The road to Eryndor widened and the air changed. Fields gave way to stone-paved avenues. Guards in bright uniforms patrolled the outskirts. Caravans moved in careful lines. For the first time since he had opened his eyes in a strange room, Zul felt the pulse of a city memory settle into his chest like a familiar melody.
Approaching the gates, he became aware of how small his own body felt against the grandeur of the city. Towers rose like teeth of a benevolent beast. Statues of heroes climbed pedestals. A single word stamped itself into his thoughts: court.
He presented himself at a gatehouse where a bored squire took his small pack and barked questions. Zul answered with the truth in the vague form he could manage. "I seek work," he said. "I seek shelter. I seek the reason for a life returned to me."
The squire laughed at the last line, but the laughter did not cut deep. A page with hair the color of wheat and eyes too observant for someone so young took Zul in hand and led him through streets that smelled of spices and horseflesh. They passed a fountain where girls tossed coins for good fortune, and an old woman who sold charms to keep misfortune at bay. The closer they came to the palace, the thicker the guards became, and the stranger the clothes. Men moved as if every seam of their garments was an announcement of rank.
Zul was brought before a small office staffed by a woman with spectacles who measured him with polite contempt. "We have no need of more retainers," she said. "The palace is full of men who wish favors and titles."
"I can learn," Zul said. "I am quick-witted. I can keep watch. I can fetch messages."
She hesitated and finally scribbled a name on a parchment. "You will go to the eastern wing and ask for Master Haran," she said. "He will place you where the court sees you least and allows you to be useful."
The eastern wing smelled of old wax and lavender. The corridors were lined with tapestries that told stories in golden thread and small violence. Zul found Haran at his desk, a man with a temper and a pocket watch that swallowed half his attention. Haran looked him over as if he evaluated tool rather than flesh.
"You are raw," Haran said. "You will be a shadow who fetches and carries and observes. You are not to be noticed."
Zul tried to hide a thrill. To be inside the palace meant to be near the heart of the thing that had called to him. To watch was to learn. "I will be careful," he promised.
His duties were little and many. He polished brass, carried messages sealed with sigils he could not read, swept corridors when no one asked him to sweep. It was in the quiet between tasks that he learned the court's rhythms. He learned which servant whispered to which ambassador and which noble pocketed favors with practiced hands. He learned the three names in the hush of the staff rooms.
Mare he first saw in the training yard. She led troops, strong and fierce. Her eyes met his once when he delivered her water, and something tightened in his chest.
Lya appeared in the garden. She stepped out from behind a rose bush, a velvet robe loose on her shoulders. Her eyes were the green of the sea at dawn. A fingertip brushed his sleeve, light as a promise.
"You look like you are made of questions," she said. The touch lingered longer than it should.
He spoke of his new identity, the mission, the cryptic task. She listened as if reading a novel she did not wish to spoil.
"Do you fear what you cannot control," she asked finally, "or that you can control it and will break the world if you try"
Zul thought for a long moment. "I fear both," he admitted.
She leaned in. Her lips were a promise of warmth and danger. The kiss was gentle at first, then deepened like a tide. For a few heartbeats there was only touch and breath. When they parted, she rested her forehead against his.
"Winning hearts is heavy work," she murmured. "We will be interesting together."
He tasted her name on his lips and knew the work had already begun.