by Jordan Rivet
The young woman handed over another rose, her nose wrinkling. “Don’t you think we’re better off as Windfast subjects?”
“Perhaps. That’s enough, I think.” The old woman straightened, her back creaking. “I’ll take this up to the princess’s chambers. Remember His Lordship wants another bouquet for her spot at the table.”
The other woman sighed. “At this rate, we won’t have a single rose left. It’s going to take a year for the garden to recover.”
“The princess gets what she wants.”
The older gardener walked off toward the manor, while the younger one continued snipping roses as reluctantly as if she were being forced to remove a friend’s fingers.
Mica bounced on the balls of her feet, still hidden behind the hedge. Something about what they had said rang like a false note in her mind. What was it?
Then it hit her. The princess was supposed to be off saving Lorna from the rebels. Had Jessamyn decided to reveal herself to more people than Lord Aren in Mica’s absence? Why would she do that?
Mica caught up with the older gardener when she was almost to the manor’s side door. She checked that no one else was near, then she slipped the knife from her sleeve and crept up behind her.
“Stop. Don’t make a sound,” she hissed in the woman’s ear, laying cold steel against the sagging skin of her neck. “I won’t hurt you or anyone else if you give me your roses and your smock.”
“You can have them,” the woman said stiffly. “It’s on your head if the princess throws a fit.”
“She’ll still get her roses.” Mica considered the gardener’s smock for a second. It was open on both sides, and it would show too much of her embroidered riding clothes. “You’d better give me your dress too.”
A few minutes later, Mica was hurrying through the manor with a bouquet of roses in her arms and pearly-white hair framing her face. She paused a few times to listen for information, but no one mentioned Lord Ober or the return of the Silk Goddess. The stewards and servants were busy preparing for a feast the following evening. Despite the absence of the bride and groom, Lord Bont still needed to feed those who had traveled all this way for his daughter’s wedding.
Mica wasn’t entirely sure how to get to the princess’s rooms from the side entrance, so she wandered until she found the atrium with the marble fountain at the center. So far, no one had stopped her, and she had seen no sign that Ober or his invincible men were even in the manor. She paused to get her bearings, listening to the gentle bubbling of the fountain. The man-size vases were still spread around the room, but the flowers had begun to wilt.
Strange. I wonder why Lord Bont hasn’t had those replaced.
Mica felt uneasy. Something definitely wasn’t right here.
Sure of her location once more, Mica hurried down a wide corridor from the atrium, following the murals she remembered from the day she arrived.
She hadn’t gone far when she turned a corner and walked directly into Quinn.
“Oh! Excuse me, ma’am.”
Mica quickly bent over the roses in her arms, relieved she’d adopted the elderly gardener’s features. Quinn had seen her city-woman face often.
But the potioner didn’t even look at her.
“Sorry. My fault.” Quinn gave Mica a brusque nod, her severe dark hair swinging around her chin, and set off down the corridor. She seemed distracted, and she was barely watching which direction she was going.
Mica waited until Quinn turned a corner before adjusting the roses in her arms and continuing on. She felt a dull pounding in her chest, a drumbeat of dread. If the potioner was a guest here, that meant Ober probably was too.
Mica’s palms were sweating and her features were threatening to shift out of shape by the time she reached the corridor where the princess was staying. What she saw only increased her apprehension.
Banner was not standing at his usual post. Two men she didn’t recognize were guarding Jessamyn’s door. Neither wore the Silverfell sigil.
“I brought roses for the princess,” Mica said in the gardener’s age-thinned voice.
One of the guards (black hair, blunt chin, an old scar splitting a thick eyebrow) held out a hand for them.
Mica’s arms tightened around the bouquet. “I need to deliver them myself.”
“No one enters the princess’s chambers.”
“I was ordered to—”
“Are you daft, woman?” The guard swiped the roses from her arms so fast he blurred. “There are Mimics everywhere. His Lordship is taking no chances.”
