Twinchantment

by Elise Allen

  “You’ll be with Katya and Mother,” Flissa said kindly. “Please tell her we love her.”

  “Yes. Of course,” Primka said. She flew to both Sara and Flissa and hugged her wings around their cheeks, then flew out through one of her chinks.

  The minute the bird was gone, Sara rolled off her bed and took Flissa’s hands. “You ready?”

  Flissa nodded. “The manure pits, right?”

  “Exactly,” Sara said. “Can’t miss him. Thirteen, a little taller than us, pale skin, black hair that kinda hangs in his face so he has to flip it back, and brown eyes. Really brown, like suck-you-in brown.”

  Flissa scrunched her face. She almost thought she saw Sara smile a little as she described Galric. Flissa didn’t like it.

  “Understood,” Flissa said.

  The quarter-hour bells chimed, and for a second, Flissa’s stomach turned inside out. Sara squeezed Flissa’s hands, and Flissa squeezed back. She held on a long moment, then forced herself to walk out the door. She strode down the carpeted hall to the main door of the Residence, heaved back to move its hulking mass, slipped through—and nearly plowed into Mitzi.

  “Flissara!”

  Flissa jumped and yelped. She knew Mitzi would be there, but not right there in her face. Most people—even the Keepers of the Light—usually gave the Residence doors a wide berth out of respect. From the first mentions of the palace in Kaloonian history, the Residence was off-limits to everyone except the royal family and anyone they specifically invited inside. In Flissa’s generation, only Katya had clearance to come freely in and out as she pleased. Primka too, of course, but as far as anyone outside Katya and the family knew, she was only a regular pet bird and didn’t count.

  “Sorry,” Flissa said, painting on the happy smile Sara would use when she saw Mitzi. “You surprised me.”

  Mitzi frowned sympathetically. “Then I’m the sorry one. Guess I was just excited because I get to walk you down to your horseyback ride.” She threw out her arms, then made a concerned face. “Allergic to hugs now, or no?”

  Flissa hoped Mitzi didn’t notice her blush. She still couldn’t believe she’d said that. It was so Flissa-and-not-Flissara of her, but she’d been lost in her thoughts and hadn’t been careful.

  “You kidding?” Flissa said, channeling Sara as she forced her own arms open wide and threw herself into Mitzi’s. While safely hidden by the hug, Flissa allowed herself to grimace at Mitzi’s word choice. Horseyback? Who talked like that to an almost-twelve-year-old? Flissa didn’t understand what Sara loved about the cook at all.

  Mitzi loosened her grip, and Flissa painted the grin back on.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Mitzi said. “I brought you a snack.” She reached into the deep pockets of her long pleated skirt and brought out a piece of cloth, which she unwrapped to reveal a perfect square of chocolate. “A fudge square. They’re for tonight’s meal, but I thought you might like one sooner.”

  Mitzi winked—another thing Flissa never liked—and handed her the chocolate. Flissa popped it into her mouth in one bite, and for just a second, she softened toward Mitzi. The woman might be overbearing and inappropriate, but she absolutely knew how to bake.

  “How’s your mother?” Mitzi asked.

  Flissa choked on the fudge square.

  Mitzi patted her back until Flissa stopped coughing, then croaked, “She’s fine. Why?”

  Mitzi looked confused. “Word is she’s under the weather and she might stay in bed for the next few days. Is that not true?”

  Flissa swallowed hard and took a couple deep breaths to settle herself. Of course. Primka mentioned that Father had put the word out. Flissa inwardly kicked herself for reacting so badly.

  “Yes, yes. Indeed.”

  Princess Flissara did not say “indeed.” Flissa was off her game. She had to be more careful.

  “I mean…yeah. Just a cold or something, I’m sure, but she’ll rest and get better. Thanks for asking.”

  “No problem. Now let’s get you down for some giddy-up time!”

  Mitzi whooped, then mimed riding a horse, galloping down the hall as she held pretend reins. Flissa laughed out loud, but she was incredibly glad Mitzi remained just slightly ahead so she wouldn’t see Flissa’s grimace. Thank the universe Princess Flissara wasn’t so much Sara that she’d be expected to pretend-ride along.

