The Diminished

“You couldn’t’ve told me sooner?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Lily only settled the details yesterday. I didn’t want to tell you until it was a sure thing.”

I shoved my anger and pain down, cinching it tight into a heavy ball of misery in the pit of my stomach. Anger was dangerous, and I wouldn’t let Sawny’s leaving be the thing that broke me. Not after all this time. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too, Obedience,” he said, teasing me with the given name he knew I hated.

I elbowed him in the ribs. “I take it back. I won’t miss you at all,” I said, laughter slipping into my voice.

But we both knew that wasn’t true.

* * *

Some days, there was no way to avoid the actual temple itself. On high holy days, the cusps of each season and the Suzerain’s Ascension Day, every person who ate at the temple’s table or was under their protection was expected to stop everything and haul themselves to adulations. Most folks in Penby made a show of attending adulations, even the Queen. Not many had so little to lose that they could afford to find themselves on the bad side of the Suzerain. Even folks like me, folks with nothing, weren’t stupid enough to risk it. Because I knew that even with nothing at all, I might still have something to lose.

On the day the Suzerain celebrated their twenty-third Ascension Day, I sidled into the haven hall just after the adulation started, but—thank all the gods—before the Suzerain made their entrance. Lily and Sawny were perched on the edge of a bench on the far side of the hall. As I navigated my way through the crowd toward them, Lily caught sight of me first. She shot me an evil look, but I grinned at her and winked. Even though she’d never have to think about most of these folks again, the girl still couldn’t stand to be seen with a dimmy.

“Scoot,” I whispered.

Sawny passed me a cantory, and Lily heaved a sigh as he nudged her over to make room for me. I settled onto the long, scarred wooden bench next to Sawny just as the gathering sang the final note of the Suzerain’s Chorale. The anchorites were at the front of the hall decked out in their finest, with pearls gleaming at their necks and wrists and their hair tied up in intricate braids, freshly shorn on the sides. Their silk robes, in shades of yellow and orange and red, whispered as they stood, and a hush fell over the crowd. Everyone’s eyes turned to the two initiates drawing open the thick metal doors at the back of the haven hall. The high holiday adulations followed the same damned formula every single time, but somehow, folks still acted like it was some kind of glamorous and captivating performance.

The Shriven initiates entered the hall first, their white robes and freshly shorn heads gleaming in the light of the sunlamps. Their staves smacked the stone floor in unison with every step as they filed to the front of the hall and spread out to flank either side, leaving gaps at each of the altars. Sawny elbowed me.

“See Curlin?”

I shook my head. “Don’t know how you could pick her out at this distance.”

“She’s the one with the black eye.” He pointed, squinting. “She’s gotten more tattoos since the last time I saw her.”

I rolled my eyes. “Give it up, Sawny. She’s one of them now. Our Curlin is dead to us, and starting tomorrow, you’ll never have to see or think of her again.”

My words struck a nerve in my own heart, and I knew they’d hurt Sawny, as well. I missed Curlin, and every time I saw her or one of the other Shriven, the thought of her betrayal poured salt water into the still-fresh wound. We’d promised years ago, in our spot on the temple roof, that we wouldn’t join them. None of us. For a lot of temple brats, serving as one of the Shriven was the best option. The only option. But over the years, the four of us had seen what the Shriven did to dimmys—to people like me and Curlin—and not one of us wanted any part of that brutality.

Or so we’d thought. Until three years ago, the day Curlin turned thirteen, when she’d disappeared from the room she and I had shared. The next time we saw her, her head was shaved and her wrist was banded with the new ink of her first tattoo. She’d not spoken to any of us since, but where I held on to that betrayal like a weapon, Sawny’d always wanted to find a way to forgive her.

Steady me, Pru, I thought, leaning on the comfort I felt when I reached for my long-dead twin.

The catechized Shriven prowled into the hall on the heels of their initiates, all dangerous feline grace and coiled energy. They weren’t the only people in the empire who had tattoos, but few bore so many or such immediately recognizable designs. The Shriven’s tattoos favored stark black lines and symbols that evoked a time long forgotten. It was as though they’d inked a language all their own into their skin. Even in plain clothes, a person always knew the moment one of the Shriven came close. Everyone sat a little straighter on their benches and chairs, and their eyes flicked to the dimmys in the room, looking for a reaction, a sign, a threat.

