You must be kind to your servants, cordial to your peers, obliging to your masters. The old empire gloried in its obscenity because it never expected its downfall. When our revolutionists stripped it of its wealth, its lewdness alone remained. So be polite, lest your fortunes change too and the world see you naked.

- The Political Standard by Empress Adleenia d'Jurian

I think best when engaged in a game of sharp wit, and second best when weaving. So it is, after leaving Father's office with my head abuzz, that I end in front of my loom. As sunlight and a breeze stream in from high windows, my patient fingers wind over each thread. This piece will be a map of Imperia when I'm done with it: the yellows of the heartland savannas, dotted with the turquoise of the four Imperial Lakes; the light green of the northern forests, which give way to midnight oceans and white island sands; the brown of the southwest desert, the green of the southeast jungle, and the charcoal of the mountains that separate them. The silver city of Imperium sits glorious in the center of it all.

I can see it clearly in my mind, though right now, it's just a mess of threads. Much like Father's political gamble.

My finger misses a thread, and I bite my tongue. Now isn't the time for unsteady hands. I carefully guide it back into place, trying to order my thoughts as easily.

The hard part isn't figuring out how to do what Father has asked; his plan, while it leaves plenty open to interpretation from me, is solid. No, the hard part is figuring out how to do it while damaging my reputation as little as possible.

At some point, Mother's summer-breeze aura glides up the hallway. Reflexively, I do everything I can to encase my emotions in stone, like Father's. He does it naturally, without even knowing he's doing it, but I've studied at it for years. Not feeling is the only defense I have against my mother—especially if I plan on lying.

"Someone is hard at work," she says pleasantly as she comes through the door.

"I was hoping," I say, setting another thread, "to have it finished before the Census. I'd like to give it as a gift."

She settles onto the seat of her loom nearby, though sideways, away from her work and toward me. "To whom?"

"I haven't decided yet." Serran, my younger brother, comes of marriageable age this Census. I'd thought to give it to him, though with bigger plans on the horizon than gifts, the idea seems silly now.

It would be a good courting gift, a foot in the door with the Banner Red, but it pangs to think of it hanging in someone else's home.

Mother's aura rings with worry at the slight shift in my own, and her voice drops to a whisper. "Then you will do it?"

I keep my words noncommittal, level, as I pull on the loom's beater. Believing nothing is awry is the best defense against her—and nothing is awry aside from her prying. "Do what, Mother?"

Exasperated, she says, "Carry whatever sword your father thrust into your hands!"

I eye her sideways. "Father thrust nothing at me, and if he had, you know I would gladly take it."

"Oh, Sylnavi—"

"Though truly, I think you'll be glad of this." If I don't spin this some way, she's going to fret forever, and that serves no one. "There is a serious suitor that has asked after me. Not," I assure her, "for us to settle anything this Census. But for us both to get a measure and think about for next."

Despite me feeding her a pack of lies, her face alights. Her aura brightens with it, like a swell of songbirds, and she comes to sit beside me on my bench. "Oh? Who?"

"I doubt you'll know him. His father's been sick these last years, and they haven't come to court much."

"Then tell me." She leans closer, as eager as any finishing school girl.

As if relenting, I say, "Veidan h'Dairr." She's going to find out sooner or later, and it's better she find out from me than out in public. "The new duke of the Banner Red."

Mother clutches at my arm, her sunshine dappled with confused clouds. "But your father hates the Banner Red."

My head tilts. "I wasn't aware Father was capable of hate."

And I really wasn't before our discussion this morning. Father is not one to feel strongly about much of anything. It impedes clear thinking, he often remarks. But there was a certain sharpness to our discussion about the Banner Red, a sword honed well for battle over many years. It is led by a pit of vipers, he said, and the last thing we need is a newer, stronger heir rising from it. We cut it off at the head, now, while the hatchling is still young.

Mother's head shakes in tiny, insistent movements. "He would sooner stab you through than let you attach yourself to that man."

I sigh. "Come now, Mother. Since when is Father that irrational?"

"It is not irrational if it is the truth!"

"Duke Veidan is not his father, and his father is dead. Perhaps it is time we put to death our enmity too, no?"

