Page 7

Chapter 5

Morgana

T he carriage jolts over an uneven stretch of road as a horse whinnies and someone shouts to the driver of a cart trundling behind us. A bucket of water is emptied out a door with a splash, and children laugh as they scamper across the street. I watch them run after a ball, free as birds, disappearing into the alleyways of Elmere, Trova’s capital city.

It’s been eight days since I killed a man on the same night I learned who I really am. And now, here I am, in a city I’d only ever dreamed of visiting, surrounded by more people than I’ve laid eyes on in my life. They are everywhere. Streaming down streets, leaning out windows. In every carriage we pass, more sets of eyes peer out, but whoever their passengers are, those people cannot be seeing this world as I am, for the first time.

In Otscold, all the houses looked alike, but here every structure is different. Houses with curling balconies sit beside blunt, square buildings with deep-set windows; peeling pink facades huddle together down one street and rows of perfectly polished marble columns down another.

So much variety—so much of everything. The essence of this many people living so close together sours the air, but though the streets are muddy and some of the buildings are rimmed with grime, it’s all kind of beautiful to me. At the very least, it’s all new —fresh and interesting after a lifetime of no variety at all.

“Give me your hand, dear,” Etusca, sat opposite me, takes my fingers to draw my arm toward her.

I’ve gotten better at ignoring my body’s reaction to these moments in the last week—the jolt of discomfort when anyone gets too close or blocks my access to an exit, the sharp memory of Bede’s hands on me that I replay with every brush of contact—but I still don’t like being touched. She rubs a purple poultice into the back of my hand, examining the color as she mutters to herself.

“No inflammation. Good. That should do it.”

“I’m fine, Essy,” I say, an automatic response rather than a truthful one.

“We have to make sure the potion’s doing its job, my dear. We have to keep you safe and well.”

Our carriage takes another turn as it trundles closer to the palace, my new home. Etusca has been hovering over me ever since that night when my world was turned upside down—when I went from being just Ana, the abandoned daughter of some distant nobles, to Princess Morgana Angevire, soon to be crowned the queen of Trova.

It had only taken my parents being murdered to get the freedom I wanted, the chance to leave Gallawing. Guards might still be watching me, but at least I get to see the world in return. And thankfully, these guards are new ones, sent from the palace to escort me here, rather than Marlowe and his crew.

As Etusca continues to fuss over me—checking my temperature, my complexion, assessing whether I look tired—I can’t find room in myself to care that she never told me who my parents really were. I concentrate on the view out the window to quell a wave of nausea when I think of my parents and the reality of what brought me here.

Queen Elowen and King Alaric were found stabbed in their bed eight days ago. The killer was apprehended the very same night. And their heir—kept secret from all but a very few, select members of court—was summoned from the forgotten royal property she’d been hidden away in for twenty-one years. It still sounds like a story told about someone else. I wonder how long it’ll take before anything feels real again. I’d almost think this whole thing was a dream, except I couldn’t have imagined anything like this.

The city is immense. Even as I try to drink in every sight and sound, I have to remind myself not to become overwhelmed. We pass a mother carrying a baby, the infant’s attention caught by the flash of the royal insignia on our carriage. Her little hand reaches out toward the glittering gold, and her mother catches her fingers, kissing the baby’s palm.

It hurts a little, knowing what Etusca kept from me all these years.

“It will be hard getting used to people calling me queen,” I say casually, continuing to gaze out the window. “Especially when I’m still wrapping my head around ‘princess.’”

Etusca gives me a long look. She knows exactly what I’m getting at.

“I told you, my dear, I was sworn to secrecy. For your safety.” Her face flashes with pain, as it does whenever I bring up her deceit. “Every time they came to that manor, I begged them to speak to you, but I think they thought it would be too hard. To know you and have you know them—only to leave you again.”

I know she’s telling the truth; Etusca always seemed angry after those mysterious visits, though not at me. She pats my hand.

