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Silver and Gold, Clay and Porcelain.
One shines brightly, one hides shadows.
—People
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The path to Kedjate B'yni skirted the inner wall where the afternoon shade crept forward. Kirsya walked alone with a bundle of fresh linens tucked under one arm. Her footsteps tapped softly on the stone pavers, it's already cracked enough for a repair, she thought. The southern wind had died; the air was still. Even the sea sounded distant today, as though holding its breath. Kedjate B'yni occupied the western triangle of the original estate—older than the newer fortifications with stones covered in a little moss, and its windows smaller. The manor had been built for summer centuries ago, meant to catch the southern breeze that came off the Gulf in the cold monsoon months. But the trees planted beside it, now overgrown, had broken up the winds. It sat in permanent shadow, shaded and cool, the way the lord preferred for certain guests.
The northern room was at the end of the main corridor, its door unlocked. Kirsya pushed it open and stood in the doorway, her eyes wandered the room. The bed was made. A skeleton of linens left by the last occupant, stripped but not fresh. The curtains hung crooked. A thin film of dust coated the surface of the writing desk. The empty floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stared back at her, old and weathered Kineze wood. It started rotting at the bottom from the humidity of the sea. For the most part, nothing that could not be fixed in an hour.
She paced to the window and pulled back the drapes. Outside, the Brezean flowers climbed the eastern face of the manor. Orange blooms sprinkled among thick and lush vines, contrasted against the gray stone of the inner wall. They caught the afternoon light as it shone like jewels on a plain canvas.
Kirsya tucked the corner of the quilt beneath the pillow, her hands moving as her mother's had, twenty years ago. Fauena had worked in the main kitchens then, before Kirsya was given to the prince's maid.
'You watch,' she said once. 'You learn what needs to be done before anyone asks. That is how you become needed.'
Not wanted. Kirsya had understood even then.
The clouds cleared and the Brezean flowers outside the window caught the light again. Her mother had planted them along the servants' quarters, back when Kirsya was young enough to believe anything could grow if you wanted it enough. They had taken those first cuttings, and then they had spread. The vines climbed without permission, toward whatever light they could find.
Kirsya smoothed the quilt once more, though it needed no smoothing. The northern room received no sun at any hour. She had learned that when she was seventeen, preparing this same room for an ambassador from Telkarnatha. Lady Lampravgi—a woman with silver rings on every finger who had asked her three questions about the flowers and then, satisfied, had not spoken to her again for the duration of her stay. Some guests required words. Others required only that the room be warm and the water hot and the curtains drawn precisely so.
She had learned that too.
Whatever Skovati traded in, he would find this room ready. And she would be there, watching, saying nothing. The way her mother had taught her. She stripped the old linens in a single pull and began to layer the fresh ones. Sheet, then quilt, then the small embroidered pillows that Vizna insisted made a room feel inhabited. Kirsya never understood why a stranger would care whether a pillow bore stitched sparrows, but she did not argue. She simply did what was needed.
The door opened behind her.
"You're already at it."
Kirsya did not turn. She recognized Asteria's tread.
"The room was not ready," Kirsya said.
Asteria moved past her to the writing desk, her gray hair loose today, no net, catching the dim light. She pulled a cloth from her apron and began wiping the dust away. "Esteemed Waryad came to find me after you left. Gave me the full briefing. The guest's preferences, such as they are. No strong drink. Morning tea before anything else. And…" She stopped, her hand rested on the desk. "He wants Kalos present at the evening meal tomorrow. Not just present. Hosting."
Kirsya tucked the final pillow into place. "That is unusual."
"Everything about this is unusual." Asteria resumed her wiping, but her motions changed. Slower. "A merchant who requires the northern room. Who merits the lord's personal attention. Who rates a warning about the young princess." She looked at Kirsya. "It cannot be just a simple merchant, no?"
Kirsya straightened the curtains. The question, suspended in the air. They had speculated before over other guests and mysteries. Though, Asteria did the speculating while Kirsya listened.
"He trades in silks," Kirsya said.
