Riot of Storm and Smoke

by Jennifer Ellision

  Her green eyes glitter, intent on Clift’s, as she leans forward. “You must swear on your parents’ souls in the Great Beyond that what I tell you does not leave this table.”

  He sucks in a quick breath. It’s a serious vow to compromise someone’s soul in the Makers’ embrace, but it’s warranted here. He grants us a quick nod. “I swear it. Meddie?”

  She hesitates, but jerks her head. “Me too. I swear.”

  Aleta is steady as she nods, accepting his oath. “My true name is Aleta. Of Nereidium.”

  Both of them go rigid as recognition hits. “Aleta as in…as in Princess Aleta?” Clift’s voice is hoarse. “As in the crown prince’s betrothed?”

  That clinches it for me. Clift doesn’t know that Prince Caden and Rick are one and the same.

  What sort of game is Caden playing? I wonder. He works against his father as the prince, influences him as only his heir could. But somehow, he’s found his way to the city under an alias. Why? What’s he doing here?

  Meddie’s eyes are the approximate size of dinner plates. “Isn’t your wedding supposed to be soon? This week?”

  “Today,” Aleta says calmly.

  My stomach roils. We’d be getting Aleta ready for the ceremony as we speak.

  Clift measures Aleta, taking stock of her posture, somehow regal beneath the humble clothes we scrambled into. Wordlessly, he extends a hand, and she lays hers in it, palm up.

  “No calluses,” he says thoughtfully. Aleta withdraws her hand. “I’m not sure that means you’re a princess, but I’d bet a month’s profits you’re at least a noble and that’s good enough for me.”

  Droplets of moisture from the meat cling to Meddie’s cheek. She leans forward, scowling. “So why are you running? I thought your engagement was a happy one?”

  Aleta starts, her smooth façade dropping and her mouth opening into a round little O. My disbelieving laugh chops into the air.

  Aleta sends me a warning look that I ignore.

  I’m fascinated by this glimpse into capital life. I’ve wondered before what it must be like to live so near the king’s stronghold, how the capital’s citizens could rest easy in their beds while he plotted only a short distance away on his throne. Maybe now I can see it: they are drastically misinformed.

  “Is that really the gossip that escapes the castle?” I ask. “That Aleta and Caden want to get married?”

  “It would appear that a great deal more escapes the castle, Bree.” Aleta’s voice is wry, noting the evidence of her statement in herself, me, and Tregle. Again, she gives me that warning glance.

  Meddie shrugs. “Don’t pay all that much attention to gossip about you royals, but yeah. Thought we’d just be exchanging one idiot king for an idiot king and queen.”

  Aleta bristles, but Clift hushes Meddie. “Don’t be stupid, Medalyn. Falling into the habit of speaking like that risks everything we work for.”

  “I wouldn’t do it in public,” she scoffs. Still, she looks chastened.

  Everything they work for… Reminded of our cause, I fish Da’s medallion out. “This symbol,” I say. “You know it?”

  Clift glances at it and does a double-take, pulling it in closer. “You might have mentioned you were Underground allies from the start, you know.”

  Underground allies? Does that mean Da was one of them? Even before the king had us captured in Abeline? That would explain the pendant...

  Da… what did you do?

  My mind flits to his last moments, choking out his goodbyes, blood pooling beneath him on the carpet. I’ll never know.

  I pull the chain from Clift’s big fingers and tuck it back in. “My da gave it to me,” I say quietly, fingering the chain.

  Tregle chimes in. “There was a room in the castle… It had the same symbol.”

  Clift’s eyes gleam, and his smile is wolfish. “Hidden away, was it? I’m not surprised. The Underground’s ties are long and ancient. In times of peace, when the ruler on the throne is an amicable sort, it’s used to smuggle in goods for free trade, occasionally to help someone ‘find’ new identification papers.” He grins, then sobers. “But when the king or queen on the throne needs to step down, when the people are threatened…it’s a different sort of network. Your da must have been one of us.”

  I want to ask more questions, but Aleta picks up the thread of our story again, shooting me a look. I lean back, crossing my arms over my chest, quietly resenting the interruption. But I can always ask my questions later.

