by Natalie Mae
“Wait, were you at Kay’s last night?” Gallus says, jogging to my side. “I feel like I’d remember you, but if I was a jerk or something . . .”
I imagine he’s talking about some upper district party, and the urge to tell him that yes, he’s a jerk always, dances at the tip of my tongue. Gods, will anyone notice if I jump over the side? I bite the edge of my thumb, reasoning that at least revealing my identity that way would mean not having this conversation, when Gallus pulls my hand from my mouth.
“Zahru?” he whispers.
He looks stricken, and I know it has nothing to do with the embarrassment of sending me a drink. But maybe I think more clearly with a dose of panic in my veins, because I suddenly determine I’m not going to let him be the one who ruins this. After all, he doesn’t know I’m not a Master yet, or that I didn’t get an invitation on some miraculous recommendation. And in actuality this is the perfect comeback for how he broke things off, because I’m definitely the last person he thought he’d see here.
“Oh,” I say, barely glancing up. “Hello. Whatever your name is.”
“Zahru, you know who I am. What are you doing here?”
He pulls me to the side, out of earshot of the others, which I have to say is a relief. At least he hasn’t totally transformed into a self-righteous snob.
“Oh, you know,” I say. “Just checking out the competition.”
“What? How?” I might have been offended if I wasn’t drawing so much pleasure from the shock on his face. “No, it has to be a mistake. Does the priest know you’re only a Whisperer?”
“Don’t be a cod,” I say, like my heart isn’t hammering in my chest. “Of course he knows.”
“And you still came? Did you even think this through?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“This isn’t one of your little fantasies, Zahru. The desert is dangerous. There are sandstorms, thieves, wild animals . . .”
If only I could believe his concern was for me and not what I lack. “And I don’t stand a chance out there with all you ‘real’ magicians, right?”
“I’m serious. Just because we aren’t—” He looks past me, and my heart jerks with the hope that maybe being away from me has been hard for him, too, when he lowers his voice and I realize he’s just making sure no one else is listening. “Just because we aren’t together doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”
My heart pinches. “Don’t say that too loud. Your friends might hear.”
“Zahru—”
“Anyway, as flattered as I am that you think I could be chosen, you don’t have to worry about it. I know I don’t stand a chance. I just want to see the palace.”
“Ah.”
I know he’s itching to say he never thought I’d be chosen. Gallus never could resist an opportunity to lecture me about how naïve my dreams are, but he must have decided it’s not worth pursuing, because he stays silent. I really want to leave it at this and let us devolve into awkward silence, but it’s just occurred to me I can’t have him going back to his friends and telling them who I am. If my real name circulates, the priest might decide he’s irritated enough to look into it.
“And stop calling me Zahru,” I whisper, eyeing said priest, who sits with his servants in the clear glass cabin. “I go by Lia now.”
“Ah,” he says again, understanding washing over his face. He presses his hand over his eyes, and exhales. “This is one of Hen’s schemes.”
“Yes, and you absolutely can’t tell anyone about this, Gallus. I’m serious. They could whip me in the square, or lock Fara and me in prison, or . . . or worse!”
“So you do sometimes think of consequences.”
“Of course I do! This wasn’t supposed to go this way. Hen was trying to get me in with the spectators. But we used my mother’s name, and they didn’t check the dates . . .”
Gallus sighs, and I wish I could take the relief on his face as him knowing how to help me, but I know he’s just glad he’s made sense of how a Whisperer is at his level. He leans casually against the rail, his swagger returned with his control of the situation.
“I’m happy to do that for you,” he says, his tone genuine. “Really. Just relax, be elusive if the heirs ask you questions, and this could be a great night for you.”
“Thank you,” I say, which is all I can manage with that kind of advice. But I am grateful he’ll keep my secret, so I hold back any other retorts.
The water laps against the boat. A pair of spotted geese cackle at each other near the shore, and for reasons I don’t understand, Gallus stays by my side.
“You look nice, by the way,” he says.
