by Cora Avery
“Does it bother you?” she asked.
Gur’s hindquarters bumped Kaelan, causing him to stumble against the wall as the semargl turned to depart from the cave.
“It’s not that it bothers me, it’s just . . . strange,” he said. “I don’t quite feel myself.”
She smirked. “You’re not. That’s the point.” She waved towards the back of the cave. “This way. Stay close. I don’t want you to get lost.”
“Get lost where?” he asked, following her.
Before long, they both huffed, weaving through the darkness, not speaking.
When she stopped at the door, he bumped into her.
“Sorry,” he said. “I can barely see down here. We should’ve brought a light.”
“You can see?” she asked.
“Very little.”
She frowned. She couldn’t see a thing. Not that she needed to—these old caves were like a second home to her. Still, Kaelan obviously had better eyesight than she did.
“Take my hand,” she said, finding his in the dark. “Don’t be afraid.”
His voice was strained. “Afraid of what?”
She pushed open the door.
The barrier of silver flame erupted in front of them. His grip tightened around hers.
“Don’t worry,” she said, pulling him forward, closing the door behind them. “It’s only an illusion, so long as you’re with me.”
“What does—?”
She pulled him through the fire into the bottom of the Well. Torches flared to life as the silver fire behind them died.
“Where are we?” his voice echoed upwards as if climbing the spiral of torchlight.
“Follow me,” she said, leading him to the rungs.
“Isn’t that what I’ve been doing?” he grumbled.
She started up without comment, but the knots between her shoulders cinched painfully. By the time they reached the ledge, her temples throbbed, but not from the physical exertion.
Once in the tomb, his form rippled and he was Kaelan again, fiery green eyes and golden hair.
“Is this a crypt?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “My mother’s.”
His gaze combed over the room. “Why did you bring us here?”
“Because we need money,” she said, striding over to the nearest trunk and heaving the lid open. “And here it is.”
He turned a small circle in the middle of room. “You want to rob your mother’s grave?” He blinked, refocusing on her. “This is where you came, the other night.”
She nodded, mulling over the trunk’s contents. Gold coins enough to buy off every Pixie at the Spire, but she could hardly carry an entire cask of gold on Gur’s back.
“This seems wrong,” he said.
“Of course it seems wrong,” she said, closing the lid. The thud echoed around them. “But you didn’t know my mother. She thought it was wrong to bury wealth like this with the dead. This is only one chamber. There are hundreds of others. Radiants and Princes buried in gold and jewels, all of it rotting, useless. They don’t need it and we do. Besides, it’s not as though I’m some common thief. I need money to vie for Radiant. Believe me, my mother would approve.”
“Who’s that?” he asked, pointing to Cavan’s sarcophagus.
She frowned at the visage of Cavan, those dark flat eyes. “The Captain of my mother’s guard. It’s traditional for a Rae’s most trusted servant to be buried with her, usually it’s her Prince.”
“Princes are servants, are they?” Before she could retort, he asked, “Did you move this before?” He gestured to her mother’s tomb.
“Yes,” she said.
Stretching her neck, she attempted to loosen the knots, but the stone walls around them seemed to amplify Kaelan’s straining presence.
She leaned against a giant wooden horse bedecked in gold finery. “I’m not reading your emotions as clearly as before. Are you doing that on purpose?”
He raked his hand through the messy thatch of his hair. “Eris said my true self would become submerged the more often I changed form.”
“You haven’t changed form that often,” she said.
He shrugged. “I practiced a few times before we left Eris.”
She frowned. The ease with which she’d been able to sense his emotions and hear his thoughts was unusual. So perhaps it shouldn’t have irritated her that Eris’s magic had removed their peculiar connection, and yet, it did.
“Something is bothering you,” she said. “And we need to have it out.”
“Now? Here?”
“Why not? Are you afraid my mother will eavesdrop?”
He scowled, folding his arms, squaring off with her. “Why did you agree to let Honey continue with us?”
“Because she wanted to?”
“Hasn’t she suffered enough?”
“Why didn’t you say anything before?”
He looked back towards the chamber tunnel, jaw working. “I don’t know. I don’t feel as though I have anything to say to her anymore.”
“She would be more likely to listen to you—”
“Would she? Why? She’s not who she was and,”—he snatched up a golden goblet from the horde, eyeing it grimly—“neither am I.” He plunked the goblet back down. “You said you thought I was naïve before, and you were right. I was.”
A trickle of dark emotions rolled off of him, but they were so thin and distant, impossible to discern.
She moved closer. “I’m sorry this is so difficult for you. But I can’t promise that things will get easier. I may not be an oracle, but I can pretty much guarantee there’s more danger ahead of us.”
“Hard to imagine.”
She smiled. “I know,”—her smile faded—“but you’ve never been to the Spire.” She turned to gaze up at her mother’s crypt. “Life at the Spire is vicious in ways that make manticores look like cuddly kittens.”
“You don’t owe them anything, Magda,” he said. “I know you think you do, but . . . it wasn’t fair what Ouda asked of you, or for Damion to bring you back into this world, into this life, when you were happier free of it.”
