He turns and kneels in front of the fireplace. He does that when he’s upset. Gets eerily calm, then busies his hands with something to do. This time he’s moving my makeshift bed on the floor and sweeping away the soot.
“We won’t be able to move forward if all we do is lash out at each other,” he says. “We can’t keep secrets or lies. Not if there is to be trust between us.”
Part of me doesn’t want to move forward. Part of me wants to stop this quest, find a quiet corner of the world, and live out the rest of my days. Isn’t it enough that I have to live with the memories locked inside my head, the ones that have been coming undone bit by bit every day? I was once a weapon that led to the death of thousands of Moria and Leonesse alike. Now I’m left with tattered thoughts and little understanding of who I’m supposed to be. And there it is, isn’t it? The answer to my own traitorous weakness. I may not want to move forward, but I owe it to the memory of my parents to try. To mend a kingdom Castian and I both helped break.
“Fine,” I say.
“No more lies.”
“I have nothing to hide, Castian.”
He goes to retrieve new logs from the corner, but it’s empty. He grunts. Scratches the side of his neck. Twists the marriage band around his finger. It’s made of oak carved with runes of unity.
“Is what the innkeeper said true? Are you—”
It takes me a breath to realize what he means. I grab a wilting flower from the vase in front of me and throw it at him. He catches it and swiftly ushers it into the dead fireplace.
“It’s a highly unlikely suspicion,” I snap. It’s true that my monthly bleeding is late. Late enough that I’ve been worried since we’ve arrived in Acesteña. “Moria apothecuras taught us that these things are affected by stress on the body and heart. I’d say the last weeks have been full of that. Though I have considered that my nausea might be the side effects of your Illusionári magics. Every time you hold me while you’re glamoured, I want to throw up.”
His lips twitch, as if he’s trying to suppress a laugh. “It’s good to know I provoke such a strong reaction from you. Did you feel this way the night of the festival?”
That was the night everything went wrong. The Sun Festival. I remember us dancing across the ballroom and then beating each other bloody. I remember wondering why Castian knew my childhood name, the one only my father had called me. I pressed my fingers to his bare skin with every intention of ripping every memory from his head, but it didn’t work. I wonder if it was because part of me, deep down, recognized him from when we were children and truly didn’t want to hurt him.
“No,” I say. “Your magics didn’t affect me that night.”
“You can rule me out. I’ve learned to control my magics to minimize the side effect, Nati,” he says earnestly. “I wish you’d told me.”
“When I knew for certain, I would have.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“What happened between Dez and me is not your business. The Whispers all drink irvena tea, which would make a pregnancy highly unlikely.”
“But not impossible.”
I rub my hands across my face. I wish Sayida were the one asking me these questions. “No. Not impossible.”
“Then perhaps we should find my brother to reunite you with your dear heart. Even though he knows exactly where to find you and left again.”
“I hate you.” The words froth at my lips like venom.
The cruel, violent prince I know is back. His blue-green eyes dark and cold, his lip a snarl. “I hate you more.”
Castian’s glamour slides back into place. Stomping past me, he slams the door.
I yank the ring from my finger and throw it into the pile of cinders. I sit on the floor until I stop trembling. My anger melts into the kind of heartache I first felt on the day I believed Dez was dead. Why am I still grieving for someone who is very much alive? Because he was once everything to you, I answer.
I wish I could take everything I said to Castian back. There’s something about him that makes me so angry. Working with him seemed bearable if I could see Dez again and convince him to join us in our search for the mythical weapon. But spending every day and night pretending to be Castian’s wife is harder than I thought it’d be.
Letting go of a long, tired breath, I dig through the cinders to find the wedding ring. When Castian lent it to me for our disguise, I didn’t ask why he’d had it at the ready. In my tired state it seemed that princes carried their riches with them. But there, in that seaside cave, he’d been so prepared, like he’d spent his whole life ready to one day run away. I wonder if it was once worn by his former fiancée. Why would it matter?
