Chapter
11

Lirra

DA’S CELLAR CONTAINS A LIBRARY OF secretive odds and ends. I never know what I’ll find down here. Drops of water fall from my recently washed hair, splattering the dusty piles of papers on Da’s desk. I try not to think about how the sight cries of his overwhelming workload. Work that I could help him do if he’d trust me with more than delivering messages and sitting through meetings that keep me close to home. Snooping through the shelves of crates, I uncover a beard—or what I hope is a beard—and shove it in a satchel with a cap and clothes gathered from the finer end of Da’s wardrobe.

Then I depart in a rush. Dress hitched over my knees, I ride astride my gelding, Traitor, as fast as he’ll allow. The speed helps wick the extra water from my hair, so by the time I reach my destination, my braid is dry.

The street leading to the Elementiary is surprisingly less crowded than the rest of Celize. A fancy carriage with the seal of Malam’s royal stag is parked in front of the smithy, just to the east of Astoria’s Channeler school. A handful of guards wait outside the door.

When Aodren mentioned he was going to stop at the Elementiary, I didn’t think about how Astoria would react. Perhaps I should’ve warned her.

I dismount Traitor and rush into the shop.

Astoria is standing beside her desk, stiff as a creature preserved in one of her jars of lavender liquid. Her uncharacteristic glare is fixed on a point to the right of the Elementiary door. I twist and find Aodren, in a maroon surcoat, perfectly shined buttons, perfectly coifed hair, perfectly noble king.

A smile softens his face.

Seeds, what other king smiles like that?

“You’re here,” I say, breathless from the ride.

A nod. “I am.”

Astoria sputters, the muscle under her left eye twitching. To say she dislikes Malamians is an understatement. Astoria rarely utters an unkind word about anyone. But last year, when she discovered the king of Malam sought help from the Channelers Guild during the coup, she cursed Aodren’s name more than a dozen times. Like most Shaerdanians, she believes he abolished the Purge to get access to the Channelers Guild. To use their abilities for his gain.

“Why is he here?” Astoria’s mouth puckers.

“He came to learn about how you run an Elementiary,” I say, and then look to him.

“I explained as much,” he says. “Twice now.”

“Why are you here at the same time as him?” Astoria clarifies.

I give her a sheepish shrug. “He was already planning on coming here, and we needed someplace private to meet, so I figured this was a good place. I should’ve warned you beforehand.” I check the door latch behind me and glance through the rows of bottle-lined shelves for other people.

“We’re alone?” I ask, to be certain.

“Aye. His men cleared the Elementiary. Except they left him.” She says the last bit like she’s spitting. She ambles around her desk and sits.

“I didn’t mean to catch you off-guard.”

“Pish, that doesn’t matter. What concerns me is why you’d meet with him in the first place.”

“Astoria,” I say, pleading for her to stop. He’s right here. Even if she doesn’t like the man, her blatant and brazen disrespect could land her in prison. I know she hates his country and him, but she knows when to feign respect. Considering his guards are mere steps outside the door, she should be cautious.

“Were you forced? Surely, you’re not so foolish a girl to trust this—”

“No need to condemn me.” I cross my arms. “Da started business with the man. I’m just trying to finish it.”

In the corner of my eye, I catch the movement of Aodren’s hands fisting. I pray for him to have patience with her, in spite of her disrespect. He could have her killed, but I’m starting to understand him better, and I don’t think he’d do that to Astoria. Besides, he’s the ruler of a kingdom that spent twenty years hunting our kind. He must understand that he has no right to expect the trust of Channelers.

Astoria sniffs, twisting her head to the side. “I thought you knew better, Lirra. Nothing good comes from Malam.”

I roll my eyes. Has she forgotten we’re both originally from Malam? Her reservations have some validity; however, it’s obvious Aodren is nothing like the cold-blooded regent who ruled before him. Can she not see that? If he hated Channelers, he wouldn’t have fought so hard to get two of us out of prison last night.

“Son of a scrant,” hisses Astoria.

To his credit, he doesn’t shout for his guards. If she said the same of Judge Soma, she’d be hanged, and he’s not even the ruler of a country.

“Astoria,” I scold, and she studies a book on her desk.

I decide it’s time to move this meeting along, so I step closer to Aodren to size him up. “You were right to want a disguise. You’ll definitely have to lose those clothes if you don’t want to draw attention.”

The edges of his face relax. Was he worried that Astoria would convince me to back out of our deal? His fingers move to his surcoat’s buttons, deftly unfastening them.

“Wait, not now,” I cry. “Don’t you have to return to the castle for the remainder of the day’s meetings?”

“Don’t you need to fit the disguise to me?”

“Me? I’m not a tailor.”

