Court of Shadows

by Miranda Honfleur

  “What’s that?” Zero asked, coughing.

  Doc pulled away with a grimace. “A chest infection.”

  Zero straightened and gaped while Doc turned to his medicines and filled a pouch. He approached Samara and held it up to her nose.

  “Ingredients?”

  She breathed in deeply. “Horseradish root, anise…”

  He nodded. “Good.”

  “Something else I can’t name.”

  “Sea lavender,” he said with a grin. “I gather what ingredients I can, given our circumstances.”

  Of course—a law every apothecary lived by.

  “If I start smelling fancy, the crew might get ideas,” Zero said, scowling at the pouch as he righted his shirt.

  Doc rested a hand on his shoulder and thrust the pouch into Zero’s palm. “Brew it as a tea. Thrice daily until you finish the entire thing.”

  Finally dressed, Zero hopped off the examination table and turned over the small pouch in his hand. “Thanks, Doc,” he said, giving her one last look over his shoulder. “I'll catch you later, academic.” The words were low, honeyed.

  Any boy who spoke with that voice only wanted one thing.

  Oh no you won't.

  “I think not.” Zahib, arms crossed, stood on the other side of the doorway, watching Zero through slotted eyes.

  Suddenly Zero was a small measure attractive.

  He smirked and passed by, while Zahib’s gaze bored a hole in his back. As soon as Zero had ascended the ladder, Zahib rounded on her and grabbed her arm.

  “Come.” He led her back toward their cabin.

  “Ah,” she grunted, resisting his pull. “I won't stay in the cabin all day, every day. I need to breathe. See something. Learn something. Work.”

  He finally dragged her to their cabin and shoved her inside. “You're mingling with the wrong sort on this ship.”

  “They might disagree on who the wrong sort is,” she snapped back at him. Zahib had gone by an alias aboard the Liberté, Sayid Berrada. The ship had already been transporting other passengers from Sonbahar, so they’d blended in well among them, especially considering the son of a prince was here—Tariq al-Rhamani, son of Prince Raadi El-Amin abd Hassan abd Ahmad of Sonbahar. His entourage was large and impressive, and his skill as an elementalist was renowned in Sonbahar, so the passengers flocked just to meet him. He was traveling to some magic competition, from what she’d overheard.

  Zahib put a hand to his forehead and sighed. “These men have spent years chasing slave ships. But Samara, you are my heir. You will have to accept that responsibility, and rise to your proper caste.”

  Zahib had freed her from slavery, but now he sought to bind her in yet another kind of obligation. She was free, but not free to do as she willed.

  “This… university,” she said slowly. “It’s not for medicine, is it?”

  He sighed. “Samara, a woman of your stature needs to know many things. About magic, runes, sigils, history, language—”

  Pressure pushed behind her eyes.

  “—and these potions and powders are a fine hobby, but a Hazael cannot practice medicine in the city like some commoner. These are the constraints every Hazael has lived by.”

  “Slave-owning was a constraint every Hazael lived by.” She faced him squarely.

  “Samara—”

  She clenched fists. “Why did you even bother to free me, when you never intended for me to have a choice in anything?”

  His dark eyes bored into hers, intense, fierce, terrifying as his whole body brimmed with tension. “You will be safe at university, you will have the education you should have had, and you can make all the choices you wish once I am dead. Until then, I am still your father.”

  “You conceived me,” she said, trembling inside but praying her voice was firm, “but that does not make you my father.”

  She marched to her berth and threw herself onto it, curling on her side away from him and shutting him out—along with everything else.

  No matter what he said, she would never give up on helping other people. Ever. No matter what he—or anyone else—said.

  Chapter 16

  Jon blinked his eyes open. A wooden ceiling above him, with shadows cast against the glow of candlelight. A small bed—his feet reached past the foot of it—and a goblet rolled on a floor that shifted and bobbed.

