I took a long drink of the hot liquid. It burned my tongue, and the bitterness stole my breath, despite the added honey. She hadn’t outright said she suspected anything, that I was unusual. Yet she studied me like my tutors devoured a brand-new book they’d never read. What Yesilia said about healing, about focusing the mind, and the willingness of the body to change, it sounded…it sounded an awful lot like magic.
“I’ve heard tales of the royal family in Hálendi, that they can…could”—I took another gulp—“do something similar. The prince heir, in particular.”
She leaned forward and set her cup on the table, eyes bright. “When Kais enchanted the Ice Deserts, his magic awoke the land itself.” My hands started to shake at hearing my people’s history from her lips. History I’d only recently learned from my father and brother and Master Hafa.
“You mean the Wild?” I set my drink on the table and tucked my hands in my lap. The shining lake. Forgetting the pain. Forgetting. I shivered and focused on the hard chair beneath me.
She nodded. “Over time, the magic awoke in the people as well. Nothing extreme like what had been on the Continent—that magic sleeps. But extra abilities and propensities, some for healing or for farming the land, others for becoming a warrior or protecting others.”
Yesilia had magic. That was what it all came down to. Yesilia, and if what she said was true, others here in Turia. I leaned forward, my elbows on the table, my head in my hands. If the mage hadn’t attacked, if everything hadn’t fallen to pieces, this would be my home. A place full of people who might have accepted me—white streak and all.
Yesilia paused, her eyes growing heavy. Her shoulders dropped.
“Are you all right?” I asked. She hadn’t looked this tired since I arrived.
She yawned. “I am well, child. Healing like that takes its toll on this frail old body, that’s all.” She pulled herself to stand and gathered both our cups. “Marko tells me not to overtax myself, but I know my limits. I know when not to force it.”
She turned away, but I called out. “What happens if you use too much?” I wished I had my drink back, something to hold to keep from fidgeting. Yesilia studied me again, assessing, a graveness in her countenance I’d not seen before. She couldn’t know my secret, could she? She’d never even glanced at my hair.
“If you use too much of yourself, your body won’t have enough energy left to maintain its own basic functions.” She tipped her head down, staring into my eyes. “If you use too much, you die.”
The door to the healing chamber burst open. “Lady Yesilia!” a frantic woman called out.
Yesilia went to meet her. I stayed by the shelf, Yesilia’s words echoing in my mind. No one had mentioned that little fact. Maybe that was the one good thing about the tethers being broken. I adjusted a jar, wondering which herbs this woman would need.
“You must come,” the woman continued. “Their Majesties are attempting to finalize the menu for the ball, and cannot decide. They’ve asked you to come and help.”
Yesilia heaved a long-suffering sigh. “All right, I’ll be there.” She turned to me and took my elbow. “Come along, child. I have some books I’d like you to find in the library while I’m away.”
I stumbled after them, the guards casting me wary glances when I left the chambers. As we got farther into the palace, tapestries of wide fields and wild red poppies covered the walls, with bits of green growing in nearly every corner. I’d never seen so much life inside before. Servants darted up and down the halls, most carrying linens or crates of decorations, others running faster with messages. We hadn’t held many celebrations at the castle in Hálenborg, and I’d never seen such a frenzy over a ball before.
I had the turns memorized by the time we reached the large mahogany doors of the library.
“Master Romo can help you, if he’s in,” Yesilia said as the frantic servant rocked on her toes with a nervous glance at me. “Stay here until I collect you. Don’t wander,” she finished.
Did she know about my escape this morning? Either way, she’d led me exactly where I wanted to be.
“Take your time,” I whispered as I stared at the beautifully carved doors, with part of a tree on either side.
Yesilia chuckled and turned the corner, and for a brief moment, I was alone in the hall.
I wasn’t sure I could walk in. Facing this library made me long for the one at home. But Ren wouldn’t breeze into the room looking for me. A servant passed in the hall. I felt his eyes on my back, so I lifted my chin and pulled the big doors open.
