Palace of Silver

by Hannah West

  In the edifice Navara spread out the flour sack that had covered her mother’s painting. Gently, I set Perennia down and cradled her head in my palm.

  “Is my father alive?” Navara asked.

  “Yes, he’s alive,” I whispered back numbly.

  “I’m sure the physician will be here soon,” Navara said, but I didn’t miss how she pursed her lips until they drained of color as her eyes skimmed over the blood.

  “I love it up here,” Perennia said, her eyes tracing the stars. “This is a good place.”

  “Perennia, you wouldn’t dream of leaving me, would you?” I asked through an aching sob. “That’s not what you mean, is it?”

  “This isn’t your fault,” she said, sputtering for breath. “Promise that you will save her. She needs love to come back to us.”

  “You’re not—”

  “Please. Promise.”

  “I promise.”

  She drew in a long, convulsing breath and released it.

  The last one she would ever take.

  Her head drooped back, heavy in my hand. The soul behind her eyes vacated like mist in the sun.

  My younger sister was gone.

  And the last promise I made to her was a lie.

  I would never be whole. There was no coming back, no escape, no healing, no light, no hope in this forsaken wasteland of a world. I begged for her to return, screamed at the stars, blasted away the altar until only crumbling stone remained, and screamed again. Tears blinded me. Navara tried to be comforting, but I felt her tense with fear as she held me.

  Ambrosine had returned with a young woman, who looked upon the carnage with a neutral expression before she bent to shoulder the weight of Hesper’s body.

  “What have you done?” I asked Ambrosine.

  “What have I done?” Ambrosine demanded through her tears. “This was your fault! You murdered our sister! It was your spell!”

  In my imagination, I rose. I let my rage build up like a column of fire around my spine. I released enough power to rip the skin from her bones.

  But in reality, I collapsed and curled against my sister’s body, holding her cool hand, weeping until I felt my soul might retch out of me.

  Navara stayed with me, clasping Perennia’s other hand, for what seemed like hours.

  Eventually, the sound of footsteps broke through the silence of our sanctuary of mourning.

  “What are you doing here?” Navara asked the newcomer.

  I heard what sounded like a weapon swiping through the air, preparing to strike.

  I accepted the darkness.

  And the darkness came.

  When I awoke, my head pounding, it took all of three seconds to recall what had come to fruition.

  Perennia was gone.

  The tears began before I could pry my bleary eyes open. Everything felt wrong. My hands were heavy. The air smelled like damp soil.

  “Glisette!” the harsh whisper cut through the hums of insects. I turned to my right and found Navara tied to a tree a few paces away.

  “What’s happened?” I mumbled, barely managing to evict the words through the thick taste of grief in my throat.

  “We have to escape, now, while he’s gathering firewood.”

  “What?” I asked, the word muddled by the dryness in my mouth.

  “Use magic to cut our ropes. Then we can go back to the palace to kill the queen and save my father!”

  I tried to blink the fog of confusion away. Everything felt wrong. Perennia couldn’t be gone.

  “We don’t have long!” Navara pleaded.

  I took stock of my surroundings. A dappled gray rouncey stood tethered to a nearby tree, and a hazy memory returned to me of jostling along its back. A ring of stones encircled a neatly arranged pile of firewood nearby.

  Dew soaked the seat of my tunic dress and the tan breeches I’d donned to meet my mystery caller. Aches and bruises throbbed throughout my body, most acutely at the back of my head. My hands were bundled uselessly in my lap and my back rested against a mossy tree. I felt an odd weightlessness, a tickle of air around my neck where a cool metal chain should have rested.

  My elicrin stone was gone.

  “Do the magic! Hurry! I hear him coming!” Navara whispered.

  “It’s gone,” I said. “My elicrin stone.”

  “Gone? You mean she took it before she sent us out here to die?” Navara cursed in Perispi. “Of course she did. We’re finished.”

  Without my elicrin stone, grief was simply despair. The plans for revenge that took shape in my tortured dreams disintegrated like cinders in the wind.

