by Mary Taranta
“Breathe,” Bryn orders as Alistair relinquishes his escort to North with a forced smile. Only then does he scan the veranda, apparently looking for me.
My palms are slick with sweat; my heart is crashing like the waves at the mouth of the harbor. Ignoring Alistair, I stare as my sister approaches, drinking in every freckled inch of her, searching for any more damage inflicted by the four months under Perrote’s enchantment. Is she really only twelve years old? She looks ancient, like she’s seen more than any little girl should.
“Stop staring,” Bryn says. “You’ll terrify her, Faris. Good god, you look half-feral. Did you sleep at all last night?”
“I slept quite well,” I say darkly. “And you?”
“No complaints,” she says with a sly smile.
I can’t bear it any longer. Breaking loose of Bryn, I shoulder through the line of guards, only to bump into one of Bryn’s sisters. She turns, a reprimand framed on her lips, but it stalls.
Her name freezes on my tongue. Joyena. Third of seven in line for the throne, and Bryn’s oldest sister. A widow now, dressed all in black.
I murdered her husband.
Stunned, I open my mouth, but what could I possibly say? That I’m sorry? That her husband’s death still haunts my nightmares? That the smell of a candle snuffed out at night ignites a litany of memories that begin with a gun and end with blood? How can I explain that I had to choose between his life and my sister’s, and I chose Cadence?
After all, I would choose her again if I had to.
Joyena’s expression darkens as if she can read every incriminating thought in my head. She turns toward her mother, and a shared look is enough to relate my identity. She knows. Face burning, I ignore the first rule of the fighting ring and turn my back on them both, hurrying for the comfort, the safety of my sister.
North steps out of the way, and I throw my arms around her thin shoulders and hold as tightly as I can. “Cadence,” I whisper, kissing the top of her head. “God Above, Cade, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”
She wrenches back, as panicked as a cornered animal. I release her with a twinge of guilt. Of course. She’s been through so much already, I need to move slowly. One step, then another.
“It’s me,” I say. “Faris.” Then, terrified: “Do you remember me?”
She watches me warily. “Of course I remember you.”
The cold creeps in, and I shiver, hugging myself. The whole world watches, even the servants who feign indifference as they continue stacking luggage on the drive. Smiling weakly, I reach for her again, but Cadence shakes her head and steps down, out of reach, wariness sharpening to something darker.
“I remember everything,” she says, and venom seethes through her teeth. “Every single day at the workhouse, every single night. I was a slave, not a simpleton.”
I reel at the implication. The steaming vats of lye; the hours of scrubbing linens until her fingers were chapped and bleeding; the greasy men who came looking for little girls to buy, who were not discouraged from touching their potential purchases. Four months of that torture, and my little sister was not asleep, just buried beneath a magic spell that muted her protests, her ability to scream?
I pivot, seeking out Perrote. Once again he ignores me, but I stare him down with a silent—murderous—promise all the same. There are monsters in Avinea, and I intend to destroy every one of them. Especially him.
“I saw you that day in the plaza,” Cadence says, pulling my attention back to her. “When the king called for someone to speak for me. I saw you, Faris. Just standing there.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But if I’d spoken for you, they would have killed me, and I needed to save you—”
“All you’ve ever done is save yourself,” she snaps, features twisted. “You wanted to leave Brindaigel that night. And when Thaelan went back for you, you didn’t even wait. You had already abandoned him.” Her voice lowers to a whisper, wobbling. “Us.”
I stare at her, stricken.
“I was the one holding his hand when the guards took him,” Cadence says. “I was the one who stayed with him. But he still wanted you. Neither of you really wanted me, not when you had each other!”
This can’t be real. Is she still jealous of Thaelan’s attentions to me? Does she blame me for his death, and not the boy who slid the knife through his chest? Helpless, I look to Alistair standing two steps below. He rubs his mouth with his thumb, a cigarette tucked between his fingers. He doesn’t meet my eyes, and I suddenly understand why she can cling to him for comfort now. He killed Thaelan, but only on Perrote’s orders. He’s just a prisoner, like her, whereas I walked away, free. The real enemy.
