I reach out my hand to pull her up, and the look Lira gives me is nothing short of poisonous. “Do you want me to chop it off?” she asks.
I keep my hand hovering in the space between us. “Not particularly.”
“Then get it out of my face.”
She pulls herself up the rest of the way and settles next to me. The edges of her blanket skim my arms. It’s always so cold these nights, enough that sleeping with my boots on seems to be the only way to keep my toes. But there’s something about being up here, with the stars and the sound of the Saad swimming for adventure. It makes me feel warmer than I ever could be bundled up in my cabin.
“I’m hardly an invalid,” Lira says.
“You are a little.”
I don’t need to face her to see that her eyes are burning through the air between us. Lira has a way of looking at people – of looking at me – that can be felt as much as it can be seen. If her eyes weren’t such a surprising shade of blue, I would swear that they were nothing more than hot coals for the fire within.
I finger the Págese necklace, which hangs from my neck as Lira’s seashell hangs from hers. The key to everything. To ending a war that’s lasted lifetimes.
“If you get shot,” Lira says, “I’m going to treat you like you’re incapable of doing the simplest tasks.” She cradles her arms around her knees to keep out the cold. “See how you like it when I hold out my arm to help you walk, even though you’re not shot in the leg.”
“I’d be flattered,” I say, “that you would look for an excuse just to hold my hand.”
“Perhaps I’m just looking for an excuse to shoot you.”
I give her a sideways glance and recline on my elbows.
The deck of the Saad is littered with my friends, splashing drink onto her varnished wood and singing songs that knock against her sails with the gusts. Seeing them this way – so happy and at ease – I know nothing could ever be thicker than the ocean that binds us. Not even blood.
“Madrid said that you are going to hand Rycroft over when we get to Págos.”
“There’s been a price on his head for some time now,” I say. “But the services of the Xaprár were too valuable for any kingdom to warrant attacking them. Now that the shadows have been decimated by us, I don’t doubt he’ll be a wanted man. If nothing else, it’ll be some extra sway to make sure the Págese king grants us access to their mountain so we can get the crystal and finish this whole thing.”
Lira leans back so that we’re level. Her hair is more unruly than ever, and the wind from the approaching storm does nothing to help. It blows into her eyes and catches across her lips, clinging to the freckles of her pale cheeks. I clench my hands by my sides, resisting the impulse to reach over and push it from her face.
“Do you really hate the sirens that much?” she asks.
“They kill our kind.”
“And you kill theirs.”
My eyebrows pinch together. “That’s different,” I say. “We do what we do to survive. They do it because they want to see us all dead.”
“So it’s revenge, then?”
“It’s retribution.” I sit up a little straighter. “It’s not as though the sirens can be reasoned with. We can’t just sign a peace treaty like with the other kingdoms.”
“Why not?”
The distance in Lira’s voice gives me pause. The answer should come quick and easy: because they’re monsters, because they’re killers, because of a thousand reasons. But I don’t say any of them. Truthfully, the idea of this not ending in death never crossed my mind. Of all the outcomes and possibilities I considered, peace wasn’t one. If I had the opportunity, would I take it?
Lira doesn’t look at me and I hate that I can’t figure out the expression on her face.
“Why are you questioning this?” I ask. “I thought the Sea Queen took everything from you and you wanted to use the Crystal of Keto to end the war. You want revenge for your family as much as I do for Cristian.”
“Cristian?” Lira looks at me now, and when she says his name, it freezes in the air between us.
“He was the prince of Adékaros.”
I run a hand through my hair, feeling suddenly angry and unfocused. For a man like Cristian to die while a man like Tallis Rycroft gets to live is more than unjust.
Lira swallows. “You were friends.”
Her voice sounds wretched and it distracts me. I can’t remember her voice ever sounding anything short of pissed off.
“What was he like?” she asks.
