by Jamie Foley
You know they call you that, yes? The elder sat in front of Lysander, his hunched back bringing his wrinkled face uncomfortably close. Why are you called this?
Lysander stared back, wondering at the futility of a conversation with this man. Had he come to mock him?
It is customary for me to determine the motives of the accused at the beginning of every trial of this magnitude, the elder said. Intentions play a role in the dealings of justice. Now, why are you called the Slain Prince?
Lysander determined not to back away or avert his gaze, though he had no idea what the man’s question had to do with this trial. Zamara took everything from me, he thought, assuming the elder could hear his internal musings as Brooke had. I was raised as the crown prince. Then she murdered my mother and impersonated her through shapeshifting. My father killed himself from sorrow and shame. Zamara took my lover, my hearing, and my throne. I am unrecognizable from the child I was. Thus they call me “slain.”
The elder listened, quiet and cool as winter in the deep forest. How could she take your throne? It is known that you abdicated of your own will.
It was not my will. When my father died, Zamara brought my love, Selene, and my brother, Coriander, into her inner room and ordered me to abdicate. When I refused, she—Lysander paused as a bloody memory flashed through his mind’s eye—killed Selene. Then she threatened Cori and I . . . Lysander closed his eyes and took a deep breath, coming back to his senses in the courtroom for a brief moment. What else could I do? Cori finally believed me about Zamara after that, and he escaped to form his rebellion.
A somber darkness seeped from the elder’s presence in his mind. Lysander wondered if the old man could discern whether or not the claims were true.
And she took your hearing?
Two years after my abdication, I couldn’t stand it any more. She used me like a dog, sending me to commit the murders and spying you accuse me of. I tried to kill her and failed. She . . . He couldn’t finish the thought. She punished me. The few sounds I’ve heard since then have only been what would be absurdly loud to most, and even then, they are difficult to discern.
The elder watched him with an unreadable expression. Were you under Zamara’s control for the attack on Jadenvive?
I’ve been under her control since she took Selene. But I have been supporting my brother’s rebellion against her however I can. I warned my cousin, Ryon, and I turned on her during the attack. I failed to kill her again, and I’m surprised I survived that encounter. Lysander huffed a breath. Not that it mattered, since I won’t survive this trial. He leaned back and shifted in his restraints, holding his chin high. I don’t care if you kill me. She’s dead. That’s all that matters.
The elder remained still for a long moment. Creator have mercy on you, child. Ask him for forgiveness, and he will satisfy you with his justice and heal you with his love.
Lysander rolled his eyes as the old man got to his feet with the help of a guard. At least he’d heard another person’s voice before the end, however unwelcome a religious rant was. What had the creator ever done for him?
Sound energy reverberated from the announcer’s direction. The translator grew lax with lazy movements as the conversation bounced around the courtroom and the minutes dragged on.
Lysander closed his eyes. If Zamara hadn’t infiltrated his family, he’d probably be at the palace of Quin’Zamar right now—rather, at Quin’Alor, the grand pyramid’s former name. He’d be dressed in d’hakka silk dyed in the rarest shades of violet and blue. His Valinorian mother, Dierdre, would still be alive to dote upon him, and his father to angrily disapprove of his every action. He’d be married to the daughter of the Katrosi chief, who would not have grown up to become chieftess herself.
Brooke.
Lysander stared through the crowd until he caught a glance of her. Those big brown eyes had sharpened as she’d grown. Her playful, styled hair tightened into braids. Her curvy features toned into the firm-yet-feminine stature of a spearmaiden.
It wouldn’t have worked between them, anyway. She was too strong-minded—they’d clash against each other like swords. And he had no idea how to treat a woman, at least in an appropriate way. Selene hadn’t finished teaching him.
Brooke met his gaze, and he couldn’t tell if the tear was genuine or from her dripping warpaint. She looked away.
Lysander frowned and turned back to the interpreter.
Her hand signs were stiff and cold. “The people have voted, and the Elder of Justice has sentenced you to death. Your soul will be delivered to the creator in three days.”
