by Jodi Meadows
I pressed my mouth into a line as I yanked away my arm. “It doesn’t hurt.”
“Will, you—” He shook his head and slumped. “I was going to suggest you don’t have to lie to me—to pretend to be someone you’re not. But I suppose I can see why you might not believe that.”
“How can I believe anything you do or don’t say? How can I believe your actions?” I curled my hands into fists and stared at them. There was no reason he should trust me, either; I was a thief, and an impostor. And worse. I shifted my tone, filling it with more regret. “You said it wouldn’t work for us. That you have other obligations.”
He exhaled. “That night in the breezeway—that was the truth of my feelings.”
“The truth of your actions doesn’t forgive the betrayal in them. What about your fiancée? What if you’d already been married? Would you have done the same?”
“Of course not.” He pulled back, indignant.
“There’s only one side of you I want.” I lifted my eyes to his. “And I’m willing to gamble there’s only one side she wants, too. You have to choose who you are.”
“I know.” Tobiah stood and stepped back, one graceful movement. “I have to go now, but you’ll be out of here soon.”
How had he fooled me for so long? How had he been so completely different? “You’re going to let me go?”
“I know you didn’t kill my father.” Grief pierced his words. “You aren’t a murderer.”
“I tried. Once. You stopped me. It wouldn’t be a stretch to believe I might try again.”
“But you didn’t commit this murder. We were together.” For a half second, his eyes dropped to my lips. “You know where to find me. I’ll have your things.” Our eyes met again briefly, and then the cell bars squealed and he was gone.
THIRTY-ONE
ALONE AGAIN, I sat back and struggled to breathe. Black Knife was Tobiah. Tobiah was Black Knife.
The boy I loved was my enemy. The boy I couldn’t stand to be near.
It also meant Tobiah had known who I was from the very beginning—from the moment I stepped into the king’s office and our eyes locked. I’d been so worried he would know me from Aecor. It had never occurred to me I should worry that he’d know me from all of his crime fighting.
He didn’t know I was Wilhelmina, though. That secret, at least, was still mine.
I sank lower onto the bench, and sank deeper into my confused emotions.
But how—how—could they be the same? One boy smiled all the time, even if I never saw it, and the other was so thoroughly unimpressed with everything and everyone. One boy sought me out and fought for my attention, maybe even my affection, and the other ignored my existence except when manners forced him to acknowledge me.
And he was getting married. Tobiah was engaged.
They couldn’t be the same. They needed to be different boys so I hadn’t fallen in love with a boy I couldn’t have.
He’d tried to stop me, though. And he’d stopped himself, when I was ready to lose myself.
While I’d been quietly falling in love, it had never occurred to me he might already have someone. Even if he didn’t love her, they’d be married as soon as he set a date. How very human of him to fall for someone with such a perceived low rank.
Shame, betrayal, and longing seeped through me, filling every pore. Black Knife became a whirlpool that sucked at my thoughts.
At least knowing it could never work meant I didn’t have to stay the hurt boiling inside of me. I just had to contain it for now, and figure out my next moves: what to do about Patrick, and what to do about the thing I made in the wraithland.
Drip drip drip.
Soon, regardless of our actions tonight, our kingdoms would be at war. After all, he couldn’t just give up Aecor to me. Could he?
But why would he? Kissing wasn’t a good enough reason, and I couldn’t think of any political advantages to releasing a valuable piece of land, even if it was to stop a minor war. He’d be viewed as a weak king from the start. His uncle, the Overlord of Aecor Territory, would be furious. Tobiah wouldn’t be able to do it.
No, tonight would be the last time I’d see him. If I ever did again, it would be from across a battlefield.
Nightmares chased me for hours.
Only the occasional thump of boots and the steady drip of water kept me from drowning in memories of the wraithland: white mist swirling all around, lonely whispers breathing my name, and something intangible reaching for me.
What was I going to do about the wraith that knew my name?
A heavy gown swished in the hallway, jerking me from uneasy sleep.