The smell was the same; the dust was the same. It even felt the same. It was two stories tall, with a wraparound balcony, accessed by a wide stairway. Heavy golden drapes hung next to enormous windows, which allowed light to bounce around the room, illuminating the tables and chairs in the middle, and the many shelves fanning out perpendicular to the outer walls.
“May I help you?”
The voice startled me, and I bumped into the doorframe, which I hadn’t yet passed all the way through. An old man with white hair looked on with kind, curious eyes. His skin was wrinkled and weathered from years in the sun, but he stood tall.
“Yesilia sent me to get these books.” I held out the scrap she’d written the titles on.
He cocked his head, taking in my accent, light hair, and fair skin. Instead of demanding proof, he nodded and pointed out the different sections of the library. “I am Master Romo, Miss Aleinn. If you need help finding anything, please let me know.”
I wasn’t surprised he knew who I was—word always traveled quickly between servants.
Wait. He seemed familiar, but I couldn’t— Oh. The day I’d arrived. He’d been in the courtyard; he’d addressed Enzo by his title. “Aren’t you the steward?”
He dipped his head. “Yes, I am head steward, but I am keeper of the records as well.” He smiled, the wrinkles deepening around his eyes. “I would know where any of the more unusual manuscripts are, if you find you need direction.”
I nodded and followed him into the room, shoving down the memories from my past that pushed up emotions I couldn’t afford to feel.
Master Romo showed me to the section where the books on herbs and other remedies were. I thanked him, and he went back to his corner, studying a massive tome, which occupied almost an entire table. Yesilia’s books were in the middle row of a shelf almost twice as tall as me. I pulled them down and tucked them under my arm. A book on the row higher caught my eye, and I ran my finger down the design on its spine—a sword pressed into the leather. There was no title, only the name of the author in the lower corner. Jershi. The name rang familiar, but I couldn’t remember why.
I pulled it from the shelf, opening the worn binding carefully. Magical Lore, the title read, History and Usage, Vol. 1. The memory came, sharp and clear—this was the Turian scribe I’d read about on my birthday, the scribe who’d studied magic.
Half of the shelf in front of me, and the entire next two shelves, contained his writings. Dark, aged spines, worn with weather and use, called to me. Much of the rest of the row looked to contain works on magic or history, too. My jaw hung slack at the abundance of information available. It would take ages to search through everything. But I had to find the answers before the mage found me.
I sat back in the hard, wooden chair and rubbed my eyes with the palms of my hands. I’d been tucked away in a corner surrounded by old, decaying books and fragments of manuscripts for hours. It had to be nearing dinner, and I’d skipped the noon meal, though Master Romo had offered to request a food tray. I didn’t want anyone to remember I was still here, didn’t want to be banished to the healing chamber again.
If what I was reading was correct—and I had no reason to doubt it—we were in big trouble.
According to Scribe Jershi, there were three original mages and an apprentice that the first emperor on the Conti
nent, Emperor Gero, fought against. Gero defeated the Black Mage, the leader of the evil mages. Then there was the Red Mage, who was known for a gold-hilted knife and unnaturally red hair—some thought it was stained with blood from all the souls the mage had tortured out of their bodies.
Last, there was the Gray Mage, whose apprentice was known as the Brown Mage. The Gray Mage was the most cunning of all the mages of that time, save only the Black Mage, and notoriously slippery. His was the only name mentioned in the text: Graymere.
He rode a gray stallion and was known for his shade mages—echoes, elements of his energy who wielded black swords and did his bidding. They could even use magic—nothing as complicated or deadly as Graymere’s, just a shadow of his power.
Just like the shadowmen in the forest.
And there were more notes on the black blades. The first stated that they would react as poison to the magic inside anyone pierced by the blade. The second warned that anyone who tried to wield a shade mage’s weapon would become a shade mage, too, forever bound as a slave of the Gray Mage. I shivered, remembering how my ring had pushed my hand away when I tried to pick up the unnatural sword in the forest, how close Enzo had been to touching the one in the meadow.