“Perhaps we should step inside,” North suggests gently, gesturing, but Cadence doesn’t move, staring at me as if in challenge.
Beneath my heartbreak awakens something bitter. Doesn’t she know I would never have left Brindaigel that night without her? That I allowed myself to be bound to Bryn for her? That after everything I have done, everything still expected of me, Cadence was, is, and will always be the driving force behind my every decision? Even now, I would do anything for her.
Except, it seems, rein in my anger.
“He came back because you ran away from me, Cadence, and he didn’t want you to get lost. You would have died down there. Don’t you understand that?”
God Above, what is wrong with me? I cringe away from my own accusation as tears flood her eyes. Dimly I’m aware of the Dossels watching, and I chide myself for giving them any ammunition to use against me. Against her.
“I hate you,” Cadence whispers, the sound barely there above the wind.
“All right,” I reply, just as hoarse.
“It’s been a long journey,” Bryn says, brushing past me, curling an arm around Cadence’s shoulders. “You must be exhausted. Shall I show you your room? I picked one close to mine, just like I promised I would.”
Cadence breaks eye contact with me to look at Bryn. Her fury dissolves, and she stares like I might have, once: dazzled by the beauty, ignorant of the beast. They met briefly, before Cadence was returned to Brindaigel, and I have no doubt Bryn used every shared second to convince Cadence that she was a friend and not the enemy, not like her father. “You remembered?” Cadence asks, incredulous.
“Of course I did,” Bryn says. “I’ve been so eager to see you again, Cadence. I hope we’ll become as close as sisters while you’re here.”
Cadence returns Bryn’s smile with a hesitant one of her own, accepting Bryn’s hand. The threat I hear is as loud as a scream—Bryn will take my sister from me just as she has taken everything else. I turn my head toward the sea, fighting back tears. What else did she promise Cadence in those stolen hours when I was kept away from her, unable to offer any protection?
“Faris.”
I stiffen at North’s soft address—the first he’s spoken directly to me in weeks. He stands closer than I thought—closer than necessary, I tell myself, desperate for some glimmer of light. But seeking comfort in his company is as stupid as me guilting my little sister with Thaelan’s death. I can’t afford to be weak, and in this moment I feel in reckless danger of it.
Until I see the band of gold on his finger. A wedding ring.
“You have your magic now,” I say. “We can finally find Merlock.” Because the sooner we do, the sooner I’ll be free. Standing still is going to kill me.
He sighs at my insistence on business. “Faris—”
“Corbin,” Perrote calls, an edge in his voice. The others have gone inside, and now he stands alone on the veranda among the guards. “I suggest you join us, unless you wish me to play host in your own home.”
Another thinly veiled threat.
North nods in acknowledgment but hesitates. “Don’t stay out long,” he says quietly, not looking at me, “and stay near the palace. We don’t know how many men he’s brought into the city.”
My heart aches; he knows that all I want now is to run,
but I can’t even mumble thanks. He’s already gone. Maids and valets appear now that the drive is clear, ready to direct the dispensation of luggage to the appropriate rooms.
“Any welcome for me?” Alistair asks, his smirk barely hiding the waver in his voice.
I slap him as hard as I can. Several of the servants pause their work to exchange amused glances as Alistair recoils, working his jaw as he rubs it with one hand.
“She needed a friend, Faris,” he says darkly, “and it’s either someone working with you or someone working against you. Which would you prefer?”
“She certainly doesn’t need you.”
“But you do. Your sister is a survivor, just like us, but we’re not saved yet. You have to trust me. Just a little bit.”
My shoulder aches and my blood hums, urging me to give in to my darker vices, to hurt him the way he once hurt Thaelan. But there’s still enough of me left that sees the truth in what he says. I need him to find a way to remove the infection from my and North’s blood without relying on Perrote’s borrowed magic. Reluctantly, I concede that Cadence’s trusting him is far better than her trusting Bryn.
