Page 22

Chapter Twenty-two

I dream again of the great, dark sea. It swirls around me with violent rhythm. Lulling with languorous caresses designed to swallow me whole. To drag me under, to the depths, where no light or sound can permeate.

Strangely, I feel no fear. Even as I sink, disappearing into the colorless fathoms, I am not afraid. Only curious about what, if anything, might await me at the bottom.

I am not destined to find out. Not this time, in any case. For just as the world far above fades out of view, a tether coils around me in the abyss—warm and insistent, tugging me back to the surface.

Back to the air.

Back to consciousness.

A hand skims over my forehead, smoothing back the hair at my temples. Eli , I think immediately, my sluggish mind conjuring impossibilities. But no. It cannot be Eli. He is long gone, and besides, the hand that now moves with such halting gentleness over my skin is large and riddled with calluses. And hot. So hot, it sets off a fever inside me, burning low in the pit of my stomach.

The hand moves to my neck. A thumb traces the frail thud of my pulse as something else grazes my forehead. A pair of lips. They are whisper soft as they press against my skin in a fleeting kiss that lasts no longer than a heartbeat.

Surely, I must still be dreaming.

I am utterly immobile, taking not a single breath, even as the silence stretches into a small eternity. Even as my lungs begin to sear from lack of air. For if this is a dream, I am not yet ready to abandon it. And, if it is not…

“I know you’re awake.”

My eyes flutter open at his soft words.

Penn is there, right there , his eyes locked on mine as reality slams back into place. His hand is still at my throat, but he pulls it back when I struggle to sit up on the bed. It takes more effort than it should. Exhaustion sweeps through my body in great, unyielding waves. He reaches behind me to adjust one of the pillows as I collapse back against the headboard.

Breathing hard from the effort, I take my first look around. I am in the tower. In Penn’s bed. I have no recollection of getting here. Heat sears my cheeks at the realization he must’ve carried me.

“What happened?” My voice cracks.

“You lost control. Then you lost consciousness.”

“I remember being in the cavern…Trying to call the wind. Trying to contain it…” I shake my head. “It was too much. Too much power, too fast to rein it back in.”

His fingers flex against the dove-gray blankets that cover me from the waist down. I jerk them a little higher up my body when I realize I’m wearing nothing but a thin white nightgown.

“It’s my fault,” Penn says bluntly. “I knew you weren’t ready. Yet I let you talk me into a lesson you couldn’t handle. I let you push yourself past your limits.”

“It’s not your fault. Like you said, I’m the one who talked you into it.”

His jaw tightens. “You asked me to help you. Instead, you wound up hurt—”

“I’m fine. Look at me.”

Look he does, eyes scanning my face intently. He appears unconvinced.

“Really. I’m all right.” I fight off a yawn. “Nothing about six years of sleep won’t cure.”

“I’ll let you sleep for six decades if it means you stay safe. This is exactly why I did not want you attempting to use your powers.”

“I have to learn my limits. If I never explore them, if I walk around blindly suppressing them, as I have for most of my life…” I stretch out my arms as I speak, wincing at the soreness of my muscles. “It could end up in a far worse disaster than a bout of unconsciousness. Which you already know. You’re just too stubborn to admit it right now.”

He scowls at me.

I smile at him. “How long was I asleep, anyway?

“A full day.”

I press my lips together, absorbing the news. An improvement over the last time, but not by much. It is nearly dusk outside, twilight slanting through the misty tower windows all around us. My lips curl up at one side. “On the upside, I got to skip another loathsome dinner at court.”

His eyes flare with humor, but his grave expression does not so much as flicker. “I take full responsibility for what happened. Next time—if there is a next time—we’ll be more careful. Much more careful. I promise.”

“I don’t blame you, Penn.”

Without thinking, I reach out and place my hand on top of his. His whole frame jolts, a tiny earthquake rocking his bones. With aching slowness, he looks down at my fingers—slim and pale against his sun-bronzed skin. I doubt his expression would be more bewildered if he’d glanced down to find his hand intertwined with an ice giant’s.

