by Bree Barton
In her periphery she saw the prince staring at the Hunters. Had he ever seen them before? Unlikely. They were an unsavory lot of criminals and assassins, men with less-than-sterling reputations and a keen ability to wield a blade.
When Quin realized she’d caught him looking, he quickly turned away.
Mia’s mind kept snagging on the journal. It didn’t make sense—she’d seen her mother write in that book a hundred times. Had her father replaced the inked pages with blank ones? She stole a glance at him. Even he wasn’t that cruel.
And then she was worried about something else entirely: the fact that cousin Tristan was leaning wolfishly close to her sister. He whispered something in Angie’s ear that made her blush. Mia watched uneasily as the duke tore into his duck with bloody abandon. He had clearly worked up an appetite cudgeling innocent candles and who knew what else.
Tristan looked straight at her, a smirk pinned to his face. “Perhaps you can enlighten us, Lady Mia. We were just discussing the efficacy of your father’s Hunters.” He brandished his fork toward the Circle. “They take the sacred oath to eradicate magic across all four kingdoms. But is it not true that the more Gwyrach they kill, the more there seem to be?”
“All the more reason the Circle must keep up their numbers and their strength,” Mia said tartly.
“It seems to me the Gwyrach have become like the ancient Máiywffan. Cut off one head, and ten more rise from the bloody stump.”
“Four kings.” Karri’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling. “You believe in mythical sea monsters now, do you, Cousin?”
A loud pop echoed from across the Gallery as a servant tossed another log onto the fire. The flames raged and crackled beneath Mia’s skin.
A scullery maid knocked into her shoulder with the flambé.
“Forgive me, Your Grace.” The maid’s thin eyes flashed, her tawny amber skin gone a few shades paler. Servants were whipped for less clumsy acts than this.
“It’s all right,” Mia said quickly. “You’re all right.”
The girl ducked her head. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Incompetent fool,” Rowena hissed. She turned to Ronan. “But then, you don’t employ them for their scullery talents, do you, my love?”
If the king injected his words with menace, the queen had a gift for filling hers with venom. Mia’s head was beyond aching—she felt as if her medulla had come loose in her skull. On a good day she couldn’t stand the royals, but tonight they were even worse than usual. The dogs were the most decent people there.
King Ronan ignored his wife and fixed Mia’s father with a penetrating stare.
“One does have to wonder, Griffin. You’ve brought us pitifully few Gwyrach in recent months. My Hall of Hands is hungry.”
A gust of cold brushed over Mia. The monsters in her head were carrying pitchforks now, gleefully jabbing her in the temporal bones. What in four hells was happening? Her body had become a foreign instrument, fine-tuned to a symphony she couldn’t hear. Crash and crescendo, freeze and burn.
Princess Karri spoke first. “Your methods are barbaric, Father. The Gwyrach are merely women. Some of them have children. Many are but girls themselves.”
Ronan turned on her with cold, calculated fury. “If you believe this, you are no daughter of mine. Why do you persist in seeing goodness where there is only wickedness and perversion? They are bastards descended from the union of gods and ruined women. They are not people. They are half-breeds who seek to do us harm.”
“They also have the power to heal. They can stanch the flow of blood and knit flesh back together with merely a touch of their hand.”
This was true: Mia had read about it in her books. In olden times, the Gwyrach were simply Gwyddon. Creatures. Beautiful and young, they were treated with curiosity and affection, even wonder. The Gwyddon were thought to be blessed by the four gods. But their fledgling magic soon warped into something dark, a way to exert power over the innocent and weak.
“You know it wasn’t always like this,” Karri continued, gaining steam. “Magic ebbs and flows—the only thing that changes is our response to it. When your sister sat on the river throne, she encouraged the study of magic. She invited scholars and scientists from all four kingdoms to come to Glas Ddir. Before you closed the borders—”
“Your father had every right to close them,” Tristan said coolly. “Our neighbors were permitting unnatural perversions to flourish.”
