Chapter
3

Lirra

ON THE WAY TO THE CASTLE, I WROTE A response to Da and dropped it into the secret mailbox at the Elementiary.

Da,

I’ll take your letter to bloody AC, even if it means I have to risk my life sneaking into places I’m not welcomed. The maps you have are old. Shift information might not be up-to-date.

If I live, we’re going to talk when you return. You’ve been gone for nearly five weeks. Eugenia is losing her mind and you’re going to miss the jubilee.

You said you’d be back in time.

Lirra

 

One more thing: beetle is the name of a small bug that you squash under the heel of your boot. Beetles stink. Nobody likes them. I’m eighteen now—please use my given name.

Considering how many foreigners have swarmed Celize, clogging the roads and packing the camp set up by the tournament field, there’s no telling when my letter will be delivered. But having jotted down my frustrations makes being in the room with the king of Malam infinitesimally more manageable.

King Aodren hasn’t given me more than a second glance since I had to conjure wind to knock him down. His lips form a colorless circle around his thumb, the one he nicked to produce a drop of blood, as he peruses Da’s letter. He reads at a snail’s pace, with no care for his tunic still in a puddle on the floor.

Having snuck past a dozen guards already, my nerves are pulled taut. So standing here in the open, waiting for this man to tell me what Da has written, makes me even jumpier. The irritation I feel toward him doesn’t help. He’s not my king, and his kingdom isn’t my kingdom. Once he tells me what Da has written, I’m out of here. Away from this ungrateful man who cares so little for Channelers that he cannot remember those who help him. The rumors about him using Channelers for his gain must be true.

I glance to the window, assessing other routes if a quick escape is needed. While I know the guards’ schedules, I don’t know when one of King Aodren’s retinue will enter.

His thumb is no longer bleeding. He shakes out his hand and then pinches the bridge of his nose. A straight, never-been-broken nose. So unlike the other men to whom I’ve delivered messages, whose rough lives have earned them equally rough exteriors. King Aodren is too straight. Too smooth. A sharp patrician profile, fine jaw, light bronzed skin too flawless to be real—a trick of the lamplight. It’s impractical. A man who holds a kingdom’s worth of power should be gritty and fearsome. Not fine. His face doesn’t suit his title. This man is Aodren without King affixed.

It’s unfair that he’s so handsome. All gold hair and golden skin and a jaw like a wooden carving. Someone who wields his power so poorly and unjustly should have boils. Everywhere.

“Did you need anything else?”

His question startles me. I shift my weight and pluck at my tunic. “Pardon?”

“Are you in need of anything?”

“No. I mean, yes.” I snatch my cap off the rug. “I’m waiting to hear what’s in the letter.”

Golden brows lift. “Is it any of your business?”

I’m already on edge from the sheer effort expended to break into this fortress and from being forced to interact with Aodren at all. I flick the parchment, and his gaze snaps to mine. “I’m the person who risked her life to sneak inside a highly guarded castle to bring you that. I’d say it’s my business.”

Those studious eyes slide into slits. “And what would your father say?”

“I don’t think he’d say anything.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“He isn’t here.”

He barks out a laugh. But just as abruptly as it came, it fades behind a bored expression. He scoops his tunic off the floor and slips it over his head. “When he returns, you can discuss with him the contents of his letter. For now, they are a private matter.”

“Private?” I repeat, confused.

“The letter is addressed to me, the king of Malam.”

“I know who you are.” It’s bad enough that Da is never home and I have to deal with Eugenia’s constant state of worry that leads to fights like the one this morning. It’s worse when I know it’s because Da is doing favors for this pompous arse. “Could you please just tell me where he is?”

Wherever Da is will clue me in to what he’s doing. And then maybe I can figure out how to help Da finish this job quickly. Or I could complete the job for him, then he’ll see that he can rely on me as his business partner.

Aodren creases the parchment’s folds. “I cannot.”

“Cannot? Or will not?” Does he realize the effort it took to get here? Or the risks I faced?

Aodren crosses to the door, pulls it open, and strides into the hall. I watch him go, my jaw unhinged. Apparently if you’re a king, you can make an exit in the middle of a conversation. The bludger. I want to pickpocket the letter right from under his perfect nose. But he may have left to alert the guards.