I tell myself to pull back, to pull away, but my body no longer seems to be cooperating with rational thought. For a long moment we simply sit there, in the twilight stillness, neither of us daring to move or speak.

“You should know, I…” Penn hesitates. “If I’d thought for a minute that…”

“That what?”

“You have a great deal more power than I was expecting,” he admits, almost reluctantly. “For someone with such a limited grasp on her abilities, you are able to expel a great deal of raw strength.”

“Really?”

“You nearly hurled me into the godsdamned waterfall.”

I blink. “I did?”

“You did.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“That’s not surprising. When you let the power course through you unchecked, it overrides all your other senses.” His stare turns severe. “That’s why I have been stressing the importance of learning to contain it. You’re lucky you lost consciousness before it killed you. Before it killed the both of us.”

I remember the agony I felt before I passed out in the cavern—the splitting pain that threatened to cleave my head in two. Never in my life have I known such pain. I have little desire to experience it again. Still, I need to learn to use my power properly. Otherwise I risk it lashing out unbidden, and potentially harming anyone in my path when it does.

“So, what now?”

“Now you rest. You recover your strength.” He sighs, a soft huff of air. “Then, when I decide the time is right, we try again.”

“What if I can’t learn to contain it?”

“You will.”

“But what if I can’t?”

His hand pulls away, leaving mine cold and empty against the blankets. His tone is hard as brimstone. “You will, Rhya. Because you must. I will not see you hurt yourself or anyone else. I will not allow your conscience to be blackened by the consequences of losing control.”

“You…” I’m almost afraid to ask. “Have you ever lost control, then? Hurt someone with your power unintentionally?”

He nods curtly, lips pressed in a thin line, but does not offer any further explanation. Instead, he pushes to his feet and begins to pace along the footboard of the bed.

I force out the question. “When?”

“A long time ago.”

“What happened?”

His head shakes—one sharp jerk of rejection. He appears to be battling inwardly, his hands clenched to tight fists. I wonder how near the surface his fire burns; how close that inferno is to breaking free at any given moment.

For a fraught stretch of time, I stare at him, summoning my courage to speak. “When I was at the Acrine Hold with Soren—”

A muscle leaps in Penn’s cheek.

The fire flares in the grate.

I hurry on before I lose my nerve. “He implied that…”

“That what ?”

“That you are somehow responsible for Enid’s death.”

Penn’s stride falters—not quite a stumble, but nearly. Thick silence settles, only the sound of his booted feet against the floorboards to disturb it as he resumes pacing. When he finally speaks, it is with a coarse rasp of self-loathing that makes my heart contract.

“What happened with Enid was the greatest tragedy of my life. And the greatest shame.”

I dare not speak.

“She was so fragile. So sheltered. For a girl like her—a girl who had spent her life under lock and key, hidden away from the atrocities of the world—to witness what she did, to live through the horror she suffered…Her family slaughtered, her home destroyed…” He swallows roughly, the apple bobbing in the broad column of his throat. “She was not equipped to deal with it. It broke something inside her. Cracked her foundation to irreparable pieces. And those cracks…they allowed her power to seep out in unpredictable ways. They made her unstable. Not only emotionally. Elementally. ”

I suck in a breath.

“I thought bringing her here would help save her. I thought I could fix the damage that had been wrought. That, together, Soren and I might somehow repair the parts of her that were shattered, using our powers to keep hers in check. To soothe the raging wind within her before it swept her away completely.” He pauses. “But I was wrong. Gravely wrong. And it was Enid who paid the price for my miscalculations. Paid with her life.”

My fingers twist in the bedding, so tight my knuckles go white. “She…Then, she died because of…”

I break off, unable to ask the question. He nods an affirmation, equally unable to answer it.

She died because of him.

She died at his hands.

In the wake of my soul-deep exhaustion, the bond between us has flickered into numb silence. But I do not need a psychic connection to know what he is feeling in this moment. The pain on his face is so sharp, so piercing, it makes my throat catch and my eyes smart. I want to fly across the room to him. To take away his agony any way I can. Yet, I know him well enough to realize any comfort I offer will be spurned.

