Page 51 of The Uncrowned Prince

It was a necessary question. The trouble was, he did not quite know the answer. It was far easier to judge the way his own work would draw on his energy, and he’d never dared explore this one beyond determining what it could do.

“I’m in no danger yet,” was all he could tell her. “But I will warn you before the situation becomes dire.” Almost unconsciously, he squeezed her hand, as if it were more than simply a point of physical contact to prevent her from losing him.

Her focus did not waver. But neither did she yank her hand from his and glare at his effrontery, so he decided to consider it a win.

A few moments later, one of the other servants came scurrying down the side of the hall, beckoning his fellows with an expression of great urgency.

“We’ve not yet prepared the council room,” he hissed, and when Karreya ignored him, he grabbed her arm and pulled her forward. “You all think this is time to stand here mooning about? There’s work to be done!”

Vaniell let go of Karreya’s hand just in time and tried not to feel alarmed when she ducked her head and retreated along with the other uniformed servants.

But just then, a tall, slender man in Irian robes approached the Garimoran ambassador and began a quiet discussion, their heads bent close together to avoid being overheard. There was much waving of hands and nodding, then a shrug from the Irian before he retreated, making his way towards the farthest end of the hall, where the musicians were seated and ready.

After a brief musical flourish, they took up a bright, spritely tune that seemed to spread energy from one side of the room to the other. The sounds of conversation rose as the unattached members of the crowd hastened to secure partners. Despite the black sashes of mourning, guests of all ages appeared to brighten at the prospect of dancing.

It was one of Vaniell’s favorite things about Irian customs—when tragedy struck, they mourned, but they did not stop living. In Garimore, the gloom over a deceased monarch would be expected to continue for months, with no room for merriment, brightness, or joy. But here, they acknowledged their loss, toasted the one no longer with them, and then danced, because life was short and joy did not deny the existence of grief.

As he watched the floor begin to clear and couples begin to form, Vaniell noted with a pang that he did harbor a few fond memories of his life at court. Even when all else was dark, music had always been able to make him forget for a few moments. And where his brother had found solace in the sword, training until he could barely breathe and his muscles screamed for mercy, Vaniell had found that same relief in dance.

He loved pattern dances, where every movement was precise and predictable. Where beauty was found in each person moving exactly as expected to form a harmonious whole. And he also loved couple dances, where each pair interpreted the same motions according to their whims, swirling and bending and moving together in ways that only avoided catastrophe by the skill of the dancers themselves. He loved where music and movement became one, and the dancers were no longer pawns on a political chessboard, but expressions of color and grace on a canvas where titles meant nothing until the dance was over.

Not everyone viewed dancing through such an uncomplicated lens. There were many like Marceline, daughter of one of his mother’s friends, who had taken lessons with him when they were small children. She was a gifted student, and he’d always enjoyed dancing with her. At least, he had until she’d grown old enough to dream of marriage and scheme for a crown. Over a few short years, she’d become possessive and vindictive, viewing him as her property by right of familiarity. He could only hope that with his absence, she would eventually learn to look elsewhere.

As he should be doing. While he was distracted by the dance, the senior members of the Irian council were making their way from the room, one by one, leaving the lesser nobility to their merriment.

If he followed now, Karreya might not be able to find him again. But if he did not, he might lose his chance, and that he dared not do.

So he left the wall and crossed the dance floor, dodging couples and ducking under out-flung arms. It proved surprisingly difficult to avoid collision while invisible—he had never really thought before about how much personal space was allowed unconsciously as crowds moved and shifted. Several times he nearly collided with twirling courtiers and almost lost his balance just before he stumbled outside the ring of dancers and paused to catch his breath.

Then he was off again, thankful for the noise that concealed his footsteps as he followed in the wake of the Garimoran ambassador, out the far end of the hall, through the shadow of triple arched doorways, and into the garden courtyard beyond.

Here there was only a fountain to conceal the sounds of his movement, so he was forced to step carefully, avoiding the odd fallen leaf and the crunch of crushed stone underfoot.

On the far side of the garden was an open air walkway that led beneath another arch, past a half dozen guards into an atrium, where wide, intricately carved wooden doors opened on opposite sides, and another, narrower doorway was set just across from the entrance. The ambassador made his way ponderously towards the door on the right, so Vaniell followed, glancing both ways, hoping to catch a glimpse of Karreya and the other servants who had been tasked with preparing the council room.

Nothing.

The doors swung wide to admit the members of the council, and for a moment, Vaniell hovered in the doorway, searching the room for the best place to listen. He’d been picturing the council rooms from Hanselm, with their draperies and alcoves and painted screens. This room was bare, but for a circle of uncomfortable looking chairs and a tea table, lavishly set with platters of biscuits and trays of sliced fruits. There was, quite literally, no place to hide should the enchantment fail.

He was still hovering when something caught his hand and pulled him sideways, just before the last of the Irian councilors hurried into the room. Right through the spot where he’d been lingering.

Karreya. She’d been standing post just outside the door, so entirely motionless and unremarkable that he’d been looking for her and still hadn’t noticed her. It almost had to be magic…

Wait, speaking of magic, how had she seen him? Was the enchantment slipping?

“You are still invisible,” she said quietly. “At least to them. My magic is… adjusting.”

What did that mean? That she could see through his enchantments, the same way she’d seen his magical traps? An interesting thought indeed.

“Come with me,” she continued, tugging him away from the open door and towards the narrow arched doorway he’d noticed when he entered the atrium.

“Where are we going?”

She scowled in the general direction of his face. “Did I not promise I would see to the details?”

She looked around carefully before ducking through the archway, but the guards at the entrance to the atrium were there to keep people out, not in, and were looking the opposite direction.

Beyond the arch, they encountered a steep, spiraled stair, and ascended the steps until they ended in a narrow corridor that continued off into darkness on both sides.

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