Kings of Deceit - R

[Mollianne]

“Leave.” Jessa had never heard such quiet, dark fury in Alrick's voice. The guard glanced back at Jessa, hesitating. For a second remorse shone in his eyes, then a cold mask fell over his face. He straightened and left the room wordlessly. The snick of the door as it closed had a definite note of finality.

Icy hands clamped without warning around Jessa's throat. She was flung from the bed, smacking hard against the stone wall. Those frigid hands kept her in place a few inches above the ground. Her arms flailed in a desperate attempt to pull the arms off her, but her hands closed around nothing. She scrabbled anyway, pure panic taking over logic. Even the sharp pain of her fingernails digging into her skin did not bring her to her senses. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She needed to get away. Her legs kicked out wildly. She gasped out desperately, feeling herself fading. This would be a cruel twist of fate, if Jessa believed in such things as destiny; Rhys was alive and now she was to die instead. She would never see him again, she would never get her answers and make peace. But, at least, Jessa could leave this world knowing Rhys had a chance. It was more than she could ever ask for.

From far away, she heard footsteps coming slowly towards her. She still thrashed wildly, her brain refusing to give up on life. She kicked out desperately, hoping her foot would find her attacker. It did, sinking weakly into soft flesh, and she made out a grunt. The pressure lessened on her throat, letting her gasp in a gulp of precious, glorious air. A moment later, the hands fell completely away and she dropped to the ground. The tiny bit of air she had managed to breathe was knocked right out of her as she connected hard with the floor. Winded and wheezing, Jessa propped herself up with shaking hands. She took in as much air as she could, far too fast, and soon she was choking. Briefly she tried opening her eyes but the world around her swam and she squeezed them shut again as a wave of nausea assaulted her.

Though her eyes were closed, she still sensed it when something blocked the flickering orange candlelight. Still choking on the air, Jessa barely registered the hands – real, this time – that reached down and yanked her up by her arms. She went limply. The king all but threw her against the chair. Her head smacked against the wooden back. Her body sagging and her head lolling, Jessa tried opening her eyes. Slowly, the world lost its hazy quality, though the room still swayed slightly and she felt she would vomit at any moment. The whole exchange could not even have lasted a minute, and how much damage had been done anyway.

The king stood before it, and as he stared into her eyes Jessa felt her limbs go rigid and heavy. She couldn't move anything but her head and her fingers. He held something out to her, placing it right in her hand. It was thin and sharp. Her head tingled, and she knew she should close her hand around the object. She grasped it tightly, crying out as the blade sliced through her skin. She fought to let go, but her hand would not listen to her. She felt warm blood seeping through her fingers. Eventually, as her cries became sobs, her grip loosened on the knife. Alrick pulled it away, letting it slice her finger. Jessa whimpered, unable to move her other hand to press it to the wound, whatever that would do anyway. Her injured hand shook in agony. Numbly, she felt the handle of the knife against her other hand, and despite everything, she took it. Alrick made her want to take it.

“Who were you talking to?” He was behind her now, and his hands rested on her shoulders and pressed down hard. He bent down. “Did you celebrate their victory with them?”

Jessa had no idea what he was talking about. What victory? Her breath stuttered. Did he know about Rhys? If they had dealt with all the bodies, Rhys' would not be among them. She opened her mouth, but her throat was dry and sore and she knew without even trying that she did not want to speak. She didn't even know if she could.

“How does it feel to know your allies are cowards who would attack in the dead of the night?”

Despite it all, she wanted to scream at him. She wanted to tell him that planning an ambush and using mages to turn your enemy entirely against themselves was cowardice. This was all war, in the end. Nothing was fair. But then Jessa paused. What was the king talking about?

Alrick laughed then, a dead sound. He came around to face her. “Do you not know?” He shook his head in disbelief. “How can you not know?” He leaned forwards, bracing himself on the arms of the chair. “Who did you contact?”

Though it hurt so much, she rasped, “A friend.”

“A friend,” Alrick repeated tonelessly. Jessa didn't care what he believed, for that much was at least true. However right Alrick was about her allegiance, the dreamwalk had actually been an innocent – one between friends rather than allies in a war. The dreamwalk itself, however, was even harder to explain. Jessa had to divert his attention. She had to find something he would care more about, even momentarily. Something that was a bigger threat than Jessa. There was only one option.

“From Jasrah, the university. She... found mage. Told me – Miriyam and Johannes.” The words came slowly, each word taking more effort than it should. But she was rewarded with the expression on Alrick's face. His face had drained of all colour. His arms shook. Jessa braced herself for him to lash out, but instead he stepped back clumsily. “They're your children. You tried to kill them. Now they... kill you. All of us.”

“What are you saying? Make sense, girl.” There was a wildness to him that Jessa had never seen. He spoke too quickly, too sharply. Alrick feared death. But if there was something he feared more, it was losing his life because someone else was better, more powerful, than he was. He had tried to kill Miriyam and Johannes not just because they were illegitimate, but because they were an unknowable quantity he had not had under his thumb, controlling their knowledge of magic and gauging their power. She felt something inside her, compelling her to tell the truth. She had no desire to lie. Not only could this buy her more time, but the king could do far more than she to protect uncountable innocent lives from Miriyam's wrath.

“Miriyam – blood magic. Kills bloodline.” Alrick went rigid except for the hand in his hair that began to shake uncontrollably. “They're coming to Ovis.”

Alrick did nothing. He stared at her, uncomprehending. His eyes were wild with fear. For the first time, Alrick was scared in her presence and Jessa only felt sick. What Miriyam had planned was too awful for Jessa to take any satisfaction from the king's reaction.

“When? When will they be here?”

“Don't know. Left some days ago. In disguise – noble, don't know who. Got... cut off.”

Alrick stared at her. She wondered whether Alrick had done something – was that even possible? She didn't know. But something had distracted Nayall, whether it had been Alrick or something at camp. Without taking his eyes away from Jessa, Alrick called for the guard. The man entered warily, steadfastly refusing to look at Jessa. He stood to attention by the door while Alrick turned to look at him.

“Get my children. Take them to my quarters.”

“Sire, it's the middle of-”

Alrick glared at him. “You will get my children,” he repeated, his voice breaking on the last word. The guard watched him in disbelief. Jessa did the same. “You will not let them out of your sight, to even to blink. I will be there soon. Go.” The guard didn't have time to react before Alrick barked, “Now!”

The guard bowed and scarpered, remembering at the last second to close the door behind him. Alrick turned back to Jessa. He stepped forward and back-handed her across the face. His signet ring sliced into her cheek, drawing blood. Then, quite calmly, he pressed a handkerchief to the cut, letting her blood soak the white fabric. Jessa frowned in confusion, but did not dare ask.

Alrick, however, seemed more than willing to explain himself. “No one will be able to contact you again. This time, at least, it helped. But I have no doubt that the Novarians have mages among them who can dreamwalk. I am under no illusion that you have made contact with them in such a manner. I cannot allow that to happen again. I have been too soft with you.”

He wrapped the handkerchief up so that the blood disappeared inside the folds, then put it in his pocket. A blood amulet. It was Jessa's only guess, though surely that would affect the king's ability to use magic on her too. No, he must have some way. Jessa was filled with dread. The cut on her cheek stung, and Jessa's hate welled within her. Her hands were still covered in fresh blood, though blood only trickled out of the wounds themselves now. Nevertheless, he could easily have taken that blood. He simply wanted to hurt her more.

Alrick glanced at the door. Leave, Jessa begged silently. Go to your children. But Alrick turned back to her, all traces of fear gone, replaced by fire in his eyes. Suddenly, Jessa's left arm was no longer frozen. Instead, she very much felt the desire to move it... It was only when she felt the knife nicking the skin at her throat that she even remembered she was holding the knife. Had Alrick made her forget?

“One thought, and you will kill yourself. One thought. I can make you do anything. You are mine. The Novarians may have their victory. They may have Solridge.” Despite her fear, despite the threat of the knife, Jessa was relieved. The other soldiers, the ones who had split off, had not only survived but had won? She could barely believe it. “But I will end this. One thought is all I need. The truth is right there, holding a knife to your throat. They cannot win, and you will watch them all die.”

His gaze flickered down to the knife, and Jessa pressed it just a little bit closer, wanting to feel blood run down her neck. Before it could break skin, the desire inside her rushed away, leaving fear and horror in its place. Jessa flung the knife away from her and it clattered uselessly to the floor. A small part of her wondered what would have happened if she had actually aimed for Alrick, though the larger part felt horrified at the thought. She doubted it would have done anything anyway, except make Alrick even angrier.

Alrick collected the knife and went to the door. “A healer will come in the morning. You need to be presentable for tomorrow. We can't have Tula's spies think anything is amiss. It will be our little secret, one you mustn't forget. You are mine.”

He left, and all feeling returned to Jessa's limbs. She sagged against the chair, exhausted and terrified. She did not try to move to the bed, even though it would be more comfortable. Her legs would not hold her weight. Even her arms felt heavy and she checked the wound on his cheek – no longer bleeding – and pressed her fingers against the slices in her palm, ignoring her disgust at the drying blood that coated her. It wasn't exactly hard; it hurt too much. She hated him. She had never hated someone as much as this, so much that her skin crawled and her blood boiled and she could barely think. She did not belong to him. All the awful things he had done would not go unpunished. The people in this world would not be his toys. She thought of Laurita's brother, Odaren, and of Nayall and countless others. She couldn't imagine their pain at being used. Yet if Nayall could fight back, they could too. She thought of Rhys. Rhys: so strong, so beautiful, so alive – he had not let Alrick win.

