The dwindling number of first- and second-rank theurgic children among the royal line has largely been attributed to the increasing mixed unions between Graced [people of pure royal blood] and ungraced [people of base birth].
These mixed unions have consistently resulted in what is now known as the "barren generation" – royal descendants whom neither themselves nor their bloodline can produce any capacity for theurgy; or at least certainly not theurgy greater than fifth-rank, although even this is an extremely rare exception.

—Tides and Times of Surikhand, an histoire by Setja Asmaradan

14

↝ A ROYAL MESS ↜

Academy. Isla looked back at the structure just as the morning six-bells resounded off its tower. A place where scholars challenge their ideas and discover things anew. Or so it's supposed to be.

It had only been two weeks since her arrival. Ten days of academic instruction, and already it was clear the only ideas the palace academy served were those expurgated by the monarch.

Laughter and voices approached. A group of girls, running across the field at an easy pace, their syarong tied into one style of a romper or another. Isla slipped her hands behind her back as they jogged past. It was early; the grass beneath them still soft with morning dew. It was also their first break for the week. They had two days in every seven to unwind, and this was how the girls chose to spend it.

You're no better, Isla reminded herself. She waited until their laughter echoed from a distance before looking at the map in her hand. It had taken her this long to build enough confidence to steal from the athenaeum. There was no use in rushing, when her head was on the line. Nor is there any use in delaying. I'm as ready now as I'll ever be.

The parchment in her hand was a print of the palatial ring, drawn by an incredibly deft hand. But it was a public copy, and illustrated none of the hidden passageways Isla was certain the palace hid.

'There you are!' A familiar voice called from beyond the tree line. Isla folded the map into the inner folds of her syarong just as she met Tran at the footpath. 'We've been looking for you. You were up early.'

Her chambermate had dressed in her brightest cloth. Behind her, Phrae had styled her own syarong in a daring plunge.

'We're going to the training fields,' continued Tran. 'Want to come?'

'The training fields?'

'Yes. You know, the fields just beyond the Five Archways.'

'I know where they are, but what brings you there?'

'Phrae overheard the tutors talking. A new batch of recruits are coming in. Palace guards.'

'Men,' added Phrae, as though Isla could not already surmise.

'They're having their welcoming brief. I've seen it before.' Tran had been a dhayang much longer than them, after all. It was close to the end of her second year in Kathedra, and as Master Chendra had warned her just the evening before, Tran would soon be sent for the Water Palace if she could not find herself a nobleman. 'There'll be swordfights and unarmed combat. A lot of the nobleborn are invited to watch.'

Just what I need. Noblemen watching. 'That sounds lovely. But I'll –'

'Told you she wouldn't come.' Phrae checked her nails.

'Oh, you really should. The other girls will be there, too ...'

'I have to run a few errands.' Isla winced. She liked Tran. The last thing she wanted was to leave Phrae alone with her long enough to poison against Isla. 'I'll be as quick as I can. I'll meet you at the training fields.'

She waved them goodbye, waiting until they disappeared down the footpath before making her own way towards the Grand Palace. A number of servants were bathing in the canal when she crossed the bridge, their modesty covered by both the early hour and yet more trees that gated the waters. Thank the deities the asraam comes with its own bathing pool. Her days of outdoor ablutions were well behind her.

Isla lifted her chin, avoiding the instinct to look. She picked her pace, only daring a peek of the map in her syarong. Master Chendra had taken them through the kitchen gardens upon their arrival, but already Isla had forgotten her way back. Now, even without the map, all she needed was to follow the scent of spices.

The smell only grew stronger upon entering the Grand Palace gardens. The sweetness of coconut oil, the pungent aroma of kapi ... For a moment, Isla was seven years and back in Arikit. Women would prepare the paste daily by the river banks, leaving shrimps to dry on the rocky beds until they fermented into thick pulp, filling the air with a sensation that tickled her nose.

She sneezed, and the enchantment broke.