She looked back at him, smiling. “You’re too kind. No one will believe you’re a true Prince.” She circled the room, trying to determine what would be best to pilfer.
His eyes followed her. “Why not? What was Caden like?”
She stopped at the wooden horse again, a life-sized replica with fine detailing, each hair carved in, the brown glass eyes alive, the tack a blend of silk, wool, linen, and silver— Pixie-cloth—both tough and elegant. Across his rump, saddlebags.
“He was a Prince.” She unbuckled the bags from where they attached to the wooden saddle. “He was manipulative, cavalier, domineering.”
“Didn’t you say he was only fourteen when he died?”
She nodded, pulling the bags free of the horse. “He was also beautiful and funny. When he smiled, everyone smiled. You couldn’t help it. He had the kind of charm that puts people at ease at once. But he was also wild. He would take any dare,”—she hugged the bags to her chest—“which is what got him killed.”
“You sound as though you miss him.”
She smirked, flipping open the front compartment of the bags—empty.
“I was a little girl whose father was dead and whose mother had to keep her knives out day and night. Caden was to be my Prince. He doted on me, bringing me gifts, making up nonsense rhymes, and having his brownies perform ridiculous acrobatic stunts to make me laugh. He let me follow him wherever he and his friends went. With Caden, I always felt important, wanted. Everyone had always treated me with deference, even the other Raes, because of my mother. But Caden made me feel special.”
She went back to the trunk and began to scoop coins into the bag. They clanked and plinked as they pooled in the bottom of the bag.
“In hindsight,” she said, “it’s clear he was just doing what Princes do. Like I said, he was as shrewd as anyone twice his age. I saw him talk his wa
y out of trouble a hundred times. But I was a child, my heart was easily won. I was so desperate for someone who would listen to me . . . He didn’t have to do anything really. Just be there, just let me talk. It was always aggravating, how important I was supposed to be, yet no one listened. My mother issued commands, my tutors instructed and disciplined, my attendants only liked to gossip and didn’t want to imagine that my life was anything but perfect. I never knew if Caden really understood or if he just did what he thought he had to do to make me happy, but . . . I felt as though he understood. And I was happier for it.”
Lifting the bags off her shoulder, she tested the weight. Into the other side she put an equal amount of coin, evening the load, and then settled the bags back on her shoulder. When she turned, she found Kaelan braiding a bit of twine together in a distracted way.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said, tossing the twine aside. “I was just thinking that if I’m going to attempt to impersonate this Prince, there’s quite a bit about him I’ll need to learn. He probably had more than a few friends.”
She nodded. “Damion will know more about Caden’s friends than I do. Hopefully, Flor will fill in the rest. I was so young when he died. Now, I’m not sure I knew him at all. Not really. After he died, I tried to put him out of my mind.”
“And did you?”
“Mostly.”
Bringing the other bag to the front, she picked through the jewels and trinkets, taking those that could be the most easily sold and unidentifiable for what they were—that is, stolen from a Rae’s grave. She didn’t doubt her mother would’ve supported her taking the gold, but it was still against the law and punishable by death.
“It seems cruel,” he said, “to his mother.”
“I know,” she said, dropping a string of pearls into the bag. “But it’s our best chance.”
“What do you think Caden would say?”
She smiled as she lifted a small box filled with uncut rubies and emeralds, dumping the contents into the saddlebag.
“Cae would say you’re not worthy even to pretend to be him. An Elf and an imp? His honor would be affronted and he would probably challenge you to a duel.” She arched her eyebrow at him. “And he would win.”
“You called him Cae?”
“Yes, and he called me . . .” She pressed her dusty fingers to her lips, holding back a laugh. Choking it down, her cheeks continued to warm. She inspected a silver comb, but spied the tiny noble hallmark upon it and returned it to the tray. “Maybe it’s better if we don’t revive that particular nickname.”
“If you want me to do this, I should probably know it. I should probably know everything you know about him, everything that happened. So what was it?”
She turned so he could see her frown. He cocked his brow. The light in his eyes was flickering, mirthful. But of course, he was right.
“Unless you want me to fail . . .” he started.
“Puppy,” she snapped, heat prickling up to her scalp. “That’s what he called me. But never in formal situations. That’s something that we’ll definitely have to work on. I’m sure you don’t know the first thing about etiquette at court.”
Kaelan’s mouth worked, obviously attempting to suppress a smile. “Why did he call you that?”
“Once I followed him and his friends, Damion among them, down to a stream where they were going to try to lure out the wishing fish with caddy limericks. One of his friends, a little shit named Zuriel, made some remark about Caden’s loyal new puppy, who was tailing them everywhere. He wanted to know how the training was going. I marched right up to him and punched him in the face. Broke his nose. I told him I was no one’s puppy and the only one who required training was him. And if he said something like that again, I would have the kennel master put him in with the hounds until he got it straight. Cae laughed so hard, he cried. Later, he started calling me puppy in fun, to make us both laugh. Because even though I did follow him around like a puppy, we both knew that in the end, it would be him following me. The name just stuck.”
