by Carrie Ryan
All of Vernal celebrates Lucia’s return from the dark. Wreaths of laurel and heather pile high at the palace gates; each night, my father sends a priestess to accept these offerings, and to burn them so the smoke sweetens the sky.
I still attend my sister’s chamber; I still dress her hair. But now, when I walk through the halls, people bow their heads and call me Augusta Corvina. My station has changed entirely. The most interesting thing about that is that my father makes no announcement at all. It’s his will, and somehow, it’s known. He remains immovable.
Because I’m now a full princess, I sit at Lucia’s side on the dais on the opening of her Betrothal Quest. Second sons, army captains, and peasants alike are admitted to the throne room. While our father still lives, Lucia will keep her own court in the country. But there is no mistake—she takes a consort, not a king-to-be.
One day, Vernal will be hers entirely to rule. First sons are for alliances, not for marriages. Peasants are welcome to apply only if they’re born of this land and pledge to remain in it. This is how we’ll keep our kingdom whole and individual.
So suitors of all manner arrive at the gates at dawn. Lucia sends most of them away—the ones that are too old, the ones with gimlet eyes, the ones who cannot keep from openly recoiling when they see me. I take some miserable satisfaction that this matters to Lucia, though I admit, seeing it happen again and again does sting.
Tasius, Queen Vatia’s second son, makes the cut. So does Gracilus, a merchant from Nasos, a fuller named Libo, and a pair of Lycean twins who look as surprised as my father does when Lucia gives them a favor to keep between them. I think it’s because they’ve made her laugh. They can no more share a single wife than she can enjoy two husbands.
Evening comes, and the last of the suitors trudge away. Lucia’s favorites stay—they have ten conversations ahead of them, and they must remain at the crown princess’s leisure. Just as the gates begin to close, a thundering of hooves approaches. A monstrous black horse fills the entire gate, and the rider flings himself from the saddle before the beast comes to a stop.
Valerian throws up a hand, and he calls out, “Wait!”
Effervescent, I knot my hands in my lap. My giant has come and the crowd skitters away from him. They form a terrified aisle, filling the space behind him once he’s passed.
It’s foolishness, madness—surely they can see how kind his face is. Certainly they must realize how carefully he threads his way to the dais, what is there to fear? Leaning her head toward mine, Lucia murmurs, “Vara save me, he must eat whole goats for breakfast.”
I barely have time to mask my surprise before Valerian reaches us. But it’s good that I’ve masked it, for I’m surprised again when he kneels before my sister and bows his head. His gaze never trails my way; it’s as if I’m invisible.
“Augusta Lucia,” he says. “I present myself as a freeman of Vernal, humble of birth, loyal to the crown, and ask for your favor.”
This can’t happen; I beg the gods to spare me, for a spell of fainting or a sudden opening of the ground. He doesn’t recognize me, and yet, how is it that he doesn’t recognize me? I bear that better than the possibility that he does know me and simply cares more for the power he would wield as my sister’s consort.
From a distance, I hear Lucia’s voice. The interview seems to go on forever, but all the words are distorted in my head. She takes my hand; the touch startles me. Her breath is so hot against my cheek when she leans in to whisper, “Can you even imagine?”
The question draws blood, though she doesn’t realize it. Turning to her, I press my lips to her ear. “Give him a token.”
“What?” Lucia smiles through her shock.
Loosing myself from her grip, I stand. Bits of my bone grind to ash; it thickens my blood and stills the beat of my heart to say it, but I do. I wrench myself open, and whisper in her ear. “Without him, I could not have found the Cup. You don’t have to marry him, but at least give him your favor.”
With that, I let the footman escort me away. I hurry him, as if there’s a graceful way to flee an audience. I am, nonetheless, wholly aware of the collective gasp behind me when Lucia gives Valerian her coin. My hands are restless; they long to slap the gaping faces. I could dig my fingers into their bones, and castigate them for their small minds.
But I won’t, because I think I’ve earned my rest. None shall argue when I close myself in my tower chamber; only one shall miss me when I choose not to descend. Lucia’s Decade of Conversations will end soon enough, all the suitors but one will return to their homes.
