“I’m well, my justice,” I lie.
“You have a hole through one of your extremities,” Leo mutters, returning to the bandage. “I do not believe that qualifies as well.”
Méndez frowns and snaps, “Now is not the time for your tone, Leonardo.”
Leo mutters an apology.
My mind is racing. Margo is somewhere in the dungeons, and if she’s here, then that means that the others are, too. I’d wager my life on it. The only question is, how many others are there? Did they see me save the king? Would any of them understand? That I was losing a battle in order to win the war? Sayida flashes through my mind. I knew I saw her earlier. I knew it, but I blamed it on my traitorous memories. Traitorous. Traitor. Is there anyone who believes me to be anything but?
There’s something sour on my tongue that forces me to remain silent.
“Drink this,” Leo says, offering a brown glass bottle whose bitter contents remind me of rotting fish. “It’s a sedative to numb the pain.”
I have to get up. That’s the only reason I nod and let him tip the wretched liquid down my throat. Almost instantly, some of the pain subsides.
Méndez turns to the medic who is pressed against the walls. “Did you test for poison, Arsenál?”
“No traces. She’s no worse for the wear,” Arsenál proclaims. “I am given to understand her kind have a high threshold for pain.”
I sneer at him. “Do you want me to show you how much pain I can tolerate?”
“Easy,” Leo tells me, careful not to touch me but guiding me back to the bed.
Méndez is wilder than I’ve ever seen him. His dress clothes are stained with my blood and his eyes have deep shadows. Have they always been there, or did a part of me want to see something else?
“Take Renata to her rooms, and don’t come back down until the festival begins.”
Leo looks stricken, as if he can’t believe the orders. I tug on his hand. Let him know that this is the way it has to be. He lowers his face. “Yes, my justice.”
“What of the woman?” I ask carefully.
Méndez tugs on the ends of his jacket. “The assassin is in solitary. Every single person within the palace is to be questioned. She has not claimed an affiliation, though I suspect her to be one of the Whispers.” He turns his suspicious eyes in my direction, looks at the wound, which is still bleeding through the bandage. “Did you recognize her?”
Her name is Margolina Bellén, and she’s an Illusionári of the Whispers’ Rebellion. Her mother and father were killed during a raid in a village outside of Citadela Riomar. They were drowned when they refused to reveal where their children were hidden. Margo survived by digging a hole beneath a jetty of rocks along the coast and fed on the crabs that burrowed in alongside her. A week later, half-starved and dehydrated, she was found by the Whispers and given a home.
“No,” I say, never wavering from his salt-gray stare. Because I truly hadn’t recognized her, not with that illusion that darkened her hair and changed her face. It was the eyes, the weapon, the way I’ve seen her dance that gave her away in the end.
“You saved the king’s life,” Méndez tells me. “On behalf of the royal family, the Sun Festival’s ball tonight will be dedicated to you. All of Puerto Leones will know what you have done.”
Revulsion slams into my gut. I picture myself paraded in front of the kingdom as the example of what Moria should be—servants to the crown. Bodies meant to be sacrificed.
Méndez chuckles nervously. “She’s so honored she can’t speak. Renata, show your thanks.”
“I was doing my duty,” I say, finally. Tears sting at my eyes because this is all wrong. I shouldn’t have saved the king, and I shouldn’t be honored by this. But Nuria was right. Had I not protected the king, it would have caused more bloodshed for innocent Moria.
Méndez seems to relax when I utter the words. “For now, all household staff is to report to my study for questioning, including you two.”
“But, my justice,” the medic says, “I would never—”
Justice Méndez has the kind of stare that could render any man still. “Then you have nothing to fear.”
“Yes, my justice.” Arsenál bows so low I’m surprised his weight doesn’t push him forward.
“Be ready for tonight, Renata. Everyone at the festival will see your power, the power of the king and the justice, and those against us will shake in fear.”
“She’s lost a lot of blood, my justice,” Leo starts to plead. “Lord Las Rosas—”
He dismisses the name with a flick of his hand. “Not him. She will use her powers on the assassin.”
