by Rebecca Ross
The room fell silent. Evadne’s father, Gregor, froze on his bench, a piece of stew-drenched bread halfway to his mouth. And Evadne’s mother, Phaedra, who was mending a torn cloak, also went still, as if her hands had forgotten what to do with the needle and thread.
Aunt Lydia, Maia and Lysander’s mother, had been lighting the oil lamps because the last of the sunlight had drifted out the open window, and she appeared shocked at her son’s words. But it was Uncle Nico who was the first to respond, his bearded face wrinkled from squinting hours in the sunlight, his curly hair limned with gray as he continued to mend a pair of sandals on his lap.
“She will not have any, Lysander. You remember how swift Halcyon is. She was impossible to champion. And should she have scars . . . well, they would be marks of achievement.”
The pressure in the room eased as they began to reminisce about Halcyon.
“Remember how she beat all the village boys in a race?” Aunt Lydia said, voice thick with pride as she finished lighting the lamps. The firelight flickered through the room, a dance of gold and shadows.
“No one could best her,” Maia agreed. “There was that vile boy from Dree. Remember him, Eva? He thought he could beat her in a fighting match, but she proved him wrong twice. Laid him out cold on the ground in one punch. Glorious.”
Yes, Evadne thought, remembering. She spun two more crowns, and when the storm finally broke, she rose, ready to dismiss herself for bed.
“But, Pupa!” her father cried. “We have not sung tonight! You cannot go to bed yet.”
Her father would sing every night if he could convince Evadne to join him. He was also fond of nicknames. Long ago, he had dubbed both of his daughters: Halcyon was “Sprout,” and Evadne was “Pupa.” Pupa, as in insect larvae. When Evadne had learned what it meant, she’d been angry until he had told her it was the stage of transformation, when a butterfly was spinning her wings. Since then, they had made a game of finding cocoons in the grove.
“Sorry, Father,” Evadne said. “But I am too tired. Maia will sing with you tonight.”
Maia ceased her weaving, mouth agape. “Who, me? I can’t sing!”
Lysander huffed his agreement, only to earn a swat from Maia.
“We shall all sing tonight,” Phaedra said, setting aside her mending. “Save for you, Eva. I know you need rest.”
Her family began to sing the Harvest Song as Evadne slipped away. She slowly ascended the stairs to the upper floor, following the corridor to her bedroom.
She entered her chamber, closing the door behind her. It was dark; her oil lamp must have burned out. Evadne crossed the room to reach her lamp stand, feeling her way with her bare feet until she discovered the floor was damp. She halted, staring at the window, the shutters drifting back and forth in a gust of storm, and she knew that she had bolted them before supper.
She sensed it then. Someone in the room, watching her in the darkness. She could hear them breathe, a rasp trying to hide in the patter of rain.
Her dagger was on the shelf, a few paces away, and Evadne lunged to it, her right ankle smarting with the sudden movement. But a shadow peeled itself free from the darkness, intercepting her. A cold hand gripped Evadne’s wrist, drawing her about to face them. Evadne gasped, filling her lungs to scream, but the hand flickered to cover her mouth like a seal. There was a gentle strength in their grip, a hesitation that made Evadne realize . . . the stranger was not going to harm her but wanted her quiet.
“Evadne.” A girl spoke, her voice breaking on the sound, like a wave on a rock.
Evadne did not move, not even as the hand lowered from her mouth. She could not see the intruder’s face, but she suddenly sensed her presence . . . tall and lean, the scent of metal and rain on her skin, the familiar cadence of her voice, one that had lived only in Evadne’s dreams and memories the past eight years.
“Evadne,” the girl whispered again. “It is me. Your sister, Halcyon.”
II
Evadne
Halcyon?” Evadne tentatively reached out, her fingertips meeting an array of cold scales. Scales like a serpent. A monster. Startled, she brought her hands back, and then she realized it was only Halcyon’s armor. She yearned to see her sister’s face, but the darkness shielded her. “What are you doing here? When did you arrive? We were expecting you tomorrow night!”
