by Mary Taranta
“Bryn could.”
Chadwick knots his hands behind his neck. He watches me, eyebrows furrowed. “Yes,” he says at last. “You could destroy the binding spell and kill Bryndalin with that.”
It steals my breath, and I regard the dagger with newfound admiration.
“But,” Chadwick says, and I know what’s coming.
“But Merlock first,” I say flatly. If I fail, North will still be dependent on Perrote’s magic. Killing Bryn would undoubtedly sever that alliance. And if I succeed . . .
Chadwick’s desperation is unsettling, a contradiction to the stoic taskmaster I’ve come to know. He’s not asking me as North’s captain of the Guard but as North’s closest friend, who knows that the odds are against us, and who will take anything that may tip the scales in our favor. “You wanted to fight,” he says. “You wanted to protect the prince, no matter the cost. Sometimes that payment is made in blood.”
“I wanted to fight,” I agree, “but that often implies a chance of success. Even slight odds are better than none.”
Moving away from the doors, I sink onto a love seat, crinolines and silk kicking up in a frothy cloud around my legs. I clutch the dagger to my stomach, the leather warm. I understand the request and I don’t resent him for it, and yet I can’t help but feel trapped. How can I say no when I’m the only one who can get to Merlock from the safety of the palace?
But then I think of my sister and wonder, how can I possibly say yes? For so long, it’s been her and me, alone against the world. Only—I have to admit—she’s wanted more than me for years. First with Thaelan, now with Bryn. For all I claim to be my mother’s daughter, with an insatiable heart that always craves more, I never considered that Cadence was the same. Would she even care if I died, or would her hate preclude any grief?
“What happens to my sister?”
Chadwick kneels in front of me, expression fierce, hands firm on my knees. “I swear to you on my life, no harm will come to Cadence. I’ll see to it. Once Corbin inherits, Bryndalin will be an heir. She’ll need protection from her father if she doesn’t want to be murdered in her bed with one of these.” He touches the dagger, and it feels heavier in response. “Cadence will no longer be used as leverage.”
“And if North doesn’t inherit?”
Chadwick has never been one to spare my feelings. “Then we’re all dead anyway.”
I am not a hero. For me, fighting in the Brim was a way to make money, not a way to save the world. I wanted Thaelan and marriage and family: safety, security, and a place to call home, a place that was free. I still do. If there were no Benjamin Chadwick or bastard prince or missing king to intervene, I would be a coward.
Or would I?
Ten years ago my mother cut me open and made me stronger. I didn’t want to be a fighter, but I became one from necessity—a consequence of her choice for me, which means my choice is simple.
There are monsters in Avinea, and I have the ability to stop them.
I look Chadwick in the eye, the dagger clenched tightly in my hand. “Be ready with your knife when I come back.”
* * *
Despite my conviction, sleep eludes me an hour later as I lie on my bed, dagger clutched to my chest. Earlier, Sofreya removed my protection spells without question, though her eyes chided Chadwick in silent remonstration before she disappeared back down the hall, back to her study to unravel more knots.
I’ll probably be the only one sleeping in the palace tonight.
I force myself to close my eyes, only to open them again with a sudden shock of adrenaline—and fear. I try to rationalize my decision; I was never guaranteed a return from North’s expedition. It makes no difference if I die in my bed or die in the Burn.
But it makes a difference knowing that one is only a possibility and the other, guaranteed. I want my chance, slim as it may be.
Without the protection spells, I can feel the poison in my blood more clearly, thick and swollen in my veins. I try to coax it higher in small steps, focusing on my anger over Perrote, my heartache over Dimitr Frell—even my continued frustration with my mother and her breadcrumb trail of clues. The poison warms but doesn’t seem to spread beyond a faint hum, as if it knows my hesitation.
And then I hear it. A muffled laugh, cutting across the shared parlor and into my room, where it settles over me like a veil.
Cadence. Spending the night in Bryn’s room. Again.