I shove my hair under my cap and climb up on the desk. Without knowing what the king is planning, the window will do as an alternate exit. I am in the opened window frame when he returns with Leif in tow.

“Where’d she go?” Leif scans the chambers.

The sight of my cousin makes me stop and smile. He doesn’t notice me, but Aodren does. The king points out my location, and Leif throws his head back and laughs. “Lirra, what are you doing there?”

“It’s nice that someone remembered me,” I say, and Aodren’s mouth puckers like he licked a lemon. “I was leaving.”

“There are doors for that,” Aodren drawls.

The night breeze slips through the window and blows past me. “A clever observation, Your Highness. But there are also guards with swords for killing intruders.”

“Leif will escort you home.” The finality in Aodren’s tone is cool and crisp, the first bite of an October apple. It draws a shiver through my limbs, and I know I have no choice but to obey. I glare at the letter, captive in his hand. So help me, if Da asks me to deliver another one to this man, I’ll leave a fish in his royal bed.

I follow Leif into the dim corridor, never once looking back at the king.

“I can make it home on my own,” I tell Leif once we’ve left the castle grounds and we’re traversing the main road that cuts through the camps. All around us groups gather at fire pits, telling stories over cups of tea and ale. Though clouds hide most of the stars, the full moon brightens the sky behind the ragged gaps.

“I gave him my word.” The moonlight washes out his already sunless Malamian skin. “Also, it’s nice to escape the castle.”

Very few know the true location of my home. Safety, and all that. But I let my protest go, sensing Leif truly needs a break from the castle. When we met last year, we learned we were cousins, our families separated during the Purge. We spent a great deal of time together and became friends. Leif used to smile more. Sadness marks him now.

We approach the round fountain marking the heart of the camp. A center post rises in the shape of a tree trunk, and a dozen spigots branch off, spitting water into the pool below. Children run on the stone bench rimming the fountain, their paths winding around, their giggles and shrieks acting as music to their dance. A woman stands at the fountain’s edge. She moves her hands and the water in the spigot closest to her, guided by her Channeler energy, sprays outward, hitting the children from head to toe. They squeal and run the loop again. Eugenia would have forced the twins to bed by now. But with the camp abuzz with conversation and anticipation, I doubt anyone’s going to fall asleep anytime soon. Maybe the woman is trying to tire the kids out.

“How’s Gillian?” I ask about the handmaiden in Malam who had captured Leif’s eye.

His deep frown is punctuated by the crunching of gravel underfoot.

“Was that too brash?” I nudge him with my shoulder. “It’s a problem of mine.”

A weak flicker of movement lifts the corners of his mouth. “I’m aware. She decided we . . .” He blows out a loud exhale. “We weren’t a good fit.”

That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one. They were completely inseparable, igniting rumors of marriage.

He must recognize the disbelief on my face, because he adds, “There was someone else.” It’s quiet, brimming with rejection.

Oh, Leif.

It’s difficult to imagine Gillian passing Leif over for another. She and I weren’t close friends; however, we lived together for a short while. She never struck me as someone who shuffled beaus like cards at a gambling table.

Leif’s boot hits a rock, sending it skidding along the road ahead of us. “She’s with a lord now, if you can believe it.”

I gape. “She traded up?”

He winces, shoulders tightening.

All the time spent around Da and his rough informants is showing. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest that you’re not as valuable as a lord. I only meant, well, there are levels of nobility.” In another life, courting a nobleman would’ve been expected of me so I could make an advantageous marriage. Though I’m not that girl anymore, I understand a lord outranks a captain and the pressure a girl might face to choose rank over the goodness of a man like Leif. Gillian . . . she was a kind girl, but she was in love with the ideas of romance and nobility. And all their nice things.

“Don’t think badly of her,” says Leif. Sweet Leif. “She knew him before. In the shuffle after the coup, he came for her. They were meant for each other.”

Though we’re family, I cannot imagine how anyone would not want this man. I reach around his wide shoulders to give him a friendly squeeze.

A shout echoes into the night.

