by Kaylin Lee
Alba wouldn’t meet my eyes. I hugged her shoulders and gave her a little shove toward her bed. “Go to sleep, and in the morning, you’ll practice your scripts.”
“Can’t we sleep in?” Alba paused halfway to her bed and pouted.
“No. You’ll be up for breakfast with Ella as usual, and I don’t want to hear about it again.”
I lay in my bed as the soft light of the moon filtered through the window. Bri and Alba snored softly from the opposite side of the room, tucked into their narrow beds, the thin curtains that bought them privacy doing little to muffle the sounds of sleep. I rolled to my side and faced the window. Now, it was my turn to train.
I thought back to the last time I’d been under the Wasp Queen’s control—the helplessness as she’d forced me to confess about Darien. I remembered walking into the Tiger compound for the last time with her threat of death hanging over my head and the way my True Name squeezed me until no drop of willpower remained.
I imagined straining to keep my willpower, to keep my own control, even as my True Name tried to force itself on me. I envisioned the tight leash of my True Name stretching and growing brittle as my will strengthened and shoved against it, growing larger and stronger. Would my True Name snap, when I finally bucked it completely? Or would it lessen gradually and then fizzle away? What would I do if it snapped right back as soon as I let my guard down?
One thing I knew—the more I considered what the Wasp Queen had done to me, the more certain I became that no one should ever hold another’s True Name.
I stretched out in my bed and snuggled deeper beneath my blanket. Darien’s warm, large body curved protectively around me, his hand resting on my arm, his lips pressed against my hair. I tried to resist the memory, but as usual, I was too weak. I failed and gave in.
I drifted off to sleep, half convinced I was still in his arms, but then I woke while it was still dark, my pillow wet with tears. He was gone, and he wasn’t coming back. Why did I insist on torturing myself with memories every night?
The next morning, we ate in the kitchen, huddled beside the oven for heat as rain pelted the small kitchen window.
Ella didn’t comment on Bri’s and Alba’s bloodshot eyes and wide yawns during breakfast. Why would she? Ella had to be just as tired as they were. She’d no doubt gotten up to do the baking not long after they’d gone to bed.
Not much longer, Ella. Just hold on a little bit longer. As soon as the twins were ready, I’d turn myself into the Asylian authorities and trust that my nightly training would prevent them from using my True Name to control me again. Then the twins would approach the Mage Division as new mages who’d just discovered their powers and had no relation to me. Ella would be free of us. She could sell the bakery and live a happy life, and she’d never have to touch cinderslick or knead dough ever again.
I gave her a smile as she handed me the next section of the Herald. “Thank you.”
She mustered an answering smile. “The new flour is good. Way better than the old stuff.”
“The new flour?”
“You know … that Lerenian imported flour. From Gregor.”
Ah. That flour. I’d been so wrapped up in preparing the twins for life outside the bakery, I’d forgotten all about the new imports that had started pouring in once the city gates opened. “Glad to hear it.”
Ella buried her head in the newspaper again, and I turned to the new section. The Rise and Fall of a Draician Killer: Drusilla, Lady of the Wasps. I sucked in a breath and gripped the paper so hard it crumpled in my hand.
“Zel? What’s wrong?” Ella’s worried face came into view.
“I-I don’t … I’ll be upstairs. Please, enjoy breakfast.” I held the newspaper section to my chest and rushed to the upstairs room. Then I grabbed my thickest sweater and headed to the roof. The small overhang by the door to the roof provided just enough shelter from the rain.
I sat on the stoop and read.
The gates are open, and news from Draicia, that shattered jewel of Theros, seeps in through the Badlands. Two-thirds of the Draician population perished due to the plague; those who remain are besotted by the addictive aurae essence and helpless against its influence. And, most fascinatingly, survivors whisper stories of an unprecedented shake-up among the ruling clans of the city. In this special investigative report, learn the dramatic story of a Draician lady’s violent, bloodthirsty rise—and her sudden fall.
I skimmed through the article as fast as I could, my fist pressed against my mouth to silence the wail of fear that wanted to come out.