This should be it. She stood before a long hall with wide, open doors. A separate building adjoined to the domestics wing of the Grand Palace, with a high ceiling and multiple platforms lining the height of the walls. Each platform held a number of people busy preparing various meals. Smoke billowed out through the windows, as though sucked by open air. Serving girls dashed up and down the platforms, trays balanced along their arms and heads.

On the ground floor, hovering from one counter to another, was a large woman with a larger apron sweeping the length of her body. She was barking commands, wailing out complaints, and at one stage grabbed a pot and threw its contents onto a cooking fire. 'This soup is dryer than your wife on her wedding night!'

'Why are you loafing about?' Isla snapped around at the question and was met with a stern woman carrying three baskets between her arms. 'Head Cook better not see your hands free.'

'I'm looking for Prijsti,' Isla said.

'Who?'

'The cook's assistant.'

'Which cook? We've got eight!' The woman lowered her baskets and shoved one towards Isla. 'Take this to platform three. Quick now, they'll be needing that!' She gathered her baskets and went off before Isla could pursue her question.

Platform three. They all looked the same. Stone steps, wooden rails, counters facing lofty windows. Isla chose one at random, stumbling over a passing cat as she ascended the platform.

'Careful.' A young boy caught her before she made a fool of herself. 'Kitchen strays everywhere. Head Cook'll roast you if you hurt any of 'em.'

Isla muttered a thanks. 'Platform three?'

He pointed at the next platform over. With a sigh, Isla clambered back down to the ground floor and up the next stone steps. The basket was not too big, but it was heavy. She almost dropped it yet again when a woman on the platform graciously helped her heave it onto a counter.

'Just in time,' said the woman, opening the basket and revealing a number of coconuts. 'The curry paste is ready.'

'I'm ... looking for Prijsti,' said Isla, pausing for breath. 'Cook's assistant.'

'Platform-seven-Prijsti?'

'Are there ... more?'

The woman grabbed a cleaver and sliced through one of the coconuts. 'You're right. One Prijsti's quite enough.'

'Platform seven, did you say?'

'New in the kitchens?' The woman looked sidelong at her with a smile. She pointed right across the room with her cleaver, where a group of four were busy on their own platform. 'On the other side of the wall. Just across us. Here, take this. Better not let Head Cook see your hands empty.'

'Thank you.' Isla took the hamper of herbs and made her way to platform seven. Head Cook was still screaming at someone when she hurried past, head down, trying to look as inconspicuous and busy as possible.

Isla knew it was Prijsti the moment she saw her. She had gifted Aldir her lips, and the kindness of her eyes. A touch of the sun streamed in through the window and crowned her face where she stood, slicing a row of fish. Every now and again, a hand would slip under the counter and drop a few dices to an eagerly waiting tabby.

'What's that you got there?' A man snatched the hamper from Isla's hand.

'It's from platform three. Herbs, I think.'

'We didn't ask for no herbs.'

'I ... they just told me to bring it here.'

'That would be from Merra.' Prijsti took the hamper gently out of the man's hands. Her voice was soft and soothing; even the creases on the man's forehead eased away at the sound of it. 'I mentioned to her yesterday we were running short of lavender and tartar root. Looks like she's given us other things, too. Broth is just about done – I'm sorry, do you mind preparing it for the girls to pick up?'

'Will do, Prijsti.'

The man return to their stove, and once he was out of earshot, Prijsti took Isla aside. 'You're not our usual messenger,' she said. 'What's Merra up to today? Don't tell me – the new recruits. She wants to sneak out and watch them. You tell her, we're far too old to be ogling young soldiers.'

Prijsti did not look a day over thirty, but Isla knew she must have been at least a decade older. 'That isn't what I came for.'

'Oh? What then? She found a partner for the Rising Year celebration?'

'I wasn't sent by Merra.' Isla paused. How well did Sir Edric and Aldir know this woman? They could be wrong about Prijsti. The woman they once knew could have now turned into someone else entirely. I've already come too far, she decided. Besides, if she placed everything the way they planned, she would remain safe in any eventuality. 'I was sent by my father. He received a message for you.' Isla dug into her pocket and pulled out a ring.

❖ ❖ ❖