“My lady!” a guard cried. “You can’t go down there—”
“I can, and I will.”
I sat straight and wiped my face clean, trying to look as though I’d been waiting for my visitor.
A minute later, Lady Chey stood outside the bars, her hands behind her back and a satisfied smirk on her lips. “Well, this is exactly what I’ve been waiting to see.”
I didn’t move to greet her, or curtsy, or even change my expression. I put on my silence like armor.
“I knew you weren’t Julianna.” She shifted her weight to one hip, making her russet gown sway. “I knew Julianna years ago, when we were children.”
My expression remained neutral.
“I traveled to Liadia with my family,” she said, “and she and I became friends. We wrote letters for years before the kingdom went under martial law. Before the wraith ate up her land. In that last letter, she was so afraid of what was happening. She talked about being imprisoned in her own house, with guards leering at her from the halls. She said how the king had gone mad with his victory over the wraith—even though no one thought the barrier would hold. She wanted to leave, to come here and stay with me, but she couldn’t escape her own rooms.” Chey swallowed hard, and blinked away evidence of her sorrow. “There were tearstains on the paper. It smelled of wraith. She must have written the letter just days before their barrier fell.”
My eyes ached with grief for that girl. Terrified. Alone. Having visited the wraithland myself, I knew how horrific it could be.
“And then you came. When I heard Julianna was here, I was thrilled to think she might have escaped.” Chey dragged in a long breath. “Imagine my disgust when I found you instead. Pretending to be my friend. Stealing the identity of a dead girl.”
I gave a slight nod. “I imagine you were furious.”
“Everyone knows what you are now. I’ve made sure of that.”
Certainly, she had tried. “Good-bye, Chey.”
“You don’t get to dismiss me.” She stepped closer to the bars. “You don’t get to do anything ever again, except sit there and rot. Oh, and I brought you this.”
She tossed a small wooden object into the cell, followed by a lump of white clouds, and then strode off, as regal as ever.
Only when the swish of her dress and stomp of her footsteps faded did I get up to see what she’d left for me.
It was a spindle and wool.
A guard fetched me. The sky was black as I was escorted to the city gates and kicked out with the refugees.
Maybe it was my imagination, but there were fewer people here than usual. Many of the refugees wore backpacks; some had ponies with clothes and supplies dripping from overstuffed saddlebags. Hooves stomped. Bridles and halters clinked.
I stood there, dressed in all black, clutching my mask inside my pocket, and dithered. Tobiah had said he’d bring my things to the breezeway, but the sooner I returned to the old palace, the better. Besides, did I really want to face him now? Black Knife and Tobiah had been separate people for so long; how could I just make them into the same person? How could I talk to Black Knife anymore, now that he was also Tobiah?
Then again, Tobiah had my things. There was no reason to believe he hadn’t looked at my notebook yet, but if he did, he’d know who I was, as well as what I’d done in the wraithland. I needed that back. And my dagge
rs. I was naked without my weapons.
Shivering in the cold autumn wind, I looked up to find a growing crowd of refugees staring openly. They pointed and gawked, a few of them daring within arm’s reach. “Are you Black Knife?” one girl asked.
I flinched. “No.”
“You look like Black Knife.” She touched my elbow and leapt back. A man caught her shoulders and nudged her, and they both shuffled closer again. “You dress like Black Knife.”
“Well, I’m not him.” I edged away, trapped in the torchlight that illuminated the wall and the cook fires scattered about the camp. The refugees’ shadows grew long and distorted in the jumping light.
“Are you going to save us from the wraith monster?” asked the girl. “Everyone is leaving because of it.”
The packed horses and ponies drew my attention again. On the far side of the camp, several people tore down their lean-tos and rounded up children. The clatter of dozens of people preparing to move out finally pierced my haze, and I narrowed my eyes at the little girl. “What wraith monster?”
Her eyes grew so wide I could see the whites all around her irises. “The one that screams for a lady.”
