by Rae Carson
She darted in. Grabbed the knife handle. Yanked it out.
And plunged it right back in.
It scraped bone this time; she felt that scrape down to the roots of her teeth. He spun around to face her, but his knees buckled and he fell back against the wall. The knife point thrust out of his abdomen, making a tent of his lovely, bloodstained robe.
“You . . .” he gasped. “Disgusting half-breed.” His back scraped the wall as he slid to the floor.
His amulet was still glowing, its heat creating an ever-widening circle of char on his robe. “You rotting piece of . . .”
The sorcerer’s head lolled against his chest. Fire spread around them; its heat seared the girl’s face. She didn’t have much time.
Yet she hesitated. Maybe she still hadn’t quite killed the monster. If so, he would burn alive in the next few minutes.
Shimmering blood formed a pool around him. Its edges lapped the base of the collapsed shelf, now a bonfire. The blood sizzled, and a scent like cooked meat filled the air. She knew exactly what she was smelling, but she hadn’t eaten all day and she couldn’t stop her belly’s instinctive rumble or keep saliva from drenching her tongue.
Her hands flew to her nose and mouth, and she backed away from the glowing conflagration, the monster’s cooking body, and the final scraps of Mamá’s winter stores.
Her back banged against the ladder. She whirled, reached for the rungs, and yanked herself up as fast as she could.
She had to flee. No one who sassed an animagus—much less attacked and killed one—got away with it. She’d get no help from the village; she and Mamá were barely tolerated as it was. She had to pack as much as she could, as fast as she could, and get far, far away.
It meant leaving Mamá’s body behind. Their tiny cottage. The vegetable garden. All the things she loved. The only things she loved.
She stared at her mamá’s limp hand, unable to move. Smoke curled up through the planks of the floor. Her lungs and throat were starting to sting.
“Run, my sky,” she imagined her mother saying. “You know how much I want you to live, yes?”
Well, she had wanted her mamá to live too. Grief swelled inside her, until it exploded into a single gut-wrenching sob.
But that was all she allowed herself. She wiped frantically at her eyes to clear them of tears and stiffened her cheeks and put on her big-girl face.
The girl ran to the door, pressed her ear to the wood, and listened: the muffled stomp of a hoof pawing at snow, the jangle of a bridle, someone barking an order in that language she didn’t understand. The animagus’s people were just outside. She would have to sneak out the back.
Quieter than a mouse, she stretched up on tiptoes, fingered the iron door hook, and slipped it into its eye, latching the door. It wouldn’t hold long if someone tried to force their way in—the door was old and splintered—but it might buy her a few seconds.
She grabbed her ragged cloak from its peg by the door and whipped it over her shoulders. Her fingers fumbled as she tied it at the neck. Mamá’s cloak hung beside the door too; the girl wasted a precious moment staring. Mamá would never wear it again.
But it would serve as a blanket. Sometimes, on the coldest nights of the year, Mamá had pulled the cloak from its peg and draped it over them on the bed. They’d spent many days’ worth of hours cuddled together beneath that cloak.
She grabbed it and bunched it up, then shoved it into the basket they used for gathering herbs.
“Cloak, fire, and food,” Mamá had told her. “Remember that, if you ever need to flee.”
The girl’s feet twitched to run, but her mamá was right; she wouldn’t last long without food. Leftover stew was spilled and soaking into the floor, half covered in detritus from their destroyed furniture. Salt pork was stored in the cellar, but smoke bubbled out of the trapdoor and flames licked the top of the ladder—she dared not go back there. Maybe the cheese wheel? A gift from the blacksmith, which they’d been saving for Deliverance Day. It was around here somewhere. . . .
She searched feverishly, heart pounding and lungs burning, as smoke continued to rise through the floor planking. No cheese anywhere to be seen. Maybe it was buried under the rubble.
Being very careful to not look at her mamá’s limp hand, the girl tried to nudge aside the fallen table with her leg. It scraped loudly against the floor but hardly moved at all.
