by Jenna Moreci
Wembleton.
She ran through the palace, fire raging in Her lungs. Where had She seen him last? She climbed staircases and barged into rooms, while the blade on Her thigh called to Her, begging to carve through treacherous flesh. She wouldn’t think twice this time. She headed down another corridor, and Her heart lurched.
Wembleton rounded the corner.
His gaze met Hers, and green snaked from his skin—the fetid fear of a traitor. Gritting Her teeth, Leila grabbed Her blade.
The clinking of metal plates and the marching of footsteps echoed off the walls. Guards came around the corner, their spears high as they followed the Senator.
Leila lowered Her weapon.
What is this?
The guards surrounded Wembleton, ushering him through the hallway, past Leila altogether. A soldier glanced Her way and nodded. “Your Holiness.”
Wembleton’s terrified stare didn’t stray from Hers, his green cloud dense. He and his legion disappeared from sight, leaving Leila alone in the corridor, shaking with rage.
Brontes had paid for Wembleton’s knowledge with muscle and steel.
Her breathing turned rampant. Were the guards always to accompany him? She wanted to scream, but She clamped Her jaw tight, charging down the corridor. If She couldn’t kill Wembleton, She’d do something else. What else? There’s nothing to be done. Still She moved, racking Her mind for a step forward, for some semblance of a plan. She had Her sisters, had Talos, had— Her eyes widened, and She dashed down an empty hallway.
To his chamber.
White-hot power burst within Her, and the blinding light gave way to brown walls, an emerald rug.
“Romulus,” She said. “Something’s happened…”
She halted. Romulus sat in a chair in the center of his chamber, his limp body tied down with rope, the front of his tunic saturated with blood.
His throat sliced open.
26
The Storm
Romulus was dead.
Leila lay in Her bed, eyes on Her ceiling as his bloodstained robes plagued Her thoughts. She had long been buried in rotting corpses, but this one haunted Her, a ghost far more ominous than the ones in Her mirrors.
A knock sounded. Asher entered, and Leila gripped Her sheets as two armored guards joined him.
“What do you want?” She barked.
“They’re here to escort You to Your Senate meeting,” Asher said.
She loosened Her hold. Escorted by guards? And why a meeting? Given yesterday’s revelation, She had assumed formalities were the least of Her father’s concerns. Apprehensive, She followed the guards from Her chamber.
The servants stopped their work, staring pointedly as She and the soldiers trod by. News of Her ruse had spread past the Senate through the entire fortress, and within less than a day, everyone was aware of Her duplicity. She held Her head high, carrying Herself with the composure required of Her station, but everything within Her shrank beneath the piercing gazes.
The black door to the Senate room loomed ahead. Nodding, the guards ushered Her into the space, and when She caught sight of the five faces around the table, She tensed. An onslaught was sure to come.
“Your Holiness,” Diccus said.
Frowning, Leila took Her seat. “Were the escorts necessary?”
Brontes ignored Her, shuffling his parchment. “Who calls this meeting?”
“I do.”
“Second.”
The quiet was stifling. Wembleton sat across from Leila avoiding Her gaze, though his reddened face offered Her some satisfaction. Hylas was seated at his side, his knee bobbing so fiercely he nearly shook the table.
“First line of discussion,” Brontes said. “Sugar trade with Trogolia. Any word on the tariff negotiations?”
Leila sat up straight. Sugar trade?
“Trogolia agreed to your terms, Your Highness.” Hylas choked out the words. “The mills will be notified shortly.”
Brontes grunted through further questions—quotas, arbitrations, legalese tedious enough to lull a man to sleep. But Leila was wide awake, eyes darting between Her father, enraged just the day prior, and his former page, shaking in his seat as if he might wet himself at any moment.
“Next item.” Brontes scribbled along his scroll. “The royals are to arrive on which day?”
“Pardon Me,” Leila said. “I just…”
Brontes’s gaze lifted from his parchment. “You just what?”
“Is this really what we’re discussing today? Trade agreements?”
“Today’s matters were listed in the agenda. What were You expecting?”