Asteria's mouth twitched. "And I am the Queen of Telkarnatha."
Kirsya said nothing.
"Come now." Asteria leaned against the desk, arms crossed. "You were in the study. You saw his face. A letter arrives, three days late, and within the hour he is assigning the northern room, calling Kalos to host, and warning me to keep the princess away." She lowered her voice. "The last time he gave me a warning like that, the guest was—" she tilted her head once as her gaze met Kirsya's.
Kirsya's hands paused on the curtain tie-back. She had heard that story years ago. A man who had asked too many questions about the fortress's walls, about the garrison's size and about the lord's opinions on the Vigilance Mandate. He stayed for three days. The horses he had come to sell never arrived.
"This one is a textile merchant," Kirsya said, carefully.
"This one says he is a textile merchant." Asteria looked as if staring into the distance. "And we are to attend to him personally. You and I. Not the junior maids nor the kitchen staff. Us. His Esteemed wants us to watch him."
Kirsya smoothed the tie-back. "We watch everyone."
"We do. But not usually with instructions." Asteria pushed off from the desk and moved to the window, looking out at the flower vines. "Skovati. Does that sound like a merchant's name to you?"
Kirsya pondered. The name was of Telkaran origin, certainly. Not Tiaveka or Suvuya. "It sounds like a name," she said. "Sko… skia… vation. Shadow?"
Asteria laughed—a short, dry sound. "You would say that. You would say the sky is blue and the sea is wet and a name is a name." She turned from the window. "I am not complaining. You are the best person to have beside me for this. You do not let your opinions cloud your eyes."
Kirsya inclined her head. "Neither do you."
"I let mine cloud plenty. I just know when to close them." Asteria walked to the door and pulled it open. "The room is ready. Come. Vizna will want help with dinner, and I would like to be there before Lyrra arranges the silver in the wrong order again."
Kirsya followed her into the corridor. The shadows had deepened while they worked; the afternoon was sliding toward evening. They walked in silence through the manor hall and toward the covered walkway that would lead them back to the main palace.
They were halfway across the inner courtyard when a voice stopped them.
"Kirsya."
Kalos stood near the portcullis of the inner gatehouse, his musket propped against his shoulder and his brown hair still damp from the afternoon's heat. He was looking at her, not at Asteria.
Asteria glanced between them. Her face revealed nothing. "I will see to the kitchens," she said, and continued on without waiting for a reply.
Kirsya stood where she was.
She walked toward him.
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Kalos did not move as she approached. He stood with the musket cradled against his shoulder, its brass fittings mirrored the afternoon light and watched her tread the courtyard with an expression that might have been patience.
"You found me," he said when she was close enough to hear.
"You called."
A flicker of amusement, perhaps—crossed his face. He turned without another word and walked toward the barracks, expecting her to follow.
She did.
The military barracks occupied the eastern wall of the expanded fortress, a long stone building with a pitched roof and windows that faced the sea. Three hundred men garrisoned here, though the afternoon drills had ended and most were scattered. People clustered near the mess hall, voices low; two figures repairing a cart near the stables. Five more leaned on the wall near the wooden boxes, talking amongst themselves. Kalos moved through the space, nodding to a sergeant here and acknowledging a salute there. He was known here.
Kirsya walked a step behind and watched the way the soldiers' eyes followed him. Not with fear but trust, she observed.
They entered the armory. It was a low-ceilinged room that smelled of oil and a strong scent of iron. Kalos set his musket on the rack, then reached for another. This one was different from the one he carried this morning. The stock was darker and the brass more ornate, the barrel scratched and aged with more frequent use. He checked the lock and ran his thumb along the flint—slung it over his shoulder without comment.
"You have questions," he said as they emerged into the back courtyard. "I can see them."
Kirsya considered. "Where are we going?"
"The range." He gestured toward the far end of the courtyard, where a low wall marked the boundary of the shooting grounds. "I missed this morning. Dusak had it before me. He always shoots better when he is angry about something."
"Is he angry?"