“I’m so sorry they’re gone without you having a chance to know them, Morgana. But I can assure you of this—they loved you very much.”

I don’t know how to answer. I don’t dare say it out loud, but…I didn’t love them. How could I when I didn’t know them at all? The thought of mourning parents I’ve never met unmoors me, and like a ship drifting in the mists, I’m not sure what direction my emotions are meant to steer in. Should I be inconsolable, thinking about what I’ve missed out on? Or should I be angry at them for robbing me of the chances we could have had to get to know each other?

I’m leaning toward anger—and Etusca must sense it because she reaches out to pat my arm. She opens her mouth to speak but I stop her. “We’re here.”

We pull onto a wide avenue where the bronze archways of the palace loom up ahead, casting a long shadow across the city. These, at least, I recognize from my history books. The tops of them curve upward in great swoops, decorated with polished metal acorns to make them look like branches of an oak tree.

The design is meant to symbolize the strength of the monarchy, if I remember correctly. These arches have stood for centuries, built long before my great-grandfather Palquir beat Herrydan in the War of the Laurels. He was an aesteri, and could reportedly summon great winds to pummel his enemies. When the civil war was at its height, the story goes he brought a fleet of ships up the river Potamis to take Elmere, using just his magic to power them. And now I’m expected to sit on the same throne he did.

But if the ruler of Trova is supposed to emulate a strong oak, what will my parents’ court make of me?

I haven’t been able to conjure so much as an ember since Bede attacked me. That night, after Etusca’s announcement, Marlowe had turned white as a sheet when I identified the body on my floor. Apparently, his first assumption had been that my attacker was an assassin sent to kill me. My nursemaid had just proclaimed me queen of Trova, and he no doubt realized exactly how bad it made him look that Bede had been able to assault me. He had the guards remove the body without asking me a single question, not even how I’d managed to burn the man to a crisp.

From his charred remains, I have to assume I’m an incendi—someone who owes their magic to the goddess Firesta, but twenty-one years of powerlessness shows that the amount of magic she gave me must be vanishingly small. When I explained my sudden burst of power to Etusca, she thanked the gods for its miraculous intervention in time to save me. But afterward, she spent more time worrying about my health than wondering about my magic, certain that my power wouldn’t turn up again.

I’m not ungrateful. I’d rather have one big event where I was able to save myself than a lifetime of being able to light candles. But it still means I don’t have anything I can use to make the court—or the kingdom—respect me as their leader. Unless it’s a matter of survival, my body is too weak to produce a single spark of flame.

The guards at the arches drop their lances in respect as our carriage passes, and I feel their curious eyes on me through the carriage window. Etusca pats my hand again, and I swallow down a surge of panic as I spot a small crowd gathered for us in a central courtyard. The pale walls of the palace soar up around us, encircling the carriage like the opening arms of some huge stone giant.

I imagine my parents spending their days here, which also makes me think about how they ended them, and I wish I hadn’t started the train of thought at all. Somewhere in this building there’s a man locked in a cell for murdering them—the fae prince sent from Filusia to act as an assassin. But I can’t think about that right now. Not when the carriage is slowing to a halt, and someone is opening the door for me.

“Morgana.”

As I step down, I realize the woman in front of me looks like an older, darker version of me—hazel eyes that could be golden in some lights, with hair plaited down to her waist, as is the custom for married women. What strikes me though, is her expression: one of hope and longing. She approaches me, and I tense automatically, even though I try to hide it. I’m glad when she doesn’t try to take my hand.

“I am Lady Rosier. Your mother Elowen is—was—” She corrects herself with a frown. “—my sister.”

“I’m honored to meet you, aunt,” I say, the final word strange in my mouth. Still, I offer her a nervous smile, and to my concern, Lady Rosier’s eyes begin to fill with tears.

“Forgive me,” she says, turning to wipe her face. “You look so much like her. Please call me Oclanna.”

A swirl of emotions I cannot name circles in my chest—something heavier than sadness and darker than hope mixed in with a heaping dose of discomfort. At least I can feel Etusca behind me, always close, as Oclanna guides me to meet some of the other party.