Leila scanned the table, searching the faces. Erebus and Diccus stared back at Her, while Wembleton and Hylas gazed into their laps.
Erebus’s low voice tore through the room. “She thought we would discuss the switch, Your Highness.”
“Right.” Brontes’s eye shrank into a glare. “The lie You’ve told to the entire realm.”
“You seemed very angry about it the other day,” Leila said.
“I’m still angry.”
“His Highness sought council with the Senate,” Diccus chirped. “After much discussion, we’ve agreed to keep Your title hidden, per Your request.”
Leila started. “Come again?”
“It’s what You want, yes?” Brontes growled. “To keep the competitors and Your realm in the dark? We’re granting Your wish.”
“Yes, but…why?”
Diccus smiled, revealing a mouthful of rotted teeth. “For the honor and glory of Her Holiness. Is that not enough reason?”
“For the lot of you? No, it isn’t.”
“Would You like us to change our minds?” Brontes said.
A knot wound in Leila’s throat. “We can continue with the meeting.”
Brontes let out a snort. “The neighboring realms?”
“They arrive in three days’ time, Your Highness,” Hylas said.
“Erebus.” Brontes turned to the armored Senator. “The vault.”
“The flow of coin is steady. Your payments have been sent in full. The vault will be in proper standing within the next few days.” He toyed with the ring at his hip, passing each key between his thick fingers. A glint of silver caught the light, and Leila’s eyes narrowed, boring through the steel wedged in the Senator’s grasp.
“And the tournament?” Brontes said.
Wembleton coughed, stirring to life. “The competitors are to meet with…Cosima…in two days’ time. The day prior to the Sovereign’s Choice, it seems.”
His gaze flitted between Brontes and his own lap, not once daring to venture Leila’s way. Still She fixed Her stare on him, willing him to feel Her hatred.
Wembleton cleared his throat. “On the subject, I by no means intend to pressure you, Your Highness, but we will be needing your choice shortly.”
“The Sovereign’s Choice.” Brontes leaned back in his seat, cracking his knuckles. “Who will I be sending home? Such a difficult decision.”
Tobias. Leila gripped Her armrests.
Wembleton curled into himself. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness, but I am legally required to remind you…The Savior is to grant one competitor immunity from dismissal.”
The tension in Leila’s muscles dissipated, as did the smugness on Brontes’s face. “A simple court girl has been parading as Her Holiness for the duration of this tournament,” he said. “Should we bestow the privilege onto her?”
“You blaspheme Me?” Leila snapped.
“The ruse was Your decision. You blasphemed Yourself.”
“How I choose to present Myself is My own concern. Regardless, I am The Savior, and thus I will choose which man is immune.”
The table silenced, each man staring Her way. Wembleton squeaked out a response. “Your choice then, Y-Your Holiness?”
“The Artist. He stays.”
“You’ve sentenced him to death,” Brontes said. “When the time comes, his blood will be on Your hands.”
Red fanned from his pores, filling the room with hatred.
“And your choice, Your Highness?” A whimper escaped Wembleton’s lips. “Who will be dismissed from the tournament?”
“I’ll think about it.”
Raphael’s face swept Leila’s mind. Opportunity hovered in the air before Her, waiting for Her to snatch it up.
“If I may offer some pearls of wisdom,” She said, “the Shepherd is far too fanciful for the crown. And those scars? Can you imagine the looks he’d receive?”
“My blessed ones will remain in the tournament,” Brontes spat.
“Well then, if the decision were Mine—”
“It isn’t.”
“I’d send home the Prince.”
Brontes faltered. “The Prince?”
“Did you see how he carried himself at the Welcoming? So cocksure, as if he’d already won the crown. I don’t believe he respects you much at all.”
“Since when do You care whether or not I’m respected?”
She shrugged. “I’m just saying. He seems the obvious choice. Or perhaps the Hunter. He’s a kind man, but I question his intentions. I believe he pines for another.”
“And not the Intellect? Why is that?”
