by Lyra Selene
“I’m at your command, Majesty,” I murmured around a mouthful of ashes. You knew this was coming. “But perhaps another evening? I wouldn’t want to diminish the glory of this exquisite ball.”
Again that braying laugh, loud and earnest. And with a sinking feeling, I realized I’d done it again—I was bragging. I insinuated that my legacy was so astounding that the ball would pale in comparison. My pride conspired with my mouth and left my brain out of the decision.
“Impossible,” purred the empress. “Really, Mirage. I must insist.”
No escaping that.
I sucked in a deep breath of crimson air. Around me, courtiers retreated, leaving a wide berth. I trawled my gaze around the room one last time, looking for a familiar black robe and smooth pate.
Dowser wasn’t here.
I didn’t expect him to be. Ever since he learned I would be presented at the Blood Rain Ball, Dowser warned me he might not be there. He insisted I practice my chosen illusion over and over, until it was perfect. Perfect from every angle, in every light, under the tightest scrutiny, since I wouldn’t be able to rely on his presence to calm and strengthen me.
No one wants me there, he said. And I don’t want to be there.
I closed my eyes. I didn’t expect it, but part of me had hoped he would show up anyway. For my sake.
I slowed my breathing, focusing on the cool cluster of icy whites and blue golds swirling in the space beneath my heart. In honor of the Blood Rain, I had decided to show the court a vision of a world bursting with vast, wild oceans and cold cascades. It began simply enough: a pool of clear spring water bubbling up from the floor. I closed my eyes and focused on the glass-bright water, the murmuring plash, the blush of sullen light on a ruffled surface. I tasted the fresh, cool kiss of water against my lips.
I surrendered to the sensation, falling into the illusion as I waited for the glister and gleam to spill forth.
Nothing happened.
A snake of dread coiled around my spine.
I tried again, dredging the coruscant reservoir of light and color.
Nothing happened.
Panic shoved my composure to the side and dug pointed fingers between my ribs.
I pushed away the carefully choreographed illusion and reached for any of a dozen half-dreamed reveries. Control. The treacherous thought slithered into my mind, and I obeyed it without thinking, tethering the images to the sinew of my will. I throttled my legacy, forcing grand, impossible visions into its silent depths. A flying ship with bones of glass and wings of steel. Kembric cliffs slicked with lakes of obsidian. Alabaster skin and crinoline eyes, hewn from pale rock and towering like a mountain.
Nothing.
My hands, cold as ice, dropped to my side. A bare few seconds had passed, but already the court was beginning to rustle and whisper, curious and contemptuous. I dared not raise my gaze, but I could feel the empress’s keen eyes on me.
Reality, heavy as a slab of iron, compressed my lungs. It was no use. Despite the intoxicating thrill of finally unlocking my impossible dreams, my legacy had refused to perform when I needed it most. Anything would have been better than this. A small, simple illusion. A pathetic half illusion followed by unconsciousness—even that would have been better than this. This … nothing.
I had failed.
“Mirage?” Severine’s voice forced my gaze up to hers. Her smile was luminous. “Is something the matter? Did you misunderstand my directive?”
I shook my head, slowly, putting off the terrible moment of admitting my failure. Failure. Oh, Scion. Lullaby.
She stood to the side of a grinning Sinister lord. Even from here I could see she was crying—her lovely face wet with tears and her mouth twisted in a grimace of disappointment. I hadn’t just failed myself—I’d failed my mentor. Keep close to her, the empress had said that day in the Atrium. I blame you for her mistakes.
I took a deep breath and shoved my pride beneath the sickly blossom of failure and dread blooming in my chest. I dipped into a deep, fawning curtsy.
“Majesty, I apologize,” I murmured. “I seem to have forgotten how to conjure the smallest illusion. I can only account for it by saying that I have drunk far too much wine.”
“Too much wine?” The empress raised a delicate hand to cover her smile. “Indeed. I can safely say there are many here this Nocturne who understand the feeling. Drinking too much wine can often lead one to, ah, underperform.”