"Dusak is always angry. He just does not always have a reason." Kalos glanced at her. "You would know. You see everything."
Kirsya said nothing. The path narrowed with the stones slowly giving way to packed earth. Ahead she could see the targets. Wooden frames with painted circles, some fresh, some splintered from use. A boy was retrieving arrows from a straw butt near the far wall. He saw them and bowed quickly, then hurried away. Kalos stopped at the firing line. He set the musket on a low table beside a small leather pouch and began. The powder, wad, ball, ramrod. His hands moved without hesitation.
"I spoke with my father," he said, not looking up. "After you left."
Kirsya waited.
"He told me about the guest." Powder measured, poured. "A merchant. Important enough to warrant the northern room." He pressed the wad down with the ramrod. "He did not say much else. But he did not need to."
The ramrod slid home. Kalos set it aside and reached for the priming flask.
"You know why I asked you to come," he said.
Kirsya watched his hands. "You said you needed me."
"I do." Fine powder sprinkled into the pan. "Not for the shooting." He closed the frizzen, raised the musket to his shoulder, sighted down the barrel. For a moment he was still, perfectly still, the afternoon light catching the brass fittings.
"Չֆϝ'τ (sivyet)," he fired, blue light trailed the bullet as a loud crack echoed off the walls. The target at the farthest end shuddered. A puff of dust rose from the painted circle, it glowed green, then disappeared.
Kalos lowered the musket and began to reload. "The girl. The one in the armory this morning."
Kirsya's breath caught, just slightly. She did not think he noticed.
"Lyrra," he said. "She has been here—what, three years? Four?" He measured powder. "She looks at me as though I have done something remarkable." A wad, pressed. "It is a child's desire. A story she told herself about who I am."
Kirsya watched the ramrod slide down the barrel. She said nothing.
Kalos set the musket on the table and turned to face her. His eyes were very dark and steady. "You are close to her. You work together and understand these things better than I do." He faced to the right. "She needs to resolve it before it becomes something that can not be resolved quietly."
"Resolve it," Kirsya repeated.
"Help her see that what she feels is not—" He stopped. Looked for the word. "Not what she thinks it is. A fascination. A comfort perhaps, in a place that is not her home." He picked up the musket again and checked the priming, but did not raise it. "You could speak with her. Gently. She would listen to you."
Kirsya looked past him, to the target. The powder smoke was already dissipating, thin threads against the gray stone. The painted circle where the ball had struck was just a hole now, wood splintered around the edges.
She thought of Lyrra's hands moving in the same spot, round and round. Of the words she had said in the armory. It stops when you stop watching for it to notice you. She thought of Kalos, standing in his father's study, fingers adjusting on his rifle.
The prince may be misunderstanding something, she said to herself. Not aloud.
Kalos raised the musket. Sighted. "ֆշ'ɸ λʯᵻ (vneo licua)." The second shot cracked across the range and this time, the target tore. A clean line through the outer ring, close to the center but not quite. Orange streaks of glowing mist trailed where the bullet had flown, then dissipated.
He lowered the weapon and looked at her. Waiting.
Kirsya met his eyes. "I will speak with her," she said.
Kalos nodded. Something in his face relaxed—relief, perhaps, or satisfaction. He turned back to the table, began the reloading again, and did not see the way her gaze lingered on the target, on the hole that had not been there before, on the place where the wood had splintered and would need to be replaced before anyone used it again.
"Good," he said. "That is settled."
He fired again. The snap rolled across the courtyard, and Kirsya stood behind him, silent. She watched the smoke drift toward the sea.
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The main kitchen of Niadir Palace occupied the ground floor of the central building, their wide windows facing west to catch the last of the afternoon light. By the time Kirsya reached them, the sun had slipped behind the outer wall and the room had settled into the soft gray of early evening. Vizna was already there. She stood at the long worktable, her back to the door, her hands buried in a mound of dough. Her blonde hair was remarkably bright for eighty-nine years. Pinned up, but loose strands had escaped to frame her face. She was humming something, a tune Kirsya did not recognize, and the rhythm of her kneading matched the melody.