  The approaching footsteps were so deft and quiet that I didn’t notice the huntsman until he reached the campsite, carrying a bundle of split wood. He neatly arranged the logs atop the heap—a pyre far too large for cooking or warmth on a mild spring day. It had to be for another purpose.

  When he finished he turned to face us, the severity of his expression revealing his intentions.

  Deft as a hawk, he reached for the hunting knife at his hip, unsheathing the keen-edged blade.

  THIRTEEN

  AMBROSINE

  SIX WEEKS AGO

  THE serrated edge of my knife scraped against the porcelain plate, drawing the attention of Myron, his commander, and his high priest. They had nearly finished their meals despite their fluid conversation in Perispi, while my stomach revolted at the roast duck drowning in tangy olive sauce.

  But I couldn’t carve the bites any smaller. I would have to eat. Already, Father Peramati regarded me with a hawkish stare. We barely spoke each other’s native language, but I felt as though he could peer through tissue and bone to my soul. The notion made me squirm.

  I forced down a nibble. It tasted mushy, flavorless, inedible. I knew I would spend my evening vomiting into the commode.

  An insubordinate maid had told Myron of my sickness and he had rejoiced, believing me to be with child. Nexantius had mocked him in the privacy of our entwined thoughts. His laughter had filled my head while I reluctantly crushed Myron’s joy.

  Before, I would have been pleased to deliver news of a pregnancy, knowing nearly everyone in our kingdom would delight in me. No longer would I feel forgotten and small. Everyone would fret over me and they would once again appreciate my beauty and consequence.

  But that was before. Soon I wouldn’t need their approval or their admiration.

  Instead, I would have their fear and respect.

  You will, indeed, Nexantius said, stirring inside me, the whisper of his thoughts brushing against mine. As soon as you agree: two men at this table need to die.

  He had been silent since our argument, when I had first realized there were conditions to our arrangement—which he had withheld from me at first.

  I refuse to hurt Myron, my thoughts hissed back at him. And I will not kill the priest so long as Valory has the power to punish me. Give me victory over her first.

  They are the only two in this entire kingdom who know how to stop us. There are only two who have read the sealed scroll. Nexantius no longer whispered, his voice pouring through my mind like viscous honey. The priest is clever; he will soon find out what I am, what we are. We will fail before we’ve even begun.

  What do he and Myron know that others don’t?

  Nexantius didn’t answer.

  Do you not trust me? I asked. I have opened myself to you. I have increased your power. Can you at least tell me your plan for Valory Braiosa before I risk her wrath by shedding innocent blood? She could stop us with far less effort than Myron or the priest.

  Again, silence. I set down my utensils and made fists in my lap. Even when he had abandoned me to the quiet of my thoughts, Nexantius still resided within me. I felt his visceral repulsion of the many depictions of the Holies that graced the palace. His voracious cravings for precious metals and gems roiled in my belly.

  I raised one fist to rest it under my chin, touching my tongue to the gold setting of my amethyst ring. Myron had gifte
d it to me on our wedding day. The metal tasted more decadent than warm pastry, the jewel sweeter than pomegranate arils. My teeth could miraculously cut through both like a knife through butter.

  But even after dinner, when I was alone—more or less—I could not succumb to the Fallen’s appetite. My jewelry case had begun to look bare. Myron had noticed my lack of baubles, and I had already dismissed two maids over false accusations of theft.

  We needed to act, and soon.

  “Thank Orico for this delicious meal,” Father Peramati said in Perispi, tossing his silk serviette onto the table.

  Before I could stop myself, I sneered. The names of the Holies grated my ears. Their countenances stung my eyes like the midday sun. Right now, the pious, unctuous Holies of Generosity and Moderation gazed down upon us from a marble relief above the mantel. I ground my teeth, tempted to pluck up a candelabra and smash the sculptures to bits.

  Commander Larsio caught on to my distaste. In the flickering light, I failed to decipher the pensive lines crossing his face. “You are not enjoying the meal, my queen?” he asked in Nisseran, his voice as neutral as his steady hazel eyes.

