I set my glider down and step away. I try not to think about how, in my dreams, Da was always here with me, cheering me on. I’ll find a way to get him back for the jubilee. My hands extend out at my sides, calling the wind forward. It takes a few tries. My focus is as skittish as my pulse. I feel twitchy. I cannot find my grounding. Spurts of wind whip around the field, making the glider hop like a frog. I push more energy out of my hands, trying for better control, and a gust blasts the glider off the ground.
It shoots up to the sky—
And plummets, hitting the ground with a terrible crack.
No!
I run to where my broken wings lie, a tangle of wood and rope and white fabric, on the bright green lawn.
“Is that all?” the coordinator asks.
Embarrassment burns across my face like Channeler heat. I lift the limp wings. Two dowels are broken. My eyes itch. “Yeah, that’s all.”
“It’s all right,” I hear Astoria say. She ambles over and tells the coordinator that she can vouch for me. That during the jubilee I won’t choke.
Doubt twists the coordinator’s face, but she doesn’t argue.
After packing my broken glider into my satchel, I trudge off the field beside Astoria.
“You have too much going on up here,” she says, pointing to her temple. “You need to clear your mind. Whatever’s vexing you, take care of it, so come Saturday, you’re ready to show the world how powerful you are.”
I nod, accepting her advice. Between Da’s absence and the Sanguine mystery, it’s no wonder I can’t concentrate.
* * *
Orli and I try to walk through the least crowded aisles of vendors. Still, droves of people are here. A discordant clash of five different accents mixes with the scent of fresh bread, ripe produce, and even riper people. For Orli, the scene must be overwhelming.
I need to find Duff.
We’ve barely turned down the second row when people on all sides smoosh us. Based on snippets of conversations, I realize they’re trying to reach the stage at the end of the booths, where an earth Channeler will soon be performing. These small market performances, precursors to the jubilee, raise crowd interest and share information about Channeler magic.
When an arm’s width of space opens to my right, Orli and I escape the crush and dart behind the tents. A small alley gives the traders a place to store their wares. We continue weaving through traders until we’re in the walkway of the fourth row of textile merchants.
Orli’s arm chokes mine. Buggy eyes and lips a tight colorless line.
“Too much?”
“It’s busier than I anticipated,” she says with a sheepish shrug.
“Let’s go in a booth for a while,” I say. “Maybe the crowd will thin.”
She nods. It doesn’t take long to find a tent that is filled with a rainbow of yarn. At least a hundred spools in every color cover the merchant’s table. This is the perfect spot for Orli, who has become obsessed with bright colors. A stop here isn’t on today’s plan, but I know the diversion will soothe her anxiety.
“Have you ever seen so many colors?” We duck into the tent.
“Never,” she says with reverence for the array of spools, the fear all but faded from her face.
A few people run their fingers over the strands of wool, saying things like, “This is too rough for my needs,” and “Too much give in this one,” but their eyes tell a different story. They want the yarn. They’re hoping to haggle a better deal.
“Anything you could use?” I ask.
“What isn’t there to use?” Orli laughs, a welcome sound. “I want it all.”
While she is busy perusing the yarn, I scan the stretch of merchants for Duff Baron and his stepdaughter, Prudence. Duff, a currier by trade, has had many dealings with Da. If not for Da’s letter warning that his informants aren’t trustworthy, I’d ask Duff outright about Sanguine and where Da’s been searching. Instead, I’ve decided to talk to Prudence. We’ve had enough interactions throughout the last few years to solidify my instincts about her. Besides, she’s not necessarily an informant, since she isn’t key to her father’s business. But I know, like me, she’s privy to almost all her father’s dealings.
Orli chooses a spool the cheery shade of sunflower petals, then hands the merchant a few coins. He wraps up the item in paper and binds it with string before asking Orli what she’ll make with the yarn.