Someone rattled the door, trying to enter.
The girl froze.
It rattled again as the girl whimpered, her feet melded to the warming floor. The rattling turned into pounding. The door strained against the latch.
Run, my sky.
She hefted the herb basket that was heavy with her mamá’s cloak and fled past the hearth and the pile of ruined, smoking furniture, toward their hut’s single tiny window. It wasn’t a real window with fancy glass, but rather a large shutter that swung upward, which they would prop open during the summer months to invite the cooling mountain breeze.
The girl unlatched the window. Behind her, pounding sounded again, along with a flurry of angry words, as she cracked the shutter open and peeked outside. Icy air hit her face.
No one was behind the house. Just an empty chicken coop and a tiny garden, all blanketed with snow.
She hooked one leg over the sill and was about to draw up the other when something caught her eye. The tinderbox, on the floor by her feet. It must have fallen from the mantel and slid across the planking. It was almost like her mamá had left it for her. A parting gift. Cloak, fire, and food.
The girl reached down and grabbed the tinderbox, shoved it into her herb basket beside the cloak, and slipped through the window.
Her boots crunched in day-old snow. She guided the window shutter so that it closed without a sound. She took a deep breath of clean, smokeless air, gathered her basket close, and sprinted for the trees.
Each footstep was a cacophony of sound, and her every muscle tensed, waiting to feel searing, sorcerous fire at her back.
But nothing came. She reached the trees and dashed behind a thick trunk, pausing to catch her breath and to peek behind her.
The tiny hut she’d shared with Mamá was barely a lump in the snowy meadow. Smoke curled up from the roof. The animagus’s people had probably broken through the door by now.
Beside the hut was the smaller lump of the chicken coop, and for once she was glad they’d had to eat or sell all their chickens. She didn’t have to worry about them burning alive.
Everything was blanketed with white, glittering slightly in the weak winter sunshine. And against it all was a line of shadows, sized like the feet of a little girl, a perfect trail for anyone to follow from the house to the place where she stood.
They would give chase the moment they realized she wasn’t inside. The girl couldn’t outrun people on horseback. But maybe she could outthink them. “Use your head,” Mamá always said.
For all she knew, the animagus’s entourage was made up of horrible sorcerers just like him, the most powerful people in all the world. But if they knew anything about hunting, they would have surrounded the hut right away. Never leave your quarry a good escape. All the mountain folk knew that.
The cold was already seeping into her boots, and her urine-soaked pants were growing icy. The girl’s gaze lingered on her home for a final, mournful moment. Then she turned and fled into the forest.
2
Now
I don’t know how old I am. Sixteen or seventeen, is everyone’s guess. Rosario insists I’m younger, but I don’t feel young at all. Today, in any case, I’m going to acquire a birthday. Well, an adoption day, but everyone says we’ll celebrate my adoption like a proper birthday every year from now on. Which sounds nice.
I mean, I’m grateful. I really am.
But I would be just as grateful if Elisa and Hector were fishermen on the coast instead of the empress and prince consort. What I want is a quiet, personal ceremony; what I’m getting is political theater.
>
Lady Mara fusses with my hair. She doesn’t have to; she’s first lady-in-waiting to the empress and a secret lieutenant in the imperial web of spies, and she can do whatever she damn well pleases. When I tell her as much, she says, “Today, it pleases me to help you with your hair.”
“Well, in that case, thank you.”
“Red, are you sure you want to cover it up?” she asks, finishing off a braid that starts at my right temple and winds around to the back of my head. “I think your white streak is quite lovely.”
“I want it covered,” I assure her. “Black as night.”
She frowns, but she complies, reaching for the clay pot on the dressing table. The dye inside is made of crushed walnut shells and kohl, and it costs more than half my monthly allowance.
Most of my hair is still dark from the previous treatment, but my mark shows clearly at the roots above my left temple, a blot of shimmering brightness against my otherwise black hair. If I were to ever let it grow out, it would be a ribbon of white flowing all the way to my waist.
