“That must have been terrifying,” he replies. “Had you come to perform at the festival?”
“We had,” I say, trying to remember what show we’d meant to do. The Shepherd and the Tiger, wasn’t it? A show meant to flatter the late general in hopes he would take notice despite the modest size of our troupe. All we would have needed was a moment of his attention, but we had never even gotten to the stage. “My troupe was . . . is . . . one of a kind. We put on shadow plays without sticks or strings.”
“Now that I’d like to see,” the king says, but on his other side, Theodora places a gentle hand on his arm.
“There are more important concerns than shadow plays, uncle.”
“Blasphemy,” the king says with a grin, leading us through a tall arched doorway. A servant stands on either side. Their pale faces are unsettling: I am unused to seeing Aquitans in servants’ livery. At the king’s gesture, they close the heavy double door behind us, leaving the gaggle of disappointed courtiers on the other side of it.
In an instant, the king’s easy smile twists, and he shrugs us off to stalk toward the seating area. “Nevertheless, my dear niece,” he calls back to Theodora, the words much more pointed now. “Come and tell me why you’ve tried to embarrass me in public.”
His footsteps echo crisply across the inlaid floor, each step punctuating his displeasure. I glance at Theodora, unmoored, but her own expression is as hard as the marble tiles.
She starts after him, and I follow. The room is impossibly long, with more than a dozen arched windows looking out over a vast garden to the south. The opposite wall is lined with hundreds of mirrors, and the silvered glass—such a luxury!—reflects my image back to me like a mockery. I am bedraggled and out of place. When I reach the plush velvet couches, I hesitate to touch the soft cloth in my stained gown, but Theodora takes a seat opposite the king as though she had invited him.
“My goal is not to embarrass you, uncle,” she says firmly, though the way she’d made the avion circle above the growing crowd belies her claim. “My goal is to prevent a humanitarian crisis.”
“Alas, the deportation seems inevitable after your brother’s defeat in Le Verdu,” the king replies. “I have written to the Boy King, but he will not rescind his order. He has lost trust in the armée’s ability to protect his best interests against the rebellion, and so like many failed rulers, he is turning to populism to try to appease his people.”
“It isn’t inevitable,” Theodora says. “The rightful king is still trying to stop the deportation.”
“The rebel prince?” With an amused expression, the king leans forward to study the food laid out on the low table between us: delicate morsels of pastry, pungent cheese, and dried fruit scattered like gems on the tray. “I wish him better luck than he’s had ascending the throne.”
Theodora doesn’t take the bait. “If the Aquitans must be deported, let them go safely on ships meant for passengers.”
“The Prix de Guerre leaves in . . . two days, is it?” The king selects a tartlet. “Even my fastest ships couldn’t get to Chakrana in time.”
“I agree that it would have been preferable to send them sooner,” Theodora replies pointedly. “But with lives at stake, we must do all we can with the time we have. If you send them tonight, they can still meet the Prix de Guerre halfway.”
“My ships are bound for other ports,” the king says, taking a bite of the tart. The buttery crust flakes like nacre over his lap. “Our interests in Chakrana are not our only holdings, and far from our most profitable ones, these days. I swore months ago that the Prix de Guerre would be the last ship I sent to Chakrana.”
“Profit and promises mean nothing to Le Trépas!” The words tumble out of me—Le Roi’s reasoning makes me furious. Theodora shoots me another look, but I have to make her uncle understand. “He’s the one behind all of this, Your Majesty.”
“Le Trépas?” The king laughs, his voice tinged with scorn. “The great Chakran boogeyman. Someone can’t trip in Chakrana without it being Le Trépas’s fault. I must confess, I have no idea how such an unremarkable man became so feared, but I suppose superstition is native to your people.” He finishes the tart, then waves at the tray. “Try these, they’re very good.”
“Le Trépas—unremarkable?” I blink, taken aback, but Theodora interjects smoothly.
“You met him once, didn’t you?”
“Years ago. Of course, he was only known as Kuzhujan back then.” The king butchers the name as he reaches for a piece of cheese. “That was when he was still hungry for an alliance between us.”
“An alliance?” I am no politician, but it is hard to imagine Le Trépas wanting to ally himself with Le Roi. “Wasn’t there already one in place?”
“Between the King of Chakrana and myself, yes,” Le Roi says. “Unfortunately, the monk found the king’s rule too secular for his taste. Le Trépas felt he could do a better job on the throne, so he asked for my help ending the Alendra line. Of course, as Theodora knows, I cannot lend my support to an upstart,” Le Roi says with a pointed look at his niece. “No matter what he offers in return.”
It is clearly a barb—why doesn’t Theodora defend Camreon? Especially knowing that Le Roi had in fact ordered the deaths of King Alendra and his family, only to blame the murders on Le Trépas. The truth burns on my tongue, but Theodora’s careful expression reminds