The assembled courtiers roared with sudden laughter, and all the tension drained from the room. The empress gestured, and a sprightly minuet cascaded from the corner, sending men and women lining up across the Atrium. A young lord shoved me out of his way, not unkindly, but without a second thought. I turned a shocked stare to the empress, but she wasn’t even looking at me as she returned to her throne, gilded skirts gathered in jeweled hands.
I was the entertainment of a moment ago. A disappointing one, at that. Time to move on to the next momentary pleasure.
Disappointment and shame and relief and irritation boiled up inside me in a great, heaving stew. I turned on my heel, scanning the crowd for Lullaby. After everything she’d done for me—all the work she had put into my appearance and my comportment—I had to apologize for my pitiful performance.
But my eyes didn’t find Lullaby.
They found Sunder.
He stood by the heavy Atrium doors, a sullen ambric globe brightening his hair to a halo. He was staring right at me, his dristic-ringed gaze a sharp lash in the dim.
My hand flew to my throat. My fingers closed around an expensive jewel, set in kembric and edged with rubies. Sunder smiled like he’d break the world, if only he could grasp its bones.
My heart faltered, then jolted forward in double time. Sunder’s words echoed in the rough-hewn valley between my sense and my sentiment.
You’ll wear it to the Blood Rain Ball.
A command. He ordered me to wear his gift to the ball, and like a rustic half-wit, I obeyed. For a span, Lullaby had warned me the Suicide Twins would exact their revenge for my insults. Yet I had blindly agreed to wear his talisman in front of the entire court. I had even thought well of him for it.
But now—now it seemed so painfully obvious. I didn’t know how it worked—or even what it was—but this waterfall of gems and precious metals around my neck was no mere ornament. I closed my fist around the necklace, the crisp facets of the jewels biting into my palm. I’d pull it off, I’d march back over to the empress, I’d insist I was enchanted, I’d demand another try, I’d—
Sunder was gone.
A raging beast frothed in my chest. I shoved through the crowd, pushing dancers and servants out of my way as I marched toward the end of the Atrium. Sunder’s sword-sharp smile carved a bleeding gash in my composure, and I couldn’t banish the sound of his voice convincing me to accept his gift. What had possessed me to trust him?
Part of me already knew. I had dreamed him up. Not the hard line of his jaw, or the chilly slash of his evergreen gaze, or the elegant sweep of his broad shoulders. But I must have imagined the uncertain pulse of bleak remembrances behind his eyes, the jealous tone that cracked his voice like agate, the blur of hesitation whenever he touched me.
That Sunder had to be an illusion. Because I couldn’t fathom a world in which both of these men existed.
I stalked Sunder through the palais.
Outside the Atrium, it wasn’t hard to spot his bright head bobbing between the sultry red lamps lining the dusky halls. He didn’t glance over his shoulder as he strolled through bands of gloom and glow, although my heels clicked loud on the marble behind him. He knew I was following him, and his indifference stoked the flames of my fury like a bellows. By the time we reached the collection of suites I’d come to know as Belsyre Wing, I burned with a rage that blistered my skin and hollowed my bones.
Sunder pushed through a gate that appeared to be fashioned from long runnels of ice. I followed, curiosity drawing my gaze and pouring cold water ove
r the embers of my anger. It wasn’t ice at all; the gate was cunningly crafted from glass and jewels and suffused with moisture to make it gleam. My fingers, when I dragged them along the pointed spines, came away wet.
Sudden doubt raised the hairs along my arms. I ignored it, shoving through the flimsy gate into a jardin made from winter.
We had winter in the Dusklands, where the earth froze hard as forged metal and the rugged vegetation bloomed with flowers of frost. But I’d heard stories of other kinds of winter, in the Meteor Mountains—where blankets of white fell heavy on broad-limbed trees, where waterfalls froze into châteaux of ice, where the cold was a living thing. I’d dreamed of that winter world.
Sunder’s jardin was like waking up in that dream.
Pillows of purest white piled high on the glazed trunks of black trees. Shimmering blossoms of bright ice dangled like secrets between the stark boughs. My breath clouded the air before me. Silence hung thick enough to taste, a hush as tangible as a name or a wish.