And so I remain perfectly still, doing nothing to console him as he stands there, balanced on the sword’s edge of a particularly cutting part of his past, radiating shame and scorn in waves so thick they make it hard to draw breath. I force myself to hold his eyes, keeping my face free of the condemnation he seems to be waiting for.

He expects me to loathe him for this. To flinch back. To shy away. And there is a part of me that instinctively wants to do just that. But I push that part down, bury it deep. I match his gaze—unblinking, unflinching—until he is the one forced to glance away.

“Soren blamed me,” he says finally, staring at the red-veined wall. “Still blames me. He thought himself in love with her, you see. As if someone like him is even capable of love.”

“And you?” I ask, a tremble in my voice. “Were you in love with her?”

A biting, bitter scoff flies from his lips. “Who could not love a bird with a broken wing? Who could resist the urge to take her in, to set her bones, to keep her safe until she was strong enough to fly?”

My heart pangs in sympathy—and in something else, something I am both afraid and ashamed to feel. I chew my bottom lip, unable to say a word. I can see Penn’s face only in profile. It is carefully empty of emotion as he speaks.

“For a long time, I thought there was nothing I would not do, no length I would not go to, if only to undo it. To rewind that day. To bring her back. To make it right.” He sucks in a breath so deep, his whole frame expands. “It is only lately, for the first time in seventy years, that I have felt my first bit of respite from those pointless longings. For if she were still here…you would not be.”

My heart pangs again, a painful jolt against my rib cage. That low, feverish ache in my abdomen—the one that began the moment I regained consciousness and found him there, mere inches from me on the bed, waiting for me to awaken—intensifies until I can scarcely sit still. “Penn—”

“You need to rest. And I need to get down to the Great Hall. I’m late for Vanora’s dinner.” He is still not looking at me. “The servants will be up soon with a tray of food for you. When you feel strong enough, they’ll draw you a bath.”

“Okay,” I whisper, hardly knowing what else to say.

“Sleep here. Don’t risk climbing the ladder to the spire. You’re still too weak.”

“Okay.”

“Help yourself to the books.”

“Okay.”

“I will see you in a few days.”

“Oka— Wait. Did you say a few da— Wait! ” I cry, but he’s already crossed to the far side of the chamber and stepped through the door. It clicks shut firmly at his back.

Glowering at his high-handed exit, I slide down into the fluffy mass of pillows stacked around me. As I burrow beneath the blankets, I’m annoyed to note that they smell like Penn. Spiced smoke, dark fire. I am even more annoyed to find that there is a part of me that quite likes being here, in his bed, breathing him in with each inhale, my senses engulfed by his lingering presence.

My head is awhirl with thoughts of Enid—for though he told me of her untimely death, it was in but the vaguest of terms. I still have questions. More than I can put words to. Yet they are already slipping from my tired mind as the waves of exhaustion I’ve been battling since the second my eyes peeled open lull me back beneath their thrall.

Tucked safe and warm beneath the blankets, I allow my eyes to slip shut and fall into a deep slumber. If I dream at all, I do not remember.

I am kept abed for three endless, excruciating days.

My maids, Keda and Teagan, are lovely women who do their best to keep me happy and healthy as I slowly regain the strength my failed training session sapped away. But even the most kindhearted prison guard is still resented by their prisoners. Especially as the penal sentence stretches on without reprieve.

By the end of the first day, I am physically recovered—the ache gone from my bones, the cold prickle of power gathering once more within my chest, only the slightest hint of fatigue lingering when I overexert myself. By the second afternoon, I am chafing to be released from my increasingly dull confinement. By the third morning, I have abandoned all attempts at civility in favor of brooding in sullen silence—except when asked a direct question, at which point I become so curt and churlish, it is enough to make me flinch.

I tell myself that my general grouchiness has nothing at all to do with the absence of a certain cantankerous prince. For Pendefyre has not shown his face even once since I first awoke and found myself in his bed. I wonder where he is sleeping—and, in weaker moments, whom he might be sleeping with, as Vanora’s serpentine voice snakes an ugly path through my head.

I do hope she’s not another one of your whores. The last one made such a spectacle of herself when you grew tired of her charms.

