by Bree Barton
The walls of the crypt melted, churned into a black river. Pilar saw a girl and boy pressed together. The boy was Quin, his curls glued to his skull like wet blood. He looked happy. At least happier than she’d ever seen him.
The girl was Mia Rose.
Of course it was. Quin loved Mia. The fact that he’d lost her changed nothing. In fact it probably made the love feel even more real.
But that wasn’t what Pilar was looking for. As the shadows shifted, she saw a pile of bodies in the Hall of Hands, faces crumbling and limbs black with rot. Quin crouched over them, his hands rifling through their pockets. His back to the door as Angelyne glided into the room.
The river queen looked frailer than Pilar remembered. She imagined how easy it would be to fell Angelyne with one blow. A well-aimed bone strike to the temple. Maybe to the throat.
But Quin didn’t fight. He froze when Angelyne bent beside him, whispered something in his ear. She unsnapped the pendant at her nape and folded it into his hand. Quin’s eyes blackened, then cleared. He nodded. Smiled.
Pilar’s heart closed like a fist.
“End it,” she said to Freyja. “I’ve seen enough.”
The Snow Queen waved her hand, and the shadows ceased.
Quin was very still, his head hung low. He wouldn’t look Pilar in the eye. She hated him for it. Hated that he’d been lying from the start.
Pilar turned to the queen. “Leave us.”
Freyja’s mouth twisted. “You realize what we’ve just seen changes everything. The river prince is not to be trusted.”
“Don’t worry,” said Pilar, “I don’t.”
The Snow Queen gave a sharp nod. “I’ll give you five minutes. Use it well.”
She pulled the music room doors shut behind her.
“Pilar.” Quin stepped away from the piano, eyes pleading. “There was nothing I could do. No way to resist.”
“And yet I resisted.” Scorn welled up in her throat. “She’s enthralling you right now, isn’t she?”
“Angelyne never asked me to harm anyone. She only sent me into the forest to find out who was loyal to her and who wasn’t. Instead I found you.”
“I can’t trust a single thing you say.” Pilar flung her hand toward where Freyja stood outside the doors. “I trust her more than I trust you!”
“Angelyne’s magic is different now. Subtler. My mind is still my own. My speech, my actions: all mine. It’s more like . . . a suggestion.”
“If you’re so in control, you could have told me the truth.” Pilar stiffened. “Is she in your head right now? Is that why you’re defending her?”
“No. I—” He tugged a hand through his hair. “It’s Zaga who stacks people’s bodies in the Hall. I get the feeling Angelyne wants to find another way. Not that what she’s doing is good, either. That hasn’t changed. I’m babbling, I know I’m not making any sense . . .” He straightened. “I just need you to understand that it hasn’t all been a lie.”
Pilar’s fist tightened around the moonstone. “You were never going to give the guards gold, were you? You were going to show them this stone so they’d know you were the queen’s little errand boy. Here I thought you were helpless, that you needed my help. But you were lying even then.”
“Pilar, please. I’m not—”
“Destroy it.”
“I . . .” He deflated. “I can’t.”
“You’re weak. If you were brave, you would have fought.”
“I tried, honestly I did. But she was too powerful. I’m not like you.”
“An understatement.” She held the stone high. “Since you’re too much of a coward, let me help you.”
“No! Wait!”
She hurled the orb onto the floor with all her might. When it didn’t shatter, she crouched. Grabbed the stone. Slammed it into the marble. Again and again.
“Please, Pilar!” Quin shouted, trying to grab hold of her arms. “Please stop.”
Each time she smashed the moonstone into the ground, the impact shot up her arm, jarred her whole body. She knew she’d find bruises on her fingers later. But she’d rather have a million bruises than the kind of pain that lived beneath the skin.
Just a few minutes earlier, she had leaned into Quin on the piano bench, wanting to stay there forever. How quickly things could change.
Pilar was out of breath. The orb still perfect and unbroken. She paused for half a second—and Quin swooped in, snatching the stone off the ground. He cradled it in his hands.
“Are you trying to kill me?”
“I’m trying to free you.”