No matter what was between them, she had to follow Rhys' example. She had to prove she did not belong to Alrick and that he would not win. Rhys was alive, against all odds. Despite the pain in her hand and the pain in her heart, Jessa smiled. She smiled so wide it hurt. It was a smile Rhys had, one night when he had drunk a little too much wine, told her lit up the room. It was a smile she had only ever given to him. In that moment, sitting in the dark and in pain, Jessa did not care about the hurt Rhys had caused her. All she cared about was that he was still in the world. They might not be together in it, but a world without him in it at all was a dark world with little hope. She shook her head at herself, the betrayed part of her wishing her heart did not feel so full, but Jessa could not fool herself. She was still in love with Rhys. She could not be with him again, but equally she could not stop that small flutter in her heart. It had died when she thought Rhys had died. Feeling it again, knowing Rhys was alive, was everything.

Let the king do his worst to her.

[Rosabeth]

Picking the lock of the tailor’s shop had been the easy part, it was stumbling about in the dim lantern light that proved far more difficult. Laurita rifled through a small pile of evening gowns neatly piled on a back table, an order undoubtedly intended for a noble woman a bit older than them judging by the style. Rhys watched Laurita with amusement as she would hold up each gown in turn, admiring the vibrant silk brocades and satins until she inevitably wrinkled her nose and set it back down, gravitating instead toward the pile of linen sheaths at their side. She held up a delicate cream-colored sleeveless dress to her body, turning to Rhys with her eyebrows raised in appraisal.

“That’s nice if you like wearing your underwear in public,” Rhys whispered, stifling laughter at Laurita’s grimace.

“It looks like half my dresses back in Asanos,” she protested.

“And there’s your reason as to why Etrenians think Novarians dress a bit provocatively for polite company. This is Avirn, not Asanos.”

As Laurita gave up her argument and turned reluctantly back to the heavier Etrenian fashions, Rhys looked back to Nayall, already dressed in men’s finery. The man looked uncomfortable in the heavily embroidered jacket, tugging at the sleeves absentmindedly and flexing his legs in the stiff trousers. Rhys wondered if Nayall too was coming to the realization that, should he be king, this would become his wardrobe, this brief masquerade as a nobleman becoming a very stark reality. The idea of being king had still not settled right with Nayall, though Rhys could hardly blame him. From the way he shied away from discussing his private conversations with Tula on the matter, changing the topic any time anything that might be construed as heading in that general direction came up, acknowledging reality was still too strange to comprehend.

A hushed groan from behind him pulled Rhys’ attention to Laurita standing near a panel screen in one of the linen sheaths, struggling helplessly with the laces of a corset. “How are you supposed to do this? This is so unnecessary.” Her breathy hiss came out with such frustration Rhys pressed his lips tightly to hide his grin, knowing seeing it would only make Laurita angrier. Rhys navigated his way around piles of boxes in the lantern’s glow until he stood behind her, taking the laces from her hands and undoing Laurita’s messy attempt before starting once more.

“You seem to have a lot of experience with corsets for a man, Rhys,” Laurita teased, flashing a smirk over her shoulder.

“More experience taking them off than putting them on, but yes, you could say that.”

“I bet you do,” Laurita laughed, her attentions turning to Nayall then. She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head. “Are you as experienced as Rhys here? Is this a thing all Etrenian men know?”

“I didn’t exactly see many corsets over the last eight years.”

A pin drop would have sounded like an explosion in the silence that followed Nayall’s words. Laurita put a hand to her lips in horror, looking as though she wished to crawl into the darkness in shame. At first Nayall did not seem to notice the effect his words had on the room, still fidgeting with his coat, but slowly his expression morphed into regret, letting out a sigh as he shook his head. “I didn’t mean for that to come out quite so depressing.” For a moment Laurita looked as though she wanted to reach out to Nayall to give the man some comfort but she seemed to decide better of it, pulling back the hand that had begun to outstretch and standing quietly as Rhys finished lacing her up.

When Laurita was fully dressed in her finery, looking every bit the proper Etrenian woman, the real work began. Nayall sat before Laurita as she gently ran the tips of her fingers along the contours of his face, her expression contorted with concentration. Slowly Rhys began to see the changes, gradual at first, things he’d never notice without a longer look. The bridge of Nayall’s nose widened ever so slightly, his eyebrows gaining a subtle arch and his jaw softening, all the while his dark skin gradually growing lighter until it was just a few shades darker than Rhys’. Subtle effects of aging marked his face from a hint of crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes to the flecks of grey streaking his black hair. The end result still greatly resembled Nayall, Laurita leaving his eyes untouched, yet Rhys could not shake the uncomfortable feeling of looking at something very wrong. It was like looking at someone you knew yet didn’t all at once, though Rhys knew to anyone unfamiliar with Nayall he would look nothing out of sorts. By the time Rhys stopped his fixating on Nayall’s face Laurita’s own disguise was already complete.

Together the pair passed easily for the role they played, and as Laurita passed a small hand mirror to Nayall he let out a small whistle of approval, Laurita beaming with pride. “You could have made me more handsome,” Nayall teased, scrunching and pulling his face as if looking for some small defect in her work. For a moment Laurita looked almost insulted by his inspection, snatching the mirror back. “You’re already handsome – we don’t need you cocky too.”

As Rhys watched the two banter he could not help but feel a pang of sadness. Laurita’s face – as wrong as it was - was alight with amusement, and with her smile Rhys felt as though he was seeing a glimpse of the old Laurita, the girl who’d flirted with soldiers at the queen’s ball and took a timid Jessa under her wing without hesitation. A girl whose laughter could bring a smile to anyone’s face. Rhys had not seen that girl in some time. Even Nayall, usually so serious and quiet, looked at ease as Laurita fixed the collar on his jacket. It was the most Rhys had seen Nayall smile – ever. A wash of guilt overwhelmed Rhys. Though his involvement with the war had not affected Odaren’s capture or Nayall’s work in providing sanctuary to scared mages, he could not help that feel that it was he who’d dragged both of them so intimately into this war. Yet in that moment – seeing them look so alive – Rhys could forget about all of that.

The streets of Avirn were dark and quiet as they made their way through the uneven cobblestone roads towards the Demairous’ manor. As the prominent noble family of Avirn it had not been hard for Rhys to determine that would be the location of the night’s festivities. Rhys had felt so foolish for not recognizing the Lanis’ plans from the beginning. The Spring Procession was a well-established part of southern tradition, an opportunity for power-seeking nobles to travel to Ovis for the summer season as a way to attempt to garner favor at court. For Rhys’ family the tradition was useless, the thought of the Marinons attempting to bow and scrape for the du Renes a laughable notion. But for many nobles it was the event of the season. The procession took weeks to reach Ovis, stopping in dozens of towns on the way for lavish parties, the journey as much a part of the draw as the destination itself.

“What’s your maiden name?” Rhys asked Laurita, rattling off yet another question. The long hours of their ride to Avirn had not been wasted. Between Rhys’ lessons on how to act in high society and Nayall’s attempts at morphing his accent into something more believable for a supposed lord, Rhys had drilled them both on the details at every opportunity.

“Marel.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Fourteen years as of next month.”

“Children?”

“Two – a 12-year-old girl and a 9-year-old boy. Both are at home with a governess.”

“And home is?”

“Lurind.” Rhys had chosen the city specifically for its obscurity, far enough east to be near the Antascian border. Few nobles would have heard more than its name, hardly caring about which families held any prominence. “This is our first time in the procession.”

“How old are you?”

“How dare you ask a lady such a question?” Laurita’s false outrage caught Rhys by surprise, Nayall laughing as she brought an unusually pale hand to her heart. Rhys shook his head. “That’s…not actually a bad answer, honestly. Alright, in your opinion, who breeds better horses – Novamor or Aquena?”

Laurita balked. “No one is going to ask me about horse breeding.”

“You obviously underestimate the banality of noble’s conversations.” Laurita only rolled her eyes at Rhys’ words, something Rhys ignored. “I’m just trying to make sure you can’t get slipped up on some small detail. You have no idea what you might be asked.”

“Rhys, I could write a biography on this woman and she’s not even real. We’ll be fine, won’t we darling?” Laurita looped her arm through Nayall’s, leaning into him and batting her lashes. Nayall smiled and patted her hand, though for a moment Rhys thought he detected a blush. “We’ll be fine, Rhys. It’s you I’m more worried about.”

Nayall’s words caught Rhys off guard. The first day of their journey had been filled with anxieties, Nayall and Laurita’s initial interest in Rhys’ proposition overshadowed by fears surrounding his sudden emotional change. Laurita had broached the subject several times, always with subtlety and quiet words as if afraid to set him off. Yet truly Rhys felt fine. It was a cover, that much Rhys new. A temporary distraction to numb the pain that still lingered in his mind, always there waiting a chance to break free. But it was a distraction none the less, and Rhys grasped at the freedom that came with it. After some time they’d simply stopped questioning Rhys, accepting his strange mood with reluctance. Rhys had thought they’d moved past that. Now he was not so sure. At the sight of Rhys’ hesitance Nayall shook his head. “No, not that. I’m worried about your cover. You’re far more likely to get discovered than we are.”

Though Rhys could not use Laurita’s magic, his disguise was still convincing enough. Though he’d desperately wished to attend the party with them, too anxious to simply wait in the wings, he knew it was not an option. Without Laurita’s magic he’d have no ability to change his face, and with Jasran nobility sure to be present his cover would be blown in a matter of minutes. “I’m just going to be in the servant’s areas – no one will think twice.”

Nayall scoffed. “Rhys, no one in their right mind would think you’re a servant. You’re the least convincing commoner I’ve ever met.”

“What’s wrong with how I look?”