The story documented the Wasp clan’s rise, the mysterious white dust storm that hit the Wasp territory in the middle of a clan battle, and Lady Drusilla’s unlikely resurrection of an old Draician government position—the city praetor. She’d claimed the position for herself in a matter of months through a series of brutal murders. Me. Because of me, she’d risen to the top of the city’s clans. And then …
The article told how after becoming praetor, she’d attempted another murder, and for the first time, she’d been stopped. She’d barely escaped with her life, making it to the edge of the city along with her maid. No one had seen or heard from either of them since. The Wolf clan leader had taken the role of Draicia’s praetor for himself as soon as she disappeared.
Her name. I fixed my mind on that one, small piece. Now I knew her name. Lady Drusilla of the Wasps—Darien’s murderer, my captor, and the woman who’d deliberately turned me into a monster. She was still out there.
~
“I’m but a poor orphan from the broken city of Draicia!” Alba spread her hands out dramatically and fluttered her eyelashes, her cheeks dimpling. “But I possess a healing touch. Perhaps I might be of use in your fine city?”
“You sound ridiculous.” Bri slouched in her chair at the table.
“Bri! Enough commentary. But Alba … please stick to the script. Stop adding words and changing things. It sounds a bit overdramatic.”
Alba pouted and held up her script. “I’ve just come from Draicia. I lost both of my parents in the plague, and I have no family—it’s just me. I’ve heard that mages in Asylia are given an opportunity to serve in the government. Please, sir, give me a chance to train with the mages here.” She dove to her knees and held up her hands in a pleading gesture. “Please! I beg of you!”
“Fine, fine, enough.” I couldn’t help but smile, but I sure hoped she wouldn’t do that when the time came. For the thousandth time, I wondered if I was making a horrible mistake, entrusting something so big to girls so young. But what choice did I have?
“Do what you like until dinner. And well done, both of you. You’re getting better.” They were still nowhere near ready, but they were indeed better. That was something.
I went up to the roof and pulled the morning’s newspaper clipping from my dress pocket. Cool wind whipped across the rooftop, sending sheets of icy rain prickling against my face, but I barely felt the cold.
I flipped to the second page of the article, which I’d missed that morning. There, buried among the small, dense paragraphs of ink-smeared text, was an etching of the Wasp’s face—Lady Drusilla’s face. She smirked at me from the newspaper, her lips pursed in a thin, mocking smile, her eyes sharp enough to see through me as I huddled on the roof.
She’d flicked her fingers at the thought of my baby, as though killing my child would be as easy as brushing a bit of dust off her garment. What would she do now if she knew I’d carried twin babes in my womb when I’d destroyed her ambitions?
There could be no doubt that it was me who’d caused her fall from power. I’d left her screaming on the streets of Draicia eleven years ago. According to the article, she’d fled Draicia that same year. I had enabled her reign, but at least I’d also been the one to end it.
One thing was certain—I couldn’t take the twins out into the Badlands if the Wasp was out there. We’d have to follow through with my plan to shelter the twins in Asylia’s Mage Division.
>
A feminine screech split the air, and I swung the door open. “What is it?”
Alba’s red, tear-stained face appeared at the bottom of the stairs. She inhaled sharp, hysterical breaths. “I … I … I hate her!”
Not again. I descended the stairs and fixed a patient expression onto my face as I shoved the clipping back in my pocket. “What happened this time?”
“Mom, I just told her the truth. That’s all. I don’t see why she’s being so overdramatic.” Bri stuck her tongue out at her sister. Use my words against her own sister, would she? We’d just see about that.
“What did you say?”
“She … she … she said that—” Alba broke into another wail. It certainly didn’t look like she was acting this time.
Alba rushed into my embrace, burying her head on my chest. “She said I’m ugly.” The fabric of my dress muffled her words, but the pain in her anguished voice was undeniable. “She said I look Kireth because of my skin. And that means I’ll always be ugly, and Prince Estevan will never fall in love with me.”
I addressed Bri over Alba’s head. “Is that true? You said that to your sister?”
