by Jasmine Walt
“We’re on the train? How did I get here?”
Kestrel sat opposite her, reading a book. “The priestess commanded some guardsmen to carry you on.” She didn’t look up. “General Avanov and Colonel Zarot are also on board.”
Lynx had no idea who Colonel Zarot was. It didn’t look like Kestrel would explain, either.
“Last I knew, I was defending my braid. Then some she-witch grilled me with her fingers.”
“Like I said, you shouldn’t have knifed him. Or kissed Heron.”
She hadn’t kissed Heron! He had kissed her! But it was pointless. Right now, as annoying as Kestrel was, she needed her sister too much to fight.
“Who knew priestesses had those kinds of powers?” Lynx asked to change the subject.
Her dealings with the Chenayan religion were non-existent. But she had learned something from the miserable experience: the moment the priestess had touched her, her moonstone had pulsed. There had to be a connection. That, at least, was gratifying, making the painful experience worthwhile.
“Axel Avanov . . . did he tell the priestess not to hurt me? Or did I imagine that?”
“He said ‘no.’ I don’t think he was pleased.”
“Hmm . . . that surprises me.” Lynx wished Kestrel would engage in this discussion so she didn’t have to drag it out of her.
But, head averted, her sister’s fingernails picked at the worn cover of her novel. Ownership of books was forbidden in the empire—a ban Kestrel was happy to flaunt for the pleasure of reading romance novels.
Once a year, the Norin caravan brushed Lapis, a Free Nation. There, steam-printed books were produced in small numbers—not enough to risk the ire of the Chenayans who might decide to quash such rebellion by their independent neighbor. With a passing knowledge of Lapisian, Kestrel saved her money for books. King Thorn knew it was risky, letting his people breach the poorly guarded border, but he said the pursuit of the written word outweighed possible reprisals.
The spinning in Lynx’s head had subsided enough for her to risk looking out the window. The track they were following ran parallel to a soft, white beach lapped by azure waters. It had to be the shores of the Izmodo Sea. The sun, not yet tipping the ocean, lay low in the sky.
“How far are we from the checkpoint at Final Gate?”
Kestrel shrugged. “I don’t know. I wondered myself. I was hoping to look out the window before—” Her sister’s voice faltered.
Lynx guessed at what Kestrel wasn’t saying. She wanted a last look at Norin before they crossed the narrow land bridge; it jutted two miles across the sea that divided Norin from the Chenayan heartland.
That Kestrel cared softened Lynx’s heart. “If you tell me how long we’ve traveled, I’ll tell you when we’re likely to get there.”
Kestrel cleared her throat. “We were in Tanamre for about an hour. And we’ve been traveling for about four, I guess, given how the sun has shifted.”
That made five hours.
She’d been unconscious that long? The she-witch hadn’t been joking when she said she would immobilize her.
“We should get to our side of the land bridge in less than an hour.” Lynx remembered the wristwatch Heron had given her and forced her frozen arm to move so she could look at it—and gasped.
Not only was her precious watch gone, but so was her leather tunic. A lacy white cuff dangled delicately over her hand, attached to a tight-fitting, pale pink taffeta sleeve. She leaped to her feet and bashed her head against the wood-lined roof, hardly aware of the impact.
“No wonder I feel so terrible I can barely move!” she shrieked. “That bitch put me in a dress. With a stupid bustle.”
“I know.” Kestrel wailed. “I can’t believe what she’s done to you. You look so . . . unnatural, I can’t bear to look at you.” She launched out of her seat and threw herself at Lynx, locking her arms around her waist. “And your other braid—” Kestrel actually sobbed.
Lynx understood why Kestrel had been so reticent. Her sister may not have wanted feathers and beads in her hair, but she knew how much Lynx cherished them. Her hand darted to her face. The feathers and beads were gone and the braid teased out of her hair.
“I tried to stop her. I even told her what they mean to a Norin. Honestly, I did,” Kestrel cried.
Lynx wasn’t listening. Her hands shot to her back, feeling for her weapons. Unsurprisingly, they were missing. With Kestrel clinging to her, she plopped onto the bench and yanked up the dress to expose her boot, where she always kept a blade hidden. But her boots were gone, too. Instead, she wore a pair of matching pink satin slippers.