The thing I created. I’d assumed I would have time to think and plan. But no.
It was coming for me.
My heart thundered in my ears, deafening. I had to get back to the old palace. I had to stop the wraith. I had to do something—I just didn’t know what.
“Are you going to help us, Black Knife?” The girl and her father approached again. She reached for me, fingertips brushing my thigh.
I curled my hands over my hips; only the spindle and wool were in my belt, meant as a gift for Theresa, who’d enjoy it. No daggers. No weapons. “I’m not Black Knife.”
“Please stop the wraith.” Others grew bold, moving toward me with halting steps. They were afraid of me, but not frightened enough—or simply more afraid of the wraith closing in on the Indigo Kingdom. And who could blame them, after what they’d been through?
But now, they came closer, pressing at me on all sides to touch my hair, my clothes, my face. One took the spindle and wool.
“Black Knife,” someone murmured. “You’re really here.”
“Black Knife is a girl!”
“No.” I tried to ease my way through the mass of people, but they crowded and their hands grew more demanding, landing on tender bruises. Someone grabbed my wrist. Another touched my throat.
Something in me snapped.
I yanked myself away, shoved someone, elbowed someone. I pushed myself through the crowd of dirty strangers, heedless of their anguished cries, and hurtled into the night as quickly as I could.
“Wait!” someone shouted. “The wraith is coming!” Footfalls thudded behind me. A trail of desperate men and women came after me, pleading for Black Knife’s help.
“My daughter is missing!”
“My husband is hurt!”
“Find my sister in the wraithland!”
Everyone needed Black Knife’s help. Not mine. I couldn’t solve their problems when I didn’t even know how to deal with my own.
Strangling back a sob, I threw myself into the forest and let instinct and years of practice take over. I leapt over roots, stones, and streams, dodged the familiar trees of this forest. Birds took flight around me, and at the harried crashing and cursing that pursued me. Brush snapped and someone cried out, but I couldn’t stop.
“Stop the wraith, Black Knife!”
I wasn’t Black Knife. Why couldn’t they see?
My flight through the forest turned into a fast walk and climb as the ground sloped upward, toward the mountains. The voices grew fainter as I outran the refugees and their pleas.
Finally, I collapsed to the ground in a heap of shivering and dry heaving. I could still feel their hands all over me, the phantom pressure of their groping.
“Will?”
I snapped up and scanned the area, fingers grasping for daggers that weren’t where they should be. But Black Knife stepped out of the shadows, breathing hard as he lifted his gloved hands. One was empty; the other held a small lamp, illuminating his assailable state. A full bag hung off one shoulder.
“I wasn’t sure you’d meet me,” he said. “So I followed your escort out of the city, just in case you decided not to come back.”
Still shivering, I lowered myself back to the ground and shook my head. “You couldn’t have had them leave me somewhere more convenient?” My whole body ached with terror and cold and the flood of adrenaline that hadn’t quite faded. Even breathing hurt.
“No.” He dropped the bag and sat down next to me, angling the light to fall directly in my eyes. “What happened?”
“What do you think happened?” I turned away and breathed in the damp, earthy scent of the forest. “I stood there like an idiot, trying to decide whether I would meet you, and people mistook me for you.”
“And then you panicked. Why?”
My heart pounded with memory. Trapped. Hands grabbing. Fingers biting into my flesh. “I don’t want to talk about it.” That wasn’t my voice, so wispy and weak. I tried again. “Just forget it.”
“All right.” He rested his palm on my shoulder.
I tensed, and he paused, and slowly—slowly—I forced my muscles to relax one by one. I forced myself to breathe.
Black Knife gave me a moment, then stroked my arm over and over, as though he could smooth out the wrinkles in my heart. “What had you decided?” His voice was gentle. “Were you coming to see me?”
“Yes.” I rolled over, away from him, and let the breeze cool the sweat off my throat. He wore his mask, as if that could rekindle the familiar anonymity between us, but now that I knew who he was, I couldn’t help but see Tobiah’s shape beneath the black silk and jacket and polished boots. I’d wanted to know his identity; now I wished I didn’t. “I had to get my notebook back. Did you read it?”
