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Chapter Eighteen

Daeros—Tenebris

“Do you think he knows?” says Saga quietly, threading strands of rubies into my hair. My gown is red tonight, the skirt stitched with orange and gold to look like fire.

“Knows what?” My thoughts are scattered, useless.

I catch her gaze in my dressing table mirror. She bites her lip, her eyes red from crying. “About Indridi,” she whispers. “She was with us when his company passed us on the road.”

My heart wrenches. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

She finishes with the rubies and sags against the dressing table. I catch her wrist, hold her steady. “It isn’t your fault, Saga. None of this is your fault.”

“I shouldn’t have come back here. I shouldn’t have gone to battle, thinking I was invincible.

If I hadn’t, Njala and Hilf and Indridi would still be alive.

Vil wouldn’t be chasing after some dangerous Iljaria weapon, clamoring to rule something since the oracle chose me to rule Skaanda. I shouldn’t have—”

“Saga.” I turn from my stool, grab her by both shoulders, and look her square in the eyes. “None of this is your fault,” I repeat. “ None of it.”

She nods miserably, but I don’t think she believes me. She fights tears the whole time she helps me get dressed, but rallies when Vil appears at our door to escort me to dinner.

He’s dressed all in white, with black gems in his ears, and he’s glittering and beautiful, but I do not want to go with him. He’s clearly still furious about earlier, but I don’t know if his anger is channeled more at the Prism Master or me.

We talk very little on our way to the dining hall.

“We have to tread carefully,” he says. “With the Prism Master here.”

He’s changed his tune from earlier, but I don’t call him on it. I take a breath, fighting to stay calm. “You know we can do nothing against him. He’s too powerful.”

He nods, jaw tight. “That’s why we have to get our hands on that weapon before anyone else does.”

“We don’t even know what it is. If it was so powerful that the Iljaria buried it—”

“It doesn’t matter what it is,” says Vil shortly. “Only who wields it.”

I gnaw on my lip, unhappy.

“There is something between you and the one-eyed prince.”

I bristle. “I helped him up, Vil. Is that so severe an offense?”

He doesn’t answer.

We reach the dining hall.

Kallias has not given the Prism Master the seat of honor. Ballast sits there, the silver powder his attendants have dusted over his cheeks not disguising the rising bruise left by Kallias’s fist. He doesn’t look up as I’m shown to my place across from him.

The Prism Master—Brandr—sits between Ballast and Aelia, sipping his wine, dark eyes flitting around the room.

His gaze catches mine, and he lifts both eyebrows.

His magic twists suddenly through me and I gasp at the pain, unable to stop myself.

He gives a brief, sharp smile. The magic withdraws. He turns his attention elsewhere.

I’m hardly able to eat any of my dinner, fighting nausea and the sick twist of fear. I’m relieved when the attendants clear the table, when we’re ushered back into the great hall for dancing.

Music fills the cavernous space, half a dozen children from Kallias’s Collection clustered in the corner, effortlessly playing strings and woodwinds to the insistent rhythm of a pulsing drum.

Northern lights dance violet and green beyond the Sea of Bones; I blink at them and yearn for true light, but there is a long while yet before the sun will rise again.

“Dance with me, Princess,” says Kallias, suddenly at my shoulder. Before I can protest, he tugs me out into the middle of the floor, where the dancing has already started, couples dipping and twirling to the swelling music.

My body remembers the dances Vil taught me what feels like so long ago, before Indridi died in the dust. But Skaandan dances are not the same as Daerosian ones, and I stumble, tripping over Kallias’s feet.

He catches me, both hands on my waist, and I recoil, knocking into another dancer. Kallias just laughs, grabs my wrists, pulls me into the dance again.

“My dear Astridur, you seem far away this evening.”

I grimace, scrambling for an appropriate response and coming up empty.

“I wanted to remind you,” he says, as he lifts his hand and spins me under his arm, “that you have not yet answered my proposal. The Prism Master’s arrival changes things.

He will push to have his way, to seal the treaty quickly.

My terms are the same: Become my queen, save yourself and your country.

Refuse me, and you will all die.” He smiles as he says it, like either outcome would give him immense pleasure.

“You think you can best the Prism Master?” I say quietly. “He’s the most powerful man in the world.”

Kallias shrugs. “Not for much longer. Answer me soon. Before your time is up. And, Astridur.” Danger sparks in his eyes. “I do hope that your little display earlier means nothing. It would not take much for Ballast to fall back out of grace. I have other sons, you know. I can choose a new heir.”