Graymere had been banished to the Ice Deserts. The scrap of burned parchment had hinted at magic being used against Hálendi’s troops near that wasteland.
The dread swirling inside hardened into a knot at the base of my throat.
Could the gray-cloaked mage be the original mage from Gero’s day? Would he have survived all these centuries since the Great War? But if he was with me in the middle of the Wild, someone else had killed my father and brother—both had died at nearly the same hour, miles from my caravan. Could three mages be in play?
Magic, Jennesara, is not always predictable, Master Hafa had said.
I bit the inside of my cheek and closed my eyes. The mage had said something to Aleinn, before he…I swallowed and gripped the rough table, its edges digging into my palms.
The mage had pulled her hair back, leaned close. His lips had moved. I saw it clearly now, etched as it was in my brain.
I told you I’d have my revenge, Kais.
My hands shook as I peeled them away from the table. That didn’t seem like something an imitator would say. It seemed like—
“Aaaeeii!”
The high scream pierced the silence. I jumped up, knocking my chair over. A streak of dark brown ran at me. I reached out, grabbed my assailant around her middle, and turned her upside down, pinning her arms against her torso.
“I think screaming gives away the attack, Marietta.” I spoke casually, like I was simply commenting on the youngest princess’s style, but my heart pounded wildly. Marietta smiled, a dimple in one cheek, her face turning red and her corkscrew-curly hair hanging to the floor.
“I thought adding a scream would do nicely in the library. They say Hálendians are all great warriors.”
I laughed and let her ankles go, folding her over so she could stand right side up again. “Not all of us. You nearly had me, but it would take a greater surprise to catch me off guard.”
She just smiled wider and stuck her hand on her hip, accepting my challenge. “I’ll get you, Leinn, when you least expect it!” Then she waggled her eyebrows and sidestepped out of view into the next aisle. Her footsteps squeaked as she snuck into the hallway.
I chuckled and bent down to right my chair when a soft sniffle emanated from somewhere within the library. I wouldn’t have heard it had I not been listening to Marietta leave, but there it was again, followed by a shuddering breath. Someone was crying. I glanced in the direction of the sound, and then back at the book I had been studying.
Greymere. I shivered thinking that the evil man I’d barely escaped from had a name. The original mages. I was a descendant of the man who chased them into the Ice Deserts, who banished them. The Gray Mage—Graymere—coming after me was more than an assignment. It was personal.
The next sound was small, like a nose being wiped. I sighed, added the book to Yesilia’s pile, and carried all three with me. I crept up the stairs and padded across the stone floor toward an alcove. The heavy drapes had been partially drawn—open enough to let in the sunlight, closed enough to conceal someone.
I peeked around one of the gold panels and saw Chiara, alone on a window seat, weeping silently into her hands.
I took a deep breath, stepped behind the panel of fabric opposite her, and sat, folding my legs while she composed herself and wiped her eyes with a wet handkerchief.
“Aleinn, I— What do you want?” She sniffed and brushed away the last of her tears. I wasn’t sure what to say, so I stayed silent—when it had been me weeping alone in the castle, I’d only wanted someone to listen.
“Enzo told me how you saved him from that shadowman,” she murmured, folding the handkerchief into a small square. “Thank you for that.”
I leaned back against the wall and adjusted the books on my lap. “He saved me as well—we fought together.” My finger traced the books’ spines. “Do you want to talk about whatever happened that made you want to hide away?” I asked hesitantly.
She unfolded and refolded the handkerchief. “It’s nothing, really. I’m fine. Just something someone said.” She sniffed again and watched my reaction, waiting to see if I would accept that answer and move on.
I scratched my hair under the yellow scarf and smiled, pretending I spoke to other girls my age all the time. The window looked out over a maze garden. Neck-high green shrubbery wound in a pattern that created several private alcoves, a gurgling fountain the prize in the middle.