I clean the gold band and emerald, then slip it back on my finger. What would my old unit say now? Renata Convida, the wife of our enemy. But Castian isn’t my enemy. He’s the only person who chose me.
For this to work, for us to destroy his father and right the wrongs of the past, I have to find a way to quell my anger.
Tugging on my gloves, I go in search of him.
I cut through the lunch crowd filling the tavern. He isn’t among the gathering on the green. Women make flower crowns and lace masks. An old man plays the bagpipes, and several inn guests lounge on blankets under the sun. He wouldn’t go back to the market at the busiest time of day. He’d want to sulk and perhaps add to his scarred knuckles by hitting something. Then it occurs to me: the woods.
When I pass the inn’s courtyard, a rhythmic thwacking sound catches my attention. Before he left, Castian was going to make a new fire, but we were out of logs. Of course, he’s cutting wood.
I catch a glimpse of him through the lines of laundered sheets blowing in the breeze. I think of the lavanderas I met when I was in the palace, and suddenly, I miss the afternoons we spent washing linens. Those girls took me in. And I used them to steal memories of the prince.
Castian is right. I haven’t been completely honest with him. I start to step forward, but then I hear voices. A trio of servant girls from the inn huddles behind stacks of crates watching the shirtless man. I want to laugh until I hear what they say.
“That Wilmer Otsoa could split me in half, and I’d die happily,” one declares, exaggerating her husky voice for effect. “How does a musician wind up with all those muscles and scars?”
“Maybe ye should offer, Silvia,” another girl suggests. “Look at the way he’s chopping those logs. That’s a man who hasn’t found pleasure in a very, very long time.”
“Silvia will not offer anything. He’s just married. That’s a sin!” the youngest pipes up.
“Marriage don’t make ye an expert in matters of the flesh.” The girl emphasizes the last word.
They fall into hysterics. I yank the sheet that blocks me from their view.
“No,” I say, smiling at their yelping, reddening faces, “but practice does.”
I hate you.
I hate you more.
Those were our exact words mere moments ago. But being laughed at by these girls who are barely older than I am reminds me of the years I spent under similar scorn. I tell myself that they rankle me because they are taking a liberty with a man who is supposed to be my husband. That is a disrespect a young wife wouldn’t tolerate. I tell myself that we have to keep up our charade. If the people around us don’t believe that Castian and I are married and in love, then we would open ourselves to scrutiny. I tell myself that we can’t afford to lose our cover.
And that is why I march across the grass to where he is chopping logs. He hasn’t glamoured away the scars on his bare chest and across his shoulders. He’s being careless because of our fight.
Castian stops midswing, and his eyes track me, as prey might track its hunter. I cup one hand on the back of his neck, threading my fingers through his hair, and yank him against me.
“What are you—?”
“They’re suspicious,” I whisper quickly. “We have to—”
He makes a fist against my lower back, and I
feel his entire body tense with revulsion. He presses me tight against his chest, glistening with sweat. My arm is trapped between us, right over his heart. I can feel his pulse, as frantic as my own.
Then he meets me halfway. Our teeth collide, but his rough kiss softens. His tongue chases away the sting of his bite, and I feel an ache deep in my belly when he makes a gruff sound at the back of his throat. He must hate this. I hate this. Don’t I? Why can’t I stop myself from raking my nails along his scars?
My breath hitches when he squeezes me harder, lifting me in the air. When he pulls away, his calloused thumb traces the side of my cheek, down to my neck where he unpins my braid. He winds it around his fist and tugs ever so slightly.
“Don’t use me like this, Nati,” he whispers, then presses a final kiss on my exposed neck, right over a thick white scar.
Speechless, I return to the inn, keenly aware of the girls watching me with a combination of awe and jealousy as they finish their chores.
When I get back upstairs, I run to the privy to relieve myself.
“Thank the Mother of All,” I say. I have never been so relieved to find that I am bleeding.
I go back downstairs and pay Doña Sagrada for a hot bath and new undergarments. There is no being demure around a woman her age, though I assure her I was never with child to begin with. She takes my coin and leaves me a fresh towel and a couple of sea sponges.
