by Rebecca Ross
“Here we are. These sandals will be perfect.” Rhode knelt so Evadne could slip her feet into them, crosshatching them up Evadne’s legs to knot them just below her knees. “Now for your brooches. Follow me to the table.”
She pinned back the curtain, and Evadne realized she would have to wait to slip on her necklace. Hopefully Damon would not notice its addition later, but Evadne’s heart did a strange lurch when she watched him turn toward her. His eyes traced her. They touched her hair with its wild tangles, the lines of her collarbones, her long, bare arms, the belt at her waist, all the way down the golden rush of her new chiton, to where her toes peeked from beneath the gilded hem. And she knew right then that he would take note of the silver chain later, should she dare to wear it.
She would have to keep it hidden in her fist, then, as impossible as that seemed.
“Do you hail from divine blood, Evadne?” Rhode asked, opening a wooden box brimming with brooches. Gold and silver, bronze and brass. Some burned with jewels, some intricately etched.
“Yes. Kirkos.”
Rhode’s smile waned. “Oh. Oh dear. I do not have a brooch of Kirkos. Forgive me, but . . . I have never had a request for it.” And she anxiously began to sift through her baubles, as if she could magically find wings at the bottom of the hoard.
“That is all right,” Evadne was swift to reassure her. “These will be perfect for me.” She touched a pair of olive wreath brooches, crafted from bronze.
“Let me see if I have a golden pair,” Rhode said, continuing to search her treasure box. “The bronze will not look as nice with your chiton.”
Evadne wanted to say that the bronze was more than enough for her, but Rhode was beaming as she found two golden olive wreath brooches, and Evadne could not find the heart to refuse them.
Rhode gathered the chiton on her shoulders, slipping a long golden pin into each olive wreath. The linen became narrower, exposing even more of Evadne’s shoulders and chest.
Her heart continued to beat anxiously, but she managed to smile and thank Rhode.
“Is this to your liking, Evadne?” Damon asked, his voice close behind her. “I will have Rhode send a few more sets up to the villa, if you approve.”
Evadne glanced down at the shimmer of her clothes, her right hand continuing to clench the relic as inconspicuously as possible.
“Perhaps I could have a second chiton made with pockets?” she asked.
Rhode was speechless for a moment, her brow wrinkled. And then she laughed. “Of course! I can make you a chiton with pockets.”
While Damon was placing the order, Evadne wandered a few paces away, bending to tuck the relic beneath the toes of her right foot. She would have to keep her toes curled as they walked back to the villa, but Evadne already bore a limp.
She straightened just as Damon turned toward her, ready to depart.
The market was busy and loud; it was midmorning, and Damon bought them each a skewer of roasted meat and fruit, and a flask of honeyed wine to share. They stood beneath a canopy, too hungry to speak, and Evadne thought she had never tasted anything so delicious. She was licking her fingers when Damon finally glanced at her.
“We will make one more stop at the Gilded Owl,” he said. “That is the shop you should go to if you need ink, papyrus, or quills. And then we will return to the villa and begin for the day.”
Evadne did not have a chance to respond. A crowd was suddenly gathering on the edges of the street, jostling her and Damon, who frowned, glancing across the market well.
“What is happening?” Evadne asked as a man bumped her.
“The queen is about to ride by,” Damon replied, eyes focused on the distant curve of street. And then he looked at Evadne and smiled. “Have you ever seen Queen Nerine before?”
“Only her profile on an Akkia coin.”
“Then come with me. You need to see her.” He held out his hand, waiting for Evadne to take it.
She hesitated, and Damon sensed it. His smile faded, his hand began to fall away when Evadne darted hers forward to meet it, and their fingers wound together as if they had done it countless times before.
He led her forward, forging a path for them in the crowd.
Evadne struggled to keep Kirkos’s relic bunched beneath her toes. She was limping more pronounced because of it, and Damon stopped to look at her, a question forming on his lips, when Evadne, terse and impatient, said, “I’m fine.”