“You don’t understand. You can’t imagine what it’s like to be in my head every second of every day, reliving the deaths of all the people I cared about. It’s not like I want to be enthralled. But at least, when Angie’s in my head . . . at least there’s someone.”
Pilar’s pity burned down to rage.
“Of course Angelyne got in your head. You don’t even know who you are.”
He glared at her. “You want the truth? I’m jealous of you. Even when you hate yourself, you know yourself. I’ve never been able to be that honest. Growing up in the Kaer, I lied to everyone. I knew how cruelly my father would punish me for my desires. And I was right. Dom wasn’t the first boy I cared about. The boy who taught me to play music . . .”
Quin cast a painful glance at the piano. His face hardened.
“I have always been ashamed of who I was.”
Pilar was no stranger to shame. It had lived inside her for years. A bitter, breathing thing.
She stomped out the spark of sympathy before it grew into a flame.
“Do you really want to kill? Your own mother?” Quin said softly.
“My mother and Angelyne lied. They hurt and betrayed us, killed innocent people. They said they were acting for the good of the Dujia.”
“I’m certain they still think they are. You know what they say: every villain is the hero in her own story.”
“A villain is a villain. And you’re still lying to protect one.” She jerked her head toward the moonstone. “Keep your jewel. Take it back to your queen like the sniveling little prince you are. I don’t give a sheep’s shit.”
Quin’s eyes blazed a violent green. “Let me come with you. I’ll help you find the Snow Wolf. We’ll go back to Glas Ddir, kill your mother and Angelyne, then save Dom and all the other innocent people suffering under the new regime. I’ll destroy the moonstone. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t leave me.”
A window creaked open in Pilar’s chest. She slammed it shut.
“I don’t keep company with liars.”
Her own words smacked her in the face. Wasn’t she lying, too? She hadn’t told Quin what happened in the cottage by the lake, why she really came to the Kaer as a spy. He didn’t know her truth, either. At least not all of it.
Why did her mind keep trying to forgive him? What he’d done was inexcusable.
She struck the door three times with her palm. It swung open to reveal Freyja on the other side, this time joined by Frigg and Fulla, three new guardswomen, and Lord Kristoffin Dove.
“Good Græÿa,” Dove said softly, taking in the scene.
Pilar set her jaw. “We’re done here. Do what you want with him.”
The guards pushed past her. She turned away. She didn’t want to see them seize Quin, even if he deserved it.
The queen’s silver eyes flashed. “You, Pilar d’Aqila, are free to go where you please. But I may be able to help you. You say you have come to find your father. The Snow Wolf will be here at the palace the night of the Weeping Moon. However, if you are impatient—and you do strike me as impatient—you’ll find him in the heartlands, outside Kom’Addi. I will furnish you with a ship.”
The offer was generous. Too generous.
“Why would you help me?”
“Because I didn’t trust you, and I should have.” She motioned toward the lump in Pilar’s pocket. “Your rune may come in handy. The one you’ve
been hiding on your person since you arrived.”
“How did you—?”
“Our objects often reveal us, even when we don’t reveal them.”
Pilar fished the frostflower out of her pocket. Placed it on her palm.
“That chalk mark you drew on the door of the ice kabma,” she said. “It’s the same as this flower, isn’t it? Six spokes, six petals.”
Freyja nodded. “The rune is meant to represent the Elemental Hex. We use it to mark the houses where someone has died. A way of calling the elements back into balance. It’s an old Addi ritual, one my father taught me.” Her voice softened. “The carvings are believed to lead children back to the family they seek. A way of calling lost souls home.”
“But this flower isn’t mine. Won’t it lead me to the wrong home?”
“In the right hands, it adjusts.” Freyja paused. “Are you sure you want to find the Snow Wolf? To answer violence with more violence? In my experience, violence is best used in service of some nobler purpose. Justice. Love.”
“Love?” Pilar scoffed. “What place does love have in all of this?”
“Often the greatest place.” Freyja glanced at Quin, now bound by the guards, then back at Pilar. “Sometimes the greatest violence we inflict is upon ourselves.”
