by Mary Taranta
“A man is dead, and I was nearly skinned. Does that not warrant any reaction?”
“No,” Chadwick says flatly. “Because we need him more than he needs us.”
The injustice of it infuriates me. Nothing has changed since I left Brindaigel: Perrote can still kill with impunity, and no one will dare stand up to him.
Livid, I storm out of the building, Chadwick at my heels. When I turn right, back toward Frell’s apartment, Chadwick stops me with a hand on my arm. “The palace is that way,” he reminds me.
I shake him off. “Frell’s body—”
“I’ll send a man to dispose of it.”
“He’s not garbage to be floated out to sea!”
Chadwick closes his eyes but nods once. “I meant, I will send a man to bury him. He will be attended to.”
“There’s also a weapon,” I say. “It has something to do with my mother—with this.” My palm hovers over my bleeding chest. “I have to find it before Perrote’s vultures pick the apartment clean.”
“You are not the only one leaving for the Burn tomorrow,” he explodes. “I have thirteen other people back at the palace, relying on me to ensure that everything is ready and we’re as prepared as possible. I am not wasting more of their time hunting down mythical weapons from your mother! We had a plan before Corbin ever met you, and that plan would still hold merit if we were to lose you. If you want to stay behind, so be it. But that is your choice, and you make it now.”
We stare each other down, our breath frosting in the frigid air.
“We leave tomorrow,” Chadwick says, more gently this time. “We give this one to Perrote. But it’s a long game, Faris, and I assure you that I intend to win.”
“And if he kills me before then?”
He has the decency to look me in the eye when he says, “You were never my priority.”
Seven
“ONE DAY,” ALISTAIR SAYS, CUFFING his shirtsleeves, “we’re going to have a conversation that does not involve any spilled blood.”
Against Chadwick’s wishes, I insisted on seeing Alistair upon our return to the palace, instead of the palace doctor. Because of the risk that my blood-soaked clothing would be noticed by the servants while I stood in the palace entryway and argued, he finally relented. Now I sit on a table in the infirmary while Chadwick stands guard by the door, arms folded and expression murderous. There are even more guards posted outside—on order from their captain. Until we sail tomorrow morning, I am to be escorted everywhere. His one concession to me was that Cadence would be watched too, though far more discreetly. It’s a modicum of relief, so long as I don’t allow myself to remember Chadwick’s warning in the city. If Perrote were to attack my sister, Chadwick’s guards would be powerless to stop him.
But North would retaliate. She’s safe so long as North remains within the palace walls. But after tomorrow when both he and I leave, her life is in Bryn’s hands. Can she stop her father?
Maybe I should stay. But what good would I be, haunting my sister’s every step when I have no power to stop Perrote from hurting her? If anything, it might drive her further into Bryn’s clutches. And without me, North may lose time trying to track his father. If he died in the Burn, our future would die with him.
“Stitches,” Alistair announces gleefully, jerking me back into the moment. I frown at his enthusiasm. After years of studying books, he finally has a chance for practical application.
Dark hair falls over his eyes as he assembles his tools, and I openly stare at him, trying to determine whether or not this is the Alistair who first offered me a chance at freedom—or a puppet masterfully controlled by Perrote to lead me astray. When he leans forward to retrieve a bandage, I grab his arm and yank back the collar of his shirt, to reveal the loyalty spell branded above his heart. Black, like ink. If it were in use, it would glow silver.
Alistair clears his throat, eyebrow arched. “Can I help you with something, or are you just enjoying the view?”
I release him, slumping forward. Tears of frustration and a growing paranoia needle at the back of my throat, and I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, fighting them back. Whose plan is this, Perrote’s or Bryn’s? Making me doubt everything and everyone I know?
The door slams open, and North storms in like a god of war. He turns to Chadwick first, and then to me, the bloodied mess wearing only my chemise on the table, a blood-soaked dress balled up beside me.
