by Jamie Foley
Lysander huffed a laugh. “Future family? I don’t exactly have as many girls throwing themselves at me as before the—”
He cut himself off as the chieftess strode into view, catching Ryon’s arm and saying something Lysander couldn’t hear. Behind her chalk-and-charcoal warpaint was an enchanting face despite her serious expression. Deep eyes matched the rich brown of her braids that trailed over wyvern-scale armor.
Lysander checked his expression, making sure he didn’t gawk. She’d blossomed into a woman since he’d seen her last—no, it looked more like she’d been forged from the bloodthirst of war. An angel of death: the perfect union of beauty and violence.
How could she not be married yet? She must be twenty-seven now. Any red-blooded man would kill for her, and she was the leader of the Tribal Alliance and chieftess of the largest tribe—oh. Lysander remembered with a start. The people called her the Jade Witch . . . supposedly cursed to never wed or continue her family’s line of Katrosi chiefs. They said she’d been engaged twice, and both young men had met terrible fates.
It was true for one of them, at least, because Lysander had been the first.
Brooke’s mouth moved, and Lysander recognized his own name on her lips as Ryon interpreted beside her. “Lysander. Terrorism isn’t befitting of a former prince. I never thought you would stoop so low.”
Lysander sat up straighter on the cold metal and rested his chained wrists on his knees. “Stoop so low as to warn your people of the attack?” He nodded at Ryon. “Or trying to kill Zamara as soon as the attack began?”
“Your information was not specific enough, nor given early enough.” Brooke glanced at Ryon as he signed. “You should have come to me directly.”
Lysander snorted. “You’d have thrown me in this cell and not listened to a word I said.”
“You’re wrong. I can discern truth from falsehood.” Brooke motioned to her right, and the guard reappeared and opened the cell door. “So you would be wise to answer my questions swiftly and honestly.”
Lysander steeled himself without surrendering his relaxed posture. Did the people call her the Jade Witch because of her curse, or because of the rumors that she could read people’s minds?
Brooke strode into his cell and stood over him. She considered him silently, as if he were a board game with a hundred pieces.
Lysander didn’t look away even as his pulse strengthened. Dark streaks of her face paint bled down into her pale cheeks like oily tears. Perhaps a design indicating that the Katrosi tribe was in mourning.
Not the paint of war. Interesting.
Brooke’s lips moved and Ryon signed, “I regret to inform you that your mother has passed away.”
Lysander frowned. “My mother was murdered years ago.”
Brooke’s brown eyes darkened while Ryon’s flared like stoked embers. “Zamara is dead.”
“Good,” Lysander said.
Brooke tilted her head, shifting her braids across her armor. “Then the crown should fall to you.”
“It should have passed to me when my father died.”
Brooke turned and said something to Ryon that wasn’t translated. Ryon left and returned a moment later with a chair. Brooke flipped it around and sat in it backward, resting her forearms across the chair’s back.
She was eye-level with Lysander now. The paint didn’t quite hide the freckles on her nose, and the powder graced her eyelashes like frost. Alluring, but not as beautiful as Selene had been. No one was.
“You had a problem with the queen taking the crown?” Ryon signed as Brooke spoke.
Lysander didn’t miss the warning look in Ryon’s eye, but he ignored it. “Zamara was the first queen of my people to play king.”
Ryon’s eyes bulged as he signed Brooke’s response: “You don’t believe women should rule, then?”
“I don’t believe elementals should play god, murder the monarchy, and shape-shift to take their place,” Lysander said. “Zamara was no woman. She was a fire-spirit with no true body, and I hope she’s rotting in Zoth.”
Something flickered in Brooke’s eye, but Lysander couldn’t discern what it was. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Lysander sighed. Why should she care what he thought? “You were elected by a council of elders, yes? You had to prove your worth alongside the men?”
“I proved my eligibility by killing two xavi, two trace cats, and two d’hakka.” Brooke held up three fingers as Ryon translated. “Agility, strength, and courage. The elders chose me over the others who completed the trials. Does this make me equal to a man?”