Kira squinted at smudged writing at the top of the Phoeran schematics. “Crossbow,” she murmured as she read. “Designed so a bolt shot at high speed can penetrate heavy armor.” At least, that’s what she thought the flowing script said.
“Wonder what kinda fish they got in that lake.” Tekkyn lifted a fish hook above his head, examining it in the light from the ceiling windows of the infirmary. “I heard they got whisker fish as long as a man’s leg.”
Kira reined in her frustration as she tried to calculate how much force the collection of pulleys could exact upon the bowstring. “I’m sure the river Mossu has the same trout that the Silvermead does. They’re only separated by the Gnarled Wood.”
“Yeah, but the Silvermead empties into the Rift Ocean, while the Mossu feeds Lake Mossu. So we might get more salt-fish swimmin’ upstream from the ocean while the lake might have fish that don’t like the salt.”
“We’re a long way from the ocean, though,” Kira muttered, tilting the schematic sideways as she counted strings.
“Well yeah, but you should see how far them redfish will travel at the right time of year.”
Kira blew out a breath as she set the scroll down in a crackling protest. “Why don’t you just go fishing and find out?”
Tekkyn tore his eyes from the gleaming fishhook to glance at her. “Gotta watch these Islanders.”
“I’m watching them.”
He frowned. “I’m bein’ paid well to—”
“It doesn’t take two people to watch them sleep,” Kira said.
Tekkyn smirked. “My job’s to guard them, whether they’re awake or not.”
A frustrated growl rumbled in Kira’s throat. “We’re in the Great Hall—the safest place in the entire city—and they aren’t going anywhere. I’ll send for you if they wake up, okay?”
Tekkyn pursed his lips. “As tempting as that sounds, I’m a soldier, and I never leave my post.”
Kira gave him a blank look. “Then be quiet so I can study. If I have to listen to you talk about fish for five more breaths, I’m going to turn into a shark, okay?”
Tekkyn chuckled and crossed to her. He tousled her hair before she could lean away. “All right, fine, Frizz. I’ll just check out the docks and come right back.” He strode to the door and slipped the hook into a pouch on his belt. “I’ll call for an extra guard outside in case you need to use the restroom or something.”
“And they could call us if we’re actually needed! What a novel idea!” Kira shooed him away and retrieved her scroll as Tekkyn shut the door behind him.
Yeah, the shark comment had been dumb, but she was more flustered than she cared to admit. Lee had loved fishing, too, and no matter how much Kira treasured her remaining brother, she couldn’t become his new fishing buddy. The memories hurt too much. The wound was too raw.
And with Tekkyn gone, Kira was finally alone with the two sleepers . . . and that mysterious other presence.
Kira carefully rolled up the schematics and placed it next to the other scrolls from the Jadenvive library. She glanced at the door as she stood and moved to stand where she’d last heard the disembodied voice.
“Lillian?” she whispered.
Kiralau. The voice echoed in her head, undulating with warmth and peace. It seems we may speak freely now.
Kira’s blood chilled, half excited and half horrified that the being had answered so quickly. It must
have been listening.
“What are you? How are you doing this?” She looked down at Vylia’s still face. What sorcery had the royals conjured on the Island?
Did you not just acknowledge my name? Laughter passed through Kira’s mind like a summer breeze. You truly speak to the goddess of water, little minnow. The seven-tailed fox. The deity of fertility and generosity. Lady of the Endless Isles. True ruler of the Malaano Empire.
Kira blinked in surprise. Lillian thought herself the ruler of Malaan? Then what of the emperor?
She tightened her fists. “You can’t be Lillian. I called out to her my entire life, and she never answered my prayers. My people suffered through years of drought, and she either abandoned us or she wasn’t powerful enough to help. Now why would I suddenly hear her voice here, in a foreign land?” Blood thudded through Kira’s veins. “I know you’re just a mind-reader like the chieftess. Show yourself.”
A moment of silence passed, and a feeling like crawling spiders skittered across Kira’s skin.