There are countless words I could use to describe Cristian, but a man’s character is better seen in his actions than the laments of his loved ones. Cristian was full of proverbs and sentiments I never understood and enjoyed mocking as much as I enjoyed hearing them. There wasn’t a situation we found ourselves in that Cristian didn’t think warranted an adage. Love and madness are two stars in the same sky. You cannot build a roof to keep out last year’s rain. He always had something ready to settle the rampant parts of me.
I think of what Cristian would say now if he knew what I was planning. Any other man would want revenge, but I know he wouldn’t see the crystal as a weapon. He wouldn’t even want me to find it.
If your only instrument is a sword, then you will always strike at your problems.
Instead of telling all of this to Lira, I clasp the Págese necklace and say, “Do you think she’ll feel it?”
“Who?”
“The Princes’ Bane,” I say. “Do you think she’ll feel it when the Sea Queen dies?”
Lira lets out a sigh that turns to smoke on her lips. The air is thin and perilous. Wind cuts between us like daggers while a storm rumbles closer. I can smell the rain before it’s here, and I know within moments the sky will come weeping down on us. Still, I don’t move. The night flashes and groans, thick clouds creeping toward one another and merging into an infinite shadow that blocks the stars. It grows darker with each moment.
“I wonder if she can feel anything at all,” Lira says. She shifts, and when she turns to me, her eyes are vacant. “I suppose we won’t need to wonder for long.”
32
Lira
THAT NIGHT I DREAM of death.
Seas run red with blood, and human bodies drift along the foam of my fallen kin. When the waves finally ladder high enough to stroke the night, they collapse and the bodies mangle against the seabed.
The sand bursts beneath them, scattering my kingdom in golden flakes. Amid it all, my mother’s trident liquefies. I call out to her, but I’m not part of this great ocean anymore, and so she doesn’t hear me. She doesn’t see me. She doesn’t know that I’m watching her downfall.
She lets the trident wither and melt.
Elian stands beside her, and the newly sunlit water parts for him. He has eyes like vast pools and a jaw made from shipwrecks and broken coral. Every movement he makes is as quick and fluid as a tidal wave. He belongs to the ocean. He is made from it, as much as I am.
Kindred.
Elian stares at the seabed. I want to ask him why he’s so fascinated by sand, when there is an entire world in this ocean that he can’t begin to imagine. Why isn’t he seeing it? Why doesn’t he care enough to look? I’ve seen the world through his eyes; can’t he see it through mine?
The urge to scream rips through me, but I can only remember the words in Psáriin and I don’t dare speak the language to him.
I watch him turn toward the sand, his face as plainly broken as my mother’s.
It’s only when I’m certain I might lose my mind from the anguish that I suddenly remember his language. I sift quickly through the Midasan and find the words to tell him. I want to explain how full of magic and possibility my world could be if not for my mother’s rule. I want to comfort him with the chance for peace, no matter how small. Tell him things could be different if I were queen. That I wasn’t born a murderer. But I find the words too late. By the time they become clear in my mind, I see the truth of what Elian
sees.
He is not staring at the sand at all, but at the hearts that rupture from it.
Don’t look. Don’t look.
“Did you do it?” Elian’s eyes find mine. “Did you do it?” he asks again in Psáriin.
The razors of my language are enough to cut through his tongue, and I wince as blood slips from his mouth.
“I took many hearts,” I confess. “His was last.”
Elian shakes his head, and the laugh that escapes his lips is a perfect echo of my mother’s. “No,” he tells me. “It wasn’t.”
He stretches his hands out and I stumble backward in horror. I’m no longer in control when my legs buckle and throw me to the floor. I look at the heart in Elian’s hands, blood gathering between his fingertips. Not just any heart. His own.
“Is this what you were after?” he screams.
He takes a step forward and I shake my head, warning him not to come closer.
“Lira,” Elian whispers. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”
I wake up gasping for air.
My hands clutch the thin white bedsheet, and my hair slavers over my bare shoulders. The ship rocks slowly to the side, but the motion that I used to find comforting makes me more nauseated by the second. My heart ticks madly against my chest, shaking more than beating.