While they’re talking, I turn back to the market, and my gaze catches on a dress. It hangs from a vendor’s tent. Dyed to the cerulean brilliance of a clear cove, the fabric is stunning. The sleeve of the garment is being examined by a girl with tawny braids and curls. Everything about her hair and commoner dress is nondescript. Much like my appearance. But I’d recognize Prudence Baron anywhere.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” I tell Orli. She is consumed in conversation with the merchant and barely spares me a nod in response. Perfect.
I shimmy past two men bartering over a pelt and walk behind the tents until I reach my destination. “Lovely dress, Prudence.”
She startles, hand flying to her mouth, and when she realizes it’s me, she cups her rosy cheeks. “You goose! You scared me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” A laugh follows, and Prudence’s arms wrap me in a hug. “How are you? I haven’t seen you in months.”
I squeeze her in return and then untangle myself. “Doing well.”
“And how is—”
“She’s also well. Better than before.” The last time Prudence and I talked was on my return from Malam, bringing home Orli, energy-drained, fragile, and broken. “She’s here, isn’t she?”
“Yes, that’s a big improvement.” Genuine relief spreads over Prudence’s face. “That’s what I hoped to hear. I said a dozen prayers to the gods for you both. Will you be preforming at the jubilee? Will she?”
“That’s my plan. I just signed up for the showcase.”
“To show the wings you were building?”
I smile. “Yes, my glider.”
“Well, you should get this dress for your performance. It would highlight your eyes splendidly.” Even though her grandmother was a known Channeler, Prudence is giftless, like Eugenia. That’s the way with Channeler magic. Astoria taught me that Channeler magic was a gift from the gods, but because it’s been abused and devalued in our society, the gods have allowed it to fade with each passing generation.
“I’ll consider it,” I tell her, though buying a dress isn’t on my list of things to accomplish today. I turn away from the dress and lower my voice. “Has Duff mentioned my da lately?”
“Not in the last month or so,” she says, easily and openly. She’s telling the truth, a fact that overwhelms me with disappointment. “I’ll ask Duff. Maybe he has heard something.”
Da’s warning rings in my ears. “No. Don’t.” I touch her arm. “It’s nothing to bother him about.” Only, my response comes out strung tighter than a clothesline.
“Lirra. What’s going on? And don’t make up a lie, because I’m on to you.”
I consider my options. Do I really think Duff is a problem for Da? No. But Da needs secrecy. But he also didn’t include me in his plans. So I’m free to make my own choices. Besides, Prudence isn’t one of Da’s informants. She’s one of mine, and I’m free to talk to her. “There’s a new import in the markets, something called Sanguine. Have you heard of this?”
The subtlest stiffening of her posture answers the question.
“You have. Do you know who’s supplying the trade?”
“Is this why you’re asking about your da? Has he started selling it?”
I shake my head.
She lifts a pair of gloves from a vendor’s table, inspecting them in a way that blocks our faces from anyone who might be watching. “Lirra, this oil is bad business. You don’t want to get involved.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
Prudence swats me with the gloves and then places them
on the table. “Well, maybe it’s something you should listen to.”
Near the front of the tent, two women squabble over a spool of crimson yarn. I slide a stray hair around my ear and tip my head toward the outside of the tent. She follows me to the less crowded back ally.
“Millner is somehow connected to the oil. That’s why you want to know about him and Sanguine?”
I shrug.
“Oh, Lirra,” she says, sweet and pleading. “You’ve got your feet in more shadowy business than anyone else I know. No way did I think you’d be tangled up in the oil. Though I suppose I should’ve.”
Her comment spreads something dark in me. A tiptoeing traitor, lurking between my head and heart that wishes for a life with fewer secrets, fewer disguises, fewer conversations in back alleys. What my life would have been if Da had never become the Archtraitor and turned to the business of selling secrets, if he hadn’t needed to train me in the family business.
He might see me as me and not as an assistant.
