by C. L. Polk
“We can’t travel through that,” he said. “I survived a shifting storm in the Tiandran Marches once. I can’t chance it with the two of you.”
“Then how are we getting out of here?” Avia asked. “If we can’t travel through that, what do we do?”
Tristan swiped one hand across his brow. “I didn’t make a contingency plan,” he said. “Blast it.”
Avia worried at her lip. “There’s no way the two of you can bluster me walking out of here.”
“No. It’s now or never. We have no choice, Tristan.”
Avia’s expression wilted. She put on a brave smile. “The trial will make the papers. Dorothy can pass on my last articles for the Star.”
“You’ll never get a chance to see trial,” I said. “Father has two choices—either he’ll arrange for you to hang yourself in your cell, or he’ll keep you in here until you rot and use you to control me. No glorious end. No final words.”
“I’ll have to go on the run.”
“Yes,” I said. “You absolutely have to hide. But I know someone who can help. We have to get you out of here. Tristan, can you vanish both of us?”
“What do you mean, vanish us?” Avia asked.
“Tristan’s an illusionist. Tristan, if you keep us invisible while we walk out of here, we’ll get to Halston Street ourselves. Can you do it?”
“Not for long,” Tristan said. “Not if I’m to do this.”
He pointed, and a dejected figure sat on the hard bench inside Avia’s cell. Its chest rose and fell with the illusion of breath, its features so like Avia’s it was uncanny.
“He’ll want to look in when we walk out. It’ll give us a head start.” Tristan headed for the cell block door. “Avia. Hold on to my shoulder, keep up, and whatever you do, don’t let go.”
* * *
We were in the middle of the drafty stone hall connecting the prison and the palace when the bells rang, tolling out the message to Kingsgrave’s guards: a prisoner has escaped.
“Blast it,” Tristan said. “Run.”
We picked up our feet and dashed for the palace. Avia’s too-big shoes clomped on the stone, but we were through the door just in time to dive to the left and hide in a service corridor. It didn’t matter where it went, so long as we weren’t found strolling out of Kingsgrave whistling innocently.
We dodged a stack of broken chairs with a work order tucked in their lashing ropes. The halls had never been upgraded to aether, and so our shadows stretched and pooled as we bolted down the hall in dim, greenish light.
“Where are we?” Avia asked.
“I’m not sure.” I dug my fingers into a terrible pain in my right side. My shins ached from the impact of running on stone floors. My lungs were a bellows, sucking up dusty, dry air—but we kept running until we came to a sign that said “Exit—be discreet!” as a reminder to palace servants that they should be mostly unseen. Tristan listened at the door, then swung it open.
“Where are we now?”
Avia vanished from sight as she touched Tristan’s shoulder. I gripped his other shoulder, and trusted that I was invisible once more. “Public area. The main exit’s just ahead.”
“Too busy,” Tristan said.
“We don’t have a choice.” I fussed with the lay of the fur, trying to smooth it. Edith would cluck her tongue when she saw my coat in such a state. “I say we pull out the stops and put on a show.”
“Fine. But grab me if there’s trouble.” Tristan slipped out the servant’s door and got back into his persona, already rolling his steps into an arrogant strut. I pressed my fingers into my side, trying to squeeze the knifing pain in my guts.
“We could just walk around with the crowd.”
“I don’t think I’d blend in very well,” Tristan said.
“In that case, go right. We’re headed straight for the Royal Gallery.”
The public areas of the palace—including the gallery, the palace temple, and the mirrored hall where tour guides met their flocks of tourists—were nearly empty of people. Staying home and not braving the wind and snow—Makers, just this snow front threatened to drop a foot or two. The storm coming in behind it would be colossal.
We had to escape the palace. After that, Avia would be hunted by every constable and guardsman in Kingston. I would have some explaining to do, but that wouldn’t matter until later. I had to get to Robin before the storm struck the coast. I had to convince her to let me meet the Riverside Storm-Singers, now that I could promise that witchcraft was no longer illegal. I needed every hand against this storm, tonight. I needed Avia safe.
