It was past Deepdark, and the stable was closed and locked.
He set the leather punch where the latch had been nailed to the gate, wedged it between wood and steel. He hammered three feverish strokes, pried the latch away and entered.
In the dark, it took several moments to find River, Father’s horse, and bridle her. He didn’t bother to look for the saddle. Every second brought Julin closer to the slinks.
Grei threw himself over River’s back and burst out of the stable. Adora was there, breathing hard from chasing him. She held up her hands in a pacifying gesture.
“You can’t save him,” she said. “But you can save the others. All the others. You can stop the Debt! Isn’t that what you want?”
“And all I have to do is give them Julin, right?”
“The Imperial Wand will kill you!”
He wheeled River about and galloped away, hooves clacking on cobblestones. He rode out of the city, the covered lantern lights fading behind him as darkness consumed him. Giant elms lined the road, barely visible as they whipped by on both sides. Floating droplets smacked his face hard, blinding him, but he leaned his head forward and squinted, trying to keep the center of the road in view.
River whinnied in protest, but he shook the reins, kicked her flanks, and she pounded forward. He would catch them. He would make them—
He didn’t see the brown-cloaked figure until River was almost upon it. The figure’s arms went up, spooking the horse.
River reared, whinnying. Her hooves scraped on the slick cobblestones; she slid forward and sideways. Her rump smacked the ground, rebounded, and launched Grei headfirst over her neck.
He spun in the darkness, saw the tree a second before he struck it, and all went black.
Chapter 12
Grei
Grei awoke in his own bed. Adora leaned over him, her face pinched with worry. His head pounded and his body ached like he had jumped off Fairmist Falls. He vaguely remembered her arriving, and the brown-cloaked man helping lift him onto a horse under her terse orders.
He sat up, shook his head. He didn’t want to talk to her. He had failed his brother. The slinks had him. They had Julin.
Grei threw the covers off and stood up.
“Grei, you should—”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” he snapped and limped out of the house, past his father who was still at the table, staring unseeing at the bag of gold.
Grei walked through the wet streets, ignoring the pain in his hip and his head, heedless of the water streaming off him, until he came to The Garden. He climbed to a good vantage point and sank into the wet leaves.
The Garden stood at the southeastern edge of the city, surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. It had once belonged to Lord Denshell, a minor noble whose entire family was slaughtered in the Slink War. The emperor had appropriated the spot after Denshell’s death and had turned it into a graveyard for traitors.
The wide area outside the spiked fence had been cleared, and was kept that way by the Highblades. The lord’s manor house stood empty, falling into disrepair over the years. There were no houses or shops nearby, and no one visited who didn’t have to.
Twenty statues stood in the Garden. If there was some pattern to their positions, Grei didn’t know it. They were from all seven regions of the empire, brought here after their betrayal as a warning to any who would defy the Debt of the Blessed.
Grei had only been here once before, when he was eleven. He had looked up at the statue of an angry woman for a long time, mesmerized. Her features had been twisted by rage; her fingers were like claws. Her long hair stuck behind her as she lunged forward.
He still had nightmares about that statue. In them, she grabbed him and screamed an inch from his face, filled with the hatred of every sacrifice to the Debt, of every life taken while Grei and the rest of the empire stood by.
With all the areas around Fairmist he had explored, he had never returned to the Garden after that first visit, not until today.
Leaves rustled behind him. He didn’t have to turn to know it was Adora.
“Come for the service?” he asked tightly. He couldn’t look at her. It hurt to look at her.
She sat down beside him, pushing her blue hood back and wrapping her arms around her knees. She stared at the Garden.
Grei could feel Fern’s arms around him as a child, whispering comfort into his ear as she banished the nightmares about the screaming statue. He could see her warning him as a young man, quietly telling him he must stop talking about the Debt, even though he knew she hated it as much as he did. He could see Julin playing with a crude wooden figure that Grei had carved for him, unaware that Grei was watching him.