All at once the poison flashes through me as if ignited, but I bolt upright, heart sliding into my throat with a shot of terror. The dagger clatters to the ground, and I clutch at my coverlet, sweat breaking out across my back.
Anxious, I launch myself off the bed and drag my hands through my hair. I’m trembling as I pace at the foot of my bed, alternating between relief at having postponed the inevitable, and a fierce reproof for my being a coward. How am I supposed to kill a magician? A king? A blade forged with blood is only half the equation. I still need to be strong enough, fast enough, to pierce it through his skin.
Am I even capable of this?
Another laugh cuts through the room, but this time it’s Bryn. I stare at my door, shoulders still heaving, flooded with an envy so bitter, it dries my mouth and thickens my tongue. I can’t imagine leaving Cadence to this. Even if North succeeds and Bryn is eviscerated, Cadence will suffer the loss of another friend, however false she may have been. I can’t bear the thought of my little sister turning cruel beneath Bryn’s care, but I also can’t fathom her turning cold, afraid to trust anyone because everyone has disappointed her—including me.
I can’t leave her behind again.
Sofreya doesn’t say a word when she opens her door to find me standing there, miserable and chilled. Inside, Tobek watches from his cot as she replaces the spells in the crooks of my arms. When our eyes meet, he rolls over, shoulders hunched against my gaze. He was not considered essential for the expedition, and I know it hurts, to go from being North’s only companion for months on end to being here, another haunted face in the halls, trapped by circumstance.
“You never taught me how to fight,” he says to the wall as I prepare to leave.
I stop, startled. “Did you still want to learn?”
He rolls back to face me, scowling. “Yeah. Yeah, I want to learn.”
“As soon as I get back,” I say. From his expression, he’s ready to fight the whole world, and I can’t blame him.
I’m halfway down the hall when I run into Chadwick exiting the library. Candles cast dim shadows through the partially open door, and I catch a glimpse of North, Darjin sprawled at his feet. My assumption was right: Nobody’s sleeping tonight.
Chadwick’s eyes widen, and he reaches for the knife at his hip with a questioning look, but I shake my head, staying his hand before he can cut out my heart. “I’m sorry,” I say.
He deflates, chin sinking toward his chest. His hand drops and he nods once, dismissing me.
Ten
THE PALACE IS A BATTLEGROUND the next morning, overrun with servants and guards and last-minute supplies to be carried to the palace dock where the Mainstay has been moored. An undercurrent of panic hums in the air, the sharpening taste of anticipation.
A crowd of people has formed a buffer between the palace guards and the Mainstay, craning their necks for a glimpse of the prince—or better yet, of his bride. After years of wanting, the entire city seem greedy for the memory of what New Prevast once was, what it might one day be again. Their lust for magic is almost tangible, as is their desire for a return of the spells that once made New Prevast a prosperous trading post. Spells to navigate to the best fishing spots off the harbor, or spells to draw fish to waiting nets; spells to keep streets from clogging with snow, or spells to keep thieves from local businesses. They want it all, and more: They want protection from life, and recourse for those who have lost property—or loved ones—to the Burn.
It’s clear from the crowd’s attentions that Bryn and her family embody everything beautiful a
bout the past, whereas North is everything Avinea has become—gloomy in all black, gaunt and shadowed at only nineteen from years of searching, which the crowd knows nothing about. They dismiss him entirely.
Sofreya joins me on the palace drive, clutching a jar of pale rocks in the crook of her arm, each carefully threaded with magic to be unraveled and dispensed as needed.
“Look at them,” she says bitterly. “So many of them fled the Burn out of fear of being poisoned, and yet they still crave magic as if it will end their suffering. What other kingdom do you know of whose people refuse to work if they don’t have a spell to make it easier? Or who refuse to protect their city if it means actually fighting, but expect protection for themselves?”
I don’t know how to answer her, and she continues walking toward the ship, still muttering, leaving me to scan the sky anxiously. The light is an ominous gray, and the Mainstay looks tiny against the span of the Bridge of Ander behind it. While I know that the ship’s size is beneficial for dodging the rocky shoals of the coastline, I can’t help but feel it is inadequate protection against such a vast, unyielding sea.