I gripped the cantory in my lap and stared straight ahead, trying to calm my nerves.

At most adulations, Queen Runa was the last person to enter the haven hall. On Ascension Day, however, she shared her entrance with the Suzerain as a token of respect. They were an odd triumvirate. The Suzerain were tall, with porcelain skin and white-blond hair that, when combined with their white robes, made them look like a pair of twin icicles. Castor, the male Suzerain, was covered in grayscale tattoos of flowers that crept up his neck and onto his scalp, a portion of which was shaved to show off the largest of the flower tattoos. The female Suzerain was named Amler. Her hands were covered in a network of tiny black dots so close together, it looked as though she was always wearing gloves that faded up her arms and over the rest of her body, growing sparser the farther they got from her fingertips.

Before Curlin’d joined the Shriven, she used to joke that Amler looked as though she’d been spattered with ink.

Between them, Queen Runa was small and round as a teapot, the top of her crown barely clearing the Suzerain’s shoulders. Every time I’d seen her on her own—mainly during her birthday celebrations, when she handed out sweets across the city—Queen Runa had been the very picture of imposing authority, wrapped in piles of furs and dripping with jewels. But when contrasted with the Suzerain’s sharp faces and piercing blue eyes, the Queen looked positively friendly. Kind, even.

The Queen settled into a fur-draped chair in the place of honor at the front of the hall. The Suzerain stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the Queen and looked out over the silent crowd. Their eyes fixed on each person, taking stock, tallying. I kept my eyes on the cantory in my lap, avoiding their searching gazes. I knew it wasn’t possible that they knew each of the folks who lived in Penby, but they certainly knew who I was. Maybe not on sight, but they knew my name. My story. They kept track of dimmys.

All I wanted was a life outside their line of sight. Outside their reach.

The rest of the adulation went as these things always did. The Suzerain lectured on the holiness of twins, giving particular weight to their own divine role as the leaders of the temple; the power of the singleborns’ judgment and wisdom, Queen Runa first among them; and, of course, the role of the Shriven in protecting Alskaders from the violence of the diminished. Afterward, the Suzerain led the hall in an endless round of the high holy song of Dzallie, gaining speed and volume until the whole room echoed with the reverberations of their worship.

Sawny and I were silent, despite Lily’s black looks and prodding elbows. Since our promise to each other that we wouldn’t join the Shriven, neither of us had worshipped at adulations, either. We showed up when it mattered, of course. We weren’t stupid. But we were always silent, much to Lily’s everlasting chagrin. She worried that our silence singled us out, and the last thing any of us wanted was to be noticed.

After the adulation, the Suzerain stayed in the haven hall for hours, greeting, blessing and doling out advice to those folks rich enough to make it worth the Suzerain’s time. Sawny, Lily and I filed out of the temple as quickly as we could and stood together in the square, soaking in the near-warmth of the early summer sun. The anchorites would expect us to report in for our various chores before long, but none of us seemed to want to be the first to break away.

“Tomorrow, then?” I asked. “What time?”

Lily shifted from one foot to the other. “The sunship leaves on the first tide.”

“I’ll come see you off.”

“There’s no need—”

Sawny cut her off. “Of course you will. But we’ll have supper tonight, too. We’re not saying goodbye. Not yet.”

Anchorite Lugine strode toward us, scowling. Dozens of strands of pearls were wrapped around her neck and braided into her hair, glowing like fresh-fallen snow against the orange silk of her robes.

“I’d best get down to the harbor,” I said, loud enough that the anchorite could hear me. “I’ll be diving until sunset to make up for my lost time this morning. I’ve got to find Lugine some nice pearls if I want supper tonight.”

Lily rolled her eyes, and behind her, Anchorite Lugine crossed her arms and glared. I gave her a cheerful wave, grinned at Sawny and darted toward the temple to get my diving gear from my room.