He did not seem surprised by her tone, but he moved slower through the crowd, and she was secretly grateful for it.
They emerged at the front of the crowd, and Evadne waited for the queen to arrive, anticipation like sparks along her skin. She felt Damon standing in her shadow, and then the press of the crowd moved him closer, until the space between them melted, and his chest was aligned with her back.
The solid warmth of him was a shock to her. Evadne was suddenly aware of everything: the difference of their heights, the way their bodies curved to fit each other. How Damon’s breaths quickened, stirring her hair.
She should move; she was obviously making him uncomfortable. And yet she did not want to, and she realized her breaths were flowing just as swiftly as his. Like their hearts were beating the same chorus.
Queen Nerine appeared at last—a blessed distraction—leading her procession on a great horse.
She wore a purple chiton, its hem resting just above her knees, and golden sandal strings glittered up her calves. Ari’s enchanted relic, the Shawl of Stars, was draped across her, guarding her front and her back, a shield made of hundreds of small, exquisite diamonds. Any arrow or spear that dared to hit that shawl would be rebounded, hurtling back to lodge within the would-be assassin. Many foolish relic hunters had tried to assassinate the kings and queens of Corisande for that shawl, which had been found a hundred years ago by a princess who had kept it in the royal line’s possession.
A laurel crowned Nerine’s brow, and her dark hair streamed out behind her like a pennant, her coarse waves shot through with silver. Her arms were adorned with chased gold and lapis lazuli. And yet while she smiled at her people, there was a tangible sense of weariness about her, as if she was only half-awake.
Evadne soaked her in, trying to remember every detail, but her fascination broke when the person standing beside her in the crowd shouted angrily at the queen, “Your taxes will starve us!” And then another man, across the street, raised his fist and screamed about the relic decree, about hunger and inequality and the divide between courts. Murmurs and shouts began to kindle in the crowd, spreading like fire.
Evadne was jostled; someone stepped on her foot, and she flinched in pain. Damon stretched his arm out to ward people away from her. And the glory of the moment was eclipsed by the resentment of the crowd. Queen Nerine did not stop; she did not falter. She continued on her way, that distant smile on her face. It would almost seem as if she did not hear her people at all.
Evadne’s focus shifted to the woman riding in the queen’s wake.
It was Selene.
At first, Evadne blinked, unable to believe it. Damon’s aunt was riding with the queen, in her procession. Closer than any guard. And she was singing in God Tongue, her voice a current of sweetened words.
Evadne leaned back into Damon, longing to disappear just as Selene drew close, about to pass them. The mage’s eyes flickered, and she looked directly at Evadne and Damon. Her lips never stopped moving; her chorus never faltered. But her eyes cut through Evadne, and a sharp smile curved the corners of Selene’s bloodred mouth.
And then she passed them, the wind stirring her hair and her purple cloak as she followed the queen, shouts of anger continuing to spawn along the street.
The queen’s guards followed at a respectful distance, armored and bearing spears. They heard the dissenters, but they made no action against them. Soon, the street was empty, and the crowd began to dissipate.
Evadne continued to stand, softened by shock. Eventually, she turned to look at Damon.
>
“Your aunt . . .”
“Is Queen Nerine’s hand. Her closest advisor.”
“She was singing in the queen’s wake.”
“Yes. A spell of protection.”
That was why the guards had held back, why no angry dissenter had charged forward. Selene had formed a sightless barrier around her and the queen, created by enchanted song.
Evadne glanced away, to where the market had resumed its bustle, as if nothing had interrupted it. “Your aunt is very powerful, then.”
“Yes.” He began to walk back to his father’s villa, forgoing the stop at the ink shop. Evadne fell in stride beside him. “When Xander and I were boys, our father would caution us every night about power and pride. ‘If you find yourself to be strong, use that strength not just for yourself but for those around you. And if you find yourself to be smart, use that knowledge to uplift others.’”
Evadne could not imagine a man like Straton saying such things. “Your father sounds wise.”