“What is this place?” I breathed, and Sunder turned to face me.
In this white womb of ice and solitude, Sunder finally seemed fathomable. His black waistcoat was the same stark ebony as the trees reaching bare, mournful arms, the silver tooling like frost trellising bark. His defined cheekbones were carved of ice, his skin like snow. And his eyes—his eyes were winter. Cold metal and harsh memories, frozen behind frosted glass.
Abruptly, I remembered I was supposed to be livid with anger. I grimaced, wrapped my hand around the hateful necklace hanging from my neck, and pulled. The clasp snapped with an audible pop. Jewels cascaded into my palm. I raised the necklace to catch the flat white winter light, then flung it at Sunder. It struck the ice-glazed floor and slid with a whisper to knock against his boots.
Sunder glanced at the jewelry, then returned his unreadable gaze to my face.
“Well?” I snapped, frustration making me impatient. “What are you waiting for? What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I was waiting to see if you were going to take off the rest of your clothes and fling them at my feet.”
The gibe was rude, and consummately Sunder, but fell flat, as though his heart wasn’t in it. A smirk died in the corner of his mouth. He turned on his heel and stalked farther between the snow-draped trees. I opened my mouth, then stormed after him. I would not be denied an explanation.
“You tricked me!” I snarled. “You gave me that enchanted necklace to stop me from performing illusions. You wanted me humiliated in front of the empress and the court. See?”
I held out my hand and conjured the illusion I’d practiced with Dowser. The clear, bright water poured from my fingertips, easy as breathing. I closed my fist, and the illusion trickled away. Sunder watched, unimpressed. His shoulders curled into a shrug.
“So?”
“So?!” I spluttered. I took another step, but I felt off-balance, as though every time I found myself on sure footing the path veered in another direction. “So why did you do it? Was it revenge, for what I said about you and Bane? Were you trying to punish me? Are you still trying to manipulate me into running away from the palais, like that Nocturne at the Gauntlet?” Another thought sidled into my mind, a thought that dragged my mouth open in horror. “Or did the empress command you to do it? Were you under orders to shame and humiliate me in front of the entire court?”
Sunder sighed, and lifted his gaze to the black trees. Wind whispered, and a shower of snow flurried between the branches. The flakes danced before my face, and when I looked close I could see the individual crystals, meticulous and fine. I reached out my palm, but the snow disappeared before it alit, insubstantial as one of my illusions.
“I had this place enchanted,” Sunder murmured, and I wasn’t sure whether he was talking to me or to the trees. “There was a girl—a Dexter girl—named Shiver. All she ever wanted to do was create places like this. Beautiful, cold, intricate sculptures. She loved the touch of ice, the brush of snow, the way winter never promises anything it doesn’t intend to give. So I had her build this jardin for me.”
“Why?” I asked, to fill the drowning silence.
“It reminds me of home.” His eyes cut to mine. “Belsyre. It’s not a forgiving place. Icy winds scream between valleys scooped from black rock. We tear out the bones of the earth and forge them into wealth. It’s always cold. Death is a constant companion. But the pines are old and sturdy. The tigers are white as snow, and clever as men. There is something clean, and precise, and fair about winter. It has no patience for wealth, or power; it only values vigilance.”
I listened, astonished. I’d never heard Sunder put so many sentences together in one breath, and there was none of the sneering lord in his tone. For the first time since our regrettable meeting, I believed the words falling from his mouth.
“And the girl?” I said, at last. “What happened to her?”
“She needed help.” His fingers twitched tersely toward the edge of the trees. “So I helped her.”
My eyes followed his indication. A white statuette of a slender girl leaned between the trunks. Her head was bowed, and icicles fell from her eyes and down her nose, making her look as though she was crying.
A corresponding trickle of ice trailed down my spine. Curiosity and horror battled for dominance within me. Horror won. I yanked my gaze away from what I thought was marble, but could just as easily be flesh and ice and impossible magic.
“No,” I whispered. “You wouldn’t. You couldn’t.”
