heavyset wizard was as rare as a two-headed goat—whose silver robe clung tightly to her body. Ouste’s head was shaved to the skin, and her ears were bejeweled from lobe to auricle with an array of glimmering stones, some black, some clear and prismatic. She looked up at the regent with pale blue eyes.
Ceres exhaled through her teeth. “Her current pallor becomes her, I suppose. Whether I would call that good is another matter,” she said, gazing again at the Princess across the room.
“She bears the fast well, for a child of her constitution,” Ouste revised her comment evenly.
“Eight more days.” The regent tapped one finger against her arm, keeping her face calm.
The two women watched the heir in silence for a moment. A servant’s footsteps on a lower floor echoed faintly in the air. Finally, Ouste said in a quiet voice, “I would not wish it on my child.”
“Yes, well,” Lady Ceres said, clearing her throat, “what we wish and what we must do are distant cousins, at best.”
“We’re only enforcing a tradition from a darker time. It is Naomi who bears the cost.”
“As I am perfectly aware,” Lady Ceres said, her temper mounting. “Generations of Haberstorm children have undergone the Ordeals. An heir cannot ascend to the Throne without enduring them.”
“Does Naomi want to ascend to the Throne?” Ouste’s voice was flat, her blue eyes fixed on the girl.
Ceres shifted her weight, her trouser legs rustling against each other loudly in the still chamber. “Princess Naomi is the heir. She will be Delia’s queen.”
“If she succeeds.” The sorcerer turned to face Ceres, folding her hands together. “If she survives,” Ouste whispered.
“Bite your tongue, wizard.” Lady Ceres would not look at the other woman, her throat growing suddenly tight.
“Lord Torvald nearly died.”
Ceres frowned, thinking back on the golden-haired youth. “Lord Torvald underwent the Second Ordeals and was found lacking. Custom dictated he be removed from the succession and banished, along with his shame. Her brother’s failure is immaterial to Naomi’s journey.”
“A strong, hardy boy like him, with every virtue a king might crave: banished.”
“A necessary action.”
“‘Necessary.’” The wizard tasted the word dubiously, like a bad piece of meat. “So Delia may be the center of technology, the center of progress, the center of experimentation and advancement. But when it comes to our monarchy, all that matters is tradition, no matter how barbaric. Maybe the peasants would not be testing their might in rebellion if they knew their government was willing to change with the times.”
Lady Ceres stomped forward, not trusting herself to respond. Ouste’s thin hand on her arm stopped her, and she whirled around. “Tell me, Lady Ceres,” Ouste said, with new urgency, “that you truly think this child— this child —can endure where her brother could not.”
The weary lines deepened on the regent’s face as she gently pulled her arm away. “She has no choice,” Ceres said.
Ouste watched as the towering woman made her way across the bare room, approaching the Princess with surprisingly delicate steps. Naomi looked up at Lady Ceres from the floor, her thin legs curled over each other in a meditative pose. Thirteen years old , Ceres thought sadly, bowing as the too-pale face turned up to her. Ceres raised her hands. “Step by step, a journey of ten thousand paces,” she said, her voice catching on the ceremonial language. Her fingers fluttered along with her words. “A waypost in a barren field; the earth cracks for want of rain.”
Princess Naomi’s brown eyes fell, and her head drooped. Her golden hair stuck up in jagged peaks where the shears had hacked their way through. Lady Ceres, despite herself, shot a quick glance back to the court wizard. Ouste stood with her arms crossed over her silver robes, her
Ceres exhaled through her teeth. “Her current pallor becomes her, I suppose. Whether I would call that good is another matter,” she said, gazing again at the Princess across the room.
“She bears the fast well, for a child of her constitution,” Ouste revised her comment evenly.
“Eight more days.” The regent tapped one finger against her arm, keeping her face calm.
The two women watched the heir in silence for a moment. A servant’s footsteps on a lower floor echoed faintly in the air. Finally, Ouste said in a quiet voice, “I would not wish it on my child.”
“Yes, well,” Lady Ceres said, clearing her throat, “what we wish and what we must do are distant cousins, at best.”
“We’re only enforcing a tradition from a darker time. It is Naomi who bears the cost.”
“As I am perfectly aware,” Lady Ceres said, her temper mounting. “Generations of Haberstorm children have undergone the Ordeals. An heir cannot ascend to the Throne without enduring them.”
“Does Naomi want to ascend to the Throne?” Ouste’s voice was flat, her blue eyes fixed on the girl.
Ceres shifted her weight, her trouser legs rustling against each other loudly in the still chamber. “Princess Naomi is the heir. She will be Delia’s queen.”
“If she succeeds.” The sorcerer turned to face Ceres, folding her hands together. “If she survives,” Ouste whispered.
“Bite your tongue, wizard.” Lady Ceres would not look at the other woman, her throat growing suddenly tight.
“Lord Torvald nearly died.”
Ceres frowned, thinking back on the golden-haired youth. “Lord Torvald underwent the Second Ordeals and was found lacking. Custom dictated he be removed from the succession and banished, along with his shame. Her brother’s failure is immaterial to Naomi’s journey.”
“A strong, hardy boy like him, with every virtue a king might crave: banished.”
“A necessary action.”
“‘Necessary.’” The wizard tasted the word dubiously, like a bad piece of meat. “So Delia may be the center of technology, the center of progress, the center of experimentation and advancement. But when it comes to our monarchy, all that matters is tradition, no matter how barbaric. Maybe the peasants would not be testing their might in rebellion if they knew their government was willing to change with the times.”
Lady Ceres stomped forward, not trusting herself to respond. Ouste’s thin hand on her arm stopped her, and she whirled around. “Tell me, Lady Ceres,” Ouste said, with new urgency, “that you truly think this child— this child —can endure where her brother could not.”
The weary lines deepened on the regent’s face as she gently pulled her arm away. “She has no choice,” Ceres said.
Ouste watched as the towering woman made her way across the bare room, approaching the Princess with surprisingly delicate steps. Naomi looked up at Lady Ceres from the floor, her thin legs curled over each other in a meditative pose. Thirteen years old , Ceres thought sadly, bowing as the too-pale face turned up to her. Ceres raised her hands. “Step by step, a journey of ten thousand paces,” she said, her voice catching on the ceremonial language. Her fingers fluttered along with her words. “A waypost in a barren field; the earth cracks for want of rain.”
Princess Naomi’s brown eyes fell, and her head drooped. Her golden hair stuck up in jagged peaks where the shears had hacked their way through. Lady Ceres, despite herself, shot a quick glance back to the court wizard. Ouste stood with her arms crossed over her silver robes, her
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