“Evadne,” Halcyon said again, and the sound was heavy, reluctant.
Evadne’s excitement waned.
Something was wrong.
“I realize I have come a day early,” Halcyon began. “And I am sorry to have surprised you tonight, but I wanted to see you first.”
“Let me light the lamp,” Evadne said, reaching for Halcyon’s hand. “Come, sit on the bed.”
This room had once belonged to them both. And Halcyon still had it memorized, Evadne realized, as she effortlessly located the bed in the darkness. Evadne fumbled to find her lamp stand, lighting it with her ember stone. She was trembling when she finally turned to behold her sister.
Halcyon was beautiful.
Her skin was tanned from her days training in the sun, and her raven hair brushed the tops of her shoulders, glistening from the rain. Her face was still perfect, her cheekbones more pronounced now, but her eyes were the same shade of honey, framed by long lashes, and her brows were still arched and elegant. Her arms were corded with muscle and speckled with little scars, but the scars were not unsightly. They were as Uncle Nico had said: marks of her achievement, a testament to her training and her prowess with sword and spear and shield. She was a hoplite in the Queen’s Army, a member of the Bronze Legion now.
And if the scars on her arms were not enough, her raiment proclaimed exactly who she was.
Her chiton was dyed bright red, the color of the army, and was tailored the length of her thighs, resting beneath her armor’s hard linen pleats. Her cuirass was made of bronze scales, its two yokes coming over her shoulders to tie at the front. The straps were painted with the entwined serpents that represented Nikomides, the god of war, symbols to guard Halcyon’s front and back in battle. Her sandal straps crosshatched their way up her calves, knotting just beneath her knees.
Halcyon was foreign to Evadne in this armor, in these clothes. A stranger.
And Evadne knelt before her, awed and proud of who Halcyon had become. Halcyon, her sister, the girl who was swift and strong. The girl who had ascended.
Halcyon smiled and leaned forward to frame Evadne’s face in her hands.
“Ah, look at you, Sister,” Halcyon whispered. “You are so beautiful. And this hair! Just like father’s.” She touched the unruly brown waves. “How I have missed you, Eva. I have missed you every day since I left.”
“As I have missed you, Hal.”
“Why are you kneeling? Come sit next to me!” Halcyon tugged her upward, and Evadne settled beside her on the bed.
They were quiet for a moment. Evadne didn’t know what to say, even though she had been hoarding questions for years.
Halcyon, at last, ended the silence. “Tell me what adventures you have had while I was away! I trust our parents have been well? And Maia? And that Lysander is still as pleasant as ever?”
Evadne laughed, thinking not much had changed since Halcyon had left. She began to tell Halcyon news of their family, of the grove. It was their common ground, and Halcyon listened intently, asking after the crops and harvest and the pressing. She asked about the seasons that had continued to cycle in her absence. Rain and storms and drought and lean and plenty.
“But enough about the grove,” Evadne eventually said, her focus drifting to the formidable gleam of Halcyon’s armor. “I want to hear about the legion.”
Halcyon looked down at her hands. Evadne realized there was something dark beneath her sister’s nails. At first, she had believed it to be dirt, but it was something else. Like old blood.
“The legion,” Halcyon said, and she sounded exhausted. “Where do I even begin?”
Begin at the beginn
ing, Evadne wanted to beg her. Begin at the day you arrived at Abacus.
A knock sounded on the door, and the moment broke. Halcyon soundlessly shot to her feet; her entire body went rigid, her hand moving to the bone hilt of her kopis, a small scythe, sheathed in leather at her side.
Evadne gaped up at her sister, startled by her defensive reaction. It was as if Halcyon expected an enemy to lurk on the other side of the door, and not their father, who gently called, “Pupa? Pupa, are you still awake?”
A beat of silence. Halcyon stared at the door, eyes wide, and Evadne stared at Halcyon, heart skipping in alarm. Something was off about her sister.
Another knock. “Eva?”
Halcyon pivoted, casting her desperation on Evadne. “Please, Eva. Please, do not tell him I am here.”
