by Amy Ewing
As little as Leo had thought over the years about his mother and grandmother, he’d never once thought at all about his Pelagan grandfather.
“Is he on Culinnon too?” Leo asked. “My grandfather?”
“He died years ago.” She said it as casually as if she were commenting on the weather. “Anyway, the wet nurse used to say that the storm stayed inside my Alethea, the blizzard she was born into shaping the woman she became. It was nonsense but also true—Alethea was restless, she was rash, she was impetuous and could be brutally fierce when she set her mind to something.”
Leo found he rather liked that idea, of his mother inheriting a storm.
“I kept her on Culinnon for as long as I could, but she wanted Ithilia and nothing else. She wanted the lights and energy of the city, the bustle of the markets and the glory of Banrissa. It was not enough that Culinnon holds magic and beauty and mystery. It was not enough for her to wander beneath trees that sing and swim in ponds that sparkled like twilight. It was not even enough that I let her keep Eneas.” She fiddled with a button on her blazer. “I thought with time and patience and structure, she could be tamed. And the tighter I held her, the harder she tried to slip through my fingers. So what could I do? I let her go.”
For a moment, Ambrosine looked older, weary. Her shoulders hunched and she rubbed her temple. “And I lost her. I lost her there forever, though I did not know it at the time.”
Suddenly, a bell chimed out and she straightened, her expression once again cool and commanding. “It is time to dress for dinner.”
She stood and Leo followed suit.
“What—what should I call you?” he asked.
Her mouth twitched like she wanted to smile, or maybe snarl, Leo couldn’t tell. “Why don’t you just call me Ambrosine.”
He felt a pinch of relief. “All right.”
Ambrosine opened the door. “Mckenna will bring you to the dining room when you’re ready. I’m sure she’s found some more decent clothes for you by now.”
“Thank you,” Leo said, then stopped. “Oh, there’s something you should know about Sera.”
The flash of greed in his grandmother’s eyes was as unmistakable as it was unnerving. “And what is that?”
“She doesn’t eat meat,” Leo said, then strode off down the hall, his head spinning at the day’s turn of events.
16
Agnes
AGNES AND VADA JOLTED ALONG THE STREETS OF ITHILIA in the metapar, which was just a cart with one horse and driver and seats that faced backward. The streets were crafted out of all sorts of material, mainly marble, like the walls surrounding the city, but others were cobbled and a few even had jewels studded along their curbs. Most of the buildings were painted white with blue doors and shutters, and all the roofs were lined with tiles that sparkled whenever light caught them.
They drove through bustling squares with fountains featuring various goddesses—Agnes recognized Saifa, and Vada pointed out red-skinned, black-haired Bas, the goddess of death, and Farayage, the goddess of the sea, with rich brown skin and hair as green and tangled as seaweed.
Cafés spilled out onto the sidewalks, with people in all manner of dress. Agnes saw one couple, both men, arm in arm—one wore a fine linen suit that might not look out of place on the streets of Old Port, the other a shimmering silk skirt paired with a lace top. Both had simple crowns of seashells in their hair and their eyes were lined with kohl.
She was once again stunned by the sense that she could be whoever she wanted here, that she could become the Agnes she never fully believed would ever exist. Her hair, free from its bun, tickled the back of her neck in agreement.
They turned up a street that rose steadily higher and when they reached the top, Vada tugged Agnes’s arm and gestured for her to turn around.
The University of Ithilia sprawled out before her and Agnes could not contain her gasp of delight. A long gravel drive lined with cherry trees, their blossoms giving off a sweet fragrance, led up to an imposing, multistoried brick building with wings spreading out on either side and an impressive row of white columns on its front. A few students lounged on the large swaths of lush manicured grass or walked the smaller gravel paths between the main building and various outbuildings scattered throughout the grounds. Agnes’s fingers began to tingle with anticipation—she could already picture the lab, so much bigger than her little closet at home, and all the equipment she would have access to. Professors to teach her instead of outdated musty old books. Her skin prickled at the thought of so much learning, so much potential. Most of the students she saw were women, but there were men among them as well. She could fit in here.