“I helped her,” Sunder repeated, and his gaze on my face was flat and unpitying. “Has the thought ever occurred to you that I might be trying to help you too?”
“Help me?” Disgust twisted my face. I fought for control over my expression. “If that’s your idea of help, I don’t want anything to do with it!”
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t.” Sunder’s face hardened into its usual mask of disdain and cruel amusement. “You can leave now. You’re bleeding on my snow.”
Shock forced my gaze to the ground, and I saw he was right, in a way; the wine-dark hem of my gown, drenched in melting snow, had left great lacerations of dye across the bone-white floor of Sunder’s winter jardin. I gathered the sodden hem in my hands, but that only served to smear the bloody gashes further. I bit my lip and did as I was told, retreating to the gate. Sunder paced a step behind me.
I paused outside the gate, emotions whirling within me. I only distantly remembered why I’d come in the first place, and the interaction had left me feeling cold and disappointed, as though I expected something different from what I was given. I whirled on my heel to once more meet Sunder’s dispassionate gaze.
“Why—?”
“Do you know what my sister does, on evenings like these?” Sunder asked, his voice the unexpected slice of a sharpened blade.
My head jerked back. Again, I felt as though the path I took here had veered suddenly in a different direction, leaving me stranded in an unfamiliar wilderness. I shook my bewildered head.
“On evenings like these,” Sunder murmured, “other courtiers, drunk on wine and lust, seek pleasure in each other’s company. They flit behind pillars and steal sweet kisses. They use touch like a weapon, their hands on each other’s bodies, stroking and exploring. Their breath mingles, warmed by shared desire.”
His words ignited a thrill of heat in my veins.
“My sister, on evenings like these,” Sunder continued, “retreats to her chambers. She tears pins from her hair and scrubs rouge from her lips. She hides in her bed, and she weeps. She weeps because her breath is venom, and to taste it would mean sickness and pain. She weeps because a single touch from her finger would drive a person mad. She weeps because her lips are poison, and a kiss from her turns a man or woman into a pile of rotted, putrid flesh.”
“And you?” His words scored my heart with lines of ice, but I couldn’t ignore one obvious fact: He was trying to manipulate me. As usual. “What do yo
u do, on evenings like these? Play vicious pranks on unwitting Dusklanders? Deal pain with a touch? Make a game of seduction? Yes, my lord, you have my deepest sympathies for your sad plight.”
“Do not mock what you don’t understand.” His eyes were a glacier, cold and unyielding. “We are bound to our power, just as it is to us. And every legacy has its consequences.”
“Prestige, fortune, and admiration,” I hissed. “Consequences indeed.”
“You think you understand this world, demoiselle,” he whispered, leaning closer. That sharp tang of genévrier needles slapped me in the face. “You think you hear Dexter, or Sinister, and you know what that means. Good, evil, legacy. Pain, poison, power. You imagine these words bound up and trussed away, with clear outlines and hard borders. But they are alive, seething with a complexity you refuse to acknowledge.”
I opened my mouth to keep arguing, but Sunder reached a finger toward my lips. He hesitated at the last second, curling his hand back to his side. An involuntary gasp tore at my throat.
“There are worlds of understanding you have failed to envision,” he said. “We are only as blind as the things we refuse to see.”
The ice gate swung shut in my face, leaving me dripping scarlet dye in an empty hallway and wishing I’d never, ever come.
I tottered back along the Esplanade toward Lys, my thoughts choked with poison and ice.
I didn’t want to believe one insidious word out of Sunder’s twisted mouth. But I didn’t think he was lying—not about Bane, at least, and the consequences of her legacy. I couldn’t exorcise the image of her scraping cosmetics from her perfect face and weeping because she could never be touched, never be held, never be kissed.
What had he said, the Nocturne of the Gauntlet? None of us are ever fully in control of our legacies. Some of us never are.
Surely the touch of Sunder’s hand was not inevitably laced with pain. I’d heard rumors of his conquests, his seeming parade of paramours. I doubted many maidens enjoyed a lover’s gaze that seared with actual fire. I suddenly wondered what it would be like to kiss him, whether—