It does not matter whose bed he sleeps in. It is no business of mine. Yet I am unquestionably irritable as the days creep on without a visit from him—a sensation that only intensifies when I realize I can no longer sense his presence through our bond. Not a flicker, no matter how long I sit on the settee by the fireplace and cast out my senses in search.

Just when I was beginning to grow accustomed to the invisible tether between us, it’s vanished with an abruptness that makes my eyes sting unpleasantly. I narrow them into a scowl—rage is a safer emotion than anything else I might be feeling—which I then direct at the empty spot on the desk where a gleaming black battle helm once sat beside a bandolier of slim, lethal blades.

Keda, ever observant, notices my dark look and promptly informs me that the prince has left the city on official business.

“No doubt seeing to some of the Fyremas preparations,” she breezes, running a boar-bristle brush through my hair in long strokes from the crown of my head all the way to the ends where they fall against the small of my back. “It’s only a fortnight away. The whole castle is in an uproar getting everything ready. I’m sure the prince is as busy as the rest of us.”

“When will he be back?”

“No rightly idea, miss. Don’t fret, it’s nothing unusual. He’s often away from the keep settling trade disputes, or consulting with Commanding General Yale in the northern provinces, or attending diplomatic summits in other kingdoms…”

“Oh.”

“Now that he’s returned, His Highness will be resuming most of his responsibilities outside the capital. More than before, I’d guess, seeing as the queen has no heirs and Her Royal Majesty does not often stray far from the keep, being of advancing years and failing health. We won’t be seeing much of Prince Pendefyre around here for a while, I reckon.”

The news makes my heart clench in a completely unwarranted manner. I try—with questionable success—not to sound too crestfallen when I ask if he’ll be back for the festival.

“Most certainly,” she assures me. “He never misses Fyremas.”

“What is Fyremas, exactly?”

“Did your old kingdom not celebrate the equinox, Lady Rhya?”

I shake my head.

“What a shame! It’s the most wonderful of days.” The brush hits a snag and she pauses her ministrations momentarily. “It marks the start of the spring thaw and the recharging of the wards around the city. There’s a ceremony where the prince…Well, I won’t ruin the surprise for you. Best to experience it for yourself.” Her wink is quick. “Afterward, there are parades in the streets, processions of flowers and flame-dancers. Food and drink everywhere you look. Musical performances from Dyved’s best bards and minstrels. Oh and fires , of course! Everyone lights the torches in front of their houses and leaves them burning all night, dusk till dawn, so the streets are lined with flames.” She sighs dreamily. “There’s even a fireworks display over the lake at midnight. Have you ever seen fireworks?”

“No.”

“You’ll just love them. They’re dazzling to behold.” Her smile flashes bright in the reflective surface of the age-fogged mirror as she resumes brushing. “Of all the festivals, Fyremas is my favorite. Though I expect it’s most folks’ favorite.”

“People are happy to bid winter farewell.”

“True. Especially in towns on the upper plateau, where the snows are deep and the air is chill. We’re lucky to be spared the worst of the frost here in the capital.”

“Handy to have a Fire Remnant for your prince, infusing the whole city with maegical warmth.”

“Indeed, miss. Indeed.” Her smile widens. “But that’s a big part of why Fyremas is so popular. It’s the prince’s personal holiday.”

My brows shoot up. “He has a personal holiday?”

“It’s mostly to celebrate the start of the new planting season, like I said. But it’s become something of a tribute to Prince Pendefyre over the years. You see, no matter how long he was away, he’d always make a point to come home to Caeldera at Fyremas to recharge the wards that protect us. Always. No exceptions. Some years, that was the only time we saw him for ten or eleven months.” Her brush stills against my scalp and her expression turns solemn. “We’re all very glad to have His Highness home for a longer spell, now that he’s finally finished his work in the south. Now that…well, now that he’s found you, miss.”

My fingertips dig into the fabric of my gown.

“Listen to me prattling on.” Keda shakes her head and resumes brushing. “I’m sorry. I’m chatty by nature. My ma always says I could out-jabber a blue jay.”