Pilar didn’t feel like being lectured. “Sounds like bad poetry.”
For once Freyja didn’t smile. “I speak from experience. I have seen your Reflections, and I know the guilt you carry.”
Pilar’s face flushed. She could feel Quin watching her.
“I have one request,” said the Snow Queen. “Come to the festival of Jyöl. We haven’t enjoyed the Illuminations in many years, and my uncle has outdone himself. When your father comes to the palace, you should accompany him.”
“This is a request, not a command?”
“Yes.”
“Enjoy your lights in the sky. I have work to do.”
“What did I tell you, Niece? Kissed by fyre, steeled by ice.” Lord Dove’s eyes sparkled. “A scrap of wisdom from an old Addi mystic. The greatest warriors burn with passion but act with cold resolve.”
Freyja nodded. “Very well. You’ll sail south across the Lilla Sea to the port of Suvi West. From there you’ll chart a path into the heartlands. Two days by boat, another three by foot to Kom’Addi.”
“How do you know where the Snow Wolf is?”
“I know where everyone is. At least everyone who matters. It’s my job to keep an eye on all those in Luumia who might cause harm.”
“And the river prince? What will you do with him?”
Freyja grunted. “Ship him back to Glas Ddir where he belongs.”
On cue, the guardswomen marched Quin past, his hands bound behind his back. So close Pilar could reach out and touch him.
What if she never saw him again? Was she really damning him to a lifetime of being enthralled?
But he lied, she reminded herself. He lied to you.
If a person wasn’t in control of their lies, did it still count as lying?
No. Quin could have told her. He could have found a way. He had betrayed her, just like everyone else.
Pilar could still see the rafters in the cottage. Wood beams casting shadows like a cell. Tiny rocks on the rough dirt floor, biting holes into the soft skin of her back. So many moments she couldn’t remember. But the ones she did remember, she would never forget.
She watched the guards march Quin down the too-white corridor. Freyja was wrong. Love wasn’t some nobler purpose.
Love was a fist with broken knuckles. A knife with a blunt blade.
Good, then. When someone came at you with broken knuckles—when they brandished their dull little knife—they were easier to beat.
Where love bloomed, Pilar would cut it out. And in the space it left behind, she’d set the world aflame.
17 Days Till the Weeping Moon
My bewitching, elusive sister,
They tell me you are not in White Lagoon. I should have known you’d journey to the queen’s palace to find whom you seek. I fear you will be gravely disappointed. But then, what is a Dujia if not a constellation of failures with the occasional glimmer of success?
While we wait: another story.
The youngest of Græÿa’s daughters had a dark secret. She tried to eat the hearty stews her mother prepared: tender hunks of lamb meat swirling in brown broth, savory mushroom caps and sweet onions, pearl barley from the village and dandelion dust from the fields. But with every spoonful, she fought the urge to retch. She had no appetite for stew.
Unlike her mother, the girl had an appetite for human flesh.
When her mother journeyed to the village, the girl followed. She started with the little things, pieces no one would miss: a thimble of fingernails, a discarded tooth. But the teeth were sour and the nails scraped her throat. They never satisfied her hunger.
Before long, she found the barber.
The barber was not known for his gentle touch. He was ever ready with his cleaver, keen to hack off appendages at the villagers’ request: fingers blackened from infection, toes frozen in the bitter cold. The girl could smell the fragrant flesh, ripe for the taking. She crept into the barbershop at night, unwrapped the parcels of red-soaked cloth, and feasted.
But as is often the case, the more she fed her appetite, the more it grew. Dead flesh was no longer enough. She thirsted for the warm, sweet drizzle of fresh blood.
The girl made rules for herself. She would never eat the flesh of those smaller or weaker. Not the old. Not the destitute. And never a single child. But still the weight of her hunger burned a hole in her belly, made her sick with shame.
So she devised a better system. For every piece of flesh she stole, she would lay her hands on someone else’s broken flesh to heal it. She traveled to the ice kabmas, sought out the Addi children who wept and suffered. She healed flesh and mended bone.
