Legendary--A Caraval Novel

by Stephanie Garber

  “Please don’t stop such an interesting speech on my account,” he said, returning her to the present moment. “I’m sure I’ve heard far more colorful curses.”

  “Did you just insult my use of profanity?”

  “I thought I asked for more dirty words.” His voice pitched so low Tella swore it curled the ribbons trailing down the back of her dress.

  But this was Dante. He talked like this to all the girls, flashing his devastating smile and saying wicked and beguiling things until he got them to unbutton their blouses or lift their skirts. Then he pretended they didn’t exist. She’d heard the stories during Caraval. So Tella should have been safe to assume that after last night this boy would never speak to her again, which was what she wanted.

  Tella enjoyed the kissing, and maybe once upon another time she might have been tempted by the idea of more. But the problem with more was it could also bring more feelings, like love. Tella wanted nothing to do with love; she’d learned long ago it was not in her destiny. She gave herself the freedom to kiss as many boys as she liked, but never more than once.

  “What do you want?” Tella asked.

  Dante’s eyes widened enough to betray surprise at her sharp tone, yet his voice remained pleasant as he said, “You dropped this in the forest last night.” He held out one large palm, showing her a thick brassy coin embossed with a disjointed image that resembled half of a face.

  He had her coin! Tella could have leaped out of her skin to grab it, but she doubted acting too eager would be wise.

  “Thank you for picking it up,” she answered coolly. “It’s not valuable, but I like to carry it as a good-luck charm.”

  She reached for it.

  Dante pulled his hand back, and tossed the brassy disc into the air before catching it. “Interesting choice for a charm.” Suddenly he looked more serious, thick brows drawing closer together over coal-dark eyes, as he flipped the coin over and over, letting it dance between his tattooed fingers. “I’ve seen some odd things during Caraval, but I’ve never known someone to carry one of these for luck.”

  “I suppose I like to be original.”

  “Or you have no idea what it is.” His rich voice sounded more entertained than before.

  “And what do you think it is?”

  Dante tossed the coin once more. “It’s said these were forged by the Fates. People used to call them ‘luckless coins.’”

  “No wonder it’s never worked well.” Tella managed a laugh, but something gnawed—foolishness, perhaps—at not having recognized the object.

  Tella had been obsessed with the Fates ever since finding her mother’s Deck of Destiny. There’d been thirty-two of them, comprising a court of sixteen immortals, eight places, and eight objects. Every Fate was known for one particular power, but that wasn’t the only reason they’d come to rule most of the world centuries ago. It was also said they couldn’t be killed by mortals, and that they were faster and stronger, too.

  Centuries ago, before they’d vanished, the Fates pictured in Decks of Destiny had ruled over most of the earth like gods—cruel ones. Tella read everything she could about them, so she’d heard of luckless coins, but she felt ridiculous admitting it now.

  “People called them luckless because finding one was always a bad omen,” Dante said. “The coins were rumored to have the magic ability to track a person’s whereabouts. The Fates would slip them into the pockets of their human servants, their lovers, or anyone else they wished to follow, keep close, or control. I’ve never held one before today, but I’ve heard if you spin a luckless coin, you can see which Fate it belonged to.”

  Dante set the coin atop the edge of a nearby bench.

  An unpleasant thrill danced up Tella’s spine. Although he seemed to know a lot of obscure history, she couldn’t tell if Dante put faith in the power of the Fates, but she believed in them.

  The Maiden Death was said to predict the loss of a loved one or family member. And within days of flipping it over, and seeing the maiden with her head caged in pearls, Tella’s mother had vanished. She knew it was childish to believe that turning the card had caused this disappearance. But not all childish beliefs were wrong. Her mother had warned her, the Fates had a way of twisting futures. And Tella had seen the Aracle, time and time again, predict futures that came to pass.

  Tella held her breath as Dante gave the object a sharp twist.

  Whir, whir, whir.