“His Lordship?” Mica had a sneaking suspicion they weren’t referring to Lord Bont.
“You want to speak to him yourself, fine. No one goes into the princess’s rooms.”
Mica hesitated. If these men were Fifth Talents, she didn’t stand a chance against them. She had already seen one of them Blur. She had to know for sure.
“I understand,” she said in her reedy, old-woman voice. “Let me fix that bouquet before you take it to her, though. She’ll be upset if it isn’t perfect.”
Mica rearranged the bundle of roses in the man’s arms, making fussy humming noises as she worked. The guard rolled his eyes.
He has that old scar, but he could have been given impervious skin more recently.
As she moved a rose from one side of the bouquet to the other, she pressed down hard on the thorny stem, scraping it along the guard’s arm. It didn’t break the skin.
“I’m sure that’s good enough,” the guard said.
Blur speed. Impervious skin. That was enough evidence for her.
“Of course. Excuse me.” Mica bobbed her head, backing away from the Fifth Talent.
The other guard, who was younger and thinner, with close-cropped auburn hair, had been studying her silently. She saw a hint of suspicion flickering in his hazel eyes. The eyes became green then black. She turned around.
The men murmured to each other behind her, watching her go. She kept her steps stately, unhurried.
“You there!” the younger one called, his voice raspy and harsh. Mica picked up her pace. “Who told you to bring the flowers to this room?”
She kept going, reaching for the knife in her sleeve.
There was a blur of motion, a gust of air. Then the younger guard was in front of her, and his Muscle-strong hands were closing around her throat.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“It is about time you returned, Micathea. I loathe waiting.”
“Jessa?”
Mica rubbed her eyes blearily, becoming aware of a familiar voice. Her head ached, and spots danced across her vision as she attempted to get her bearings.
She was lying on the floor of the atrium. A woman with short red hair was sitting on the stone lip of the fountain, wearing a red gown trimmed in gold. She came into focus slowly. Rosy lips. Arched, expressive eyebrows. Bright brown eyes. Perfect skin.
“What’s going on?” Mica sat up, feeling the cold marble floor beneath her hands. Her neck felt bruised and raw, and her headache worsened every time she moved.
“You could have come openly to me, you know,” the red-haired woman said. “There was no need to sneak past my guards.”
Mica remembered the mural-lined corridor. The Fifth Talents at the princess’s door. The bundle of roses. Those few frantic seconds when she thought she might have a chance to escape.
“Who are you?” she said. “Where’s the princess?”
“Keep up, Micathea. It’s me.”
It did look like Jessamyn. The woman was beautiful, with the glowing skin and bright eyes Mica had worked so hard to perfect. Her hair fell just to the tips of her finely sculpted ears, and she was wearing a silver crown set with rubies that Mica knew had been in a jewelry box on the Silk Goddess.
“You’re good,” Mica said. “Do you work for Lord Ober? Where is he?”
“I do not work for anyone but myself and the empire.” She gave a shimmering laugh. “Do you think I’m an Impersonator? How marvelous!�
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The beautiful woman stood and walked toward Mica. Her stride was perfect too, that lively, confident walk that the real Jessamyn had to suppress while she was acting as Myn Irondier.
Mica shifted her position, gathering her limbs beneath her. Her fingers brushed the leather sheath attached to her ankle beneath the gardener’s dress. Her second knife was still there! She could pull it and cut this woman’s throat before the guards lurking around the edges of the room reached her. Two were in view now, which meant more would be hiding among the vases.
But Mica hesitated. The woman had Myn Irondier’s hair, not the long locks for which the princess was famous. Could this be the real Jessamyn? Mica couldn’t take the risk. Leaving the knife in its sheath, she stood to confront the other woman.
That face was the same one that had stared at Mica out of mirrors and water basins for the past few months. She had long since gotten used to Jessamyn’s scars, and it felt strange to look at the old version of her.
“I don’t have all day, Micathea.” The woman put her hands on her hips. “Tell me what you learned in the mountains, and I shall fill you in on the developments here.”
