Prell shook her foot a little, his hand warm through the blanket. “No, I get it. There’s a system, and it exists for a reason. A Grace can’t go running around mending Artefacts, or encouraging worn-out gardens to grow, but there are always people who believe they’re special, that they can bypass the system.” He grinned, shaking the bag of pies at her. “They’re usually the same ones trying to skip the queue at the bakeries.”
He held out another pie to her and she felt the warm bundle next to her shift. She was just trying to figure out how to drop some pie for the loren when a knock came at the door. She froze, her shoulders stiff.
Prell glanced from her to the door and back again. “I’ll deal with this.”
He opened the door just wide enough to pop out his head, and Ariella wriggled deeper into the couch, shrugging the blanket over her shoulders and using the opportunity to sneak the rest of her pie to the loren. He almost bit her fingers in his eagerness.
“We’re here—” came a slow, drawling voice from outside.
“I know what you’re here for,” said Prell cheerfully, “and she’s not seeing anyone right now. You can leave a note though, if you like, Jeramie. I’m sure the Grace can’t wait to hear about the mason’s dispute with the Synod.”
Jeramie sighed. “Come on Prell. You can’t keep her all to yourself. The mayor promised us—”
“Well, you’re not at the mayor’s house, now are you? Are you leaving a note or not?”
Some muttering came from outside; it seemed as if Jeramie hadn’t come alone. Prell reached a hand through the narrow gap and grabbed a folded piece of damp paper.
“Don’t go reading that now.”
Prell shut they door on them and handed the paper to Ariella. “If you throw it straight in the fire, I won’t tell anyone,” he said with a grin. “Stars, I had no idea. Good thing you stayed indoors today.”
Ariella’s shoulders dropped, the tension leaking out of her. Yesterday’s impulsive decision to come here was turning out to be better than she ever could have imagined. She tucked the piece of paper into the journal she’d been reading.
“Maybe I won’t burn it just yet.”
But Prell wasn’t listening. He was staring at her hip. Slowly he raised his hand, pointing.
“How?” he whispered.
She hadn’t noticed the loren creeping out of the blanket. It blinked slowly at Prell.
Ariella’s blood went cold. The last time someone had seen her with the loren— She couldn’t help touching her wrist, where her mother had grabbed her. The bruises still hadn’t faded yet. Ellentyre had strong hands. The loren’s broken ribs seemed to have knitted, and the little cat certainly showed no signs of pain. There were definitely advantages to being a magical creature. Ariella leant forward, ready to snatch the cat out of reach if Prell showed any signs of hurting it, but instead he offered a pie to the loren.
“It’s rabbit,” he whispered. “Lorens like rabbit, I think.”
This one certainly did, snatching the pie and settling itself on top of Ariella’s outstretched legs to gobble it down.
Prell turned wide eyes to her. “How do you have a loren? I thought they only bonded with Hunters?”
“As far I know, they do. I think this one’s bondmate died. It’s a little fatter and slightly less scraggly than it has been, but it doesn’t look anything like as healthy as the ones in Ystellia.”
Prell nodded slowly. “That it even survived the severing of the bond—”
Ariella smiled gently at tiny bundle of fur. “I know. I found him in the Everwood about a year ago. He didn’t look it at the time, but he’s a survivor.”
They both were. She thought that was why he kept coming back, appearing to her every now and then, and not just for food, but for companionship. He’d been there when she finally managed to open the secret door to the Grace’s library. She suspected he was somehow partially responsible for the door opening, for the stack of journals she had managed to grab before Ellentyre had arrived back home. He’d kept a lookout as she’d figured out how to reseal the library against her mother. They might not be bondmates, but they were something close.
“He’s my friend,” she said softly, rubbing the cat’s soft white ears.
“I hope that’s something we have in common,” said Prell, holding out another pie.
