Trial by Flame

Chapter 24

The streets here reeked of pretence.

That wasn't the part that bothered him most as he walked through the paved stone streets, resisting the urge to pick loose pockets while he clung near the edges of the crowd. It was the fact that they were treated like animals, a herd of sheep penned off from the rest of the district while a guard shepherded them towards the event. The temporary gates were measly, stone and cacti markers made by a few guards' petty magic, and they didn't hide the view beyond. Streets bare of people, palace-like homes stretching more space than any one family could need; hedge borders and stone structures, with vast gardens filling the land between mansions. It didn't matter if they were scenic. All Trelisti could see was the waste.

He was envious of Tellik by the time they reached the entry, where another set of guards checked visitors for tickets and weapons. Trelisti's knife was hidden in his wristguards, a seemingly decorative accessory which got him through without a hitch. Though frankly, a spear could get past them unseen.

The interior of Tecoma Castle was just as nice as the outside, with polished marble flooring and columns circled in gold. A curved staircase trailed up one side, a glass wall and open porch below. Several loft floors climbed up the ballroom, each with a raised balcony. A crystal chandelier dangled from the whorled ceiling.

Luckily, the outfit Tellik picked for him seemed to fit in just fine—it was a tunic of sorts, mostly cream-colored, with ornate bronze details around a strip of buttons in the front. Classy, but not an attention grabber. It was more comfortable than he'd expected, too; the fabric was lighter and more breathable than the formal wear back home. Only more pockets could make it better.

Trelisti slipped through the growing crowd and headed upstairs, where most of the older arrivals were already situated. From what he saw, this event wasn't just about meeting performers—it was a social gathering for people of various classes, a place to form connections and get a glimpse of the high life. He wasn't sure of the exact purpose, but if he had to guess, it was a way of keeping the public content. Throwing a few breadcrumbs to distract from the real disparity.

At least the nobles here were self-aware.

It didn't seem like any of the performers had arrived, so Trelisti spent the next few minutes traversing the different levels while trying to listen in on conversations. It went about as poorly as he expected; few of the other patrons were speaking Common, and of them, it was the same useless chatter. Mindless small talk, impatient murmurs, questions about the night and its events. Trelisti's plan was to get out well before the supposed ballroom dance, but not until he'd at least gotten a chance to speak to Espire.

What came after that just depended on her.

It made his stomach toss, actually, to go in without a true plan. He'd thought of a couple prompts to go off of: that he and his partner were looking to hire a dancer at some esteemed party, that he was a writer looking to document her art, or even to come out saying the truth. But between the obvious lack of wealth, the potential language barrier, his complete inexperience in anything artistic and his hesitance to come off as a lunatic, he'd decided they were all better dropped. His best chance was to ask about the fa'ih, then see where the conversation led from there.

So Trelisti waited, and waited, and waited, until the end of the hour drew near. He'd gone through a glass and a half of watered-down wine when they finally announced the performers were on their way, and it would only be a few moments before they arrived. Something they'd conveniently failed to mention when buying a ticket.

Trelisti sighed and headed to the washroom, sure he was a disheveled mess. He'd done little but stress and wander the whole evening, but if he wanted to be taken seriously, he'd have to look the part. He made his way into a hall in the back, turning a corner into a chamber with a series of mirrors, troughs, drains, and curtains.

He wasn't alone, though.

It took effort not to make a sudden noise when he saw the woman standing within, splashing water from the pump over her face and into the trough. A little escaped the sink, spattering onto the halter part of her gown, which left her uttering a small curse. Her hair was short and dark, with the slightest ebony shine, uncovered by the veil resting on her neck. The gown she wore mimicked the theme of the night before, royal blue silk with shimmery white accents while her wrists dripped with golden jewelry. Her reflection in the mirror matched what he remembered of her face, albeit with the distance and lighting dulling it.

But the irises in the glass were murky, clouded brown.

The woman lifted a bottle from her purse and took a swig, wincing at the taste. She shoved it back in the bag just as quickly, keeping her eyes on the mirror and watching.

Her irises shifted, blue blooming in place of the brown. Then her gaze shot over to the doorway.

Trelisti barely ducked in time. He covered the shadow of his movement so it blended with the hall, a motion easily mistakable as a trick of the eyes. She didn't hear him come in, so that alone should've covered his tracks. But that wasn't what bothered him.

What...what had he just seen?

He didn't know what to make of it. And he wasn't waiting to find out. Trelisti headed back up the hall, thoughts stirring into a storm. He blended back into the crowd in an instant.

If that was Espire, then she was lying to her audience. Her most identifiable feature, one of the biggest selling points painted in her poster, was false.

And that? That was fine—performers lied all the time. It was part of the job.

But despite how much she looked like the woman yesterday, regardless of the potion she'd swallowed, something was wrong.

That blue stare didn't match the gaze he caught last night. It lacked the depth, the overlapping shades, that hypnotizing air when he saw her. And more importantly...

If that woman was Espire, a tidebringer so talented she could craft the shape of a firebird from mist, then why did a few drops of water on her gown concern her?

The chandelier light began to dim, crowds on every level of the ballroom hushing while an announcer cleared his throat. He said his message in Fehri first, extending an arm to welcome in the same blue-gowned woman. Even in a foreign language, he could pick out the word 'Espire' easily.

Trelisti watched her enter from a short distance, veil covering the sides of her face. It was convincing, really, how much they looked alike. But the faintest remnants of water dappling her dress were all he needed to see.

That woman wasn't Espire. And this ball was a waste of time.