The Deepest Blue(61)
It was the most detailed work he’d ever done, the most precise and the most unforgiving of mistakes. Once you chipped a bit of shell away, it was gone forever. He didn’t want a single error. It has to be perfect, he thought.
He barely ate, and what he did eat, he didn’t taste. He got used to a constant ache in his not-yet-healed wrist. He slept at the table he’d set up as his workstation, by a window with a view of the castle—or a view if you leaned out and looked left between two other buildings.
Then you could see a sliver of the tallest spire.
He wasn’t looking up that much anyway.
When he finished, it was two o’clock in the morning, three days later. He leaned back in the rickety chair, rubbed his neck, and looked outside at the quiet street. Firemoss lamps bathed the broken mother-of-pearl walls and street in an amber glow.
He’d never made anything more beautiful.
It wasn’t the kind of statement he would have said out loud. He knew it would sound like boasting. But he knew his work, and he’d never done better.
He wished he could show it to Mayara.
He had no way of knowing if she was even still alive. I have to believe she is. Crossing to the window, he leaned out to glimpse the sliver of a spire, a shadow against the night sky. He wanted to rush there with his creation . . . but he knew that would make him look unprofessional and unmannered. Or, more likely, crazed. Certainly no one who should be allowed near the queen.
I’ll present it at dawn.
Please, Mayara, stay alive a little longer.
He tried to sleep, laying himself down on the lumpy cot. Staring up at the cracked ceiling, he listened to the sounds of the city: the murmur of voices carried on a breeze, the atonal chime of bells, the bark of a dog, other clangs and thumps and squeaks that he couldn’t name. . . .
He woke when the scent of cinnamon curled into his room from the bakery downstairs. Getting up, he felt stiff, worse than when he’d slept at the table. But the art piece was finished, perched on the desk where he’d left it the night before, and just as ready. It was barely dawn, but he’d waited long enough.
Wrapping the carved shell in soft linen, Kelo scanned the room to see if there was anything else he needed to bring. There wasn’t. Just himself and his masterpiece.
He’d worked feverishly for this moment, but now that it was here, he was more nervous than he’d ever been in his life. But he thought again of Mayara—when she committed to a dive, she didn’t back down and she didn’t hesitate. Take the dive, he told himself.
Leaving the inn, he nodded at the sleepy innkeeper, who ignored him. Shrugging, he then strode to the palace as if he felt full of confidence. I am an accomplished artist, bringing my magnum opus as a gift for my queen. My work is worthy of the woman who keeps a whole nation safe. I have no space in my heart for doubt or fear.
He crossed the blue stone bridge and joined the line of those seeking to enter the palace. At this hour, most were workers: cooks and cleaners, as well as a few courtiers carrying scrolls and books. He waited his turn, outwardly polite and patient, even though his insides churned like a whirlpool.
“State your business,” the guard said.
It wasn’t the same guard. This was a woman with no-nonsense eyes, a scar that obliterated her left eyebrow, and a prosthetic left leg. She had three knives strapped to her waist, and their scabbards had seen use. Kelo had the feeling that if he’d come to her with the same request as the prior guard, she wouldn’t have been as kind. She would have dismissed him without a word of explanation or comfort.
“I am Kelo, master artisan and charm-maker, visiting from the island of Olaku, and I bring a gift for the queen.” He held up the package with the shell. It wasn’t heavy, but he kept a firm grip on it with his uninjured hand. “May I be permitted to present it to her?”
“It will be inspected for poison and given to the queen.” The guard took the package and passed it to a courtier who looked too small for his uniform.
Kelo pressed again. “I would prefer to present it myself.”
“If the queen wishes to buy more of your wares, you’ll be contacted. Leave your name and where you can be located.” Sounding bored, the guard nodded toward a moustached man who sat on a bench with an open book.
He’d guessed it had been too much to think that he’d be allowed to present his gift in person. He had to hope his work spoke for itself and that she’d want more—and want to speak to him.
Nodding his thanks to the guard, he moved to the moustached man and gave his name. All the while, he watched the young courtier carry the package with Mayara’s life into the palace.
THE SUMMONS FROM THE PALACE CAME THE NEXT MORNING.
Kelo woke to a knock on his door. When he opened it, the sleepy innkeeper, now looking very awake, was bouncing from foot to foot. “You’re wanted at the palace! The queen wants to see you! Why didn’t you tell me you were a master artist? I’m moving your room. You’ll have our best view. Our best bed!”
Kelo interrupted. “Thank you. But I should dress. I don’t want to keep the queen waiting.”
“Oh yes, of course, can’t delay a summons, and when you return, I will have a meal prepared. Perhaps you should have breakfast on your way, so you aren’t meeting the queen on an empty stomach. . . .”
He closed the door while the innkeeper was still babbling.