Grei would never see either of them again.
Adora shifted, as though she might say something.
“I should have been there,” he murmured.
She was silent for a time, then said, “It wouldn’t have changed anything.”
He looked at her, and he let the anger drip into his voice. “You’re just like everyone else.”
Her gaze was sharp. “They would have killed you. Throwing away your life for no reason doesn’t help anybody—”
“You don’t know. I could have figured something.”
“I do know. You would have died with them. And you can’t. The empire needs you.”
A darkness stirred in him. “Who are you?”
“You want to end the Debt? I’m telling you: you’re the only one who can. And you can’t do that if you’re dead!”
“Secrets secrets secrets,” he hissed. “If you’re the keeper of secrets, tell me this: why did Fern and Julin have to die?”
She opened her mouth as though she would say something, then bowed her head. “That’s not...”
“Not what? Not important to you?”
“I would never hurt your family.”
He looked away from her. Down the street, the cluster of Mourners came, their faces lost inside the cowls of their cloaks. They carried his step-mother on their shoulders like a log.
There were seven of them. Mourners was the name the empire had given the local Highblades who had this duty, a name from the emperor. But they didn’t mourn. Their flesh crept at their burden. He wanted them to take their bloody hands off her.
The Mourners passed through the gateway into the field of statues. They found a patch of earth that wasn’t too crowded, then quickly and quietly lowered her. Her heavy feet thudded into the grass, and they stood her up. A base, two iron bars crossed in an “X”, had been attached to her ankles, making sure that she didn’t fall over. Grei couldn’t see her face from here, but he didn’t need to. Her hands reached out, just like Grei’s nightmare statue, as if she was going to grab the men who carried her. But his step-mother would never reach her aggressor. Her hands would stay like that long after Grei was dead.
The Mourners turned without a word, walking quickly out of the Garden, weaving past the stone bodies.
He turned to look at Adora. Her black and gold hair plastered against her scalp. She was the Forest Girl again, wet and miserable, except this woman was different, dangerous. The Forest Girl had been his perfect fit. This woman was filled with hidden schemes.
“Did you know they were coming?” he asked quietly. “Did you send me into the Wet Woods on purpose?”
“No,” she said. Within the core of his pain, he felt relief. “And yes,” she whispered.
His heart blackened like burning paper. “You knew,” he whispered.
“I didn’t know the Imperial Wand was coming. I swear to you I didn’t know that. But I knew something was going to happen that would endanger you, and that I had to send you away. More than anything, it is important that you live. Your safety is—”
“I don’t want anyone to sacrifice themselves for me!” he shouted.
“Let me help you—”
“Help me? You want to help me? Again, you mean?”
“Don’t—”
“Go back
to your Highblade,” he spat.
She put a hand on his arm. “Let’s go to my room—” she said.
“You’re poison.” He yanked his arm away. The darkness curled inside him. “Spout your lies to someone else,” he spat.
She stared, her mouth open and silent. She let her hand drop. “Don’t do this.”
He let out a short, ugly bark of a laugh. “Don’t do this? Yes, I’ll do something else. Whatever you tell me to do, I’ll do that. Maybe I’ll take another trip to the Wet Woods so you can kill my father, too.”
“I didn’t kill them,” she whispered.
“No, you just got me out of the way.” His lips pulled back in a snarl. “I don’t want your protection and I don’t want you!” He plunged into the forest, the darkness coiling around him.
Chapter 13
Kuruk
“The next Blessed is waiting,” Malik said.
The Blessed was here, had been kept in a stupor for days. Still, Kuruk was not ready. He did not have the strength to make the spell and effect the soul transfer. Not yet. The fight with the Ringblade had taken more out of him than it should have.
“We can kill the boy and wait until next month, Kuruk,” Malik said.