“What else can the Channelers do for him? Polish his boots?” Astoria’s interruption is the last one. I spin to face her, the fabric of my dress smacking the nearest shelf, and swipe my hand across my neck in a cease-action motion. The mocking and cruel things she’s said are so unlike her typical kindness.

I turn back to find a shade of rose creeping up Aodren’s face.

“Here.” I ignore his embarrassment and shrug the satchel off my back, thrusting it into his hands. “Everything you need is in there. You can check out what I brought, and I’ll show you how to apply the beard.” Then, turning to Astoria, “He’s going to use the backroom.”

She purses her lips, probably mentally cursing Aodren a thousand different ways as he walks to the rear of the Elementiary.

“What was that?” I throw my hands up once he’s out of sight. “You cannot talk to the king of Malam that way. Not if you want to live much longer.”

“I—I know. Seeing him riled me so. His men came in and pushed everyone out.” Gone is the plucky woman who gave Aodren a dressing-down. Moisture blurs her Channeler blues. She kicks up her trembling chin. “Nothing good comes from Malam.”

She’s thinking of things and people other than us, like the darkness that shadowed the country’s past. It bothers me, though, that she cannot see Aodren’s done some good.

“He overturned the Purge,” I say.

“He might’ve banned hunting our sisters, but that doesn’t mean he’s remedied the problem. That kingdom has sown prejudice and hate for decades.”

“You mean since he was a child with no say in the matter? He’s made a start. He deserves credit for that. We shouldn’t judge him for the actions of the rulers before him.”

Astoria rubs her eyes dry. “Bah! That man ended the Purge to save his rump. He needed the Channelers Guild to fight his battle. He is no different from the men before him.”

It’s the same harsh assessment she’s argued for the last six months, and yes, there might be truth to her claim. But while he’s in the next room, I’d rather not discuss it. Astoria shuffles away from the desk to resume her daily work. She plucks items from different nooks that hold an array of Channeler supplies—herbs, plants, powders, oils, animal parts, and books.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

She glances over her shoulder, a sad smile on her face. “You’re not at fault, my dear.”

“You won’t tell anyone that I’m helping him?”

“You know I won’t.” And I do. Astoria may be cantankerous to Malamians, but she’s dependable and true. She doesn’t pry further into my business or question why the king of Malam needs to alter his appearance. All she does is offer a gentle reprimand, a tsk of her tongue against her teeth. “Remember, Lirra, charm and good looks only serve to mask a man’s true character. Don’t fall for his act.”

“You know me. I know all about disguises.”

A true smile shines on her face, and I’m relieved to see the Astoria I know and love once more.

I go to the backroom to check on Aodren, hoping he didn’t hear much. When I enter, he turns away from a table covered in a dozen ancient Channeler books.

“Interesting reading?”

He crosses his arms. “She doesn’t like me much.”

I’ve no argument for that, nor does it seem like he expects one. Astoria lost a sister to the Purge. It was years before Aodren’s rule, but her scars of enmity and grief are no less real than the burn mark on my left side—a token of the night Malamian guards took my mother’s life.

I cross the room to where Aodren has placed the satchel and withdraw a tunic. “It isn’t as fancy as the clothes you’re used to, but it’s nicer than commoner clothing. I thought it would be less shocking if you resembled a lesser nobleman. They tend to blend into the crowd, not drawing attention like the noble elite.”

“Thank you,” he says, eyeing the tunic with flagrant approval.

“Well, I said I’d bring you a disguise.”

“No, I mean, thank you for what you said out there.” His eyes lift to meet mine. “You didn’t have to defend me. But you did. I appreciate that you can see my actions are different from the regent’s or my father’s.”

It’s strange how the small compliment softens my frustration. “Well, I wasn’t saying you were perfect.”

Aodren’s mouth twitches, and for a moment I think he might smile.

“Noted,” he says, and then lifts the triangular swatch of hair, his long fingers turning it over. “A beard?”

“Only a king would keep such a clean shave. You need to hide some of that beauty.” I laugh, and his hand rises to the strong line of his jaw. The reaction catches me off-guard, because surely he’s not bashful. The man has flaws, but his appearance is definitely not one of them. His irritatingly perfect face may as well have been carved from an artist’s marble.

“Hmm, do you have something to cover my hair?”

“Look in the bag. I packed a cap.”

Aodren sifts through the items, withdrawing the clothes and turning them over. He surprises me by neatly folding each piece. “You put thought into this.”

His words wash me with warmth. “It was nothing,” I say, because that’s the truth. “It’s not as if I had a choice. You did say I had to bring a costume if I want that letter.”

“True. Though you could’ve brought something terrible.”