CHAPTER TWO

BO

Like all great houses, the royal palace was a living, breathing thing, and the people who lived and served there shaped its personality. It was never entirely still. Even in the middle of the night, servants carried pots of tea and bottles of wine to guests’ rooms; bakers kneaded endless rolls and loaves in the warm, steamy kitchen; and guards shifted and paced, warding off sleep. There were always books that wanted shelving, forgotten closets filled with the everyday relics of monarchs long dead that needed sorting and fires endlessly burning in the hearths of the palace—which, somehow, even in summer, never managed to fully drive off the chill that clung to those old stones.

No one so much as looked at me twice as I took the long way back to my rooms through the palace’s wide stone hallways, my hands deep in my trouser pockets and a scarf wrapped tight around my thick Denorian wool sweater. I had a stack of books from Queen Runa’s personal collection tucked under one arm, and a small journal full of scribbled questions and notes stuffed into the back pocket of my trousers. After I’d let slip the vast gaps in my knowledge about the shipbuilding industry in Alskad, the Queen had given me a pile of reading on top of my tutor’s regular assignments, and I’d been up half the night trying to make some headway.

Alskad dominated the world-wide shipbuilding industry, and being a nation lacking many natural resources, we held that technology close. We were the first nation to perfect the solar technology that fueled the world after the cataclysm, and none of the rest of the world had managed to harness the power of the sun the way that we had. Denor and Samiria had ships, of course, but they weren’t yet capable of the speed and distance that Alskad sunships managed regularly. Our sunships commanded the trade to and from Denor, Samiria and Ilor, and through our monopoly on ships and trade, the empire had become not only rich, but powerful, as well.

The great irony of a country that spent its winters in the blanket of northern darkness harnessing the power of the sun did not escape me. The sun’s power lit our homes and sent great iron ships filled with hundreds of people hurtling across oceans, and while I knew the history—I’d been captivated by sunships when I was a child—the engineering details eluded me. Queen Runa would undoubtedly pepper me with questions throughout the day tomorrow as I observed her dealing with the monthly petitions from the people of Alskad, and there was little chance that I’d absorbed enough to hold my own under her sharp scrutiny.

There wasn’t enough kaffe in the world to keep me awake through another chapter about the evolution of Alskad’s shipbuilding technology, and I had to be up distressingly early, but there was a restless thread tugging at my mind. It was always like this on nights I spent in Penby, like the buzz of the city’s energy pulsed through my veins, too, amplifying my emotions and keeping sleep just outside my grasp.

I paused outside my door, listening for my valet, Gunnar, and his telltale wheezing snore. In a few short weeks, I’d move from the comfortable, out-of-the-way guest rooms that had been mine since I was a child to a luxurious suite in the royal wing. I’d have to relearn all the creaking floorboards and fiddly sunlamps, and while my new rooms would be closely guarded, the rooms I occupied now were so far off the beaten path that no one bothered to visit, a small boon I would deeply miss when my duties forced me to become even more social. I took a deep breath, bracing myself, and opened the door.

Gunnar sprang to his feet and, after rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, gave me an admonishing look.

“Lady Myrella’s been looking for you,” he said. “She’s stopped in three times since dinner. I didn’t know what to tell her, as you neglected to inform me of your plans for the evening.”

I set the stack of books on the small writing desk in the corner, fished the notebook out of my pocket and added it to the pile.

“You didn’t need to wait up, Gunnar. I’m sorry I put you out. I was in the library, studying.”

Gunnar huffed. “You could have at least let me know where you’d be. I cannot be expected to adequately perform my duties if you refuse to tell me when to expect you and where you plan to spend your time. Your tea’s gone cold, and I haven’t the faintest clue what to lay out for you to wear tomorrow. What does one wear when speaking to the poor?”

I bit back a grin. Aside from cataloging the ways in which I’d wronged him over the course of any given day, Gunnar loved nothing more than reveling in his own snobbery.

“Clothes, I expect,” I replied, pouring myself a cup of rich herbal tisane from the pot keeping warm on a trivet next to the hearth, despite Gunnar’s hyperbolic warning. “It’s still a bit cold for me to go gallivanting off to the throne room to greet my future subjects in my underthings.”