They were trying to turn her into a Chenayan! Changing her clothes was the first step. Who knew what would come next?
A scream of rage tore from her chest, and she kicked her feet, sending the slippers shooting across the compartment. Kestrel tumbled off her lap, landing in a heap of green and black brocade on the floor.
“Dragon’s curses! What is going on in here?”
A door Lynx hadn’t noticed slid open, and Mother Saskia’s head poked into the tiny space.
“Oh. You’re awake.” She glared at Lynx. “But still full of defiance, I see.” She held out a warning hand. “This has got to stop, Princess. Such behavior is hardly becoming from our crown prince’s betrothed.”
Scraping all her dignity together, Lynx faced the priestess. “My clothes and weapons. Where are they?”
“You dare ask about your weapons after attacking Lord Axel!”
“I was provoked.”
“Nonsense, and as for those leather rags,” Mother Saskia’s gloved hands tugged and straightened the pink ruffled corset of Lynx’s dress, “this is what a lady wears. Thankfully, I packed a few trunks of gowns for you.”
Lynx knocked her hands away. “My weapons? Where are they, you evil witch?”
“A witch?” Mother Saskia pulled herself straight. “I am the Great High Priestess of All Chenaya and the Conquered Territories. My power comes directly from the Dragon.”
Lynx opened her mouth to tell Mother Saskia to shove her Dragon, preferably somewhere painful, when the priestess’s lips curled into a scowl.
“What is this?” She thrust Lynx aside and pounced on Kestrel’s book. She held it up as if it were a rat. “I searched your luggage before we left Tanamre. This was not in it.”
Kestrel lunged for the book. “It’s mine. You can’t destroy it like you destroyed everything else.”
“Not anymore. We do not tolerate Free Nation propaganda here in the Heartland.”
“But I am marrying Tao, and I know he can read.”
Her words had no effect on the priestess. Mother Saskia pulled a hand from its glove and flicked her finger at the edge of the pages. The smell of burnt ozone after a lightning strike filled the cabin. The parchment blackened, curled, and then ignited. Kestrel gaped as the novel burst into flames. The she-witch dropped it into the aisle outside the compartment’s door.
Lynx watched it burn until nothing remained but the smoldering leather cover. Even as she clenched her fists, she knew how impotent she was against a woman who could shoot lightning from her fingers.
It was a truth not lost on Mother Saskia, either. A triumphant glint gleamed in her eye. “Princess Lynx, now you know what happened to your disgusting feathers, tatty wristwatch, hideous rags, and puny weapons.”
Icy water seemed to flush through Lynx’s veins. “My watch? You destroyed it? It belonged to Heron. He gave it me to remember him.”
“How many times must I tell you, Princess? There is no room for other men in your life.” The she-witch scooped up Lynx’s pink slippers and thrust them into her hand. “We will arrive at Final Gate in half an hour. There, we will collect your father’s brother. Unlike the rest of you Norin, he seems to know how to behave. Don’t embarrass him with your wild behavior.” Mother Saskia picked up her skirt and sailed from the compartment.
Kestrel slumped onto her seat, fighting her bustle, which insisted on s
hooting up behind her. “Did you see what she did to my book?”
Lynx figured it was a rhetorical question, but she was still proud of her sister for trying to put one past the priestess. “Good for you.”
A strategy was needed for dealing with the she-witch, but first Lynx’s bustle had to go. She raised her dress high enough to expose the fastenings tying it to her corset. “Help me loosen this stupid thing, and then I’ll do yours. We can toss them out the window.”
Kestrel didn’t move as Lynx wriggled into position in front of her. “Do you think we should risk it?”
Lynx looked at Kestrel over her shoulder. “If you think I’m going to wear a bustle, then you’re as crazy as she is. Come, we don’t have much time before we pick up Uncle Bear.” She waggled her hips, making the bustle sway. “The last thing in the world I want is for him to see me dressed in this.”
“I don’t intend on getting fried.” Kestrel shoved Lynx away. “And I like my dress. Uncle Bear has lived in the palace for years. I bet he also dresses like they do.”