Kuruk rallied his despairing thoughts and looked for the opportunity instead. “No,” he said. “We will use Turoh. We will test his claim.” Kuruk’s plans were finally coming to fruition, but his strength was failing. For seven years, he had filled the Blessed’s human bodies with the souls Lord Velak sent to him from flaming Velakka. But Kuruk’s brothers could not be transferred into human bodies as easily as the wispy Velakkan souls. Kuruk’s brothers had to be born again of a human and a possessed Blessed, a flesh and blood birth, and that took time.
The first birth was a girl named Aylenna within whom he had planted the soul of his brother Turoh. Turoh’s personality had finally surfaced within the girl seven years later, and now she had come to them. The plan was working. Kuruk just had to hold on.
And now there was a new development. Turoh had arrived with a strange claim, that he could make the Velakkan soul transfer without the draining spell that Kuruk used. It sounded unbelievable, but if it was true, then it would save Kuruk the almost unbearable strain of dominating the future Blessed.
“Wake the Blessed,” Kuruk said, standing and leaving his study.
“He has awoken. He sits whimpering,” Malik said.
Kuruk did not remind Malik that he had also whimpered when the Thiaran wizards had thrown them into Velakka. Malik was angry at all humans, not just the Thiarans. That anger kept them all going, but it also stripped away compassion. Kuruk suspected that compassion was something they needed if they were going to make the jump back to humanity. But he decided now was not the time to correct Malik.
“Where is Turoh?” Kuruk asked.
“He is with the Blessed, watching him. And he asks that we call him Aylenna now,” Malik said, frowning.
Kuruk stopped, looked at Malik. “He wants us to call him by his new name?”
“Yes.”
Kuruk thought about that. It distressed him that Turoh didn’t want to claim his old name. But perhaps this was a rightness. This was a new life for Turoh, certainly not a return to their actual childhood. They could never go back. Perhaps Turoh had wisdom in this. How could he pretend to be who he was —how could any of them?— after what they had endured? They could only go forward.
“This is good,” Kuruk said.
“It is good?”
“We will call him Aylenna. That is who he is now.”
“Who she is.”
Kuruk glanced at his frowning brother. “Yes, who she is.”
Malik snorted. They walked the rough-hewn corridors and went to the little cave where they had left the Blessed. Malik’s flaming head filled the cavern with light and revealed the boy, huddled and squinting. He had dirty, tangled brown hair and a skinny body. He was in that human stage between child and adult, the stage Kuruk and his brothers had not had the chance to attain. Yet.
Kuruk saw Turoh leaning against the wall in his girl’s body, arms crossed, hungrily watching the Blessed. No. Not Turoh. Aylenna. The girl that was his brother glanced up at them, then went back to looking at the boy.
“Please!” the boy said. “I-I just want to go home.”
“We all want to go home,” Kuruk said. “But we can only go forward.”
“What will you do with me?” the boy asked, his voice trembling.
“What do Thiarans do with children?” Malik hissed, grabbing the boy’s arm. The boy gasped at the burning touch. “They betray. They make promises and they break them.”
“Let him go, Malik,” Kuruk said.
Malik let his rage run. His hair burned higher, and he leaned toward the Blessed. “What do you think happens to the Blessed?”
“Enough,” Kuruk said.
Malik released the boy and stalked to the far side of the cave.
“Do it,” Kuruk said. “Show us, Aylenna.”
Aylenna walked toward the boy. She had long, dark hair, oiled back like they did in the capitol city, with a white streak along one side.
The boy recoiled from her, scrambling back until he hit the wall.
“Kiss me.” Aylenna cornered him. She put a hand on his arm, another on the side of his neck. Her hand pulled, encouraging him to bend down.
“N-No.”
“I will not hurt you,” she whispered, her fingers caressing his hair. Kuruk narrowed his eyes.
Swallowing hard, the boy leaned down, and Aylenna kissed him. Her hands gripped the back of his head like talons. The boy lurched back and struggled like Aylenna was shooting fire into his mouth, but he couldn’t escape her grip. They wrestled to the ground amidst his muffled screams.