The bags were fairly full. She topped them off with more coin and then buckled them.
She stepped up to the armor on the form at the head of her mother’s tomb. Tempted as she was, she couldn’t take it. Each bronze scale was emblazoned with her mother’s symbol—a silver star. Turning, she spied another trunk, tucked back in the corner. Moving aside a shield, she flipped open the trunk.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
She ran her fingers over the battered and dark-with-age breastplate. Her mother’s training gear. Simple and tattered, but it would serve.
Setting down the saddlebags, she lifted the breastplate. Underneath were pauldrons, greaves, and an assortment of weapons, including a coil of thin, shimmery green gorgon rope.
“Come help me,” she said.
He stepped up, slipping by the form and the various vases and tables and offerings without disturbing them.
Dropping the breast and back piece over her head, she held up her arms so he could see the buckles. Squatting, he began to fasten them.
“Is all of this necessary?” he asked. “Stealing from your mother’s grave, the armor?”
“Yes.”
He looked up at her. A flash of heat lanced through her. Before she could determine whether it had come from him or was merely her Rae instinct, or perhaps the memory of his desire while under Eris’s spell, he dropped his eyes and the heat faded.
“Tell me everything you remember about Cae,” he said, tugging the straps snug before fastening them. He stood, smirking. “Puppy.”
BY THE TIME THEY MET GUR in the cave, the silver rain of the seafront curtained the entrance. Gur opened one sleepy eye when they emerged, but closed it quickly. Hero, curled on top of Gur’s head, didn’t even do that much.
She lowered the saddlebags to the ground and shrugged the coil of gorgon rope off her shoulder, letting it fall next to the bags. “Looks like we’re spending the night.”
Kaelan dug into his pack and then tossed her an apple.
“Thanks,” she said as she slumped down to the ground.
He opened up the water gourd and gave it a shake. “How much rain water do you think I can catch?”
“Good luck with that. Just don’t slip,” she said, crunching into the apple.
He edged by Gur, who flicked his tail, but gave no other sign of being disturbed. Once on the other side of the snoozing semargl’s considerable bulk, Kaelan disappeared from view.
Dropping her head back, Magda shifted in the armor. Well-worn and flexible as the scales were, the weight would take some getting used to again. All of this was taking some getting used to.
Spending the afternoon recounting her every memory of Cae had left her raw and tired. It had been so long since she’d allowed herself to think about him. She’d taught herself early on not to dwell on the past, or the dead. Better to let it go, forget about it, move on. There was too much pain in such memories to do anyone any good.
She gazed blankly at the cave wall, where the murals were faded to all but a few flecks of paint. And then shadows began to close together, thickening, coalescing, swirling.
Before she could warn Kaelan, Endreas was there, leaning against the wall, dark eyes fixed on her.
“Endreas,” she said loudly enough that she hoped Kaelan could hear over the white noise of rain and ocean waves.
“You look rather morose,” he said.
She laid the half-eaten apple on the saddlebags. “How should I look?”
He lowered into a crouch, knitting his fingers together before him. “I’m sorry, magpie.”
“Sorry for what?”
“I didn’t have anything to do with that attack. I only heard about it afterwards. Now my father wants you dead for killing his pride of manticores . . . and for making threats against his life.”
She resisted the urge to look in Kaelan’s direction.
“Did you come here to warn me?�
�� she asked.
“What happened to him?”
“To whom?”
“My brother. His body.”
“Why do you want to know that? He’s dead, isn’t that enough for you?”
“He may be dead, but he’s still my brother. He deserves a proper burial.”
She surged up to her feet, but she couldn’t see over Gur, who watched the exchange through slitted eyes.
“Your family had him assassinated. They murdered him. Even if I had his body, I would never give it to you.”
Endreas rose as well, languidly. “He is a Prince. He should be buried with the rest of the family.”
“Are you insane? You’re not his family. And I can’t believe that you have the nerve to come here and make such a request in the first place. Do you know what he went through? Do you know much he suffered? Do you have any idea what it feels like be poisoned? To be slowly suffocated to death as your throat swells shut?” She unleashed her blades, all except the ironwood. She would keep it hidden, until she needed it. “Leave.”
He glanced warily at her blades. “I understand that his death has caused you a great deal of pain. I probably understand better than you think.”
“I doubt that.”
“My sister told me he made a heart-place of you before he died.”
Her jaw clenched. “Your sister doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
His eyes narrowed, searching her face. “I think she does.”
“I don’t want to talk—”
“It has left a wound,” he cut in. “It will never heal—”
“All death does that, if you have a heart.”
“This is different,” he said with a sudden ferocity that left her momentarily stunned. “You think this is normal grief, but it’s not. If you’re not careful, it could kill you too.”
“What?”
He ran his gloved hand over his mouth. “By giving you a piece of his heart, he . . . connected your life forces. Like how the Crown and the Throne are connected. When one fails, the other suffers. Normally, a Prince would not make another person into a heart-place. It’s too dangerous, especially if he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”