'I don't think they play at all fairly,' Alice began, in rather a complaining tone, 'and they all quarrel so dreadfully one can't hear oneself speak — and they don't seem to have any rules in particular; at least, if there are, nobody attends to them.' -- Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

It was summer in Neleth Ancalen, and that dratted gryphon was clawing at the roof again. Of course it was left to Naluran to deal with it. Mother was too busy fussing over that little pest Irímé. Naluran, crouched outside the library door, caught only one word in ten of their conversation. If she left she wouldn't miss much. If she didn't leave Mother would storm out to deal with the gryphon, catch her eavesdropping, and she would have a thoroughly unpleasant time.

A particularly grating screeeeek on the roof-tiles made her wince. She got up and stalked out to deal with her mother's most obnoxious pet.

"Get out of here!" she roared up at the winged menace. "Shoo! Shoo!"

The gryphon peered down at her. It clacked its beak and fluffed out the feathers on its back. It appeared to consider the situation for a minute, before deciding a mere Saoridhin immortal was no threat to it.

Naluran stooped down and picked up a pebble lying at her feet. She squinted against the light of the setting sun. Carefully she took aim and fired. Her throw went slightly astray. Instead of sailing over the gryphon's head, it landed with a clatter at its feet. The creature gave an offended squawk and spread its wings. Naluran folded her arms and watched with satisfaction as it flew back to its pen.

By the standards of the Saoridhin upper class, Mother's home was little more than a hovel. It had only two storeys and eleven rooms. Even the grounds were incredibly small, barely more than twenty egwia[1]. There was only one summer house, and a pitiful attempt at the sort of ornamental garden traditional in well-to-do homes. Most of the available space was taken up with Mother's absurd zoo.

Kumolnea Íalosisvóeln[2] had always loved exotic animals. When her parents were still alive she and her husband had frequently disappeared on years-long expeditions to find rare specimens. That had ended five hundred years ago, when a fight with a bad-tempered fedalgraill[3] had killed her husband. Now Kumolnea restricted her collection to comparatively less dangerous animals. Unfortunately for everyone around her, she cared far more for them than for her family, her duties as Anfalen[4], the running of her household, and her position in society. For the first three she depended on Naluran. For the last one she pinned all her hopes on Irímé.

As her oldest daughter and the future Anfalen, Naluran was saddled with responsibilities from the moment she learnt to write and speak coherently. They increased as she grew up. Now she was well over two thousand years old and had assumed her mother's duties in all but name. It was an open secret in the family that Kumolnea was waiting only for Irímé's marriage to pass the title to Naluran.

And that was why she and Irímé were currently in the library, leaving Naluran -- yet again -- to deal with the practical matters.

The gods, fate, or mere random chance had seen fit to give Irímé some of their great-grandmother's legendary beauty -- the beauty denied to Naluran and her other siblings. Not content with just one blessing, someone somewhere decided Irímé would be born on the Festival of Serenity, one of the most auspicious days anyone could be born on. Those of their relatives who were inclined to social-climbing immediately declared he was meant for greatness, and began trying to arrange for him to marry into a suitably important family. They were successful beyond their wildest dreams. The empress's daughter tasked the royal matchmakers with finding a future husband for her own newborn daughter. A little bit of bribery, a great deal of bargaining, much praying, and no small amount of luck all combined. The marriage between Irímé and Princess Abihira was arranged while both of them were still in their cradles.

In her most unkind moments Naluran sometimes thought the gods had given Irímé so many blessings to hide they hadn't given him a personality.

While she sulked outside the house the sun had finally slipped behind the hills. The gryphon sailed overhead, squawking at a nest of rooks in the trees. Some of the animals in the menagerie growled and chirped. Voices outside the gate warned her that her other siblings were coming home from their evening at the theatre.

Naluran moved to go back inside. A thought struck her suddenly. Instead of going in the door she turned and ran along the path that circled the house. Lights shone in the library windows. They were partially ajar to allow the cool night air into the house. She stood against the wall and listened. Unless she moved she was indistinguishable from the brick in the half-light.

"Above all," her mother was saying, "you must not offend your future wife. No matter what she says or does -- and I must say I've heard some strange tales about her -- you must not show obvious disapproval. Change the subject if you feel you must say something. And do nothing to make the royal family think you're a country bumpkin!"

There was no reply from Irímé. Perhaps he had fallen asleep after the first hour of their mother's spiel.

"We must pretend changing the wedding date is of no consequence to us," Kumolnea continued.

Naluran did a double take. Changing the what? Why had she heard nothing about this? She handled all the official correspondence. When Irímé's future wife came to visit it was Naluran who arranged the day's itinerary. When Irímé went to visit her in her foster parents' home it was Naluran who arranged his journey.

"I know, Mother," Irímé said in his usual dull tone.

"And be sure not to forget--"

Naluran didn't listen to any more. She needed to check the recent communications from the royal family. Perhaps she'd forgotten something -- though she couldn't see how she could have forgotten that.

The allied empires of Saoridhlém and Seroyawa had a long-standing tradition. A child from one royal family would be fostered by the other's royal family, and vice versa. It was a very useful tradition, one that ensured the two empires maintained close relations while also providing a bargaining chip -- or a hostage -- if those relations soured. Kiriyuki perfectly understood the reasons for the custom. She acknowledged that it was a good idea. Most of the time she was quite happy with Abihira as her foster sister.