Lynx stumbled forward, gripping the wall for support. Kestrel’s uncharacteristic burst of bravery had fizzled out with her book. And of course she liked Chenayan clothing—it wasn’t Norin. That made discussing a strategy of rebellion with her moot.
“As Father’s emissary in Cian, Uncle Bear has to. That doesn’t mean he likes it.” Lynx fumbled with the ties, wishing she had her knife. It would have made short work of the lacings.
“Lynx, Wolf said I was to support you, so I’m telling you right now that this is a bad idea.”
“Submitting to their dress code is the first step in becoming like them. I am a Norin, and I’ll remain one until I die.”
“Then your life probably won’t be very long, given what that woman can do.”
“Oh, stop being so negative. She’s just the priestess. Lukan is the one whose opinion counts, and his mother was a Norin. He knows how we dress. This is a compromise he can make toward our marriage. It’s not as if he’s put himself out in any other way.”
Kestrel grabbed Lynx’s hands, pulling them away from her bustle. “Stop! I won’t let you put us both at risk like this. It’s stupid and reckless.”
Lynx’s instinctive reaction was to argue, but her father’s face, pleading for her to take care, flashed before her. It flushed her rebellion. She slumped down onto the bench. To hide her embarrassment, she poked her head out the window and looked up at the terrain ahead. “We’ve reached the land bridge.”
Kestrel shot to the window. But, Lynx noted with sadness, despite all that had happened, her sister’s eyes were not fixed on the south where Norin lay. It was to the Chenayan Heartland in the north that she looked with bright expectation.
Eager to escape from her, Lynx tugged open the door and stepped into the aisle. To her right, the passageway ended in a padlocked steel door. She turned left toward a door with an image of the Dragon etched into its glass panel. The hideous creature was clearly going to become a permanent fixture in her life.
Through the glass, she could see another car with an elegant sitting area. She took a couple of steps toward the door, but her unfamiliar dress knotted around her ankles. She grabbed an armful, pushed the door open, and stepped barefoot onto a highly polished hardwood floor.
Axel Avanov slouched in a plush armchair, one long, booted leg sprawled over the armrest. Although he had changed out of his torn, bloody trousers, she noted with some satisfaction that it was the leg she had sliced. She wondered if he would say anything about her attack. If he didn’t, she figured it would be better if she didn’t say anything, either.
A colonel—the one Kestrel had mentioned?—relaxed in a chair opposite him. They were playing dice. Three piles of mycek lay on the low table between them. From the size of the pile of notes in front of Axel Avanov, she guessed he was winning. He laughed at something the colonel said.
Across the expansive compartment, the she-witch’s white robes contrasted sharply against the opulent red, black, and gold furnishings. She knelt in apparent prayer at the foot of a black dragon effigy. The Dragon’s red eyes glared across the compartment, chilling the atmosphere, making Lynx feel as welcome as the she-witch’s shock treatment had.
She shivered and considered returning to Kestrel, but this sitting area was probably where she’d be spending most of her time until reaching Cian. She took a deep breath and straightened her back. No one would intimidate her.
Lynx dropped her dress so she could use her hands to defend herself, if necessary, and stepped purposefully into the room—only to trip over her skirt. She stumbled forward, bashing her knee on a table, rattling a candlestick.
“Winds!”
Every eye turned to her. Face as pink as her dress, Lynx found her balance and tried to glide gracefully to the closest chair. It happened to be at Avanov’s table. Her feet tangled again in the hated taffeta.
“Having some trouble, Princess?” Avanov asked.
Mother Saskia stood to face her. Unsurprisingly, she didn’t look amused—or sympathetic.
“No trouble at all, General.” She’d rot in hell before she’d call a Chenayan “my lord.” Quickly, she picked up the skirt, found a seam, and ripped it open to her thigh; Mother Saskia started to move, so she tugged the dress and petticoats to her side and tied them into a knot. “Now that I’ve solved the problem of the ridiculous clothing you all wear.”