“Which way?” Tristan asked. Onlookers stared at Tristan as he sailed through the grand foyer, where servants were unpacking candles for the vigil of lights at New Year. His step faltered as a swarm of red-coated guards filled the room with shouted orders, running to circle Tristan with their rifles raised.
“Halt!” a captain cried. “What is your business?”
“Do you point guns at me, sir?” Tristan asked, his posture reaching for every inch of his formidable height.
“We are in search of an escaped prisoner and her accomplice,” the guard said. “Aim.”
At his command, rifles swayed into position. Twenty guns aimed at me and Tristan, who glared back cold as ice. “You threaten an Amaranthine with death? Do you have the slightest idea what you invite by threatening me?”
Guards faltered, at that, the barrels wavering. One guard dropped to his knees, his hands clasped in front of him. Their commander bristled, but another guard lowered her rifle, bowing her head.
The others still trained their guns on us. Shoot a Blessed One? Aife would never forgive that, never. Her wrath would be a legend before the blood of Aeland even dried on the stones. I gathered my power and drew down the moisture in the air.
It was the simplest act of magic for a Storm-Singer. I knew how water felt, hanging in the air. How it tasted when you breathed it in. How it made your clothes feel damp, how it made the cold seep through your best winter coat.
The guards lowered their rifles, staring at the condensation that had formed on the bolts. I directed my will at the rifle in the hands of a child-faced guard who looked like he wanted to scream. I clenched my fist, and his posture jerked up and back as his rifle froze.
He dropped it with a yelp, and as the other guards turned toward the noise, I hit every rifle I could see. There. There. Every rifle barrel was rimed in frost, tiny spikes of ice growing on the bolts. Guards dropped their rifles, clutching frost-nipped fingers to their chests. Shouts of alarm erupted down the line.
I blinked my dizziness away.
Tristan flung his arms out with all the drama of a prestidigitator on a stage. “You dare.”
Guards stared at him, awe and terror etched on their faces. Tristan loomed, dropping the glamor that hid his true countenance from the mundane eye. He stood before them, majestic and wrathful, pointing an accusing finger at the commander.
Then the air shimmered in front of him. The Way to the Solace opened, and rain spattered on the marble tiles. Wind blew through the Way to the Solace. I caught it in my hand, whipping it in a tight, violent spiral.
Some of the guards tried to flee. Others exclaimed as Tristan flung his arms out again. The forces were routed, wide-eyed and stumbling at the wind and the hole in reality. Tristan seized the moment. He pivoted left and ran straight for a gap in the guards’ line, headed for the Amaranthine wing.
“Hurry,” Tristan said. “I just caused a diplomatic incident.”
I let go of the wind and ran, Avia stumbling along beside me. We dashed through halls I knew as intimately as the passages through Hensley House until Tristan slowed, his energy flagging.
“Drop the spell, Tristan.”
“Can’t. I have to get us to Aife,” Tristan panted.
“You are going to Aife,” I said. “We have to get to your house.”
“Aife can protect you,” Tristan said.
“I can’t stay in
the palace,” I said between gasping breaths. “I have to get Avia to safety.”
“All right. Halston Street it is.” Tristan said. “Which way do we go?”
I led the way to an unassuming green door. I pushed the bar-latch, and a cold wind whipped me in the face.
“We’re out,” I said. “Thank you, Tristan.”
“It’s not over yet.” Tristan stepped outside with us. The snow was ankle deep on the path. I buttoned up my coat against the wind’s assault. “I’m coming with you.”
Avia raised her collar and stuffed her hands in Miles’s coat pockets, pulling out a pair of gloves. “Tristan. You can’t. You don’t have a coat.”
“No choice,” Tristan said. “I doubt I can fight my way through the palace guards inevitably stationed at the door. You’re stuck with me for a bit longer.”
TWENTY-SIX
Mending
We walked on numb toes by the time we stumbled down Halston Street. We walked with our arms around Tristan, trying to shield him from the wind, but his teeth had stopped chattering two blocks ago, and that was a bad sign.