But why? Evadne almost demanded until she saw worry mar her sister’s brow, and she feared Halcyon would flee, back out the window.
Evadne stood and motioned for Halcyon to stand against the same wall as the door, so if their father peered into the room, he would not see her.
Halcyon obeyed, and Evadne cracked open the door to find her father waiting with a sleepy smile.
“Ah, good. I thought I had woken you.”
“No, Father. Do you need something?” Evadne stood firmly on the threshold, like a barrier, to keep him from catching a glimpse of Halcyon.
“I was thinking about tomorrow night. About Halcyon’s return,” Gregor said around a yawn.
“Oh?”
“What should we sing for her? Your mother suggested the Song of Eternal Night, because that was once Halcyon’s favorite. But perhaps we should sing something different? Should we sing a war song? Would she prefer that now, do you think?”
Evadne swallowed. From the corner of her eye, she could see Halcyon hiding against the wall, her armor reflecting the firelight, her hair still dripping rain, her chest rising and falling as she fought to breathe quietly.
Evadne’s hesitation made Gregor worry.
“You are still planning to sing with me, aren’t you, Eva?”
She flushed with guilt. “Of course, Father. I am happy to sing with you tomorrow night, and I think Halcyon would like the Song of Eternal Night.”
Gregor’s smile returned, and he glanced over Evadne’s shoulder, where Halcyon’s bed rested against the wall, blankets freshly laundered and folded in wait for her. The joy was written on his face; his firstborn daughter would soon be home, and Halcyon was going to fill the empty space that had been haunting the villa and grove since she had departed.
“Anything else, Father?”
Gregor kissed Evadne’s brow and said, “Close your shutters, Pupa. You are letting the storm in.”
Evadne laughed, a wispy, nervous sound. But her father did not notice, disappearing down the corridor.
She closed the door and looked to Halcyon, riddled with questions. Her sister slowly sank to the floor, her face ashen. She was no longer the fierce hoplite, the unbeatable girl. Halcyon looked afraid, and that made Evadne afraid.
“Halcyon? What has happened?”
Her sister shut her eyes, as if the question were a punch.
“Hal?” Evadne took hold of her shoulder, soft but insistent.
Halcyon looked at her, dazed.
“You must tell me what has happened,” Evadne whispered.
“Eva . . . do you think you can find me something to eat and drink? I cannot remember the last time I ate.”
Evadne was shocked by that admission, but then she realized that the only possessions Halcyon carried were the kopis sheathed at her side and a canteen slung across her shoulder.
“Yes. But first, let us undress you from this armor. You can lie on your bed and rest, and I will fetch you something from the storerooms.” Evadne helped her rise, guiding Halcyon to her bed. She sat but made no effort to undress herself.
Uncertain of what else to do, Evadne hurried to close the shutters before their banging could draw Gregor back. When she glanced once more at Halcyon, she saw that her sister had finally lain down.
Evadne slipped from the room, moving as quietly as she could through the villa, down to the storerooms. But her heart was churning, pounding in her ears like a chorus . . .
What are you running from, Sister?
What have you done?
III
Halcyon
It was not supposed to be like this, Halcyon thought as she listened to Evadne quietly leave the room. Halcyon was to return home with joy and honor. It was not supposed to be as a fugitive, creeping in through her little sister’s bedroom window.
Although this had once been Halcyon’s chamber, too. In another life.
She lay on her childhood bed, pressed her face into the blankets. She breathed in the fragrance of the old days, a medley of sun and salt wind and the green enchantment of the grove, until she could not bear it and made herself stand.
This room was exactly how she remembered it. Evadne’s side cluttered with trinkets and scrolls. Halcyon’s side bare and minimal, save for the wall aligned with her bed, where the fresco of a basilisk had been painted over. This had once been Uncle Ozias’s room, but when he’d departed years ago, it had been given to the girls. Evadne had been frightened of the ancient serpent on the wall, and Gregor had had no choice but to paint over it. The basilisk had never bothered Halcyon, though, and she studied the cracks in the paint, where flashes of the beast could still be seen.