Mara works carefully, spreading the dye with a tiny paintbrush that allows her to avoid my scalp as much as possible. Too much dye on my skin will cause an itchy, burning rash, which is why I sometimes let the roots grow out a little.
“You know,” Mara says as she works, “I have a mark too. I know what it’s like.”
She’s referring to the obvious scar on her eyelid, received in a beating from her long-dead father. It pulls that eye downward at the outside corner, making her seem perpetually sad.
“It’s not the same,” I tell her. “No one sees your scar and thinks, Vile magic.”
The paintbrush freezes. “Who said that to you?”
Lady Malka whispered it to her husband once when I passed. It was a false whisper, loud enough for me to hear. And of course there are strange looks every single day, even from the servants. But I’ve learned the hard way that letting someone jump to my defense just makes life at court harder for me.
“No one,” I say. “It’s nothing.”
Mara glares at me. “You’re the worst liar I know. If you ever decide to tell me who it was, I’ll have their head.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Still frowning, Mara gets back to work. A breeze flutters the gauzy curtains of my open balcony. Birds chirrup from the lush flower garden below. The lavender scent of my morning bath lingers in the air. This used to be the queen’s suite, before Elisa became empress and moved herself and her husband into the larger monarch’s wing next door. I’ve occupied these rooms as the empress’s ward for seven years now, and still I can hardly believe that such luxury is mine.
The curtain separating the tiled bathing area from my bedroom is whisked aside. “Wed?” says a tiny voice.
Princess Ximena rushes in, still in her sleeping gown, bare feet slapping the tile floor. At four years old, she’s an artisan when it comes to escaping her nurses and guards.
“Good morning, Mena,” I say.
She plants her fists at her hips and peers up into my face. Her large, dark eyes are slightly crossed, and surrounded by the long lashes of her mother. Her round face and stubborn chin are framed by the wild, curling hair of her father.
She looks nothing at all like her namesake. The first Ximena was a thickset, gray-haired woman, a specially trained guardian who eventually gave her life to save the empress.
“Papá says today will make us sistews,” the princess says.
“Yes.”
“Will you come live in the nuwsewy?”
“Probably not.”
Her eyes widen with hurt.
Before I can explain that I’m a little old for the nursery, Mara says, “Maybe Red can spend the night with you once in a while.” She dabs the brush into the dye. “As a special treat to you both.”
Ximena considers this. “I s’pose,” she says, then reaches up with her arms.
Smiling, I grab the little girl and lift her into my lap. “Mena, I hope you understand that I already love you like a sister.”
The princess gives me a look that could wither the freshest fruit. “I know that.”
“Be still, both of you,” Mara says, “or this dye is going everywhere.”
I’m like a statue, but the princess has no patience for stillness, and she starts fingering the neck ribbon of my dressing gown.
Again Mara pauses. “Red, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” It comes out too fast, too brusque.
“Nervous?” she prods. “You’re not usually one for nervousness, but . . .” She gifts me with a soft smile. “This is a very big day.”
When I woke this morning, I told myself that I would maintain my composure no matter what, no matter what, but Mara wields empathy like a weapon. The understanding in her face undoes me; my cheeks grow hot and tears prick at my eyes.
I whisper, “I’ve worked for this ever since I was a little girl. All those years . . . everything I’ve learned . . . and finally, today . . .”
“Ah. I see.” Mara applies a final brushstroke to the roots of my hair. Then she reaches down for Ximena and lifts her from my lap. “Go get some breakfast, Mena,” she says. “Take one of the Royal Guards with you—no sneaking away, yes? When you’re done, I’ll help dress you for the ceremony.”
“All wight,” the princess says. Then she wags a finger at me. “Don’t be late, Wed!”
“I’ll be right on time, I promise.” I watch as she disappears behind the curtain.