  The coin twirled until the etchings on either side began to take a solid shape, merging together as if by magic to form a brutally familiar picture. A dashing young man with a bloody smile, and the sort of havoc-wreaking grin that made Tella picture teeth biting into hearts and lips pressed against punctured veins.

  Though it was small, Tella could clearly see the image. The cruel young man held one hand near his pointed chin, clasping the hilt of a dagger, while red tears fell from his eyes, matching the blood staining the corner of his mouth.

  The Prince of Hearts.

  A symbol of unrequited love and irrevocable mistakes that never ceased to fill Tella with both dread and morbid bewitchment.

  Scarlett had spent half her childhood obsessed with Legend and Caraval. But Tella had been fascinated by the Prince of Hearts ever since he’d predicted her loveless future when she’d pulled him from her mother’s Deck of Destiny.

  The myths claimed the Prince of Hearts’s kisses had been worth dying for, and Tella had often wondered how such a deadly kiss would feel. But as she’d grown, and kissed enough boys to realize that no kiss could be worth dying for, Tella started to suspect the stories were merely fables to illustrate the dangers of falling in love.

  For it was also said the Prince of Hearts was not capable of love because his heart had stopped beating long ago. Only one person could make it beat again: his one true love. They said his kiss had been fatal to all but her—his only weakness—and as he’d sought her, he’d left a trail of corpses.

  A fresh chill licked the back of Tella’s neck, and she slapped her palm atop the coin.

  “I take it you’re not a fan of the prince?” asked Dante.

  “The coin looked as if it was about to topple off, and then I’d have to chase it.”

  The corner of Dante’s mouth edged up; he couldn’t have looked less convinced.

  It also didn’t escape Tella’s notice that he’d just spoken of the Prince of Hearts as if he and the other Fates were still walking around the Empire, and not vanished for more than a century.

  “I don’t know why you’re really carrying that coin,” Dante said, “but be careful. Nothing good has ever come from anything a Fate has touched.” His eyes lifted skyward, as if the Fates were watching from above, spying as they spoke.

  Then, before Tella could respond, Dante was confidently walking away, leaving Tella with a coin that burned her palm, and the uncanny sensation that perhaps there was more to the pretty boy than she’d originally suspected.

  4

  Tella found herself thinking of unrequited love and kisses worth dying for as she spun the Prince of Hearts luckless coin on the same bench Dante had. Why had her friend given her a relic from such an ancient myth? She hoped it wasn’t because he didn’t trust her and wanted to keep track of her.

  Maybe the rare coin was a gift from her friend to remind Tella of just how skilled he was at acquiring things that were difficult for most people to find—a reminder that he was the only one who knew how to locate her mother.

  A shop bell rang. Just a tiny, pixie-light sound, but Tella snatched her coin up and looked down the street, to where a young man swaggered out of a shop. She followed the deep red lines of his morning coat up to the young man’s vibrant eyes, greener than freshly cut emeralds—

  And a bath of crimson clouded Tella’s vision.

  She knew this young man. He’d shed his eye patch since Caraval, but he still had the same ink-black hair, overstated aristocratic clothes, and impossibly vain expression as Count Nicolas d’Arcy—Scarlett’s forme
r fiancé.

  Tella’s hands clamped into fists, nails digging crescents into her palms. She had only officially met Count Nicolas d’Arcy once, but she spied on him on several occasions during Caraval. She’d seen him chase after her sister, and heard that once he’d caught her, he’d been willing to do unspeakable things to keep her. Scarlett had managed to escape. But Tella could have strangled him, or poisoned him, or mangled his pretty face, if Legend had not promised in one of his letters that he’d remove her sister from the game if Tella strayed from her role and interfered in any way.

  So Tella had been forced to do nothing.

  But the game was over now; Tella could do as she pleased.

  The count was currently several shops away, too busy gazing at his reflection in a window to notice Tella. The wise thing would have been to sneak onto a different street so that he wouldn’t discover she was still alive.