“Regardless of how many beasts they slay, women are equal to men in value,” Lysander said, “but not in role. But there are exceptions to every rule.” A smirk tugged on his lips. “You’ve got quite a complex about this, eh?”
Behind her, Ryon looked like he was about to explode.
Brooke smirked. “Just curious as to how you felt as the pet of an illegitimate queen.”
Lysander considered her for a long moment. What game was she playing?
Ryon’s thumb made a slice across his throat—a gesture Lysander didn’t have to know sign language to understand. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to explain a bit.
“The elders are the true rulers of your people. They elected you, and your people fear you. It’s no concern of mine how the Katrosi rule themselves,” Lysander said. “But in Emberhawk culture, the king and queen are sun and moon. The moon cannot govern the day any more than the sun can rule the night. The king must always have a queen to fulfill her diplomatic responsibilities; he cannot do both jobs at once. And if the queen tries to rule as king, she takes both powers for herself. The balance is broken, neither role is properly fulfilled, and the noble houses are slighted with their heirs becoming unable to marry into royalty.”
Lysander tapped on his chains and wondered what kind of clinking sound they made. “This is why Coriander’s rebellion is so strong: the people hate Zamara for ignoring the customs of our ancestors and breaking our rules of succession.”
Brooke’s face was as unreadable as Terruthian block-letters. Lysander couldn’t tell if she was considering his words or listening at all.
The fear of acquiring a distortion in his voice rose again. He’d been deaf for two years now, unable to hear his own voice—did he sound like a kid trying to talk through a mouthful of honey drops?
Brooke finally spoke, and Ryon signed: “Whom do you love more: your brother or your sister?”
Lysander blinked. “I love them equally. Is that a threat? I’ve answered all of your questions, no matter how random they are.”
Brooke tickled her chin with the tuft of brown hair at the end of a braid. “Who should inherit the Emberhawk throne, then?”
“If you’d been listening, you’d know that since I abdicated, it goes to Coriander. Not our younger sister, Illiana. And Cori’s wife should be queen.”
Brooke nodded and watched Ryon sidelong as he signed. “Do you think that, as king, Coriander would have the Emberhawk join the Tribal Alliance?”
“Probably,” Lysander said after a moment of consideration. “His positions on peace and trade are popular.”
Brooke watched him, unmoving, until an uneasy chill slipped down his spine. Maybe she was reading his mind.
Finally, she spoke. “Illiana has crowned herself queen.”
Lysander’s discomfort froze into shock, then shattered into anger. Brooke was trying to manipulate him, just like Zamara. “You’re lying.”
Brooke shook her head. She displayed no indication that she was deceiving him. Mild curiosity raised her brows.
It couldn’t be true regardless. Zamara had wanted the crown to fall to Illiana, but now that Zamara was dead, surely Illiana would want to set things right. The people would never stand for Illiana to rule as queen, especially because she was young and unwed.
Lysander looked at Ryon. The solemn look on Ryon’s normally bright face told Lysander everything he needed to know.
> He bit down on a curse. Why would his little sister do something so stupid? Did she think Coriander’s rebellion made him a traitor to the throne, and therefore ineligible?
“Has there been infighting?” Lysander asked.
“Not that I know of,” Ryon signed for Brooke.
That wouldn’t last long. If Coriander hadn’t already tried to storm the palace, he would.
Lysander stared down at his hands. He had to convince Illiana to give Coriander the throne. But how?
“I’ve given you information. Now tell me everything you know about the attack on Jadenvive.”
Lysander sighed, commanding his unease to leave with his breath. “You already know everything.”
Brooke shrugged and shifted in the chair. “Tell me anyway so we can compare notes.”
“As soon as I do, you’ll have me executed.”
“That is not for me to decide, but the elders at your trial.” Brooke’s chair scooted forward until she was within arm’s reach. A scent like jasmine wafted his way as her braids tossed with the movement.
Heat rose into Lysander’s neck. He leaned back against the cold wall and looked away.
Ryon waved to draw Lysander’s gaze. “Look at her.”