Heart racing, feigning nonchalance, Lynx sauntered to Avanov’s table and dropped into a chair. As her bustle connected, the chair jerked out behind her, skittering across the wooden floor. She collapsed in a heap. Both Avanov and the colonel burst into laughter.
Avanov started to stand—to help her?—but she leaped up, grabbed the chair and pulled it back to the table before he was on his feet. He held the back of the confounded thing as she sat, this time with more care.
Humiliated beyond measure—a cushion on the floor would never have sabotaged her like that—she tried to draw attention from her flaming face by plunking her feet on the table. “So, General, are you going to invite me to play?”
He scorched her with his wicked smile. “If you’ve got the mycek, why not?”
Lynx resisted the urge to kick him. Norin was not overly supplied with paper money. They used ostrich feathers and hides to barter for what they needed, and he would know that. She tilted her chin up to reply just as Mother Saskia reached the table. Lynx braced herself for pain. She started to pull her skirt down when Axel surprised her by frowning at the priestess.
The priestess hesitated, her eyes locked on Lynx’s thighs. “But, my lord—”
“Go back to your prayers,” Axel commanded, waving dismissively at her. “Colonel Zarot and I happen to enjoy looking at the princess’s legs.”
Scowling, the she-witch retreated to her post at the Dragon’s feet.
He turned to the colonel. “Don’t we, Stefan?”
“It’s certainly not something we see every day.”
Lynx writhed as the colonel’s impassive face twitched with a grin. All she wanted was to slink away and never return, but she had as much right to be here as they had.
Flaunting her legs was a totally alien experience, but she couldn’t let these Chenayan scum know how much their mocking laughter rattled her. Now was not the time to be coy. She took a deep breath and stared at Avanov.
“In that case, General, the view of my legs buys me into the game.” Willing her hands to stop shaking, she picked up the three dice. “Bet what you think the view of them is worth.”
Dice was the only game of chance she had ever had any luck with, so as long as these weren’t loaded, she was confident she could win.
Avanov grunted. Or maybe it was a laugh. Then, his hand slipped into a pocket of his black breeches and pulled out a wad of notes. With a lazy flick of his wrist, he tossed a pair of thousand mycek bills onto the table.
Lynx tried, and failed, to stop her eyes from widening. That was more money than she would have seen
in her whole life if she’d stayed in Norin.
The colonel must have agreed it was an outrageous amount because he was a tad slow in matching Axel’s bet.
Sudden, unexpected sympathy for the man flashed through Lynx. The Avanovs were the richest family in the empire, and two thousand mycek would probably be pocket change for the general. For the rest of the population—and, more specifically, the Norin tribe—it was life-changing money. Playing for that kind of cash called for some nervous hair twirling, but when her fingers reached for her favorite lock, she remembered the priestess had chopped it off.
Dice clenched at a fresh burst of anger, she called, “A six, a one, and a four.”
She didn’t get to roll the dice. The screeching of the train’s brakes told her they had reached the control point at Final Gate.
Avanov swept up his two notes, leaving the rest of the money on the table. “Sorry, Princess,” he said, “but duty calls.”
Both he and the colonel walked to a door at the opposite end of the compartment from where Lynx had entered.
Lynx’s face flamed; Avanov must have known they were seconds away from the checkpoint when he made his outrageous bid. Clearly, he had no intention of risking that much money for a view of her legs.
Why it mattered, she couldn’t say.
10
Axel slouched in his chair in the salon and smiled at Bear, King Thorn’s brother and emissary in Cian. The man could not have looked less like his namesake if he tried. Tall, rangy, thin-lipped, and aquiline-faced, Bear would have been better named after some raptor. A bad-tempered one. But then, Axel figured, twenty years in Cian dealing with Mad Mott was enough to put anyone out of humor.
Still, the two princesses seemed pleased to see their uncle—Lynx particularly.
Wild Lynx sat on a small sofa next to Bear, her hand clasped in his. Kestrel perched on a second sofa next to Stefan. That completed their after-dinner drinks circle.
Given they were enemies joined by conquest and marriage, no one had much to offer in the way of conversation. Dinner had been stilted, too, with Bear the only one making any real effort. Now, even he seemed to have exhausted his supply of small talk.