“She’s fine,” Chadwick says, catching him by the shoulder before he can thunder over and disrupt Alistair’s work.
I meet his eyes and nod: I’m fine. He sags back in relief, but then his anger returns. “I made it perfectly clear she was not to leave the palace grounds for any reason.”
“And I am not a governess,” Chadwick replies, ice-tipped steel. “I trusted Locke on her word; I can’t be responsible if she lies. I’ve already wasted half a morning chasing her through the city.”
I cringe, and Alistair pulls a face as he presses a damp cloth to my chest, cleaning the wound. “Say the word, and I’ll give the order,” he whispers. “Silence and bed rest for the invalid.”
I half-snort, gratified by the offer.
“What happened?” North demands, pacing a short line in front of the door, hands on his hips.
“There was an attack,” Chadwick says, with a warning look to me.
“They knew about the spell,” I say, parroting the lines we agreed upon. “They tried to skin it off me.”
North’s hands drop, and he pales. “Who?”
“No harm done,” Alistair interrupts, threading a horrifying, hooked needle. “A few stitches and she’ll be fine.”
“A few stitches? She’s been burnt!” North approaches, staring down at the scorch marks on my bare shoulder, the bandage removed so Alistair can work more freely.
Alistair makes a face and looks away. He can’t help me with that one.
“I didn’t recognize them,” I say tightly, barely a lie. “I don’t know who they were.” As Alistair threads the needle through my skin, I make a fist and hit the table, hissing through my teeth. “Sainted virgins,” I growl, “you could have warned me!”
“Sorry,” Alistair says with a wicked grin. “That’s the executioner in me.”
North spins on his heel and stalks to the opposite end of the room, where he picks up jars of ointment and salves from the bookshelves, only to replace them again. His annoyance permeates the room and thickens the air, until he finally turns back toward us, fists clenched at his sides. “Bring me Sofreya,” he says to Chadwick.
“Locke has already been excised, and Sofreya is busy,” Chadwick snaps. “The magic Perrote graciously donated to our expedition is full of knots and needs to be unraveled.”
“What were you even doing in the city?” North ignores Chadwick. “What possessed you to be so reckless?!”
He should know the answer to this, because it would be his answer for this morning’s blood experiment: desperation. And while my brief conversation with Dimitr Frell answered one question, it inspired a dozen more. What is buried in this spell that guarantees victory? Dimitr was surprised that I was the vessel; his first concern had been about blood. My blood? Was he worried I had somehow damaged the spell? Have I?
North frowns at my expression—my lack of a ready reply—and I look away, guilty.
“I don’t care how busy Sofreya is,” North says at length. “Miss Locke cannot safely carry this burden anymore.”
Chadwick begins to protest, but I jump in. “I’ve never been safe, not even here in the palace.” I glare toward Chadwick. “With so many enemies waiting to attack.”
“They only wanted the spell,” North says, not looking at me. “It would be better suited to someone—”
“Expendable?” I challenge. He frowns, and I bite back my frustration. “Don’t try to save me,” I say. “We both know Sofreya can’t dismantle something this complicated, especially not in the short time we have. My mother wove caveats into her spel
ls, and this one’s been buried ten years deep. You’re going to lose the only advantage you have. It is selfish to sacrifice the whole—”
“Don’t. Don’t you dare.” North levels a finger at me. “You are not the few, Faris!”
My name silences the room as North realizes his mistake. Chadwick lowers his head, fists clenched across his chest.
North straightens. “I want Sofreya,” he repeats.
Chadwick speaks to the floor. “Your majesty, listen to me—”
“NOW!” North slams his palm against the wall, rattling the sconces. Chadwick stares at him before he turns hard on one heel and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Alistair works quickly, silently, finishing his work and wiping the stitches clean while North prowls the small infirmary. Eleven crooked lines that sting like a sunburn. I resist scratching at them as I push myself off the desk, reaching for my bloody dress.