  His hand was warm, and he glanced over to see a creased porcelain brow, and teary emerald eyes. Her hair long and unbound, Olivia sat on the edge of the berth in her floor-length white linen nightgown and green brocade robe, holding his hand with a soft glow.

  “Jon,” she rasped, a soft smile lighting her face. “You're awake.”

  Still at sea. He blinked sluggishly. “What day is it?”

  “15 Floreal. You've been asleep for two days,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze.

  He frowned. The last thing he remembered was hitting the deck. And a dragon—

  “The water dragon,” he blurted, trying to sit up, but Olivia leaned over and urged him back down onto the pillow. “Did it—?”

  “It’s gone.” That should have been a relief, but there was still a crease on her brow.

  “What is it?”

  She toyed with his thumb, the healing warmth still seeping into him. “It’s just that…”

  “What?”

  She raised her eyebrows and shrugged. “It’s ridiculous.”

  He clasped her hand in his. “Tell me.”

  With a deep breath, she met his eyes. “It’s just… I think the dragon was after you.”

  He jerked his head back. That was ridiculous. “You think that dragon was… after me?” That made no sense, and yet… a dragon had approached the abbey, where he had been, and now had attacked the Aurora, of all ships, with him aboard. It could be a coincidence, but Olivia’s theory seemed likelier. “Does the crew know?”

  “Bad idea,” a low, masculine voice answered from a corner of the cabin.

  Jon jerked up, reaching for Faithkeeper that wasn’t there, despite Olivia’s reassuring palm on his chest.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “He came to our aid. Helped us gather the men who’d fallen overboard, and he’s been keeping my anima bright so I can keep up your healing.”

  The man stood from his chair and walked into Jon’s field of vision.

  A six-foot-tall muscle-bound man faced him, with straw-blond hair tied back, a rapier at his belt, and a long, brown overcoat hanging open.

  As he came into the light, his eyes—it couldn’t be. He was seeing her everywhere he looked, even in a stranger’s face. Sky-blue eyes, bright like summer, in a man’s face.

  “This is Captain Verib,” Olivia said, and the man bowed mockingly.

  “The one and only.” Those sky-blue eyes flashed, and the resemblance was uncanny.

  Jon frowned, propping up against the headboard. “Do you know you look—”

  “I’ve said he must be an Amadour at least, with those features, but he only replies with ‘Verib,’” Olivia said, scowling at the man.

  Verib shrugged sheepishly and poured himself some wine. “Let it go, Liv.”

  He could have sworn Olivia shivered.

  “You should keep this between us,” Verib said. “If the crew sniffs out so much as a suspicion that you’re bad luck, king or not, you’re going for a swim.”

  Olivia rolled her eyes. “We’re less than a day from port. I think we’ll make it.” Smiling, she turned back to Jon. “You’re doing much better, but don’t do that again. I mean it.”

  It was either that or die. Better him alone than an entire crew of innocent sailors, guards, and Olivia.

  “Thank you for your assistance,” he said to Verib. “I am in your debt.”

  “I didn’t do it for you.” Verib took a swig of wine. “I did it for her.” He cocked his head toward Olivia.

  Somehow, even while unconscious, he’d already offended this stranger. “All the same, you have my thanks.”

  Ver
ib shrugged, then slammed the goblet onto the table. “I’ll see you at Il Serpente, Liv?”

  She nodded, and without another word, Verib exited the cabin.

  They’d arranged to go somewhere together. “How well do you know that man?”

  “I’ve met him before.” She moved to sit closer. “Actually, he brought Rielle back from Sonbahar on his ship. I met him in Courdeval at her inn, after she came to the palace that night and you—”

  He held up a hand. “Got it.” If he never recalled that night again, it would be too soon.

  Olivia winced. “In any case, if Rielle trusts him, then I do, too. At least enough to let him help us.”

  He could agree with that.

  “Jon,” Olivia said softly, “I told you not to use your Earthbound powers.”

  He shook his head. “We had no choice. I wasn’t about to let everyone die.”