“It’s not about how you look, it’s about how you act. You speak like someone who spent years being tutored on how to pronounce every single word precisely right, like you practice your own accent.” Rhys grimaced. He had been tutored in that very thing. “When you sit in a chair you don’t just let your body relax, you always find somewhere to place your hands and you rarely slouch. Even your walk is distinctive – it’s like you walk purposefully rather than just as a mode of getting from one place to the next.” It wasn’t until Nayall sighed that Rhys realized his face betrayed his mild offense, his lips pulled into a frown. “It’s not a bad thing, Rhys. You were raised differently than I was. You don’t realize you’re doing these things because they’re just a part of who you are. But that’s the problem – you don’t realize you’re doing it. Even if you tried to change your accent and your posture it would just come off as unnatural with so little preparation.”

“And what makes you think you make such a good noble?”

Nayall grinned. “I’ll just copy you.”

The Demairous’ manor glowed in the darkness with the light of a hundred lanterns. From a distance Rhys could see a couple leaning against a balcony overlooking the front path, entangled in an embrace. He did not suspect they’d notice much of anything at Laurita and Nayall’s approach but Rhys errored on the side of caution, the three of them creeping through the trees to the south and making their way towards the back of the manor. Rhys knew the layout of most noble’s homes well, their servants’ entrances reliably predictable. The kitchen would likely be busy at this hour and two nobles and a strange man entering nearby would surely draw questions. Instead they headed for the entrance nearest where the laundry would be done, almost guaranteed to be empty at that hour. Upon their entrance Rhys’ thoughts were proved correct as they emerged into darkness and silence. They found their way quickly through the empty halls and up the stairs, listening behind doors for sounds from the other side before continuing on. As they drew further into the manor voices began to echo through the walls, a waltz Rhys knew well playing behind the sound of laughter and muffled speech. When Rhys opened the final door at the top of the last set of stairs the world erupted in a frenzy of sound and light.

A long, open balcony stretched all the way around the ballroom, looking down onto the massive party below. Thousands of candles illuminated the dozens of couples who took to the dance floor, the light reflecting off the twirling satin gowns. Those who did not dance lounged casually in sitting areas arranged around the floor’s periphery, sipping on wine as servants bobbed and weaved through the crowds to offer trays of delicacies. A second, larger balcony stretched out beneath theirs, dotted with solitary nobles observing the festivities from afar. Rhys scanned the room for Lord and Lady Trevian’s faces to no avail. Surely they must be there somewhere, but in the throngs of people individual faces blurred together, the sound and scenery proving distracting.

From his side Rhys heard a low huff and turned to see Laurita shaking her head, her once jovial attitude replaced with disgust. “There’s a war going on – people dying every day – and they’re drinking and dancing as if nothing’s happening? People are starving and they act like nothing’s wrong.”

“You knew this was a party. What were you expecting?”

Laurita sighed. “I don’t know, I guess it didn’t really hit me until I saw it. It’s just so…”

“Opulent? Distasteful?” Nayall suggested, he himself frowning as he looked over the crowd.

It felt strange to feel the urge to defend that which he knew was indefensible, yet in a way Rhys did not wish to be implicated in the sins of the nobility. Though his family rarely participated in these sorts of events, and certainly not during war time, he could not deny that this was his heritage. Did he not benefit off the security of his class? When was the last time he’d worried about starvation or poverty? Still, Rhys could understand their motivations in a way in which Laurita and Nayall could not. “It’s not necessarily that these people don’t care about what’s happening – well, some of them probably don’t – but rather that for many of them this is a distraction. They’re scared just like everyone else, but this is what they know. This event is an important part of their lives. I think being here helps add some normalcy to their lives.”

“Normalcy like bringing courtesans to your party?”

Rhys and Laurita’s heads both snapped in Nayall’s direction at his words, his finger pointing down towards a spot on the floor below. Even at the distance Rhys could see that the woman who sat on a lord’s lap, laughing flirtatiously at something he said, was far too young to be his wife. As Rhys looked more closely he realized the woman who sat beside the lord, ignoring his flirtations with the girl casually while sipping slowly from her glass, was likely the lady of the family.

While Nayall simply rolled his eyes, a wicked grin began to spread across Laurita’s lips. “And I thought Jessa’s prudishness was just an Etrenian trait. This is certainly a fascinating turn of events.”

Rhys let out a low groan, running his fingers through his hair. “Yes, well the south is a bit more liberal than Ovis.” Laurita’s grin only widened. “You’d never see this done so openly in the north. Most noble marriages are arranged. Seeking companionship outside your marriage is fairly well accepted in noble circles. Typically, their spouses are well aware of what’s happening.”

Laurita snorted. “Companionship. That’s a funny word for sex.”

Rhys did not bother responding. Instead, he withdrew two daggers from inside his coat, handing one each to Laurita and Nayall. “Hopefully you won’t need this, but keep them hidden just in case. I know you’re both mages but that’s not going to help you against Miriyam, should she discover we’re here. Remember, lay low, blend into the crowd, and ask about the Trevians. Someone must know where they are. Once you’ve located them don’t let them leave your sight. Wait for them to separate before acting, and if they refuse to leave each other’s side figure out a way to make it happen. This isn’t going to work unless we can get Johannes on his own, alright?”

“Rhys, we know the plan. We’ll be fine.” Laurita gripped Rhys’ forearm in reassurance. For a moment Laurita’s contagious smile took away Rhys’ worries, but only for a moment. Though the first part of their plan was simple enough, once Johannes was on his own there was truly no telling what might happen. Rhys pushed those concerns away. He would take this one step at a time.

“Come on then, my dear,” Laurita grinned, taking Nayall’s hand and turning towards the main entrance to the third floor across the balcony. “We can’t let these nobles have all the fun.” For a moment Nayall looked stricken, his eyes widening at Laurita’s words. It took a moment for Rhys to understand why. Laurita put a hand to her mouth to stifle her laugh. “I didn’t mean let’s go join them,” she gestured over her shoulder towards the courtesan, her grin turning mischievous, “though if that’s what you want I’m up for negotiation…” As the two headed toward the doors Nayall looked as though he might die of embarrassment right then and there. Rhys could hear Laurita’s quiet laughter in response.

Left alone in the darkened balcony Rhys crouched into the shadows. The balcony wrapped all the way around the periphery of the room, allowing for full view of the evening from any angle. As Nayall and Laurita finally stepped out into the main crowd and began their meandering through the throngs, Rhys found himself darting silently between pillars, tracking their every move. It was strange to observe from afar, to be so removed as to not even be able to offer a guess as to what was being said. He watched as Laurita touched a hand to Nayall’s shoulder and leaned in close, looking as though she was telling him some illicit gossip which solicited something resembling laughter. Though they kept close to one another, sipping wine and bowing their heads close in what would have otherwise looked like an intimate conversation between a couple, their eyes looked elsewhere. Even from a distance Rhys could follow Laurita’s gaze sweeping the room, Nayall occasionally looking up to scan the lower balcony. Rhys had described the Trevians well enough, but in a room of Etrenian nobles things like “middle-aged,” “greying brown hair,” and “on the taller side of average” were of exceptionally little use. Rhys did not even know what Nayall and Laurita were hoping to find in their scan – he doubted they did either.

Growing weary of his position lurking in the shadows, Rhys stepped back towards the wall, straightening as he began to wander down the narrow hall. With his mind wandering, wondering what spot might be best to observe Nayall and Laurita’s new position in the west of the room as he turned a corner, Rhys almost didn’t see that he was not alone. His heart lurched, a hand tightening on his dagger instinctively as he pressed himself against the wall. A dark figure crouched near a pillar, so motionless as to look like no more than a haunting statue. That Rhys had not seen them from the other side of the balcony was a chilling thought. Slowly, dagger held at the ready, Rhys crept closer to the figure with light steps. The closer he got the more details came into focus. He could not tell whether the figure was a man or a woman, their all-black attire giving away no cues. They had black hair to match, smoothed and pulled into a tight bun at the nap of their neck. Now only steps away, a glint of light caught something silver the figure’s pale hand. A ring. Rhys’ heart stopped. He knew that ring.

With blinding speed the figure spun on their heels, one hand jutting out to grab Rhys’ neck as the other pressed a blade against his jugular. Rhys felt the sting of the blade nicking his skin, but Rhys barely noticed the pain. All his thoughts were on the familiar blue eyes only inches from his.

“Anja?”

Rhys gasped as the grip around his neck released along with the blade, his sister’s shocked expression staring back at him. “Rhys? Gods, I didn’t even recognize you at first. What did you do to your hair?” Anja’s hand grabbed Rhys’ jaw, pulling his head to the side as she examined the gash on his cheek. “What happened to you? Have you been fighting?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Rhys grimaced. Anja, every bit the Marinon, did not push any further. She understood there were some things you just didn’t want to know.

“What are you doing here, Anja? Last I heard from Kieran you were in Jasrah keeping tabs on the Lanis’.”

“I was – until they left Jasrah, that is. I’ve been tailing them ever since.” Anja scowled at Rhys’ panicked stare. “I’m not an idiot. I’ve been careful. Unlike one of us I don’t throw myself into every damned death drap I can. You worry more than mother.”

Rhys knew his sister was more than capable of taking care of herself, but he could not help but let fear well up inside him. “Anja, you know you’re like me. It’s not safe for you to be anywhere near Miriyam. She could kill you with a glance.”

“If you’re so worried then why are you here? Don’t act like I don’t have every right to be here, just like you. Unlike you, I’m not here for Jessa. I’m not putting my neck on the line for her. I’m here for Dima, and all I want is to be the one that gets to slit that bitch’s throat at the end of the day.”