When Lucia comes to my door, she knocks and speaks through it. “I stole a cake from the kitchen.”
“I don’t want cake,” I reply, but the door opens anyway.
Winding around to sit at my feet, Lucia makes a table of my lap and dares me to ignore it. She tears off a sticky bite of the confection, waving it under my nose before she eats it. “Are you all right?”
I smear a drop of sugar glaze on my finger, then gloss my mouth with it. That way, I get a bit of sweetness that lingers. “No. I liked Valerian overmuch for how little I knew him. It was foolish to think he’d come for me.”
“No, it wasn’t!”
“You’re wrong,” I say. “I abandoned him after he showed me much kindness.”
Pinching my ankle, Lucia makes a face. “Why would you do that?”
“Because Father put a bounty on me, and I didn’t think death was a fair penalty for a good and innocent man.” I steal a piece of cake right from her fingers. “So don’t marry him, even though you’d like him.”
Lucia leans her head back, brows arched incredulously. “Corvina, he’s terrifying!”
“What’s terrifying about him?” I demand. “He’s handsome, and generous, and you would be lucky to have him. Just … don’t have him!”
Perhaps sensing my rawness, Lucia waves a hand to dismiss it. “Fine, I won’t.”
She’s beautiful again, now that she’s recovered. Her curls are thicker than ever, and the dark fan of her lashes seems made to entice. Only a madman could resist her, so protecting my petty heart, I beg again. “Swear to me you won’t. It’s a little thing, and no hardship to you anyway.”
“I swear it,” Lucia says. She puts a hand to her heart. “On my honor, by pain of death, without hesitation.”
I give her a little kick. “No need for dramatics.”
“Did he kiss you?” she asks abruptly.
My face is cool as ever, but my chest grows hot. Taking the entire plate in hand, I abscond with her cake and retreat to my bed with it. “Of course not.”
At once, Lucia is too thoughtful. She hauls herself up, and doesn’t kiss my cheek before she leaves. She does hesitate, though, gesturing at the plate. “Don’t make yourself sick.” Then she’s gone, swirling away in a cloud of dark curls and lavender.
I wonder if I’ve disappointed her somehow.
Valerian leaves after his first conversation with Lucia, and I’m relieved. Sulking in my chamber felt juvenile after a few hours, and this is my sister’s Betrothal Quest. I don’t want to miss it. Though she doesn’t need my counsel, it pleases me to share it anyway.
On the morning she sets her suitors free to complete her quest, I dog her steps to the atrium.
“I think you should let the twins win,” I say. Fussing with her hair, I pluck out the silver butterfly pins, and slip them in again to improve the arrangement. “Just to see the look on Father’s face.”
Lucia throws a smile over her shoulder. “Shhh, I’m in no rush to take the throne.”
Threading the last pin into my headscarf, I put on my smoothest expression as the footmen open the atrium doors for us. This morning, only Father and the suitors await. When there’s a wedding feast to be had, that’s when the crowds will return. Today is only so much bookkeeping. Bureaucracy excites no one.
At least, no one but my sister and me. We have a wager. She refuses to tell me her selection, but she’ll give me a prize
if I guess before he returns. It’s a game of reading faces. She’s already told one of them to fetch something. In a few moments, she’ll wish the rest luck divining her desires. My guess is that only one of them will be at ease.
Of course, this assumes that Lucia didn’t tell her husband-to-be to make it difficult on purpose. I wouldn’t put it past her.
We file onto the dais, Father greeting us with kisses. He catches Lucia’s hand and murmurs low enough for our ears alone, “If they all fail, you should pick the one you like best.”
Lucia’s brows leap up, and I make a faint, strangled noise. Fortunately, Father turns to say a few words to the suitors and doesn’t notice. Settling beside each other, Lucia and I lean in to speak at once.
“I think my fever addled his brain,” she says.
I grin. “But only a little. You still have to choose from this motley assortment.”
Because we’re on display, we don’t jostle or pinch. But we trade mischievous looks until it’s time for Lucia’s address. I sharpen my gaze, studying each man’s face. One of them already knows—which one?