There are enemies enough in the palace now: I can’t afford to make more.
Alistair moves the hair out of his eyes. His cheek is a bright and angry red, and I glean some small satisfaction from it. Exhaling softly, he tucks his cigarette back between his lips.
“It’s good to see you,” he says.
I turn on my heel and storm back into the palace. Everyone lingers in the foyer, admiring the crystal-and-glass chandelier looming overhead, fitted with two hundred ivory candles taken from other, more useful rooms in the palace. North looks visibly ill at Bryn’s promise to have it lit for dinner, wasting precious resources simply for show. The Dossels’ arrival costs money he doesn’t have, money that would be better suited to fund his struggling army.
Instead Bryn insists on dinner and dances and hired servants to attend her family and demonstrate her success. She stands in the center of them all, Cadence still clutching her arm. As much as I loathe this game of politics and polite conversation, I’m tempted to invite myself into the fray, if only to stand more closely to Cadence again, when Chadwick materializes, blocking my view.
“We need to talk,” he says, voice low. His eyes fall to my shoulder, and I inwardly curse Tobek for ratting me out already.
“It’s nothing,” I say. The party heads down the hall, to where drinks will be waiting prior to everyone retiring to their rooms to refresh. I take a step to follow.
Chadwick holds me back. “Now.”
Another rule of the fighting ring: Know when you’re defeated. Holding back my sigh of frustration, I nod my head. “All right,” I say. “Now.”
Four
THE ROOM ECHOES WITH FOOTFALLS, boots squealing sharply against the polished tile. The narrow windows along the back wall are unshuttered, showing an approaching storm outside, turning the room muddy with shadow.
The smell of sweat fills the room; grunts bounce back from the ribbed ceiling, noise enough to mask my conversation with Chadwick from any potential eavesdroppers. Lunge, parry, block, and thrust. Thaelan keeps tempo in my head as I hear the shouted orders of the officers overseeing the recruits.
Chadwick marches to the far end of the training room, and I follow, self-conscious in my silk dress. I’ll never become proficient with a sword in the short time before we leave for the Burn, so my training is not with the others but instead with Chadwick himself every afternoon, honing the skill I already have: hand-to-hand combat, either barefisted or with a variety of smaller weaponry.
This special treatment has not endeared me to the other recruits. The sons and daughters of merchants or farmers or street rats, with no better alternative in the city, they volunteered for the meager wage of a soldier—and the promise of a potential land grant if North succeeds in saving Avinea. To them I’m a pampered low-born noble, my presence here no more than the indulgence of a foreign princess. Like the binding spell that links me to Bryn, my mother’s spell is a carefully guarded secret, and the others treat me like a transient distraction
“What happened?” Chadwick demands, arms folded across his chest.
I chew the inside of my cheek, debating how much to say. But withholding information puts more than just me in danger. “I saw Merlock last night.”
He stares at me. “What? Where? Here in the palace?”
Sighing, I edge closer, lowering my voice as I explain what happened. He listens, incredulous, then tugs back the collar of my dress to examine the damage himself. “I thought Sofreya was teaching you how to control this.”
“It happened while I was sleeping,” I say darkly. “It’s not like I just wandered into the Burn.”
“Is the spell damaged in any way?” He presses at the discoloration of my skin.
“It’s fine,” I say, annoyed at his priorities, pulling out of reach and jerking my collar back into place.
“This spell is our only lead to Merlock,” Chadwick reminds me. “We can’t risk this happening again before we reach the Burn. This needs to be excised before it spreads farther.”
“Yes, Captain.”
He scowls at my sarcasm. “Does Corbin know of this?”
“He’s been preoccupied this morning.”
“Good.” Chadwick nods once, emphatic. “This is between you and me, Locke. He fails to see reason when it comes to you.”
