Disappointment clouded the bishop’s face. “It sounds better the way I tell it.”
“Except for the fact that it’s not true,” Bolt said.
“It’s mostly true.”
We claimed our horses from a shy-looking priest who didn’t meet our gaze, and I wondered after Myle. Who would visit him now that Gael had left Bunard?
“The palace is on the other side of the city,” Bolt said. “The people of Aille like to maintain the fiction that the church and the state are separate entities.”
“Aren’t they?” Gael asked.
Bolt shook his head. “Not really. The split of the church was more pronounced in the northern kingdoms. Here in Aille, and to a lesser extent, Caisel, not much changed. The edict of tolerance meant the other orders of the church could practice and proselytize, but the Merum church has remained dominant. The kings and queens of Aille tread very lightly around the Merum order. Every ruler for the past thousand years has had a Merum priest as their chief advisor.”
Gael rode next to me, and I caught her peering at the merchant women we passed, her gaze intent. I followed it and coughed, surprised by the amount of skin I could see. One woman had adorned her navel with an emerald, and her lightweight skirts had been sewn with slits that left most of her legs bare.
“Cloth must be more expensive here than in Collum,” I said. “They seem to be running short of it.”
Gael patted my cheek and laughed. “It’s a different climate and a different culture, Willet. You can’t expect people to follow northern customs under this sun.”
Ahead of us, a merchant in a very low-cut dress dropped her ledger and bent to pick it up. I held my breath as she retrieved it, then sighed in relief as the expected disaster failed to materialize. “And they must have some grace or physical gift I’m unaware of,” I quipped.
Gael laughed, and for a moment I forgot about vaults and assassins and all the rest of it.
The royal palace of Aille occupied a hill nearly as large as the one that sat beneath the cathedral. The design was the same—a perfect hexagon—but the height, width, and breadth had all been reduced, each dimension ever so slightly less than that of the cathedral.
“That’s not by accident,” Bolt said when he noticed me staring. “It’s a constant reminder that the church holds primacy here in Cynestol.”
We presented ourselves to the green-liveried guards at the gate, who snapped to when they saw the Archbishop’s seal on our letter. A moment later, we were dispatched in the company of one of the palace pages, a girl roughly of an age with Rory, with dark hair, deep olive skin, and rich brown eyes typical of the southern part of Aille.
We walked in our usual formation, Rory out front with Gael, then me, and Bolt bringing up the rear.
“How old is he?” our page asked Gael as she nodded to Rory.
I saw the corner of Gael’s mouth turn upward, but her voice remained neutral. “He’s sixteen.”
“He moves like one of the gifted,” our page said. “My name is Charisse. Is he presently without betrothal?”
“Am I what?” Rory coughed.
The page looked him up and down, like a horse trader searching for flaws. “My father is a third son but has risen to the rank of second minister of security. Though I have no gift of my own, my family can number almost fifty generations within the court of Cynestol.”
Rory stared at her, his mouth agape.
“Thank you, Charisse,” Gael said. “May your father’s house prosper and endure. Rory is serving as apprentice to Lord Dura’s guard, and questions of his betrothal will have to wait.”
Charisse received this polite refusal with equanimity and nodded. “Commitments should be honored—a rare and desirable trait in a husband.”
“A what?” Rory gurgled.
We stopped at the door to the chamberlain’s office, and Charisse bowed. “Please remember me if circumstances should change,” she said to Gael. “I have mastered the fifth part of the mathematicum, and my mother has instructed me in the marriage arts.”
Gael looked the rest of us over, her lower lip between her teeth in thought. “I’d almost forgotten about that part of court here in Cynestol.”
I pointed to the retreating form of our page. “You mean everyone is like that?”
She nodded. “Alliances and weddings are the national pastime. Be careful of what you say, gentlemen, or you may find yourself with a wife.”
“Wife?” Rory’s voice squeaked.
Gael nodded. “Here in Cynestol, you’re considered to be of marriageable age at fifteen. The courtiers will assume that since you’re gifted, you’re nobility.” She pointed to Bolt. “And the fact that you’re in the company of Tueri Consto, the last Errant, will only cement that in their minds.”
I started laughing.
“What’s so funny, growler?” Rory drawled in his fake accent. “You’re in the same boat, yah?”
I shook my head. “I’m already betrothed.” I stabbed my finger in the air at him and Bolt. “For once I can go into court and it’s everybody with me who has to worry.” I straightened. “I think I’m going to like it here in Cynestol.”
“Let’s get this over with,” Bolt said as he pushed through the chamberlain’s door. “With any luck Queen Chora died by accident and we’ll find her heir tonight. I hate this place.”
The chamberlain, Lord Unidia, a short fussy man with an ever-present glass of wine in one hand, took one look at our letter and our clothes and declared himself cursed by Aer.
“It can’t be done,” he despaired. “I can’t have them ready for court tonight.” He rounded on one of his assistants, a tall woman whose dress showed more than it covered. “Daicia, fetch the minister of court protocol. Perhaps he can shed some insight into this predicament.” He rounded on us. “Regardless, you all smell like horses. Unless they’ve turned court into a stable, that won’t do. Tressa”—he nodded to