She has coached him, because they all share the same, faintly distressed expression. I study them so intently that I barely hear Lucia’s final words, at least until she says my name. Father’s not expecting it either. His spine straightens, and he leans back just enough to catch my eye. I shrug. Lucia does what she likes.
“Despite the fact that we have never left this palace unescorted, my sister gathered provisions and struck out into the countryside on a quest to find the Fabled Cup. For me. Surely, she could have healed herself, but she raised the Cup to my lips, so I might live.”
Now everyone looks to me, and I want to crawl into my headscarf. Lucia’s been thinking long on this, apparently, but I’m mortified. The only time I raised the Cup to my mouth was out of wonder that it was real at all. I may not like my face, but it’s my own. I share it with no other, and I never thought to change it.
Irritation builds in me, and I consider interrupting her. If her idea of a Betrothal Quest is to go fetch that Cup again for my benefit, we will have words. Strong, sharp words. To my relief, Lucia continues and it’s not in that vein at all.
“So go forth, knowing that an example has already been set. I expect much, but I grant much in return. May Vara guide you.”
She raises her hands in blessing, and I’m baffled when the only suitors who move with purpose are the Lycean twins. As if they know exactly what they seek. My mouth doesn’t hang open; I have better manners than that. But Lucia couldn’t have been clearer. She swore she would give the secret of the quest to her chosen suitor.
Holding my composure until the atrium clears, I tug Lucia’s hem and pull her down to say, “You didn’t.”
With a sugared smile, she strokes my cheek with her knuckle. “Is that your guess?”
For a moment, I hang there suspended. But then I shake my head. As silly as she finds the Betrothal Quest in concept, it’s tradition. She will be queen someday. Other regents arrange every marriage; there’s never any choice in it. Lucia wouldn’t jeopardize that bit of freedom just for the sake of amusement.
“You chose Tasius of Ticinum,” I say.
It’s a guess, but a good one, I think. He’s personable at the dinner table, and reads for pleasure. And he’s handsome, russet-skinned and black-haired, with fine hands and broad shoulders. There is little to dislike about him and much to recommend. Besides which, we did like him when we were children. There’s value in shared history.
Lucia puts her hands on her hips and scowls at me. “You cheated.”
“How could I?” I ask through my laughter. “Do you think I can read minds now?”
“Well, you’re not getting your prize today,” she says.
Lifting her hems, she sweeps from the dais, her head held high. No amount of cajoling changes her mind, either. I peck through dinner, and over our midnight tea. When I come to dress her hair in the morning, I start on her anew, but one of the atrium maids interrupts us.
“The twins are back!” the girl cries.
Lucia leaps up, sweeping a scarf around her shoulders and pulling me along with her to greet them. They bow before her when she meets them in the atrium, and then present her with a pair of monkeys. They’re no bigger than their palms, with wide, inquisitive eyes.
“Oh my,” Lucia murmurs.
The monkeys cling to her fingers; they climb her gown and make themselves happily at home on her shoulders. Something tells me that there was an agreement made here, but not one for her hand. Lucia kisses the twins’ cheeks in turn, then produces a heavy purse.
“They are lovely, but they’re not my heart’s desire,” she says. She offers the purse with a knowing look. “But they please me, and I’ve enjoyed our conversations. I hope this will help you start your traveling menagerie.”
They thank her and go, leaving my sister with monkeys on her shoulders and a supremely smug look on her face. Turning, she plucks up one of the chirring beasts and offers him to me. “Your prize?”
“Hardly. You’re the one mad for animals,” I tell her, but I take the monkey anyway. He’s warm, and he clings to my neck, darling and tame. He rubs his nose against my cheek and walks his curious fingers along the ridges of my scars. “Answer me this, Lucia. Do you have a purse for all of them?”
“Everyone has dreams,” she says, smiling when her monkey clasps her finger like a babe. “This one looks like a Celeris, don’t you think?”
The merchant Gracilus returns next, weighted with a basket of rare fruits. Their sweetness perfumes the atrium and makes my mouth water. Everything in the basket is a treat, and not coincidentally, it contains bundles of leaves that our monkeys find irresistible. In exchange, my plotting sister doesn’t give him a proposal, either. His prize is another purse. Gracilus will finally be able to buy a trading ship of his own.