He leaves me reeling in the midst of the dancers. I hardly have a moment to breathe before magic writhes along my skin and I turn to find the Prism Master standing there. He holds out his hand.

I take it.

We dance. There is a roaring in my ears, blocking out music and light and air, everything but the mad beat of my heart.

The Prism Master whirls us to the outskirts of the dancers, a pace away from the glass wall.

“I am surprised to find a Skaandan princess here,” he says. “Especially one I didn’t know existed.”

I can’t quite meet his eyes, can’t quite comprehend the shape of him or his wild, teeming power.

I answer his question with one of my own. “I am surprised to find the renowned Prism Master is little more than a boy.”

His jaw tightens. “My father is dead. His power passed to me.”

I gulp air.

His eyes glint as he turns me under his arm. “How close is Kallias to the heart of the mountain?”

We both cease the pretense of the dance in the same moment, sizing each other up in the eerie glow of the northern lights. I want to lie to him, but I haven’t forgotten the probing pain of his magic. “Close,” I say. “He will reach it before the end of Gods’ Fall.”

He smirks at me. “Why are the Skaandans here?”

“To overthrow Kallias and seize Tenebris for themselves.” I speak quietly, for fear of being overheard.

“And you have signed your name to this mad plot?”

“I mean to kill him.”

He frowns, perhaps disapproving of my murderous Skaandan impulses. “Take care, Princess. The Iljaria—”

“Would you care to dance with me, Your Highness?” comes a quiet voice just behind me.

It’s Ballast, his ribbon and eye patch scarlet, bright as blood against his dark-and-light hair. “If you are not otherwise engaged,” he says.

The Prism Master is a cool pillar of rage. He regards Ballast as if he were a worm, easily squashed underfoot. He stalks away without another word.

I meet Ballast’s eye, trying not to look at the bruise on his face, which has deepened in color since dinner. “You looked agitated,” he says. “I thought I’d come and rescue you.”

My blood boils. “I don’t need to be rescued , Ballast!”

His brows draw together. “We all need to be rescued sometimes. Even you, I think.” He holds out one hand. “But will you? Dance with me?”

Despite Kallias’s threat, I take his hand, let him lead me back onto the dance floor. He’s clumsy, with just his one eye. Sweat beads on his brow. For a few moments he doesn’t speak, concentrating on the dance steps.

He smells of herbs and our dinner wine, and his hands are warm about my waist. Despite everything, I want to melt into him. My heart feels easier with him near.

“I frightened you before,” he says then, quietly. “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to think that I am like him.”

“I know you’re not,” I whisper.

“I don’t know how to keep you safe.” His voice breaks. He lifts one hand to tuck a stray curl behind my ear. “I want to keep you safe.”

Tears blur my vision, and I tell him my wretched truth: “I don’t know who I’m supposed to be loyal to.”

He smooths his thumb across my cheek. “Be loyal to me. We’ll pool our cards together. We’ll win this game of War.”

“But the Ghost God card is yet to be played,” I remind him. “We could still lose everything.”

His eye is bright. “I’m willing to take that risk. Are you?”

A hand on my shoulder pulls me away from Ballast, and I turn to find Vil there, his face creased with anger.

“Leave her alone,” Vil says to Ballast, low and cold.

Ballast offers Vil a dangerous smile. “I don’t answer to you.” He flicks his glance back to me. “Astridur,” he says. Then he slips away without another word.

I wheel on Vil. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What do you think you’re doing?” he retorts. “Why do you let him touch you?”

I shove Vil away from me and leave the great hall, rage writhing in my very bones.

He comes after me, hard on my heels in the corridor until finally I turn to face him.

The tears in his eyes freeze me where I stand.

“I hate all this,” he says, his voice breaking.

“I wish it was over. I wish we could strike today. I wish—” He takes my hand and smooths his thumb over my skin, and I let him, wrecked by his tears.

“I am ready to rule Tenebris, Brynja. And I want you to stay. I want you to rule it with me. I want you to be my queen.”

“Vil—”

“You don’t have to answer me right now. But please. Please. I want it to be you. It has to be you.”

I blink at him in the cold stone corridor, uneasy at the eerie echo of Kallias’s offer. What am I, to Kallias, to Vil? Do they truly want me? Or do they want only to possess me? Kallias with his twisted games, Vil with his desire for power. And what about Ballast? It’s a risk I’m willing to take.

“I’m tired, Vil.” My voice shakes. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” I turn to go.

But he catches my wrist. Pulls me back. Raises my hand to his lips. “I’m in love with you, Brynja.”