I force a smile and study my hands. I hope he’s not waiting for a compliment in return, because that’s more than I’m capable of at the moment.
“Sorry I panicked there,” he says, shifting. “It’s just . . . the competition is really stiff for these positions. That goes for me, too. The chances of being chosen . . .”
“You’ll do fine,” I say, sighing. I hate that I know him well enough to know he’s nervous, and even more that I can’t stand to see him that way. “You’re talented and smart. If the heirs are looking for a Firespinner, you’re the best option they have.”
He looks over. I keep my eyes on the bank, but from the corner of my vision I see him smile.
“Thank you,” he says. “You know, I never meant to hurt you. It’s just . . . you knew we had to grow up sometime, right?”
I push back from the rail. “I have to go.”
He nods slowly. “All right. It was good to see you.”
I turn, exhaling. If I survived that, maybe I really will be fine tonight. I’m starting toward the prow and the silver-haired girl when Gallus calls out again.
“Er, Lia?”
I stiffen but look over my shoulder. Standing there in his finest, I can almost remember him framed in the light of the stable door, breathless from running, from his impatience to see me.
“Maybe don’t talk to anyone tonight,” he says.
“That’s very supportive. Thank you.”
“I just mean . . . you know. Too candidly? Don’t tell the princess you thought she’d be more mystical or something.”
He may have a point, but coming from Gallus it only reminds me of the many ways in which he finds me lacking, and my bruised heart aches with believing that maybe he’s right. What a desperate move, his eyes seem to say. How sad she still can’t accept her place. But I’ve already wasted enough time fretting about what Gallus thinks, and I bury the bruise deeper and pretend again there was never anything between us. Today I am a Potionmaker and one of Orkena’s elite, and no condescending Firespinner is going to ruin this night for me.
I square my shoulders and move on.
Gallus is soon shoved from my mind when I notice the others pointing at something I can’t see at the front of the boat. Sometime during that conversation we entered the royal city, for people cluster the riverbanks now in the finest attire I’ve ever seen: gossamer shawls and crowns of red ivy; gold bangles and bright silks dripping with crystal. Shining collars flash from the necks of dogs and cats, and beyond them white-sand estates tower like thunderclouds, their iron balconies framing potted palms and flowering trees. Then we float around a bend, and I’m not the only one who gasps.
It’s like spending your whole life knowing only candlelight, then looking upon your first wildfire. The royal palace is a sprawling giant against the sunset. Pale and tall, its many stone spires are the carved bodies of the gods: Numet’s fiery torch juts above the palace’s center, her eyes windows to the east; her brother Rie, the god of death, guards the west, his great wings folded. The nine lesser gods stand around them, gilded in real jewels. Apos, god of deceit; Rachella, goddess of love. Oka, Valen, and Sabil, gods of judgment, fate, and magic. Talqo, Aquila, and Tyda, goddesses of he
aling, learning, and patience. Brazen Cybil, goddess of war. Her falcon companion sits upon her gloved hand, wings stretched—his metal feathers are the same ones our soldiers wear on their armor.
Gold shines along the edges of the perimeter wall, and as our boat draws near, the protection spells carved into the wall hum and glow. A square tunnel rumbles open before us. Down a long, narrow passage we float, until we finally emerge within a grand indoor dock glittering with torches. A tiled shaft of porcelain and gold guides us between breathtaking trees with small, ruby-red leaves and brilliant white flowers, to a redwood platform flanked by guards. There are more plants in this entire enclosed dock than I’ve ever seen outside.
I’m so busy trying to take it all in, I don’t notice the wall has slid shut behind us until a loud boom shakes me from my stupor.
The wooden boat did not follow. The spectators are going to a different dock.
Breathe, Zahru, I think as our boat slides to a stop. Now you just need to blend in.
“Welcome to Juvel,” the priest says as the contenders jostle toward the plank. I linger toward the back, grateful even Gallus is too preoccupied to notice I’m here. “This way, please. And be quick about it—someone has us running behind.”