  She dropped her gaze. “Every time you exert yourself like this, to the extreme, and have an episode, you’re causing more damage. I can treat the episode, but I can’t heal the lasting effects.”

  He was making it worse.

  “You’re shortening your life each time, and if you do something like this and I’m not there—”

  “Dead.” He exhaled sharply. “Got it.”

  “Have you really?” she asked, holding his hand, intertwined with hers, up to her chest, and sniffling back tears. “Because I want you to live. As long as possible.”

  She’d taken great care of him, and without her, he would already have been dead, several times over.

  But he had these Earthbound powers, and he couldn’t ignore them when others needed help, especially those he loved. No more than he could ignore his skill as a swordsman.

  He wanted to live long enough to stabilize the kingdom and ensure a peaceful succession, but to protect someone he loved, he would die if he had to.

  But Olivia… the way she was holding his hand, the way she was looking at him… and next to him, there was another pillow and a second depression in the bed—she’d stayed with him. Slept by his side as she’d taken care of him.

  This went far beyond friendship. Beyond attraction, even.

  She might have feelings for him.

  Terra have mercy, he couldn’t imagine life without her. But if he asked her about this, shared his own truth of the matter, would she leave? Would he lose her?

  “All of our things are ready for tomorrow,” Olivia said, nodding toward some finery hanging nearby and a small stack of boxes. She’d chosen their attire for the Grand Divinus’s masquerade.

  The welcome banquet to this year’s trials for magister. “Is there always such pomp for the magister trials?” he asked, changing the subject for now.

  Olivia shook her head gravely. “No, this is entirely different. They’re not separate exams. The Magister Trials are something new, a series of trials pitting multiple candidates against one another, with a single victor.”

  “What about the rest of them?”

  She shrugged, pulling up his blanket higher.

  If the Divinity had made such a production of this, the Magister Trials would have an element of entertainment, too, no doubt. But what would be at stake? Promotions… or lives?

  His own trial would come before any of theirs would even begin, with all of Emaurria at stake.

  * * *

  Marfa licked the wound on her arm carefully. It was healing, but slowly, very slowly, and the witches weren’t giving her enough food or water to keep her strength up.

  The beatings had become more frequent, more violent, with a different witch returning each time, bearing her own patch of fur. Her own fur. Taunting her. Recently, as soon as she smelled it, she would brace herself, and her Wolf would raise its hackles.

  But there was one witch. He—

  She’d learn his name. She’d learn his name and end him.

  After him, she always Changed for them now, since her human form was so vulnerable, and that only elicited worse torture.

  Some days, she wished for anything to end it. Anything. She’d even pledge herself to a maestru if only one seemed of a disposition to help. But there was no help, ever, only cruelty. Only pain.

  A distant whine—a door opening—and she inhaled deeply. Her own scent, and his. He strolled slowly down the dungeon corridor, and loud banging followed—the giant and the griffin. Sharp, ear-splitting hisses and cries—the wyvern, the hydra, and the dreaded basilisk. The basilisk had already killed one of the witches, so at least it was drawing blood in this torment, but they were careful now. Far more careful.

  Lend me your strength. She welcomed the Wolf and Changed, her pale skin giving way to black fur, and she stood on her hind legs, beholden to the collar.

  The witch, taking his time, arrived at her cell at last and set down her tray of bread and water—always befouled. No one befouled it, of all the other brutal witches, but he did. Always, and with a smile. He peered at her in her cell, her neck collared in arcanir, chains binding her to every corner, and stroked his black beard slowly, thoughtfully.

  He crooned something to her, and she recoiled. His honeyed tone was a deception, a mask over his cruelty, and she’d been naive enough to trust it once. Only once.

  Her fur adorned his belt like a trophy, and he stroked it softly before holding up a small case of bottles. Even sealed, she could smell their contents. The burn of lye and the metallic tang of silver. It was something different every day, like some madman’s experiment.

  He picked up the first bottle and unsealed it, the strong odor singeing her nostrils.

  I will kill you.