For a moment Rhys only stared at his sister, her violent words as unsurprising as ever, and then in an instant her arms were wrapped around his waist, pulling herself tight against him. Rhys could feel Anja’s sigh of relief against his shoulder, a sound that brought a smile to Rhys’ lips. Despite years of misgivings, more than a few fights, and thousands of vitriolic words exchanged between the two, Anja was still his sister. He thought of all the time they’d wasted bickering over a future Rhys only now realized he’d never truly wanted, wondering what might have been if this issue of inheritance had never existed. Rhys and Anja were siblings – they were not meant to be enemies. He only wished it hadn’t taken Dima’s death for him to see that.

One very long explanation later Rhys found himself crouched beside his sister, the two of them staring down in a silent rage at a scene that made Rhys’ blood boil. Only feet away from Nayall and Laurita, the two bowed together in what Rhys knew must be anxious conversation, Lord and Lady Trevian – or at least their likenesses – entertained a small crowd. Rhys watched Miriyam charm the crowd effortlessly, a scene that hit far too close to home for Rhys’ comfort. He wanted to scream at these people to leave, to save themselves before they became pawns in Miriyam’s sick games, but it was a hopeless cause Rhys knew the power of Miriyam’s persuasion all too well. He could not pretend he had not been a victim too, and she’d not even been using magic. Rhys cringed away from his embarrassment at the memory. He would not let others fall prey to Miriyam as he had done.

As Rhys watched Johannes chat amiably among the nobles Laurita suddenly rose from her chair, Nayall’s panicked look as he reached out to her enough to assure Rhys that he was not going to like whatever Laurita had planned. Smoothing her dress and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, Laurita strode forward to Johannes’ side, Rhys’ heart pounding furiously in his chest.

“What is she doing?” Anja hissed, her fingers curling into fists. “This was not part of the plan you told me.”

“That’s because she’s going off-script,” Rhys groaned. The plan had been to locate the Lanis’ and create a diversion in order to isolate Johannes from Miriyam. Under no circumstances were they to approach the man with his sister only feet away. Rhys prayed to every god he knew that Laurita knew what she was doing.

Rhys leaned in closer to the balcony railing, straining his ears as if somehow, if he listened just a little harder, he could hear from such an impossible distance. Laurita was talking to Johannes with animated gestures, her body leaned in towards the man until their arms were nearly touching. Suddenly her mouth was open in laughter Rhys couldn’t hear and her hand rested lightly on Johannes’ arm. Before Rhys knew what was happening Laurita was dragging the man out to the dance floor, Johannes showing little resistance, and in moments the two swept off in a waltz. Though Rhys’ skin crawled at the very notion of Laurita flirting so effortlessly with such a monster, he could not deny his awe at her resourcefulness. Despite the unpleasantness of the situation, Laurita had found a way to isolate Johannes. Rhys made a mental note to laud her with praise in the aftermath.

Despite his initial panic Nayall recovered quickly, positioning himself in Miriyam’s company and striking up conversation the moment Laurita disappeared into the rest of the dancers. Rhys could only watch with bated breath, anxiety swelling up within him with each passing second, each breath more labored than the last. It was torturous, waiting for Laurita to reemerge, watching Nayall distract Miriyam with the fear that at any moment she might see straight through Nayall’s disguise. Rhys did not want to speculate as to her retribution. The moment Laurita and Johannes reappeared, Laurita’s forced laughter somehow audible above the cacophony, Rhys let himself breath. Her face betraying nothing, Laurita made her way back to Nayall’s side, Rhys somehow thinking the hand that reached out and pulled her tightly to his side more than just an act. Seconds passed, each feeling like hours as Rhys stared wide-eyed in anticipation. Then, just as Rhys thought it would never come, Laurita’s hand rest on Nayall’s back, her fingers curling into a fist for just a moment. That small motion was all Rhys needed.

Rhys grabbed Anja by the arm and pulled her up, his sister nearly falling in the sudden loss of balance. “That was the signal.” Rhys gave no other explanation, ignoring Anja’s fiercely whispered protests as they ran down the servant’s stairs, hardly caring about being seen now. Rhys’ mind was a flurry of jumbled thoughts he could not comprehend. The burst of cool night air that hit as Rhys stepped out onto the manor’s grounds brought with it a wave of clarity, Rhys’ thoughts clearing if only for a moment. He and Anja sprinted for the tree line and Rhys all but collapsed against the bark of a towering oak, his breath coming out in rasps. At their sudden stop Anja shoved Rhys aside, growling under her breath. “What was that all about? You’d think we were being chased!”

“We had to get here quickly. Once Laurita spoke to him there’d be no way of knowing how long it would take. He could be here any minute! We had to be ready.”

“What in the world are you talking about? You know, when you were supposed to tell me what was going on you were supposed to tell me the damn plan! You –“ Anja’s words cut short, the soft thump of footsteps on grass drawing her attention away. Laurita and Nayall – their faces back to normal – approached at a run only to stop some distance away, both gaping openly at Anja’s presence beside Rhys.

Anja let out a lengthy, excessive sigh almost too dramatic even for her. “Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re as thrilled to see me as I am to see you. And to answer your question you haven’t asked yet I’m here for the same reason you are. So now that that’s out of the way can someone please tell me what is going on?”

“Did it work?” Rhys’ question to Laurita only brought on another of Anja’s groans but Rhys paid her no mind. It was something he was quite used to. Laurita gave a grim nod, her fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of her dress. “I’ve never…I’ve never done that before. It was almost too easy.” Laurita’s mouth pursed at the word, as though it was too unpleasant to say. Rhys felt for her, her shame nearly palpable. “I just looked him in the eye and told him that he would meet me here as soon as he could get away from his sister, and to not tell him who he was meeting. I told him to tell her he was going to change his shirt – I managed to knock a woman’s wine glass onto his shirt while we were dancing so it’s a reasonable excuse. At first I didn’t think it worked but then he just looked at me with this glassy expression and…”

“I’m sorry you had to do this.” Though the sentiment in Rhys’ words were true, Laurita new the truth. Rhys hated to see the pain in Laurita’s face at having used her magic in a way despicable to her, a way she’d vowed to never use on another, and yet he could not truly be sorry she’d done it. If ever there were a time to go beyond one’s normal limits this was it. That Laurita had agreed to it in the first place gave him hope that they were in agreement on that one thing. Laurita shrugged, pulling her arms in close. “I just don’t want to do it again.”

The waiting – though likely no more than a few minutes - was agonizing, only making Rhys feel sillier with each passing moment for having been insistent to make it to the rendezvous point with such speed. Anja paced in circles as they waited, grumbling under her breath what Rhys could guess were curses directed at him and his idiotic schemes. Just as Rhys had resigned himself to the wait Laurita straightened, one hand held out with her finger pointed to the distance, her eyes wide.

Emerging from the darkness, taking his time with a casual pace, was Johannes Lanis. Or at least the man Rhys knew to be Johannes. It was strange to watch this grey-haired man of 60 with soft eyes soft and a black-speckled beard stroll towards them quietly, knowing full well in his head that beneath the veneer was the same icy-blonde, strikingly pale, toweringly tall man who’s face would be burned into Rhys’ mind as long as he should live. The very thought of that face boiled Rhys’ blood, his hand tightening around the dagger at his side until the handle’s edges dug into his skin. Johannes continued his walk with glazed eyes and a dull expression, showing no sign that he recognized Rhys’ appearance even when he stood beside him. It was not until he stood directly under the white oak that Johannes’ blank mask of an expression dissipated, and by that point Rhys and Anja had thrown all their weight at him, Johannes’ body smacking against the ground with a thud as Rhys straddled his chest, holding a dagger to his throat.

“Hello again,” Rhys hissed in Johannes’ ear, relishing in feeling the man struggle uselessly under him. Without Miriyam around to lift the magic that held him in his disguised form Johannes was without his peak physical strength, trapped in the confines of an aging man’s body. Anja twisted both of Johannes’ arms above his head, the man groaning in pain as Anja contorted them into unnatural angles with a dark smile on her face. Laurita and Nayall kneeled on either side of Johannes, awaiting patiently their roles and looking rather thankful it was not they who had to physically restrain the man.

“Rhys Marinon,” Johannes spat, struggling once more against Rhys’ hold. “How’s your brother enjoying his tomb?”

Rhys had to clamp a hand over Johannes’ mouth as the man screamed over the sickening pop of his shoulder wrenched from its socket. Rhys cast Anja a wary glance yet at the same time he could not blame her for her actions. His own knife had pressed a bit closer to Johannes’ neck at his words. If he’d had to hear Dima’s name on Johannes’ lips he might have let his knife slide.

“Lucky for you, Johannes, we’re not here to hurt you today.” Anja cast Rhys a look of disappointment. “Well, hurt you any more than we already have, that is. In fact, we’re here to offer you salvation.”

In place of a sharp retort Johannes simply spat in Rhys’ face. Rhys’ hand shook as he wiped the spit from his face, struggling to keep his composure. “Tell me, what do you remember about your sister’s fascination with blood magic?” For a moment Rhys thought he saw a glimmer of hesitance, of thought, of something buried deep in Johannes’ mind waking up at Rhys’ words. “Do you remember your conversation in Ezaria Arcius’ sitting room? The dagger? Anything at all?” Once more that same hint of recognition sparked, only to be quickly extinguished. Johannes only continued to glare at Rhys through eyes so narrowed they were nearly slits, his resistance against Rhys and Anja’s hold growing steadily more wild. The memories were buried somewhere in Johannes’ mind – that much Rhys knew. They just needed to find them.

“Are you sure you can do this?” Rhys asked, turning to a remarkably calm-looking Nayall to his right.

Nayall gave a firm nod. “I’ve done it before a few times, but only in the mage ring. I’ve never done it of my own free will. But from what I remember it’s not too difficult if you know what you’re looking for. Memory blocks can be incredibly complicated, but people generally only put in the time to make them so if they know for a fact someone has reason to be picking apart their head. For him…well, I can’t imagine that’s the case.” With Rhys’ approval at his words of affirmation, Nayall put his hands to Johannes’ head and let his eyelids flutter closed. That was when the thrashing truly began.

