Chapter
22

Lirra

AODREN’S HANDS SLIDE FROM MY WAIST UP my back, leaving a trail of heat as the press of his lips switches from soft and inviting to hard and demanding. I’ve been kissed before, but the sweep of his mouth belies any experience I might think I’ve had. I have never been kissed. Not if kissing is like this.

My fingers wind into his hair, needing to muss it up, to mark him. Aodren tugs me closer, and I, too willing, fall into him, the scent of his soap-scrubbed skin washing over me. He tastes of mint leaves, rain, and freedom.

It sets my mind spinning when he drops a kiss beside my mouth, across my jaw, to the edge of my ear, and down the hollow of my neck. I’m weightless and heavy all at once. I’m one of my gliders, wings spread, soaring high.

The wind picks up and whips my hair into our faces. Aodren pulls back, and his fingers graze across my cheek, moving the strands away. The wind has always had a way of clearing my head. It must be part of my ability. I can speak to the wind and, in turn, it talks to me. It reasons. It reminds me that perhaps kissing the king of Malam isn’t a good idea. The man I once thought of as my opposite, my enemy, is sinking under my skin and wrapping himself around my heart.

His hands slide down my back and over my scars. The brush of contact clears my head like someone has slammed two pots together. I jolt back, remembering who I am. Daughter of the Archtraitor, a Channeler, a Shaerdanian. What am I doing? I cannot lose my heart to the king of Malam. If I know anything about him, it’s that his country comes first.

Aodren blinks hazy dark eyes and presses his kiss-reddened lips together, holding in a smile.

A voice from the corner of my mind argues I’m not Shaerdanian, that I wasn’t born a commoner. In another life, I may have been considered a good match for Aodren. But I wear the scars of the past, always a reminder that I’m not that Lirra Barrett. That life is not mine.

“We should go,” I say.

“Right. It’s late.” His hands fall to his sides, and as if nothing happened, he begins walking beside me and talking about the upcoming jubilee and the remaining tournament events. The almost seamless transition would work if the taste of him weren’t still on my lips. It makes me wonder if this thing between us means anything. Or if it’s a dalliance that is entertaining for the time being. But then what?

A dark mood settles over me. I try to listen as Aodren explains the plan for Baltroit and Leif to enter the two smaller events, jousting and archery, before one of them will move on to the grand finale, the battle of swords. He updates me on his conversation about Sanguine with Ku Toa, and I explain what I witnessed before the tournament began.

Aodren rubs his shoulder, his brows dipping between a wince and a scowl. “I figured Otto had taken Sanguine,” he says, recounting the difference in Otto’s fight versus his performance on the first melee night. It reminds me that Aodren could’ve died tonight. This only deepens my desire to find the maker of the oil.

“There is someone I’m going to contact,” I say.

“Who?”

“An informant of Da’s should be in town this week for the Kingdoms’ Market. He or his stepdaughter might be helpful.”

“Is this someone you can trust?” He pushes a hand into his already skewed hair. I swallow a secret smile because this Aodren, a wee bit messy, is my favorite version of him.

“Yes, Prudence is a friend.”

“And you’re certain she isn’t duplicitous? The supplier could be anyone.” His wariness makes sense, considering all the subterfuge in his kingdom. However, I have years of instinct to rely on, instinct that’s always proven reliable.

“Actually, the supplier cannot be just anyone,” I say thinking out loud. “The oil contains Channeler energy, which means a Channeler must be involved.”

“If someone is using dark magic to make the oil, won’t there be obvious physical markings?” Aodren asks, thinking of the dark veins that stain a Channeler’s skin when she dabbles in dark magic.

“If the oil is being made without the intention to harm, then there would be none of that.”

“How would the maker not know it’s harmful?”

I shrug. “It happens with herbal mixes. Earth Channelers make them for all different purposes. But if the tea made from the herb is used for something other than what the mix was intended for, it could hurt someone.”

“Are we making the search for the supplier harder than it has to be? I will just talk to the Shaerdanian champions.” Exhaustion pulls Aodren’s shoulders low and slows his steps. The man is one gust of wind away from tipping over.

“You could try,” I say, and then remember the way Baz and his friends reacted in the cells. “But I wouldn’t do so alone.”

His expression dawns with understanding. His arm hangs at his side. He needs something more to help him recover. Ahead, the carriage is parked just off the road leading to the cathedral. By the time we reach Orli, Aodren’s speech has started to slur with exhaustion and pain. He should’ve taken an entire skin of Beannach water from the champions’ tent.

“Get in.” I pull the door open.

“Find a healer?” he asks, a different sort of haze in his eyes.

Perhaps it would be best to take him to the castle, but I don’t think he would make it through the tunnel alone, and faced with the thought of riding up tonight and possibly encountering Judge Soma and the guards, I make a selfish choice.

“I’m taking you home.”

After dropping Orli off, I turn the carriage onto a country road, winding through the farmlands that rim the thick woods covering the land south of Celize. We pass by fields broken up by patches of forest until reaching a cluster of trees broken up by an offshoot path that is mostly obscured by overgrown shrubs. I drive along the path to an abandoned, decrepit farmhouse. Almost home.