She sweeps me through a dozen introductions, faces and names I frantically try to memorize. It’s tricky when I’m distracted by the way they each bow or curtsey to me and call me “Your Highness.”

One of the few names I do remember is Jocor Rosier, Oclanna’s husband. The pairing surprises me a little; Jocor’s thick brows and heavy gaze don’t quite mesh with Oclanna’s lightness. But then I spot the way he looks at her—like a lost sailor spotting the north star—and I understand them more.

“But we mustn’t stay standing out here in the chill,” Oclanna says. “I know this must seem like a lot, but I’m afraid there is a certain bit of business we must attend to right away. Even before we can discuss the coronation.”

I didn’t expect to be thrown into the thick of it quite so soon. Coronations? And what is this business that’s even more pressing? I have so many questions. I glance at Etusca, taking in her mottled skin. We have been traveling since dawn and are both tired, but her fatigue is clearly hitting her harder. As much as I want a familiar face by my side at a time like this, I also want her to rest.

“My lady’s maid, Etusca, isn’t needed, is she? Might she be shown to our rooms to recover from the journey?” I leave off the part about Etusca being my nurse, unsure how much I want my court to know yet about my upbringing, but I don’t doubt people can guess Etusca is no ordinary maid. Dryads in Trova almost exclusively work as healers.

Oclanna smiles warmly. “Of course.”

“Just go. Rest, please ,” I murmur to Etusca, cutting her off before she can protest. “I’ll be fine.”

The palace is a maze of corridors and grand rooms. Gallawing always seemed big and luxurious in comparison to Otscold’s other buildings, but now I see that for all its grandeur, it was also gloomy and neglected. Here every surface shines, and stained-glass windows cast rainbows across the floors of light-filled rooms.

As Oclanna leads our party through them, I try to map it out in my mind, like I used to do with Will at Gallawing, but I soon give up. The thought of him sets me wondering about his time here—he mentioned working at the palace. Did my parents hire him to guard me at Gallawing because of that? Did he know them? My memories are toppling out of place one by one, having to rearrange themselves based on these new truths.

All I can take away from the endless succession of rooms is that Elmere palace is old—every pillar and painting feels like it’s already been here hundreds of years, so that everything has a sense of being heavy and immoveable. In contrast, I’m like a whisp on the wind.

“I’m afraid we have some formalities to address, Morgana.” Oclanna pauses at the entrance to a long room, looking embarrassed. “Can I call you Morgana?”

I think of Tira and her family—I was always Ana to them—but here in the palace, it doesn’t feel like I can be that girl anymore. Here, a name with more grandeur is called for. Something that fits the authority I supposedly have now.

“Yes, thank you.”

Oclanna beams and shows me into the chamber. It’s even bigger once we’re inside it, I see, as she directs me toward a table on top of a raised dais with a few steps up to it. Standing around it are a trio of men who couldn’t look more different from each other. The first is a tall, dark-skinned man with a pointed beard in black military gear, a breastplate across his chest and a sword at his hip. The second is a stocky man, pale white in crimson robes, his narrow eyes staring up at me from beneath his cleric’s hat. The third is a dryad holding a bound leather case in his green-skinned hands.

I’m aware of more people filing into the room around me, and I glance to my left and right to see what must be most of the lords and ladies of the Trovian court. There’s nearly a hundred of them, mostly dressed in black, mourning the fallen monarchs.

Their eyes burn holes into me, some curious and others more calculating. Whatever this “formality” is, I’m suddenly regretting sending Etusca away. I’ve never been in a room with this many people in my life, and I realize now the dais is raised so the people on top of it can be viewed from anywhere in the room.

You will survive this.

I dig my nails into my palm. It’s a technique I use sometimes when drinking my potion—the pain helps ground me a little.

“General Becane, if you please.” Oclanna gestures to the man in black, who neatly steps forward, his movements quick and precise as he turns to face the assembled nobles.