Bri bit her lip as her golden cheeks flushed pink. “I just meant … Well, it’s the same for me too, so I wasn’t being mean! She kept going on and on about Prince Estevan, and I just told her the truth. He would never marry her. Or me, for that matter. We both know it’s true! I don’t know why she’s crying. I’ve got blonde, Kireth hair, and she’s got pale, Kireth skin. The prince would only marry a beautiful, Procus lady with Fenra coloring—dark skin and dark hair. And we’re none of those things.” She crossed her arms. “Why should I get in trouble for telling the truth? She should get in trouble for acting like a baby.”
Bri stood confidently, her back straight and legs splayed as though ready for a fight, but her eyes had dark circles beneath them. She was tired. They both were.
I pulled Alba over to my bed and helped her sit down, then beckoned Bri over. Bri hesitated for a moment before she sat beside me, sagging against me and resting her head on my shoulder. Two tired, unhappy, beautiful girls. They might not fit the Fenra mold of beauty, but they were both fierce and lovely. Any man would count himself lucky to know them when they were grown, if I could ever get them out of the bakery safely. All they knew of the world was what the Herald told them, and it had given them a confusing, skewed image of Asylia. Most often, the society pages of the paper contained stories about the narrow-minded, Procus elite, not commoners or mages.
From my observations at the beginning of the plague, when I’d been able to go out freely in Asylia, no one but the Procus elite cared whether a person looked true Fenra.
True Fenra? I held back a snort. Please. A pretty girl was a pretty girl, to most men at least. I’d certainly drawn plenty of admiring looks whenever I’d ventured out of the bakery in those early years, though I’d been too heartbroken and worried about trackers to appreciate them. And Ella, despite the light-green Kireth eyes that caused her so much insecurity, had been drawing the attention of interested young men for years—not that she ever noticed.
The Procus families claimed superior bloodlines because their dark hair and skin hinted at little or no Kireth mage blood in their family line. What nonsense. Our two peoples had intermingled in Theros for a millennium, so by now, there was no telling who was a mage and who wasn’t. Plenty of people who looked pure Fenra still carried Kireth blood in their veins, and vice versa.
I wanted to reassure the twins about their beauty, but I held back my words. That might have worked a few years ago, but they were getting older. This wouldn’t be the first time they’d ask this question. I had to give them something stronger, an answer they could hold onto after I was gone.
“No one is in trouble. Not this time.” Alba gave a soft whimper, but didn’t protest any further. I squeezed each girl around the shoulders, kissing one head and then the other. I nudged Alba. “What shade is my skin? Is it pale?”
Alba placed her finger against my hand where it rested on her arm. “Yes. But not as pale as mine,” she whimpered.
“And Bri, what shade is my hair?”
Bri sighed against my shoulder. “Gold. Like mine.”
“Perhaps a Procus lord—or a prince—would not find me beautiful. But you know who did? Your father.” I shut my eyes against the excruciating pain the words evoked. I didn’t want to break down in the middle of this story. I cleared my throat and forced myself to continue. “He was strong and smart and capable. But he was also kind. He saw the way I was treated in Draicia, and he hated it. He told me he didn’t want to see me trapped, and he promised to free me. But then, he fell in love with me.”
Alba sighed and snuggled closer.
“He called me beautiful, and he meant it. He loved everything about me, even the things I hated. The things I was ashamed of. He didn’t care whether I looked Fenra or Kireth, about the shade of my skin and hair. He loved me. Just … me. And he was beautiful to me, too.”
Alba gave a snorting giggle and peeked up at me. “You mean handsome, mom.”
“Well, fine. Handsome, then. But listen to my story, would you?”
Alba nodded against my shoulder.
“He risked a great deal because he loved me. He risked his life to care for me when I was hurt, and to find food for me when I had none of my own. And one day, he … he gave everything for me. He gave his very life.” I paused and clenched my jaw, willing the tears not to fall. Why did his death still hurt so much, eleven years later? Would my heart never heal? “He fought my captor so I would have a chance to get away, and she—she killed him while I escaped. He loved me, and he gave his life for me. That’s what it means to be beautiful, Alba. Not a certain shade of skin or hair. Not a Procus title. To love someone so much you would give your life for them—that’s beautiful. And that’s something that anyone can do, no matter what they look like on the outside.”
