Chapter
28

Lirra

PRUDENCE MEETS ME AT THE JOUST. SHE sidles up to me right as the winners are announced. The boom of celebration drowns out our voices, so we wait as the Kolontians and Malamians swarm the field. They lift their competitors and carry them out, singing their kingdom’s praises. Prudence and I trudge slowly behind the mass exodus. If only I had my glider here, I could sail us right over the crowd.

When we finally break free, I accompany her to her family’s merchant tent. We duck into the corner for privacy.

“I asked around.” She tips her head so a wave of tawny hair keeps our conversation private from anyone who might pass by. “No one is talking.”

“You mean, they might know something, but they’re not talking?”

She nods.

“Who has enough power to silence every trader here?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “You said you’re looking for the maker. The question is, what Channeler has that much power?”

Immediately, four women come to mind. The Channelers Guild. I know it’s not them, but whomever it is has power that rivals theirs.

“I considered the Guild,” she says.

“It’s not them.”

She shrugs. “Maybe not. But it’s interesting your aunt Katallia cannot represent Malam in the jubilee. Everyone’s talking about it, and it doesn’t look good for Malam.”

I don’t like how her suggestion paints my aunt. Nor do I like that Aodren has no Channeler to represent Malam. I think of the conversation I had with Aodren the night Baltroit died and I wonder if I should’ve made a different decision. It worries me that he hasn’t found someone yet. “What does that have to do with Sanguine?”

She waves her hand for me to lower my voice, and we edge closer to a table of quills. “All I’m saying is there’s been a lot of talk about how Channelers are treated in Malam, and how it’s only getting worse. When King Aodren has no Channeler willing to stand up for him, people might see that as the breaking point of their acceptance for Malam.”

I rub my temples. “Yes, Malam has a terrible history. But Aodren wants to change that. The problem is, someone keeps sending fake Sanguine to Malam, and people are ingesting it, and it’s harming them. So naturally, they blame the Channelers. Which makes things worse. It’s a terrible cycle.”

“Exactly my point.”

I straighten and glance out the tent opening to the people passing by. The crowds that gathered for the joust filter down the aisles of the market. The day is shifting into night.

I am stuck on what she’s said. Could it be that whoever is making Sanguine is doing so to cause disputes in Malam between Channelers and the giftless?

With a head full of questions and no answers, I bid Prudence goodbye and rush to the tavern tents. Da used to say that a pint of ale solves problems. Anywhere ale flows regularly, there is sure to be a fertile field of information ready for harvest. A little patience is all that’s needed to overhear a few secrets.

I see Leif just outside the tent, surrounded by fans. They don’t deter me. I rush to congratulate him.

Though there must be two dozen people wanting to shake his hand or pat his back, Leif sees me and smiles in relief.

“You did well,” I say.

He cannot hear me over the clash of music and cheers. He steps closer and leans in.

I repeat myself, and he looks at me with so much gratitude. “You really think so?”

“Of course, you were amazing.” I cannot understand how he would doubt himself, but the thought is gone as soon as Leif cries, “Let’s dance.”

He swings me around to the fiddler’s tune until we’re both dizzy and I can hardly breathe.

“Let me take a break,” I say, and then because there are men and women lined up to congratulate him, I add, “Go, dance with another.”

When we part ways, I go into a tent and order water. The barkeep gives me a hard time, but fills my request. Sipping water from a mug, I sit at a table near the rear. There I wait and listen.

It is at least an hour before Leif saunters into the tent. I lift my hand to wave him over so we can talk more about his jousts, but he doesn’t notice me. He stalks to the makeshift bar, sits on a stool, and orders a drink.

My patience often wanes while waiting for information to land in my lap, so I pass the time by watching Leif. The way his foot repeats an impatient tap on the stool’s rung amuses me. Leif glances at the barkeep, who has stopped to talk to another man. A flash of anger registers on Leif’s face, an unusual expression for him. My curiosity is fully snagged now. I watch, rapt, as he reaches into his pocket and withdraws something small. I’m not sure what he’s holding until his hand lifts, providing a glimpse of a bottle. Leif pops the cork and quickly tips it to his lips. In that brief second, the tent’s lanterns illuminate the draining burgundy liquid.

No. It cannot be.

How can he drink Sanguine after Baltroit’s death?

I’m on my feet and moving to his side in a blink, unable to sit back and watch my friend fall victim to its clutches just as Baltroit did.

“What was that?” I whisper by Leif’s ear.

He jerks out of his chair, obviously startled to find me leaning over his shoulder. “Lirra, what are you doing here? Spying on me?”

“First, I told you I was coming in here an hour ago. Second, only a man with a guilty conscience would be worried about that. Third, if that was what I think it was, I’m glad I was here to spy on you. Tell me what’s going on. Now.”

Leif’s gaze shifts around and then he’s striding out of the tent and barking at me to follow. This man is not the Leif I know. This Leif stops in the small alley outside the tent, where the barkeeps toss their slop. It smells of fermented excrement. Here, the lantern light doesn’t quite reach the ground. I refuse to walk any farther.