“I don’t think hiding this from him is a good idea—”
But Chadwick isn’t listening to me. He’s looking past me. I realize the room has fallen silent, and I turn to see the soldiers all kneeling in respect to North, who stands on the balcony above us with the Dossels flanking him on either side. Cadence is among them, inexplicably still wearing her traveling gloves. Their dark leather clashes with the shortened sleeves of her pale dress, and she picks at the fingers nervously, standing close to Bryn and Alistair.
North’s eyes briefly meet mine before they settle on Chadwick with a touch of acrimony. Chadwick scowls and steps away from me, loose hair escaping his ponytail and framing his face.
“Is this the extent of your army?” Perrote spreads his hands along the balustrade, surveying the sweat-soaked recruits with an amused smirk. “So few. So young.”
“These are just our newest volunteers,” North says without missing a beat. This is not his only army, is what he means. New Prevast—Avinea—is well protected. It’s a bluff, and not even a good one. If North had an army, Avinea would have some semblance of order. At best he could say he has allies in some of the remaining cities, where those who assumed power are willing to acknowledge his status as prince.
At worst, this is it.
Rialdo joins his father, and grunts in disapproval. “Will more come?”
“We’ve sent word to the south,” North says. “But the weather is turning. And there’s only one safe pass through the Kettich Mountains. Travel is slow.”
Rialdo exchanges looks with his father. “If you need men, I’d be happy to send for some of my own to assist,” Perrote says smoothly. “You do not want your kingdom left unguarded.”
“A generous offer,” North replies. “But unnecessary.” He turns to lead the way out of the room, and after another survey of the soldiers, Perrote turns to follow.
I watch them go, holding out hope for a second glance from Cadence, but she disappears in a sea of skirts without acknowledgment. I am not forgiven for what I said outside, and I feel myself wilting.
Chadwick frowns. “Wasn’t that your sister?”
Her I hate you echoes through me, head to toe and back again, cold as snowmelt. It isn’t the first time she’s said it to me, but this wasn’t a burst of frustration at my refusal to yield to some childish plot. This was whetted to a sharpened point for months, memorized and recited for hours on end. For the first time, I don’t mourn that it’s only two days we share until I leave for the Burn. Right now, I can’t escape soon enough.
“Yes,” I say, and stalk away before Chadwick can reply.
* * *
That night I’m awakened by a familiar burn around my wrist. Bryn, calling for me, as if I’m not only the length of a parlor away from her own bedroom.
Unless she’s in North’s rooms again.
I roll onto my stomach and pull the pillow over my head, ignoring the summons. Despite having spent the afternoon under Sofreya’s tutelage—and having received deserved admonishment for running away—I approached bed warily, terrified that I would lose control of my mother’s spell once I closed my eyes. As a result, I fought off sleep for hours, an iron poker clutched to my chest to tamp down the spell until exhaustion prevailed. A part of me half-hoped I would lose control again anyway, giving me another chance to face Merlock, to ask questions about my mother. The more realistic side of me knew that he would not suffer my curiosity a second time. If we met again, one of us would end up bleeding, and it wasn’t going to be the most powerful magician in the kingdom.
The summons inches up my arm, into my shoulder, my teeth. The longer I ignore it, the more painful it will be. Growling into my mattress, I throw the pillow aside, then stand and yank my door open. The parlor is lit by thin slivers of moonlight peeking through the curtains, but light also spills from under the door of Bryn’s room, which is a small relief: She’s not with North after all. I knock and she calls for me to enter.
Bryn sits in a silk robe at her writing desk, a sheaf of ink-scrawled papers in hand. She shuffles through the papers with a frown, a quill dangling between two fingers. But my eyes are drawn to Cadence, who sits cross-legged on the edge of the four-poster bed, also in her nightclothes. I tense, bracing a hand on the doorframe. Is she planning to sleep in here tonight? With Bryn?
“Yes?” I ask.
“I’m thirsty,” Cadence says. “I want some coffee.”
I look at her briefly before my eyes fall back to Bryn. So this is how my torture begins: while my sister watches at two thirty-eight in the morning. “Did you need something, your majesty?”