  She yanked at the chains, threw her body weight to one side, to no avail. As he threw the liquid at her, she squeezed her eyes shut, but the burn ate through her eyelids, her fur, the skin of her face, neck and body, lye stinging its way in. The sharp, shrill noise in her ears was her own crying and whimpering, but he didn’t give her a minute of mercy.

  I will kill you.

  The silver followed, flakes tossed at her that pricked like blazing-hot needles impaling her skin, and he threw fistful after fistful at her, laughing and grinning as she cried and whimpered.

  Her hind legs wouldn’t hold her up much longer, and her body was collapsing upon itself, hanging her from the collar.

  “Erardo!” a female witch yelled, and he took a step back, blowing a handful of silver flakes in parting.

  They hit her chest, and she bucked, throwing her head from side to side, but the collar and chains were unforgiving. Through the dizzying spin of her vision, she stared at him as he kicked the tray to her, picked up the case of bottles, and strolled back the way he had come to the cacophony of loud banging and the sharp, ear-splitting hisses and cries of other Immortals.

  Erardo. The female witch had called him that. It had to be his name.

  By moon and pack, I swear I will have your head. Erardo of the mad Coven.

  Chapter 17

  As their carriage pulled up the drive to Divinity Castle, the clang of metal on metal enticed Rielle to draw open the black velvet curtain. The clang repeated, again and again, and in a small square, two men dueled with blades. One with a rapier and a buckler and the other with a long sword.

  “A duel,” Brennan said in a bored monotone. “It’s how many matters are resolved here, more somoreso even than Emaurria. Silen—even Magehold—resolves things in style.”

  She shook her head. “Won’t one of them die?”

  He leaned in next to her. “The one with the long sword. His footwork leaves much to be desired.”

  “I mean… it’s senseless death.”

  “Not to them. They’re fighting for something worth it, clearly.” He shrugged and relaxed back onto the seat.

  “What if someone challenges you, and you don’t know how to use a sword?”

  Brennan scoffed. “Not a problem I have.”

  She looked away from the carriage window. It was a problem she had. But the Magister Trials probably wouldn’t invo
lve swords.

  “Don’t worry, bride. If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, I’ll be your champion in any duel.”

  Despite his joking tone, she believed every word.

  Shimmering dark-teal brocade and blackest-black tiretaine showcased his strong, lean frame, and a silver mask covered the upper half of his face, metallic tentacles sprawled across it. Not long ago, she’d seen a real kraken’s tentacles entirely too close.

  They’d barely strayed from bed for three days, but even now, on her way to the Grand Divinus’s welcome banquet, some part of her wanted to rip his clothes off. Some part of her that would get its due later.

  “All in good time, bride,” he drawled, his sultry gaze fixed on her.

  She cleared her throat. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  A corner of his mouth turned up in a devilish grin. “Yes, you do.”

  He knew her too well.

  They pulled up to the entrance and exited the carriage to enter through two vast doors manned by Divine Guards, who collected any and all weapons. Would the Grand Divinus explain the trials? Offer some clue of what she’d face?

  As she walked in, the questions disappeared. The splendor of the Grand Divinus’s court had been rumored within the Tower and beyond, but as Rielle set foot inside the Most High’s palace, her jaw dropped.

  The domed, intricately frescoed ceiling was at least thirty feet high, and the white-marble walls were inlaid with gold over shining, sculpted reliefs of mythological beings and mages—Magisters and Grand Divinii. The gleaming floor tiles were intricately patterned, immaculate white with gold and bright colors. It seemed a grave sin to even set foot upon them.

  The inner sanctum—including the great hall—was entirely encased in arcanir, supposedly. Although she’d never heard of anyone testing just how much of the great hall was made of arcanir. How much had been required to build and fortify the great hall and its adjacent chambers was unfathomable, but with it, the Grand Divinus would be protected from outside magic.

  She adjusted her phoenix mask and smoothed the voluminous feathered crimson taffeta she’d been clad in tonight.