Master of One

by Jaida Jones

  “I believe you,” Shining Talon said, so fervently Rags had to make it true.

  In the quiet, with Somhairle and Inis outside handling the Queensguard, Shining Talon found Rags’s hand with his.

  Rags laid his head on Shining Talon’s big shoulder in return. Despite the privacy of the carriage, he couldn’t help his awareness that Morien could be watching every moment. That nothing was private.

  “At least do that magic massage thing if you’re gonna hold it,” Rags said.

  His mind was executing flips and back-handsprings, more skillful and acrobatic than his actual body could manage, to avoid the wellspring of want bubbling up inside him.

  He could still slip this trap as long as he didn’t look directly at it.

  As long as he didn’t name the desire for what it was.

  As long as he didn’t notice the perfect shape of Shining Talon’s mouth between the twin sets of—regularly perplexed, where Rags was concerned—crossbones.

  Rags couldn’t scream or throw himself out of the carriage without ruining their subterfuge. And he had his pride as a thief to consider, proving he was good at the sneaky bits.

  But that mouth.

  Rags just . . . wouldn’t look.

  “It would be my pleasure,” Shining Talon replied.

  As he turned his back to the door, the better to focus on Rags’s glass-filled hand, Rags thought about that hand. About his hands in general. Trained in dexterity, drilled for hours into days into months at picking pockets, opening locks, skirting sealed windows.

  They were a tool, nothing more. He’d never put his hand in someone else’s—nothing to be gained from that. The only people who wanted to hold on to Rags were the ones dragging him in for arrest.

  He tucked his knees up onto the carriage seat, let himself grip Shining Talon’s shoulder and arm for ballast against the intense pressure in his palm that gave way to greater relief.

  “Am I causing you pain?” Shining Talon asked.

  “Yeah. Don’t stop,” Rags replied.

  64

  Inis

  Of everything Inis remembered about the capital, this checkpoint wasn’t one of them.

  There was plenty she did remember all too well, that featured in her dreams or when her thoughts wandered, dangerously, to how life used to be. A swing wrought of ivory, dangling from a low-hanging bough. The rooftops of the Palisades glimpsed from a castle balcony, or flower-viewing days when the roses were in bloom. . . .

  The checkpoint was definitely new.

  “Prince Somhairle is tired,” she said shortly, not meeting the Queensguard’s eyes and hoping he thought it was deference that caused her to avert her gaze, not her shimmering hatred for everyone who wore the Queen’s crest. If he looked too close, he’d see it. She couldn’t hide it no matter whose face she wore. “It is unpleasant for him to stand while submitting to this search.”

  In the meantime, two Queensguard had him holding both arms out while they patted him over. And Somhairle wasn’t swaying, but he was breathing thinly, which meant it actually was bothering him and he was refusing to show it.

  Inis would have given anything for the ability to knock these men on their asses as she’d done with Cab. She might have given anything to be less sensible. To be more like their companions in the carriage, if only for the time it took to make herself feel better.

  But she remained, stubbornly, like Inis Fraoch Ever-Loyal: someone who was too smart to toss her life out the window for one moment’s sweet euphoria. For the most part, her anger made her strong, but here it would give her away.

  If Two hadn’t helped her to see that, she would be in trouble now.

  Somhairle’s arm slid through hers once more, steadying himself against her. She’d made the right choice.

  But how nice it would have been to see the looks on their faces.

  They’d cut your throat, dearheart. Two’s voice was her brother’s again, affectionate and chiding in one. Cabhan of Kerry’s-End let you hit him.

  One of the Queensguard moved on from Somhairle to search her instead. Inis held herself steady, tried not to wonder whether they were lingering over her backside and chest. To them, she was no one, not a member of the Ever-Lasting Houses, though being a companion of the prince should have offered her some basic consideration.

  Inis told herself not to bristle. She was glad to lose herself in her connection with Two.

  Thanks for the blow to my ego and my fighting skills, Two.

  She felt Two’s shrug, elegant shoulders more vivid than the hands patting down the sides of her corset.