Then Aylenna went limp, falling away from him. The boy rose to his knees, twitching and grappling with his mouth, as if he could snatch out what Aylenna had done.
“No!” he screamed, then fell forward onto his face.
Kuruk went to Aylenna’s side and knelt next to her, watched her. Her chest moved. She breathed. She was not dead.
“She killed him,” Malik said, toeing the body of the Blessed.
“Not killed, Malik.” The boy said with his face against the floor, then he rose, shook his head, and looked around. His eyes flickered red, then returned to normal. He sucked in a long, thin breath. “Transformed!” he hissed. He flexed his fingers once, twice, three times. Kuruk recognized the gesture.
“Zyzzt?” Kuruk asked. Zyzzt had been one of the thousands of flickering flame spirits in Velakka. He used to do that with his flaming hands to entertain the boys.
Zyzzt began to laugh. “Yes!”
Kuruk felt hope swell in his chest. He would not have to perform the arduous spell. He could focus on keeping the yammering voices at bay. He need not worry about losing control every time. He willed his fingers to be cool and put a hand on Aylenna’s forehead, a gesture he remembered from his mother.
“It works,” Kuruk looked up at Zyzzt.
“And more,” Zyzzt said. “You seek the Whisper Prince.”
Malik raised his head at that. “Yes,” he hissed.
“This human was his brother. I know where to find him.”
Malik grinned, showing his Velakkan teeth. “Tell us.”
Part II
The Whisper Prince
Chapter 14
Grei
A lost fair lady cried out in alarm
The Whisper Prince offered his arm
They both ran away
And never did say
Why a princess lay down for his charm
Grei looked down at the slumbering form of the Duchess of the Highward. The fine silk bed sheet covered the curve of her hip and ended just below her shoulder. Her brown curls spilled across the pillow.
He gathered his clothes and walked to the far side of the room. The double doors of the veranda stood open to the Fairmist night, and a sea of floating droplets lay beyond.
The strong wine he had drunk earlier warmed his face and his chest, and made his danger seem small. But if they caught him here, they would kill him. Certainly the duke would.
Good.
He tugged on his pants, one arduous leg at a time, then pulled his tunic over his head. The moon outside lit the droplets, casting a ghostly radiance into the room. Grei slowly pushed a heel into his boot and watched the sleeping face of the Duchess Venderré, who was said to have stood guard over her husband’s injured body, keeping a horde of Benascan savages at bay until reinforcements from Fairmist arrived. That had been six years ago. Supposedly she had been pierced by two arrows and a spear while fighting the savages. Grei had felt the puckered scar on the right side of her hip, next to the bone. He had seen the fierce will behind those dark eyes. He did not doubt a word of the legend.
The night had gone according to plan. Blevins had dared him to add a noblewoman to his conquests. And not just any noblewoman; he had suggested the Duchess Venderré, a Fairmist icon.
Blevins had somehow secured an invitation to one of the royal masquerades, so Grei had walked into the palace unchallenged among the rich costumes, the high ceilings. The sights, sounds and smells were still fresh in his mind:
The ladies wore distracting fragrances, and amidst their colorful masks and heaving bosoms it was all he could do to find the duchess. But striking up a conversation, the most difficult part of it all, was easy for Grei now. He wasn’t holding back anymore. He didn’t care about these wealthy peacocks, riding their bejeweled boats down a river of blood. He didn’t worry and he didn’t hesitate.
So he swam in their waters, peering past their veneers. He used his newfound power against them, the ability he had discovered that night he had looked into Adora. At a glance, he saw that Lady Vargol wished a compliment for her meticulously coiled hair. Lord Gorenen was proud of his foolish dancing. Lady Suffayne had spent a fortune on her dress, and she preened. Lady Piretta was filled with randy thoughts and longed to be ravished by one of the young lords. Any of them would do. In fact, she would rather not know who it was. Such was the mystery of a masquerade.
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