“Don’t treat me like a prisoner,” I say, tugging it back on. “My mother died for this spell. It is mine, North.”
“Faris is right.”
North spins, expression unreadable as he sees Bryn standing in the doorway, eavesdropping on our argument.
“Then I’ll leave you behind,” he says to me, still looking at her.
“You will not.” Bryn folds her arms across her chest. “This is my kingdom now too, and you do not make state decisions on your own anymore, my darling.” She spits the endearment like the curse it’s meant to be. “Not even you could unravel that spell in less than a day. You’re wasting time even debating the option. The sooner you find your father, the sooner we ensure our undisputed reign.”
North’s sarcasm scorches. “Mine or yours?”
“Our hearts beat the same now,” Bryn says with that same icy smile. “Surely we’re beyond semantics.”
North stares her down, but it’s a battle already decided. And while the victory is in my favor, I can’t help but be suspicious. “Why are you agreeing with me?” I ask her. If North finds his father, her reign is far from secure.
She snorts, as though my question is too ignorant to be answered. “When Corbin inherits, I inherit,” she says. “And the only thing keeping my father from killing me for that inheritance is the blood he needs to forge the blade.”
Of course. Perrote cleverly kept a vial of all his children’s blood back in Brindaigel for his own macabre—likely murderous—reasons, but Bryn’s was needed for the bloodbound ceremony. She can’t bleed otherwise, not while I’m bound to bear her wounds, and Perrote needs more of her blood to link himself to the crown.
“So you will return—success or failure, Faris—not just for me. Cadence will also be waiting for you.”
And therein lies the threat: We can succeed, but not without cost. She’s befriended my sister so that if North tries to deny her power . . .
Chadwick’s words return, haunting, wrong. I am not a liability.
But because of me, North might be.
“Why not come with us if you’re so concerned with our success?” I ask darkly. “Your amplification abilities would be far more beneficial out in the Burn than here in the palace.”
“You drag me out into the Burn, and my amplification abilities will poison you within hours.”
“Your father has enough magic to protect all of us.”
She rolls her eyes. “My father’s magic is the only thing giving him the upper hand right now; he won’t waste it on me. And Avinea can’t afford to lose both its monarchs. One of us must stay behind.” Her eyes cut toward North. “If you leave Faris here, he’ll try this again and you will lose your only advantage over him.”
North stares at her, understanding dawning across his face.
Chadwick returns, Sofreya in tow. She looks more frazzled than usual, with violet shadows bagging beneath her eyes. “You needed me?” she squeaks.
“It was Perrote who tried to skin Faris,” North says flatly to Chadwick. “Were you going to tell me that?”
“Of course he wasn’t,” Bryn says, “because he knows you can’t do anything about it.” Smiling, she glances over her shoulder at Chadwick standing frozen in the doorway.
North lowers his head, fists clenched tightly at his side. Tonight he will be forced to toast the man who made his mission possible—and the man who tried to destroy his greatest weapon. It’s an insult, and he’s powerless to retaliate.
“Sir?” Sofreya looks ready to burst into tears.
“My apologies, Sofreya,” North growls. “There’s been a change of plans. Go back to your work.”
“Good.” Bryn claps her hands. “So we’re settled? Secure? Is everyone happy?”
Far from it. I adjust the hem of my dress and rake my hair back. The room lurches, and I lean against the table as Alistair offers me a steadying hand.
“Not too fast,” he cautions. “You lost a fair amount of blood.”
And I owe him even more, if he’s to continue his experiments. “I’m fine.” I straighten, pushing his hand away.
“My father will have need of his executioner this afternoon,” Bryn says suddenly. “I suggest you find him as soon as you can, Pem.”
Alistair stiffens. “What?”
“There is a fine line between loyalty and anarchy, and the two men who attacked Faris this afternoon must be held to that standard. Don’t believe that because you’re here on palace invitation, you are excused from your other obligations.”
Alistair blanches, and for half a heartbeat I pity him.