  Plenty of time to get more practice in. I’ll teach you to bite like me.

  “Girl’s clean,” her Queensguard said.

  Inis caught Somhairle’s eye from the side and dipped her chin in a quick nod, trying to communicate without words that she was all right. That they both were.

  “I washed behind my ears and everything.” Inis curtsied. “It isn’t every day a girl’s taken to the Hill.”

  Somhairle breathed out hard, a huff of either surprise or amusement.

  Had he thought himself the only one who knew how to put on a show?

  “Prince too,” the other Queensguard confirmed. This one had the courtesy to bow, although the gesture was shallower than it should have been. “Apologies, sire. Just doing our jobs.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell my mother how attentive you both were.” Somhairle’s voice was light and his face was kind, but Inis had to admire how he’d found another way to exhibit his theatrical skill.

  For the first time, the guards looked nervous.

  “We wouldn’t want distinction,” Inis’s Queensguard said. “No reason to go to any trouble on our accounts.”

  “Thought I saw others in the carriage.” That was the second Queensguard.

  Inis felt her spine straighten. If she pushed, didn’t allow the Queensguard to regain ground or their confidence, there was a chance she could keep them afraid.

  Afraid enough not to search the carriage.

  “It’s only our servants inside.” Inis’s voice carried, disbelieving. “Would you paw through a lady’s baggage next? Are our personal belongings to be mistrusted?”

  Somhairle rested his withered hand on her elbow. “I know you’re upset, but as they said, these men have a job to do.” He smiled once more at the Queensguard. It wasn’t the childhood smile of Inis’s past, gentle and forgiving. “Don’t be modest. Your dedication demands special mention. What are your names and ranks? I shall wish to speak with your captain as well as with my mother.”

  The nervous Queensguard glanced toward the carriage. “Perhaps we’ve kept you long enough.”

  “I’m nearly certain I won’t collapse yet.” Somhairle lifted his face in the direction of the castle, gleaming and forbidden, as though searching for someone in a particular window. “And since I’m so close to the castle, if I do, perhaps someone inside will notice and rush to my aid.”

  “Be that as it may . . .” The first Queensguard gestured them back to the carriage, offered Somhairle a hand up, which the prince ignored in favor of Inis’s assistance. The door shut behind them. Two chuckled at their antics, a bell-like tinkle, purring laughter.

  “We don’t get the pat-down treatment?” Rags asked. There was high color in his cheeks, and he was shaking out his fingers as though he’d been stung by a bee. “I’m offended. I was looking forward to them finding the silverware in my underthings.”

  Inis chose not to question his final statement. “Not at all. We informed them only our servants were within. Which, conveniently, takes care of another matter.”

  Rags frowned as the carriage started moving again, those last, critical steps along the road to the top of the Hill. “What matter’s that?”

  “You bow like a broken-legged toad and talk with as much grace,” Inis replied. “Now you don’t have to. Simply stay behind us at all times and don’t open your mouth. Ever.”

  Inis nursed the feelin
g she got at the look on Rags’s face into a warm flame, burning beside the mirror shard in her heart.

  65

  Cab

  Cab and Einan hadn’t been caught by the diggers yet, but that didn’t mean they could stop running.

  Out of breath. Covered in dirt and sweat. Cab felt more alive than he had in a year, had assumed he’d buried that part of himself alongside his uniform. Looking a mess next to the fae they’d rescued—or who’d rescued them, a point Cab wasn’t clear on—they burst into the chamber where Sil, Uaine, and Malachy were waiting.

  Only Sil was asleep.

  That was what One said. Asleep.

  She looked dead.

  Drawn, nearly colorless, with only the faintest luster of gold still dusting her skin. She was the size of a thirteen-year-old girl, her hair as white as a village elder’s.

  “We couldn’t wake her,” Malachy said, looking at Einan while Uaine stared at their fae guest. “She’s been like this since you left. But Uaine said I shouldn’t go after you.”

  “She was right,” Einan said tartly.