“Don’t apologize.”

Her eyes widen suddenly. “Oh! You’ll be needing a dress.”

If I look confused by her sudden proclamation, it is because I already have a whole rack of new dresses, carefully delivered into Penn’s wardrobe by my maids during the first day of my captivity. I gesture down at the simple ivory gown they’ve dressed me in today. “I’ll just wear this one.”

“Oh no, miss. That won’t do. That won’t do at all. You’re the Remnant of Air! You’ll be at the very front during the ceremony. Likely during the fyre priestesses’ procession afterward, as well. A position of great honor—one that calls for more than a plain old day dress, that’s for certain.”

“Day dresses are all I have,” I tell her, even as the image of the many-hued blue Ll?rian gown flashes in my mind. “It will have to do.”

“I’ll make some inquiries with the royal dressmakers. See if they’ve made any plans for you.”

“That’s not necessary. Really. I don’t want to be a burden here.”

“Oh, miss, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“You didn’t imply anything of the sort.” I shoot her a reassuring wink. But it must not have the intended effect, as Keda lapses into troubled silence—and remains quiet as she finishes arranging my hair, then scurries out the door without a backward glance at me.

Several times throughout the day, I catch her in hushed conversation with Teagan, the two of them whispering to each other as they eye me across the chamber. It makes me uneasy and, despite my best efforts to remain upbeat, likely contributes to my increasingly vexed disposition as yet another night falls with no sign of their dearly beloved crown prince.

Locked away in my turret, I finally find the time to crack open the book Soren gave me when I left the Acrine Hold. The first chapter is a rather dry account of things I already know, about the Cull and the fall of the empire. I skip ahead until I find a section discussing the elemental courts.

My eyes scan the page, drinking in the bold letters.

Before the Cull, the four elemental strongholds of Anwyvn stood for thousands of years in their respective locations. Ruled by the emperor’s appointed sovereigns, whose reigns sometimes lasted for centuries, each House eventually established its own unique cultural practices, criminal proceedings, and court hierarchies.

Interesting, if not entirely new information.

I keep reading.

Prior to their sackings, the strongholds were considered by many to be impenetrable. Yet, two of the four would fall almost immediately when the empire was overthrown. A more complete account of the individual battles can be found in Chapter XXVI.

In the margins someone has scribbled an addendum to this paragraph in sloping masculine script. Skip Chapter XXVI. Bloody dry read. Spends more time describing bulwark structure than actual battle strategy.

I can almost hear Soren’s deep, melodious voice whispering the words into my ear. From a full kingdom away, he feels annoyingly present in the room with me.

I roll my eyes and read on.

Below, you will find a chronicle of the four elemental houses, detailing their unique characteristics, from climate to culture to court dynamics. For an in-depth list of lineages and leadership, please refer to Chapter XLIII.

Skip XLIII, too. Nothing but an endless list of old, dead fae who didn’t have the sense to see the Cull coming.

I jerk my eyes away from Soren’s snarky advice and steer them back to the pertinent subject matter. The chapter is divided into four main sections, each discussing one of the elemental courts. I skim the first avidly, my curiosity too strong to suppress for another moment.

House of Ll?r: The Water Court

Located in the easternmost stretch of the Northlands, the prominent kingdom of Ll?r has long been the source of aqueous maegic. Ruled from the island city of Hylios, the vast territory includes the semiautonomous regions of Daggerpoint and Prydain. Despite numerous conquest attempts by mortals, the Water Court remains intact to this day.

Sigil: The Drowning Sun

Sovereign: King Soren, Remnant of Water

Heir: None (potential bastards remain unknown to this author at the time of printing but cannot be entirely discounted as a possibility)

My eyes slide of their own accord to the margins, where Soren has scribbled, Rather judgmental, this author, is he not? I suppress a smile—my first in days, since I found myself in seclusion.

There are a few more paragraphs detailing the ins and outs of Hylios, but I move impatiently past them to the next prominent section.