When I unclench my fists from the bedsheet, there are scratch marks on my palm. Angry red streaks across the lines of my hand. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to catch my breath.
The image of Elian’s heart plays on an unsteady loop. The betrayal in his eyes. The punishing sound of my mother’s laughter.
I spent my life hiding from the possibility of being different than what my mother told me I must be. Swallowing the child with a desire to become something else. I was a siren and so I was a killer. It was never wrong or right; it just was. But now my memories are cruel dreams, twisting into merciless visions and accusing me of a past I can’t deny.
The truth of what I am has become a nightmare.
33
Elian
THE WATER IS SLUSH by the time the Saad makes her berth. Cold has a faithful presence here, and with dusk rapidly approaching, the air seems almost frozen by the impending absence of sun. Regardless, it’s just as bright as if it were morning. The mirror of the frozen sky against the white water, flecked by tufts of ice and snow, makes for a kingdom that is beautifully void of darkness. Even in the dead of night, the sky turns no darker than a mottled blue, and the ground itself acts like a light to guide the way. Snow, reflecting the eternal tinsel of the stars.
Págos.
I feel the beat of the necklace against my heart as we step foot onto the snow. Finally the crystal is within reach. I have the key and the map to navigate the route, and all that’s left is for Lira to tell me the secrets of the ritual.
The air is crisp on my skin, and though my hands are wrapped under thick gloves, I shove my fists into my pockets anyway. The wind penetrates here through every layer, including skin. I’m dressed in fur so thick that walking feels like an exertion. It slows me down more than I would like, and even though I know there’s no imminent threat of attack, I still don’t like being unprepared in case one comes. It shakes me more than the cold ever could.
When I turn to Lira, the ends of her hair are white with frost. “Try not to breathe,” I tell her. “It might get stuck halfway out.”
Lira flicks up her hood. “You should try not to talk then,” she retorts. “Nobody wants your words being preserved for eternity.”
“They’re pearls of wisdom, actually.”
I can barely see Lira’s eyes under the mass of dark fur from her coat, but the mirthless curl of her smile is ever-present. It lingers in calculated amusement as she considers what to say next. Readies to ricochet the next blow.
Lira pulls a line of ice from her hair, artfully indifferent. “If that is what pearls are worth these days, I’ll make sure to invest in diamonds.”
“Or gold,” I tell her smugly. “I hear it’s worth its weight.”
Kye shakes the snow from his sword and scoffs. “Anytime you two want to stop making me feel nauseated, go right ahead.”
“Are you jealous because I’m not flirting with you?” Madrid asks him, warming her finger on the trigger mechanism of her gun.
“I don’t need you to flirt with me,” he says. “I already know you find me irresistible.”
Madrid reholsters her gun. “It’s actually quite easy to resist you when you’re dressed like that.”
Kye looks down at the sleek red coat fitted snugly to his lithe frame. The fur collar cuddles against his jaw and obscures the bottoms of his ears, making it seem as though he has no neck at all. He throws Madrid a smile.
“Is it because you think I look sexier wearing nothing?”
Torik lets out a withering sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. I’m not sure whether it’s from the hours we’ve gone without food or his inability to wear cutoffs in the biting cold, but his patience seems to be wearing thin.
“I could swear that I’m on a life-and-death mission with a bunch of lusty kids,” he says. “Next thing I know, the lot of you will be writing love notes in rum bottles.”
“Okay,” Madrid says. “Now I feel nauseated.”
I laugh, but the sound is lost against the rhythm of nomadic drumbeats that barrel toward us. Up ahead, a line of warriors approach. There’s at least a dozen of them, standing in a perfect military arrow, marching fiercely in our direction. Even with the blizzard, they’re easy to spot. The snow does a poor job of obscuring their imposing statures and impressively systematic formation. They hike seamlessly in step with one another, feet crushing into the snow with the pound of every drumbeat. They look like giants, their uniforms so dark, they ink the empty landscape.