Tobek appears, juggling more supplies. Darjin darts between his feet, and Cadence chases after the tiger, giving Tobek a side-glance that turns his ears a bright and telling pink. He pauses to get a better grip on the crate he carries, eyes tracking Cadence as she catches up to Darjin. She scoops the animal into her arms, hugging him with his paws dangling over her shoulder. She watches the crowd warily, startling when North approaches and touches her other shoulder.
“Darjin is your responsibility while I’m gone,” he says. “If you don’t mind watching over him?”
Cadence hesitates, looking toward me. She wants to accept, but she also knows that I’ve agreed to follow North into the Burn, which makes him my ally while she remains my enemy. But her love of animals outweighs politics, and she shifts Darjin’s weight in her arms. “Can he sleep in my bed?”
“Of course. But he hogs the blankets,” North says, eliciting a laugh from her. He wets his lips and seems to bend forward in the wind. “May I ask one more favor of you, Miss Cadence?”
Wariness returns. Was Darjin only a bribe? “What?” she asks slowly.
North glances over his shoulder at me, but then nods toward Tobek. “Watch over him, too. He’s the same as a tiger. They both need food and fresh air and a friend.”
Tobek clutches at his crate as the pink of his ears floods into his face.
“Only, he does not sleep in your bed under any circumstances,” I say, with a pointed look to both of them.
Cadence scowls at me; clearly I have ruined the moment.
North smiles and offers her his hand. “Do I have your word?”
After shifting Darjin over her other shoulder, Cadence shakes his hand. “Will you bring me back a souvenir?”
“Of what? Ash? Rubble? The skin of a hellborne?” Bryn snorts as she joins them, skirts lifted in one hand to avoid dragging them across the icy gravel. “I’ll buy you much better presents in town.”
Cadence wilts, embarrassed, but North winks at her, and she immediately brightens, hugging Darjin even more tightly.
“Good luck,” Cadence says as North gives Darjin a farewell scratch behind the ears.
Bryn turns to me, folding an arm around my shoulders as she pulls me close for a hug. Her chin is sharp against my throat. “I’ll trust you with my husband, and you’ll trust me with your sister,” she says softly.
“Is that a threat, your majesty?”
“A promise,” she says, releasing me. “And a warning. Find Merlock and hurry home.”
“Are you that eager to lose your crown?”
Her smile is as hard as the gravel we stand on. “There’s more than one crown in this kingdom.”
What does that mean?
She links her arm through North’s, and they lead the procession to the dock. All at once the fear of what I’m doing hits me hard in the stomach, and I’m overcome with doubts and second guesses. So many lives at stake—Chadwick and his soldiers, North, Sofreya, even Davik and her brothers. Is it selfish of me to risk them when I could face Merlock alone? Or is it foolish of me to believe I could defeat the most powerful magician in the kingdom with only a dagger?
Cadence hangs back as the rest of the palace crowd follows North’s lead. I lag behind as well, searching the gravel at my feet for the right words to say. She watches me from the corner of her eye, mouth thin, shoulders tight.
“Can I say good-bye?” I ask at last.
“Why bother?” Then, more savagely, “I hope you won’t leave Prince Corbin behind if he gets lost.”
Wounded, I watch as she speeds up, drawing level with North and Bryn. Bryn welcomes her with an arm draped possessively over her shoulder. With Darjin, they could be the perfect family portrait.
But she’s mine, I tell myself, although her words sting. Bryn can have a lot of things, but she can never have Cadence.
Perrote follows us on board, surveying the small vessel with a curled lip and an arched brow. He tests the strength of the railing and tips his head back to appraise the sails. “Perhaps you should say a few words,” he says, looking at North. He gestures toward the crowd, the servants, the city. “News of the recent golem attacks have unsettled them. And now that you’re leaving, they need strength.”