I gag, but Leif doesn’t seem to notice the stench. He spins around to face me, finger pointed at my nose. “Don’t be putting my business out there for everyone to hear. You’ve got a loud mouth.”

“Me?” I ask, pierced by his unexpected words. They hurt more than I want to admit. This man isn’t the kind cousin I’ve come to know and love. “No one overheard. Please, tell me what you drank.”

People walk by, and Leif pops his neck. When more pass, he grips his shoulder. With each group that comes near to our secluded location, his signs of edginess increase.

I pray for a lull, and when it comes, I press him on the issue again. “Are you taking Sanguine?”

He lets out a quiet “aye.”

“Why?” The question explodes out of me. Ku Toa’s Sanguine helped Leif make a miraculous recovery. Why would he want the imposter? It has so many terrible side effects.

But then realization dawns . . . The shock of it hits like a slap across the cheek.

I cover my mouth.

When Aodren and I discovered the fake, dangerous oil, Leif was still unconscious. Since he’s woken, he hasn’t been around anytime Aodren and I discussed new information we’d uncovered. My guess is Aodren has been busy and overlooked explaining to Leif the difference.

“I don’t see what you’re all worked up over. It helped me heal,” he says. “Figured more couldn’t hurt.”

Seeds.“Leif, you couldn’t be more wrong.” I launch into everything I know about the fake Sanguine. In spite of his short temper and harsh tone, at his core, this bear of a man is trustworthy, honorable, and good. His expression twists with conflict, and a flush rises to his freckles as he listens.

When I finish divulging all the details of the imposter oil and the role it likely played in Baltroit’s death, Leif grips a handful of his auburn hair and stares off into the night.

“Ku Toa only had the one bottle,” he says after a beat, his tone the gray blue of a stormy sea. “Bludger. I didn’t know it was different. I swear it, Lir. Figured it’d get me into fighting shape faster. Get me off my duff so I wasn’t a useless bludgering sack. Then I could help out the king like a bloody captain should.” He kicks the grass, and whatever else might be on top.

“Gods, I didn’t know.” Remorse drags in his words, pulls down his shoulders, and cracks my heart open.

“You couldn’t have known.” I step backwards, slowly coaxing him out of the alley.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he asks, the question simmering with aggravation.

“With everything that was going on, I suppose it was overlooked.”

He lets out a dissatisfied grunt. And takes another step toward me.

“Where did you get the oil?”

“Baltroit.”

“Who did he get it from?”

Leif stares up at the sky. “I think he said Otto. Baltroit knew some of the other champions had used it to give them an edge. Said it was only fair he used it too.” He pulls the bottle out of his pocket and rolls it between his palms. “If I’d known . . . I thought it was more of the same. I just . . . didn’t wanna let Aodren down.”

When his gaze drops to my face, it’s brimming with regret. “No more. I won’t take any more.”

“Good idea.”

“Lirra”—my name is a question, one full of worry—“let me tell the king on my own, yeah? It should come from me.”

“Of course.” Leif has a good heart.

We leave the tavern tent. Leif trudges toward the carriages, his steps heavy and slow, while I dart toward the darkened field. Though on different paths, we have the same destination—the summer castle.

I sneak through the servants’ passages, my steps quicker, more eager than they should be in light of the news I bear. Aodren has been on my mind for the last two days. Knowing I’m soon to see him makes my bones trill like I’m carrying a bolt of lightning.

Regardless of the late hour, celebrations echo from other kingdoms’ corridors, clinking goblets, cheers, and boisterous voices. Malam’s hall, however, is quiet. I watch Lord Segrande leave King Aodren’s room, cross the hall, and enter his personal quarters. I check Leif’s door and hear him snoring, then I move to Aodren’s. I hear nothing, but since Segrande just left, I know Aodren must be there. Could he have fallen asleep already?

I pick the lock on his chamber and enter.

Aodren sits in a large chair beside the unlit fireplace, a book in hand, the weak light from the wall sconce casting shadows on half his face. The door snicks shut, and he looks up.

“The only person who would break into my room at this hour would be you, Lirra.”

The way he speaks my name, a soft rasp, releases a flock of birds inside me. I feel the fluttering frenzy of their wings and the weightlessness of their flight. It makes me bold. “It was strange to not see you these past few days. Would you think me odd if I said I missed your company?”

A line trenches between his brows. He rises, and his hands fumble to button his gaping shirt. I stare at him, his odd reaction, and suddenly rethink my comment. Have I said too much? The unexpected awkwardness shoos the birds away.

“I was teasing,” I say, wanting to erase the last minute. He knows I’m lying.

Aodren’s hand flattens over his chest. He leaves the desk and sits by the fireplace. “Forgive me. My appearance is not appropriate for company.”

“You’re more dressed than the first time I snuck in.” I try for lighthearted. It comes out stiff. “I can suffer your shocking state of undress.”

“Lirra.” This time my name has no soft corners. This time it’s a warning.

The toe of my boot dips into the tight grooves of the stone floor. My insecurity rears up. Our meetings are usually easy. In a remarkably short time, Aodren has come to know me better than most. He’s been privy to my secrets and fears. Have I done something wrong? Forgotten something?