When they reach us, there’s a momentary silence while we consider one another.
Even with the layers of fur and armor, it’s not hard to tell the royals from their soldiers. The four members of the Págese family stand like titans, magnificent hunters’ headdresses swooping down their backs in glorious coats. Their eyes peer through the jaws of their respective animals: polar bear, Arctic fox, wilderness wolf, and in the middle of the warriors and his brothers, the snow lion.
Each animal is a glorious shade of white that melts into the snow by their feet. It’s a stark contrast to their black armor and weaponry – spears and swords that are all the darkest shade of ebony. They gleam in a way that’s almost liquid.
The Págese brothers pull back the animal skins shielding them from the cold. As expected, King Kazue is the snow lion. The most deadly of all creatures. Though it stands taller than some men, the Págese king seems to encompass the creature’s size perfectly. He doesn’t look at all dwarfed by the mammoth carcass.
“Prince Elian,” Kazue greets.
His skin is so white, it’s almost blue. His lips mingle with the rest of his face like a variant shade, and everything about him is as sharp as it is straight. His eyes are severe points that arch to the ends of his brows, and his hair is made from rays of sword-like strands that scrape against his weaponry.
Kazue brings his hand to his stomach and leans forward in a customary bow. His brothers follow suit, while the guardians around them stay firmly upright. In Págos, it’s not customary for soldiers to bow to royalty. It’s a greeting made only from one elite to another, and soldiers must stay still and impartial. Unnoticed until they’re acknowledged.
“Your Royal Highness,” I say, returning the greeting. “I’d like to thank you for receiving us into your kingdom. It’s an honor to be welcomed here.”
I turn to the princes, their headdresses matched according to their age and, so, according to their right to the throne. The second eldest, Prince Hiroki, is the polar bear; Tetsu, the wilderness wolf; and the youngest prince, Koji, is the Arctic fox. I formally greet them and they bow in turn.
I wonder which of them is Rycroft’s naïve little source.
“Of course, it’s not just my brothers who welcome you,” Kazue says, “but our entire family.”
He waves his hand behind him, and a new figure emerges from the soldiers, dressed as gloriously as the royal family. A fifth, standing shorter and with a far less military posture, but a similar sense of indignation. I don’t need the unprecedented addition to pull back the animal skin to know who it is.
Sakura smiles when she sees my face tick, bright blue lips matching the ungodly color of the sky. Her hair is shorter than before, with a fringe cut bluntly to hide the tips of her eyes. A heavy bronze chain sweeps down from her forehead to a white-bone piercing on her left earlobe.
She doesn’t look like a princess; she looks like a queen. A warrior. An adversary.
“Prince Elian,” she says.
“Princess Yukiko.”
She smiles at the use of her real name.
Kye stiffens beside me, his resentment growing. Now that my crew is faced with the very woman who manipulated me into giving up my time on the Saad – my time, and theirs – they can hardly be expected to smile.
Swiftly, I nudge Kye before he has a chance to say anything. Who knows how much Princess Yukiko has told her family about her time in Midas? Did she tell them she was the owner of the illustrious Golden Goose? That she traded as much in my royal secrets as she did liquor, gambling her nights away with the wretches of my kingdom? I doubt it. But even if she has, Kye addressing her informally won’t go amiss. He may have been a diplomat’s son once, but his disinheritance is no secret. Besides, she’s a princess. A potential queen. My potential queen.
I flinch at the thought, hoping that my bargain with Galina is enough to make my bargain with Yukiko void.
I feel the stares of all one hundred of my crew on my back. But as much as they want to say to me, there’s just as much I want to say to the princess. The deal I want to discuss and the counteroffer I’m desperate to present. Nevertheless, now’s not the time. Not with so many prying eyes and pricked ears.
I bow in greeting.
To Kill a Kingdom Page 23