  “Speak however you wish,” she tells Clift and Meddie. “But on this matter, we’re agreed. The Egrian King is no proper ruler.”

  Drawn up like this, assured in her cause, I feel a swell of pride for my friend. You’d never doubt her ability to rule. You’d never doubt her claim to a crown.

  My claim, however…

  “You want your kingdom?” Meddie asks.

  “Yes,” Aleta answers. “But more than that. I want a ruler on your country’s throne who doesn’t want my kingdom.”

  We talk of toppling monarchies at a pub table. Somehow it seems that there should be a bit more grandeur to it all.

  As exhaustion sets in and my eyes grow heavy, we discuss the possibilities for our escape. Climbing aboard a ship right now is neither feasible nor practical; the port’s security will be stringent. I’m sure the king is keeping tight watch on the ships there, likely expecting us to head out of the city that way.

  The thought’s crossed my mind. Sailing over the ocean, with my affinity for water, would be wonderful. But the king knows my Water Throwing abilities only too well.

  Even if we disregarded the fact that Aleta gets horrifically seasick, I can easily picture the king’s men at work in the port, throwing open trunks to inspect the cargo, striding aboard vessels wishing to get out of the city. They’d find us there in no time.

  No, I think, yawning. At some point in our journey to Nereidium, we’ll have to find a ship. There’s no other way to get to an island.

  But that port won’t be Egrian. And that day is not today.

  My head bobs, sagging. We’ve talked so long that it’s nearly suppertime, and the night’s events and their lack of sleep are taking a toll. Grief stabs me. I’d almost managed to forget Da. Da, who I’ll never see again. Da, who has secrets that he took to his grave with him.

  Da, who didn’t actually father me.

  I rest my head on the wood of the table—it feels sandy against my cheek—and close my eyes. Aleta and Tregle will get me up to speed on any plans later. Now that we’ve stopped moving, stopped running for the night, my brain has caught up with me.

  I’m the Princess of Nereidium. Not Aleta. If Lady Katerine is to be believed, that is.

  Not that I can trust Lady Katerine. But Da had been there, too, had heard all she’d said. And he’d said that it was true.

  And I’d thought that my life before this news had been a lie.

  I can’t tell anyone. It would be useless anyway. What good would it do? I’ve no wish to live my life confined to a throne. No desire to rule a kingdom. And my parents—my birth parents—are long dead and gone. There’s no bond to be forged through the mystic circumstances of blood.

  Besides, I think as the others’ voices grow fuzzy, what would this do to Aleta?

  “Who cares?”

  What? My brow contorts.

  The voice chuckles lowly, and a cold hand curls around my wrist. “I certainly don’t.”

  I shoot up like a bucket of ice water has been tossed over my head.

  “Bree?” Tregle asks. His hand covers the ghost on my wrist. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” I say. My voice is shaking. I clear my throat. “Long night—day.”

  Aleta’s frown says that I haven’t heard the end of this, but she’s too smart to press the matter in front of strangers.

  I rejoin the discussion with a dry lump in my throat. As the hour winds later, we become so absorbed in our plans that we start upon hearing a sound. There’s a click a
s the latch gives way and a creak as the door opens.

  Meddie’s face drains of blood. “The door,” she whispers, rising to her feet. Her good hand goes to her belt. “I forgot to lock it.”

  “Mistress? Barkeep?” the soldier calls when he steps inside.

  By the— I bite back an ill-conceived swear. The rest of my party stands hastily, but I’m in an odd position, half-crouched and thinking seriously about diving beneath the table. But unencumbered by a tablecloth, that would prove only an obstacle in defending myself—not a shield to hide behind.

  There’s nowhere to run this time. The path to the cellar will bring us directly in his line of sight, and though he hasn’t noticed the booth we sit in behind the bar, he will as soon as he rounds the corner.

  Stepping forward, he holds a medicinal jar in his hand. “I bring a peace offering with my apologies for my subordinate’s behavior during our search efforts. Things got out of—”

  His words cut off when he sees us sitting there. They flick passingly over the others, but his eyes linger on Aleta and then snap to mine as a horrified comprehension dawns over his expression.