3
The Gardens
Ariella woke to a babble of voices that was quickly cut off by the slamming of the door. Yora’s anger was practically a living thing, but Ariella had quickly learned that the only victims of that anger were the pots and pans. They were suffering through their abuse now, in the name of breakfast. Hopefully today’s breakfast would be spared the suffering of yesterday’s. An angry Yora was a careless Yora.
Ariella climbed to her knees on her bed and eased open her window, body tensed against the squeak. The frigid morning air held the fresh scent of the river, the usual smells of the city washed away by the night’s rains. Moonflower vines surrounded her window, the tangle of branches mostly bare as winter deepened, but still thick enough to hide her as she peeked out.
“You’d think we were here to steal the child.”
“It’s just manners. A bit of training on how women in good society behave. Stars know that those savages up in that forest are severely lacking in anything resembling—”
“I know! Did I tell you about that dreadful woman on the Synod?”
The source of Yora’s anger were three women, each dressed in a mountain of ruffles—exactly the kind of dress her mother thought she should be wearing. The coterie of society women were moving slowly away from the house, arguing about manners and tea.
Thank the Stars Yora was turning away anyone with a claim on her time. Since she’d arrived three days ago, people had shown up like clockwork at mealtimes—although never the same ones twice. Prell had told to her that they’d risk Yora’s temper not just for a chance to see Ariella, but also for the chance of being invited to dine at Yora’s table—she was known on the islands for her ability to turn the simplest ingredients into tiny bites of bliss. Ariella had been only too glad to eat the double portions Yora kept foisting on her.
The smell of frying bacon drifted up, and Ariella hurriedly slipped on the pants and shirts Yora had found her. The woman had taken one look at the flouncy dresses Ellentyre had insisted on packing for her, snorted, and returned the next day with piles of tights, pants, and jerseys. They were unbelievably comfortable.
She tucked the small, leather-bound journal under her pillow. The night before she’d considered flinging it out of the window in sheer irritation. There nothing useful in any of the eight journals she’d managed to grab before Ellentyre had banished her from the house. Nothing about the Bonding in them. Nothing that even hinted at how to awaken her magic. In fact, they’d proved to be more disturbing that helpful. It seemed that the passage of power to a Grace wasn’t as smooth as she’d thought. Families—even the Graces—had been larger, and the power had to be won by the strongest Grace of the generation.
Ariella was now worrying what happened when there was only one Grace in a generation—and if they weren’t strong enough. Could it be that the power she’d always thought of as her birthright could pass to another person? Would she really be the one to end the line of Graces?
She’d lain awake half the night gripped by a nameless terror. Annoyed by her tossing, the loren had at some point disappeared with a pop. Fuelled by exhaustion and a restlessness that had building over the days she’d spent inside, Ariella was feeling reckless. She slipped on boots and rushed downstairs to try and beat Prell to the bacon.
He grinned up at her from the table as she clattered into the kitchen, a slice of bacon already in each hand.
“Did her shouting wake you up?” he asked, jerking his head towards Yora. The older woman turned from the range, a plate piled high with pancakes in one hand. The other whipped out to tug Prell’s ear.
“Be more polite about your mother
.” She sat down with a sigh and fixed Ariella with that clear, uncompromising stare. “I’m sorry if I woke you, Ariella, It’s just these people—”
Ariella shook her head vigorously. “It was the bacon. I was trying to beat Prell here so he wouldn’t eat it all.”
Prell gasped in pretend shock even as he snatched two more slices from the plate.
Yora laughed. “I’m glad. Those featherheads aren’t worth losing any sleep over.” Then she winked at Ariella and produced another plate. “Beside, I made sure I saved you some.”
Ariella laughed at Prell’s offended expression. She had to smack away his hand from her plate.
“Any plans today Ariella?” asked Yora, just a shade too casually.
She shrugged and tried to crunch through her mouthful of bacon a little faster. “I was thinking I might come with you to the Gardens today,” she said, a little breathlessly. “I mean, if you don’t mind.”
“I would love to have you,” said Yora, her smile warm and genuine. “And I’m sure Prell would love the company as well.”
