“I am now,” I grumble.
He beams, showing his big, crooked teeth. “I brought you something.” The hand behind his back comes out of hiding. A rope hangs, loosely coiled, over his forearm.
I squint. “You brought me rope?”
“I thought you might want it back.”
Sitting up, I straighten my nightdress. My head spins and I taste the nastiness of morning horse breath. “Uh . . . thank you for returning it.”
Loren’s mouth hitches to the side in an apologetic twist. “I, uh, I’m sorry for getting in your stuff. Is that why you didn’t come home the night before last?”
When he isn’t a hellion, Loren has a sweet side that softens all my hard spots. Before he can escape, I pull him into a hug and loosen the twig from his hair. “Lovable Loren, you came back! Don’t let the beast take control of you again.”
He squirms out of my grip and puts on affronted airs. “Stop it. I’m no beast.”
I snort. “I was working,” I say, instead of telling him where I really was for the last day.
He accepts my answer with an easy smile and digs his hands into his trouser pockets. “Thought so. I figure you need the rope for the jubilee. You’re gonna get the glider done in time, right, Lirra? ’Cause my friends are all coming to see it. I been telling them about your flying inventions forever.”
The first night of the jubilee starts after the melee. With less than a week to finish preparations, I don’t know how I’m going to get through the list of things I need to do to complete the wings and help King Aodren.
“Orli’s gonna come too, right?” Loren asks. “She’ll wanna see them.”
“I hope so,” I say, though Orli won’t attend in spite of how much work she has put into helping me sew the wings. I know she wants to see them take flight. But a night of magic displays will overwhelm her.
“When are you going to let me and Kiefer fly?”
I smile. “Soon. What time is it?” I ask, thinking there might be time to see Orli this morning before I have to meet Aodren with his disguise.
“Almost time to eat.” Loren clutches his belly like hunger pains have gotten to him. I’m no fool. Loren is always eating.
“Breakfast?” I scratch my head and remember the vile state of my hair.
“No. You’ve slept all morning. It’s the midday meal.”
I leap out of bed, groaning, and rush around the attic, grabbing a clean dress, the pumice stone, and soap. Chances are the king will have to wait for me, but I’m not going anywhere in this state of ruin. Besides, if I have to put off seeing Orli and finishing my glider to do the man’s errand, the least he can do is wait for me. I’ll disguise him so completely his own mother wouldn’t recognize him, then show him how to get in and out of the castle. After that, I’m done with His High and Mightiness.
Chapter
10
Aodren
THE PALLOR OF LEIF’S SKIN HAS THE grayish-green tint of an unripe melon, not the healthy color of recovery, as I was secretly hoping. There is no way he can fight in tonight’s melee, which means the plan with Lirra Barrett is a go.
“You’ll be getting back to your chambers soon, my dear.” The healer, who I’ve learned is named Margeria, has taken a liking to Leif. She inspects his wound, touching around the stitches, prodding for signs of infection. To his credit, Leif doesn’t so much as flinch.
“Wannafightem . . . bludgers . . . Wincup,” he slurs, voice raspy and dry, eyelids too heavy for him to lift.
“All in due time, dearie.” She swipes his forehead with a cloth and spends another minute neatly tucking the linens around his body. He kicks them loose a second later.
“Gimme . . . biscuit?” Leif attempts a smile, only to have exhaustion foil the plan. Biscuits are a bizarre request.
The woman chuckles, surprising me, because she’s barely given me more than a pinch-mouthed curtsy. “Rest up, and when you wake, I’ll have two waiting for you.”
She crosses the room and sets the cloth over the edge of an empty bowl. “Your Highness, I’ve given him something to ease the pain. He won’t be quite himself,” she says. At best, her tone is formal, unlike the warmth she showered on Leif. I cannot tell if it’s due to my title or the history of my kingdom. Regardless, I’m grateful to her for fetching Ku Toa the night of Leif’s stabbing. Had she not done so, he wouldn’t be groggily fighting to watch us now.