  The jar shatters on the ground. Hurriedly, the soldier’s hand goes to his sword.

  “Wait!” I panic, fear rising. We can’t let him leave here. He’ll tell someone. He’ll tell the king. My arms move of their own volition, seeking out liquid to create a wave and keep him inside, to keep our secrets inside. There must be ale in the taps. I flick my wrist—

  But nothing happens.

  No. I barely tether my alarm. I know I’ve little control over my abilities, but they’ve always worked in moments driven by emotion. I try again.

  Nothing.

  Meddie, broken arm forgotten, nigh flies at the soldier, leaping like a frog over the table, using one hand to bend his wrist back in a manner that sends his sword clattering from his fingers as he cries out.

  I’d be thankful if there were space in my mind around the haze of denial.

  Clift confiscates his sword and regards the man with what looks like genuine regret. “Ah, lad. Would have been better for us all if you’d left well enough alone.”

  The soldier thrashes to the side, trying to disengage Meddie’s one-armed grip. She winces and shoves him to the ground, knees driving into the small of his back. He glares at us. “In the name of His Majesty King Langdon, I demand that you release me at once. You harbor known traitors to the crown.”

  Meddie leans forward to hiss in his ear. “And you harbor a traitor to the people on your throne.” She looks up at Clift inquisitively. “What’ll we do?”

  There’s a lump in my throat. “We’ll have to—” I can’t finish the sentence. I know what must be done.

  Tregle’s hand lands softly on my shoulder, and he looks at Clift. “I’ll—”

  “I’ll do it.” Aleta’s voice is grim. Determined.

  Tregle shakes his head firmly. “Your Highness, no. I’ll not have you—”

  “I am sure this will not be the last life I’ll have to take before all of this is through, Adept Tregle,” she says. “You wish to keep my soul unvarnished, my hands clean and conscience pure. But this is war. There can be no innocence. Mercy will get us killed that much faster.”

  Hearing it spoken aloud like that is enough to make me retch, and I steady myself against the table until the gagging subsides. The man struggles wildly now. His words are no longer demands, but pleas—pleas to free him, promises that he will keep his own counsel.

  I think that, once, I would have believed him.

  I know better now. If the man lives, we take a dangerous risk—no, a certainty—that he’ll go straight to the king and divulge our last known location.

  He has to die if we’re to survive.

  “Lass,” Clift says to me quietly. “There’s a bottle of Starter Cider beneath the counter. Get it for me, will you?”

  I nod and fetch it. The glass bottle is warm to the touch, and the amber-red liquid inside sparks as it catches the light.

  “Please,” the man says with tears streaming down his face.

  “Have your last drink, lad,” Clift says, pouring it and touching to his lips.

  All is quiet. There is no joy here. No victory in this moment. Only resignation.

  Aleta meets his eyes solemnly as Meddie hands her a dagger and nods with respect. “I promise I’ll make it quick.”

  Later, as Aleta quietly washes the blood from her hands, we ready ourselves for bed. We move to the basement, away from the gruesome scene. Clift tells us he’ll take care of the body.

  He locks the door this time.

  We didn’t even know the man’s name.

  I force a comb through the ends of my hair as Clift distributes bedclothes. Clift, we’ve learned, orchestrates the Underground in this region. Through these connections, he’s able to get us a bit more than what Caden had been able to hurriedly scrounge up around the palace. Clift replaces our nondescript but new cloaks with ones that are equally thick, but further worn and dirtier. Even less likely to attract attention in a city where so many shout like mad in the crowded marketplace simply to earn enough coin to fill their bellies.

  When I catch his sleeve and ask around the lump in my throat if he can replace the blood-stained dinner knife I carry with me with a different weapon, he acquiesces without questions.

  But that’s all for the night. He brings us a few bedrolls, a stub of a candle, and puts them down below. He has to open the bar tonight. Lips will flap if he doesn’t, and we don’t need any more attention brought to us.

