Morning light filtered into the high-ceilinged bedchamber, and we could hear the bustle of courtiers waiting outside the door.

“Maybe you should yawn,” suggested Ai Ling. “Or look a little naked. It’d seem more realistic.”

I snorted, lobbing a pillow at her. “This is awkward enough as it is,” I said as she giggled, twirling away in her satin dressing gown. “Don’t make it worse.” Secretly though, I was relieved at Ai Ling’s levity: It made the coming morning seem less ominous.

Once a month, the highest members of court attended the Emperor and Empress’s Rising: a chance to wake, dress, and touch the reigning Raybearers, witnessing us living gods in our vulnerable state. It was a sham, of course. Dayo and I never slept in the formal Imperial Bedchamber. In fact, we had been awake for hours, rising before dawn to bathe in the palace bathhouses, and returning to the suite for breakfast and honeybush tea. Then—as the hour of our official Rising drew close—we had sighed, wriggled back into our night shifts, and climbed onto the dusty imperial bed to be awoken.

“The Rising should have a big turnout today,” Dayo said, leaning nervously against the dais pillows. “News of your intention to hold a Pinnacle went out at dawn. I’m guessing the nobles will want a word.”

“Of course,” I muttered. “They’ll want to kill me in the privacy of my bedroom. Why wait until I hold court?”

“Speaking of court,” chirped Ai Ling, “you won’t be there today. I’ve arranged your first meeting with Princess . . . I mean, Queen Min Ja of Songland.”

“Chin up, Tar,” said Dayo when I made a face. “It won’t be that bad.”

“My chin’s fine where it is,” I said sullenly. “Since you promised those strangers I’d share all my memories.”

“You won’t have to face them alone,” said Ai Ling, patting my arm in sympathy. “I’ll be there as Imperial Ambassador.”

I gave her a grateful smile but winced internally. I didn’t want my council siblings wading through the mire of my past any more than I wanted strangers there.

“I still don’t get the appeal of Risings,” Dayo said as he practiced a convincing yawn, rubbing his eyes theatrically. “Noble families scramble for the highest titles at court, and as a reward, we make them . . . rise at the crack of dawn and watch us get dressed?”

Ai Ling shrugged. “They’d be offended if you didn’t.”

Outside on the palace walls, the multitoned drums of the Imperial Guard announced the hour.

Battle stations, everyone, I Ray-spoke . . . and the bedchamber’s double doors burst open.

Dayo and I sat up and stretched, doing our best to look regally awakened as courtiers trilled in grating, cheerful song.

Alive? Tell us!
Aheh, alive and well!
Thank Am, the oba has awoken!

Alive? Tell us!
Yes, we see her with our own eyes!
Thank Am, the obabirin has awoken!

The nobles circled the bed, crowing with exaggerated relief at finding Dayo and me alive. Then they dressed us, chanting songs at every interval—a blessing for each layer of wrapper, prayers for painting our faces, incantations for detangling and braiding our hair.