Prell groaned loudly. “Mom! Today’s my day off from the bakery, and it’s market day! Elle should see that, not your boring gardens.”
At the thought of the crowds that would no doubt be gathered at a market, Ariella’s hand went to her hair. Maybe she should reconsider going to the gardens as well. The copper strands were unmistakable, and marked her out as the Grace-in-waiting. Her stomach churned at the thought of being cornered by a battalion of ruffled women.
Yora cocked an eyebrow at her son. “The market doesn’t start until this evening. Which will give you plenty of time to help me with the weeding.”
He groaned again, and slumped in his chair as if his bones had turned to water. He turned to Ariella. “Remember that I tried to save you,” he said, sighing. “When your back aches from the bending, or your fingers split from pulling parsleyweed, I ask only that you think of me fondly.”
Yora rolled her eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching up anyway. “Gardens this morning. Market this evening. The market will be easier to enjoy with a few extra coins, won’t it?”
Prell bolted back up, spine straight as a sapling, and started shovelling pancakes and the bacon he’d snatched from Ariella’s plate into his mouth. “Well, you didn’t say it was paid garden work!” he mumbled through a full mouth. He flapped a hand. “Hurry up! Can’t leave the coins waiting.”
Ariella grinned at him, but hesitated, her hand still on her long braid. “Uh,” she managed to say.
Yora shook her head and tsked to herself. “Of course. There’s no good chasing people away from the door when I just take you and that unmissable hair out into town.” She squinted at Ariella for a second then nodded to herself. “A scarf will do the trick.”
It felt wonderful to be just another face in the crowd. With a merrily striped scarf hiding her hair, Ariella was simply a girl. No expectations and absolutely no gawking. She’d always thought she didn’t really like the outdoors, but it turned out that what she didn’t like was people staring. Prell was enjoying himself acting as guide, pointing out the bakery at which he apprenticed, which taverns would let you buy a beer without telling Yora, and which shopkeepers were most likely to add in something extra with a big purchase.
As they walked through the cool winter air, Ariella revised her opinion of the city. She’d dreaded her exile here, under the endless skies and away from her trees, but this place had its own beauty. Prell explained that the islands were clustered into quarters—although there were more than four, so the name didn’t make much sense. They lived in the Poet’s Quarter, which was richly populated with artists and musicians, but was also home to the largest market circle, and so attracted shopkeepers by the dozen as well. The islands that formed the Poet’s Quarter was stuffed with tall, brightly coloured houses—apparently Yora’s three-storey home was considered short. Sculptures graced street corners and roofs, and each home was festooned in window boxes—and more than one home had a small table and a few chairs to one side of their front door. It was clear that people in the Poet’s Quarter enjoyed receiving visitors.
They crossed three islands, moving from the centre of the Poet’s Quarter towards the riverbank.
“The Rose Quarter lies pretty much in the centre of the river. It’s the oldest part of the city, and the rosies never let us forget it.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s all Blood and old money down there. And if you even think about painting your house anything other than white, the neighbours will be on you before you can crack open the tin.”
“Is that where the mayor’s house is?” asked Ariella.
Prell grunted. “The mayor, and the council, and everyone who considers themselves better than rest of us that have to work. The Blood wouldn’t dare live anywhere else.” His mouth twisted as he said it.
She felt her skin heating with shame. Technically the Grace was the most full-Blooded person in the Vale. The Blood were descendants of the first families to swear loyalty to the Grace, so Graces were both of the Blood and above it. She’d always blindly accepted the assessment that Blooded families were somehow better than the rest of the Vale, but now, Yora and Prell the only barriers between her and the Pyscorian Blood, she had quickly reassessed. She couldn’t imagine anyone more worthy than these two.
She wanted to say so, but the words felt heavy and awkward in her mouth.
“Here we are,” said Prell lightly, turning to smile at her. The air between them felt a little thick, Prell’s smile a little forced. The words still wouldn’t organise themselves properly in her mouth, so she forced back a smile, even as a tiny ache stretched her heart.