Margo. He means fierce, loyal Margo. I can’t use my magics on her. I can’t. Bile rises and I choke on it.
“My justice,” I bleat out. It is a pathetic plea, because I know that between me and the king, he will choose the king. “My arm . . .”
Justice Méndez slams his fist into the wall, his eyes dilated as he opens the door. “No more delays! It is the hands and not the arm you will need. Take her to her rooms to rest. Tonight, you make a Hollow for your kingdom.”
Chapter 23
Leo and I watch the sunset parade of the royal Leonesse families. They make their way down the royal mile in front of the palace. Each family wears decadent traditional clothing showcasing the colors of their family crests to honor their allegiance to the king of Puerto Leones.
The Carolinas in silver and pale blue, and the Jaramillo family with their forest green and navy. There are seventeen of them with direct ties and claims to the throne from before the Fajardo conquest. There’s the Sevillas with their red and black. The lord and lady on opposite ends of the open chariot. Lord Sevilla waves enthusiastically and reaches into a bin where he keeps picas, hardly worth anything, but the people rush to his carriage and blow kisses at his handsome face.
“Did they find out who sent the assassins?” I ask as Leo pours the tea.
“She only said she acted alone. The girl’s Illusionári glamour has worn away to reveal her true visage. She hasn’t said another word despite—”
He’s quiet, so I finish for him. “Despite the torture.”
I don’t say anything, but I let that fuel my anger toward the justice. Toward the king.
Leo opens the door only once to receive the gown I am to wear to the festival tonight. He helps me dress and clean my wound once more. He takes a step away, a rueful smile on his face despite all that’s happened.
The Moria mourn in red. We also send our dead into the sea in scarlet robes, so Our Lady of Shadows can spot color from the heavens among the dark waves. Most Leonesse citizens, however, are followers of the Father of Worlds. They mourn in black for their lower realm of the Six Heavens, where only ravens can carry souls in and out. For this very reason, I find it strange that Leo has dressed me in an ink-black dress tapered to my waist with satin panels and whaleboning and a silk skirt embroidered in silver thread and a high collar of raven feathers. Getting out of the bloody clothes has revitalized me. My head is clearer than it’s been in days, thanks to the pain tonic.
“The dress was here when I opened the door,” Leo says, returning with something red in his hands.
“Who could have sent it?” I ask. “It’s too extravagant.”
“Everyone will already be looking at you now. Why try to hide?”
Because I don’t want everyone looking at me. Not when I have to find a way to get out of here before they force me to turn Margo into a Hollow.
“These are from Justice Méndez,” Leo says, presenting me with ruby-red gloves.
“I’ve never received so many presents,” I say, suspicion in my voice.
“It is a festival day.” Leo’s green eyes twinkle as he draws out a tiny key from the inside of his pocket.
Leo unlocks the old glove, then locks on the new ones. The fine red suede comes up to my elbows and they have a black chain mail trim with ruby cuff links that clamp down. Nothing but longer manacles than the ones I h
ad before.
Out on the royal mile, the parade of noble families has come to an end. There’s a group of priests from the church of the Lord of Worlds and their followers. At the very end is the royal family’s carriage. King Fernando and his young queen, dripping with jewels. Queen Josephine’s dress reminds me of clouds drifting by, white against her polished black skin. When she holds her hands out to the crowd, they reach for her lovingly. The king and queen’s festival crowns are tall, dotted with the violet crystals of their family’s crest.
I inhale through my disappointment. Prince Castian isn’t in the carriage with them. Time is running out. My hands are numb with the idea of draining Margo of all her memories, turning her into a shell of the girl who fought beside me in battle, who’d give her life to bring justice to her people.
A troupe of trumpeters follows behind the king and queen to close off the ceremonial parade. The festival that celebrates the Lord of Worlds destroying the Lady of Shadows is far from over. There’s a new chorus of trumpets, bells, and singing. The way they wave the purple-and-gold flags of Puerto Leones reminds me of the day Dez was executed. My body buzzes with renewed energy. Purpose.