She pats my cheek and says, “Don’t worry, soon you’ll have a litter.”
In my bath, I scrub myself clean. I lick the inside of my lip where Castian’s teeth cut me from the force of our kiss. I remind myself that it was a necessity. Why do people love newlyweds so much? I can’t fathom. In the last town we were in, we held hands in public and shared a chaste closed-mouth peck to sell our charade. Then when we reached our room we shot to our separate corners. But today was different.
I replay the shock in his eyes, the tension with which he held me, like he was fighting to not shove me away. The way his voice was almost pleading. Don’t use me like this, Nati.
I finish washing my hair, insert the sea sponge for my bleeding, and rinse with the cold water that’s left. When I step into our room, I barely recognize the suite. My makeshift bed on the floor has been folded away. The fireplace is lit and crackling. Supper has been set under a porcelain serving dome, three fat candles drip around a fresh bouquet of wildflowers.
And there, at the foot of the bed, is Castian, doing the best he can to brush hundreds of petals off the blanket.
What a perfect start to the romantic dinner with my fake husband.
“I DIDN’T DO THIS,” CASTIAN ASSURES ME. PANIC FLOODS HIS FEATURES.
My hair is still damp and loose over my shoulders, and when I step closer, I notice his is, too. He smells like soap and woodsmoke.
“I didn’t imagine so.” I chuckle and shove my dirty clothes in my pack.
“Doña Sagrada truly outdid herself.” He throws rose petals into the roaring fire, then rubs his palms together.
“I’m ready to talk.” I take a seat at the table and lift the serving dome. The savory steam from the rabbit fricassee makes my mouth water. “Honestly.”
Castian sits in front of me, dressed in a loose black tunic open at the chest. The candlelight makes shadows dance along his forearms as he ladles our meal onto large plates. Here is the prince of Puerto Leones serving me dinner, making sure my plate is full first. I pour wine into the crystal goblets. Then we stare at each other, and I’m not sure who should begin.
“Ren—”
“Let me speak,” I say softly. “It’s taken me hours to work up the nerve. I have been keeping something from you.” He sits back, and I’m uncertain about the way his stare makes me feel, but I know I have to try for the good of our mission. “There is something wrong with my memories.”
He leans forward on his elbows. “What do you mean?”
I bite my lower lip. I’ve never really spoken to anyone about my magics except for Dez and my old mentor, Illan.
“There is a part of my mind where all the memories I’ve locked up live. Every Hollow I’ve created is in there, but so are most memories from my own life. I call it the Gray. I’ve never known another Robári well, so I don’t know how to control it or whether I can ever be rid of it. But once a memory is taken, I can’t give it back.”
I take a sip from my glass. He keeps watching, waiting.
“I feel like I’m losing control of the Gray,” I confess. “Méndez was the first Hollow I’ve made in years.”
“You’ve been reliving his memories,” Castian whispers.
“Yes, but something worse has been happening to me. If I’m in a place, a memory will slip out that belongs to that location, and I cease to exist. When I was in the market earlier, I forgot why I had gone in the first place. Then I forgot your glamour, and I thought you were going to attack me.”
He rakes his fingers through his golden hair. “I apologize for frightening you.”
“You couldn’t have known. This is new to me, too.” I drink from my wine goblet. “The night the Whispers kidnapped you, I was trapped with the Ripper. I let him—I let Cebrián take my magics.”
Castian says nothing, but nods in understanding. I don’t know what to do with that feeling.
“I wanted it to be over,” I continue. “My unit had used me as bait. The Whispers wanted me dead. I wanted to end. But when Cebrián used his power on me, it felt like it bounced back. I don’t know what happened, but I could see his last memory—he was watching you play with dice. Then my memories of the escape from the palace all returned. I realized it was you who helped me escape, not Dez. And since then, the Gray has been spilling out, releasing bits of my own memories along with the others. I’m afraid they’re taking me over. What if—what if the next time a memory is sparked, I’m lost in that moment forever?”