“The Intellect? Which one is he again?” Leila flicked Her wrist. “Oh yes, the tall one. I’d nearly forgotten about him. He hasn’t left much of an impression.”
Brontes barely smirked. “I’m sure.”
A smile nearly formed across Leila’s cheeks, but She resisted. Brontes looked pleased with himself, as if he’d stumbled upon a secret, and that was exactly what She wanted—the tiniest victory.
Wembleton’s nervous gaze flitted Leila’s way before retreating to Her father. “If there isn’t anything further, perhaps we can end things here, Your Highness? There’s a challenge shortly. Archery, I believe. My presence is required.”
Brontes nodded. “Yes. Mine as well.”
“Yours?” Leila said. “For what purpose?”
“I’m the new Proctor. Or did You not get the message?”
Romulus’s limp, haggard corpse. Leila forced back a shudder.
“Who ends this meeting?” Brontes barked.
“I do.”
“Second.”
The men filed from the room; Hylas raced through the doorway, and Leila cursed under Her breath as the guards grouped into formation, nestling Wembleton within their mass. Never mind him. She had more pressing concerns.
Brontes.
She left the Senate room, scanning the surrounding space for a speck of crimson. There—Brontes was already rounding a far-off corridor. She took the path he had traveled, watching him ignore the greetings of his servants, his head held high and drape proudly displayed as if he was worthy of it. She stopped at the base of the grand staircase, Her eyes not once leaving his person. He stood at the top, staring out the window at the courtyard below, wasting more of Her precious time.
A chortle bounced off the walls as a redhead passed by.
“Cosima,” Leila said.
Cosima’s eyes locked onto Leila, widening. “Leila. What a pleasant surprise.”
“How are you?” Leila rushed to her side, eyeing her up and down. “Are you all right?”
“What do You mean?”
“Did he hurt you?”
“Dove, I’m fine.”
Leila sighed. “Apologies, it’s just…Brontes said he’d share words with you…and I know how ugly his temper can be.”
“Look at me.” Cosima stepped back, arms open. “Not a scratch. I’m perfectly well.”
“What did he say?”
“Pardon?”
“When you met?” Leila lowered Her voice. “Did he say anything?”
“Nothing of note,” Cosima said. “Just gave me a stern lecture. You know how fatherly types are.”
“No. I don’t.”
Cosima smiled. “It’s so kind of You to worry. My sweet sister, always fussing about. It was merely a scolding. I said my piece, he said his. I won’t bore You with the details, they wouldn’t serve You, I’m sure.” She squeezed Leila’s hands. “I must be off, but it was so good seeing You.”
Cosima left in a hurry, floating away as if carried by a breeze, while Leila watched with Her hands wound tight. A stern lecture.
A lie—and not even a good one.
Dread bubbled in Leila’s gut. She checked the window—Brontes was gone—and changed Her course, winding through corridors until She reached Her darkened study. Exhaling, She plopped down at Her desk. No more Romulus. No more Wembleton. Her father and the whole of Her staff knew of the switch. Her plan had been upended.
Stop it. Now wasn’t the time to dwell over losses.
I have My sisters. Cosima slinked through Her thoughts, and She glowered. She’d deal with her later.
I have Talos. Shackled in a dungeon for twenty years.
I have Tobias. No, She wouldn’t include him. He was in enough danger already.
To hell with allies. She’d thwart Brontes on Her own. The traitor within the palace walls—She’d find them Herself.
But what if there is no traitor, and Wembleton was biding his time? And why in God’s name are they keeping My title a secret?
“Your Holiness?”
Leila jumped. Cecily stood in the doorway, her head cocked and hands clasped in front of her. “Apologies, I didn’t mean to startle You.”
“What are you doing here? These are private chambers.”
Cecily’s brow furrowed. “You’ve summoned me here many times before.”
“I didn’t summon you today.”
“You missed Your fitting for tomorrow’s banquet.”
Heat flooded Leila’s cheeks. “Right. That…”
“Mousumi said You’ve missed several appointments lately.” Cecily closed the door behind her. “She was going to speak with You, but given the recent revelation, I offered to come instead. Save You the trouble. You know how she can be.”