I take one last look in the mirror before we leave, touching the silver stitching on my gown. There’s a snap, like a concentrated crackle of lightning when I touch the dress for too long. It’s the elation of having run from the Second Sweep and lived. The heady buzz of a kiss under moonlight. Then I realize. Not silver. Platinum. The childish rhyme pops into my head. Four platinum veins to lock up the past. My hands buzz as I touch the metal, a metal so rare I dared not dream I would ever have it for my own. It wasn’t the tonic that made me feel better—it was the dress.
There’s only one person with the means to do this. But why?
The zing of my magics heats up beneath the gloves. Reacting. Fusing. Igniting. My mind is clearer than it’s ever been before. The Gray a distant vault that rests.
I am a shadow, I am a drop of ink. Vengeance in the night.
I’m a Robári.
As we enter the ballroom, whispers come from every direction. I want to keep my eyes trained forward, but they’re searching the crowd for the prince in the dazzling torchlight. He’s my only connection to the weapon—the last person (that I know of) who had possession of the wooden box in Lozar’s memory. There’s still a chance he could lead me to it. I walk among the lavish gowns, the sparkling glass, fire sconces, the cava that pours like waterfalls.
The palace is not only hosting its royal families and wealthy merchants, but the people from nearby kingdoms. The royals of the kingdom of Dauphinique arrive in their traditional gowns of lace and satin, long dreadlocks piled high atop their heads.
The ballroom is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The entire floor is a mosaic of the kingdom’s riches. Leo takes my hand and we join the line of people entering the festivities.
The rulers from Empirio Luzou make the next grand entrance. A continent south of the sea to Puerto Leones that makes us look small. Empress Elena and her queen consort are carried on a contraption that is shouldered by six men in golden tunics. The royal women have tawny brown skin and onyx-black hair braided elegantly over their shoulders. Real flowers I’ve never seen before, a red as rich as rubies, are woven around their necks. The empress wears a crown while her wife’s royal status is marked with a heavy necklace of diamond drops.
Everyone around us whispers and gasps at the decadence, speculating about why they missed the garden party. Surely they couldn’t have known what Margo was planning, but I catch a suggestion that perhaps the empress may not be here for peace talks.
“Why do you think the king insisted on inviting the empress to this festival?” I ask Leo.
“Empirio Luzou is the wealthiest in the charted world,” Leo whispers to me. “But they are the place where the Moria seek refuge. Luzou hasn’t stepped foot in Puerto Leones since the siege of the Moria.”
Siege, a nice way of saying slaughter.
“Lady Nuria bet me ten gold libras they wouldn’t show,” he adds. “She thought they’d be too ashamed to be here.”
I watch the empress and consort being lowered to the ground, where the king and queen of Puerto Leones greet them. The empress and consort wait for the Leonesse to bow, but it is clear that the Fajardos are doing the same. A majordoma comes around and offers the empress and consort drinks, which they accept but do not drink.
I follow King Fernando’s gaze to where the Hand of Moria is kept, then to me. My stomach clenches as he raises a glass in my direction. And I know for certain that I am being trotted out like a prize steed. One to demonstrate his power to bring empires to their knees.
I bow, turning just slightly in the direction of the empress. When I stand, I find she was already watching me and hold her stare. Dread for this night sinks talons in my back and remains with me as we keep moving.
Leo escorts me through the ballroom. Dancing is under way, and waiters glide by with trays of amber rum and cava, slices of fried pigskin, and cheeses with raw honeycomb on apple slices. Glass goblets in a rainbow of colors filled with aguadulce and lemon rinds are set on fire, then quickly extinguished before being sipped by thirsty lips.
Through large double doors leading to the gardens I see a band. The singer’s voice cuts cleanly through the room. The king and queen move to their thrones once more, accepting each and every citizen and guest that comes to pay them welcome and praise.
When will they bring out Margo? My arm aches, and my heart races. I still have no plan. Do I try to save her and kill us both? Or do I turn her into a Hollow to maintain my place in the palace? Which path would Dez choose?