  “My wife has been unwell in recent weeks,” Myron replied. I heard worry tighten in his throat. He translated for Father Peramati. But I no longer needed a translator with Nexantius inside me. His caressing whispers kept me apprised of important conversations.

  “Should we also thank Orico for the blessing of a growing family?” Father Peramati asked, his smile warm with wine. But the joy didn’t touch his eyes.

  “Not just yet, Father,” Myron answered.

  I forced myself to take another bite.

  “I will pray you recover soon,” the priest managed in Nisseran, but his oily tone made it easier to imagine him praying that the statue of Myron’s first wife would fall and crush me on my next stroll through the rose garden. He had advised Myron against marrying me and did not bother to hide his opinion that our union was an abomination.

  “Forgive our thoughtlessness in excluding you, my dear,” Myron said. “Commander Larsio was just telling us that the Segona boy would make a fine successor for him.”

  “I don’t disagree,” I said. “Severo is a gifted huntsman. My father always said that hunting requires both strategy and skill, and I’m certain those come in handy in military service.” I sipped my wine and met the commander’s steady gaze. “But surely you’re not thinking of retiring, Commander? You’ve more black hairs than gray.”

  “We mortals must plan ahead, Your Majesty, for our time is limited,” the commander replied, his burly hands stiff on either side of his empty plate. “With Nissera’s leadership changing, I would like to pass the torch to someone levelheaded and clever, who follows orders without regard for personal cost. Severo Segona is loyal to crown and country.”

  Loyal to the crown…Nexantius purred, his words tickling my spine at the base of my skull. We could use him, and the commander. Their might and skill could be ours.

  Father Peramati spoke again. “A good commander and a strong army mean nothing if our people stray onto paths of vice and destruction. We are only as strong as our faith.”

  The priest rambled on. My stomach churned, rebelling against the meager nibbles I’d forced down. The fire crackled in the stately hearth despite the mild spring evening.

  “I think I’ll withdraw to bed,” I said, sliding back my chair. The taste of acid snuck up my throat. Saliva pooled around my tongue. I needed to escape the stifling dining room.

  “May I say a blessing for your health?” the Father asked, feebly pushing away from the table. He never called me by any reverential title. In Perispos, the crown and the faith were nearly coequal powers; the crown held only the slightest edge.

  “I suppose,” I managed. If he were quick about it, I’d escape the torment of this dull evening. I would find something small to settle my stomach: a silver sugar spoon or a gold knob from my wardrobe.

  The Father hobbled toward me. I sighed and swung my purple skirts to face him. His failing vision made his stare no less cutting as he squinted up at me and pressed the tips of eight fingers on my forehead—one for each of the Holies, Myron had explained to me before we’d received our wedding blessing. Back then, the experience had been mildly uncomfortable, breathing in the Father’s sour breath, crouching on my knees in my delicately embellished gown and veil at the foot of the altar in the throne room.

  But now, in reaction to the Father’s touch, lightning rods of pain shot through my skull. I closed my eyes and winced, repressing a howl of anguish.

  “Orico,” he began, and my belly lurched violently while the pain seared fiery paths through my brain. “Hestreclea. Eulippa.” Another lurch. My mouth filled with acid again. No, no, no. “Lerimides—”

  I wrenched back, but I couldn’t escape in time. I gagged. Black bile issued from my lips. It spattered onto the Father’s cream and gray vestments, spilling down my chin and the neck of my gown.

  Shaking, hollowed out, I wiped my mouth with the side of my hand, used the other to mop the foul-smelling sick from my sternum. So far, I’d been able to control myself, vomiting only in the privacy of my rooms, keeping even my maids at a distance, cleaning up after myself. They heard me wretch, but they didn’t see the dark substance that scraped its way up my raw insides anytime I had to eat and pretend I was still…still what?

  Human?

  I looked from Myron to the commander, finding identical looks of horror and concern—and for the first time since this had begun weeks ago, I truly felt the horror too. My eyes met the old priest’s. They held a gleam of grim recognition.