Gunnar’s jaw tightened, and he gave a stiff bow. His manners tended to become polite to the point of absurdity when he was irritated with me. Somehow, he managed to present a picture of perfect deference and simultaneously touch upon my every nerve. Even though I knew he would probably lay out something completely absurd—like a lavender silk suit—the next morning, I was altogether too drained to worry about the consequences of my sarcasm. Gunnar always paid me back in his own way, but I didn’t have to worry about his feelings being too badly hurt in the long run. The man had practically raised me, and he, more than anyone, knew how difficult it was for me to endure these endless days at court surrounded by people who only ever approached what they wanted to say from the side.

* * *

Thanks to my sharp tongue and Gunnar’s long memory, the maid woke me with just half an hour’s grace before I was to meet the Queen. The clothes Gunnar had laid out for me were some of the most ostentatious and garish in my wardrobe, and he was nowhere to be found. Through the servant’s sputtered protests, I stuck my whole head in a basin of freezing cold water left from the night before, scrubbed at my face and dried off with my shirttails as I stalked to the closet to find something else to wear.

Over my shoulder, I called, “I would be eternally grateful to you if you could manage to find me a cup of kaffe sometime in the next ten minutes.”

When the young man didn’t respond, I stuck my head out of the closet, a pair of socks clenched between my teeth, to see if he’d heard me. There, lounging on the settee at the end of my bed, was my cousin Claes, with two enormous, steaming mugs in his hands and a grin lighting his gorgeous face. He, apparently, hadn’t infuriated his butler, and was turned out in perfectly fitted navy trousers and a fine ivory sweater. The smattering of freckles across his high cheekbones stood out against his fawn skin more than usual, and there was a playful light in his angular black eyes.

“Good morning, dearest,” he said, and crossed the room to hand me a mug and plant a kiss on my cheek.

I took a grateful sip, all the bitterness of the kaffe disguised by honey and cream. Claes knew me so well.

“Thank you. I’m afraid I may have annoyed Gunnar last night. All he’s left me is that hideous mauve monstrosity, and I have to be in the throne room in twenty minutes. Do you think these will do?”

Claes looked down at the clothes I’d plucked out of the wardrobe, and his perfectly groomed black eyebrows climbed his forehead. He swept the clothes out of my arms and brushed past me into the closet.

“I swear, Bo, it’s as if you’ve never dressed yourself. Do you pay absolutely no attention to what’s fashionable?”

Ten minutes later, I was respectably garbed in a pair of gray trousers, a pale orange sweater knitted from soft Denorian wool and a long charcoal jacket. I stuffed a cloud bun filled with smoked bacon and caramelized onions into my mouth as I rushed through the palace halls to the throne room. I arrived with only a moment to spare and ran a hand experimentally through my riot of dark brown curls. I had no doubt that I looked a disaster, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

“Am I a total embarrassment?”

Claes smiled and drew me close in a warm embrace. “You’re as princely as they come, my dear. Now go impress old Queenie with your vast intellect. I’m off to gather gossip from the maids. I hear that Lisette has taken a new lover, and I plan to learn who it is before your birthday invitations are sent.”

Claes leaned in and kissed me, and I did my best to ignore the guards by the throne room door, who were covering their chuckling with coughs and exaggerated shifting of their weapons. It wasn’t as though my relationship with Claes was a secret, but his public displays of affection drew more attention to us than I liked. Claes pulled away first, his implacable grin already in place as he winked at a guard over my shoulder.

“I’ll see you tonight?” I asked.

“Of course. We’ve got to finalize the guest list, and I do believe that my dear sister has a whole collection of people she’s planning to chastise and flatter with this event alone.”

I sighed. It didn’t matter that I’d been preparing myself to take the throne for most of my life: I would never get used to the social machinations and deceptions required by a life at court. They simply didn’t come as naturally to me as they did to the other singleborn. Even my cousins, Penelope and Claes, had adapted much more easily to court intrigue than I ever had.

Claes brushed a bit of invisible dust off my shoulder.

“You worry about running the empire, my dear. Penelope and I’ll be the ones to get our hands dirty controlling the nobility. Now scoot. You’re going to be late.”

Claes planted a final kiss on my cheek and nodded to the guards. When they opened the door, I was as ready as I could be.

Like the Queen, I entered the throne room not through the wide doors that the petitioners would use throughout the day, but via a small side door in the back. The Alskad throne loomed large on the dais. According to legend, it had been hewn from the upturned roots of an enormous tree, and the tangle of roots that fanned out over the head of the monarch reflected the Alskad crown they wore. The whole thing had been polished and waxed and varnished so often over the years, the wood had turned a glowing deep brown, almost black.