She wondered who her grandmother’s friends were—maybe the dean, or some high-ranking professor. She hoped they would be able to connect her with Ambrosine.
The metapar pulled up to the front doors. Vada hopped down but Agnes climbed out slowly. Her heart was pounding so fast it was like a blur in her chest.
Low marble steps led up to a set of doors emblazoned with the university crest—a falcon with an olive branch clutched in its talons.
If only Eneas could see me now, Agnes thought as she followed Vada into the main foyer. It was a huge echoing space with high ceilings in a jigsaw of teak and maplewood. There was no sign of faculty or students—the foyer was completely empty. It ended at a pair of mahogany doors and just when Agnes was wondering if perhaps they should try another building, the doors opened and three students, two girls and one boy, walked out, chatting excitedly in Pelagan, their arms loaded with books.
“. . . not at all like the rest of the family,” one of the girls was saying. All three stopped short when they caught sight of Agnes and Vada. The other girl and boy wrinkled their noses and Agnes suddenly realized she had not bathed in three days.
“Hello,” Agnes said, the Pelagan flowing off her tongue as if she had been born speaking it. “I’m—” She was about to introduce herself and then thought better of it. “I’m looking for the dean of admissions. I’m meant to have an interview this week.”
The dean seemed like the most likely friend of Ambrosine’s, given that she had sent Agnes her initial acceptance.
The first girl frowned. “The dean has left for the day.”
Agnes’s heart sank. “Oh.”
“Is there anyone else we can speak to?” Vada asked.
“The librarian,” the second girl suggested. “He’s always here.”
She jerked her head to the doors behind them.
Agnes wasn’t sure how a librarian could help, but she’d take somebody over nobody at this point.
“All right,” she said. “Thank you.”
The students left quickly, their whispers fluttering around the cavernous space. Agnes waited until they’d gone and then pulled the heavy door open.
The smell of books enveloped her the moment she stepped inside, parchment and leather and oil, dust and wood and sunlight. The library was enormous and Agnes found herself momentarily stunned. She walked in a daze down a green-carpeted aisle, shelves stretching out before her, until she came to a large central area where tables with little reading lamps and finely upholstered chairs were set at neat intervals. Agnes lifted her gaze and felt dizzy at the sight of three more levels of books, balconies open to the central space with railings of polished bronze.
“Can I help you?”
She jumped as a man with thinning red hair and bifocals appeared from between two shelves. He wore a simple linen shirt that was slightly rumpled, tweed pants, and yellow suspenders. He held two slender books with gilded spines in his hand. Behind the glasses was a pair of clever blue eyes, so pale they were almost clear.
“I’m meant to have an interview this week,” Agnes said. “For the Academy of Sciences. But . . . they told me the dean left for the day.”
“She did,” the man said. “I can leave your name for her, if you wish. Or you can come back tomorrow morning.”
Agnes hesitated, then said, “Actuall
y, I’m looking for someone else.”
“Oh?” the man asked, raising one eyebrow. “How many interviews do you have?”
“It’s not an interview, it’s . . . my grandmother. I’m trying to find her and she told me she has friends here, at the university. I was hoping someone might be able to tell me where she is.”
The pale eyes narrowed. “And who might your grandmother be?”
Agnes swallowed hard. “Ambrosine Byrne.”
The books fell to the floor with a thud. “You are Agnes,” he gasped.
Agnes blinked. “Um, yes.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry I didn’t . . . you have the look of your father.”
“How do you know who I am? Do you know my grandmother?”
The man smiled like the question was amusing in some way. “Yes,” he said. “I know her.”
Relief stabbed through her chest. “Can you help me find her?”
“She has just left Ithilia,” he said. “Only hours ago.”
“Left?” Agnes said, her head spinning. “No. She can’t be gone. She said she would be here.”
“How are you knowing this?” Vada asked.