“Before you stands Princess Morgana Angevire. Daughter of Queen Elowen Angevire and King Alaric and heir to Queen Elowen’s throne. I was charged with the watch to keep her safe in her vulnerable years, and I now present her to you, her court. We gather here today to witness the attestation of the bloodline, so that there will be no doubt as to Her Highness’s birthright.”

I stare at the man who must’ve employed Will and then Marlowe when he retired. Did he know what kind of person he was entrusting my safety to? Did he care? Maybe he even visited Gallawing while I was there. So much was kept from me, and I can only trust now that Etusca will tell me the truth if I ask her.

He turns to Oclanna. “Lady regent, do you grant your permission to proceed?”

She smiles, nodding at me. “I do.”

The hundred pairs of eyes turning toward me tell me I’m meant to be doing something. Glancing at Oclanna, she gives me another encouraging nod, and I follow my gut, climbing the steps up to the table beside the dryad and cleric.

When I reach the top, the cleric grabs my arm, suddenly enough that I have to fight the urge to shove him away. The dryad opens his leather case to lay it flat on the table. Inside are several sharp-looking metal instruments and a vial of what looks suspiciously like blood. My heartbeat quickens, but everyone around me looks calm enough.

The cleric’s fingers dig tightly into my flesh as he stares me in the eye, raising a hand. For a moment I think he’s going to strike me, but he simply begins to intone in a deep voice I suspect isn’t entirely natural and is mostly put on for show.

“I, Anointer Nunias, call upon Ethira the Immortal to guide us in the light of his Temple. To strike down blasphemers, and bless the holy ones, so that we may seek truth and purity in all things. As the gods will it.”

“ As the gods will it ,” I murmur alongside every other person in the room, with the exception of the dryad. I know he’ll be responding to the prayer with the traditional phrase in his native Agathyrian. I can speak a fair bit of it thanks to Etusca.

“ Aduar gain esquan ,” I watch him mutter, which about translates to “May the gods restore us.” We all believe in the same gods, but the dryads and fae do things a little differently than us humans.

I’m still eyeing the case of bright instruments, but one thing reassures me: every dryad takes a vow against violence upon their coming of age. They cannot knowingly harm another out of malice or anger, or else they face permanent exile from their country—which means exile from the Miravow. For most, that’s a fate worse than death.

I release a long, low breath as the dryad beckons me closer.

“Your arm, please, Your Highness,” he says as he lifts an empty vial and a small needle from the case. The room is so quiet that if he were to drop the needle, I suspect the courtiers would hear it on the other side of the room.

I brace myself for something horrible, but it turns out my nervousness is overblown. The pin prick he delivers to the crook of my elbow barely makes me blink. I would take twenty of these over a single dose of my potion.

He presses the glass lip of the vial against my skin, coaxing a few drops of blood from the wound. Then with a swipe of his thumb, the flow halts. I look up at him in wonder, and he winks. Of course the palace would have some of the best dryad healers Agathyre has to offer, but I’m still impressed. The pinprick is completely gone, and I didn’t feel so much as a flicker of his magic as it passed through me.

“One moment, please,” he says, bringing the two vials side by side. He mixes the two, and this time I do feel his magic fizzling as he mutters incantations under his breath.

I hold my breath. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. I guess part of me wonders if this has, perhaps, all been one big mistake. What if I’m not Alaric and Elowen’s daughter? What then? Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible. I have visions of returning to Otscold, of the Holms family welcoming me into their tavern…

The vial of mixed blood turns a violent purple. The dryad looks up toward General Becane, then Oclanna, and nods.

The room erupts into a series of gasps and mutterings. A few courtiers even clap. I keep my face carefully neutral as I take in the people I’m supposed to lead, in the palace where I’m supposed to live. The world my parents hid me from because it wasn’t safe for me.

It wasn’t safe for them, either, in the end. I have to learn exactly what kind of game they were playing, and how they came to lose so badly, or the next dead royal will be me.