I shrug, as if he hasn’t made me feel a little taller, a little lighter, and a little off-kilter. He gathers up the items, putting them back in the bag, and heads for the door. The man trapped me into sneaking him out of the castle, so I shouldn’t want to help him more than what was agreed upon. But my conscience is a mule. It won’t allow me to walk away without sharing a few necessary tips.

“If you don’t want people to notice you before the first melee fight, you need more than the clothes,” I blurt out.

He turns around. “Go on.”

“Well . . .” I chew my lip. “You stand like a king.”

A small smile quirks at his mouth. “I am one.”

“Yes, but your posture gives you away.”

He looks down at his feet. “How should I stand differently?”

“Less stately.”

He stares at me blankly.

I extend my hands. “May I?”

Aodren edges closer and positions himself as he would for a tailor.

I walk behind him and touch his shoulders, and the hard planes lower a fraction. Then, I flatten both hands against his broad upper back, ignoring how his muscles leap under my fingertips, and push gently until he reacts, curling into a believable slump. I circle to his front. The tilt of his head is off. His chin sits too high.

We stand so close that I can faintly detect his skin’s scent of soap and clean linens. I try not to breathe too deeply or think of how good he smells. I focus on cupping his jaw in my hands and gently drawing his face down. But when the warm brush of his exhale touches my cheek, and his green, green eyes land on mine, I realize a beat late he may have personal boundaries. My heart gives a hard kick, and I suck a breath through clenched teeth. I expect him to pull back. But . . . he doesn’t. His eyes drop to my lips, pausing before lifting to meet my gaze.

The patter of my pulse picks up speed, crashing and crescendoing in my ears. My hands drop, flitting over the folds of my dress, while I feel overheated and lightheaded. I edge back, putting space between us.

“Any more advice?” Aodren asks.

I force a smile that is normal and unaffected. “Remember to act the part. You’re impersonating a lesser noble. Until you step on the tournament field, you must be someone else. Forget you were once a king.”

“Once? I still am king.”

“Yes, but you don’t want others to notice. You have to pretend your crown-wearing days were in another life. You must act less haughty and privileged.”

“Haughty?”

I cringe. “Try to act less royal.”

“I’m going to need more specific instruction.” His finger taps over lips that twitch like he’s struggling to hold back a smile. “How does one act ‘less royal’?”

Is he toying with me?

Those eyes glow greener.

Seeds, he is. I shove the items back into the satchel and toss it at him. “Start by saying a dozen prayers to the gods.”

His throaty laugh follows me out of the Elementiary.

I spend the rest of the afternoon working on components of my wings.

When dusk falls over Celize, I set out toward the summer castle. Dread for what might happen tonight twists me tighter than the line knots I should be tying on the glider rope to give a pilot more control. But I’m eager to see Leif and read Da’s letter to Aodren.

Entering through the main gate is quicker than sneaking in. And infinitely more stressful. Lanterns are ablaze everywhere, so anyone in the shadows can watch me approach. Each step closer to the main doors kicks my heart rate up a notch, and not in an I have Aodren’s face in my hands way.

Aodren assured me my entrance would go unquestioned, explaining my visitations are approved, since I am partly responsible for saving Leif’s life.

The guard at the main door greets me and guides me to Malam’s corridor, where Leif has been brought to recuperate. I’m on edge, unconvinced that Judge Soma won’t materialize and drag me back to the holding chamber hell. Even though Aodren says he has jurisdiction over me and Soma has no power to put me in jail, I have a hard time believing it. But I keep reminding myself that soon I’ll know what’s in Da’s letter. Hopefully it’ll tell me what he’s working on and where he is, so I can jump in and help finish the job. I wonder what Da would think if he knew the lengths I’m willing to go through to prove myself to him.

A welcoming croak comes from my cousin when I enter his private room. I rush closer, grinning, suddenly weightless with relief to be free of the guard, and even more relieved to see Leif alert. My fingers skate over his matted hair. “You’re all right?”

“Aye.”

I’m so pleased by the simplicity of his answer that I settle in the seat beside him, my hand on his arm, needing to feel his pulse, to know he’ll survive. “I—I was so worried . . . You didn’t look good. I thought . . . Well, I’m just glad you made it.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Aodren’s confident, clear tenor echoes behind me. “Are you ready for me?”

What an absurd question. I twist around to give him a tart response and . . . gape.

He is so handsome.

In a tailored coat and close-fitting breeches . . . stars . . . he’s the refined picture of royalty. The outfit accents his strong, muscled frame that narrows at the hips and spreads wide through his shoulders in an imposing way.

I’m tongue-tied. I realize there’s nothing at all absurd about his question. Not after the varying reactions he’s inspired in me over the last few days.

Seeds and stars, who could ever be ready for the chaos of the Malamian king?