The answer comes instantly— He’s lost a man, and here I am showing no sympathy.

My head is too full of the jubilee, Aodren, the conversations with Prudence, and Leif’s confession about Sanguine.

“I’m sorry.” I rush forward and take the seat closest to his. “Baltroit’s death must be difficult for you.”

“It has been more so for Lord Segrande.”

“Baltroit is actually the reason I came to talk to you tonight.” I launch into the information that confirms the cause of Baltroit’s death, while managing to keep Leif out of the discussion. I explain that Baltroit took the oil, thinking it would be beneficial. He had gotten some before the first night of melee. He didn’t understand the dangers but liked his increased ability during the fight. He kept taking the Sanguine after that.

“Do you know who gave Baltroit Sanguine?”

“I think it was Otto.” I scoot to the edge of the cushion. “Also, I met with someone today.” I recount the story Prudence told me last week about Duff Baron, the oil, and the two men.

“She has no idea who it was?”

“Actually, I was thinking about what I know about Sanguine. And I realized that it would have to be made by someone who is quite powerful. Someone as powerful as a member of the Channelers Guild.”

“Do you suspect one of them? They’ve pledged their support to Malam. I trust them.”

“There has been disunity between the women before.” I clutch my stomach, truly considering if it’s a possibility. With results as dire as we’ve seen, it would be foolish to completely dismiss anyone as a suspect. “I don’t like discussing the possibility of this any more than you, but it’s something to consider.”

He folds forward, elbows landing on knees. His face is drawn, disbelief and frustration muddying his unfocused stare at the fireplace. “You’re suggesting that it could really be anyone. Even a Guild member. As long as that person has a reason to hate Malam.”

I reach forward to twine my fingers through his like the time he took my hand in the tunnel under the summer castle.

He stands, moving away from me, every piece of him abruptly morphing into the cool, aloof king of Malam, a man I haven’t seen since we first met. “I thought there was a chance the oil was being misused. That perhaps the maker didn’t know. It’s not possible. People are dying. The maker must know the dangers. Which means it is not Katallia or Seeva. Neither one of them has marks of dark magic on their hands, arms, or neck. For the amount of oil in Malam and Shaerdan, the sign of dark magic would be unmistakable.”

He’s right. In my shock of considering it might be one of the Guild members, I overlooked that fact.

“Is there anything more?”

“I—I don’t think so.”

“Thank you for delivering the information. I appreciate your time. As you can see, the hour is late, so . . .” He walks to the door, stride sharp and brusque, a clear sign he wants me to go.

I stand, but remain rooted to the floor, silence surrounding us, uncomfortable and itchy, like an ill-fitted starched shirt.

“Aodren.” My tone is thin and uncertain.

His fingers hover on the door handle.

“Have I . . .” I fight down the overwhelming rush of vulnerability. “Have I offended you?”

“No, of course not.”

“You seem upset. And if I caused it or did something wrong, I want you to tell me.”

“My concern is with the late hour. It’s not proper for you to be here.” Aodren faces the door.

He showed no care for propriety last week when he asked me to stay. Or when he slept at my home. Is this a castoff? I tug at my commoner’s dress, confusion, hurt, and anger prickling through me. Did I imagine something more between us? Not a true relationship, per se, since he is the king of Malam and I’m a Shaerdanian Channeler, but I thought there was a spark.

I think of our kiss, and the truths I told him in Da’s cellar, and my eyes burn.

It hurts to look at him and see the cool, aloof profile. My dry throat clicks on each swallow as I pull a response together, trying to say something honest that won’t make things worse. “I didn’t like you much at first. I thought you were a copy of your father.”

Aodren winces.

“You surprised me because you’re nothing like him. You care about your people, and you care about Channelers. I saw the truth in you, and I let down my guard, which isn’t something I usually do so quickly. But I enjoyed our time together. And, well . . . I thought you felt the same. A mistake, of course. Please, if I’ve acted too brazen or overstepped my bounds, tell me. I’d like to sort this out so we can keep working together.”

He turns and stares at me as if I’m the puzzle that needs sorting out. “You wonder if you overstepped your bounds, but the truth is, I fear I’ve overstepped mine.”

I bite down on my lip. “I don’t understand.”

“I saw you and Leif tonight. You were laughing with him. It reminded me that we never were supposed to become more than friends. I’m returning to Malam in a week. And you live here. That’s a long distance to maintain a friendship . . . or something more. There’s nothing that can become of us beyond this week.”

Nothing can become of us.

He’s explaining the reasons, but he is shifting from one point to the next too quickly. My brain doesn’t have time to keep up with what he’s saying. The hurt rolls through my body, finding all the corners and shadows.

“I’ve allowed things to go on too long,” he says.

I squeeze my eyes shut, unable to look him in the eye while it feels like everything is crumbling on the inside. What he’s said pierces me. But I cannot fault him, because he’s right. He’s leaving soon. I will not follow him. There isn’t a future for me in Malam. And as king, he couldn’t leave his kingdom to make regular visits to Shaerdan. There is no future for us.