Page 38 of Sharpest Court

“I don’t want excerpts from her childhood diary. I only want to know how she recognized that symbol.”

Lye gave me a considering look. “Didn’t you own a knife with that symbol?”

“No,” I said as the memory flashed: Tari and I colliding with Lye and the others in the Verenian tunnels, where that symbol had been painted in blood. “That knife wasn’t mine.”

“Whose was it?”

“Lye,” Keil warned.

“I’m just curious.” Lye raised his fork-wielding hand, all innocence. “Some of us are the last to know everything. And the last to get invited to storm the palace.” He mock-glared at Keil. “I’d have paid to see Arun’s face when Goren burst through those doors.”

“Is Arun intimidated by him?” I asked.

“More resentful,” Keil said. “Arun has been Rheya’s right hand for over a decade. Still, Rheya has never invited him into the Gallery.”

Over the course of her reign, Her Imperial Majesty has invited only three people into the Ansoran Gallery. Even then, I’d noted Arun’s bitterness. Now understanding dawned on me.

“But she invited Goren?” I asked.

Keil and Lye shared a loaded glance. Then Keil shifted forward. “Did you ever hear of the Ansoran soldier who defended a narrow pass on one of the islands?”

Of course I had. That Wielder war hero had defended the pass single-handedly, saving a Wholeborn town from slaughter.

I gaped. “That was Goren,” I said, less of a question than a horrified statement.

“He doesn’t like to talk about it. He even refused Rheya’s invitation into the Gallery.”

“Eternal glory is too taxing for some people,” Lye chimed in, a little too casually. “I, however, would take to it very well.”

I narrowed my eyes. Was this why Valeria hadn’t divulged more about Goren? Because he was a war hero who didn’t enjoy attention?

No. There was more to Goren’s story than they were offering me.

I was considering pushing them on it when the carriage abruptly lurched. I jolted forward; my hand reached out for purchase—

And landed on Keil’s knee.

He twitched, his hand automatically moving toward mine. But I scrambled back before our fingers skimmed, accidentally elbowing Lye and overturning his bowl onto his lap.

Lye sighed toward the pile of rice, slipped his fork into his bandolier, and mumbled, “I finally understand your ‘no food in the carriage’ rule.”

My nose wrinkled as I looked down a grim, empty street, whose atmosphere was as still as the dust and debris hovering like black glitter under the sunlight.

“Welcome to the Coal Quarter,” Lye said quietly. Noticing my expression, he chuckled. “You didn’t think Ansora was all syrup cakes and rainbows, did you?”

I refrained from telling him that I’d seen both syrup cakes and rainbows on the way here and instead followed him down the road.

Ansoran districts were presided over by elected councilmembers, and unlike the distinct provinces of Daradon, they seemed to spill into one another, containing similar white, pebbled architecture and magnificent yellow-gold flowering trees I’d never encountered before. More than once, I’d glimpsed schoolchildren learning how to skip stones across ponds with their specters, and the sight had made me mourn the stifled upbringing of Daradon’s youth.

But this was the first street that had felt watchful, in a vaguely unsettling way. With the reassurance of my specter, I’d rarely feared navigating even the seediest parts of Daradon. But a Wielder-filled empire had the disadvantage of leveling the playing field, I realized.

I’d never expected to feel so vulnerable in a land of freedom.

“A few ground rules,” Lye murmured. “Rule one: No talking to the locals. Rule two: No drawing unnecessary attention from the locals. Rule three: No fighting with the locals.”

Keil leaned in from my other side, his voice low. “Many of these shops are fronts for illegal activity. If they can’t provide what you’re looking for, they direct you to the higher-ups in the underground network.”

“Is that what Raff does?” I asked. “Direct people to the translator, Calytrix?”