  We’re also given strict instructions to steer clear of the barrels stacked ceiling-high. “Expensive vintage,” he says with a half-smile and departs.

  In the middle of the night, I wake to the sound of Aleta retching and open bleary eyes to see the flicker of the candle’s flame tremble against the wall. Tregle’s shadow rubs her back comfortingly.

  “Here,” he whispers and hands her a glass of water. “Drink this. It will help.”

  “Will it?” she asks quietly. “The man was—”

  “Only doing his job. And you were only trying to survive.” He’s quiet for a moment more. “You learn to live with it,” he says finally and brushes a lock of her hair behind her ear. Her eyes widen in the candle’s glow. “You learn to stand beside your ghosts, to walk hand in hand with them.”

  Ghosts. My eyelids drift closed. I think of Da as I fall asleep. Of Kat.

  I have my own demons to lie with tonight.

  “Breena Rose, I swear by the Makers that if you don’t get your ass out of bed this instant, I’m going to tell the Gwynn boy that you wanted to walk out with him after all.”

  My blankets are whisked off of me in a flash, and Da stands over me with his hands on his hips, brown eyes frowning down at me.

  I groan, instantly alert, lurching to a sitting position and glaring. “You do that, and the widow MacKay will hear how desperately I’m looking for a mother.”

  He grimaces and raises his hands in the air. “Stalemate,” he says with a grin, turning to leave the room as I slip my feet into my boots and stomp across the floor in my long nightshirt. “I was wrong to suggest blackmail.”

  I wasn’t. An echo reverberates around the room firmly. I wasn’t wrong.

  I pause, hands hovering over the clasp of my dressing chest, and shake my head as he exits.

  It’s then that I notice my hands are shaking.

  It’s dark outside, which suddenly strikes me as odd. This time of year, Da waits at least until first light to drag me downstairs.

  I drift to the window, hand against the frigid glass. It melts at my touch, and I leap away. The night’s shadows bleed inside as the wind outside batters The Bridge and Duchess, laughing. I hold my hands out, and liquid streams from my fingertips, coating the walls, which groan, bend, and sag toward me. They run red. Like blood.

  You’ll kill us all, you stupid girl, a woman screams.

  Hang getting dressed properly, I think.


  “Daaa?” I call. My discomfort elongates his name as I thunder down the steps, my feet clinging to the stairs that warp in the middle, sticky like mud.

  Da’s not there, but someone else is.

  “Lady Breena!” the blonde woman purrs. I cast a nervous glance back at the dissolving staircase. “Lovely to see you. You’re looking very well. So filled with life.”

  Kat. Her name comes to me in a flash of remembrance. But what is she doing here? She has no place at The Bridge and Duchess.

  “Where’s Da?” I demand.

  A smile curls across her face like vapor.

  Da, pale and transparent, reappears with an arm draped around Kat’s neck. A ghostly finger at her cheek turns her head, and he drops a kiss onto her neck as Kat keeps her eyes on me, grinning as fire consumes her eyes and the shadows swoop to devour us whole.

  “He’s with me, dear.”

  My own ragged breath wakes me. Eyes flying open, I heave myself onto my side, gasping. Frenzied, I kick free of my bedroll. It’s too tight, too confining. I scrabble at the chain of Da’s medallion at my neck, a collar that’s cutting off my breath.

  My chest rises and falls quickly as I try to regain my breath. It’s nothing. That was nothing. It’s just that the memories of Da, of Kat… They’re too fresh. Anyone would have a disturbed sleep after everything I’ve been through. It’s not something I need to wake Aleta or Tregle over.

  My heart rate slows, and I settle back down. A dream. A nightmare. That’s all it was. Convinced, I shift, turning on my side to get comfortable.

  Only to meet eyes that will haunt me for the rest of my days.

  I stifle a scream as a translucent Kat lifts a sinister finger to her lips. “Shhh,” she says.

  And explodes into dust.

  An Egrian Prayer, left unsaid:

  Mother, cradle me in your rivers vast.

  Start me anew;

  raise me from ash.

  Father, bury me in your chasms deep.

  Breathe me into the air