As the party reached its height, the orchestra finished its dance numbers and struck up a rousing, up-tempo piece.
When the song ended, a hush fell over the hall.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Tonight, we are honored to present Lady Tiela's Rain of Blessings. Please, ready your applause—and we remind you that this event is a confidential matter, not to be spoken of beyond these walls."
I ascend the grand staircase at the front of the hall and turn at the landing.
Lady Mira follows close behind me.
Officially it is a secret never to leave the room—so nobody talks about it, and everybody knows.
"I shall keep my address brief, then. May good fortune find you all. Blessings, come forth!"
I spread my arms, and golden particles pour from my fingertips like a shower—no, a waterfall—raining down over the entire hall.
Beside me stands Lady Mira, scattering blessings of all four primary elements—red, blue, yellow, and green—though her volume is perhaps a twentieth of mine.
Mine is the holy element, hence the gold.
All four elements at once, though—quite the feat of dexterity. That is the direct royal line for you.
"Hurrah!"
"Hurrah for Kumaran!"
"Hurrah for Lady Mira!"
"Hurrah for Lady Tiela!"
These particles of blessing carry healing power—enough, it is said, to mend minor wounds and ailments.
Word also has it that everyone sleeps beautifully that night.
Truly, mana is best put to peaceful use.
Incidentally, some imagine the food turns to mana the moment I swallow it, but nothing becomes mana until it is digested—so this little "miracle" ran on meals I had stored away earlier.
Everyone stands stock-still, faces slack with bliss, bathing in the particles.
Apparently it puts one in that sort of state. I could not say—I never get to bathe in it myself.
Before long, those who came back to their senses began to clap, and the scattered applause swelled into an ovation.
Lady Mira and I ended the blessing and came down the stairs, waving.
"Tiela, Mira—well done, both of you."
The one who called out to us, face flushed, was the First Prince, Prince Mihael.
Eighteen years of age. People have been murmuring "surely the betrothal comes soon" for three years now.
As it happens, the leading candidate for his bride is me—though seeing as no one has told him a thing, one has to wonder: is there someone else he fancies, or something he simply cannot bring himself to say?
"Thank you, Prince Mihael."
"Thanks, big brother!"
"Come now. No thanks needed between us."
And beside Mihael, welcoming us with a smile and warm applause, stood the second son—the Second Prince, Prince Kamal.
He is sixteen, the same as I, and of the three siblings he is my oldest friend—but he is shy, and rarely speaks in public.
He stands second on the list of candidates for my hand.
Which brother will win me—that is the young ladies' favorite subject of gossip.
Prince Kamal has no such designs, but the Dabundorde faction has hoisted him up as their figurehead, scheming to seat him on the throne at the head of a puppet regime.
He denies it emphatically, yet they have gone and coined the name "the Second Prince faction," which keeps a permanent furrow between his brows.
After Prince Mihael, I exchanged a light kiss on the cheek with Prince Kamal as well, and a stir—oooh!—ran through the onlookers.
The cheek-kiss is a tradition of greeting between close men and women—and between girls—of the royal family and the ducal houses. It is not like that. Everyone is quite determined that it is.
I exchanged one with Lady Mira too, naturally—and that drew its own round of delighted squeals.