“Thank you,” I tell her. “For all you’ve done to help him.”
Margeria dips in a customary bow and leaves.
Now that we’re alone, I’m not sure what to say. My guards are waiting for me outside the healer’s room so I can have a private moment to discuss the tournament with Leif. Taking his place tonight hasn’t bothered me, until now. Which is why the words fail me. The eager anticipation and the dedication he showed in training these last few months will be for naught.
Leif’s eyelids slog downward. The sleep concoction the healer gave him must be working. Perhaps now isn’t the best time to discuss the tournament after all. I walk to the door, ignoring the relief that comes.
“Ya going?” Leif croaks.
I turn back to face him. “Do not let me keep you up. I came to see how you’re faring. However, you need your rest. I will return later.”
He yawns. “Who’sformal . . . now?”
The mumbled question loosens me up enough to abandon the wooden-soldier stance and return to his bedside.
“Yer betterwhenya . . . forget being king,” Leif says, entertaining with his candidness.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I smile inwardly. How much of this conversation will he remember later?
Leif wriggles to try to loosen the cocooning blankets, but gives up quickly and frowns. “Cannafight . . . tonight . . . nofight.”
“I know.” I try hard not to cringe. It serves me right for trying to sneak out. He deserves to hear from me what is the plan for the melee. “I’m going to fight in my own name.”
His eyebrows crawl up like slow, sluggish caterpillars, but they make it up his forehead. A little of the exhaustion clears from his eyes. “You . . . in the melee?”
I nod.
“Baltroit know?”
“No one knows but you and Lirra. She’s going to help me.” I explain her role this evening, though Leif probably won’t remember half of what’s being said.
When I’m done, he stares glassy-eyed at the closed door. “Better watch Hemmet,” he says after a beat, talking about Gorenza’s son. “Man’s . . . crafty.”
“I will.”
Chapter
11
Lirra
DA’S CELLAR CONTAINS A LIBRARY OF secretive odds and ends. I never know what I’ll find down here. Drops of water fall from my recently washed hair, splattering the dusty piles of papers on Da’s desk. I try not to think about how the sight cries of his overwhelming workload. Work that I could help him do if he’d trust me with more than delivering messages and sitting through meetings that keep me close to home. Snooping through the shelves of crates, I uncover a beard—or what I hope is a beard—and shove it in a satchel with a cap and clothes gathered from the finer end of Da’s wardrobe.
Then I depart in a rush. Dress hitched over my knees, I ride astride my gelding, Traitor, as fast as he’ll allow. The speed helps wick the extra water from my hair, so by the time I reach my destination, my braid is dry.
The street leading to the Elementiary is surprisingly less crowded than the rest of Celize. A fancy carriage with the seal of Malam’s royal stag is parked in front of the smithy, just to the east of Astoria’s Channeler school. A handful of guards wait outside the door.
When Aodren mentioned he was going to stop at the Elementiary, I didn’t think about how Astoria would react. Perhaps I should’ve warned her.
I dismount Traitor and rush into the shop.
Astoria is standing beside her desk, stiff as a creature preserved in one of her jars of lavender liquid. Her uncharacteristic glare is fixed on
a point to the right of the Elementiary door. I twist and find Aodren, in a maroon surcoat, perfectly shined buttons, perfectly coifed hair, perfectly noble king.
A smile softens his face.
Seeds, what other king smiles like that?
“You’re here,” I say, breathless from the ride.
A nod. “I am.”
Astoria sputters, the muscle under her left eye twitching. To say she dislikes Malamians is an understatement. Astoria rarely utters an unkind word about anyone. But last year, when she discovered the king of Malam sought help from the Channelers Guild during the coup, she cursed Aodren’s name more than a dozen times. Like most Shaerdanians, she believes he abolished the Purge to get access to the Channelers Guild. To use their abilities for his gain.
“Why is he here?” Astoria’s mouth puckers.
“He came to learn about how you run an Elementiary,” I say, and then look to him.