  But Tella meant it when she’d said she doubted the count would recognize her if she walked up to him and slapped him in the face. For what he’d done to her sister during Caraval, he deserved more than a slap, but Tella didn’t have any poison in her pockets.

  She stalked closer. Maybe she’d throw in a well-aimed kick, and—

  One hand clamped over Tella’s mouth, while another banded around her waist. She kicked, but it didn’t stop her assailant from dragging her back into a splinter-thin alley.

  “Takeyourhandsoffme!”

  Tella pitched forward as the arms around her dropped away.

  “It’s all right.” The voice was low with a lilting accent. “I’m not going to hurt you, but don’t run.”

  Tella spun around.

  Julian’s dark hair was still mussed from Scarlett’s fingers, but his eyes were no longer the warm liquid amber they’d been when he’d gazed at her sister earlier. They were tight around the corners, hard.

  “Julian? What in all the hells are you doing?”

  “I’m trying to stop you from making a mistake you’ll regret.” His gaze shot down the narrow redbrick alley, back toward the street with the loathsome Count Nicolas d’Arcy.

  “No,” Tella said, “I’m pretty sure if I make this mistake, I’ll be very happy. I’m surprised you don’t want to bloody him as well, for what he allowed my father to do to you.” She nodded toward the jagged scar that went from Julian’s jaw to the corner of his eye. Caraval players could come back to life if they died during the game, but their scars remained. Tella had heard that during Caraval Scarlett’s fiancé had just stood there, doing nothing to stop Tella’s father as he’d sliced Julian’s face.

  “Trust me,” Julian gritted out, “I’ve wanted to bloody up Armando more than once, but—”

  “Armando?” Tella interrupted. Not the count. Not Nicolas. Not d’Arcy, or that filthy piece of garbage Count Nicolas d’Arcy. Julian had called him Armando. “Why did you just call him Armando?”

  “From the look on your face, I think you’ve already guessed. Armando was never engaged to your sister. He works for Legend, just like I do.”

  Tella swayed on her bare feet as Caraval’s familiar mantra rushed back: Remember, it’s only a game. We want you to be swept away, but beware of being swept too far away.…

  That villain.

  Tella had thought herself immune, since she’d been writing letters to Legend as he planned the game. But apparently she’d been wrong. Legend had fooled her, exactly like he’d fooled everyone else. It had never occurred to Tella that an actor might have been playing the role of her sister’s fiancé.

  Legend truly did deserve the name he’d given himself. Tella wondered if Legend’s games ever ended, or if his world was an endless maze of fantasy and reality that left those caught inside it forever suspended somewhere in between the two.

  Across from her, Julian pulled at the back of his neck, looking more nervous than apologetic. Julian was impulsive. Tella doubted he’d thought through the consequences of telling her the truth. He’d probably just reacted when he’d spied her about to go after Armando.

  “My sister has no idea, does she?”

  “No,” Julian said. “And for now I want to keep it that way.”

  “Are you asking me to lie to her?”

  “It’s not as if you haven’t done it before.”

  Tella bristled. “I did that for her own good.”

  “This is for her own good, too.” Julian crossed his lean arms and lounged back against the alley wall.

  In that moment Tella wasn’t sure she liked him at all. She hated the claim he’d just made. Saying something was for someone else’s own good was almost always another way of justifying something wrong. Of course since she’d said it first, she couldn’t properly berate Julian the way she wanted.

  “We’re going to Valenda in a few days,” Julian went on. “What do you think your sister will do if she discovers that she never met her real fiancé during Caraval?”

  “She’d look for him,” Tella admitted. It would be easy to do since he lived in Valenda. Tella had never understood it, but Scarlett had really wanted to marry this man whom she’d never even seen a portrait of. She’d imagined him with hearts in her eyes, always reading the best things into his bland, unromantic letters.

  Scarlett would probably claim it was curiosity, but knowing her sister, deep down she’d probably feel as if she needed to give him a chance, which could be disastrous. Tella once again saw the image of Scarlett sobbing in a bloodied wedding dress. The Aracle showed that she’d erased that future, but there was still a chance it could come about.

