by Rebecca Ross
She was grappling with how she saw him: a mage, a partner, a friend. The son of the man she despised.
They remained on the floor a while, until all but one of the magical stars had extinguished, and Damon’s nose had ceased its bleeding.
“Sorry,” Damon whispered to her as she lowered her shawl.
“What for?”
“That I am so weak. I . . . did not expect the spell to make me bleed so soon.”
Evadne was quiet as she regarded him. It had surprised her, too, and also made her apprehensive. What if he bled the entire time in the mountain’s heart? What if he could not make it all the way to the door and back? But she watched the final star fade away, and she yearned for it to return. To sing with him again.
“You are not weak. There is steel within you,” she whispered, remembering how Halcyon had once spoken those very words to her. How they had sustained her.
“That sounds like something my father would say,” he said.
“Yes, well, my sister did say it to me.”
“Then he probably once said it to her.”
“Probably.”
Evadne stood and held her hand out to him.
He stared at her a moment, and then he smiled, a warm smile that reached his eyes, and she thought he looked much younger, much softer.
“Off-tune kithara, indeed,” he mused in a wry tone, slipping his hand into hers.
She drew him up. And by the way his fingers were reluctant to release hers, Evadne knew that her voice had been far more than he had ever imagined it to be.
XXI
Halcyon and Evadne
A woman sat in Halcyon’s cell. It was not her mother or Evadne, and Halcyon slowly recognized her, surprised. She had seen her only one other time, at her trial. It was Cosima. The commander’s wife.
Xander’s mother.
The moment Cosima saw Halcyon awaken, she stood and drew closer, to kneel beside her cot. Cosima said nothing at first, hesitantly touching Halcyon’s brow.
“Your fever has broken,” she said, still avoiding eye contact. “I have another brew for you, one that will help flush the remaining poison from your body.”
Halcyon watched as Cosima searched through a leather satchel on the floor. She sorted through small jars of herbs, a few pots of salves, rolls of linen bandages, and a flask of clean water, swiftly working to mix the brew together in a clay bowl. She poured it into a small wooden cup, the herbal remedy refreshing the stale air of the cell.
“Can you sit?” she asked, and when Halcyon struggled to push herself up, Cosima helped her.
The world spun for a moment, but Halcyon’s eyes began to focus, and while she still felt hollow and weak, she sensed a trickle of her strength returning. Cosima held the cup to her lips, and Halcyon drank.
The healer seemed reluctant to look at her. It reminded Halcyon of her transgressions, and she suddenly could not swallow anymore. She sputtered and turned her head away, but Cosima waited, determined and patient.
“You need to drink all of this, Halcyon.”
Halcyon was silent, listening to the ragged edge of her breaths. And then she whispered, “Why are you helping me?”
Cosima shifted, pulling her stool closer, and she sat with the cup in her lap, directly before Halcyon.
“Because Xander loved you,” she said. “I imagine he is dwelling in the villa of the clouds, watching and fervently hoping you will choose to live. Drink the rest of this, for him.”
The sound of his name released the tension between them, and Halcyon met Cosima’s gaze. She did not find anger or resentment within the healer’s eyes, as she expected. There was a gleam of sadness, of hope.
Straton must have told her the truth of Halcyon and Xander’s doomed mission, of Halcyon’s blindfolded error for which she would never be able to forgive herself.
She consented to drink the rest of the brew, and Cosima helped her lie down again, so she could redress the wounds on Halcyon’s back.
“Do you know who has been poisoning you?”
“Yes,” Halcyon replied. “The mage Macarius of Galenos.”
“Did he do anything else to you, Halcyon?”
Halcyon hesitated. She hated how shame crept upon her, how her throat narrowed. “He mind-swept me. Two different times. I . . . I did my best to shield certain memories, but I might have betrayed a few important pieces of information. The priest Bacchus . . . Macarius saw Bacchus in my mind and has since killed him and taken the Golden Belt.”