“I’m not giving my report to anyone but the real princess.” Mica took a deep breath, surprised to feel tears pricking her eyes. “If . . . if she’s still alive.”
“Mica! You’re not afraid I’ve been killed and replaced, are you? That’s sweet. I can see you will require proof.”
She brushed a hand through her hair, the dark-red locks slipping through her flawless fingers. Mica remembered clutching those fingers and praying the princess would survive the poisoning. There was no sign of her ravaged skin now.
“Let me see. When you arrived in my chambers on your first day in the Silver Palace, I broke something. Do you remember?”
Mica nodded.
“It was a vase full of yellow roses,” the woman said. “Sent to me by Lord Riven.” She snorted. “He claimed he picked them himself, as if I don’t know how much trouble it is to cultivate long-stemmed roses.”
“Brin was there too,” Mica said. “Are you the same Mimic who—”
“Ah, no, that is true.” The woman tapped a finger on her rosebud lips. “Let’s see. We rode alone in my carriage to the harbor cruise, and I quizzed you about your identity as Lady Rowena of Obsidian. I chided you for answering the questions like someone who’d only read about Obsidian in books. We were the only ones in the carriage.” She paused. “And later that same night, I killed a man who was trying to hurt you.”
Mica looked into those bright-brown eyes, still not understanding how the skin around them was whole and unmarred. But no one else living had been there in the bowels of that vessel with her and Jessamyn.
“That’s all true,” Mica said at last. She looked around the atrium. Guards still lurked in the shadows amongst the marble columns and flower arrangements. None had the lanky form and drooping mustache of the princess’s most loyal Shield. “But if you’re the real princess, where is Banner?”
A flicker of genuine sadness appeared in those beautiful eyes.
That was when Mica knew they were in a great deal of trouble.
“Jessamyn? What happened to Banner?” Mica felt panic rising, her features threatening to slide out of shape. Nothing short of death would keep Banner from the princess’s side. “And why do you look like that?”
“I am afraid we experienced some complications while you were away,” Jessamyn said sadly. “I believe this will be better for the empire in the long run.”
“What will?”
A deep male voice answered. “Our new partnership.”
Mica whirled around at the sound of the familiar voice. A distinguished older man with iron-gray hair and an appealingly prominent nose stepped out of the shadows. Lord Ober.
The last time Mica had seen Caleb’s uncle, he had been spitting mad at the princess for humiliating him in front of the court and thwarting his plans. Now he looked calm. Triumphant.
Mica stepped in front of Jessamyn instinctively, but she didn’t reach for the knife at her ankle yet. She would only have one chance to use it.
Jessamyn patted her on the shoulder as if she were an overeager guard dog. “It’s all right, Micathea, although I appreciate your enthusiasm for protecting me. Lord Ober will not hurt me. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
Mica looked back at Jessamyn, at her beautiful, flawless skin, and a frisson of horror ran through her.
“What did you do?”
“You mean this?” Jessamyn touched her rosy cheek. “Lord Ober has a very talented potioner in his employment.”
“What did you promise him in return for that face?”
“This isn’t about my face. Honestly, do you think I’m that shallow? The face is merely a perk.”
“The princess is a wise woman,” Lord Ober said, striding over to join them by the fountain. He still had the energetic mannerisms and natural charisma that had made him such a powerful political force at the imperial court. “When I paid her a visit yesterday, she was quick to see that an alliance between us would benefit the empire far more than any further animosity.”
Mica stared as Lord Ober offered the princess a gallant bow. Jessamyn couldn’t seriously be choosing to work with this man who had done such horrible things to her.
“He poisoned you,” Mica said.
A faint grimace crossed Jessamyn’s face, gone in an instant. “The survival of the empire is more important than my personal grudges.”
“But—”
“Perhaps this will help things make more sense.”
Jessamyn withdrew a tiny scroll from her cleavage and handed it to Mica. She took the parchment, hands shaking, and began to read.