“We’ll carry him if we have to,” Avia said.
“No need,” Tristan said, a little breathlessly. “I think I’ve gotten used to it.”
My heart thumped. “You’re not cold?”
“Not really. But I’m very tired.”
“Oh no,” Avia said. “Tristan. You cannot stop moving. You can’t sleep yet. Talk to me.”
“I was thinking,” Tristan said. “Miles is frantic.”
I twisted from the waist, trying to keep my coat collar close to my neck. “How do you know?”
“We’re still tethered to each other from Cormac’s healing spell.”
“So he knows where you are.”
“Yes. And he’s scared.”
He should be. We had to make it to Tristan’s house, but we could hardly see.
“You can hear each other’s thoughts?” Avia asked. “Keep moving. Keep talking.”
“Not as such,” Tristan said. “I can feel him. I can tell when he’s happy, or angry, or scared out of his wits because I’ve done something foolish. He can feel me.”
“Oh,” Avia said. “That sounds terrifyingly intimate.”
“It is,” Tristan said. “It’s rare that Amaranthines tie themselves to anyone this way.”
Much less a mortal man like Miles. I kept silent. I had the excuse of maintaining the spell that held the wind away from us, of peering through the snow at rows of townhouses on each side of the street. We could knock at any door. No one would turn us away. But we picked up our feet and sank shin-deep in the snow, looking for Tristan’s house.
But inside I felt stained. I had forced Miles into that bond with me, but it was one-sided, giving me everything and my brother nothing. I had done a terrible thing to him, and he went on loving me anyway. It didn’t matter that I had let him go. I shouldn’t have ever done it.
Tristan described a kind of closeness that felt too special to do lightly, a precious thing that you gave yourself to. A year ago, I would have never understood what I had done to Miles—and now I didn’t know how he forgave me.
“Grace?”
“Can’t talk,” I said. “Too hard.”
Tristan squeezed my hand, but only the sensation of pressure registered. “There.”
Seventeen oh three. We had made it.
Tristan dropped the keys in the snow, trying to get them out of his pocket. I bent and scooped them up, shoving the key into the lock and twisting the door open. We piled inside the entrance, the air smelling like baking bread.
“Mrs. Sparrow,” Tristan croaked. “I’m afraid I’ve been on a bit of an adventure.”
Tristan’s housekeeper bustled out just as Tristan’s weight sagged between us.
“We need hot water bottles,” I said. “He just walked here from the palace with no coat.”
Mrs. Sparrow wheeled about, dashing back to the kitchen. I picked Tristan up, swinging him into the cradle of my arms. “You weigh a ton.”
Avia shoved the low table in the middle of the parlor off to one side, snatching fringed lap-rugs from where they draped over chairs. “We’ve got you. When you warm up, it’s going to hurt.”
“That’s all right,” Tristan said. “It’s only pain.”
Mrs. Sparrow bustled in with a teapot and cups. “I’m boiling more water. I made crab chowder—can you eat?”
“Please. I could eat a horse,” I said, pressing a heavy clay mug into Tristan’s hands. “Drink that. How are your feet?”
“I assume they’re still there,” Tristan said.
“Blast it, I’m not a doctor,” I said. “Avia! Where are you going?”
“Take his socks off.” Avia knelt in front of the parlor fireplace. “Are his feet red, or black?”
I knelt and stripped Tristan’s feet bare. “Red.”
“Good,” Avia said. “It’s just chilblains, then. He’ll be fine.”
“Stop fussing,” Tristan said. “I’m going to sit here and complain and try to convince Miles I’m not cuddled up next to death.”
“When you’re warm enough, you should have a bath,” Avia said. “It will help.”
Tristan grunted in agreement and sipped more tea. “Talk to me about your plans, Grace.”
“I’m supposedly in Riverside right now, recruiting witches to aid us,” I said. “I should head out that way, now that you’re safe.”
“It can wait until morning,” Tristan said. “What will you do?”
“Robin told me about the movement,” I said. “The people are tired of the system. They want something new. I have a brand-new King who’s willing to cooperate. I’m going to make a deal.”