“It is not your fault, Halcyon. Macarius has committed a grave crime against you.” Cosima spread a cooling salve on Halcyon’s back. “We can find no trace of him anywhere, but do not despair; we will catch him.”
Halcyon was not surprised Macarius had fled. Of course, could she fault him, when she herself had fled in fear? Her hopelessness unfurled as Cosima had her sit up again, to wrap fresh linen bandages about her. Halcyon tried to remember the day before—or had it been two days?—and her memory felt foggy. “Was . . . was Lord Straton here? Or did I imagine it?”
“He was here. When he saw how ill you were, he sent for me.” Again, there was a flicker of sorrow within the healer.
“How did he know to come?”
“Your sister asked him to. She sensed you were in trouble.”
Halcyon marveled. She wanted to see Evadne, so fiercely she could feel her pulse in her ears.
“My husband has returned to Abacus,” Cosima said. “But he is meeting with the archon to submit a request for you to be brought to the infirmary for a few weeks, so you can fully heal beneath my care. Evadne can visit you then.”
Halcyon was stunned. Tears burned her eyes; she struggled to hide them as Cosima helped her change into a fresh tunic.
“Straton did not want me to leave you here unattended.” She stood and began to clean up her herbs and the soiled linens. “But I must take a moment of reprieve. My daughter, Lyra, will be coming to replace me for a while. She is going to bring you some broth, and I would like for you to drink all of it. I would also like for you to keep drinking this water throughout the day.” She set a flask beside Halcyon’s cot and slipped her satchel over her arm, preparing to leave. But she paused and dropped her voice so low Halcyon almost did not hear her. “Straton also left a gift for you beneath your blanket. He said you would know what to do should you see your poisoner again.”
Halcyon’s mind whirled, but she nodded. “Thank you, Lady. I am in your debt.”
“There are no debts here, Halcyon of Isaura. I will return soon.”
Halcyon watched her leave, her cell door closing and locking in her wake. But the guard no longer leered at Halcyon. He seemed fearful, and Halcyon could only surmise it was a lingering result of Straton’s presence.
She looked to the blanket Cosima had referenced, soft and clean from the infirmary, folded at the foot of her cot. With a trembling hand, she reached beneath it and found the gift.
She unsheathed the small scythe, her heart swelling as she recognized it. A blade she had often seen but had never held. No one had ever held it but him.
Straton’s kopis.
Evadne woke with a start. Her cheek was numb, and she was drooling on the charena scroll. She eased herself up, rubbing the crick in her neck. She had fallen asleep at her desk, in Damon’s chambers. And there he was, slumbering in his chair, morning light spangled across his face.
Slowly, she remembered.
They had sung most of the night, over and over, until the Song of Stars had settled into both of their memories, until they had grown bone weary. Eventually, they had both needed a moment to rest—Evadne had sat at her desk and Damon his chair—and they must have drifted into sleep.
The door creaked.
Evadne glanced to the threshold to find Damon’s mother entering the chamber. Cosima did not seem surprised to find Evadne there. In fact, it seemed the lady was looking for Evadne, not Damon, and Evadne struggled to rise.
“You do not need to stand,” Cosim
a said gently.
Damon stirred at the sound of her voice. “Mother? What is it?”
Cosima glanced to her son, noting the bloodstains on his chiton and the corresponding bloodstains on Evadne’s shawl. “I bring news of Halcyon.”
“How is she, Lady?” Evadne whispered, suddenly terrified to hear the answer.
“Your sister is very ill. She has been repeatedly poisoned and mind-swept, but I was able to get her the antidote in time. Halcyon is weak, but I believe, with time and proper care, she will make a full recovery.”
Evadne trembled as she sat in her chair.
“Who has been poisoning her?” Damon demanded.
“Macarius,” Evadne said, and the truth spilled out of her: the cipher, her encounter with him, his lie and his ploy to use her against Halcyon. Damon and Cosima both listened intently.