None of that mattered, of course, when the villagers came for her.
They say the Flesh Thief still haunts the villages of Luumia. Today she is the Third Soul of Jyöl. Be good and she will patch your scrapes and bruises. Be bad and she will eat you in your sleep.
The Jyöltide celebration is nigh, sister. The Weeping Moon rises. Soon you will see the Illuminations in the night sky. I urge you to remember that even the most resplendent light is invisible if not pitched against the darkness.
We are each of us evil, and each of us good. Inside ourselves we hold both light and shadow. The question is: How big a fire must you kindle to illuminate the dark?
Fervidly yours,
Angelyne
Chapter 22
Wrenched
MIA LOATHED THE WATER. It was unpredictable and vindictive, ready to drown you at whim. The ocean couldn’t be trusted. No matter how diligently you charted the tides, the sea would not hesitate to kill you.
Now, on Zai’s boat bobbing on the Lilla Sea, Mia had a peculiar thought: maybe most things would kill you, if given the chance. Take her mother’s moonstone. What had once been an instrument of healing turned out to be an even more powerful instrument of death.
“Seasick?” Zai called out from the deck. He was tinkering with the rigging as the sunlight waned. “You’ll feel better if you come outside. Breathe the fresh air and fix your eyes on the horizon.”
“I don’t get seasick,” she called back. The truth.
Instead Mia stayed in the galley, lost in her own thoughts.
The memories had come back.
Seeing her mother in the White Lagoon—or the apparition of her mother—had loosed a tide of recollection unlike any she’d ever known. Zaga’s cruelty. Angelyne’s betrayal. The moonstone dangling at Angie’s throat as she enkindled Domeniq, Pilar, the Hunters, Mia’s father. All sitting in the Grand Gallery, pinned in place like bugs to a cork board.
And Quin. Always Quin.
Every time Mia closed her eyes, she saw the agony on Quin’s face as he crouched over his dead sister. And she saw t
he blank terror in his eyes as he kissed Angelyne under the enthrall.
Somehow, in the midst of falling for the prince, Mia had destroyed him.
She hated herself for the months she’d squandered in White Lagoon. She’d let herself get distracted. All the drinking and fyre ink and night companions—they were a failed attempt to feel something. She’d been so desperate to live inside her own body again, she’d conveniently forgotten that Quin was a prisoner in his.
And now she was sailing in the opposite direction of Kaer Killian, with a boy she found undeniably appealing.
What was wrong with her? How could she be so selfish?
Because you’re broken, said a voice inside her. And you broke Quin, too.
Zai strolled back into the galley. “The water will smooth out soon.”
They’d left White Lagoon that morning for the palace in Valavïk. If Zai was right—if her mother had indeed surfaced at his alehouse two days prior—Mia was closer than she’d ever been. Maybe she still had time to make things right.
“Tell me again,” she said to Zai. “Every single detail.”
He sat beside her on the bench. “She was a big woman. Hazel eyes, I think. She ordered two thumbs of rai rouj and drank it in a single swallow.”
“What else?”
“She asked if I knew the fastest way to get to the palace. Said she was seeking an audience with the Snow Queen.”
“That’s all?”
“I’m sorry, Raven. I’ve told you everything I remember.”
Mia folded her arms over her chest. “You have a boat. You could have made a pretty penny ferrying her to Valavïk.”
“I don’t like leaving the alehouse unless I have to.”
She flourished a hand around the boat. “And now?”
“Now is different.”
“Why?”
He leaned back. “If you’d seen yourself at the Lagoon, you’d understand.”
Mia frowned. She knew how it must have looked as she splashed around the lagoon, shouting: like she’d lost her mind.
Maybe she had lost her mind. One minute she knew in her bones the woman who’d come to Zai’s alehouse was her mother; moments later, doubt dug its hooks. If Wynna really had left the port town two days ago, how in four hells did Mia see her in the lagoon? Grief was a potent paint, but its colors were muted pastels, its brush strokes blurry. The redhead in the lagoon was not some grief-soaked phantom. What Mia saw was real.