“Because she told me,” the man said. “Please, allow me to introduce myself. I am Matthias Byrne. Ambrosine is my mother.”
Agnes heard Vada mutter, “Holy shit,” but didn’t think herself capable of speech, though she agreed with the sentiment. She stared at the man who was her uncle and felt he was nothing like she’d been imagining the Byrnes. He seemed so mild mannered, so innocuous. Now that she knew, though, she could just make out Leo’s features in his long nose and the shape of his eyes. Their color, of course, was nowhere near as vibrant, and his chin was rounder, his lips thinner, his cheeks plumper.
He seemed to understand what she was doing. “Alethea got the looks in the family,” he said wryly. “Hektor too. I take after our father.”
This was her mother’s brother, Agnes realized with a start. She felt as if her brain should be keeping up better. Then she remembered Culinnon and took a step backward.
“I don’t want any trouble,” she said.
Matthias frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
Vada stepped up. “We are hearing that you might not be so happy that Agnes has come to Pelago. Word is the Byrne brothers may not want Agnes inheriting Culinnon.”
Matthias’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. Then he began to laugh. “Oh, by the goddesses, did you find the right brother,” he said. “I haven’t been to Culinnon since Alethea died. If I never set foot on its shores again, it will be too soon. This is my home now.” He swept his hand out at the books around them. “And I would never judge someone based on their parentage. Believe me on that.” He turned his keen, clear gaze to Agnes. “Culinnon is all yours if you want it. Though I can’t say Hektor will be happy. But that isn’t for him to decide. He knows how things work.”
“I didn’t even know about Culinnon until I arrived in Arbaz a few days ago,” Agnes confessed. “I didn’t know I had uncles at all.”
Matthias’s kind face crumpled with sadness. “Xavier never told you,” he said, and Agnes shook her head.
“He never told me anything about my mother either,” she said. “I’ve only ever seen one picture of her. I don’t know anything about her family. I don’t . . .” Tears sprang to her eyes, surprising her. She felt helpless and stupid and lost.
“Come with me,” Matthias said, stooping to pick up the books he’d dropped, then leading Agnes and Vada through the maze of shelves until they reached a small office. A leather chair sat behind a desk covered in books and papers, a fountain pen tilted clumsily beneath a lamp with a green shade. There was a small sofa covered in papers against a wall filled with bookshelves and a hard-backed chair by a window with soft muslin curtains that looked out onto the university grounds.
“Please, sit,” Matthias said, gathering up an armful of clutter to make room on the sofa. Vada plopped herself down and Agnes perched on the edge of the chair. Matthias walked around behind his desk, moved a stack of books aside, and picked up a silver-framed photograph.
“This is your mother,” he said softly. “One year before she married your father.”
He held out the photograph and Agnes took it with trembling hands. Her mother was sitting at an outdoor table at a restaurant, a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She wore loose-fitting striped pants and a fur vest, her curls done up on one side and pinned with various seashells. She was laughing at something Agnes couldn’t see, as if someone just behind the camera had made a joke before taking the picture. A much younger Matthias with significantly more hair sat beside her, a shy smile on his face as he watched his sister. Beside him was a sterner man, with many of Alethea’s striking features, but his eyes were dark and held none of her mirth.
Agnes ran her finger over the glass, tracing her mother’s form. She looked so alive, so vibrant. She commanded the attention of everyone at the table. There was even an older woman at a neighboring table who was staring at her.
“She’s laughing in the photograph I have of her too,” Agnes said.
“She loved to laugh,” Matthias said. “She loved to sing and be loud and break the rules. She reveled in being different. Hektor resented her for it. Father indulged her because of it. Mother . . .” He shook his head. “Well, Mother wanted her to be exactly like Mother. And she wasn’t. Not even a little.”
“What did you think about her?” Agnes asked.
Matthias cleared his throat. “She was my best friend,” he said tightly. “She understood that I did not want the things a Byrne was meant to want.”
“Things like what?” Agnes asked.
Matthias moved some more books and sat on his desk. “I’m surprised your Pelagan friend here did not tell you of my family’s reputation.”