Johannes struggled violently against Nayall’s intrusion, thrashing even when it caused his neck to run against Rhys’ knife, a thin line of blood trickling down from the slight cut. Rhys pressed all his weight onto Johannes’ body, surprised at the strength that came from the older man. Despite Johannes’ protests Rhys’ eyes were firmly locked on Nayall, watching the man’s face contort as he struggled against Johannes’ resistance. Rhys remembered watching the very same memory be unlocked from Ezaria’s mind, letting the memory of the relative ease with which that block had been removed bolster his hopes as the moment stretched on and on. As minutes passed Laurita too began to look concerned, laying her hand against Nayall’s forearm and giving a gentle squeeze. Rhys did not know whether Nayall was even aware of Laurita’s presence, if he was too far lost in Johannes’ mind to feel the offered comfort, but suddenly Nayall’s brow furrowed and his arms tensed, some change occurring that even Rhys could see. Within seconds Nayall’s eyes snapped open as he let out a gasp, collapsing into the grass to catch his breath.

A stillness like death took over Johannes. His eyes stared blankly up towards the stars, lost in some thought Rhys could not see. Yet Rhys knew what it was that consumed Johannes mind. He remembered Ezaria’s words well, the imagery of Johannes’ panic at Miriyam’s blade clear as though he’d seen it himself. He waited, watching Johannes’ face carefully, tensed and ready for any unexpected movement. Then as sudden as he’d gone still life flooded back into Johannes, his eyes alight with a wild fear Rhys had never seen.

“No, no, that’s not real. What are you showing me?” His eyes flickered to Nayall, breathing labored beside him, his jaw tightening in his rage. “What did you do to me?”

“You know it’s real,” Rhys pressed. “What you see is no more than your own memory, one Miriyam has been hiding from you for months. It’s been there this whole time, you just couldn’t see it.”

“You’re lying!” Johannes hissed, yet his words held less anger than the last. Rhys could see reality setting in, no matter how slowly. “Miriyam wouldn’t…Miriyam…she…” As Johannes’ denial trailed off Rhys knew what unspoken words were caught in the man’s throat. Miriyam wouldn’t do that to me. Rhys could practically see the moment realization dawned on Johannes’ face, the cruel reality setting in. Yes, his sister could. She would. The sudden grief that contorted Johannes face pulled at some empathy Rhys did not know he had. Yet those feelings were fleeting. He would not feel for the man who’d been complicit in his brother’s murder.

“Miriyam loves me. I’m her brother.” These words were not spoken to them but to himself, a reassurance falling on deaf ears. Johannes’ face fell as the betrayal consumed him. “She wouldn’t let me die.”

Anja scoffed, Rhys throwing her a look of dismay. “Yeah, some love. Sister of the century.”

“Anja, you’re not helping,” Rhys muttered, but it was clear Anja’s words made no difference. Johannes was not listening. It was not until Rhys pressed the blade of his dagger flush under Johannes’ neck, forcing the man to tilt his head backwards, that a look of clarity swept over the man’s face.

“We didn’t bring you here to give you some revelation – we’re here to offer you a choice. Miriyam might not give a damn if you live or die, but we do, because you’re the only person who’s close enough to her to stop her. Cooperate with us – help us stop her – and we’ll spare your life. You can walk free.” Rhys did not miss the look of outrage in Anja’s eyes or confusion in Laurita’s at this promise. “Go against us and tell your sister what you’ve seen and you’ll find yourself her puppet again. But when we stop her we will not show you an ounce of mercy. You will be tried and executed for mass murder and I will personally tie your noose, are we clear?” Johannes did not entertain Rhys with a response but Rhys could see the understanding in his eyes. “Or we could just put the memory block back in place and let you run back to her like a dog, free to help her orchestrate your own death.”

An unexpected fire lit Johannes’ eyes and his body tensed. “Why would you spare me? I know you want me dead. Don’t act like you wouldn’t kill me if you had the chance.”

“Because as much as I hate you I can recognize when someone’s being manipulated. You might be as evil as your sister or you might be a decent person beyond your sister’s control – I don’t know. But what I do know is you’re being used as a tool against your will. I’m willing to let you make your own decisions. This is the only chance at clemency you’re going to get, so if I were you I’d consider it carefully.”

A long moment passed, Johannes and Rhys staring at one another in a silent struggle. For a second Rhys’ confidence wavered. How deep were the siblings loyalties? Would Johannes willingly sacrifice himself for Miriyam’s personal gain? Or did he recognize that these were not the actions of love and loyalty among family? When Johannes opened his mouth Rhys realized he’d been holding his breath in anticipation.

“What do you want me to do?”

The relief that swept through them all was palpable, Nayall and Laurita letting out the breaths that they too had been holding. “You don’t need to do anything. All you need to do is go back to your sister and pretend nothing is different, follow her commands as if you have no reason not to. What we need from you is information, not action. You have to know where she found this spell. You have to know her thoughts, her plans. Tell us what you know and we’ll do the rest.”

Confliction was clear on Johannes’ face as he opened his mouth, pressing his lips closed in an afterthought, likely thinking of the betrayal his words would be to his sister. Yet clearly Johannes valued his life, and for that Rhys was thankful. That Johannes was rational at all was their only hope. “We spent time in Antascia before going to Novamor. That’s where Miriyam learned most of her magic. We found a book there, a book on blood magic. Miriyam became obsessed with it. It’s written in Antascian; it took us ages to find someone willing to translate it. Miriyam keeps the Barichean translations of some of the spells with her, but the book itself is still in Jasrah. We left most of our belongings at the Trevians’ house – we didn’t want to risk some servant stumbling upon something here the Trevians surely shouldn’t have. There’s other things there too – more books on magic – but none are in Etrenian. You’ll need to translate them yourselves.”

“And what of her plans for Ovis? What’s she intending to do when she gets there?”

“I don’t know.”

Rhys pressed the dagger harder against Johannes’ skin, drawing a thin line above the spot he’d nicked earlier, Johannes hissing in pain. “I’m not lying! I don’t know anything. Miriyam’s spontaneous; her plans are always changing. Even if she did have a plan there’s no guarantee it would be the same in a week’s time.”

Though it was frustrating to hit a dead end Rhys did not doubt Johannes words. Slowly, Rhys removed the dagger from Johannes’ throat, waiting a moment to see if the man attempted any wild actions. When Johannes lay still Rhys slowly shifted his weight off the man’s chest, nodding to Anja to release his arms. With a groan of pain Johannes clutched his dislocated arm, rolling to his knees and pushing himself to his feet. “Am I free to go?” He muttered, his eyes glancing between the four of them that stood at his side, all ready to subdue him once more.

“Laurita, Nayall, can one of you heal him before he leaves? We don’t want Miriyam to be suspicious.” When both nodded Rhys turned his gaze back to Johannes, his rage breaking through his last restraints. Before anyone could stop him Rhys punched Johannes in the face, his own hand throbbing with the pain of the impact as he threw every last ounce of strength into the hit. He felt the bones in Johannes’ nose shatter at impact, the man stumbling backwards and collapsing on the ground with the inertia. Laurita and Nayall looked to Rhys with shock, stepping forward as if to stop him from some further violence, but Anja only stood back with a smirk.

“That’s for Dima, you son of a bitch.”

Rhys walked away before he could let himself do something he’d truly regret.

***

A low muttering woke Rhys from his sleep. He blinked dazed into the darkness of the room at the inn, seeing Anja stir beside him, also awoken by the noise. As his eyes adjusted to the dark he could see Laurita and Nayall in the far corner, speaking quickly to one another in anxious tones, Nayll crouching beside Laurita who propped herself off the floor with her hands. Rhys could not make out individual words, only sounds, Laurita’s words hurried and her eyes wide and frantic. Amongst the unintelligible murmurings Rhys made out only one word – Jessa. His heart lurched

“What’s going on?”

Laurita and Nayall turned with a start, Nayall’s brow furrowed in concern. Laurita’s eyes flickered between Nayall and Rhys, a hesitance there, some unspoken secret Rhys was not in on. The longer they stared in silence the more worried Rhys became. What did they know about Jessa? Why would they be awake at this hour, whispering conspiratorially? Rhys’ mind went dark places he willed it not to go.

“Please tell me what’s going on. You can’t tell me it’s nothing.”

Laurita bit her lip, looking to Nayall for reassurance. When Nayall gave a reluctant nod she sighed and pressed her hands to her face, taking a deep breath. “We were trying to contact Jessa in a dreamwalk. I spoke to her a few days ago to tell her you’re alive but we got cut off. The celebration about Solridge broke Nayall’s concentration. So we decided to try again tonight but…”

Rhys felt himself holding his breath. “Laurita, tell me now.”

This time it was Nayall who spoke. “We can’t contact her. It’s like hitting a wall. I’ve never had this happen before. There’s just nothing there.”

Rhys could hear his blood rushing in his ears, time coming to a crashing halt. There’s nothing there. Rhys mind went immediately to the only place it could logically go – Jessa was dead. Laurita saw the horror on his face immediately, her eyes widening as she realized the implication of Nayall’s words. “No, no, that’s not what we’re saying! Gods, Rhys, no. That’s not how Nayall explained it to me. He said it’s more like hitting a wall. There’s nothing there to grab onto, but you know there’s something behind the wall, you just can’t see it. We tried twice and neither time worked. We don’t know what it means. Someone on her side could be blocking her ability to be contacted.”

“Alrick,” Rhys breathed. He did not need anyone to explain the implication to him. If Alrick was blocking Jessa’s outside contact then he knew she was being contacted in the first place. If he knew that much then what else did he know? Rhys’ mind went wild with fear. “I have to go to her!”