Lysander stared at the ribbon-like design in the wall, as if the metal had been poured into a mold while molten and cooled in place. “I’m not interested in your magic, witch.”
Ryon leaned into his line of sight. “It’s all right.”
Lysander glared. “So says the son of the traitor.”
Hurt flashed across Ryon’s face until he looked at Brooke, then back to Lysander. “Just look at her. It’ll be much more pleasant than an inquisitor.”
Lysander clenched his fists. He couldn’t deny his curiosity.
He reluctantly met her gaze.
Brooke’s irises seemed to warp and bleed out with streaks of brown and amber. He jerked back as the room faded into darkness, leaving only her eyes visible in a void bereft of time.
Panic shot through Lysander. He tried to look away, but he had no body. He was a lost soul drowning in an ocean of ink.
What are you hiding?
Brooke’s voice rang through his head, clear and beautiful as a song after an eternity of deathly silence. He missed the meaning of her words and savored the sound like chocolate mousse prepared by the chef at the palace of Quin’Zamar.
I can hear, he thought, and his own voice rang strong and deep through his mind. Smothering emotion blossomed and choked him.
Somehow, he could sense Brooke’s surprise. Oh . . . I—
What magic is this? Lysander demanded.
Brooke’s surreal eyes flickered. It’s the aether of the mind.
Teach me, he thought to her. Teach me to hear again, and I will do anything for you.
Brooke felt as if she’d been struck by lightning from an unseen storm. Lysander’s sudden elation came from nowhere and everywhere at once, smothering her shock.
Had her voice in his mind been the first thing he’d heard since he’d lost his hearing? He hadn’t been deaf when she’d known him as a teenager. How long had he been deprived of hearing the voices of others?
Teach me. Lysander’s thought was loud yet tentative, joyful yet desperate. Teach me to do this, and I will tell you anything you want to know. I will swear my life to you. I will put my brother on the throne for you. I will—
Brooke retreated from his mind and sucked in a steadying breath. One moment she was inside the most damaged, hopeless, guilt-addled mind she’d ever encountered, and the next his exhilaration was enrapturing.
Her vision returned. The chained man before her looked as broken as the emotions she’d sensed. His black hair unkempt. His pointed ears streaked with soot. His maroon eyes pleading.
A husk of the arrogant prince she’d once known.
Lysander bowed as low as his restraints would allow. “Please.”
Brooke took a step back, bumping into the chair she’d forgotten about. Ryon furrowed his brow at her, and she ignored him.
“I . . .” Her voice shriveled in her dry throat. She cleared it and composed herself, grasping for a response that would allow her enough distance to consider the abrupt change in negotiations. “I will consider it, depending on your sentence. Your trial is tomorrow.”
Realization and depression crashed down on Brooke, and she struggled not to sway under their power. Those weren’t her emotions. She cursed herself and struggled to pull all of her aether from Lysander’s mind.
But most of it was already gone. A faint bond remained—one she hadn’t realized was there. One she’d begun establishing without his knowledge while they were teens so she could spy on his thoughts. So she could determine that no matter how attractive he was, he was rotten to the core. So she could prepare herself for a life of a repeatedly, relentlessly shattered spirit—a certain consequence of an arranged marriage with such an entitled, self-centered person.
Brooke turned on her heel and fled from the cell.
She dodged Ryon and nearly ran headfirst into her lead bodyguard, Dimbae. He caught her with gentle hands as wide as a bear’s. “All right?” he murmured.
Brooke squirmed out of Dimbae’s grip, avoiding his gaze. She couldn’t talk to him now or she’d lose it. Those deep brown eyes knew her too well. They’d discern her in two blinks, and she’d break.
The attack. The loss of life. The people’s anger. The fracturing of the Alliance. The threat of the Empire. The Darkwood prince. And now this.
It was too much. Even if her mind could handle it, her heart couldn’t. She needed a stiff drink and a cry somewhere no one could hear her.
“Brooke!” Ryon’s voice followed her, and she quickened her pace. Exited the prison and veered for the nearby Great Hall. Ignored the salutes of guards and stares of civilians.