The horses know their way. They pull the carriage around the property to where signs of travel fade into another rise of woods full of exposed roots and gnarled trunks. Normally, I would leave the horses and carriage here, but tonight we wind through the woods to the other side.

Here, like a lone hibernating bear nestled in the glade, is the Barrett homestead.

I can only imagine how angry Da would be if he knew his years of carefully maintained secrecy were about to be compromised. For this one reason, I suppose it’s good that he hasn’t come home yet.

I’ll make a tincture, give Aodren more Beannach, and when his energy starts to return, take him back to the cathedral.

He climbs out of the carriage, eyes reddened and sleep hungry, arms tucked around his torso, and legs stiff. He follows me around the side of the house and down to Da’s cellar. Eugenia and the littleuns will be asleep by now. Somewhere in the array of boxes, bins, crates, and containers, I’ll find everything needed to mend him. Da, a collector as much as he is a dealer of secrets, owns buckets of Channeler healing supplies. If only he were an organizer. Nothing has a set place, which hinders my search for Beannach water and herbs. By the time I’ve pulled everything together, Aodren is slumped in Da’s chair.

He needs somewhere to rest while I make the tincture. I cross the room and push some crates off a rarely used mattress. It’s stiff and lumpy, nothing a king would sleep on, but he won’t be here long.

“Come rest here,” I say, a little embarrassed. “It’s not very nice, but it’ll do for now.”

“I couldn’t imagine anything better.” He peers at me from Da’s chair with a gentle, sleep-soggy smile, and suddenly, warmth blossoms in my chest, sweeping away any misgivings. I don’t wonder if he should be here, but rather how I will ever let him go?

Startled by the depth of my feelings, I occupy myself with finding herbs.

Astoria taught me to make a healing aid with a pinch of chiandra, a scrape of wormwood, two springs of elm berry, and a handful of dried clary sage. The mixture steeps in Beannach water, and the outcome is a drink that eases pain and fades bruises. A trip out for wood and kindling takes longer than expected. Aodren is nearly asleep by the time I set the kettle on the fire.

A search around Da’s cellar turns up a blanket. I use it to cover his legs, and then ladle the tincture tea into a mug.

“Aodren? Can you wake? You need to drink this if you don’t want to be sore tomorrow.”

His golden lashes lazily climb upward, and cozy green eyes blink at me. His “thank you, Lirra,” comes out rumbly and warm, like a bite of cobbler right off the fire.

He sits up and blows on the drink. “Do you like working for him?”

“My da?” I shrug.

He drinks and then lowers the cup. “I know few people with your skill set. You’re talented. Your father must be proud.”

“Thank you.” I duck my head. “I . . . I do enjoy the work.”

He finishes the tincture and places the empty mug on the shelf. “But?” he asks, reading the slight hesitation in my words. “If you weren’t working for him, what other things might you be interested in?”

I must be a fool, because my first instinct is to answer his question. I have to stop myself and remember that this isn’t just a regular man. No matter how I like to pretend he’s just another acquaintance of Da’s, I cannot keep pretending he’s not the king of Malam.

I worry my lip, wondering if perhaps I’ve made a mistake bringing him here.

“You’re tired. We should head back to the castle.” My fingers twist in the folds of my dress.

“I’m not tired anymore,” he says. The liar.

But he grins, and it’s disarming.

The next thing I know, we’re leaving the cellar, him at my heels and my head in pieces. He waits outside the shed while I gather the components of my glider. He watches with blatant curiosity as I place each item in the grass.

For the jubilee, I’ve created two smaller gliders and one larger one, which isn’t quite finished yet. I attach the components of the smaller one. Two wings span out from a slim oval disk. Attached below the disk is a basket, one that could be used to deliver items. Or, on a larger scale, it could carry people.

“Watch,” I command, trying not to wonder if he’ll like my gliders or find them childish.

My hands turn outward, facing the wood and fabric contraptions. I draw the night air to me and then take off running, releasing the glider into a gust. My energy encourages the wind to guide the glider higher and higher, searching for a warmer lift of air it can ride without my help. The night has cooled the land around us, but I finally find a balmy breeze for the glider to ride.

I pull back on my Channeler magic, letting the wind work its own magic, and only now and then using a nudge of energy to keep the glider afloat. Once the wings catch the air current, it takes almost no Channeler energy for the glider to stay skyward. After much time has passed, I guide my creation to the ground.

“You amaze me, Lirra,” Aodren whispers, breaking the comfortable silence that has formed around us.

The compliment warms me.

Aodren walks beside me to the shed to put the glider away. “Could a person ride on one of these?”

“That’s my goal.”

“Would the person have to be a Channeler?”

“No,” I tell him. “That’s the beauty of my invention. In history books, I read about other people who wanted to fly like birds. But to make and test an invention that gives a man wings is too dangerous. The learning process could result in death. But because of my gift, I’ve been able to create different models and test them without fear of plummeting to my death.”

He stares at me. “And after they’ve been tested, can anyone use them? Even someone giftless like me?”

I nod.

