so poor. My father lost nearly seven hundred pieces on that game and flew into a terrible rage.”

“I thought your father had sworn off betting on swivet games after the finals last year. Didn’t you have to sell your boat?” the son of some distant cousin of Jack’s asked.

“We still have the boat.” Hyllard’s already slightly bulging eyes protruded even more at the perceived insult. “We don’t keep the crew on staff, that’s all, but we can go out on it whenever we want. We’re thinking of buying another, if you must know.”

“From where? Raunians are the best shipbuilders and won’t sell to us now.”

“They have perfectly good shipbuilders in Fremia.”

“Well, my father is buying an airship,” Godriq Norilos added.“Same style as the king’s, just a larger model.” Whispers of disbelief filtered through the group. Godriq looked smug, having successfully one-upped the others.

The mention of airships caught Varten’s attention. “When you get it, maybe I’ll take it up for a turn,” he said easily. “Clove’s been teaching me to fly. You know she came in second in the Yaly Classic. Who’s your flying instructor?”

Godriq looked peeved. There weren’t many airship pilots in Elsira, as they all well knew. And little chance Clove would want to help any of these snobbish horse’s arses. Varten hadn’t even been trying to play their little competitive game, he’d barely been paying attention, but found he was good at it. His position as “prince” had rocketed him to the top of the hierarchy of this group, and every lad here wanted to be his best mate.

The group kept getting larger and larger as people wandered over, itching to be in his orbit. Especially since Roshon was nowhere to be found.

Varten loved a good party, or at least, he had loved the idea of a party—having not been to one in so long. When he was younger, Mama had sometimes taken them to stay with friends on a farm near the town where they bought supplies. The family had four children close in age, and he and Roshon had played with them and celebrated more than one Breach Day at their home. Until the year Jasminda had accompanied them, instead of staying home with Papa, and suddenly none of them were welcome anymore.

In the valley where he’d grown up, with only books and magazines to teach him about the wider world, he’d imagined a palace party quite differently. In his mind, these beautiful, rich, well-dressed people with access to the best of everything were trulyhappy. Their smiles were real, rooted in the depths of their joy at being so privileged. But here the laughter and gaiety were brittle porcelain masks barely concealing disdain, posturing, and emptiness. Varten found their concerns petty and meaningless on the best of days. But today, he could barely hold himself back from screaming.

Godriq, Hyllard, and the others had changed the subject back to the latest swivet match and the terrible umpire. Varten didn’t know anything about the game played almost exclusively by the rich, so his attention wandered again. He took a few steps back to peer around the knot of bodies surrounding him to the doorway for the thousandth time that night. The chances that Zeli would come were slim, but he couldn’t help hoping.

Was she holding up any better than he was? Was her body on constant alert, searching the darkened corners of the room? The dim lighting in the ballroom could easily hide shadows. Jasminda had claimed Oola believed another attack would take some time, but no one truly knew. He hoped his exterior didn’t betray the anxiety ratcheting inside him.

A swath of purple silk and beading filled his peripheral vision—a girl, smiling wide with bright teeth, had appeared at his side. “I’m Claudette,” she said, offering a genteel curtsey. “I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday, Your Grace.”

---