His orange eyes lock on me, and I quickly find a point in the distance to focus on as everyone looks over their shoulders. So much for blending in. But soon we’re moving again, and the contenders are nervously practicing small, complicated tricks that might prove their control and give them an edge. A boy curls a visible ball of wind above his palm; the silver-haired girl freezes her breath into an icy knife. I try not to watch with too much wonder, but aside from my time with Gallus, I don’t often get to see higher magics at work. Anyone at this skill level leaves Atera soon after they master their craft. They are our soldiers and architects, palace entertainers and protectors. I can’t help but find what they do beautiful.
When I catch myself watching Gallus shift a flame from blue to white, I turn my attention to the garden.
“This is how the evening will go,” the priest says as we step between two of the strange trees and into a tall, triangular hallway. “You’ll attend three banquets, one for each heir. As the eldest, Prince Kasta has priority in who he picks, so you will meet with him first. Once he chooses his escort, the rest of you will be taken to meet Prince Jet, and lastly Princess Sakira.”
“One escort?” I whisper, a little too hopefully. I thought each heir was supposed to have two, but if they’ve changed it, I’m liking my chances for surviving this even more.
“The second is always a Healer,” the silver-haired girl whispers, with a kind smile that makes me regret not talking to her sooner. “They’re chosen in a different ceremony.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“If you’re selected,” the priest says, casting me a warning glance, “your name will be announced to the spectators, and you’ll be prepared for the race. You’ll meet the Mestrah first, who may award your team the advantage of starting with the sacrifice if he believes your pairing to be the strongest. Those of you who are not chosen by the end of the evening will be dismissed to enjoy the rest of the night. Just remember the boats depart exactly one hour after the festivities tomorrow, and if you’re not on them, you’ll be finding your own way home.”
Of course he’s looking at me for that last line.
“And do the heirs pick the sacrifice as well?” says the petite girl.
All remaining whispers fall silent. The priest’s lips twitch.
“That choice is for the gods to make, not our esteemed heirs. In prior contests, it has always been one of the Forsaken, so there is no need to concern yourselves.”
Murmurs ripple through the group, and my chest twinges. The Forsaken are those who were born in Orkena without magic—an indication of the gods’ disapproval. It’s a rare occurrence in a country brimming with magical blood, but any child who fails to show aptitude by age eleven must report to a dedicated orphanage, where they stay until they reach sixteen summers. After that, they’ll have to decide whether to risk crossing the desert to start a life elsewhere, or attempt to find work in Orkena. Some will find kindness in the outlying towns, from people like Fara and me who know them to be as capable as anyone else. But many Orkenians believe Forsaken incompetent or unclean, and some towns—like the capital—won’t employ them at all. And even though I know this is what the gods demand, it still seems unfair that a person who’s already lost so much should have to literally lose their life, too.
The priest scans the contenders for further questions, but an uncomfortable energy pulses around us now, and when no one else speaks, he continues.
“You’ll have a moment to compose yourselves in this next room before being introduced to Prince Kasta. He may ask you a question or two. Then he’ll either dismiss you to enjoy refreshments or ask you to sit at the royal table. You can imagine which is the preferable outcome.”
“Are our chances gone if we’re dismissed?” asks one of Gallus’s friends.
“Not entirely. The prince can send for you at any time and will likely sift through many contenders before coming to a final decision.”
Gallus clears his throat. “But he can choose an escort whenever he wants, yes?”
We all know what the priest is really saying. If we aren’t chosen to sit at the table, we’re basically just there to eat the food.
“Yes,” the priest says, not kindly. “The whole point of the evening is to select Orkena’s best magicians. The strongest will be picked. The rest of you will go home. I suggest you make a good first impression.” He raises his voice. “Any other questions?”
No one with the fear of the gods in their heart would dare ask something else. The priest smirks, satisfied, and we move down the hallway again, the only sound our sandaled feet on the stone.