“I explained as much,” he says. “Twice now.”
“Why are you here at the same time as him?” Astoria clarifies.
I give her a sheepish shrug. “He was already planning on coming here, and we needed someplace private to meet, so I figured this was a good place. I should’ve warned you beforehand.” I check the door latch behind me and glance through the rows of bottle-lined shelves for other people.
“We’re alone?” I ask, to be certain.
“Aye. His men cleared the Elementiary. Except they left him.” She says the last bit like she’s spitting. She ambles around her desk and sits.
“I didn’t mean to catch you off-guard.”
“Pish, that doesn’t matter. What concerns me is why you’d meet with him in the first place.”
“Astoria,” I say, pleading for her to stop. He’s right here. Even if she doesn’t like the man, her blatant and brazen disrespect could land her in prison. I know she hates his country and him, but she knows when to feign respect. Considering his guards are mere steps outside the door, she should be cautious.
“Were you forced? Surely, you’re not so foolish a girl to trust this—”
“No need to condemn me.” I cross my arms. “Da started business with the man. I’m just trying to finish it.”
In the corner of my eye, I catch the movement of Aodren’s hands fisting. I pray for him to have patience with her, in spite of her disrespect. He could have her killed, but I’m starting to understand him better, and I don’t think he’d do that to Astoria. Besides, he’s the ruler of a kingdom that spent twenty years hunting our kind. He must understand that he has no right to expect the trust of Channelers.
Astoria sniffs, twisting her head to the side. “I thought you knew better, Lirra. Nothing good comes from Malam.”
I roll my eyes. Has she forgotten we’re both originally from Malam? Her reservations have some validity; however, it’s obvious Aodren is nothing like the cold-blooded regent who ruled before him. Can she not see that? If he hated Channelers, he wouldn’t have fought so hard to get two of us out of prison last night.
“Son of a scrant,” hisses Astoria.
To his credit, he doesn’t shout for his guards. If she said the same of Judge Soma, she’d be hanged, and he’s not even the ruler of a country.
“Astoria,” I scold, and she studies a book on her desk.
I decide it’s time to move this meeting along, so I step closer to Aodren to size him up. “You were right to want a disguise. You’ll definitely have to lose those clothes if you don’t want to draw attention.”
The edges of his face relax. Was he worried that Astoria would convince me to back out of our deal? His fingers move to his surcoat’s buttons, deftly unfastening them.
“Wait, not now,” I cry. “Don’t you have to return to the castle for the remainder of the day’s meetings?”
“Don’t you need to fit the disguise to me?”
“Me? I’m not a tailor.”
“What else can the Channelers do for him? Polish his boots?” Astoria’s interruption is the last one. I spin to face her, the fabric of my dress smacking the nearest shelf, and swipe my hand across my neck in a cease-action motion. The mocking and cruel things she’s said are so unlike her typical kindness.
I turn back to find a shade of rose creeping up Aodren’s face.
“Here.” I ignore his embarrassment and shrug the satchel off my back, thrusting it into his hands. “Everything you need is in there. You can check out what I brought, and I’ll show you how to apply the beard.” Then, turning to Astoria, “He’s going to use the backroom.”
She purses her lips, probably mentally cursing Aodren a thousand different ways as he walks to the rear of the Elementiary.
“What was that?” I throw my hands up once he’s out of sight. “You cannot talk to the king of Malam that way. Not if you want to live much longer.”
“I—I know. Seeing him riled me so. His men came in and pushed everyone out.” Gone is the plucky woman who gave Aodren a dressing-down. Moisture blurs her Channeler blues. She kicks up her trembling chin. “Nothing good comes from Malam.”
She’s thinking of things and people other than us, like the darkness that shadowed the country’s past. It bothers me, though, that she cannot see Aodren’s done some good.
“He overturned the Purge,” I say.
“He might’ve banned hunting our sisters, but that doesn’t mean he’s remedied the problem. That kingdom has sown prejudice and hate for decades.”