What a remarkable fire you have. I see now why you have bound yourself to a Phoeran. The voice remained smooth and calm. Tell me, faithless girl: does your land still thirst for water?
Kira froze. They’d had gentle, consistent, intermittent rain for over a week now. Not so much to have caused a flood—just the right amount for the land to absorb and heal. The right amount to help the Katrosi put out the fires. The right amount to restore a vibrant green to their fields and feed their starving cattle.
A sliver of fear trickled down Kira’s spine. She said nothing.
I speak to you now through my mirror, a powerful artifact within Princess Vylia’s belongings. You may know it as the Malo Stone—the source of the Malo element.
The trickle of anxiety turned into a gush and flooded Kira’s belly with dread. Her eyes flicked to the folded dress and other delicate accessories on a thin table behind her. She slowly turned and spotted an opal the size of her fist. It glittered and gleamed every color even in the stillness, swirling like a magical storm trapped behind glass.
Kira’s breath faltered. Is this the stone that Felix said Lillian was imprisoned within?
“Are . . . you . . . trapped inside?” she whispered, staring into the depths of the stone.
The voice made a noise akin to a snarl. How does one trap a god? Within a rock, no less? Blasphemy.
Kira clenched her fists until her nails dug into her palms. “They say the creator bound the four greater amos elementals for disobeying his laws and abusing humans.”
The creator is dead. I killed him myself along with the other amos, and we absorbed the power from his dying breath. His laws were tyrannical and his judgements harsh. No one misses him except the blind pagans. The voice changed abruptly from vitriolic to nonchalant. Now, my child, if you will put aside these baseless beliefs and return to me, I have chosen you to perform a simple task. Do this for me, and you will be rewarded beyond your mortal imaginings.
Kira remembered to breathe. She glanced back at Vylia and Sousuke, then at the door. Nothing had changed.
Well, Lillian’s claims aside, it couldn’t hurt to know what she was after. “What is it you want?” Kira whispered.
The voice’s candor turned sweet. I’m fond of relics, as you can see. The children of Phoera have stolen one from me. Tell me: what do your pagan leaders say of the keystone?
Kira blinked in surprise. “The big quartz gem in the chieftess’s headdress?”
One and the same. Retrieve it for me, and I will add its power to my own. With it, I can easily aid my people, such as yourself, at the edges of our ever-expanding empire. Droughts needn’t last so long, even so far from Maqua, hmm?
Kira’s jaw fell. “You want me to steal Brooke’s—”
The door opened and Kira jumped. Ryon’s smiling face popped in through the breach. “Hey, balemba!” His grin faded as he caught her expression. “Everything okay?”
“Yes, uh . . .” Kira straightened and hurried to him, far too aware of the surreal presence at her back that made her skin raise into bumps. Something in her hair flopped with the sudden movement, and she fumbled with the butterfly pin Ryon had given her. Tekkyn’s teasing must have knocked it loose.
Thankfully, the voice said nothing more as she left the room. She had to tell Ryon about this strange development, but not here. Perhaps Lillian couldn’t hear her elsewhere in the city, away from the “mirror.”
Kira landed in Ryon’s arms. “I’m fine. How are you? I heard Lysander . . .”
“I’m trying really hard not to think about that right now.” Ryon held her tight. “I’m still on duty but thought I’d check in and say hi. Do you have any plans for tonight?”
“No.” Kira dared not look back. “What did you have in mind?”
“Mom’s making venison empanadas for dinner.” Something in Ryon’s eye implied that empanadas were something special, whatever they were. “Since we’re on evadír, you know, I thought actually spending time with family might be a good idea.”
Oh, right. The purpose of evadír was to meet each other’s families, wasn’t it?
Kira’s tension began to hesitantly melt. “That sounds great, but . . .” She looked back at Vylia’s sleeping form, waiting for the quilt over the princess’s chest to rise and fall. The opal burned in her peripheral vision.
“Spend just a few minutes on break with me. I really need a distraction right now,” Ryon said. “I passed Nariellyn on the way here. She said she’s coming for a routine checkup. And she’ll be back tonight as well, so I’m sure it wouldn’t be a problem if you left for a little date.”