“No!” It was Anja who cried out, her hands clamping onto Rhys’ arm, fingernails digging into his skin. “I will not let you risk your life again. I saved your life, Rhys. You owe me this.” Rhys’ heart faltered, pulled by the weight of Anja’s words. Guilt rose up inside him, conflicting with the overwhelming desire to do something. He could not let Jessa be in danger. If she died at Alrick’s hand he would never forgive himself. He would not let that reality come to pass. Suddenly Anja’s face hardened, her eyes boring into Rhys. “For once think of yourself, Rhys. And if you can’t do that then think of me. I need you. I’ve already lost Dima – don’t make me mourn you too. Come home, Rhys. Come back to Jasrah. We can follow Johannes’ lead together. Please. Don’t do this.”

Anja’s words cut Rhys like a knife, his shame overwhelming his senses. He could not look her in the eye. He turned to Laurita with desperation in his eyes. “Please. I have to do something.”

“I’ll go.” Laurita’s words were firm, her face set with resolve. “I don’t know what’s going on but I’ll find out. I’ll talk to my superiors, get permission to spy in Ovis again. I can stay hidden and out of sight. No one in Ovis knows me. I’ll help her, Rhys. I promise you. You saved my father - let this be me repaying my debt.”

Laurita’s plan was better in every way than Rhys’ half-formed reckless notions and Rhys hated to admit it. Yet he could not resign himself so easily. Desperation still fueled him, raging wildly inside him. Laurita could see it, her face a mask of concern. She shuffled to Rhys’ side, laying a hand on his and forcing him to look her in the eye. “Your sister is right, Rhys.” Laurita’s voice was gentle and quiet, a departure from Rhys’ own distress. “You should go back to Jasrah. Focus on Miriyam. Focus on Johannes directions. That will help Jessa far more than running to Ovis ever could. We need you to help us, Rhys, and we need you to live. Please, for once in your life be sensible. Trust me.”

Rhys felt the weight of the situation bearing down on him. His heart yearned for him to throw caution to the wind, to disregard every logical thing Laurita said, every desperate plea of Anja’s, and do what he wanted so desperately to do. Yet he knew they were right. He hated it. With a sigh of defeat Rhys gave a weak nod of his head. “I’ll go back to Jasrah, but just long enough to figure out how to stop Miriyam. Then I’m coming to Ovis.” Rhys could practically feel the room itself sigh in relief, Anja’s nails loosening as she threw herself against his side, wrapping her arms around him. He stared at Laurita, watched her shoulders sag in relief and her eyes close. When she looked to him once more she mouthed a thank you, and in it Rhys felt her implicit promise. She would protect Jessa. Rhys knew he could trust her with that.

They prepared to leave at dawn. Most of the morning was spent in silence, the tension too great to say anything of importance, their minds all lost in thought. It was not until moments before their departure that Nayall approached Rhys, leading his horse by the reins toward him and Anja. As Rhys peered back towards Laurita he saw only emptiness where she’d been only minutes before. Nayall answered Rhys’ question before he could speak it.

“I’m coming with you.”

Rhys paused, the words throwing him. “What? Why?”

“I thought about it a lot last night. I could go back to camp, listen to more of the queen’s lessons and lectures, let her mold me into the perfect king. But if I’m going to be a king I need to make my own decisions. Your family and the du Renes have been at odds for too long. I can change that. I know what they say about your family but I don’t care. You may be criminals but you’re not irrational – there must be room for negotiation somewhere, and you’re going to introduce me to your parents.” Nayall smiled, but behind the smile Rhys could see his hesitance and his nerves. Rhys did not blame him for them. “If I’m going to start anywhere with gaining noble allies why not start at the top?”

[Mollianne]

The dress had been delivered what must have been hours ago – Jessa could only tell that it was now nearing evening because the sun had already dipped past the tiny window set high in the wall and now the bed, and her notes, were cast in unfortunate shadow. Jessa sighed; she had been doing so well to avoid looking at the dress since its arrival, but now she had to squint to see the words she was writing in the growing gloom. Pushing a hand through her hair, Jessa made the mistake of letting her gaze land on the offending gown. With the poor lighting, she could almost convince herself it was a deep brown or dark grey, perhaps even black. Almost.

It was red. Because of course it was. It was by no means a requirement that the du Rene family wear red to all occasions. It was, in fact, quite the opposite, being considered too pompous and formal even for them, and thus generally reserved only for weddings and state addresses. Of all of them Elissa wore it more than the rest, presumably to make people think her important. But this? The king was sending Jessa a message, one she received loud and clear. She belonged to him now. She was at his mercy and he would decide her fate, her interactions, and even her damn dress. Her hand moved by reflex to her cheek. The cut was gone now, of course, removed from existence by a healer with glassy eyes – Jessa felt sick with the thought – and gentle hands. The memory of it would not so easily fade. Alrick had hurt her to show his power over her. The slap, the dress – it was all the same.

With a gusty sigh, Jessa pushed the papers off her knees and shuffled to the edge of the bed. The room was so small that she could reach the chair, on which lay the folded dress and accompanying petticoat and corset. She moved the corset and petticoat to the bed beside her, then tilted her head to look at the neckline of the dress. Gold thread curled down it in an intricate pattern Jessa could barely follow. Holding the dress by its shoulders, Jessa stood and the dress revealed itself in full. Despite the colour, it was an impressive sight. The gold swirls and patterns trailed from the neckline down to the cinched waist where the thread wrapped around. The skirt was unadorned and light. It was understated, as far as gowns went, apart from the colour.

Jessa put the dress at arm’s length, looking it up and down. As her gaze reached the floor, she noticed a folded piece of paper lying against the stone. Draping the dress over the chair, Jessa picked up the note and flipped it open. Your Highness, I do hope you like the dress. My aunt says she is particularly fond of the pattern on the sleeves. Jessa looked up, pulling one of the long sleeves out. It was rather impressive, the looping gold thread seamlessly transitioning to an array of colour, different depending on which way she held it towards the dying light. She turned back to the note. Perhaps you might tell everyone who made your dress again. I’ve had other commissions since the first time.

Yours, Elodie Blare.

Jessa stared at the name. Of course she remember Elodie, having saved the girl from Elissa’s cruelty. It had been that very thing that had prompted Jessa to attempt to make contact with the servants. But she had not known her surname until then. It was startlingly familiar. For a moment, Jessa frowned, and then realisation began to dawn. She lifted her skirt and tugged a very different kind of note out from its hiding place tucked under the waistband. She had not dared leave the note in her room – for which she was very glad after everything that had happened – but had also not wanted to burn the note and the signatures with it. And there, underlined, was the name she was looking for – Mahlia Blare.

Elodie had lost her mother, Jessa recalled, bowing her head. Could Mahlia Blare be her aunt? If so, there was a chance there was more meaning to the note that first appeared. The aunt liked the sleeves… Jessa appraised them again, twisting them and even going as far as to align the sleeves side by side as though that would reveal something. Nothing stood out. Perhaps she was reading too much into it. But why else would she sign her full name, when Elodie would have sufficed, and mentioned her aunt? No, Jessa just was not seeing it.

Perhaps that was because it was getting darker. She did not have much more time before the ball would start. Dropping the note to the bed, Jessa pulled her day dress off – refusing to think how dirty and disgusting it was, though at least she’d been allowed a bath after the mage had healed her wounds – and hurriedly donned the petticoat and corset. The dress came last, the skirt fanning slightly because of the petticoat. It was nothing like the massive skirts some of the nobles would be wearing, for which Jessa could only be grateful. Jessa put a hand to her hair, but she could do nothing about it. She didn’t even have a comb.

“Well.”

Jessa jumped at the voice. Immediately she cursed herself for not being prepared, for not hearing the door or seeing the lantern light on the wall opposite the door. Mostly, for letting the king see her fear. Slowly, she turned around. Alrick appraised her and, his tone reeking of superiority and insincerity, said, “Perfect.”

Yes, the perfect prisoner. Jessa did not react. The king smiled, a poisonous and twisted expression Jessa never wanted to see again. He held something out in his palm. The candlelight reflected off the metal. A ring. “Put it on.”

Jessa went to the king as though a hand pushed on her back. Without a second thought, she took the ring and slipped it onto the middle finger of her left hand. The moment she moved her hand away, dread coiled within her. What had she done? She lifted her hand, a dark laugh threatening to escape when she saw the elegant twist of the metal at the top of the ring. What else? A chastity ring. It meant nothing of the sort these days, instead used primarily to form the marriage bands on a couple's wedding day. Sometimes, men and women would wear them to indicate their desire to marry. Jessa felt her gut twist as she stared at the ring and what it represented. It was not just that, however, for it was not a normal chastity ring. A shining sliver of red cut into the twist. Blood red.

The king was still smiling. “Of course I know you would not defy me again,” he said conversationally. “But it's best not to give you the opportunity. Don't you agree?” Even if Jessa would have answered, the king did not pause before adding, in that same pleasant tone, “Try to take it off.”

Jessa looked at her hand warily. She did not want to give Alrick the satisfaction of trying; it wasn’t like he was going to take it back. Besides, if this was the king’s version of a blood amulet, then his magic would not work on her either. She wanted to wear it. Yet, a moment later, she was moving her hand, placing her fingers around the ring. A voice in her head stopped her. Her blood went cold. It was not her voice. Her other hand sprang away from the ring as though it burned. Jessa stared at the ring. She couldn’t take it off. That voice wouldn’t let her. Alrick’s voice.

After a long moment, she looked up into Alrick’s gaze. A smirk twisted his thin lips. He stared at her down his nose, his chin lifted. He looked every image the powerful king, looking down on those beneath him and under his control. Jessa felt a wild thing writhe in her gut. She hated him. How had he done this? How did the amulet not protect her from him?