Lucia giggles when Libo returns with newly woven blankets, just big enough to make a bed for a pair of miniature primates. They’re even embroidered with dancing monkeys—shamelessly perfect. For this, Libo leaves the court with funds to build a water mill for his fullery.
“You haven’t even pretended to play fair,” I say. It’s obvious now: she told all of them to bring something specific, and she would give them the gold they needed to follow their dreams. Now I’m anxious to see what Tasius will bring her. Surely it’s something greater than exotic pets and things to keep them.
We pass several days in the atrium, watching Celeris and Cursor charm all that come near them. They’re happy, silly creatures, free to roam the palace as they like. They’ve taken to introducing themselves by dropping from the pillars onto people’s shoulders.
This morning, they squeal and retreat to our laps when the door crashes open. Tasius strides in. Clothing wrinkled, hair mussed, he’s ridden quite some way to be here, and didn’t stop to pretty himself. Yet another check in his favor—for Lucia, at least. Swiftly, he approaches us, then drops on one knee to take Lucia’s hand. “I have finished your sister’s quest.”
I fail to hold my tongue. “Excuse me?”
“He said,” Lucia answers, leaning her head toward mine and pointing toward the gate, “he’s finished your quest. Well … made it possible for you to do it rightly.”
Valerian stands there, a hand on Carnifex’s bridle. I feel at once curiously light and completely leaden. Vaguely, I’m aware when Lucia takes the monkey from my hands, but I can’t seem to move my blood or my body.
With Celeris settling on her shoulder, Lucia stands and pulls me to my feet. “When I asked why he wished to marry me, he said he didn’t. That he thought the only way to get to you would be through me.”
“Then why didn’t he see me? Why didn’t you tell me?” I start to bristle, but I’m distracted when Valerian raises his fingers; he waves at me. He smiles.
Drawing me down, step by step, Lucia says, “Because I was arranging things. I told you, in my court you could do whatever you like. And now
that’s true in Father’s court, too.”
My gaze turns to Tasius. He looks so disgustingly pleased with himself, I almost want to pinch him. But Lucia casts him a playful smile; they glow with shared pleasure. And it’s then that I understand.
To become Lucia’s consort, Tasius had to complete whatever task she set before him. It’s our law, our tradition. Like my father, it is immovable. So if Lucia’s quest was to bring me a suitor, and if Tasius did so, earnestly, in all faith—Father would have no choice but to honor it.
One day, my sister will be a kind and clever queen.
“You don’t have to marry him,” she says, nudging me again. “But I’d try kissing him, at least.”
Her words release me. I fly down the steps, my headscarf unraveling behind me. I run to him, crash into him—catching his hand and pulling him to my level. It’s a long way, and deliciously worth it, because his mouth is hot and tastes of cardamom. It fits mine exactly. I desire, and I’m desired, and before I know it, he’s hefted me to his shoulder.
I can see the whole court; I fly above it. Everything else that will pass between us, Valerian and me, is meant only for us. It’s precious, and all you should know is that my heart beats with his, and I am happy.
But you should also know this:
One day, the minstrels will sing the story of the Princess Corvina’s quest for the Cup; they’ll make it seem as if I were light-forged all along. I hope that you’ll remember it wasn’t so. I wasn’t the Chosen One.
What distinguishes me is that I chose myself.
Improbable Futures
KAMI GARCIA
When I was six years old, my mom sent me to school for a month. It was the first and last time I ever set foot in a real school. My mother said she was tired of moving around and decided it was time to settle down and “plant some roots.” Even at six, I knew it wouldn’t last, but I was willing to take what I could get. That’s what you do when you don’t get much.
On the first day, I wandered into the classroom holding my mother’s hand like all the other kids. I was wearing a brand-new blue dress. I looked like a regular kid on the outside, which is the only part that counts. It’s the face the world sees, the one you can change as many times as you want. After lunch, the teacher, Mrs. Hale—I’ll never forget her name—called us to the rug in the front of the classroom. It was Share Time, and she asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up. I had no idea. I spent most of my time thinking about what I didn’t want to be.