“I told her they were rich and powerful,” Vada said with a shrug. “I don’t concern myself with the affairs of the Byrnes very much. As long as I have a ship to sail and cargo to sell, the Byrnes and the Triumvirate can have as many pissing contests as they like.”
Matthias chuckled. “Yes, that’s a very apt way to describe it.” He turned on the lamp as the light began to fade from the sky. “The Byrne family is one of the oldest in Pelago, and certainly the wealthiest. The northern islands are devoted to us, but the Triumvirate has always resented my family’s power. Byrnes have been known to be ruthless. There is a story my mother loves to tell of my great-grandmother, Aileen Byrne, who was tricked by a healing woman into buying a tonic that would supposedly give her everlasting life. The tonic was just lemon juice and spices, and when Aileen discovered this treachery, she had the woman’s tongue and eyes cut out.”
Agnes gasped. “Is that true?”
Matthias shrugged. “It’s a good story. And it is certainly effective. My family has held on to our power through a mix of money, mystique, and intimidation. And Culinnon lies at its heart. I wish I could . . .” He made a sort of strangled choking sound and sighed. “No, I cannot explain it to you. You will have to see it for yourself. The island possesses a sort of . . . well, I hesitate to use the word magic; it sounds so implausible.”
Agnes and Vada exchanged a look.
“No,” Agnes said. “It doesn’t. Not to us.”
Matthias scratched the bald spot on his head. “Very well—there’s something about it that once you leave, you cannot form the words to describe it accurately. I suppose it is one of the island’s ways of protecting itself.”
“You make it sound like it’s a living thing,” Agnes said.
“Like I said, you must see it for yourself. Culinnon possesses greatness, but it is not enough for my mother. There is an even older story, from the earliest days of Pelago, one that my family does not like to tell. One that the Triumvirate would like to forget too.” He glanced at Vada, as if uncertain that he should continue.
“You can trust us,” Agnes said quickly.
Vada touched the fang
that hung at her throat. “On my honor as a smuggler, I will not say a word.”
Matthias inclined his head, and Agnes saw that Vada had given him a secret in exchange. A clever move, Agnes thought as her uncle turned back to her.
“Do you know the three ruling families?”
“The Aerins, the Renalts, and the Lekkes,” Agnes said.
“Correct. But the Renalts weren’t an original Triumvirate family. There was another, called the Shawnens.”
“Shawnens?” Vada said. “I have never heard of them.”
“No, you wouldn’t have,” Matthias said. “This was centuries ago. It has been forgotten why the Byrnes hated the Shawnens so much—a failed marriage contract or a broken deal or some other betrayal of trust. But whatever it was, the Byrnes and Shawnens fought until one side was completely decimated. There are no Shawnens left in Pelago.” A shiver ran down Agnes’s spine. “The Byrnes had hoped to be inducted as the third ruling family, but the Aerin and the Lekke were not wild about the precedent that would set. So they told the Byrne matriarch that if she wanted to be a part of the Triumvirate, she must give up Culinnon.” Matthias took off his glasses and cleaned them on his sleeve. “Needless to say, she declined. And the Lekke and the Aerin had joined their forces together—the Byrnes could not fight two families at once. They retreated back to the north and the Renalts were inducted into the Triumvirate, and the matriarchs of my family have brooded over this slight for generations. It is often said there is a streak of insanity in the Byrne family. But that is not the word I would use.”
“What would you call it?” Agnes asked.
“And insatiable lust for power,” Matthias said. “My mother was furious when Alethea left. She’d had a plan, my sister told me. She wouldn’t give me details but she swore she was never going back to Culinnon again. I was excommunicated soon after, so to speak. I wasn’t Byrne quality, even for a boy. Too soft, Mother said. Too weak. Always with my nose in a book.” Matthias rubbed the back of his neck. “It was drilled into us since we were children how important family was, how necessary our traditions were. But Alethea wanted to live her own life on her own terms. Mother could never forgive her for that.”