King Ronan nodded, clearly pleased. “My nephew has more sense than the rest of you put together. The other kingdoms created a breeding ground for magic. They let this filth infect their populations over many years. I promised my people a triumphant return to a better time.”
“Yes, Father.” Karri’s voice sizzled. “I read the decree. Did you know it was one of the first texts my tutor gave me when I was learning to read? ‘A triumphant return to the greatness of old, when Glas Ddir was both respected and feared.’”
Princess Karri could always be depended on to speak her mind. Even so, Mia couldn’t believe how brash she was being, especially with such a large audience. The stonemalt had loosened her lips. Karri’s conviction was unnerving; it snaked through Mia’s head with the uncomfortable aura of truth.
But she couldn’t accept it. Though it turned her stomach, she had to side with the king, at least on this. Gwyrach were born, not bred. Their troubled ancestry was legend: after the gods mated with human women centuries ago, the early Gwyddon birthed daughters, those daughters birthed daughters, and the lineage continued. But some of these daughters were no human girls. They were demons, each generation more wicked than the last.
Mia was a scientist, not a mystic. She’d always had her doubts about the origin myths. But the empirical evidence was irrefutable. She had spent three years studying every heinous act the Gwyrach had committed, and the list was long. They held grudges, and they never forgot. They melted skin off bones, swamped lungs with phlegm and fluid, burned whole hearts out of innocent people’s chests. The Gwyrach no longer used their power to heal: only to enthrall, wound, and kill.
“Every living being has the capacity for both good and evil,” Karri said. “Something you, Father, have never understood. Queen Bronwynis believed the more we understand magic, the better we can harness its power for good.”
The color was high in the king’s sallow face. “Do not ever speak her name.”
A hush fell over the Gallery. In the kitchens, a cup clattered to the ground.
Mia’s body was behaving strangely. Her humerus bones hummed at the elbow joints, arm muscles clenching and unclenching of their own accord. She could feel her ribs pricking the hollows of her chest—and it wasn’t just the corset. She clutched the table to keep herself from keeling into her flambé.
“If I have a foolish daughter by blood, perhaps I will acquire a better one by marriage.” The king’s ice-blue eyes sliced into Mia. “The floor is yours, Lady Mia. Give us a rousing toast.”
The breath scraped through her chest. She was acutely aware of the ruby wren beneath her dress, red-hot, a smoking coal against her heart. Mia felt all eyes on her as she reached for her goblet. For once she was grateful for the slinkskin; it hid her trembling fingers.
Heart for a heart, she reminded herself. Life for a life.
“A toast,” she said, trying to smooth out the quaver in her voice. “To the Circle of the Hunt: the true heroes of this feast. They are the warriors who purge the four kingdoms of magic. The brave souls who risk their lives to keep us safe.”
She looked at her father, whose face was inscrutable. A burst of anger flowered in her sternum. It was his fault she would never search the four kingdoms for her mother’s killer. But why wasn’t he searching? Why had he given up? Mia would have stopped at nothing to avenge her mother—even if it cost her life.
An idea was weaving itself together in her mind. If she were barred from seeking justice for her mother, she could at least empower the Hunters to do so in her place.
<
br /> She hefted her goblet a touch higher, her words gaining vigor. “When I am princess, I will do everything in my power to make sure the Hunters have everything they need. Today the Circle numbers thirteen. Someday they will be ten times that. May my presence in the Kaer strike fear into the heart of every living Gwyrach.”
For a moment, the Gallery was choked with silence. Out of the corner of her eye, Mia thought she saw the scullery maid shrinking back into the kitchens. Her father was squeezing the life out of his dinner napkin, his expression pained. And were those tears on Angie’s cheeks?
Mia’s gaze fell on Prince Quin. His mouth was twisted into an almost smile, a mixture of admiration and concern. But no sooner had their eyes met than he looked away. He busied himself scratching his dogs behind the ears, their fur shining like burnished bronze in the firelight.
It was Tristan who broke the silence.