He dropped his hands into his lap, shoulders curled inward. “You didn’t steal my secret before I was ready. You deserve the same consideration.”
I exhaled relief. “Thank you.”
“I did go through your rooms. I wanted to make sure no one else found your belongings first.” He elbowed the bag he’d brought. “It’s all in here. The things I thought looked useful. Or incriminating.”
“Oh, Black Knife, how you’ve fallen.” I stared up at him, taking in the tilt of his head, the angles of his body, and the weariness in his eyes. This boy was not like Tobiah at all. “Now you’re helping criminals.”
“Just one.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure you’re a criminal.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “I steal things. I impersonate duchesses. I am a flasher, and I’ve used my power.” More than he knew. Much more.
“Are you confessing? After all the work I did to get you out, should I take you back to jail?”
I recovered some of my earlier haughtiness, wielding it like a knife. “That filthy place? Absolutely not.”
Black Knife grabbed the silk at his throat and tugged his mask off his face. Brown hair curled downward, just brushing his eyebrows. I’d been a fool not to see it before: the sharpness of his chin, the lean body, the dancer-like movements. But I’d never have thought a prince would care enough to become a vigilante for his city. Particularly not a prince who gave the impression of perpetual sullenness and boredom, and was well-known for being a poor swordsman.
It had all been an act, though. It had been his real mask.
It didn’t matter. None of it. Tobiah was already taken. I couldn’t have Black Knife.
If only they’d been separate boys.
“The truth is,” he said, “a long time ago someone helped me—someone who didn’t have to, and probably shouldn’t have. But for some reason, she thought I was worthy of saving. Not because of who I said I was, but because she believed I’d been wronged and she needed to make things right. She had the ideals and morals of a young child; I have always adm
ired that.” Tobiah slipped his hands into his mask, frowning at the black silk. “While I thought I was doing the right thing as Black Knife, it’s true that I ended up hurting people. I didn’t wonder what happened to flashers in the end. I don’t have a solution, but I do know that throwing them into the wraithland is wrong.”
I pushed myself up, half sitting now, leaning on one arm. Cold wind breathed up the mountain, making the forest shiver. I shivered, too.
“Here.” Tobiah dug through a side pocket of the bag and pulled out the gloves he’d given me. “Let’s put these on before you freeze.”
“I have to go,” I said, shifting to sit straight. But against my better judgment, I held out my hands. He still looked like Black Knife, with those knee-high boots, the black shirt and trousers. If I didn’t look at his face, I could imagine . . .
Gently, he slid the first glove over my hand, careful to make it fit right; his fingertips breezed over the hollow of my wrist. “There’s a safe place for you in the city.” He swallowed hard, his throat working, and he began fitting the second glove over my fingers, over my palm. Even with layers of leather and wool and silk between us, my hands had never felt so alive.
“I can’t.” My hands stayed in his, feeling like an impostor again. All of this, the wraith and war, was my fault. “There’s something I have to take care of.”
He watched me, expression impassive. “Can I help?”
I closed my eyes against the harsh lamplight, and turned my head against the strengthening wind. “I did something bad,” I whispered. “Something awful. I tried to run from it, but I’m realizing that I’ll pay for things I didn’t do if I don’t take responsibility for the things I did do.”
He squeezed my hands, and a deep undercurrent of fear filled his voice. “What happened? What did you do?” He sounded like Black Knife. Like my friend.
“I want to be someone good. Someone worthy.” The confession was for Black Knife, not Tobiah. It was easier to imagine the boy in front of me as the vigilante. “For so long I’ve felt trapped by my parents’ legacy. I thought I had to be just like them, even though I had no idea how. And lately, I haven’t known how to reconcile what I’ve always believed was true and what I’m learning might be true. I spend so much time confused now. I miss the clarity and certainty that used to drive me.”