She would get no answer from him. The king watched her silently for a beat more, and then he said, “You will do something with your hair, and be in the ballroom in half an hour.” He opened the door, gesturing for Jessa to leave. She eyed him, half-expecting a trick, before moving. He did not get out of her way, and she cursed him under her breath as she was forced to sidle past him. She did not breathe until she was out of the room and away from him. She knew she was not truly away from him, however. Her skin tingled, knowing there were eyes on her. There would be nowhere she could hide, not anymore. Her time in Ovis unchecked was long gone.

Half an hour later, Jessa had done very decidedly little with her hair, simply brushing it with a comb a stray servant had provided her with and then gathering it in a messy bun. Her little rebellion. She wondered, too, what Elissa would make of her haphazard appearance. How she would whine at something less than perfect ruining her birthday. It was pathetic; there were far bigger issues in the world. Nevertheless, Jessa could not help but smile at the thought.

Jessa heard the murmuring of the crowd long before she saw them. When she turned the corner onto the gallery that hugged the walls of the main entrance, Jessa just stared at the size of crowd. She watched them shuffle forwards, craning their necks for an early view of the ballroom. Others were muttering to each other, and when Jessa joined them she heard someone complain about what was taking so long. It was true; normally it was a simple matter of walking through the door, but that night the guests seemed to trickle into the ballroom. Even when she reached the front, Jessa was still confused.

“Name,” the guard asked monotonously.

“Jessa du Rene,” she said quietly. How she wished she could go by some other name. Her family’s name did not belong to her. She despised it.

The guard looked up, presumably checking her face matched her name. He nodded, turning around and selecting a yellow rose. There was a pin on the stem. He offered it to her. Jessa stared at it dumbly, only taking it when the guard shook it at her impatiently. “What-?” she started, but the guard had already turned to the next guest and Jessa could do nothing but walk into the ballroom.

Nobles milled about the edges of the room, keeping to the walkways covered by the balconies above. The arches leading to the dance floor were decorated with roses of all colours, twined together into long vines. The centre of the room was lit by countless candles, seeming almost to be floating halfway between the floor and the high ceiling. On one side on the hall, an empty stage awaited the musicians who would provide the music for the night. On the other, a raised platform held the king and queen’s thrones which were similarly empty. The whole du Rene family, except Jessa, were absent. They would wait until the majority of their guests had arrived before making their entrance.

Jessa walked the full length of the room before leaning against the wall. She had taken a glass of wine when it was offered, and she nursed it in her hands. She didn’t feel much like drinking, however. Though she doubted the king would do anything to her that night, it was best for her to stay alert. Her eyes were drawn to the pattern on her dress, and she was so engrossed in trying to glean some secret message that she did not notice when someone approached her.

“What do you suppose these are for?” Aneira Petrave leaned against the wall beside Jessa, wafting her rose in Jessa’s line of sight and echoing the words Jessa had heard many of the guests ask in the short time she had been there. “It looked like Lady Lalleman might know what was going on, she was smirking so much at all the confusion. But all she said when I asked was ‘take note of the colour’. As if that helps.” She glanced down at Jessa’s rose. “We have the same. Kaman has a red rose.”

Aneira sounded disappointed, but considering she did not even know what the roses were for it seemed silly to Jessa. All of this was frivolous. She wished this whole event was not happening, that all the money and food that had been wasted on this had been sent to those in the city. Jessa held her tongue, however. These balls would be her only opportunity to talk to the nobility, under the guise of social climbing.

Jessa looked, finally, at Aneira. She noted the pink tinge to her white cheeks, the slightest sheen of sweat at her hairline – her hair was most elegantly braided and spun into a high bun, contrasting sharply with Jessa. Her gaze drifted inevitably to her stomach. “You’re showing?”

Aneira beamed, pressing a hand to the slight bump at her stomach. Before she could say anything, a sudden hush fell over the gathered nobles. Jessa looked to the royal stage. The king stood in front of his throne. Maira was to his immediate right, and Elissa stood to his left. He hand his arms around their shoulders, holding them more tightly than was perhaps necessary. He watched the crowd, his gaze never resting too long in one place. Searching. For Miriyam, though the chances of her being in Ovis already were surely slim. A number of guards had slipped into the room at the royals’ arrival, standing surreptitiously along all four walls of the room and blending into the background.

Finally, Edmund came out with his mother. Instead of standing with her, however, he moved to stand in front of Maira and the king. Maira squeezed his shoulder before letting her hand drop to her side. The queen moved to her place in front of her own throne, and took Elissa’s hand. They all stood perfectly, but Jessa’s stomach dropped regardless. There was one missing, in the gap between Alrick and Elissa. One who would never be there again. Jessa looked away, her fingers clenching around her wine glass.

“Thank you all for being here to celebrate my beautiful daughter’s birthday. I know times are not easy.” The king shook his head. “Let this ball be a reminder that we are all still here, and we are all still fighting. Keep your families close. You never know when you may lose someone.” Alrick dropped his gaze for a moment. The whole room seemed to look at the empty space where Harris should stand. Jessa swallowed hard, and across the room, she saw the king do the same. “Our son-” He looked towards Catrice, who stared back at him for a moment before offering a thin, weak smile, “-was taken from us long before his time, ripped from us in the cruellest way-”

Jessa saw Edmund’s eyes flicker to the door. His hands clenched into fists. He wanted to be anywhere but there, forced to stand stoically in front of hundreds while his father talked about his brother. Maira reached out, taking her brother’s hand. After a heartbeat, Elissa followed her sister’s lead. She looked like she had been punched in the gut, reminded of Harris’ death after she had flitted about for weeks planning her birthday party as though nothing was wrong and no one was missing. Never mind that there was a war raging beyond the city’s walls, steadily encroaching upon Etrene’s heart. Never mind that thousands had died.

“-I vow I will not let that happen to your families. Your children will not lose a sibling as mine did. I will not let the Novarians touch this city. This is a celebration of my daughter’s birth, but it is also a message to our enemies. We are not scared.” The king stared out as the nobility, daring them to look back and keep their heads high. Silence reigned as the words sunk in. Jessa wondered if they felt as hollow to everyone else as they did to her.

The king looked at his daughter, nodding for her to move forward. When she did not move, he prompted “Elissa?” Elissa looked up at him, confused. Realisation hit a moment later, and she stepped forward. Her brother’s hand slipped out of hers.

“Right, well, um,” Elissa said. She cleared her throat. “I know many of you are probably wondering why you’ve all been given roses.” She held up her own, a delicate pink colour that perfectly matched her gown. “It’s a very old tradition, dating back to Ovisian balls some two hundred years where it was left forgotten, until now. You may only dance with those carrying the same rose. You ask them to dance by offering a petal to them. Anyone can ask anyone, of course. You can ask as many people as you have petals, but one. One must be left so others know who they can ask. That’s all. Enjoy the ball.”

She turned away quickly, going to her mother’s side. Jessa doubted anyone had ever heard such a half-hearted speech from the princess. The room was held in an awkward pause for a moment. No one wanted to make the first move. The musicians made it for them, walking onto the lower stage at the other end of the room and picking up their instruments. The violinist looked across the room at the royal family, presumably having expected someone to announce them. Wordlessly, she took her seat and rested her bow on the strings. As soon as the first strains of music began to play, the room urged itself back to life. Couples slowly moved out onto the dance floor, the musicians pausing to give the guests chance to choose their partners and their spots.

Jessa looked away from the dance floor to find Aneira holding a petal out to her. Aneira asked, pinning the rest of the flower to her dress, “Well, why not?” Jessa hesitated, her heart still heavy with thoughts of Harris. Aneira tilted her head with a smile. “Do you know the Allemande?”

Jessa had been taught the steps in Novamor, but she had been frightful at it. There was too much bouncing on her feet – and hadn’t everyone been exasperated that she had insisted on calling it bouncing – and she never remembered which way she was supposed to turn under her partner’s arm. But Aneira was still looking at her, a plea in her gaze. She nodded slowly, curious as to why Aneira was so interested in dancing with her.

“Come, then,” Aneira said, putting Jessa’s wine glass down on a nearby table before pulling her out onto the floor. They found a space between another pair of girls and a couple who looked like they would rather be anywhere else than dancing with each other. Jessa had but a moment to wonder why they bothered before the music started. Jessa fumbled through the first steps, unable to get the hang of that weird little kick before the rock back and forth on her feet. Aneira took the lead, guiding Jessa through the first few turns. Though Jessa could not see her feet, she only looked up from the ground to check when her next turn would be. It was all sorts of confusing.

Jessa was so focused on just trying to get through the steps that she was surprised when Aneira spoke. “Larend finally spoke to us.”

Jessa did not know where this was going, so she concentrated on crossing her arms and holding Aneira’s hands correctly rather than responding. Aneira brought her closer, then away, then closer again before she added, all earlier playfulness gone, “We will always stand beside him.”

At such a declaration, Jessa looked up. She saw Aneira’s serious expression, and she knew what Aneira was saying behind her words. Larend had told them what Jessa had told him, or at least some of it. Larend had won them their first allies. But… “It’s not safe. You’re-”

“Pregnant, I know. It's poor timing, but I would not change it. We’ve had… well, we’ve been married three years.” Jessa didn’t need Aneira to elaborate. She squeezed the woman’s hand before ducking under her arm in another spin. Their arms turned awkwardly and Jessa realised with embarrassment that she’d gone the wrong way. Aneira made quick work of sorting them out and they restarted the dance. “But I will not abandon my country. I will leave long before the option is closed to me; I will not risk my baby. Until then, I can help my country. I want to make sure my child has a home to return to.”