  The galloping ended at the top of the grand staircase, and Flissa saw Rouen, the royal family’s assigned Keeper, waiting at the bottom. His yellow robes were like a beacon.

  Normally, Flissa liked when Rouen was around. Despite his craggy, lumpy skin, potato-like nose, and caterpillar-thick brows, he made her feel safe. He was kind, and she knew his primary job was to look after her family.

  But now, after what Father had said about the Keepers being the only ones who could have gotten Gilward out of the Twists, even the sight of his robes terrified her, and her whole body chilled when he fell silently into step right behind her.

  Flissa stiffened. Did he know about Gilward? Was he part of the plot? Did he want another Dark Magic Uprising? Was he watching her and hungrily plotting her demise?

  “How’s your mother?” he asked in his raspy voice.

  Flissa nearly jumped out of her skin. She concentrated with all her might to make sure not a single speck of her body reacted to the words, and in fact calmly slowed her pace so she could fall into step beside him and show the respect that Princess Flissara would normally display to the Keepers.

  “Thanks for asking,” she said. “She feels a little sick, but Katya says it’s nothing serious.”

  “Good,” Rouen said. “I did assume that, since you and the king are both keeping up your regular schedules. Not something you’d do if the queen were truly ill.”

  Flissa tripped over her own feet, which she never did unless it was on purpose. Luckily, Princess Flissara did it fairly often. Flissa grabbed Rouen’s arm to catch herself. When he put his own hand on top of hers, she fought back a scream.

  Mitzi whipped around. “You okay?”

  “Yes, thanks. Sorry. Just clumsy. You know me.”

  “Sure do,” she said with a wink. “Here, lemme help. Hook on.”

  Mitzi extended a hooked elbow, and Flissa slung her arm through it. Rouen kept hold of her other elbow, and together they continued down the hall.

  Trapped between Mitzi and Rouen, Flissa felt like she was on her way to prison.

  Clinging together, the threesome strode through the main hall, then down the long marble corridor with branches leading to both the kitchen and the cavernous room used for balls and formal meals. This massive ballroom was empty save for a clutch of servers cleaning the multitudinous windows and shining the lacquered-wood tables for the next royal meal. The kitchen, however, bustled with activity and the mixed odors of a million different sweet and savory foods. Flissa let herself breathe deeper as she passed, and she swore she could pick up the scent of more fudge squares among the mingled smells.

  Finally, Mitzi released Flissa’s arm to push open the double golden-grate doors to the rear lawn, and Flissa openly smiled for the first time since before she’d heard the news about her mother.

  Her beautiful horse, Balustrade, was saddled up and waiting for her, a groomsman standing by his side. Balustrade was their tallest horse, and their wildest. He wouldn’t let anyone ride him except Flissa, and she still remembered the day she—at only ten years old—had squeezed her legs around him and stayed astride until he realized they belonged together. Now he was the sweetest animal in the world and even let other people feed and groom him because he knew that was required in order to remain Flissa’s horse. He tolerated those other people, but Flissa was the only one he loved.

  “May I?” she asked Rouen.

  He nodded and released her elbow. The second she was free, Flissa walked right up to Balustrade’s side and leaned against his jet-black flank. She breathed in his musty, horsey smell, and he turned his head to nuzzle her ear.

  Flissa lo
oked deep into Balustrade’s eyes. He knew she was upset, Flissa could tell. He wasn’t magic like Primka, but he knew things all the same. More than anyone could imagine. Like the time Rayella, the head grooms-person, brought the horse to Sara at an outdoor festival. Rayella had thought she was giving Princess Flissara a wonderful surprise, but Sara had been terrified that Balustrade would buck her off and give up their secret. But without anyone telling him, the horse somehow knew exactly who Sara was, and what he needed to do to keep their secret. He not only let Sara mount him, but he also moved extra gingerly to make sure she could stay astride.

  “I love you, Balustrade,” Flissa now whispered. She pulled two sugar cubes from her jacket pocket, which Primka always kept filled for her. Then she moved to his side, easily placed her foot into the stirrup, and swung onto his back. She gently ran her hand over his braided black mane.

  “Honestly, Flissara,” Blakely said, “we’ve been waiting. Can we go now?”

