Kirah planted herself in front of me, tendrils of hair escaping from her prayer scarf. “That banquet,” she puffed, “is happening whether you’re there or not. How will Dayo convince those royal strangers to be your council siblings, all on his own?”

“Ai Ling’s going,” I reminded Kirah, swooping around her. “She’s the new High Lady Ambassador. Handling the vassal rulers of each realm is her job.”

“And your job,” she observed, “is to be empress of Aritsar.”

Goat’s milk spilled from the tureen on my hip onto the floor. I groaned, mumbling, “I’ll mop that up.”

“You’ve never mopped a single thing in your life.” Kirah pinched her nose with a delirious laugh. “You know what you have done before? Defied an immortal emperor to his face. You can do this, Tar. So send a servant for this mess, and get dressed for your party.”

“Servants don’t like it in here,” I said evasively.

Kirah’s cheeks flushed with frustration, but I was telling the truth. The crackling energy of Dayo’s Ray, heightened by kuso-kuso, sent our voices like ghostly whispers through the halls, setting palace staff on edge. As a result, few servants worked in the suite. But we Anointed Ones liked it that way, craving only one another for company. Still, the more ambitious attendants stuck around: courtiers, beauticians, hair braiders, and clothiers whiled away the hours in the suite’s anterooms, breathlessly waiting for Anointed Ones to make use of them. Whenever I left or entered the suite, servants started in eager attention.

But I hadn’t left the suite’s inner sanctum in days. No doubt the attendants had noticed, fueling the gossip already ringing from every rafter in the palace.

The Empress Redemptor is a murderer.

“Your hair’s not even done.” Kirah trailed me with difficulty, restricted by her formal High Priestess garments. She wore a jade tunic and matching headscarf, trimmed in the silver coins of her home realm, Blessid Valley. In contrast, I wore only a linen undershift and sandals, my cloud of coils wrapped haphazardly in a black silk sleeping scarf.

“Dayo’s dressed already,” Kirah continued. “He’ll—”

She broke off as I turned into one of the suite’s spacious bedrooms.

A cacophony of thoughts had seeped into the hallway, crackling through the Ray before I even parted the door flap. But I still gasped, scrambling for a grip on the milk as six bodies, chests rising and falling in Ray-synced unison, shone from behind an embroidered mosquito canopy. Kameron, Theo, Mayazatyl, Umansa, Zathulu, and Emeronya lay crammed together on a downy bed pallet. Each person rested on someone else’s stomach or cradled another’s face. The dappled tones of their skin glowed in the flickering sconce light.

I nearly dropped the pile of scrolls. “Ah.” I cleared my throat, voice unnaturally high. “Sorry to interrupt.”

My council brother Kameron laughed, sliding his pale freckled body from beneath Theo’s. “Don’t apologize,” he said in his thick Mewish brogue. “It was rude of us to have our mental shields down. I’m guessing our thoughts were pretty loud?”