“You mean since he was a child with no say in the matter? He’s made a start. He deserves credit for that. We shouldn’t judge him for the actions of the rulers before him.”
Astoria rubs her eyes dry. “Bah! That man ended the Purge to save his rump. He needed the Channelers Guild to fight his battle. He is no different from the men before him.”
It’s the same harsh assessment she’s argued for the last six months, and yes, there might be truth to her claim. But while he’s in the next room, I’d rather not discuss it. Astoria shuffles away from the desk to resume her daily work. She plucks items from different nooks that hold an array of Channeler supplies—herbs, plants, powders, oils, animal parts, and books.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She glances over her shoulder, a sad smile on her face. “You’re not at fault, my dear.”
“You won’t tell anyone that I’m helping him?”
“You know I won’t.” And I do. Astoria may be cantankerous to Malamians, but she’s dependable and true. She doesn’t pry further into my business or question why the king of Malam needs to alter his appearance. All she does is offer a gentle reprimand, a tsk of her tongue against her teeth. “Remember, Lirra, charm and good looks only serve to mask a man’s true character. Don’t fall for his act.”
“You know me. I know all about disguises.”
A true smile shines on her face, and I’m relieved to see the Astoria I know and love once more.
I go to the backroom to check on Aodren, hoping he didn’t hear much. When I enter, he turns away from a table covered in a dozen ancient Channeler books.
“Interesting reading?”
He crosses his arms. “She doesn’t like me much.”
I’ve no argument for that, nor does it seem like he expects one. Astoria lost a sister to the Purge. It was years before Aodren’s rule, but her scars of enmity and grief are no less real than the burn mark on my left side—a token of the night Malamian guards took my mother’s life.
I cross the room to where Aodren has placed the satchel and withdraw a tunic. “It isn’t as fancy as the clothes you’re used to, but it’s nicer than commoner clothing. I thought it would be less shocking if you resembled a lesser nobleman. They tend to blend into the crowd, not drawing attention like the noble elite.”
“Thank you,” he says, eyeing the tunic with flagrant approval.
“Well, I said I’d bring you a disguise.”
“No, I mean, thank you for what you said out there.” His eyes lift to meet mine. “You didn’t have to defe
nd me. But you did. I appreciate that you can see my actions are different from the regent’s or my father’s.”
It’s strange how the small compliment softens my frustration. “Well, I wasn’t saying you were perfect.”
Aodren’s mouth twitches, and for a moment I think he might smile.
“Noted,” he says, and then lifts the triangular swatch of hair, his long fingers turning it over. “A beard?”
“Only a king would keep such a clean shave. You need to hide some of that beauty.” I laugh, and his hand rises to the strong line of his jaw. The reaction catches me off-guard, because surely he’s not bashful. The man has flaws, but his appearance is definitely not one of them. His irritatingly perfect face may as well have been carved from an artist’s marble.
“Hmm, do you have something to cover my hair?”
“Look in the bag. I packed a cap.”
Aodren sifts through the items, withdrawing the clothes and turning them over. He surprises me by neatly folding each piece. “You put thought into this.”
His words wash me with warmth. “It was nothing,” I say, because that’s the truth. “It’s not as if I had a choice. You did say I had to bring a costume if I want that letter.”
“True. Though you could’ve brought something terrible.”
I shrug, as if he hasn’t made me feel a little taller, a little lighter, and a little off-kilter. He gathers up the items, putting them back in the bag, and heads for the door. The man trapped me into sneaking him out of the castle, so I shouldn’t want to help him more than what was agreed upon. But my conscience is a mule. It won’t allow me to walk away without sharing a few necessary tips.
“If you don’t want people to notice you before the first melee fight, you need more than the clothes,” I blurt out.
He turns around. “Go on.”
“Well . . .” I chew my lip. “You stand like a king.”
A small smile quirks at his mouth. “I am one.”
“Yes, but your posture gives you away.”
He looks down at his feet. “How should I stand differently?”
Once a King Page 9