“Now,” says Bryn, clapping, “the real concern. We need to finalize our seating arrangements for tonight’s dinner. What unmarried noble should we throw toward Joyena?” She extends her arm toward North, but it is not an invitation; it’s a threat.
Slowly North slides his arm through hers and allows her to lead him out of the infirmary. Chadwick inclines his head in respect, but it’s forced, a meaningless act of ceremony. He watches them down the hall before he shakes his head and turns in the opposite direction, toward the barracks. I’m tempted to follow, to challenge him to a one-on-one sparring match, so that we can pour our silent screams into the floor. But his careful schedule has already been upended because of me. I’m the last person he’ll want to see—and he’s the last person I’d want to fight when he’s this angry.
Instead I glance toward Alistair, still pale as he wipes down the table. I open my mouth, but what could I possibly say? Even in Avinea, he’s a prisoner to Perrote.
We all are.
Eight
A SLURRY OF VOICES RISES FROM the foyer, bouncing toward the domed roof. A colorful pageant is reflected in the crystal chandelier and its two hundred lit candles that brighten the room. The doors of the palace are thrown open to the dark night outside, to allow colder air into the stuffy, crowded room, yet the smell still lingers: sweat and perfume, ambition and greed.
One hundred and thirty guests, and tonight is the first time most of them have ever stepped foot in this palace, or paid their respects to its prince. They were lured here with the promise of opulence and splendor, the likes of which haven’t been seen—haven’t been afforded—since Merlock destroyed the capital twenty years ago. The crew of the Mainstay will be on display, along with the six soldiers hand-chosen by Captain Chadwick to execute our expedition tomorrow. He couldn’t afford to choose more, not with the limited magic Perrote offered. Not with Perrote staying behind, with an undisclosed amount of men possibly lurking in the city.
But the nobles don’t seem to care who stays and who goes; so long as there’s any chance that Avinea is going to survive, these are the men and women who want to be first in line to say they were there when it all began.
Clutching my shawl more tightly across my bandaged shoulder, I peer over the balustrade, my stomach twisted with nerves. North is easy to find, dressed all in black near the doors, clutching a glass of wine while staring wistfully outside. Chadwick stands discreetly to one side, dressed in his ceremonial uniform again.
Perrote is also easy to find, centered in the middle of the foyer, his voice cutting over everyone else’s gentler hums. He commands attention and wields authority, his silver circlet flashing in the candlelight, reminding everyone who he is and how powerful he must be, with silver to wear and magic enough to spare for a dowry. Lords and their wives flock to him eagerly and hang on his every word. They ask questions about Brindaigel and exchange looks of amazement and surprise at the perfect picture he paints of the kingdom nobody even knew existed. That nobody connects it with Corthen’s rumored stronghold is pure luck—or a conclusion swallowed by those playing politics.
The very sight of him makes my skin crawl.
Perrote looks up suddenly, as if drawn by the weight of my loathing. His eyes lock with mine and he arches an eyebrow—so like his daughter. Head cocked, he lifts his glass of wine in my direction, as if in invitation. The people around him all crane to see what’s drawn his attention, and the whispering begins.
I can’t do this.
Decided, I slink back down the hall and cut through the servants’ stairwell, dodging serving trays and kitchen staff in an effort to shake off the guards still dogging my steps. The servants are unaccustomed to parties of this size, and their nerves are contagious, thickening the air with a suffocating anxiety. It’s a relief to leave it behind for the silence of an empty hallway, and I catch my breath, steel my nerves.
Alistair opens the door when I knock, baggy-eyed and rumpled, his shirttails loose, his vest unbuttoned. He’s too surprised to say anything, and I flush beneath the weight of his gaze as he studies me in my dinner gown.
“Yet another conversation over spilled blood,” I say by way of explanation.
He frowns, almost distractedly, and then my meaning sinks in. “Oh. Right. Of course. You leave in the morning.”