Leila said nothing, Her shoulders rigid. No one was beyond Her suspicion.
Cecily fished a roll of yarn from her pocket. “May I?”
Leila nodded, stiffening once Cecily reached Her side. The fitter worked in silence, circling Leila’s bust and waist, while Leila festered in the awkward tension.
“I take it the entire staff knows?” She said.
“They were informed to keep up appearances. There are strict orders not to disclose Your true title to the competitors, per Your bidding.”
Per Your bidding. Leila pursed Her lips. “I imagine you think I’m mad.”
“You are Her Holiness, The Savior of Thessen. It is not my place to question Your decisions.”
Leila remained tense, eyeing the woman sidelong as if she might draw a blade from her pocket.
“Pardon my intrusion,” Cecily said, “but if the competitors don’t know of Your title…I take it that includes the Artist as well?”
“It’s a private matter.”
“Child, I understand—”
“You don’t,” Leila snapped. Cecily’s lips parted, and Leila’s insides clenched. “Apologies.”
“No, You’re right. I want to understand, is all.” Cecily swept Leila’s hair over shoulder. “I know You have Your sisters, but…if You ever need a willing ear…”
“Are we finished?”
Cecily sighed. “Yes, Your Holiness.” She gathered her things, then gave Leila a squeeze. “Better days are coming. I promise.”
Warmth bled from Cecily’s touch, a dreamy blend of orange and yellow—tenderness and affection, potent enough to thaw even the iciest of exteriors. Nodding, the fitter took leave, while guilt stirred in Leila’s gut. I’m just being cautious. But the words did little to ease Her mind.
Pushing past Her self-reproach, She whipped out a reed, inked its tip, and procured a fresh slip of parchment. She had work to do.
She scrawled Her notes, heedless of the passing time, intent on making sense of Her mission. Her ruse was ruined, a
nd Brontes was up to something—what, She hadn’t a clue—but that didn’t mean She was defenseless. She listed everything She was certain of.
Two assassins. One dead. She beamed, recalling Tobias skewering Antaeus in the stomach.
Assassination on My wedding night.
Brontes reclaims the crown after My—She grimaced—husband is executed.
Two Senators remain. No, four Senators. Poor Hylas. She wouldn’t enjoy killing him at all.
An outside source. Kovahrian. The Queen? She’d sent a spy to the tournament after all, and was arriving shortly. Leila would have to watch her closely.
An inside traitor. Receiving jewels from Brontes. Likely a woman.
She bit the inside of Her mouth. Link between Kovahr and the traitor? She underlined the phrase, racking Her brain for something that never came.
Find the traitor. What else could She do?
She’d follow Brontes.
Now.
The door burst open, and Leila shoved Her parchment into a drawer and flew from Her seat. Delphi was already leaving, barking “Handle him” over her shoulder. She slammed the door, leaving behind a man.
Tobias.
His muscles were flexed, his hands balled into fists. Leila eyed him over—his rigid stance, his shallow breathing. “What happened?”
“Orion’s dead.”
An archery challenge. Orion was the greatest archer of them all.
“But how—?”
“It was Kaleo,” he said. “It’s always Kaleo.”
Leila wilted. “Oh, Tobias…”
“I’m fine.”
She reached for his hand. “Tobias—”
“Don’t.”
He ripped away from Her, and black tendrils tumbled from his flesh, stretching toward Her like the sickness beneath the soil. It’d been so long since his misery had appeared, but now it was alive again, refueled.
“I won’t touch you, if that’s what you want.” She took a hesitant step forward. “But I know you, and forgive me, but I don’t think you mean what you say.” She came in closer, and his despair washed over Her, nearly forcing the air from Her lungs. “Tobias…”
Nothing. His face flushed red, his jaw locked tight as if to keep himself contained.
“You carry so much pain.” She slid Her fingertips up his arm, taking in his torment. “Enough to crush any other man, but not you. You’re always strong. Always being the man you need to be—the man everyone else needs you to be. But you don’t need to be that man right now.”