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“Yes, yes, you’re right of course,” he forced a laugh, but there was something wrong there. Like he wasn’t sure.
I gave Batian a look. I hadn’t seen Father in a month. He had been sickly for the last year or so, but confusion wasn’t the weakness of the chest and soul he had been diagnosed with. Batian saw them both every day but he hadn’t said anything about Father doing worse. He pressed his lips together as he stared forward.
Okay, that wasn’t a good sign.
“Elara, my little girl. How you’ve grown. You are such a beautiful young woman now. Such a respectful princess. One everyone in the Realm should be proud of.” He tugged at his beard so the gray at the sides was more noticeable. He moved to sit up, only to collapse back down to the throne with a thud and a groan.
I jumped, looking again at Batian, who didn’t shift even though his grip on his sword pommel had tightened.
Father was… Well, he was clearly not well. What had I missed? Worse, what had Batian not told me? I glanced at Batian, but he still wasn’t looking at me.
“Enough of your games, darling,” Mother finally crooned, her voice tight and sharp like ice. “Even I can see that she could never be that. Not with her hair the way it is.”
I was wrong. She went with my hair.
“Or that dress.”
Her lip curl tightened, and I forced myself to stand tighter and keep my lips zipped.
‘Control yourself, Elara,’ I reminded myself as I curtsied, well aware the motion probably revealed the torn hem of my dress.
“I’m sorry, Mother.”
She tsk’d so loud at my response that it echoed over the hollow throne room like a slap.
“Queen Dalyah,” I quickly amended, her smile twisting into an icy slice on her face. I forced myself to look away to the shadows behind their thrones, where I could just make out the red cloaks of their Catalysts.
My father’s Catalyst, in so many ways, was as much of a broken royal as I was. He was first born, but not a Requisite. He was born a Catalyst; my father’s Catalyst. My father was second born to his father, the Ramal before him, but Ramal’s could not be a Catalyst. Catalysts could be nothing but Catalysts. So now Uncle Jahn stood in the shadows, clothed in the red of his kind.
My mother’s Catalyst stood to the side of Father’s, the poor girl wearing a hood low over her head as she always did. From what I had been told, she had been in some accident on a Qit and lost part of her skull and her tongue. I wasn’t sure how something like that could happen.
“Tell me, dear Batian,” Dalyah continued, turning toward my brother and giving him what I could have sworn was a genuine smile. “Where did you find her this time? Pig sty?”
“She was in the gardens,” Batian said without hesitation, as if his lie would somehow drown out what she said.
It didn’t. I heard her loud and clear. All that buzzing I had felt on the walkway at the training pits returned, this time as a hum that feathered over my skin as I tried to bat away my rage.
“The gardens.” She laughed at some ridiculousness I didn’t understand. “What was she doing there? Gardening?”
“Well, that is what one tends to do in a garden.” Batian fingers flexed against his sword, his jaw tightening as I forced myself to exhale and not laugh.
I failed. One tiny chuckle escaped in a sound that was somehow amplified in the massive hall.
I was pretty sure I heard her head whip in my direction.
“Something funny, Elara?” Goddess, could she say my name with any more disdain? Even Batian flinched.
I looked over to Father. He had always hated this as much as Batian did. Father didn’t lift his head, however, he only sagged against his throne. I wasn’t even sure if he heard.
“Answer.” Mother’s voice was a whip through the quiet, and I turned toward her.
“Yes, well…no. It’s just that Batian’s right. That is what you do in gardens, which was what I was doing.” Or I had in the past. Goddess, most days, that’s exactly where I was, which was probably why Batian had chosen the lie. For all I knew, it was where most of the dirt on my dress had originally come from.
“What were you gardening?” Her lip twitched at even having to say the word.
“Roses. One of the bushes caught my hem.” I pulled my skirt out to show the dropped and torn fabric as though it was proof. In reality, I had torn the hem last week when I had found a cavern attached to the outside wall near the water wheel that moved water from the Callay River into the palace.
I had hoped it would be a way to get to the city, maybe to explore for a bit.