Ahead, three men are near the far side of the fountain, facing the Channeler woman. The man nearest her stands with his feet wide, back taut, reminding me of a wild dog on the verge of attack. “We won’t let you spread your poison,” he says in the distinct blunt accent specific to Malamians.

If the ignorant Malamians knew anything about Channelers, they’d know she wasn’t poisoning the fountain. It would go against the Channeler code—never use magic to do harm.

“Then don’t use this fountain.” The Channeler woman pulls two children into her skirts as two men arrive at her side. The rest of the kids scatter.

“Your devil magic isn’t allowed outside of the jubilee.” The Malamian’s voice grows louder and sharper. I notice the men are holding water jugs. Upon seeing the woman Channeling the water, they must’ve assumed—as ignorant, bigoted Malamians would—that she was tainting the fountain.

The argument gains volume and onlookers. I recognize one: Baz, a dockworker who’s been flirting with me for months. His persistence would be annoying if he weren’t so playful. He helped me order the dowels for my glider.

A Malamian yells a slur, and Baz’s calm ignites into fury so swiftly, it’s like watching lightning hit a forest during the dry season.

Baz punches the Malamian.

Shocked, I watch a fight break out.

Leif’s moving, sword ready, rushing forward, shouting a command to stop in the name of the king. But no one’s listening. No Shaerdanian cares for Malam’s ruler. They think Aodren is a tyrant like the regent before him. The Malamians are in such a frenzy, I doubt they’d stop for anything, even King Aodren himself.

Fists smack against flesh. The fight spreads, a hungry fire consuming anyone on the path. Thuds and grunts and shouts rise like smoke above the frenzy. I rush forward, unsure where to go, or how to help. Channeler slurs fuel the blaze, and soon more than a dozen people are engulfed in the chaotic brawl that’s grown too fast for Leif to stop.

Someone will die if it doesn’t end soon.

Leif needs help. More than I can give. He needs the guards from the summer castle.

That’s when I hear a child’s wail and spot the two boys who had been hiding in the Channeler woman’s skirts. Two little boys huddling together, years younger than my brothers, caught between the fountain’s edge and the fury. An arrow of panic shoots straight through my chest. I search frantically for their mother among the men, who are fighting like beasts, feral and more violent than the typical tavern brawl. No one hears the boys’ cries. No one will notice if the nose crunching beneath his fist belongs to a man or a child.

The fighters move, blocking my view of the boys.

Suddenly, I’m sprinting, dodging knees and elbows and clawed hands, weaving closer to the fountain. A thin, childlike wail spurs me faster. Faster.

Someone slams into me. The impact throws my body sideways against the fountain. I hit hard, the stone edge like a blunt blade, knocking the breath from me. Pain tears across my ribs. I try to inhale to get my bearings, but my lungs won’t respond. Whoever did the damage has already moved on, either finished with me or so enthralled by beating another that he’s oblivious.

Weight on my hands, I push myself up. Find the boys. Find the boys.

Agony stitches my left side, chopping my efforts to breathe into short gasps. I hear the clang of blade hitting blade. More than a few have graduated from fists to weapons. This fight won’t last much longer.

I force air into my lungs and, breaking camp rules, hop into the fountain pool and slog across to where the boys huddle. Water courses down my legs as I tuck each little boy under an arm and rush around bodies and fists to the haven of the nearest tent.

I drop to my knees in front of them, my ribs ablaze. “Stay here, all right?”

The boys hunker down against the canvas, nodding, eyes like moons.

“I’ll find your mother. You stay. Got it?”

Their trembling chins dip down and up.

I scurry back to the fountain, scanning the pandemonium for the woman. A groan rents the air, raw, anguished. The hairs on my neck stand.

Abandoning my search for the boys’ mother, I look for Leif. Which is Eugenia-level ridiculous since he’s Malam’s tournament competitor, one of the most skilled fighters in Malam and fully capable of holding his own in a brawl. Still, my gaze ricochets between bloodied and bruised faces. I exhale a breath of relief when it’s evident Leif isn’t among them. He must have gone to get the guards from the summer castle while I saved the boys.

But then a shock of rich auburn hair drags my eyes to the ground.

There, amidst the fallen, unconscious men, is Leif, with a blade’s handle protruding from his chest.