Page 2 of The Chaosweaver's Daughter
Nesrina goes to the capital.
Clutchingthesummonsinher cloak pocket, Nesrina shuffled along with the line, her fingertips tracing the ridges and divots of the king’s seal. Craning her neck to see past the ox-drawn cart ahead, she blinked at a sliver of Kirce Palace visible through the great arched gateway.
So close.
She’d never been inside the second wall of the capital, but she’d heard all about it, aggrandized tales from Papa’s glossy memories: “the beating heart of Selwas” ensconced behind double walls in the center of Serkath, with “one-hundred-foot ceilings and fifty-foot doors.” Surely, he’d exaggerated, and she was finally going to find out.
The line moved forward again, and a man clad in the green garb of a soldier leaned out from his stone hut. “Name and business,” he said, sounding affronted he’d even had to prompt.
Brilliant. Her first faux pas.
“Nesrina Kiappa, responding to a summons from the king.” The letter crinkled when she smoothed it and held it up for perusal.
The guard hardly glanced at the honey gold seal, then ushered her through.
Awhooshescaped her as she stepped beneath the portcullis and into the palace proper. Her halting steps on the cobbled street, the few jangling coins in her pocket, and the anxious rhythm of her heart came together inan orchestral disaster that further fueled her discomfort. No, her excitement. No, it was mainly discomfort, with a sprinkling of hope.
The palace outbuildings were regal, and everything sparkled, coated in a sheen of salt from the nearby sea. She felt dull in comparison, her boots and cloak blending with the stones in the road rather than the opulence of the architecture.
It was fine. She had a duty to fulfill, and she needed thislenedjob.
A tight band of melancholy squeezed Nesrina’s throat as a blast of painful nostalgia stole her breath.Lened, or “damn” in the Old Tongue, was Papa’s go-to swear. It was her favorite, too, but using it always brought his face to mind. He’d walked these streets years before, stepped on the same cobbles as a “Guest of the King,” and she was here now to do the same—doingthe same—attemptingto do the same.
Nes considered herself intelligent enough to recognize her own shortcomings. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to interact with royalty, but she did know how to teach, like her papa, and she was here to make his memory proud. He always said a person learned “more at the helm than reading books about boats,” and that adage proved to be true time and again.
She’d figure it out—the whole speaking to nobility thing—like she always did. She only needed time. Holding her duty close and her head high, Nesrina continued up the long, cobbled drive to Kirce Palace to turn up in place of her father.
Standinginthemarblefoyer, or grand hall, she supposed, Nes felt like a fish out of water. Flailing her hands, her mouth flapping with unspoken words, she tried to get someone’s attention, and failed time and again.
Liveried footmen and maids bustled through, crisscrossing the cavernous space in every direction, some carrying cloched trays. She’d lost track of time near the end of her journey, when the skies clouded over, butassumed it was just before, or after, luncheon. Her stomach confirmed her suspicion.
Giving up as a new wave of fast-moving servants pushed through, Nesrina considered the architecture and kept an eye out for someone moving with less purpose. A few stoic guards were stationed at regular intervals around the foyer, but she got the distinct impression they were not to be spoken to.
Kirce wasn’texactlyas her father had described. The ceilings were grand, but certainly not one hundred feet high. They seemed appropriately sized for the ostentatious space—making every sound louder and every person look smaller as they moved from corridor to corridor. From the moldings to the mages, it was clear everything was intentional here.
The servants’ uniforms were all the same style and structure but came in an array of colors, coding them according to their magic: blue for watercoursers, red for firebearers, brown for the earthshapers, and gray for the windshifters. What color would they give her, if she made it on the staff?
There.A well-dressed man in a dark coat, not a servant, wandered into the expansive hall. The heavy door he’d come through swung closed with a slam, and he jolted, glancing over his shoulder like he hadn’t opened it himself.
Now or never, Nes!“Excuse me. Excuse me, sir?” Her boots clacked on the marble tile as she hurried forward.
The stranger stalled abruptly when she reached him, as if startled by her cacophonic and impossible to miss approach.
A breeze, warm and balmy, fluttered Nes’s skirts and blew a clump of her hair into her mouth, gagging her. As she pulled strands free, she wondered if someone was using air magic, or if the palace hall was cavernous enough to have its own weather patterns.
The gentleman eyed her strangely from way up high.
Good gods.
She was short, sure, but this man was enormous—height-wise. He had a rather slim build and wore a deep blue coat, fine enough to warrant assumptions about his aristocratic status. But his dark, tousled hair and the equally dark stubble shadowing his face did some damage to his credibility.
“Yes?” Curtly, he spoke in a low baritone, his single word conveying how unimportant she was, a thorn in his side, a fly in his custard.
This is a public space. Sputtering as that breeze picked up, she tugged new strands of hair from her mouth. One of them tickled the back of her throat, and she gagged again, nearly retching on the probably-a-gentleman before her.
“Please”—she swallowed, willing her throat to relax and sending several choice words to the back of her tongue—“Do you know where I might find the king? I have a—”
The not-such-a-gentleman stepped away, cutting her off with his silent action. His eyes raked over her from top to toe, taking in the entirety of her form.