Mrs. Sparrow returned, carrying a foot-warmer on a thick wooden tray. She set it before Tristan, who stretched to rest his heels on it. “Thank you. Have some tea. Grace is just telling me how she’s going to rescue the country.”
“Oh, I never heard this part,” Avia said. She sat on the settee next to me, a mug of milky tea in her hands.
“I’m going to Robin. We need to organize the emancipation now that the Witchcraft Protection Act is struck down. With no law to oppress them, the witches will help us turn the storm—not without their conditions, but I’ll deal with that. Elsine will be leading the Storm-Singers, but when we’re all facing the same storm, we’ll come together.”
Avia gazed into her teacup. “And me?”
“You’re going underground,” I said. “I’m so sorry, Avia. You have to stay hidden for now. I’ll be working to exonerate you.”
“If you imagine I will give up reporting, you can forget it,” Avia said. “I’ll mail my articles if I have to. This is a story, and you can’t stop me from telling it.”
“I’d never dream of it,” I said. “I need your byline on the front page. I’m just sorry that you have to hide.”
“You have tonight,” Tristan said. “At least you have that.”
“And we have to figure out how to get you back into the palace,” I said.
Tristan waved that away. “Through the doors, I imagine. You’re going to support Robin?”
“Yes. No one else understands what Aeland needs better than she does. She’ll keep me accountable and hold my feet to the fire if I stray.”
Tristan nodded. “That should be enough for Aife.”
I pressed my lips together. “If she’s satisfied, then you’ll be leaving. Going back to the Solace. You and Miles.”
“If she sees fit, yes. But she’ll need an envoy representing her in Aeland. I’m supremely qualified. Don’t imagine you’re getting rid of me anytime soon.”
I sighed out a relieved breath. “You and Miles are staying here.”
“Miles and I are staying here,” Tristan said. “Mrs. Sparrow would miss us if we left.”
“That I would, Mr. Hunter,” Mrs. Sparrow said, standing in the threshold of the parlor. “I’ve put together a supper. Come and eat, all of you.”
> “And then I think it’s early to bed,” Tristan said. “I apologize for the lack of heat in the master suite, Avia. I trust the guest room was comfortable?”
“She fixed it,” Mrs. Sparrow said. “Miss Jessup took a screwdriver to that radiator upstairs, and she had it steaming in minutes.”
Avia shrugged. “The landlord doesn’t fix things in my building when they’re broken. You learn a trick or two.”
“I’ll take the guest room, then.” Tristan hugged the hot water bottle close and grinned. “The master suite is more romantic.”
* * *
Tristan’s collection of wall mirrors didn’t extend to the long silver-and-violet bedroom, but twin fireplaces crackled behind iron screens, casting warm firelight and dancing shadows over the deep-piled sheepskin rugs and the bed, a soaring whitewood frame draped in creamy sheer curtains. A plush velvet coverlet was pulled halfway down the mattress, inviting us to slide under the blankets and get cozy.
“It’s the nicest safe house I’ve ever seen,” Avia said. She stood on a rug, curling her scarlet-painted toes into the pile. Tristan’s dressing gown was belted lazily at the waist and gaped open over bare skin, showing me the pale flesh stretched over her sternum, shadows playing along the spread wings of her collarbones. She carried two crystal brandy glasses in one hand, and grasped the neck of a bottle of peach brandy from the orchards of Norton in the other. “You’re nervous.”
“I’m not.” I sprang out of my seat by the fire. “Shall I pour?”
“Your hair curls,” Avia said. “Left to its own devices, you’re a curlyhead.”
I hadn’t the art of hairdressing, even if Tristan did possess curling tongs and a hair dryer. My hair had dripped on my shoulders while I’d tried to read a novel by lamplight as I waited for Avia to finish her bath.
Avia set the brandy down and picked the volume up. It was another one about Miss Hambly, a well-loved lady sleuth who lived in a county where a truly alarming number of murders occurred. The latest victim had been found tied to a waterwheel, but I had read the same page five times.