  He knows. He knows. My inward whisper became a silent scream.

  Nexantius tugged at me from inside, hooking my navel, urging me away.

  I may have apologized before I stumbled out of the dining room and began to run down the echoing corridor. It seemed only seconds and yet far too long before I reached the privacy of our suite and mumbled something about a spill to a maid who fussed over me. Somehow, I got rid of her and locked the door.

  Relieved, I set my back to the dense, smooth pine, swallowing the wretched taste in my mouth. After a few heaving breaths, I marched to my dressing mirror.

  “What are you?” I asked through clenched teeth. My reflection was fearsome, vicious, but not in the way I desired. I looked unkempt and overwhelmed, haunted and harassed, a wild animal pursued to the point of desperation. “I don’t believe in the priest’s drivel. The only true power in this world is magic. So why did his prayer do that to me?”

  Magic is not so narrow a thing as you imagine, Nexantius replied. He did not show himself to me in the glass. For a moment, I wondered whether I’d simply gone mad.

  “I did not agree to this!” I whispered, dismissing his words. “The tiresome pretense, the sickness, and worst, the way the Holy statues and Father Peramati hold power over me. There’s already someone lording power over me. You were supposed to change that.”

  And I will. We have a plan.

  “We?” I asked.

  The others and me. We abide within the same universe of darkness, banished and cursed. But not for long.

  A shiver frolicked over my scalp. The others.

  The Fallen’s image manifested in the mirror, taking my place. A tremor nearly buckled my knees; he radiated power, beautiful and mighty enough to resolve the nauseated ache in my belly and inspire a different one at the apex of my hips and thighs. He tilted his masked head, silver eyes as sharp as weapons, vigorous muscles taut but calm.

  A knock rapped on the door, and in turn my heart beat against my chest. “Who is it?” I called.

  “The physician, Your Majesty, here to examine you,” the guest announced in a muffled voice. “Your husband summoned me.”

  My hand flew to the damp spot at my neckline. “I’m feeling better. I just need rest.”

  A pause. “Are you certain, my queen?”

  “Yes.”

  The king is solicitous, Nexantius s
aid when the physician departed. He’s a problem.

  I swallowed and again faced the glorious godlike being. “You want me to kill him for showing concern?”

  You won’t have to lie and pretend. Nexantius shifted closer, strength rippling beneath his silver skin. Though the mask covered his face, I could see enough to know his beauty might be too much to fully comprehend. His hair was as dark as the blackness around his silver irises. The angles of the mask suggested perfect symmetry.

  Kill them both, and you won’t have to eat and make yourself sick. You can destroy every likeness of our enemies and spit on them. You can do whatever you want, and no one will stop you. You are dragging your feet and bringing misery on yourself.

  While the Fallen’s words coiled around me, my mind traveled back to the airless dining room, to the priest’s haughty eyes, his tendency to let everyone near him roast like pigs on spits simply because he was frail and apparently too stupid to have heard of a wool mantle. Though I’d resisted in theory, I could see myself hurting him, clamping my fingers around his wrinkly wattle and squeezing until fear filled his eyes.

  “Is there any other way for Myron?” I asked.

  I suppose there is a way to inoculate him without killing him. I don’t prefer it. But if you insist—

  “I do insist.”

  Nexantius laughed, low and tantalizing. It rumbled through me. Fond of your mortal king, are you? And he is fond of you. We can use that.

  Myron entered the suite with a sigh. As he unlaced his jerkin, he noticed me reclining on the embroidered cushions of the bay window seat. He broke our gazes and continued yanking the laces loose. “The physician said you sent him away.”

  “I’m feeling better.”

  He stopped and turned to me. “There’s something wrong. We can’t simply ignore it.”

  “There is something happening, but there is nothing wrong,” I said, rising from the window seat. I’d disposed of my soiled dress, bathed away the dried crud, brushed out my clean hair, and sprayed perfume in the air. In order to make Myron believe my deceptions, I needed him to forget the alarming aspects of what he had seen.