Stonefoss has fallen—
“Stonefoss?”
“I am afraid so,” Jessamyn said. “I know you must be worried for your family, but the whole of the empire is my family. Keep reading.”
Mica’s hands were trembling so hard she could barely see the scratchy writing. She pictured her parents, her brothers, all the people who lived at the base, all those who must have fallen to defend it. She steeled herself and read on.
Stonefoss has fallen. The Obsidians hold Talon and all of Amber Island east of the Ridge Mountains. There are too many of them.
Mica looked up at Jessamyn, silently begging her to say it wasn’t as bad as it seemed.
Jessamyn shook her head. “Without Ironhall and Stonefoss, our two strongest border bases, I am not sure my father will succeed in holding off the Obsidian horde much longer.”
“I didn’t expect them to advance so quickly.”
“Neither did I.” Tension lines appeared around Jessamyn’s perfect mouth. “Something has gone terribly wrong with our intelligence network in Obsidian.”
“But with my help,” Lord Ober interjected smoothly, “and the help of my groundbreaking potion, the Windfast Empire still has a chance to turn back the invasion.”
Mica turned to the man she had crossed the empire to find. He wore a smug expression on his distinguished features. Deep hatred expanded rapidly within her, and it was an effort to keep her voice calm.
“Y-you want to use the Fifth Talent potion on Windfast soldiers?”
“You’ve seen the results yourself, I believe,” Ober said. “It is our only chance against the Obsidians.”
“And what do you get in return?” Mica folded her arms, trying to hold the torrent of hatred inside. “I don’t believe you’re just here to save the day.”
“There would be little point in saving the empire for someone else’s gain.” Ober smiled the engaging politician’s smile that had fooled nobles and servants and Talents alike. “But for my new bride and our future children? Not to mention the restoration of my influence at the imperial—”
“Your bride?” Mica felt as if she’d been punched in the gut. No, no, no. Don’t let it be—
Jessamyn raised her perfect hand, and the light caught on a silver ring set with a b
loodred stone. “You did tell my father I’d choose a consort, didn’t you?”
Mica’s features convulsed, her jaw expanding and contracting like a gasping lung. This couldn’t be happening. Even if Jessamyn thought she could save the empire from the Obsidians by accepting Ober’s hand, it wasn’t right.
“He bought you?” Mica said bitterly. “What did he offer?”
“Everything.” Jessamyn’s voice was as bleak as wintertime in Talon. “Quinn will repair my face permanently. The Fifth Talents will save the empire from Obsidian. And the rebels will be put down. Lord Ober’s men are even now rooting them out from their hiding places in the Twins. The group you met at Birdfell will soon be the last holdouts of the secession movement. And I will be powerful, beautiful, and unstoppable.”
Mica couldn’t believe it. All along, Jessamyn had refused to reveal the truth. She had been afraid to show her less-than-perfect face, afraid to reveal her weaknesses. But this deal with this evil excuse for a man meant she didn’t have to do any of that. And because she had kept her poisoning a secret, everyone would be perfectly willing to accept her engagement to Ober. They might whisper about the age difference, but in the end, even the emperor himself would accept Jessamyn’s decision. Mica couldn’t believe she had trusted her to do the right thing.
“You can’t use the Fifth Talents.” Desperation bubbled up in her, drowning out the hatred and rage. “You know how they’re created, Jessa, how many people are left with horrible side effects.”
She thought of Tallisa, of those strange flitting figures in Dustwood, of the mad Talent at the anniversary ball.
Of Caleb.
He was her only hope now, the only one who wouldn’t accept Ober’s methods no matter how beneficial his potion had become. Could she get word to him before things got even more out of hand?
“The experiment phase is finished now, Miss Graydier,” Ober said. “That was a necessary evil in the name of progress, but there will be no further mistakes.”
Mica’s jaw set in a thicker, blunter shape. “Does the potion still require Talent bones and blood?”