It’s a slippery thought, one that leads to others. I tamp it down, shame coursing in to fill my empty spaces. The closest I’ll come to that life will be when I spread my wings at the jubilee. Sharing my love of flight will expose the most honest, most vulnerable version of myself. And even if Da cannot be there, it will be enough for me. It will.
“I only need to find the maker of the oil,” I tell her. “What do you know?”
Prudence glances to the right. Perched on a stool two tents away, a man smokes a pipe.
Shifting her back to the possible onlooker, she links her arm through mine and guides me in the opposite direction. “All I know is my father was asked to take a few crates into Malam a couple months ago.” Her whisper is nearly noiseless. “He didn’t know what was in them. Didn’t think much about it until he heard word from the trader, wanting more. Whatever was in the crates sold quickly. Duff doesn’t usually deliver trade goods. Bigger loads are too conspicuous.”
I nod, understanding. Everything she’s said is sound.
“But then a second round of crates turned up at one of Duff’s pickup locations, and attached to it was a hefty bag of coins. Duff delivered the goods. The trader who accepted them confessed some interesting things.”
If this story were coming from anyone else, I might raise questions at the fact her father made a habit of delivering packages for people he didn’t know. But then, I’ve known for years how Duff operates. Like my da, Duff understands that sometimes it’s best not to know all the details.
“What kind of things?” I ask.
“He told Duff that the crates were full of oil. And people couldn’t get enough of it. He said the oil was supposed to give people Channeler powers, but he had witnessed other reactions. He said the oil made people erratic and angry. He said he knew of a man who died from it.”
“Yet he kept selling it?”
“You know how traders are. Most would sell a used coffin and toss the corpse if they thought they’d make a profit.”
A harsh opinion, but true.
“I’ve heard the oil does those things too.” I pause as a merchant shuffles out of a nearby tent to sort through a few bags. He notices us and points to the other side of his booth, explaining that we’re in the wrong area. Prudence quickly apologizes and turns around so we head back the way we came.
“I don’t have much time.” I glance between the booths at the main walkways, checking on Orli. “I don’t know how much longer Orli can handle this crowd. But does Duff know who was leaving the crates?”
Prudence shakes her head. “He picked them up from the same place he would pick up secret correspondences. He didn’t know who was dropping them off. But a month ago, he arrived earlier than usual, and there were two cloaked men at the drop spot. One short and round through the middle, one tall. I think Duff knows who he saw, but he won’t say. It’s his secrecy that worries me. Makes me think whoever it is has a great deal of power.”
I frown. “It could be anyone.”
“I’ll ask him again, but I’m not promising anything.”
“Thank you. I can come back tom—”
A woman’s scream stops us midconversation like the fall of an ax. All the small hairs on my body stand on end. Orli.
I turn away from Prudence and duck between the tents. The steady stream of people has clogged the walkway next to the yarn vendor. Their shouts and jeers are at a near frenzy. I shove between them, until I break free of the crowd.
I don’t realize what I’m seeing at first. A broken rainbow of a hundred scattered spools of yarn cover the ground. The table is broken, and the distraught vendor rapidly attempts to gather his goods.
I spin around to the people who are yelling and egging someone on. Another cry, high-pitched panic, rises above the jeers.
“Orli,” I shout, and shove through where there is no path between the people.
Someone pushes me back, and an elbow connects with my cheek. The impact shoots dizzying pain through my face. I gain my bearings and duck low to press through the people. On the other side of the aisle, I find Orli tucked into a corner of the fur trader’s tent, her normally dark skin the color of ash, her fingers clutched tightly around a package. She’s penned into the booth by two men who are fistfighting where the fur trader’s table used to be. Pelts and skins are strewn across the muddy grass.
“Stop!” My shout goes unheard, but Orli’s head jerks up, and she sees me. I wedge into the booth and dodge their flailing arms. My hand grasps Orli’s just as the crowd erupts in cheers. I turn to find the fight is over. One man has knocked the other out, and guards have flooded the area. They quickly break up the press of people and seize the fighters.