House of Dyved: The Fire Court

Sprawling across the westernmost corner of the Northlands, the snowbound kingdom of Dyved sits atop an elevated plateau that stretches from the North Sea to the Cimmerian Mountains. As the home of fire maegic, it is perhaps especially fitting that the capital city of Caeldera should sit within the crater of a long-dormant volcano. The unique geographical formations of the kingdom keep it shielded from invasion attempts by numerous Reaver clans in the west, who occupy the neighboring ice shelf, as well as the marauding Frostlanders, who regularly encroach from the east.

Sigil: The Flaming Mountain

Steward: Queen Vanora

Heir: Crown Prince Pendefyre, Remnant of Fire

Next to Penn’s title, Soren has tacked on, and pompous git. I sink my teeth into my lip to smother a chuckle and move on to the next section. The smile fades as my eyes process the words I am reading.

House of Taranis: The Sky Court

The so-called Court of Clouds was once considered the most beautiful of the four maegical strongholds. After the kingdom of Taranis fell during the Cull, many of its unique structures were reduced to rubble. The ruins are located in the southwestern region of Anwyvn, bordered by Lake Lumen and the Westerly Sea, in a territory currently occupied by mortals.

Sigil: The Falling Star

Sovereign: Queen Arianrhod (killed in battle defending her throne)

Heirs: None (all deceased)

Soren has not written any pithy notes in the margins here. Perhaps he knew I would be in no mood to jest after reading about my own court’s destruction. I am so unsettled, I can do no more than glance at the fourth section, which is labeled House of Amaethon: The Earth Court , before I close the cover with a dull thud.

My spirits were already low enough before the rather depressing reading session. They plummet further as I set the book aside. It is my fourth morning of seclusion. I watch Teagan and Keda toweling up the tepid water that runs across the tiles from over the top of my untouched breakfast tray. My offers to help them sop up the mess after my morning bath had been gently but firmly rebuffed, as had all my previous attempts to aid in tidying the tower, dressing myself, brushing my hair. I’m surprised they permit me to lift the spoon to my own mouth while eating my porridge.

Inside, I’m quietly seething that Penn has left me up here to rot. One day of rest was plenty restorative. This forced confinement only serves to make me crazed. My hands itch for my bow. For the comforting monotony of grinding herbs in my mortar and pestle. For the busywork of formerly avoided chores in Eli’s tidy stockroom, if only to occupy the infinite hours that tick by with mind-melting slowness. My appetite—for food, for amusement, for life itself—has withered into nothing.

“You’ve not touched your breakfast, miss,” Teagan chastises, calling me out of my reverie as she drops her wet towel in the bucket and bustles over to me. “You must eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Still, you must eat. You need to regain your strength. Prince Pendefyre instructed—”

“Oh, I don’t give a fig what he instructed. Another day locked up here, I’ll hurl myself from the balcony just for a change of scenery.”

Teagan wrings her hands. Her curls are escaping her kerchief again. “Miss, you mustn’t say such—”

“I did have an idea,” Keda interjects. “Something we could do…”

“Keda!” Teagan hisses warningly. “As we’ve discussed already. It’s not an option.”

I perk up. “What’s the idea?”

“Our chat yesterday got me thinking. There’s a dressmaker here in the city—an old friend of mine from our early years of schooling. She’s married to a member of the Ember Guild, so we don’t see much of each other anymore. Different social circles, you understand.” The brown skin of her cheeks tinges pink, but she perseveres. “We still keep in touch every now and then. And I just know, if I bring you to her, she’ll be honored to create a dress fit for the Remnant of Air.”

“Keda,” Teagan scolds. “You know Queen Vanora has a gown being prepared for her already by the royal dressmakers!”

“She does?” I ask.

Keda’s slim face contorts in a grimace. “ That awful thing? You cannot be serious! It’s the color of pus! Not at all suited to Lady Rhya’s coloring. Not that you’ll even be able to see her face with so many ruffles at the collar…”

My lips twist. “How very…considerate…of Her Royal Majesty to think of me.”

“You’re a lovely woman. You’ll look…” Even while wringing her hands in distress, Teagan cannot bring herself to lie. “You’ll make the best of it, no matter what the gown looks like.”

