Page 53 of A Game of Veils

At this point, we need to preserve all the moisture in our bodies that we can—and all the energy. Talking will only expel both.

I fight the urge to lean against one of the unoccupied chairs, also in the name of conserving energy. I suspect that would be considered cheating too.

Our tyrants are determined to make this latest test as taxing as possible.

No one else has slipped and tried to sneak nourishment since the lady who was slain yesterday afternoon. I suppose she served as warning enough. But just as with the trial of over-indulgence, the imperial heir has shown no inclination to end this one early simply because he’s eliminated a contender.

More of the competing ladies join our unsteady cluster while the other nobles file in and take their seats. A nearby marchion pops a grape into his mouth with a juicy crunch that sets my parched throat on fire.

Marclinus saunters in alongside his father and takes his seat with barely a look at the ladies waiting for his approval.

Emperor Tarquin scans his assembling court, frowning. “Where has Prince Lorenzo wandered off to? I think we’d enjoy some music with our meal—he can have his after.”

As several of the nearby nobles shake their heads in ignorance, my stomach twists for a different reason.

This would be the first time I’ve seen the emperor demand that Lorenzo play twice in one day. The prince already performed for nearly two hours in the parlor this morning and looked rather ill by the end of it. He’s had less time than that to rest.

Straining one’s gift can have severe adverse effects on the body. Not that I’d expect Emperor Tarquin to care about how his demands might harm anyone else.

My gaze flits over the growing crowd too. I don’t spot Lorenzo’s darkly handsome face, but the other three princes are standing nearby.

Neven is saying something to the other two with obvious anger. Raul puts a hand on his shoulder, and Bastien tips his head closer while he replies with a solemn expression. Neven scowls, but he follows them the rest of the way to their seats without further argument.

The older princes protect their younger counterpart as well as they can, don’t they? I only fully recognized it yesterday when Raul intervened in Neven’s planned assault.

Raul didn’t care that much what the teenager might do to me. He didn’t want Neven to have to face the consequences if he was caught overtly harassing me.

Looking after his younger “brother” mattered more to him than whatever animosity he still holds toward me.

Emperor Tarquin sighs. “I’ll speak to him when he arrives.” He continues on to his seat—and treads on a spoon that must have fallen while the table was being set.

His balance wobbles before he grasps the edge of the table to steady himself. With a grunt, he kicks the spoon out of the way. It’s a totally understandable lapse—even a man half his age would have lost his footing momentarily.

From the neighboring table, I catch a murmured comment. “You see—he really isn’t quite himself.”

Ah. My remark the other day about his tremor must have entered into the palace gossip.

When I glance toward the nearby doorway to see if everyone has finally arrived so we can get this meal over with, the last of the princes is just stepping over the threshold. Lorenzo still looks a bit weary, some of the richness dulled in his deep brown skin.

A twinge of sympathy runs through me despite my own discomforts. Before I can think better of it, I catch his attention with a twitch of my hand.

Remembering the signs he showed me in the library, I swivel my thumb like a crown over a forefinger to indicate the emperor, flick my finger toward Lorenzo, and then jerk my fingers tight like claws in an effort to indicate discomfort to come.

Lorenzo blinks at me. I can’t tell whether he’s drained enough to have trouble concentrating or simply startled that I’ve adopted his surreptitious means of communication.

Then the message appears to sink in. He stiffens, takes a backward step toward the hall?—

Too late. Emperor Tarquin’s voice carries over the court chatter. “Prince of Rione! Come delight us with more of your musical talent.”

Lorenzo’s jaw tightens as if he’s suppressed a grimace. With a resigned air, he stalks past me to the corner of the room the emperor indicated, where a page is waiting with what seems to be his other preferred instrument: a gleaming lyre.

Marclinus straightens in his chair. He waves to the nine of us ladies gathered nearby and calls out his announcement. “My hopeful brides will be demonstrating other kinds of self-control and devotion at our last meal of their trial. They’ll each help serve me my food.”

A few giggles and guffaws pass through our audience. Now he wants his noblewomen to play servants?

I don’t really care about being humbled. From the looks of my companions, they’re too wrung out to be embarrassed by this new development. Even Fausta’s posture has started to droop, though she’s keeping her chin rigidly high, her eyes darting over the rest of us.

Various staff circulate the room, bringing meals that are already portioned. One carts a wooden stand holding a platter with a large serving dish and sets it up next to Marclinus’s spot at the table. She moves around him and poses at the opposite side of his chair, ladle hovering over his bowl.

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