“He was worried about us,” Damon said. “My brother had begun to show great skill as a warrior, and magic had just revealed itself in my literacy. My sister, likewise, was very young, but she was already adept in healing. It would seem the three of us were destined for greatness, to rise up as near divines in the eyes of society. It would not be worth it, my father often said to us, to rise so high by standing on the backs of others. We must earn it in an honest way, and should we find our lives to be exalted one day, it would only be because we had served, respected our peers.
“Xander and I both grew tired of our father cautioning us so much. I did not understand it then, but now I do, after seeing my aunt’s ascension. She and my father both worked diligently and came into their own power, but my father was adamant about forming boundaries, while my aunt was not. She became a professor at the Destry when another instructor fell mysteriously ill. She then was made a member of the queen’s inner circle soon thereafter, and when the queen’s hand suddenly died, Selene was chosen to replace her, even though the vote was rushed and took place when my father was gone.”
Damon paused, glancing at Evadne. “Sorry. I should not bother you with such things.”
“No, it is all right.” She wanted to hear more, but Damon fell silent.
They were quiet the remainder of the walk, and Evadne could not shake the sensation that she was being watched, followed. But every time she glanced over her shoulder, the streets were quiet and ordinary. She wondered if Selene had cast a charm on her, but even that seemed unlikely, and Evadne continued to reimagine her and the queen—one possessing the distant smile, one sporting the angry smile. As if the queen were a puppet. And suddenly, Damon’s desire to choose his own scribe felt palpable, and as Evadne entered the villa at his side . . . she worried that she was not strong enough to weather whatever storm was brewing between Damon and his aunt.
“Lord Damon,” Toula greeted with flourish in the courtyard, bowing. And then she looked at Evadne and startled, as if she had not recognized her. “Evadne?”
“Evadne has agreed to become my scribe, Toula,” Damon said. “Will you please let the others know so they may begin to address her accordingly?” He continued to walk, and Evadne trailed him, trying to ignore Toula’s horror.
She was relieved to finally be in the safety of Damon’s chambers. It felt as if they had walked through a battle and had miraculously emerged with only dust on their clothes.
But there was Arcalos. The dog seemed to sleep most of his life, curled up in a patch of sunlight on the floor. He lifted his head to blink adoringly at Damon, and then Evadne.
Well, the dog suddenly did not feel so threatening anymore.
“This desk is now yours,” Damon said, standing beside it. “You may arrange it however you like. Fresh scrolls can be found on that shelf. Papyrus and wax for correspondence on that one. I would like for you to record my spells in dark ink—nothing fancy, like some mages I know—and keep them organized by scroll. So, for instance, today we will begin transcribing what I call my sorah spells. These are spoken spells, very simple and effortless to cast. Eventually, we will progress to the more difficult spells—my charena spells—which are sung enchantments. Have I . . . have I overwhelmed you, Evadne?”
He had—her eyes were glazed. “No, I am just . . . taking it all in.” She moved across the chamber to her desk, mind whirling. She could not wait to remove Kirkos’s relic, which had become as obnoxious as a thorn in her foot. But she procured a new scroll from the shelf Damon had indicated, and she sat at the desk and oriented herself with the pots of ink.
“Why does it matter that I am right-handed?” she asked, remembering how he had noticed this fact about her, as if it was vital. “Is it to represent balance, because you are left-handed?”
“What? Oh. It does not matter. It is simply convenient as all the quills I have are for right hands.”
She looked at his jar of quills. People who wrote with their left hands needed feathers harvested from a bird’s right wing. The opposite was true for right-handers. They needed the feather from a left wing.
Damon could not write with his left hand because of his magic. But the fact that he only possessed right-handed quills made Evadne wonder if he often tried to write with his weaker hand.
“Very well,” she said, opening the scroll. The parchment was smooth as silk beneath her fingers, blank with possibility. It stirred the awe in her again, and she traced its perfect face before taking a swan quill in her fingers. “This shall be your sorah scroll.”