“Brazen words from a not yet princess.” He wiped the sneer off his face before turning to the king. “But let’s be sensible, Your Grace. If we’re going to talk politics, isn’t it time the ladies retire?”
Outside the Gallery, Angelyne stalked past without a word. She bristled when Mia touched her arm.
“I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
“What’s wrong? Are you angry with me?”
“Not angry. Just tired.”
Angie spun out of her reach and disappeared down the corridor, leaving Mia perplexed. “Batten the hatches,” she murmured, “bring down the sails.” But her sister was already gone.
The queen had retired to her chambers, so Mia and Karri stood alone—quite uncomfortably, in light of their positions on the subject of Gwyrach. The princess’s fingers tapped absently against her broad leather belt as if itching for her sword.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Mia began. “I didn’t mean to—”
Karri waved her off. “You are entitled to your own opinion. The day we forfeit our opinions, we are truly lost. But as I will soon be your sister, may I offer one small piece of advice?”
Mia nodded.
“Be wary of my father, Mia. You may share a common enemy, but he is not your friend.”
Chapter 6
Painfully Small
IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE TO avoid the Hands.
The Hall of Hands was nestled in the central corridor of the Kaer’s stony heart, a proud showpiece for foreign dignitaries. Never mind the flow of dignitaries had trickled to a standstill after King Ronan sealed the borders—there were still plenty of servants and courtiers to shudder at the Hands.
Or in Mia’s case: reluctant brides.
Usually she hurried through the Hall, but tonight, as she wound her way back to her chambers, she slowed her gait.
The room was cavernous, more sanctuary than hall, and always strangely warm. The air was fragrant with the smell of vinegar and moldering meat. Clasped in iron manacles on every wall were cream-colored candles bathing the Hall in soft light. A servant kept watch from the shadows to ensure the fires never went out.
And in the flickering candlelight were the Hands.
For every Gwyrach captured, King Ronan took her left hand. He sawed it off while she was still alive and kept it as a trophy. A few days earlier, Mia had wandered into a restricted part of the castle and heard screaming. Demon screams, she’d told herself as she swiftly retreated. But they sounded human.
Eight carpal bones in the wrist: the hamate, capitate, scaphoid, pisiform, lunate, triquetral, trapezoid, and trapezium. Five metacarpals. Three tendons. Countless aponeuroses and ligaments. The ulnar and radial arteries, shunting blood through the sturdy arm bones to the joints and sutures. Mia couldn’t help but wonder how long it took, cutting through all that blood and bone.
Once removed, the Hands were placed in an earthenware pot with salt, vinegar, and powder of zimat. After seven days of pickling they were baked in the sun. The servants made a candle from the corpse’s fat, mixing the tallow with rosewater. Thus with every new Hand, new light poured into the Hall.
The Hands themselves were gray and brown and black, the fresher ones a bruised purple. Often the finger bones poked through the rotted flesh. Some were displayed in glass cases, artfully arranged on crimson velvet pillows. Others were strung from the rafters by long leather straps. When Mia walked past them, they twirled in silent pirouettes.
Someday, when they found the Gwyrach who had killed her mother, her Hand would join the others. Wasn’t that what Mia wanted?
A servant girl stood quietly in the shadows, watching. She was wide-eyed and coltish, her thick hair woven into a long yellow braid that hung down her back. She raised her gloved hand in a tentative wave, and Mia tipped her head. When she did, her eyes fell on a fresh Hand encased in a glass box. The skin was caked with grime, nails torn to shreds and still rimmed with blood. Surely this Hand had belonged to the Gwyrach she heard screaming.
It troubled her how thin the wrist was, how frail. Child size. Mia saw the angry fingernail grooves in the palm where she had clenched her little fist.
Demon hand, she thought as she picked up her pace. Demon flesh.
But for the Hand of a demon, it was painfully small.
Chapter 7
Smoldering
MIA WAS ALMOST THROUGH the Hall when she heard music. A fragile, haunting melody, one she was sure she’d heard before. She followed it.