“He fled the quarry as soon as Straton arrived,” Cosima said. “But I will bring your sister to the infirmary as soon as Straton can speak to the archon about the arrangement. We will eventually catch the mage, Evadne. He has broken many laws, and the queen will see that he pays for them accordingly.”
The queen.
Evadne met Damon’s eyes from across the room.
How could the queen grant justice if Selene was enchanting her?
“You will be journeying to the mountain soon, I take it,” Cosima said, surprising them both.
“Father . . . told you?” Damon asked carefully.
“Yes. And he should never have withheld it from me.” She reached within her leather satchel, procuring a vial of herbs. “I know you have a long journey ahead of you. These herbs will ward off exhaustion.” She set the vial in her son’s hand. “When do you depart, Damon? Your father said he did not know.”
Damon looked to Evadne. Evadne with her disheveled hair and ink-smeared hand and dark eyes.
They shared the same thought.
Macarius had mind-swept Halcyon. The confirmation made Evadne shake in fury. She knew he had seen the Haleva cipher, but what more had he pilfered? Had he gleaned the truth about where the crown rested?
Damon could take no chances, and Evadne nodded to him.
“Today,” he said, his eyes remaining on her. “We leave as soon as possible.”
It was difficult to leave the villa for a mysterious journey without the servants taking note. Toula packed their provisions, and Amara found Damon and Evadne the proper clothes to wear: modest but comfortable woolen tunics that would keep them warm, shawls to cover their heads, and durable sandals to protect their feet. Damon procured two swords from the armory and requested two of the swiftest horses to be tacked in preparation. And then it was time to leave, even though Evadne felt as if she was lacking something.
She did not feel ready.
Cosima waited to say goodbye to them in the shade of the inner courtyard.
“When should I expect you back?” she asked as she embraced Damon.
“It should hopefully only take us three days to reach the mountain,” he replied. “And maybe half a day to recover what we need. I did not have time to send word to Father in Abacus. I hoped you could let him know.”
“So I can expect you to return no later than a week, if all goes well?” Cosima sounded calm, but Evadne heard a warble of apprehension in her voice. A week of uncertainty would be like a year to her.
“Yes. Do not worry, Mother.”
“That is like telling me not to breathe, Damon. Regardless, I will let your father know you have departed.” She would worry, for he was the only son she had left. And her eyes traced him, memorizing him. Just as Phaedra had done the last morning she’d had with Evadne.
Cosima glanced to her. “Thank you, Evadne. For accompanying him.”
Evadne thought she saw a spark of shame in the lady’s eyes, as if she was dwelling on the first night of Evadne’s service, when she had insulted her.
“I will bring him back safely to you,” Evadne said.
Cosima nodded and turned away, unable to watch them leave the villa.
Just before they stepped through the doors, Damon sang a charm over them. A charena enchantment, one that did not render them unseen but slightly changed their appearance, hiding their true selves. Those they passed on the streets and then later on the road would see not a mage and his scribe but a farmer and his wife, traveling to their barley fields in southern Corisande.
The magic settled over Evadne; she saw that her hair had become lighter, curlier, and her nose felt longer, her jawline softer. She watched Damon’s transformation, his sable hair lightening to the color of olive wood, his face becoming broader, the blue flush of his left eye fading.
She would not have recognized him, just as his magic wanted, and it sent an unfamiliar pang through her.
“Are you ready?” he whispered, gathering their provision packs and handing one of the swords to Evadne.
“Yes.” She accepted the blade, buckled it across her chest. She wondered if Xander had spoken the same words to Halcyon, weeks ago. How could one truly be ready for something they had never encountered?
Evadne followed Damon through the doors, into the afternoon sunlight, to where their horses waited.
She carried only three things with her as they departed Mithra:
The sword sheathed at her back.
Kirkos’s relic around her neck, hidden beneath her tunic.
And Halcyon’s kopis at her belt.