At every corner and entrance is an armed guard, their swords already drawn. Leo escorts me through the crowd. They part for us and I feel like a dark sea creature breaking through a tall, cold wave. I keep my eyes on King Fernando, on the throne, this one iron and gold instead of the alman stone in the tower. As Leo guides me to Justice Méndez, King Fernando holds his hand up. We stop and go where the king beckons us.
He stands but doesn’t take my hand. His deep brown stare slides from my toes to my extravagant dress, the faint scar he gave me on my chest, and finally, to my eyes. My pulse is rapid, and the fresh wound on my forearm concealed by my glove thrums with a constant, dull ache.
At the sight of me between the king and the justice, the ballroom’s energy shifts. Dresses rustle as ladies cluster around carved pillars, whispers traded behind flapping fans. Throats clear and conversations come to a halt, instruments hit the wrong notes, and a glass shatters somewhere. All eyes turn to us three.
“Honored guests,” King Fernando says. “Today we celebrate our creator of all, the Father of Worlds, his joyous triumph over the treacherous Lady of Shadows and the usurper gods of old. This year we celebrate more than that. This afternoon, there was an attempt on my life by the Whispers during my queen’s own celebration.”
He stops speaking to let the crowd gasp and speculate among themselves. King Fernando knows how to fan fear.
“You might have noticed the guards. Please, both our neighbors across the seas, understand that this is to protect everyone in this room from those who would try to destroy us. On behalf of my queen and my son, I would like to dedicate the first dance of the Sun Festival to Renata Convida, the Robári of the Hand of Moria who saved my life.”
My eyes water with anger at his every word. Stay calm. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. I am petrified as he takes my hand. The heat of his palm radiates through my glove, and my first instinct is to recoil.
He clamps his fingers around mine, too tightly. We’ve taken two steps toward the center of the dance floor when someone bars our way.
My hands shake, and the air is kicked out of my lungs at the sight of him—wind-tossed golden curls and sparkling war medals on an embroidered blue jacket that matches his eyes: Prince Castian.
At last.
“If I may, Father,” he says in a smooth, deep voice accompanied
by a charming smile.
There’s ire in the king’s brow, tightness in his puckered mouth, but he won’t dare make a scene, not in front of all these people. He relinquishes his hold on me.
I’m handed over to Prince Castian like a toy it’s his turn to play with.
The orchestra kicks up a tune that feels more familiar than it should. I’ve been waiting for this moment for days, weeks, and now that it’s here I shake down to the bone. I’m disoriented. I’m a coward. I can’t even look him in the eye.
“You’re frightened,” the Bloodied Prince says, placing a firm hand around my waist. I clench my teeth and keep my eyes trained over his shoulder, to the red-and-yellow starburst mosaic behind him. My fingers close around his arm, perhaps too hard.
“I’m not frightened,” I say, harsh as a winter snap, and I keep a foot of space between us, which makes for awkward dancing.
“When I heard you were here, I knew I had to return.”
“You came all this way to see a Robári do tricks for the court?”
“No,” he says, so earnestly that I refuse to look at him. I have seen the way he kills, the way he makes people forgive him, the way he lures women in and then wrecks them.
“Then why?” I slip and grab his shoulder for purchase.
He flinches. “Careful.”
“You’re injured?” There have been no reports of skirmishes or battles. Where did he get wounded so close to his heart?
He sidesteps the question with the easy shuffle of his feet. When he glides his hand high on my back, images spill from the Gray despite my surge in power from the platinum dress.
Clothes strewn over the bed.
A golden trail of hair over firm muscle.
Queen Penelope pleading with Illan.
The Ventári in the solitary cell.
A wooden box.
Celeste up in flames.
Dez, always Dez.
When Castian pulls me closer, the dancers part for us, and I regain control of the Gray. I push the memories back and focus on the polished tiles beneath our feet, so blue it’s like we’re walking across the Castinian Sea.
Incendiary (Hollow Crown) Page 30