  Cab knelt before Sil. He could tell the fae from the coffin was staring at her, not believing his eyes. Cab knew that without their leader, what remained of the Resistance was hesitant and scared. He was the only trained soldier here.

  Trained to keep his head in situations like this.

  Elsewhere in the tunnel, a crash. Muted and distant, but no less real.

  Better not to let it get closer.

  “Forgive me,” Cab murmured as he lifted Sil into his arms. He couldn’t avoid the feeling that he’d break her to dust if he held her too tightly.

  “Be careful with her—” Einan began.

  “Or you’ll gut my garters or whatever it is you like to say. I remember.” Cab adjusted his hold gingerly. “Do you have a safe place? Somewhere else you meet when the sewers have been compromised?”

  Einan’s expression fell. “The sewers have never been compromised.”

  “Then it was only a matter of time,” Cab said. “They were digging. You had to know eventually—”

  “I can take Malachy to my place,” Uaine said. “But they’ll see us walking in the front door.”

  Not an option for the fae.

  “Where else?” Cab turned to Einan, who seemed to gain resolve from responsibility.

  “You’re right.” She looked at Sil in his arms, then to Uaine. “Only one place for a troupe of freaks like this. Uaine, Malachy, get yourselves to safety. We’ll split up. Protecting Sil. That’s what’s important.”

  “Lead the way,” Cab replied.

  66

  Cab

  After they’d spent too long chasing Einan’s twists and turns in the dark, the air finally began to smell less stale. Sounds of city life, muted but unmistakable, followed. The occasional sewer grate appeared overhead, unsteady light filtering through the bars. Carriage wheels, laughter, marketplace shouting, the scampering of small feet.

  And more shit and piss. The sewers here were active.

  I am disgusted, Cab heard One grouse. I hope you can make this up to me someday with a proper adventure.

  If we make it out of this one, he replied.

  Always so dire! Try not to be gloomy.

  The clatter of heavy, iron-soled boots interrupted their conversation. Reminded Cab to stay focused on the present. Queensguard overhead meant he couldn’t let his guard down.

  He also had to keep checking over his shoulder to make sure their new friend was still there.

  The fae remained quiet as a shadow.

  Einan led them down a narrower, smellier tunnel where the light faltered. Less clamor overhead. From there she found and climbed a rusty ladder to the surface. A grated panel in the ceiling gave a creak as she pushed it open.

  Einan disappeared through it, then reappeared, gave the hand signal for all clear. She held her arms out for Sil. “Be gentle!”

  As he passed Sil off to Einan, Cab wondered if she might close the grate on him and disappear with Sil into the night.

  But if Einan did that, she’d also be closing the grate on One and another fae.

  Not everyone was as disloyal to their brothers and sisters as Cab had been the night he’d fled the Hill.

  “Come up,” Einan hissed. “What are you standing around for?”

  Properly shamed, trusting that One could handle a ladder without hands, Cab settled his palm on a rusted rung and hauled himself up.

  When he surfaced, he came face-to-face with the black-and-silver uniform of a Queensguard.

  Trap, his instincts screamed. But One hadn’t warned him of any danger.

  Next to the Queensguard’s uniform was a voluminous white dress. Glittering fish scales patterned the skirt, edged in blue beading. Hanging next to that was a series of masks, some of them with long, comical noses, others with frozen expressions of fear or sadness. A bureau with a mirror faced Cab, reflecting Einan to his left, settling Sil in a pile of colorful fabric and folded banners.

  “Are we in a madman’s wardrobe?” Cab asked.

  “Close.” Einan’s voice hushed, her expression reverent as she touched Sil’s hair, brushed it out of her face, and finally released her. “You’re in my theater.”

  Of course. These were costumes.

  A sneeze from One caught Cab’s attention. When he turned, he saw that she’d already extracted herself from the sewers and was tangled in a feathered scarf. Bright fuchsia plumes floated gently in the air around her head, sticking to her body where the silver was wet. The fae climbed out next, huffing another plume off his face.