Asteria was at the far end of the table, slicing vegetables likened to someone who had done it a thousand times. She looked up when Kirsya entered. She raised an eyebrow, then returned to her work without comment.
"Ah," Vizna said without turning. "The quiet one returns."
Kirsya stopped just inside the door. "You knew it was me."
"I know everyone's step." Vizna glanced over her shoulder, her blue eyes bright, sharp, amused. "Yours is the lightest. You walk like you are trying not to wake the house." She turned back to her dough, her hands started moving again. "Which is foolish. The house has been awake for centuries. It does not need your silence to rest."
Asteria choked a laugh, then quickly suppressed it.
Kirsya moved to the basin to wash her hands. "The room in the Kedjate B'yni manor is ready."
"Good." Vizna punched the dough, folded it, punched again. "Then you can help with dinner. Lyrra is supposed to be setting the table, but she has been in and out of here three times already, fussing over the silver as though the king of Telkarnatha were arriving instead of just the family." She hunched over the counter to grab a container. "Though perhaps she knows something we do not. Stranger things have happened in this house."
Kirsya dried her hands and walked over to the cupboard where the dinner plates were kept. The porcelain was thin, painted with gold vines that caught the lamplight. She began to lift them down, stacking them in careful piles.
"You have been with the Prince Esteemed," Vizna said.
Kirsya's hands did not stop. "He wanted to practice."
"He wanted to talk," Vizna said. "There is a difference." She shaped the dough into a ball then set it in a bowl. She grabbed a cloth from the side and wrapped it. "He always talked to you. Even when he was small. You were the one he would find when the other servants were too busy or too afraid to listen."
Kirsya stacked another plate. "He needed someone to listen."
"And you listened." Vizna wiped her hands on her apron and turned to face her fully. Her eyes were the pale blue of a winter sky, and they held something that might have been knowing. "That is your gift. You listen and watch, without filling the silence with yourself."
Kirsya said nothing.
Asteria set down her knife. "Vizna."
"I am not criticizing." Vizna moved to the stove, lifted the lid of a pot and sniffed. "I am observing. The same way she does." She replaced the lid and looked at Kirsya again. "But sometimes, the silence becomes a habit. And the people who would speak to you forget that there is someone behind it." The kitchen was very quiet. Even the fire seemed to freeze.
Kirsya looked at the plates in her hands. The gold vines wound around the rim, endless and unbroken. "Sometimes," she said, "it is hard to speak. Words do not come easily. I simply feel… things."
Asteria's hand lay suspended over her vegetables. Vizna's expression did not change but her eyes softened. "That is not a fault," Asteria said quietly. She picked up her knife again, but did not resume cutting. "But sometimes we also need words. When the time needs it."
Kirsya nodded. She set the plates on the worktable, one by one, and did not trust herself to speak further.
The door swung open.
"I have finished the table!" Lyrra burst into the kitchen. Her cheeks flushed and her braids slightly askew. "The silver is straight, the glasses are polished, and I put the small vases with the—oh." She stopped, taking in the room. "Did I interrupt something?"
"You interrupted my thoughts," Vizna said, her tone dry. "Which is a mercy, because they were becoming tedious." She waved a hand at the plates. "Kirsya, those go on the sideboard first. Lyrra, you can help her carry them. Asteria, stop staring at that carrot and finish it before it grows roots."
The kitchen stirred back into motion. Lyrra fell into step beside Kirsya, taking a stack of plates and chattering about the arrangement she had devised, about how the light fell on the silver, about whether the lord would notice the new napkin folds. Kirsya listened and let the words wash over her. Vizna hummed again, the same tune as before, and the routine of her work filled the space between the voices.
Kirsya carried her plates to the dining hall, laid them in their places, and when she returned to the kitchen, the conversation had shifted to something else—Asteria's complaints about the new laundry maid, Vizna's recollection of a feast fifty years past, Lyrra's laughter bright and easy.
She stood in the doorway for a moment, watching them. Then she stepped inside, and the evening continued.
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