He holds his fork in a vise grip, prongs up, and if we were other kinds of people, if we were friends, I’d joke about how he looks like an ancient sea god. But we aren’t, we are just Castian and Renata.
“I will find a way to help you.”
“It’s not that simple. How many Robári have you ever known?”
“Only you.” A smile tugs at his lips when he drinks.
“Exactly. There’s no helping this, Castian. At least you have a grip on your magics. You’re not ripping at the seams like I am.”
“Yes, I am, Nati.” He holds my stare. “I want to tell you that everything is going to be all right and that we’re going to find the Knife of Memory, but the truth is, I am more terrified of what will happen once we do. How do I even start to heal this kingdom when I can barely get you to look at me without murder in your eyes? How am I supposed to lead Puerto Leones if I can’t survive you?”
The fire crackles. Someone outside is singing in preparation for tomorrow’s Carnaval.
“I won’t matter when this is over,” I tell him. “I’m going to set things right. And then I’m never going to step foot in Puerto Leones again.”
He refills our wine and drinks deeply. “Perhaps you shouldn’t use your magics until we find out more. It’s not worth hurting yourself.”
My entire life, my magics were all anyone wanted from me. The king and justice used me to rip images from the minds of their enemies. The Whispers, my own people, did the same. But Castian is the first person in my recent memory to propose something else. I don’t trust myself to speak so I nod.
“That’s settled.” He looks down at his food and pushes the peas and perfectly cubed potatoes across his plate.
“You used to do that when we were little,” I say, and take a bite of my rabbit. Doña Sagrada’s family recipe is exquisite. The meat is tender and melts on my tongue, though the fricassee is still hot, and I burn the tip of my tongue eating too quickly.
Castian’s laugh is deep, his smile wide. “Of all the things that you suddenly decide to remember about me, it’s my aversion to peas?”
“In the pro
cess of being honest with each other, I have to confess I have more memories of you. Recent ones.”
I tell him how I gathered memories from people in the palace—his chambermaid, a demoted general, and Lady Nuria, his former fiancée.
“Nuria deserved better than what I could give her. I thought breaking our arranged marriage would free her. I was wrong. My father had other plans.” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat while eating around the peas. After a while he says, “You have the memory of Nuria and me—”
“Two actually,” I say quickly, using the rest of the bread to sop up the gravy.
He winces, embarrassed. “No wonder you hate me.”
“When she offered up her memories, I thought it was so that she could move on from you. But I wonder if she wanted me to understand you beyond the stories of the Bloodied Prince.”
“And do you?”
I chew longer than I need to because I don’t know how to answer this. “It was difficult to piece you together. Imagine my shock these past days realizing you’ve always been hiding under your magics.”
“I don’t want to lie to my kingdom,” he says, voice low with lament. “I don’t want to kill. I don’t want my family’s legacy to be ruin. But this is the only way I could help my country.”
“No, it wasn’t.” My heart beats quickly, and I can’t tell whether it’s because I’m angry or because I remember that Castian got up before sunrise to catch this rabbit for me. “You could have joined the Whispers. You could have killed your father long ago. Instead, you chose to play games. To create illusions over the citizens of this kingdom. I remember the Battle of Riomar, and those deaths weren’t an illusion.”
“You think murdering my father is so simple?” His laugh is dark, his eyes glossy with tears and regret. “You have no idea what my father is capable of. It’s so easy for you to think that, isn’t it, Nati? Your world is either the Whispers or the justice. I am either a murderer or a rake ruining the women in my life. But what you fail to realize while you’re casting judgment upon me is that the Whispers conspired with my own mother to let me believe I killed my baby brother. I lived with that truth as a boy and as a man.” He shoves his plate away, fork clattering on the porcelain. “Do you remember me as a child? My mother locked away with her ladies, always in a stupor. Parents kept their children away from court. When we met, you thought I was a servant boy because I was always filthy.”
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