  “Used to be more jewelry, of course.” Einan straightened, kneading the small of her back with her knuckles. “Bits of gold, real silver candlesticks. Until the Queensguard rounded up all our good metal to melt down into weapons. I’ll bet there’s more than a few family heirlooms masquerading as swords these days.”

  It wasn’t the sights in the room that had distracted Cab. He was suddenly, overwhelmingly aware of their smell in such a small space.

  Einan’s nose wrinkled, having the same thought. “Right. You’d best clean up. Bathing stuff’s behind that screen, and don’t touch my perfumes and powders, thanks—they don’t come cheap. After the lizard’s clean and dry, she’ll have to hold still if anyone drops by my dressing room. Pretend to be a prop. Go on,” she urged, hands on Cab’s back, shoving him forward.

  Behind the screen were a pitcher of water and a small porcelain tub, soaps and perfume bottles lined up beside them. Cab stripped quickly, nodding at the fae to do the same, then scrubbed One down before he started on himself, using a washcloth that might have to be burned after he finished with it.

  “I’m Cabhan,” he said as he scraped grime off his forearms and wrung the cloth out over the tub, its water coming away black.

  “I know,” the fae replied. “One of Many told me.”

  “She didn’t tell me your name.”

  “Names have great power. It is important for us to introduce ourselves.” The fae took the washcloth from Cab’s outstretched hand, which was big, rough, and callused in comparison to the fae’s smooth golden skin. “I am Second Hope for Windsworn Glory.”

  “How’s Hope for short?” Cab asked.

  Second Hope for Windsworn Glory considered this, cleaning dirt from the backs of his hands, so that the black bone tattoos, few as there were, stood out more clearly. Then he nodded.

  There might have been more to the conversation, but shirts appeared, flung over the screen, and Einan said, “These should fit you. If they don’t, too bad. It’s not like we’re in the Royal Theater, but we’re good enough for the lesser princes.”

  The shirt better suited to Cab’s size was a billowy white affair with enormous sleeves that narrowed to a tight cuff, too tight to button at Cab’s thick wrists. He managed to roll the sleeves up to his elbows, then looked back to find Hope tricked out in black velvet.

  “You’re taking your time, divas,” Einan added. “I’d like
to bathe before my own smell kills me, thanks.”

  She surveyed them mercilessly when they came out from behind the screen, gave neither of them a single compliment on their ragtag appearance, and disappeared to wash with an armful of clothing for herself. Her shadow played over the screen as she undressed, and Cab turned away respectfully.

  Instead, he faced Sil, whose eyes fluttered open and traveled to him only after they’d drunk their fill of Hope.

  “Thank you, Cabhan of Kerry’s-End,” Sil murmured.

  “Cab,” Cab replied, the back of his neck warm. “That’s good enough for me.”

  “Second Hope for Windsworn Glory,” Sil continued. “Welcome to the world as it now stands.”

  “As it now crumbles,” Hope replied.

  None of them could find the words—or the conviction—to correct his first impression.

  67

  Somhairle

  Somhairle excused himself to his quarters the instant they arrived at the castle on the Hill, trembling not with pain, but overstimulation. He couldn’t be there for Inis if he allowed himself to be overwhelmed.

  Memories often betray us this way, Three said, because Somhairle hadn’t moved or spoken for some time. He rested on the canopy bed, between the swans carved into the bedposts, their eyes dots of red and silver.

  Somhairle had needed to be alone so he wouldn’t feel watched by Morien through his friends’ eyes, or shamed by the way he was exempt from their suffering, apart from them despite being with them. A member of the adventure but held separate, and still so lonely. As lonely as ever.

  No dust had gathered on any surface of his old palace quarters, which showed no sign that they had been without an occupant for the past five years. With no piece of furniture or favorite toy out of place, all Somhairle could feel was how different it was from what he had known. It wasn’t the room that had changed, but the palace around it, the Hill beneath it, the people who filled its bright halls.

  Because what we think we remember and what truly was are only distorted echoes of each other, Three continued.