Chiara had inherited her father’s piercing eyes. She took my measure in the quiet window seat. Deciding if she would trust me or not. I held my breath until she spoke.
“I feel trapped sometimes,” she whispered.
A warm sort of tightness bloomed in my chest—I knew what a privilege it was for her to trust me. How few people I had trusted. I kept my gaze outside.
“Not trapped in a physical sense—I love my home and my family,” she continued, and leaned her head against the bookshelf behind her, the soft evening light reflecting off the drapes, cocooning us in a world of solace and gold.
“I feel trapped by who I am supposed to be, who I want to be, and who people expect me to be. I want…” She glanced up at me, and I nodded. “I want to be able to be who I am without people throwing their expectations on me to be either more or less. I want room to make mistakes and grow, without people judging and laughing at me.”
I didn’t have any answers, but how often had I felt the same? Ren had always managed to cheer me up, so I shrugged and did my best to imitate him. “If you give me their names, I can take care of them, Princess.” My lips twitched. Would she hear the joke?
She half sobbed, half laughed in response. “I doubt my father would approve.” She wiped her nose again. “It’s not only that. I hate how much calculation goes into every conversation, every ‘chance’ meeting. I feel like I can’t be my true self around most people, because it would scare him off—scare them off, I mean.”
She took a deep breath and got a little bolder. “I feel like around certain people I have to hide who I am. Like my title alone is all I can be. If I were to add my personality onto that, I would somehow be less…desirable.” Her shoulders rounded in on themselves, and she brushed a stray lock of hair aside. Her normally tame waves were disheveled, like she had run here fast.
I paused for a moment, sifting through my thoughts. I wished Ren could be here—he always gave me the exact advice I needed. “Princess—”
“I don’t want to be a princess right now. It’s Chiara, please.” She smiled tentatively. She looked so young, curled up on the window seat, her hair falling around her, her hands smooth, and her eyes lit from within. I didn’t know how old she was exactly, but I do
n’t think I had looked like that ever in my life. Not since losing my mother, at least.
“How old are you? Fifteen?” It was incredibly impolite to ask, but our cocoon made me drop propriety.
“Sixteen, actually. And…you?”
With a sharp ache, I missed Aleinn’s warm smile and the confidences we’d shared. “Seventeen.”
She grinned, and we shared something in that awkward moment of normalcy, like a secret channeled between us, connecting us together. Connecting us as friends.
“My brother used to tell me that there will always be people who want to tear you down,” I said. “When they’d laugh at me or make me feel inferior, he’d always bump my shoulder and say, ‘Chin up. They lose their power when you stop giving it to them.’ ” I lost myself in the memories. Of Ren defending me, strengthening me, helping me be more than I would have been on my own. Something fluttered where the tethers had been.
“Your brother is a smart man,” Chiara said, breaking the moment.
I blinked my eyes open—I hadn’t realized I’d closed them—and tried to smile but didn’t succeed. “He was.” Her brow furrowed in confusion, then her eyes widened in sorrow.
I turned back to the window and willed a tear not to fall. “Don’t tell anyone about him, please. Although I think he would have liked you.” I shifted the books in my lap so I could unfold my legs and stand. “Do you have an attendant or someone else I should find?” Yesilia had asked me to stay in the library, but I didn’t want Chiara to have to brave the busy hallways on her own, not with puffy eyes and a red nose.
She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, reaching up to repin her hair. “My guard is…” She frowned, and my senses heightened. “I don’t want to bother him.”
I shifted the load in my hands. “Well,” I started, hoping I wasn’t overstepping our newly formed friendship. “I think Yesilia forgot to retrieve me. Would you walk with me back to her chambers?”
Chiara straightened, the first true smile on her face since I’d heard her sniffling. “Of course! My grandmother is a wonderful healer, but she’s a little forgetful when she gets focused on something.”
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