Nausea crept over her, and Halcyon reached out to steady herself on the wall, on the fading basilisk, cold sweat trickling down her back. It had taken the last of her strength to act normal, to hide her weariness from Evadne. But this was a skill the hoplites learned in their first year of training: how to push themselves, and then push themselves even more, when it felt like there was nothing left in them. There was always more, the commander had told her when Halcyon, twelve years old, had collapsed on the ground, ill from exertion. He had stood beside her, his shadow granting her some relief from the scorching sun, and he had watched her vomit. She had thought she would die, but she did not curl up into a ball, not with him watching.
“Get up,” he had said. “There is always more strength to draw from. You must find where it hides and wield it.”
And she had not whimpered, I cannot, as did the other first-year hoplites. Although she had questioned why she had chosen the hoplite legion in that moment of pain; she could have easily been accepted into the charioteers or the archers or the oarswomen of the fleet. But no . . . Halcyon had wanted to be a foot solider. It was the hardest, the most demanding. The most glorious in her mind.
Halcyon straightened, her hand slipping from the wall, her nausea subsiding. She cast away thoughts of the commander and of the last eight days. She walked to Evadne’s side of the room, where the color and life dwelled, her attention focusing on the wax tablet that sat on her little sister’s oaken chest.
Halcyon’s handwriting still marked the wax. Amazed, she reached for the tablet and studied it, her heart softening with the memory.
It was the cipher she and Evadne had created together, a language only the two of them knew. A language inspired by nature—trees and flowers, birds and dragonflies, mountains and rain clouds.
It had been Halcyon’s idea. The secret language of “Haleva” had emerged as an effort to cheer Evadne.
Evadne had just learned how to read and write in the Common Speech and in the God Tongue. She had fervently believed that she would inherit magic, despite her being a descendant of Kirkos. And no one had tried to douse that innocent hope. Not even Halcyon, who watched Evadne take a quill in her hand, learning her letters and words, expectantly waiting for the magic to wake in them.
Magic, for all of its mysteries, was forthright in its choosing. If a child had inherited it, magic would make itself known in literacy. There was never any doubt to its manifestation. Halcyon did not fully understand the phenomenon, but she had heard it explained like this: A mage cast magic with their domin
ant hand, be it right or left. And when they wrote with that hand, their words would refuse to stick to the papyrus. The words would fade, or slip off the edge, or turn into something else, as if they had a will of their own. But truly, it was the magic, humming in their handwriting.
As Evadne had become literate, it had become apparent to her family that she was common as they all were. And yet Evadne refused to believe it. Not even as her inked letters remained married to the papyrus, immobile and magicless.
“I am certain the magic will appear tomorrow in my letters,” Evadne would tell Halcyon every night when they climbed into bed. “I wonder what the Destry is like. Do you think Mother and Father will send me to the school right away?”
The Destry was the school for mages. Any child who exhibited magic in their writing was to be sent to the Destry, located in the royal city of Mithra, to be properly instructed in magic until they came of age. It was a requirement by law.
And Halcyon had lain in her bed, listening to Evadne talk her wonders about magic and the Destry, as if she were bound to attend.
“You must help her understand, Halcyon,” their mother had finally said to her. “Evadne does not have magic, and you must help her bear this disappointment.”
That was when the cipher, Haleva, had been born. Halcyon had helped Evadne create her own magical language, and it had eased the sting in Evadne’s common heart. It had also made for hours of vast amusement as the sisters sent messages to one another, drawing fury from Lysander and fascination from Maia.
The door creaked.
Halcyon snapped her attention to the threshold, tense, but it was Evadne, returning with a food sack and a flask tucked beneath her arm.
“It is only me,” Evadne reassured her, and Halcyon relaxed. “I see you found the old Haleva cipher.”
Halcyon glanced down to the wax tablet. “You never erased it, even after all these years?”
“How could I erase the only magic I have ever known?” Evadne smiled and began to walk across the floor. That was when Halcyon noticed it. The limp in her sister’s gait.