“You’ve taken your Channeler magic and used it to create something everyone could benefit from. Brilliant.” He breathes out the word.

There it is again, the compliments that come unexpectedly and rattle me.

“Not brilliant, just born with a little extra magic.” I pick up the glider.

“And modest.”

I cannot help but smile. “I’m hoping to share my gliders at the jubilee.”

“You and your aunt will be performing on the same field, but for different kingdoms.”

He means Aunt Katallia, my father’s sister, who remained in Malam during the Purge years because it was too risky to uproot her family. Somehow, she kept her Channeler ability a secret, though she’s a longtime member of the Channelers Guild.

“Yes, except she’ll be part of the jubilee grand finale.” He follows me to the shed and helps me take apart the glider. “I’m going to audition for the smaller show, the showcase. Channelers of every ability level can enter. The grand finale at the end of the week is only for each kingdoms’ most celebrated Channeler.”

“It matters not if you’re in the finale or the showcase. These gliders are brilliant. Anyone who has the privilege of watching you work your magic will be impressed,” he says, and then gives me a sheepish look as we leave the shed.

“Thank you,” I choke out.

He blows a breath into the night. “It’s been difficult to convince Channelers to represent Malam. I overlooked the showcase because no one from Malam will be entering.” The moonlight through the trees casts him in colorless hues.

I can imagine how difficult that would be. “You know, I was leery at first of your intentions. I didn’t think you cared for Channelers beyond what they could do for you. But now I can see you want a better life for them, for everyone. What you’re doing is admirable. You want to show your kingdom that Channelers aren’t to be feared, but accepted. Give it time and others will see your vision.”

I wish Astoria would give Aodren another chance. If she could hear him now and see that he’s nothing like the Malamian leaders before him, surely she’d find no fault.

Aodren follows me back into the cellar. He sits while I stir up another concoction. The more he drinks tonight, the better he’ll feel tomorrow.

We fall into a comfortable quiet as he sips from a mug.

“Lirra,” he says as my eyelids are starting to droop.

I jerk upright in Da’s desk chair. “Yes?”

“I keep thinking of how your glider could change the world.”

“You and Orli,” I mutter, even though his words thrill me.

“Your gliders can be used to benefit all sides of society. They can be appreciated by giftless or Channelers.”

I nod. “I wanted to make something that could be used without a Channeler having to be drained of energy to keep it afloat. But Channelers are still needed in the process to create them. So it might open opportunities for Channelers to find a way to work in their towns and cities without having to drain themselves of energy constantly.”

“It provides a way for Channelers to live openly with their magic,” he says, and shifts over, making an obvious spot for me next to him on the mattress. I squish closer to him, noting how good he always smells, like soap and man. “Using your magic as a tool to assist the bigger project will show Channelers a new way of approaching their ability. And in turn, maybe you’ll inspire more Channelers to think of ways they can build and create with their magic.”

He’s so animated, his hands lifting to express what he’s talking about. Tea sloshes out of his mug. “That’s an entire economy that could open up. People to assemble the parts, Channelers to test the inventions, traders to sell the final product.”

I’m mesmerized by his spark, his vision of what could be.

“Why don’t you pursue this?” he asks.

I pluck the pilled lint off the blanket on the bed. “I want to,” I admit. “What you said about showing Channelers other ways they can use their magic, that’s what I want to do. I want us to be innovative and not beholden to jobs that just endlessly drain us of our energy.”

His hand drops on top of mine, preventing me from picking at the blanket. “What’s stopping you?”

“My da. Part of me is still waiting for his approval.”

“Is that why you are working so hard on this Sanguine problem? For his approval?”

I shrug. “I care about him. I want to help him. I want him to trust me and recognize what I’m capable of doing on my own. Also, I cannot stand by knowing the oil has the potential to ruin so many lives. I can help, and to me that feels right. What about you? Would you do something else if you could?”

Aodren leans back until he’s lying down on the mattress, his hands under his head and elbows out. “No, I don’t think so. I feel like I’m meant to do this work, and in truth, there are many things I enjoy about being the king. Mostly I want to make a difference. I want to bring change to Malam that will positively affect the people.” A sigh moves like a wave through his chest. “But I’m starting to wonder if that’s possible.”

“Of course it is. One man’s voice can start change.”

“But can it erase the destruction brought on by the former leaders? One voice cannot reach everyone.”

“Maybe you’re thinking about it all wrong. Instead of taking on all the work that needs to be done across Malam, maybe you just have to be the man who shouts at the snowy mountain until an avalanche starts.”

He scrubs his face and laughs a little. “I’m not sure I’m following. Perhaps I’m more tired than I thought.”

“I mean if there’s a loud enough disturbance, it can loosen the snowpack and trigger an avalanche that will slide down the mountain.”

Aodren’s face scrunches. “You want me to wreak havoc and destruction?”

“It’s a metaphor.” I laugh. “If you want to bring about change, all you need to be is a voice. A voice loud enough to start a storm.”

“Start a storm,” he repeats, with a smile, tired, weak, and shadowed by the darkness, that still makes the man look impossibly beautiful.