To my shock, I realize the last man standing in this fight is Baltroit, Malam’s champion. His eyes are bloodshot, and the way his breath pants from his nose reminds me of an angry bull. He tries to throw off the guards, shouting obscenities at them. But five of them subdue him, shackle his wrists, and drag him away, no doubt headed to the holding cell I’m intimately acquainted with.
Only, they don’t get very far. Baltroit collapses, his body tipping and thudding to the ground like a felled tree.
Seeds. Someone needs to talk to him about laying off the ale. I’ve heard how much time he spends in the tavern.
I wrap an arm around Orli, and wait as a guard kneels at the champion’s side to help him up. The man touches Baltroit and waits, and waits, and waits—
Face colorless as a specter, the guard glances up. “He’s dead.”
Chapter
25
Aodren
THE SUMMIT MEETING ENDS IN THE EARLY afternoon, and a royal convoy takes the leaders and dignitaries directly to the tournament field for the first day of the joust.
Discovering Malam needs a Channeler for the jubilee was a blow yesterday, but our ranking in the tournament is promising, keeping me hopeful and eager for today’s competition. The joust is an event in which Baltroit typically dominates. He will hold the lance first today. Leif will compete in the second round.
Our arrival draws a crowd that clogs the road. From the carriage window, I can see people clamoring to get closer to the convoy of royal carriages. Even with Leif and Segrande at my side, a sense of vulnerability comes from sitting in a conspicuously ornate carriage, emblazoned with Malam’s identifying stag. Sneaking around with Lirra has become too much the norm. The thought brings a smile to my lips.
Guards flank us as we exit. All around, people drop, lowering to a knee. A scattering of cheers and clapping comes unexpectedly from the crowd.
I look out at the sea of downcast eyes. Supposedly a show of respect, downcast gazes have always felt like a disconnection. I’ve accepted the norm of it, never having had anyone give me contrary advice on how a king should act. I wonder if change isn’t needed simply in terms of Channeler prejudices. Perhaps I need it too.
The other leaders and their guards walk straight to the field, but I gesture to the men around me, indica
ting our group should stop at the champions’ tent first.
A portion of the crowd follows the other leaders. But many stay. Some hold maroon-and-gray flags.
“Thank you for coming.” I address the Malamians. “Your support matters. Together let us cheer on our champion. And like the melee, may we take home another flag, another reason to be proud of who we are and where we come from.”
Flags are waved while many clap and holler.
“Three cheers for Malam,” someone shouts, and my heart soars.
This is the spark of unity I’ve been hoping for. I need them to take this pride back to Malam. I pump a fist in the air. “Our hearts, our blood, our lives for Malam!”
The words are repeated back, and the applause swells.
Guards part the crowd and escort us to the champions’ tent. There, I stop and scan the faces of those around me, hoping to see Lirra. She’s not in the group of people who have followed me from the carriage.
“Shall we take our seats, Your Highness?” Lord Segrande is bouncing on his toes, excited to see his son compete.
After a moment longer, it appears she’s not coming. Something must have held her up. Reluctantly, I nod and our group walks to Malam’s box.
Leif sits beside me. He’s dressed in a set of clothes that have been made to fit perfectly under his armor. He wanted to watch the first round to size up the competition. Segrande paces the small walkway in front of the chairs. I wonder if he was equally anxious before the melee.
An air of disquiet fills the field as people flock to the edges. Their conversations about the competitors’ fighting skill swell until the sound is nearly deafening.
The announcer calls out the names of the starting competitors, but no one can hear him until the trumpets play the opening tune and the crowd quiets. After the horns blare, the man shouts the competitors’ names again, and a round of cheers rumbles from every edge of the tournament field.
A Shaerdanian guard in the kingdom’s blue-and-gold uniform rushes onto our platform. His sudden appearance has Leif leaping up and reaching for his sword. The guards behind me step forward.
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