  Princess Blakely was the older of the two visiting princesses. She was seventeen and, according to Sara, far too excited for her elderly father to pass away so she could take over the throne. She wore a dress and sat sidesaddle on her horse, which to Flissa was patently ridiculous. Worse, she kept her hair loose instead of braided, because she wanted the world to see her long blond hair bouncing in the wind. Flissa thought of asking if she’d also want the world to see her long blond hair in a bloody clump after it got tangled in thorny branches and ripped out of her head, but she’d never have the courage to say something like that, and it wouldn’t be very Princess Flissara of her if she did.

  Ivamore, only nine, was slightly more tolerable than her sister. She wore pants, sat astride her horse, and had the sanity to keep her hair in neat braids while riding. Still, she had the same supremely entitled attitude of her older sister and functioned as if the world were created to satisfy her every whim.

  Flissa offered them both a smile. “Sorry, Blakely. It’s good to see you.”

  Flissa nudged Balustrade into motion; the other princesses followed. “I hope your father’s well,” Flissa said.

  “He is,” Blakely said as if the words were a bitter pill. “Maybe your mother could go cough on him. I heard she’s sick.”

  Flissa wasn’t even thrown. Gossip spread fast, especially when Blakely was around.

  “She’s fine. Just a cold,” Flissa said.

  “Really?” Ivamore said. “’Cause I heard that creepy mage who cursed your mom was seen riding out of Kaloon as fast as he could.”

  Flissa choked and coughed to cover it. “Cursed?”

  “Back when you were born,” Blakely said, rolling her eyes. “Some servant said he was back in Kaloon. Stupid, we know. The guy was sent to the Twists forever ago. But it’s always like that. Every time we come into a kingdom, all the little peons try to impress us with the crazy secrets they know. I get the good stuff. Ivamore gets lies from scruffy kitchen boys who have no idea what they’re talking about.”

  “He wasn’t scruffy,” Ivamore shot back. “He was a handsome kitchen boy. And there were two of them who said it, not just one. The other one said he heard the old guy was with a Keeper.”

  Blakely whipped around to face her sister, suddenly interested. “Which Keeper? Was it Quendrick? He’s really cute.”

  “Ew! He’s like a thousand years old!”

  “So? They don’t age! What about Thraxos, then? He’s younger.”

  “Sure. Like ninety.”

  Flissa let them bicker as she tried to calm her racing heart.

  Someone had seen Gilward in Kaloon.

  More importantly, someone had seen Gilward riding out of Kaloon. Escorted by a Keeper.

  Her instincts had been right. Katya’s too. Gilward may well be plotting a second Dark Magic Uprising, but he wasn’t sticking around the kingdom between phases one and two. He was taking shelter in the Twists.

  And the sooner she and Sara could get to him, the sooner they could save their mother.

  “What do you think, Flissara?” Blakely asked. “Which Keeper should I try to snag while I’m here? Grosselor, maybe?”

  Flissa hid her disgust behind a big, open grin.

  “I think we should ride to the vineyards,” she said. “Git on, Balustrade!”

  The horse knew her so well she barely had to touch him with her heels before he sped ahead. This was one of the Princess Flissara duties she actually enjoyed, when “diplomacy” meant opening up Balustrade on their acres and acres of land, keeping him in check only enough to make sure the visiting dignitaries weren’t embarrassed by Flissa’s prowess compared to their own.

  At least, that was usually a concern on rides like this. Today she had bigger issues on her mind.

  Flissa waited until they reached the far orchards. The apple trees were in full bloom, their petals dripping an inconstant stream of pink confetti. There was plenty of room to ride between rows of trees, and it was one of Flissa’s favorite places to canter.

  “Care to race?” Flissa said.

  “Yeah!” Ivamore said. “Come on, Blakely, let’s do it!”

  “It’s hardly ladylike, if you ask me,” Blakely said from her useless sidesaddle perch, “but sure, I guess we can.”

  “To the high well,” Flissa said, purposely naming a landmark that even at full speed would take nearly a quarter hour to reach. Ivamore eagerly accepted the challenge, and the three of them moved their horses into a line. Ivamore counted off: “Three…two…one…go!”

