My words struck a nerve in my own heart, and I knew they’d hurt Sawny, as well. I missed Curlin, and every time I saw her or one of the other Shriven, the thought of her betrayal poured salt water into the still-fresh wound. We’d promised years ago, in our spot on the temple roof, that we wouldn’t join them. None of us. For a lot of temple brats, serving as one of the Shriven was the best option. The only option. But over the years, the four of us had seen what the Shriven did to dimmys—to people like me and Curlin—and not one of us wanted any part of that brutality.
Or so we’d thought. Until three years ago, the day Curlin turned thirteen, when she’d disappeared from the room she and I had shared. The next time we saw her, her head was shaved and her wrist was banded with the new ink of her first tattoo. She’d not spoken to any of us since, but where I held on to that betrayal like a weapon, Sawny’d always wanted to find a way to forgive her.
Steady me, Pru, I thought, leaning on the comfort I felt when I reached for my long-dead twin.
The catechized Shriven prowled into the hall on the heels of their initiates, all dangerous feline grace and coiled energy. They weren’t the only people in the empire who had tattoos, but few bore so many or such immediately recognizable designs. The Shriven’s tattoos favored stark black lines and symbols that evoked a time long forgotten. It was as though they’d inked a language all their own into their skin. Even in plain clothes, a person always knew the moment one of the Shriven came close. Everyone sat a little straighter on their benches and chairs, and their eyes flicked to the dimmys in the room, looking for a reaction, a sign, a threat.
I gripped the cantory in my lap and stared straight ahead, trying to calm my nerves.
At most adulations, Queen Runa was the last person to enter the haven hall. On Ascension Day, however, she shared her entrance with the Suzerain as a token of respect. They were an odd triumvirate. The Suzerain were tall, with porcelain skin and white-blond hair that, when combined with their white robes, made them look like a pair of twin icicles. Castor, the male Suzerain, was covered in grayscale tattoos of flowers that crept up his neck and onto his scalp, a portion of which was shaved to show off the largest of the flower tattoos. The female Suzerain was named Amler. Her hands were covered in a network of tiny black dots so close together, it looked as though she was always wearing gloves that faded up her arms and over the rest of her body, growing sparser the farther they got from her fingertips.
Before Curlin’d joined the Shriven, she used to joke that Amler looked as though she’d been spattered with ink.
Between them, Queen Runa was small and round as a teapot, the top of her crown barely clearing the Suzerain’s shoulders. Every time I’d seen her on her own—mainly during her birthday celebrations, when she handed out sweets across the city—Queen Runa had been the very picture of imposing authority, wrapped in piles of furs and dripping with jewels. But when contrasted with the Suzerain’s sharp faces and piercing blue eyes, the Queen looked positively friendly. Kind, even.
The Queen settled into a fur-draped chair in the place of honor at the front of the hall. The Suzerain stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the Queen and looked out over the silent crowd. Their eyes fixed on each person, taking stock, tallying. I kept my eyes on the cantory in my lap, avoiding their searching gazes. I knew it wasn’t possible that they knew each of the folks who lived in Penby, but they certainly knew who I was. Maybe not on sight, but they knew my name. My story. They kept track of dimmys.
All I wanted was a life outside their line of sight. Outside their reach.
The rest of the adulation went as these things always did. The Suzerain lectured on the holiness of twins, giving particular weight to their own divine role as the leaders of the temple; the power of the singleborns’ judgment and wisdom, Queen Runa first among them; and, of course, the role of the Shriven in protecting Alskaders from the violence of the diminished. Afterward, the Suzerain led the hall in an endless round of the high holy song of Dzallie, gaining speed and volume until the whole room echoed with the reverberations of their worship.
Sawny and I were silent, despite Lily’s black looks and prodding elbows. Since our promise to each other that we wouldn’t join the Shriven, neither of us had worshipped at adulations, either. We showed up when it mattered, of course. We weren’t stupid. But we were always silent, much to Lily’s everlasting chagrin. She worried that our silence singled us out, and the last thing any of us wanted was to be noticed.
After the adulation, the Suzerain stayed in the haven hall for hours, greeting, blessing and doling out advice to those folks rich enough to make it worth the Suzerain’s time. Sawny, Lily and I filed out of the temple as quickly as we could and stood together in the square, soaking in the near-warmth of the early summer sun. The anchorites would expect us to report in for our various chores before long, but none of us seemed to want to be the first to break away.
“Tomorrow, then?” I asked. “What time?”
Lily shifted from one foot to the other. “The sunship leaves on the first tide.”
“I’ll come see you off.”
“There’s no need—”
Sawny cut her off. “Of course you will. But we’ll have supper tonight, too. We’re not saying goodbye. Not yet.”
Anchorite Lugine strode toward us, scowling. Dozens of strands of pearls were wrapped around her neck and braided into her hair, glowing like fresh-fallen snow against the orange silk of her robes.
“I’d best get down to the harbor,” I said, loud enough that the anchorite could hear me. “I’ll be diving until sunset to make up for my lost time this morning. I’ve got to find Lugine some nice pearls if I want supper tonight.”
Lily rolled her eyes, and behind her, Anchorite Lugine crossed her arms and glared. I gave her a cheerful wave, grinned at Sawny and darted toward the temple to get my diving gear from my room.
BO
Like all great houses, the royal palace was a living, breathing thing, and the people who lived and served there shaped its personality. It was never entirely still. Even in the middle of the night, servants carried pots of tea and bottles of wine to guests’ rooms; bakers kneaded endless rolls and loaves in the warm, steamy kitchen; and guards shifted and paced, warding off sleep. There were always books that wanted shelving, forgotten closets filled with the everyday relics of monarchs long dead that needed sorting and fires endlessly burning in the hearths of the palace—which, somehow, even in summer, never managed to fully drive off the chill that clung to those old stones.
No one so much as looked at me twice as I took the long way back to my rooms through the palace’s wide stone hallways, my hands deep in my trouser pockets and a scarf wrapped tight around my thick Denorian wool sweater. I had a stack of books from Queen Runa’s personal collection tucked under one arm, and a small journal full of scribbled questions and notes stuffed into the back pocket of my trousers. After I’d let slip the vast gaps in my knowledge about the shipbuilding industry in Alskad, the Queen had given me a pile of reading on top of my tutor’s regular assignments, and I’d been up half the night trying to make some headway.
Alskad dominated the world-wide shipbuilding industry, and being a nation lacking many natural resources, we held that technology close. We were the first nation to perfect the solar technology that fueled the world after the cataclysm, and none of the rest of the world had managed to harness the power of the sun the way that we had. Denor and Samiria had ships, of course, but they weren’t yet capable of the speed and distance that Alskad sunships managed regularly. Our sunships commanded the trade to and from Denor, Samiria and Ilor, and through our monopoly on ships and trade, the empire had become not only rich, but powerful, as well.
The great irony of a country that spent its winters in the blanket