"When I said I wanted you to think more of love—"

"It wasn't with the nephew of the woman who dragged you to court?" I raise my brows at her, as though rebuking her for some bit of childishness. "That was years ago, Mother, and it amounted to nothing."

She folds her arms, as if warding off the cold. And perhaps I do feel cold to her. Perhaps my aura sounds like the whisper and crunch of ice, the keening knife of the wind. That trial, years ago though it may be, nearly undid her. She rarely goes out now, and then only on Father's arm or mine. She used to love to host, and now the only parties we hold are private affairs with trusted allies. She's more herself when we're in Emeriald for the summers, so our stays away from here at the capital have been growing longer and longer. Every year, I fear more the day that Father entirely abandons this place for her sake.

"Powerful people," she whispers, "are dangerous, Sylnavi."

I take her shoulders in my hands. "And Father is far more powerful than Veidan h'Dairr, or his aunt, or his sisters, or anyone else in his House. Duke Veidan rules a single Banner, and that barely; Father rules all of Emeriald."

Her hands come up to clasp mine, and there is a desperation in the strength of their grip. "The wind shifts, and no one knows where it comes or goes. You cannot stand on the wind, Syln."

"These people are nothing right now, Mother." This I believe whole-heartedly, so I don't attempt to shield my emotions from her. Let my calmness, icy though it may be, settle her. "But Father thinks they might be someday. Better to be friends with them than enemies." At least until they're crushed entirely.

"And who says you must be the olive branch?"

I open my mouth to answer her, but we both look over at the door as my brother's aura hits the edges of our senses. "Mother," Serran calls unseen from the hall, "have you seen my dueling sword?"

He pokes his head in, vest flapping and curly dark hair flopping here and there. He is only two years my junior, but I often feel a lifetime older. I rise, sighing. "Has your mother the princess become a servant now?"

"Good to see you too, Syln." He grins unabashedly.

"It's with the polisher!" Mother says, rather unhelpfully to my case. Still, I find myself glad for it. The summer chimes of her aura have hesitantly returned, like a flock of birds poking their beaks out after a storm. She'll fuss and fret over the next week, of course, but the depths of her doomsaying have been forgotten for the moment—and will continue to be if I play my part right. "I knew you might want it this week."

"Perfect." He starts to duck out before I clear my throat. "What? Oh, yes of course."

He strides into the room and kisses Mother on both cheeks. She squeezes his hands and kisses him on the forehead. The chimes of her aura positively sparkle. Serran tries to kiss me on the cheek too, but my black look wards him off, and he backs away, chuckling.

"Please tell me," I say, "that you're not going to the palace like that."

"For the life of me, Syln, you'd think you were my mother and that lovely lady next you was my sister."

Mother covers her lips with a hand, but I just roll my eyes at him. "I can't see Father approving of your gallivanting the day before Census week begins."

"Syln, darling." Mother, to my satisfaction, is laughing. "Be kind! You make him sound like a rake."

"And you wouldn't call your favorite brother a rake, would you, sister dear?" He wiggles a brow at me, and Mother covers her mouth again.

"You'd look like less of one if you buttoned your vest."

He shakes his head at me, then says to Mother, "I'll be back for dinner. I'm just meeting up with some of the other scribes."

"There's a book I'm after from the Ladies' Court," I say, briskly kissing Mother farewell. "I'll come with you."

"No, no," Serran says, backing up. "I'm leaving in five minutes. It'll take you ages—"

"Brother, I'll be in the howdah before you ever retrieve your sword from the polisher."

"Serran," Mother rebukes mildly, as I knew she would. "Be kind. Take your sister with you, and look out after her."

His whole face tenses, lips curling inward. He takes a beat while I maintain the picture of innocence. "Yes, Mother."

"Good. I love to see the blood of my heart getting along with each other. You both take care." But now there is no more paranoia in her voice than usual, and her summer-chimes sing with pleasure.

I smile warmly. "Of course, Mother."

Serran gives a stiff half-bow, then hurries out of the room, determined, no doubt, to beat me to the elephant stables. I curtsey to my mother before taking my leave as well—with grace, dignity, and, admittedly, a faster step than usual.

Because books are the last thing I'm interested in at the capital, and all the better that Serran is the one taking me.