North’s expression darkens: News of the attack was leaked from the palace against his express wishes. If the city is unsettled, it was by design.
“I’d be more than happy to speak for you,” Perrote says. “If it helps.”
Scowling, North ignores the barbed offer and approaches the ship’s railing. He studies the faces below him and wets his lips again—a weakness. I can see the way Perrote revels in it. Then North begins to speak of his father and the growing Burn, and of a new plan to find Merlock.
“We are not yet defeated,” he says. “I know that I’ve spent too long fighting this battle alone, allowing my people to believe me a coward hiding in a palace, waiting for his father to come to him.
“But my way of thinking was incredibly selfish,” he continues, “and more than that, it was unfair. I shouldn’t hide the hope that I have. You need to know it exists, and that I will fight for this kingdom as long as I can. But I cannot continue to fight this alone. A kingdom is built by its people, and to not include you in its future was a mistake I will never make again. I owe you an apology, and I offer it, sincerely. Avinea was never mine to save; it was ours.”
There is unsettling silence from the crowd. North waits, rigid with nerves, and then, resignation. It’s too late. Instead of acting as the prince—and the hope—his people needed, he hid his identity to search for his father unimpeded by obligation. His choice was made years ago, and now his people make theirs. Avinea could still be saved, but not by this gaunt young man who can barely stand straight in the wind. Instead they turn, expectant, to the man who appeared like a miracle, armed with magic and an alliance that could save them all.
“Brindaigel pledges its support,” Perrote says, buying into their attention, barely concealing his grin. His voice booms—a thunderbolt where North’s voice was a soft wake in the harbor.
North looks over, stricken, as Perrote approaches the railing, displacing him. “My daughter has brokered peace between our kingdoms, and Brindaigel will honor that sanctity with the protection this kingdom needs. An army,” he says, turning to North. To most, this gesture would look like an appeal, a doting father-in-law bequeathing a belated wedding gift to a beloved son-in-law.
But most don’t see the threat in the curl of his smile, or the battle strategy in the arch of his brow.
“We will protect this city in your absence,” Perrote says, turning back to the crowd, “and we will protect this kingdom, so that my daughter’s heirs will have a land of their own. So that her people”—he lets the moniker settle over them like a mantle of velvet that they pull more tightly for warmth—“have a future.”
With a dramatic
flourish he spreads his hands wide with a flash of sulfur, a shimmer of magic. A shadow golem emerges—not the birds or the rats he was so skilled at producing in Brindaigel, but a full-grown man in shadowed armor, holding a shadowed sword. It’s not a complicated spell, but it’s impressive to a crowd of people who haven’t seen magic of this size in years.
The figure tenses, preparing for battle, and then lunges toward the crowd, sword striking against the railing of the Mainstay, sending sparks and embers flying. The crowd gasps before pressing forward, eager to see more clearly.
My heart lurches into my throat, and I want to scream “Traitors!” at them all. Magic destroyed this kingdom, yet, as Sofreya said, its people still crave it. They’re caught up in long-ago memories of a better time and a better world, when magic poured freely from the king’s touchstones, and his provosts dispensed spells to address any and every problem they had.
North was right when he said his people don’t want to fight for their survival; they just want to be saved. And Perrote is proving he can be the one to do it. They’ll never know he’s not a king, that his magic was stolen, that it is finite.
The skill is in cheating.
North stands by as Perrote’s golem runs through several more paces before Perrote presses his hands together and the soldier disappears in a trail of fading embers. How is North supposed to compete with that?
He can’t. Not unless he comes home with his father’s heart.
He watches his own people cheer Perrote like he’s a hero, a savior—the one who stays behind to protect them while their own prince abandons them the way his father did.
“To ensure your success, my son, I offer you a parting gift.” Perrote now turns to North, who straightens at the attention, dark eyes flashing. Perrote smiles widely, extending his hand down the gangplank. “My beloved son, Rialdo, who has earned his place in my own army, and now seeks to earn his place in yours.”