Sorah. Which was translated as spoken in the God Tongue.
She wrote it in the scroll, a word built from elegant curves and dots.
And then she thought of the other word he had mentioned: charena, which translated as sung.
She became aware of the silence and glanced up to find Damon standing on the other side of the desk, staring down at her handwriting. That one ancient word had him utterly bewitched, the ink still glistening.
“What I would give to be able to write, to see my words shaped perfectly by my own hand, to know they will remain long after I am gone,” he whispered, and then seemed to remember Evadne’s presence, and he flushed, embarrassed.
Evadne decided to also share a confession. “And what I would give to be able to cast magic, to see my words transform into spoken and sung power.”
Damon smiled mournfully. “I suppose this is our fate, then? That the mage will envy the scribe’s power, and the scribe will envy the mage’s?”
She had never thought of it that way. And she began to see the gift she held, this ability to write in beautiful strokes, to write as much as she wanted. There was power within it, a small seed. But how it could grow, should she allow it to.
And she remembered that she did possess a small trace of magic, thanks to Kirkos’s relic. And Damon could write with his right hand, should he truly want to.
“Sorah,” Damon breathed, as if recalling why they were here, and began to pace.
Evadne waited, quill ready.
Soon, he began to voice his spells from memory.
A spell to move a shadow. A spell to extinguish a flame. A spell to mend a garment. A spell to distract another person. A spell to draw light. A spell to call an animal. A spell to make an object move. A spell to unlock a door.
All spoken charms.
Evadne recorded them, word for word. Most of the sorahs were only several words long, easily spoken in one breath. A few progressed to multiple lines, and although they were deemed “simple” by Damon, they were exquisitely worded. Evadne found herself desiring to go back and reread them, to speak them aloud, just to hear how they would sound in her voice.
She realized something, as if she had been struck. And she sat back, hand aching, and laughed.
Damon seemed to jolt at the sound. He frowned.
“What is it, Evadne?”
Her laughter eased, but its buoyancy lingered, lightening her heart. “I now see that I could never have bee
n a mage. I am no poet.”
Damon snorted, the tension leaving his face. “Yes, you could have. Every mage has their own taste in words and rhythm. You would have found your own.”
Suddenly, the door blew open with a bang.
Evadne startled, her quill streaking ink across the scroll. Even Arcalos jumped, raising his head at the intruder, and Evadne was shocked to see it was evening. The daylight had faded, and she and Damon had been completely lost in another world. The oil lamps were the only source of light throughout the room.
Straton stood on the threshold, glaring at both of them.
“Father,” Damon spoke calmly.
“I want to speak with my son, alone,” the commander said to Evadne. His face was guarded, but his eyes were livid, burning a path to Damon.
She stood and swiftly departed, shutting the door behind her.
The corridor was quiet, cloaked in shadows. Fresh night air drifted in from the open window at the end of the hall. And Evadne breathed in that air, wondering if she should descend to the main floor and prepare the family’s wine, even though Damon had told her she was no longer cupbearer. But she chose to remain by the door, pressing her ear to the wood . . .
“You have defied me, Damon,” Straton hissed. “I told you this needed to be approved by me.”
“If I remember correctly, Father . . . you have now passed the mission back to me to fulfill. And that is what I am doing.”
“You cannot take this girl with you!”
“And why not? It seems only fitting that Evadne finishes what Halcyon began.”
“And what happens if she does not survive? Have you thought about that? Would you make me tell her family that she perished by an unknown cause?”
“Do not act as if you suddenly care for Evadne’s family, Father. You have all but torn them into pieces.”
Another moment of rigid silence. Evadne continued to breathe against the door. The hair rose on her arms.
“Is this how you perceive me, Damon? Do you think I take delight in shattering people’s lives? That I enjoy what has happened to Halcyon?”
“Of course I do not want to believe my father is heartless. But if you want my honesty . . . I feel as if you and I have begun to esteem very different things in life.”