Vengeance Throne (The Callistra Chronicles #2)

SEVENTEEN

Chapter Seventeen

Juventas Micorphius of Airesi stood with her back stiff, not daring to slouch lest her mother slap her wings again. She was still sporting a small rip in the golden threads from the last time that had happened.

"Will you look pleasant for once?" her mother hissed quietly.

"There is no one watching me," Juventas whispered back, her fingers tightening on the fine glass she clutched. Whether her mother liked it or not, she was correct—the grand hall was bustling with guests and the noble families in their golden robes were marked like prizes, but not a single eye paid attention to the small and awkward heir of the Micorphius line.

"Clearly," her mother muttered.

Herayn Micorphius was an imposing woman. At her simplest, she was a social climber—intent on inching as close to the throne as possible. Juventas always thought her mother's particularly large nose was capable of sniffing out power. Her theory may have seemed ridiculous, but she knew her mother had been a favourite of Mirza Volos before he had even ascended to his new consort position.

"Nevertheless, that does not excuse your outward appearance," Herayn was saying when Juventas tuned back in. To an observing outsider, it may have looked like Herayn was leaning in to embrace her daughter, but she was in fact circling her hand around Juventas' arm until it hurt. "This is one of your first functions. Mingle, heartling."

Mingle—pretend that the stench of rot didn't permeate their every move, pretend that half their family line hadn't died in the past few months, pretend that their country wasn't falling into shambles while they laughed and knocked back their drinks.

"What's the point?" Juventas muttered, raising her glass to her lips. She gulped down the liquid quickly, but her throat was still bone-dry. Ever since she had come to Court age—fifteen in faery measures, sixty in proper years—her mother hadn't stopped criticising her every move, hoping to mould her into the image of a proper Court lady, and the pressure was starting to get to her. She supposed it could have been her nerves, but as the smell of sickly sweet perfume wafted over from nearby, Juventas suddenly felt unwell.

"The point?" Herayn repeated, astonished. Her grin widened, showing sparkling, white teeth. "The point, my heart, is that you are the only noblewoman close to the age of the Crown Prince, and he has at last properly returned to Court after years of inactivity. You would make a suitable pair, don't you think?"

Juventas peered at her mother, uncertain if she was hearing correctly. Perhaps she was being told an unfunny joke.

"You cannot be serious," she said when it was clear that her mother meant every word. "We are at the banquet of the prince's marriage right now."

"Marriage can be very openly defined, dear."

Herayn only smirked when Juventas tried to argue, so Juventas stopped bothering. The fanfares at the front of the hall were sounding, and her mother simpered, wanting them to move from their present position on the second level, along the balconies that overlooked the sweeping dance floor below.

Though the sun continued glaring fiercely outside, the expansive glass windows had been shaded pitch black to keep all rays out. If it wasn't for the low archway at the back of the hall—the adjoining corridor into the bright throne room wherein daylight leaked through—the illusion of true night under shimmering electrical bulbs would be complete.

"We must move closer," Herayn hissed.

Juventas grimaced, but she fought little when her mother started dragging them along the balconies. They had meant to proceed onto the ground floor, to join the line of eager onlookers, but as soon as the doors opened, not a soul in the grand hall continued moving.