The notes led her down the castle’s glossy black corridors, past the buttery and the watching chamber, through the sunken indoor gardens with their twisting vines and blooms. At every turn Mia saw herself reflected in the glassy walls.
She came to a halt outside the library. It was her favorite room in the Kaer; she’d spent many hours there, happily ensconced in books. The library boasted an impressive collection of anatomy plates and medical journals, with far more volumes than the Roses kept in their mountain cottage.
Now she peered in from the corridor. In the eastern alcove, the prince sat at a satiny black piano. She’d never even noticed there was a piano in the library—but then, her head was always in a book.
Quin’s head was bent over the keys, Beo and Wulf curled around the pedals at his feet. He was singing softly.
“Under the plums, if it’s meant to be. You’ll come to me, under the snow plum tree.”
He had a beautiful voice, light and pure. She’d never seen him look so peaceful. Though he had lit no torches, a shaft of silver moonlight threaded through the narrow loop window, and his hair glinted like spun gold.
She recognized the song. Once, when she was a child in the forests of Ilwysion, a troupe of traveling musicians from Luumia had performed a play in the village square. This was the ballad the knight sang to his fair maiden. For months afterward, Mia and Angelyne donned their mother’s fancy lavender and lemon-yellow gowns and whirled through the cottage, belting out the words to “Under the Snow Plum Tree” and making proclamations of undying love. Back then, Mia had been happy to read dreamy novels and play dress-up with her sister. It was only after their mother died that she decided she had no use for fairy tales.
Now, as she stared at the prince, her mind wandered back to those stories. Quin was as handsome as any knight. A few years ago, she might have swooned over his flawless face. If he had even a kernel of warmth, the smallest spark of passion, perhaps it could be coaxed into a flame, the flame into a fire. But all she had ever felt from Quin was ice. How was one supposed to kindle heat from an iceberg?
As she stood in the doorway, ruminating over this impossible alchemy, the dogs gave her away.
Wulf and Beo loped toward her, happy to press their noses into her knees. They must have picked up her scent.
The music ceased abruptly as the prince rose from the bench.
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I didn’t mean to startle you, Your Grace. I thought you were in the Gallery discussing politics.” How had he managed to bypass the Hall of Hands without her seeing him? She answered her own question: because he’d lived in the c
astle his whole life. He knew the labyrinth passageways far better than she did.
“I’ve never cared much for politicking,” he said.
Mia stifled a groan. He caught it.
“Have I said something to amuse you?”
“Nothing. It’s just . . .” She hesitated, wondering how much to say.
“Speak your mind.”
“Of course you’re not interested in politics. Politics is about power, and yours has never been in dispute.”
To her surprise, he didn’t contest the point. “You think I’m a spoiled brat.”
“I think you’ve been coddled. Your Grace,” she added quickly. She hadn’t meant to be quite so surly. But then, she had no interest in being charming, either. To charm someone was just a watered-down version of enthralling them.
Second only to murder, enthrallment was the form of magic Mia feared most. The Gwyrach could entrance a victim’s heart with passion, spike his blood with desire, and—most unsettling—strip him of his consent. She could hear her father’s voice in her head: To enthrall someone is to enslave them, little rose. You’ve stripped them of their consent, robbed them of their choice. And without choice, what are we?
She stooped to pet Beo. “Do your dogs like the music?”
Silence. Then, “Beo does. Like any woman, she has excellent taste. Her brother is a wholly different matter, the uncivilized beast. Wulf prefers the clavichord.”
Was he making a joke? His face was unreadable. Prince Quin, master of deadpan. Who’d have thought?
She waited for him to say something else, then realized he was waiting for her to say something. Her mind was as blank as the pages in her mother’s book.
“Well then. I’ll leave you in peace.” She turned to go.
“Wait.”
He looked different, standing there at the piano, with Wulf at his feet whining to be petted. The top buttons of his emerald jacket were unbuttoned, revealing a triangle of smooth golden skin. She forced her eyes back to the bookshelves.