Kira turned back to him with a sly smirk. “Date, huh?”
“I’ve got plans.” Ryon’s eyebrows bounced. “Oh, and Tekkyn is invited to dinner too. But not the afterparty.”
Kira rolled her eyes and leaned forward, hoping to provide the support Ryon needed after his cousin’s death sentence. And she wanted out of this room as soon as possible.
“I’ll leave Tekkyn a note, but he’d only be interested in fish empana . . . nadas. We won’t need a chaperone for this ‘afterparty,’ do we?”
Ryon’s grin widened. “Nope.”
“I answer your summons, Chieftess.”
Brooke watched the middle-aged man kneel before her throne, his dark cloak whispering around fine clothes and clean boots. Good thing he averted his gaze, because if she looked half as tired as she felt, even her war paint couldn’t mask the dark circles under her eyes.
Sleep had evaded her during her brief midday nap. She’d lost count of the meetings she’d already had today. Two more to go.
She wanted nothing more than a few minutes of shut-eye, but she refused to rest until her people could.
Brooke tilted her head toward her handmaiden. “Another yaupon tea, please.”
Shaya raised an eyebrow, silently voicing her disapproval.
Brooke waved her off. So what if it was her fourth cup of the energizing brew?
Shaya bowed and shuffled down the steps toward the Great Hall’s kitchens.
“It’s good to see you, Ulysses,” Brooke said to the man. “I hope the fire didn’t cause your family any suffering.”
“It didn’t. Our house is in the upper levels, but the smoke drifted to the other side of the city.” Ulysses looked up at her with a dark, hollow gaze. “If I may speak frankly, Chieftess, I’m surprised you would care about the wellbeing of my family after what my mother did to you.”
Brooke frowned. It was true that she hated his mother more than any other creature on the planet. When Ulysses and Brooke had competed for the title of chief three years ago, his mother was the one who’d started the rumor that Brooke was a witch in an attempt to inflict political damage.
He must think it humiliating to kneel before me now.
“Rise,” Brooke said. “You might have heard that I lost my vice in the attack. I’d like you to be his replacement.”
Ulysses froze halfway to standing and star
ed at her with wide eyes. “You . . . what?” He looked back down at his feet. “Surely you can’t be serious. The elders didn’t choose me that day, so why do you think I would make a good chief if something happened to you? I was . . . arrogant and awful.”
A smile tugged on the edge of Brooke’s lips. “Your admission confirms you aren’t like that any more. It’s been three years.” She stood up from the throne, hoping the movement would force some blood back into her exhausted limbs. “But one thing didn’t change: you’d make a good vice for the same reason you were good competition on that day.”
She omitted the other reason he could probably guess: making an alliance with her political rival would strengthen her own support from the people during a tumultuous time.
Ulysses’s brow furrowed in thought. “Thank you for this honor. But I’ll need time to think on it.” He straightened his leather jerkin with an annoyed tug. “And I’d have to ensure my mother wouldn’t cause trouble.”
Brooke suddenly felt lighter. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. “The position is yours if you want it. You have three days to decide.”
“Thank you.” Ulysses bowed his head. “This is yet another reason the elders chose you. I don’t think I could forgive my enemies like this.”
“We are not enemies,” Brooke said, “but if we were, haven’t you already forgiven me?”
Ulysses’s lips parted, but he didn’t say anything. Then his shoulders seemed to relax a bit. “I can’t forgive you for being chosen. That’s not a crime.”
“It’s practically a crime for you to not see how you’re the perfect candidate for my vice.” She smirked. “I wouldn’t have offered you the position if I didn’t think you’d make a good chief if something happened to me.”
His expression turned into an intimidating mix of dark and playful—that competitive gleam Brooke knew well. “Obviously you’re wrong, so I’ll just have to make sure nothing happens to you.”
Not exactly comforting. Aeo, I hope I’m making the right decision.
Brooke nodded. “You are dismissed.”