She gives the guard an arch look, but he doesn’t move. The easy smile falls from her face.
They come as a set or not at all. Unless you want to get the king out of bed to tell me otherwise.
SORO still hesitates, but TAMAR waves them forward at last.
TAMAR: Come on then.
CAMREON hesitates, looking at the dog.
CAMREON: Does he bite?
TAMAR: Not if you’re unarmed.
TAMAR eyes the rebels with a slow grin.
You’re not hiding anything under those gowns, are you?
CAMREON musters his best smile, which is more like a grimace, but TIA winks, stepping forward.
TIA: Down, boy.
Her saucy smile barely falters when the dog stalks closer, but the soldier was right. The beast only sniffs wetly at her hands, then sits back down on sagging haunches. TAMAR gives them a mocking bow as SORO opens the gate.
TAMAR: Welcome to the palace.
Chapter Nineteen
When I was a girl, I had dreamed of seeing the Royal Opera House of Lephare, but as the carriage rolls through the streets, I am afraid to watch for it out the window. Like all things in Aquitan, I fear it will disappoint me . . . betray me. That the reality cannot compete with my childhood imagination—or even worse, that the king’s smugness will spoil my awe. But when I catch sight of the theater out the window, those worries vanish.
It is a grand building, taking up an entire city block, and the front is lined with rows of columns topped with gilded arches. Tucked into each alcove are tall marble figures holding musical instruments. It looks like a temple dedicated to some god of the arts, though in the fading light of the afternoon, the marquee is lit with gas lamps, not soullight.
I have seen the imitation in Nokhor Khat, but this version is grander somehow—taller, I think. Or is it only that here, in Lephare, the style of the building is less out of place?
As we pull up by the wide steps, I don’t bother waiting for the footman to help me out of the carriage. Le Roi climbs down at a much more stately pace, and we walk side by side up the wide steps. The footman hurries ahead to open one of the many arched doorways; at the end of a performance, every door would be flung open to the evening air, the audience spilling excitedly down the steps with music still echoing in their ears. I can almost hear it myself—the strains of a song—as we enter the lobby.
Stepping into the opera house is like walking into a jewel box. Overhead, deep coffers frame painted scenes that decorate the ceiling. The detailed walls shine gold in the light of a thousand candles. The gas lamps make them unnecessary; the chandeliers are only for show. Had the servants lit them all just for the king’s visit? But even after such a display, stepping into the theater itself takes my breath away.
A sea of seats in gold and red sweeps down toward a massive stage, framed in columns so high they look like they’re holding up the ceiling. Between them hangs a silken scrim big enough to shelter the entire population of my old village in sudden rain. It is woven as a single sheet of fabric, so no seams would mar the view of the performance. Above my head, tier after tier of balcony seats rise like the layers of a fanciful cake, and along the walls, gilded boxes lean toward the stage to get a better view.
“What do you think?” Le Roi asks. I search his face, knowing he can see the answer on my own. Does he only want me to say it aloud so he can gloat? But it would be foolish to deny the truth.
“It’s . . . beautiful.” The song in my imagination is louder here, echoing in my ears, with low drums like Maman used to play. I hold my breath, concentrating, and Papa’s voice joins the drumming: a Chakran song, here in the heart of Lephare. But I’m the only one who can hear it—at least, for now. “I wish my family could see it too.”
“I give my best players a pension. Many of them have used their pay to bring their relatives from Chakrana.” The king shrugs, as though the custom is a strange one, but I am well acquainted with it. “If you’re as good as you say you are, you can earn much more than an old book.”
“I am the best,” I murmur as shadows flicker in the corner of my eye. Not the story of the Shepherd and the Tiger, but one I haven’t yet told.
In it, a family steps from a pier onto a boat. The shadow of the vessel cuts a trim line across the swirling blue waves of the wild sea, until a gleaming city rises out of the water: Lephare. I can see the skyline in my head, oddly familiar by now—the spire of the great cathedral, and the lines of the grand palais. The song in my head swells, followed by a storm of applause.
What would my life have been like had the rebels not attacked at the Fêtes des Ombres?
When the king speaks, his voice makes me jump. “Tomorrow night, I will see for myself.”
“Tomorrow,” I repeat, chewing my lip, but as the word sinks in, the echoes of applause fade. Suddenly I am filled with dread. The stage is the biggest I’ve ever seen, and there are thousands of seats to fill—thousands of people to cheer my success, or to jeer at my failure.
“The maestro should be by shortly to discuss your choice of music,” the king adds. “Ah! And here are your fantouches.”
From the lobby, a line of servants appears, silk bags slung over their backs. Horror grows in my chest as they deposit the bags at the foot of the stage: I can’t even remember which fantouches are inside. The King of Death, the tiger . . . but was there anything I could use for