After the girl is out of earshot, Mara says, “You had that dream again, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
In my dream I was running through snow, my feet icy with cold. The hunger in my belly was like a raptor clawing at my gut. I remember wind cutting my cheeks and felled branches cutting my feet and a clear sense of needing to move fast, fast, faster, but I was going nowhere, just away. There was no safe place for me. My dream self knew I would run forever, all alone.
“You have worked hard,” Mara says. She’s dabbing powder on my face now, which tickles my nostrils and almost makes me sneeze. “I’ve never seen anyone work harder. The hours of study, the dancing lessons, the travel tour . . . you impressed everyone who was watching. Exactly as hoped.”
This isn’t what I want to hear.
“Red?”
I don’t want to hear about my hard work. Or that I’m half Invierno. Or that my adoption will begin to change the cultural and political landscape of our empire, opening hearts and minds to the possibility of long-term peace between our people.
Mara says, “Your adoption will begin to change the cultural—”
I hold up a hand. “I know.”
“No, you need to understand. This is the culmination of reforms that Elisa and Hector have been working on for years. Joya d’Arena is so easily bogged down by tradition, but when the court accepts you as an heir—”
“I know, Mara. It’s just . . .” Shame clogs my throat. It’s embarrassing and weak of me—when I’ve been working so hard the past few years to appear strong—but what I want to hear is that Empress Elisa and Prince Consort Hector love me. That I’m part of their family, no matter what.
Maybe that makes me a stupid, pitiful child, but I did have that dream again, and I just want to feel like I’ve finally run home.
Mara dabs rouge onto my lips and says, “There’s something you’re not telling me, but I won’t pry. I’ll just say that we have every reason to believe the day will go exactly as planned, and after it does, you will be a princess of the empire and third in line for the throne.” She stands back to admire her handiwork. “Not bad for a foundling girl with slave marks on her feet.”
I force a smile. “Not bad.” Mara has always been frank about what I am. Other people think it’s polite to pretend away uncomfortable things—the magic mark in my hair, the faded slave tattoos on my feet, my undeniable paternity. It never occurs to them that because those things are part of me, they’re pretending me away.
&
nbsp; “Time to don the monstrosity,” she says.
I rise from the stool. “It’s only for a few hours, right?”
Mara smiles in sympathy.
The monstrosity is my ceremonial adoption gown. It’s a horror of ivory silk, to make my skin appear more traditionally dark and to mute the golden color of my eyes. The sleeves explode with ruffles the size of the Hinder Mountains, a fashion that is apparently all the rage in the vassal kingdom of Orovalle. Worst of all is the train that will stretch behind me, roughly the length of the Joyan coastline, during my formal procession down the aisle.
Everything about the monstrosity has been carefully engineered to make me seem both royal and blandly pleasant. The train and fine silk confer status. The color and ruffles wash away every part of me that might intimidate or dismay.
Mara holds it out so I can step into it, then she shimmies it up over my waist and lifts the billowing sleeves over my shoulders.
“Deep breath,” she says, and I comply. “Now let it all out.”
I push the air from my lungs, making my torso as small as possible so Mara can quickly lace the back.
“There!” she says, standing aside.
The corset is snug, but comfortable enough. I’ve always been slight, and tying everything too tight might make me appear smaller, weaker. “What do you think?” I prod.
Mara’s lips twitch. “You look like a vanilla scone with sugar icing.”
“So . . . perfect?”
“Exactly the look we’re going for. Definitely younger.”
Which is good, because Empress Elisa, my soon-to-be-mother, is probably only about ten years older than I am, and the Quorum felt that making me look younger might put the court at ease.
“You’re as ready as you’ll ever be,” Mara says. “I’m going to chase down the princess. There’s still time; if you want, you can go to the monastery to prepare your heart with prayer—”
“You know I don’t believe all that,” I snap, harder than I mean to.
Her face softens. “I know, Red. But this is a religious country, and for appearances’ sake . . .” Her voice trails off at the look on my face, and she looses an exaggerated sigh. “I don’t know how Elisa thinks she’s going to make a politician out of you. You have no patience for dissembling.”
