The courtyard was alive with drums and singing and chatter. Stilt walkers lumbered about in colorful costumes while musicians plucked out beautiful, happy melodies. There had been dancers, singers, and an exciting battle between two clacking and towering rune puppets, and now Yenni sat with her parents at the high table while her siblings mingled with the crowd. Once again she glanced at her n’baba. He sat straight backed in his kaftan of Yirba colors: midnight blue with gold accents. He smiled benevolently at the guests who came to greet them, but every once in a while Yenni saw him clench his jaw, and sweat beaded on his forehead. He was in pain, but too proud to leave. He might even need assistance to make it down the steps from the high table and back inside, and she knew the last thing he wanted was for their guests to see him leaving stooped and weak on the arm of his wife or his guard.

This, this was why she had pestered and pleaded with her parents to make the pact of Orire N’jem and travel abroad. None of their healers knew what to make of her father’s condition. The most celebrated healers among the Yirba, the Shahanta, the Fuboli, and even the Gunzu could not figure out the cause of her father’s waning strength, so at last her mother had sent scholars to Cresh, the empire to the north. They had returned only a few weeks back, with reports of Creshens suffering a condition similar to her father’s. The Creshens had yet to find a cure themselves, but were reportedly working toward one.

I will find a way to help you, N’baba, Yenni thought as she watched her father smile through his pain. I swear it by all the divine Mothers and Fathers.

For now, perhaps she could make some kind of diversion so that he could at least slip away and stop tormenting himself.

“Blessed Birthday, Yenni Aja-Nifemi.”

Prince Natahi bowed before her seat. He’d used her whole name, as was proper, but somehow the way he said it seemed familiar, like a caress. The prince wore the vibrant-green pelt of a rare emerald leopard draped over his shoulders and down his back, not quite hiding his warrior’s physique. His skirt was made of the same material—Hopefully from the same poor animal, Yenni thought—and a headdress made of blue-green peafowl feathers sat perched on his head. No runes, at least none that were visible, appeared on his body. It would be insulting to show up to another palace covered in paint as if expecting a fight.

“Sha-blessed chieftain and chieftainess,” he said, addressing her parents. “Thank you for inviting my family and me to your festivities. I am greatly enjoying myself.”

Yenni’s father bowed his head sagely while their mother answered. “We’re happy to hear it, Prince Natahi.”