And then there were times like this. Times when she devoutly wished Abihira had never set foot in Seroyawa.

"Iyeshisu[5]. Please tell me you aren't summoning demons in our boat-house."

Abihira hadn't heard her come in. She yelped and knocked over the ink bottle when Kiriyuki spoke. Black ink splashed all over the sheet of paper in front of her, covering the runes she'd drawn and spilling over onto the floor. Kiriyuki pinched the bridge of her nose. She watched helplessly as the current bane of her existence tried to mop up the ink, and got most of it on her own clothes.

"Kiriyuki-erira[6]!" Abihira stood up, dripping so much ink it looked like she'd been swimming in it, and sketched an overly-dramatic bow. "Please pardon this lowly one's failure to receive you properly. As you see I have been hard at work--"

"Making a mess," Kiriyuki interrupted, torn between laughter and exasperation at her antics. "Which you're going to clean up before you come back to the house. What were you doing, anyway?"

"Nothing," Abihira said promptly. In Abihiraese that always meant, I am up to no good and will wreak havoc if not stopped.

Kiriyuki eyed the ink-stained sheet of paper as if it was a snake about to strike. "Do you know what you're doing?"

"I'm trying to conjure light," Abihira said, brushing her hair out of her eyes and leaving an inky mark on her face. "If I can get the amount of magic right, I'll be able to create lights that automatically turn on after sunset and turn off at dawn."

Some of Abihira's strange ideas were useful. Others... Well, no one was ever going to forget the Incident of the Mechanical Cake Mixer. Mirio was currently away visiting his mother's family, so Kiriyuki had to take his place as Abihira's designated babysitter and ensure there was no repetition of that incident.

"We already have lights that turn on after dark," she said patiently. "They're called gas lamps. Now clean up that ink. There's a letter from your parents waiting for you in the house."

Abihira paused in the middle of reaching for one of the mops leaning against the wall. "A letter? They sent one last week."

Normally letters from her parents only came once a month. Kiriyuki knew that as well as Abihira.

"I don't know what it's about," she said to forestall any more questions. "Get to work. The sooner you're finished the sooner you'll find out."

Abihira sketched an even more dramatic bow. Kiriyuki rolled her eyes and walked out.

Viniok Palace had many shrines. It was a chaotic collision of the gods worshipped by many different tribes. A reflection of the people who made up the royal court, some said. A complete mess, less charitable people said. The unfortunate side-effect of so many shrines to so many deities was worshippers turning prayers and devotion into a game of one-upmanship. In the last week alone more than ten officials were late for court because they were competing to see who could pray the longest.

It was an endless headache. A headache that Kivoduin, as the prince's chief adviser and second-in-command, was inevitably left to sort out.

With all the trouble that religion caused her on a daily basis, it was unsurprising that Kivoduin had little time for it. Prince Ilaran, however, was surprisingly devout. And even more surprisingly, he worshipped a god that no one else in the palace had ever heard of.

In any other place that would have prompted raised eyebrows. But this was Tananerl, a province that was less a province and more a loose confederation of tribes reluctantly working together. Ilaran never asked anyone else to worship his god with him, so no one bothered him about it.

Perhaps it was something he'd learnt from his Ilsarrel[7] mother. Kivoduin never asked. It was none of her business, after all. The only effect it had on her was that it made him easy to find. When she heard he was praying, she knew exactly where to go and never had to send messengers to ten different shrines.

Today she found him just where she expected to. It was a welcome relief after she spent an hour earlier hunting for the Minister of Revenue.

"Your Highness," she said, bowing.

Prince Ilaran acknowledged her with a nod and continued lighting the candles in front of the altar. After two hundred years of working for him Kivoduin knew what he meant without him needing to speak.

"The carriage is ready, your Highness," she said. For a minute she paused, considering her next words. "If I may speak plainly?"

"That is your job," Ilaran agreed, in the dry tone that meant he was teasing her. The candlelight cast flickers of red through his dark brown hair.

Red is the colour of death in Saoridhlém, Kivoduin remembered. The shrine was warm, yet a coldness crept along her spine.

"I have doubts about the wisdom of this journey," she managed to say, her mouth suddenly dry. "Remember your unfortunate uncle."

Ilaran froze. Kivoduin suddenly felt like a rabbit who had blundered straight into a fox's den. The sad fate of Prince Siarvin was rarely spoken of openly in the royal court. It was a cautionary tale, a warning that treachery could come from the last place anyone would expect. Few people ever dared mention it to Ilaran. For was it not the Saoridhins who worse than killed Siarvin, and was Ilaran not half-Saoridhin himself?

"Believe me," the prince said, in a quiet but composed voice. He picked up the candle snuffer and began to extinguish the candles. "I'm only making this journey now because of my uncle."

Kivoduin blinked in confusion. "I don't understand."

"You will soon."

Ilaran extinguished the last candle and got up. Kivoduin continued to bow as he walked past her. She was left to wonder if the prince's last sentence had sounded as ominous to him as it did to her.