“Hey.” Ryon jogged to come alongside her. “What did he do? Did he hurt you? I’ll—”
“No.” Brooke swallowed hard to remove the quiver from her speech. “You said Kiralau and Tekkyn’ashi arrived. Are they ready for me?”
A moment of silence passed as they marched along the element-frozen platform. “Yes. Shall I summon them for you?”
“Please.”
Ryon ran ahead without further question. It was one reason she’d chosen him as her new advisor. Not many men understood when to talk and when to shut up and leave her alone. For all the social games she had to play as chieftess, her soul was restored in quiet places where no other thoughts or emotions could infect her. Retreats where she could read a scroll-story or craft with the soft white clay from the Sekoiako lands. Where she could pray and breathe and sip her favorite ginger tea.
But they’d said the Grove of Tomorrow beneath Jadenvive had burned. All of her late mother’s weeding and pruning and seed selection gone in a single night. Where could she retreat to now?
I can’t train Lysander, even if he somehow survives his trial. I don’t have time. And he’s too desperate. Too dangerous. And . . .
She couldn’t admit that she still had a bond with him, somehow. She hated herself too much for it. Normally that would be considered a boon to speed his training, but she just couldn’t. It was toxic. He was toxic.
And yet another side of her mind—the portion her father had honed and sharpened for leadership—insisted that Lysander could be the answer to her biggest problem right now: the Emberhawk problem. That was why she’d visited him in the first place.
Well, that, and to gloat a bit. Now regret swam in her gut and made her nauseous. Ginger tea would be heavenly right now.
Maybe the Elder of Aether could train Lysander if he didn’t receive a death sentence. But surely the people would vote to have Lysander executed before the next day of rest, and the Elder of Justice would acquiesce.
Would she feel a sudden emptiness on the other side of their aether bond?
Brooke shoved the thoughts from her mind as she veered for the Great Hall’s secret entrance. Dimbae wordlessly cove
red her with his invisibility, and Brooke tolerated the blindness and held his forearm for guidance until the flows of light met her eyes once again.
Emotions lost their grip on her throat as she marched for the map room. She swallowed the last of them to deal with later. She was the chieftess. She couldn’t allow anyone to compromise her clarity of mind—least of all the tattered remains of a hollow prince.
Dimbae opened the door and scanned the room, and Brooke followed. Kira and Tekkyn sat attentively at the square table strewn with maps—details they probably shouldn’t be seeing. But if she was going to entrust them with this next request, she’d have to trust them with far more than what felt comfortable.
“Chieftess,” Tekkyn said with a nod as Kira stood, making her chair skitter as awkwardly as her bow.
“Kiralau, Tekkyn’ashi. Please, sit.” Brooke displayed a smile she didn’t feel. “Thank you for making the journey. I hope it treated you well.”
Kira obliged as Ryon entered with a jingling satchel in each hand. Brooke felt his eyes on her as he waited.
“It did,” Tekkyn said. “What can we do for you?”
Brooke noted his cool demeanor. Exactly as she remembered, and exactly what she needed.
She slipped into an opposite chair and allowed herself to relax more than her mother would have approved of. “I have jobs for both of you regarding the imperial princess, if you are willing.” She nodded to Ryon, who set a jingling, bulging bag before each of them. Kira gawked at him with eyes the size of the third moon, and he waggled his brows.
Brooke continued. “I know few Malaano people personally, but you have both proven yourselves trustworthy.”
“Princess Vylia?” Kira glanced at her brother. “Is she still . . . I mean . . . after the attack . . . ?”
“Yes, she survived. But she is in a coma, along with one of her bodyguards named Sousuke.” Brooke adjusted her headdress, moving that annoying pin above her right ear. “Most of her entourage were not as fortunate. Two guards, her advisor, handmaiden, and translator were lost.”
Kira cringed and Brooke continued, “I would like to hire you to replace her translator and handmaiden if you have the skill for such things, and to hopefully become her confidant.” She turned to Tekkyn. “And for you to replace her lost guards.”