  Balustrade knew it was a race, Flissa could tell. And she could feel his torture as she coaxed him to stay slow when all he wanted to do was lean in and take the easy lead. Flissa kept him behind Ivamore easily enough, but it was agony for him to remain behind sidesaddle Blakely. Still, he obeyed, and little by little Flissa let the princesses put more and more distance between them, until they’d crested a hill and moved out of sight.

  Then Flissa quickly turned off the path and didn’t slow until she reached a nearly invisibly slim trail through the forest at the orchard’s side. When the path opened up and she knew she was far enough that the princesses wouldn’t hear Balustrade’s hoofbeats, she kicked him into a canter. Together, they easily navigated the twisting trail, leaped over the stream that bisected the forest, and raced all the way down through the lower plains. She only slowed when she got to the farthest reaches of the palace grounds, where she’d only ridden once or twice. The ground was boggy here, and she carefully picked out the most solid spots.

  The smell hit Balustrade first. He reared back and neighed, completely overcome. Then it hit Flissa, and she gagged. “I suppose these are indeed the manure pits.”

  She could see them from astride Balustrade: three large pits, each surrounded by a rock wall to pen them in. All of Kaloon’s livestock waste was funneled here and it made excellent fertilizer, but a long-since-passed head gardener had discovered the manure fertilizer worked best when the pits were stirred regularly, so the manure became a mixed slurry combined with rainwater and mud. If there was a worse job in Kaloon than stirring the manure pits, Flissa couldn’t fathom what it was.

  Sara was right; there was no way to miss Galric. Not only did he look exactly the way Sara described him, he was also the only living creature around besides Flissa and Balustrade.

  That was good. No people meant next to no chance a Keeper would appear.

  The skin above Flissa’s upper lip broke out in sweat.

  Did they really need Galric in order to succeed? Did she have to talk to this strange boy? His father had just tried to kill her mother—wouldn’t it be smarter to assume he wanted the queen dead as well?

  Flissa weighed the options. She’d have done it out loud if she were with Sara, so her sister could hear and chime in, but now she did it in her head. She could talk to Galric and try to get his help, but he could turn out to be an enemy. He could report the incident to the Keepers. Sara had said she didn’t think he would, but she didn’t have the most discerning sense of character. She
found something to like in almost everyone.

  But if she didn’t talk to Galric, if they didn’t get his help…how would they find the Underground? What possible hope did they have of convincing Gilward to remove their mom’s curse?

  But what if Galric was magic too? What if he’d helped his father escape the Twists? What if Flissa tried to talk to him and he put a curse on her?

  Or what if he was the key to saving her mother’s life?

  Flissa yanked the locket from under her shirt and opened it up, squeezing the coin in her palm. “King, I talk to him; queen, I go home.”

  She tossed the coin and watched it spin in the air before she snatched it expertly and smacked it on the back of her hand. Slowly, she revealed its face.

  A drawing of King Edwin.

  Talk to Galric.

  At least she could do it with a friend. “Come, good Balustrade,” Flissa said softly, and though he clearly didn’t want to, the horse trudged toward the manure pits.

  Galric didn’t see them coming. His back was to them. He stood on one of the rock walls and leaned against a massive wooden rod that extended deep into the pit—his stirrer stick, no doubt, though it didn’t look like he was doing a lot of stirring. He didn’t budge as Flissa approached, and her heart fluttered faster as she imagined him working out the intricacies of a brutal curse in his mind.

  She waited, hoping he’d turn her way so she didn’t have to start things. She even made Balustrade stamp in place, and blow through his lips, but she got no reaction. Finally, from right behind Galric, she said, “Hello?”

  “Wha—?!”

  Galric spun around so quickly he lost his balance and almost fell backward into the manure pit. Waving his arms wildly, he grasped for the slack of Balustrade’s reins.

  “No!” Flissa shouted.

  Balustrade had bitten the last person who’d grabbed him like that, then bucked for an eternity until Flissa had calmed him down. And that was on the fields he loved. She couldn’t imagine what her horse would do when he was already riled up by the horrible stench of the manure pits.

  But Galric had already fallen too far to stop. He seized on the reins, yanking Balustrade’s head forward—