  “Scarlett won’t like it when she finds out you’ve lied to her,” Tella said.

  “I think of it as fighting for her.” Julian rubbed the dark stubble covering his chin. He looked and sounded like a boy a little too eager to jump into a street brawl, yet Tella sensed genuine mettle beneath his words. She still felt a little uncertain as to how long Julian’s affections toward her sister would last, but in that moment Tella imagined Julian would cross any and every moral line to keep Scarlett’s heart. Oddly, it made her trust him more.

  It might have made Tella’s life easier to refuse him; then Scarlett wouldn’t worry about Tella being spotted by the count while they were in Valenda, because the real count had never seen her face. But, despite how much simpler it could make things, Tella couldn’t take the risk of telling her sister the truth. A union between Scarlett and the count would end in heartbreak and devastation. The Aracle had shown this, and the card never lied to Tella.

  “All right,” she said. “I agree not to say anything to Scarlett about Armando.”

  A half nod, as if Julian knew Tella would comply with the deception.

  “Despite my actions during Caraval, I don’t enjoy deceiving my sister.”

  “But it’s hard to stop once you start.”

  “Is that how it is with you? You spend so much time lying you can’t tell the truth?” The words came out sharper than Tella intended, but to his credit Julian didn’t bite back.

  “Caraval might all feel like a lie to you, but it’s my life—my truth. This last game was as real for me as it was for your sister. While she was fighting for you, I was fighting for her.” His voice roughened. “I might have lied to your sister about who I was, but my feelings for her were genuine. I need more time with her before she learns anything else that might make her doubt me.”

  “What happens if Scarlett sees Armando is still on the island?”

  “Legend is sending him to Valenda early, along with a few other performers.”

  How very convenient.

  “Since I’m doing this for you, I want a favor,” Tella added with a bit of inspiration.

  Julian rocked his head back and forth, appearing to consider it. “What sort of favor?”

  “I want to know Legend’s real name. Who is Legend, really?”

  Julian laughed before she even finished. “Don’t tell me you’re in love with him too.”

  “I know better than to fall in love with Legen
d.”

  “Good. And no,” Julian said, no longer laughing. “That’s not even close to a fair trade, and, even if it were, I can’t tell you Legend’s name.”

  Tella folded her arms across her chest. She hadn’t really expected him to answer. The few performers she’d been able to question had given her similar responses. There’d been lots of chuckles and smirks, and some had just ignored her altogether. She imagined it was because most of them had no clue as to who Legend really was, but Julian’s response was different enough to make her hope she’d finally found someone better informed.

  “If you can’t tell me Legend’s name,” Tella said, “point me in the direction of someone who can, or we don’t have a deal.”

  All remaining traces of Julian’s humor vanished. “Legend’s identity is his most guarded secret. No one on this isle will reveal it to you.”

  “Then I suppose I’ll just have to expose the truth about Armando to Scarlett.” Tella turned to leave the alley.

  “Wait—” Julian grabbed her wrist.

  Tella resisted the urge to smile. He was desperate.

  “If you promise not to tell Scarlett about Armando, I’ll share the name of a performer who might answer some questions.”

  “Might?”

  “He’s been with Caraval since the beginning, and he knows things. But he doesn’t give away information for free.”

  “I wouldn’t believe him if he did. Tell me his name and we have a deal.”

  “It’s Nigel,” Julian answered quietly. “He’s Legend’s fortune-teller.”

  Tella had never met Nigel, but she knew who he was. The young man was unmistakable. Every inch of Nigel, including his face, was covered in bright, lifelike tattoos that he used to predict the future. Of course, Nigel’s role sounded different on Julian’s lips, as if he wasn’t truly there for those playing Caraval, but to pass on information to the master of Caraval.

  “Be careful,” Julian added, as if Tella needed another warning. “Fortune-tellers aren’t like you and me. They see the world as it could be, and sometimes they try to bring about what they want, rather than what should be.”