I rounded the dais and saw that the Queen was already seated on a pile of furs draped over the wide throne. Her eyes flickered to the clock in the corner of the room when she saw me, and her mouth turned down in disapproval.

“You’re late, Bo.”

I squinted at the clock. It was thirty seconds past the agreed-upon time.

“My most sincere apologies, Your Majesty.”

The Queen crinkled her sharp nose and adjusted the crown of Alskad atop her graying hair. She was an intimidating woman, with skin that never lost its light brown glow, iron-gray hair and a habit of wearing wide-shouldered capes that made her body look nearly square. She was said to have been shockingly beautiful in her youth, though age had left her more arresting than lovely.

“You’ll need a chair. These things tend to last for hours and hours, and you’ll not want to be standing the whole time.” She pointed at a cluster of chairs in an alcove between two sets of large casement windows. “Drag one of those over. Not the blue one. The cushion’s as thin as a sheet—you’ll be sitting on nails all day.”

Three guards tried to take the chair from me as I crossed the room, but I waved them all off with a smile.

“You lot leave him be. He’s a brawny young thing.” Queen Runa laughed. “No need to start coddling him until he’s actually the crown prince.”

I felt a flicker of unease at the implication, and—as if they could sense my discomfort—Patrise and Lisette swanned into the throne room, alight with jewels and draped in brightly dyed silks and furs. Though it was well known throughout the empire that I would soon be named Runa’s heir, Lisette and Patrise nevertheless took every opportunity to remind me that they, too, were singleborn and eligible for the throne. Of all the singleborn in my generation, only Rylain, my father’s cousin, refused to play this game, and I was forever grateful to her for that generosity of spirit.

Runa raised an eyebrow, and Patrise and Lisette bowed deeply.

“Sorry to be late, Your Majesty,” Patrise drawled, his voice all lazy vowels and grandeur. “We were doing our best to decide what to get our Ambrose for his birthday.”

“I wanted to get him a pony,” Lisette said, pouting, “but Patrise insists that little Ambrose is far too mature for such things.”

“A set of knives, perhaps, to protect him from his many enemies,” Patrise said. “But we wouldn’t want him to prick himself accidentally, now would we?”

“Enough,” Runa snapped.

Patrise and Lisette collapsed into each other, giggling. I settled my chair on the dais, a step behind the throne on Runa’s right, and glared at Patrise and Lisette as they waved for guards to bring chairs for them, as well.

The Queen turned to me, her tone low, but firm. “Ignore them. They only enjoy baiting you because you give them a reaction. If you are to lead, you’ll have to learn to rise above the petty antics they use to entertain themselves.”

I nodded, but a voice in the back of my head wondered how she could speak about the rivalries between the singleborn so lightly, when they were so often punctuated by assassination attempts.

Runa continued. “I hope that you and I will have many more years to prepare you for taking the helm of this empire. But if there is one thing I’d ask you to keep in mind from the very beginning, it’s that we, as monarchs, are here to protect our people. Remember that both the poorest urchin and the wealthiest merchant deserve our equal and undiscriminating respect.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

I tried to focus on the Queen’s instructions, but it was hard with Lisette and Patrise looking over her shoulder and laughing behind their hands. I clenched my jaw and forced myself to look away from them.

“Too much of Alskad’s idea of merit has become predicated on a person’s wealth, rather than their character. As we hear petitions today, I want you to keep in mind how money plays into each person’s story, and, more importantly, how it plays into your reaction.” She glanced over her shoulder at the other singleborn and raised her voice. “And if the two of you could manage to resist teasing Bo while in the presence of our subjects, you might actually learn something worthwhile.”

Without waiting for a response, the Queen signaled to the guards, and they flung open the throne room doors. A stream of people entered the room, each stopping to make their courtesies to the Queen as they entered. There were people from all walks of life: members of the nobility I recognized from the endless social engagements that were the norm when I was at court, merchants dressed in extravagant imported Samirian silks and common folk whose clothes had plainly been mended over and over again. Some of them came with petitions, others just to watch the spectacle and collect gossip with which to tantalize or lord over their peers.