Alba chewed on her lip but didn’t answer.
Bri lifted her head from my shoulder. “Like Ella. Right, Mom?”
“What do you mean?”
“Ella’s beautiful like that. Because she loves us, and she would do anything for us.”
Guilt formed a lump in my throat. “Like Ella,” I echoed, my voice hoarse. “Just like her.”
That night I went back up to the roof and opened the newspaper clipping again. Lady Drusilla smirked at me from the paper. I ripped it in half, taking a perverse satisfaction in the tearing sound as her lovely, delicate face split in two. Then I ripped it again. And again. And again. She would never get the chance to come after my girls the way she’d killed Darien. I’d get them safely ensconced in the Mage Division soon, and no one would ever know they were my daughters. After that, we’d just have to see.
I’ll always find you, she’d said.
Well, I’d be ready.
Chapter 17
I knelt beside our rooftop vegetable bed and placed my hand on a budding lemonburst plant. The pre-dawn sky had lightened just enough for me to see the plant’s dark green leaves flutter against my hand in the spring breeze. I inhaled, and the tart, citrusy scent of the lemonburst plant seeped into my bones. I placed my other hand on the small brambleweed plant growing beside it. Time to try again.
My power awakened, pulsing with hunger to absorb the living magic in the air and plants around me. I focused on the small, delicate lemonburst plant and let my power taste the tiniest hint of its life. The plant listed slightly to the side in response as my power strained for more.
Ready—now! I unleashed my ravenous power, and at the last moment redirected it through my other hand to the weed. I gave it just long enough to gulp up the weed’s imbued magic, then cut it off. I blinked. The weed was gone, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust that blew away in the light wind.
I exhaled. The lemonburst plant was fine. The plant retained its healthy green color. I’d done it.
I rocked back on my heels and allowed myself a smile. I’d
never controlled my power at such a minute level before. If only I could be certain that, when the time came, I’d be able to buck my True Name’s control too. I wouldn’t know until it happened. Until then, I’d continue my exercises as frequently as I could.
It was time to admit the truth—we were ready.
“Mom?”
I whirled around. Bri stood behind me, pulling a dark hood off her head.
“You’re back late. Any problems?”
She fiddled with the strap of the bag on her shoulder and didn’t meet my eyes. “No …”
Alba thumped onto the roof beside Bri and smiled brightly. “We’re back!”
“Quiet! Downstairs. Let’s go. I want to know what took you so long. But don’t make so much noise.” I hustled downstairs to our apartment, and we gathered at the table. It was after dawn, and I put the luminous on the dimmest setting. On the ground floor, Ella clattered around the kitchen, no doubt finishing the day’s baking so she could get back to studying for her final exam. I only hoped she was too caught up in her own work to wonder what we’d been up to.
“Well?”
Bri set her bag on the table without bothering to open it. “Got everything.”
“And what did you observe about the River Quarter?”
“That I don’t want to go there again.”
“And I don’t want to send you back there. But if you’re going to convince the Mage Division authorities that you’ve been living there for nearly thirteen years, you have to have firsthand experience.”
“Fine. But I don’t see why Alba gets to skate by on your stories of Draicia, and I have to go research the River Quarter in real life.”
I opened my mouth to continue my lecture, but she rushed forward and cut me off.
“Fine. Here’s what I observed. Everyone in the River Quarter lives in these little shacks made of old junk. At first, I thought they were all the same, because from a distance, they are all the same shape. But when I arrived, I realized each shack uses a different material. I think they scavenge from the old warehouses to build their homes. But there are some people who live in the tenements by the main River Quarter market. The tenements are really tall. Way higher than any buildings in the other quarters. I didn’t go inside because there were so many people about, even in the middle of the night. I think it would be easier to just say I lived in a shack.”