Lyra rode along the path to the quarry outpost, two guards trailing her. Of course, her mother would not allow her to come to the common quarry without an escort, and Lyra tried not to let it irk her. But deep in her heart, she knew her father believed her fragile, and her mother never let her stray anywhere unwatched. It would only worsen now, with Xander gone. Damon was the only one in the family she felt like she could speak freely to, but he had been heavily preoccupied for weeks. And even then, he could never understand. Their parents treated them differently.
Lyra thought of Xander, and her chest ached.
She had been a child when he had left for the Bronze Legion. But hardly a morning passed when she didn’t wish that she had known him more.
She cast thoughts of her oldest brother aside, or else she might approach Halcyon in hatred, and her mother had been adamant about Lyra being pleasant to the murderer. To treat her as she would any of her other patients.
She passed no one on the road but a farmer and his wife, cantering to the south in a rush, and Lyra sighed as she finally arrived at the quarry gates.
She had never been here. And she could not stifle the shiver that moved through her as she entered the outpost with her bag of supplies, her mother’s appointed escorts trailing her. She followed one of the quarry guards as he led her down the serpentine prison corridor, and she listened to the echoes that haunted the air: the chisels and the cracks and the shouts.
It reeked in the prison. Stale air, refuse, vomit, unwashed male.
She began to breathe through her mouth, preparing herself. Her mother had warned her that Halcyon was in terrible shape and that Lyra should guard her emotions, her face. To give the murderer only hope, not disgust or despair.
The guard unexpectedly stopped. Lyra almost plowed into him.
“What is it?” she asked, annoyed.
But he was silent, staring at a cell. Lyra moved around him to see the iron door was wide open. She drew closer, her heart beginning to pound . . .
“Lyra,” one of her escorts reached out, trying to grasp her arm, to hold her back. “It is not safe. Wait.”
She slipped through his fingers and entered what she knew to be Halcyon’s prison cell.
A blanket was torn on the floor. The bucket of refuse spilled. A stool overturned.
And Halcyon . . . was not there. Lyra knelt and reached for the one thing she recognized, her hand shaking.
Her father’s kopis lay abandoned on the floor.
And the blade was stained with blood.
XXII
Evadne
We should make good time,” Damon said, kneeling in the moonlight to set out their meal. “The wind is blowing in our favor.”
Evadne nodded, wrapping her shawl closer around her. They had ridden hard that day, their horses kicking up clouds of golden dust, the southern road bending like a sickle toward the mountains. It was now midnight, and Damon’s charena charm had worn off, and the horses needed water and rest.
They had taken pains to find a flat ridge among the Dacian foothills, hidden from sight of the road. But Damon did not want to take any chances. They would burn no fires on their journey, and the night was cold.
Evadne shivered; she felt battered from the hours of hard riding, and she was too weary to speak. She ate her bread and smoked fish by starlight and then lay down, struggling to keep warm. She listened to the wind, to the horses as they munched on the mountain grass, to Damon as he moved around nearby, trying to settle.
She knew she would not be able to sleep with her bones rattling from the cold.
“Damon? Are you cold?”
He was quiet for a moment. And then he drawled, “I am freezing, Evadne.”
“Should we share a blanket? I could keep you warm.”
Within an instant, he was crawling to her, dragging his shawl and blanket. “I will set my back to yours,” he suggested. “If you think that will keep me warm the best.”
Evadne smiled. “Yes, I think so.” She turned on her side and he lay down next to her. Their backs aligned, and they shared their blankets.
Damon’s warmth began to seep into her, and Evadne looked at the stars with heavy eyes. They burned silver against the night, and she thought of Ari’s Shawl of Stars. She thought of the way Damon’s voice had sparked constellations.
She drifted into dreams, anxious and puzzled by the mystery of him, of the magic she had always wanted and yet struggled to fully understand.
When dawn arrived, Evadne woke. The back-to-back arrangement had become null sometime in the night. She found that her legs were entwined with Damon’s, and his chest was flush with her back, his arm draped over her. She could feel his breath warm her hair as he dreamt, and Evadne did not move for a while, waiting for him to wake.