Yora’s Gardens were actually three enormous greenhouses. The tall green-glassed structures were lined with a gold metal, that somehow, despite the constant spray of water, was bright and clear. They stood at the very edge of the island, twinkling in the sunlight, with only the tumultuous river rushing past behind them.
“Vegetables in the two on the ends, and herbs here in the middle,” said Yora, as she unlocked the tiny door in the side of the towering glass structure. They stepped through the tinted door into a monstrously tall structure, and Ariella gaped up at a ceiling that arched impossibly high above them. The air inside was damply warm and the last of the winter chill seeped from her fingers. The rich smell of earth mingled with the thick green scent of herbs—the greenhouse was alive with plants. Rows of shelving stood higher than her head and ran in long straight corridors to the end of the building. There were at least three tall shelves per row, sometimes more if the plants in them didn’t grow very high.
A mezzanine level ran around the inside of the greenhouse, more rows of shelving apparent even from down here, and strung from the roof were great balls of greenery with verdant tendrils that curled downward towards the uppermost shelving. Hung everywhere where small, circular lanterns filled with a soft, steady light.
Prell was grinning at her, “It’ll wear off as soon as she makes you weed the hensbane. Nightmare telling the weeds from the plants.”
“And that lack of attention to detail is precisely why you’ll be weeding the tomatoes today.”
“Mom!” Prell protested loudly, his shoulders dropping with a sigh.
Yora just flapped a pair of sturdy leather gloves at him. “Go on. I’m sure Ariella can use a break from your incessant chatting, and we’ll be right here if you somehow forget what a tomato plant looks like too.”
With another sigh, and some goodnatured grumbles, Prell accepted another key from his mother.
Ariella barely heard him leave. She was still staring, openmouthed. It was almost like being back home in the Everwood. The tension of being a stranger in a strange place eased from her shoulders. When she closed her eyes, it felt just like being back under her trees.
Yora was smiling gently at her when she opened her eyes again. “This has been my favourite place since I was a child. I thought you might like it too.”
“It feels like ho
me.” She bit her lip. “But I don’t know anything about herbs—and even less about growing vegetables.”
“No one does when they first start out,” said Yora gently, “but you’ve got plenty of time to learn if it’s something you’re interested in.” She gathered some thick leather gloves and a wide belt hung with tiny gardening tools and passed them to Ariella.
“My family line is old,” continued Yora, slipping on her own set of gloves. “We were one of the founding families of Pyscoria, almost as old as your own family line.” She smiled softly at Ariella. “And we’ve been loyal to the Graces for every minute of it.”
She heard the small emphasis that Yora put into the word. Graces. Plural. Not just loyalty to the current Grace, but maybe also to a scared Grace-in-waiting. Swallowing, she nodded and asked, “Founding family—does that mean you’re one of the Blood?”
“Was. When I married Jardan, I was culled from the registry. As was any son of mine’s right to the Lineage.” She looked around at the lush greenery surrounding them. “But none of that was ever important to me—only this was. And as the last child of my line, it was the one thing they couldn’t take from me.”
Ariella nodded. It was all she could manage. Here was someone who understood, a woman from a Blooded family, and all the responsibilities and obligations that came with that. It wasn’t exactly the same, but it was the closest anyone had ever come to having an idea of the unending weight on her, the relentless expectation. Years of suppressed tears and fear balled up and stuck in her throat, leaving her speechless. Yora cocked her head towards the central aisle, and Ariella followed her, grateful for the chance to collect herself.
The part of her that swooped with hope when hearing that Yora was Blooded, now sank like a stone in her chest. Prell wasn’t Blood, wasn’t eligible for the Lineage. A Grace never chose her own husband—instead, there was a strict rotation through the Blooded families, ensuring that the Grace’s bloodline was always fresh, but always Blooded. An unbreakable bond between the heirs to the power of the Vale, and the original families of the Vale. But Prell wasn’t among them.
The City of Dreams Page 2