“She’s to be presented to the whole city!” Keda practically screeches. “You’d have her look like a pustule?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, Keda! You know I don’t want Lady Rhya looking like a pustule!”

“I also would prefer not to look like a pustule,” I chime in. “For the record.”

They both ignore me, busy glaring at each other.

“Are we certain I even have to attend?”

“You have to attend,” they say in unison.

“Then I vote we pay this dressmaker friend a visit.” I rise to my feet. “Gods know, right now, I’d walk to the guillotine just for a chance to stretch my legs.”

“It’s settled, then. We’ll pay her a call this afternoon. You can speak to her while we run our errands at the market, and we’ll collect you on our way home.”

Teagan makes one final appeal. “The prince won’t be pleased when he hears of this…”

Keda plants her hands on her hips in defiance. “What do you think will displease the prince more—returning to find she’s slipped out of the tower for a few hours under our close supervision? Or splattered against the rocks beneath the falls because she’s been driven mad by boredom in his absence?”

“I’m guessing the latter,” I murmur.

Both women studiously ignore me for the second time in as many minutes.

“Come now, Teagan. Surely you can agree she’s in need of some diversion,” Keda wheedles. “I don’t see the harm in it. We’ll be with her practically the whole time!”

“But the prince—”

“Stay here, then!” Keda throws up her hands in frustration. “If you’re so worried about breaking protocol, stay here. We’ll be gone but a few hours.”

“I’m not staying here! Gods only know what kind of trouble the two of you will find yourselves in without me there to talk you out of it!”

And so we go—the three of us, together. No one moves to stop us as we make our way down the many stairs and through the drafty stone passages of the keep below. No one pays us any mind whatsoever. Keda was right; everyone is far too busy preparing for the upcoming festival to notice two brown-clad maids and their blue-cloaked charge slipping out the front gates and hurrying across the bridge.

The minute the sun hits my face, my spirits soar. To either side of us, the lake sparkles like facets of a teal gemstone. We pass a fleet of arriving tradesmen, their horse-drawn wagons piled high with foodstuffs, flowers, fireworks, fresh vegetables, and festive decorations. Some are strapped down with cages of chickens, geese, and other live fowl; others have pigs leashed behind them, waddling to their deaths with smiling snouts. The line of merchants stretches nearly the length of the bridge, all waiting for their chance to unload at the front gates.

The market is similarly crowded—even more so than the first time I saw it, each stall packed with shoppers. Keda marches through the bustle with a purposeful stride, clearing a path with the sheer force of her gaze. People scurry out of our way like cockroaches in torchlight. With her in the lead, it does not take us long to clear the throng.

Only moments later, we are in a part of town I’ve never seen before. The streets are cobbled, the sidewalks lined with flickering lampposts. The buildings are cramped close together, one running right into the next—a mix of shops and storage depots, narrow alleyways and stone-faced warehouses. We bypass a stately bank building, where a constant stream of patrons flows in and out the tall front doors, exchanging crowns from fat purses at their belts.

Eventually, we turn off the main thoroughfare onto a pleasant avenue lined with squat manicured trees and several glass-fronted shops that exude elegance. I note an apothecary, a cobbler, and a delicious-smelling chocolatier before we come to a stop outside a pale blue building at the end of the block.

Several fabulous ball gowns are on display in the window, a blend of intricate beading, bold cuts, and eye-catching needlework. One looks like a golden bird in flight, with a feathered bodice and fluttering wing sleeves. Another seems fit for a mermaid beneath the sea, with a pearl-lined bodice and a long train of shiny disks that shine like scales. The front door is propped open to allow the breeze inside. The wooden shingle hanging above it declares PREMIER CLOTHIER in ornate carved letters.

“This is it,” Keda announces, stopping abruptly. “Carys’s shop.”

“Carys? Your friend is called Carys?”

“Do you know her, miss?” Teagan asks.

“No,” comes a lilting voice from the doorway, where a woman has just appeared. Her shiny black hair is braided in a perfect circlet, her light green eyes are glittering with warmth, and her hands rest on her heavily pregnant stomach. “But she knows my husband quite well.”