Soon we enter a much smaller room, though by much smaller, I mean it’s the size of Fara’s entire stable. It has no windows and only a single plant in each corner, potted versions of the grasses from the dock. I imagine the room would be loud and overflowing with hopefuls if we hadn’t been late—there must be a few hundred in the next room if our small town alone sent seven. Now only two contenders wait by the room’s other door, a girl holding a blooming rose and a boy who stands head and shoulders above everyone else. An old woman fusses over the girl’s hair as a guard ushers the boy through the exit. His name—Marcus, son of Bernab—is announced in the next room, and a burst of nerves simmers under my skin. It’s just occurred to me that I’m about to speak to the Mestrah’s children, who, with traces of Numet’s blood in their veins, are the closest I’ll ever get to the gods. Prince Kasta won’t rise into divinity unless he wins the Crossing, of course, but I’m unreasonably panicked he’ll have some innate sense for detecting liars.
But I can hardly decide what to do about that when ten servants stream into the room, one brushing a streak of dust from Gallus’s tunic, another fixing a lily in a girl’s hair. A third attacks my face with cotton and some kind of powder. While she’s distracting me, another servant dusts my shoulders and chest with flecks of gold, and before I can ask if it’s real, the servant in front of me grabs the jewel of my head chain.
“No!” I say as she moves to straighten it. “I want it like that. It’s the style.”
The servant stares at me, probably waiting for me to admit I’m joking, then shrugs and moves on to the next person.
“This one next,” the old woman croaks, pulling Gallus to the front of the line. At some point in the chaos, the girl she was helping must have been called in. Gallus fidgets with his tunic, but with his square shoulders and proud chin, he already looks like he belongs at royalty’s side. If he hadn’t told me earlier I’m better off not speaking, I might have reassured him he’d be fine. The old woman sends him through the gold-plated doorway with an impatient flick of her wrist.
“Gallus, so
n of Bomani,” comes the announcement on the other side of the wall.
“You, back of line,” the old woman barks at me.
Well then.
I sway behind the others, rising up on my toes, trying to see around the white curtain separating our room from the party. Gallus has not been in there very long before the petite girl is called. A few more minutes, and the silver-haired girl steps through. Then a boy with sparks between his fingers. Then the first of Gallus’s friends, then the second, and then I’m standing before the old woman, who straightens the top of my dress and brushes something off my chin with her finger before going for the jewel on the head chain.
“No,” I say, jerking back. “That’s how I want it.”
“You look a fool,” she snaps. “I fix it.”
“Don’t fix it, just leave it!”
She grabs for the gem again. “Let me fix!”
“This is the style!” I yell, breaking away from her.
“You think I don’t know the style?” She reddens, her hands curling into fists. “I dress nobles for ages, girl. Before you were even a thought in your mother’s head—”
“Panya,” says a man, now peering around the curtain. “The next one, please.”
The old woman huffs, jerking a hand toward the door like she wishes she was slapping my face instead. She still jumps for the chain when I speed past, but I’m onto her, and I dodge around her and through the curtain.
Into the party room.
Where everyone is looking my way: the contenders dipping fruits into chocolate, the harpist playing by the fountain, the entirety of Orkena’s elite crowded on the balconies above.
And Prince Kasta, who stands only a few paces away, his gaze sharp and annoyed.
IV
I’VE never met royalty before. I’m expecting Prince Kasta to glow, or levitate, or to literally hum with power as the travelers’ stories claim princes do. I’m relieved he has normal eyes—a deep blue, not mirrors that can look into my soul—and slightly disappointed his olive skin has no hint of inner sunlight. But for what he lacks in otherworldliness, he more than makes up for in looks. Hen did not prepare me for this. She told me Prince Kasta was the hardest to get information on, that he kept to himself and was very studious. Even his Deathbringer magic, as feared as it is, doesn’t require more effort from him than simply touching whatever he wishes to weaken. Thus whenever Hen spoke of him, I pictured someone who spent a lot of time sitting down.