Jessa wanted to argue, but she neither knew Aneira very well nor had any right to tell her what to do. And really, she could not turn down another ally. Having the Petraves on their side would sway other nobles to the cause. They needed everyone they could get. “Just don’t stay any longer than necessary.”

“I won’t.” Aneira’s face brightened, as if the whole conversation had not happened. A minute later, the dance came to a close. They walked off the floor together, then Aneira went to find her husband. Jessa was left alone, and it was only then that the doubts truly began to creep in. It had taken her a long time to trust anyone else with knowledge of the king’s crimes or with her involvement in deposing him. She had been frozen by her fear of trusting the wrong person and them running to the king. What if this went wrong? It wasn’t even for herself that she was scared, for the king knew she was a traitor. She was scared for Larend, Lady Tremont and anyone else who would come to their cause and risk their lives. Yet they had to do this. Jessa needed allies.

There were far fewer people on the edges of the ballroom now. Many were dancing, and other still had climbed the sweeping staircase to view the scene from above. Jessa wandered along the edge of the dance floor, surveying the crowds. Where was she? She touched the ring on her hand, knowing that even if she found Lady Tremont they would surely struggle to get the ring off her without notice – and that was assuming Alrick had only compelled Jessa into never taking it off. She doubted his first thought would have been to prevent anyone from removing it, for it was the Novarians he was fearful of her contacting. Jessa needed it to be true. It had been a week, at least, since Lady Tremont had placed the block on her memories and she had advised regular meetings to permanently hide new memories.

The next dance ended, and an influx of guests moved away from the ballroom and their partners, seeking their next. Jessa saw Maira and Khalid return to a spot not far from her – of course they had been given the same colour rose. Maira was immediately met by another man who bowed ostentatiously at her. She smiled graciously, said her goodbyes to Khalid, and glided out onto the dance floor with her new partner. Khalid watched them go. As Jessa watched Khalid, she felt something stir in her mind. A question she had been too scared to ask for too long, though why the thought of it came to her mind now was beyond her. Before she had given it much thought, she strode over to him.

“Princess Jessa,” he said, bowing his head. She curtseyed briefly, already plucking a petal from the rose pinned to her chest. She held it out to him. Khalid laughed. “Wrong colour, princess.”

Jessa hadn’t even checked. She felt her resolve fade without the farce of a dance to hide the conversation from any potential eavesdroppers. She was about to turn away when she stopped, realising that, really, there were not too many people here. She could still do this. Khalid frowned at her, confusion shining in his light blue eyes. “Are you okay, princess?”

The question barely registered in Jessa’s mind. She was too busy appraising him, working out if this question was worth the risk. What was so important about it? She had been so sure a moment ago that it was, but she would be exposing a secret – Nayall’s mages – she knew Alrick did not know. And with that, she knew she could tell Khalid. If the king did not know, then that meant Khalid had not told him either.

“How is the boy?” she asked, barely moving her mouth as she turned to look out at the dancers bowing to each other. The music started playing, masking the heavy silence that had just fallen between Jessa and Khalid. Jessa was not quite sure what to make of it; when she risked a glance at Khalid she saw him staring at her. She could see that his mind had immediately gone to the correct assumption, but that he also could not believe that it could possibly be to what Jessa was referring.

“Have they left? You were going to send them to Antascia?”

“How do you-?” Khalid’s voice shook so much he could not continue. Jessa would not have believed Khalid’s face could be paler than its natural state, but he had proved her wrong. Anyone who looked at them would know something was wrong. She looped her arm through his, feeling him start, and forced him to walk beside her under the balcony. The lighting there was not so great, and no one’s was looking at them.

“I…” Jessa faltered, though she did not know why. She had already basically revealed that she was there, and that led naturally to her betrayal of the king. The latter was something the king already knew. This should not be so hard as secret to reveal. Khalid’s own fear had only confirmed that he was not going to talk. “Rose Gard.”

He gaped at her. “You-”

“I looked different. That’s not important. The boy.”

“They were on a coach out of the city a couple of days later, heading to the east to avoid the armies. I have not heard whether they got there safely. But Princess, this is not the place.” He looked nervously over his shoulder. The music was loud and surely hid most of their conversation, but Jessa had to agree that he was right. She sighed in frustration. She didn’t even know why this was so important. Just something in the back of her mind told her it was, and that Khalid could have the answers.

Khalid looked down at her, his lips twisted in indecision. “Name a time and a place – outside the castle – and I will meet you.”

Jessa bit her lip. She couldn’t leave the castle, not easily. There would always be eyes on her. The only person she might be able to visit was Larend, for if she suddenly stopped seeing him now it would cast suspicion over all the time they had spent together in the past few weeks. Larend – could they meet there? Could Khalid even visit Larend without drawing suspicion? What if someone saw him enter the Janes’ manor around the same time as Jessa? Still, it was her only chance. She just had to ask Larend first. As much as she wanted to find out now, there was the safety of Nayall’s network to consider. She could not risk its exposure.

“I’ll arrange it and let you know.”

Khalid nodded, but if he was going to say anything he was cut short by the approach of another nobleman. The man stopped before Jessa, turning his back on Khalid. He took Jessa’s hand, the one with the ring, and kissed it. As he did so, he tugged Jessa so that her grip on Khalid’s arm faltered. She glanced at him, seeing his shocked expression. Jessa shrugged helplessly. When she turned back to the man, who had still not introduced himself, he was holding out a yellow petal to her.

“Princess Jessa, you will dance with me?” he said. Though he technically made it sound like a question, to Jessa it sounded exactly like an order. The man’s long, splotchy white face was haughty and entitled.

“I don’t even know your name, my lord.” His lips became a thin line and his eyebrows raised, his offence that Jessa did not know him clear.

“My apologies,” he replied, his tone suggesting anything but. “Lord Davin Allomere. You can dance with me now, yes? Your father is particularly keen for us to do so.” His gaze drifted to the ring on Jessa’s hand. Her blood went cold.

Outwardly, however, she said, “Of course.”

Lord Davin’s grip on her hand was possessive as he pulled her out onto the dance floor. Jessa wanted to be anywhere else but in his sweaty grip. She knew it was wrong to dislike someone so quickly, but everything in her told her this was not good. Davin finally let go of her hand to take his position across from her. Just as the music started and they bowed to each other, Jessa saw Lady Tremont standing at the balustrade on the balcony above the musicians. Jessa could not see her well from this distance, but she could tell the old woman was staring at Jessa quite intently. Then Davin took her hands and they began to dance, following the circle of pairs around the room. The veleta was another dance Jessa did not know well, but it was similar enough to the more traditional waltz that she could get by. She was grateful for it, too, because the majority of the dance required them to hold but a single hand. The few times they came closer into the closed position, Jessa felt Davin’s possessive hand pull her slightly too close for comfort. She tried not to shiver.

“Your father has said you will make an excellent wife for me, and an excellent mother to my daughter. Her mother died only a month after giving birth.” There was scorn in his voice. Jessa was shivering for an entirely different reason now. They moved away from each other, thankfully, and Jessa steadfastly refused to look at her partner. She refused to acknowledge him, or the realisation that the king had not made her wear the blood amulet fashioned as a chastity ring to threaten her but that he was actually planning on making her remarry.

When she and Davin came together again, he leered at her and said, “I think I will enjoy you. So uptight. Relax.”

At the next step, Jessa deliberated fumbled and stepped hard on Davin’s foot. He hissed at her, his fingers clenching around hers tightly as his eyes flashed in cold, hard anger. Jessa’s heart slammed against her ribcage, though she could not deny that she still had the urge to defy. This noble could be no worse than Alrick to her. She had survived worse. As disingenuously as he had earlier, she murmured, “Sorry, my lord.”

It was the longest dance of Jessa’s life. As soon as it was over, Lord Davin defied protocol and left her in the middle of the dance floor. She couldn’t say she cared. She looked up at the balcony where Lady Tremont had been, but the woman was no longer there. She dropped her gaze, surveying the edge of the dance floor. Near the staircase, Jessa found her and headed her way. Lady Tremont’s arm was around a man who could not be any taller than Jessa. As she came closer, she noticed the similarities in their faces. They had a similar facial structure, wide chins and foreheads, though the man’s complexion was not Lady Tremont’s rosy white but a golden brown. Undoubtedly, they were related.

As Jessa watched, the man left Lady Tremont’s side. Her eyes followed him curiously as he sidled up to a nearby nobleman, who had left his yellow rose in a jacket pocket near his elbow. Although Jessa quickly realised what the man was going to do, she was surprised at how deftly he stole the yellow rose from the man’s pocket and switched it with his pink one. Within moments, he was striding towards Jessa, a petal already plucked from the rose.

He bowed as he said her name. “Lord Ainesh Tremont,” he said. Unlike Davin, he did not grab her hand without permission, instead waiting for her to proffer it. She gave him the hand with the ring, making sure Lady Tremont could see it too. Though she did not stand with them, she was close enough to see what it was and that the red streak through it should definitely not be there. It took everything Jessa had not to look over and see if Lady Tremont had realised the significance.

Lord Ainesh kissed her hand perfunctorily and said, “May I have the next dance?”

Jessa did not hesitate before agreeing. A dance between two young people was not very strange, but Jessa talking to an old woman would surely draw some attention. This was clearly Lady Tremont’s compromise. Ainesh and Jessa took their positions between two sets of all-male couples. Her left hand rested on his shoulder and their right hands clasped. The moment the music started, Ainesh began to speak, his lips barely moving.

“My grandmother has been trying to speak to you. She can’t reach you.” His eyes darted briefly to her head.

“She can do that?” Jessa hissed in surprise. It would make things easier, except… “The ring. It’s blocking her.”

Ainesh didn’t respond for a moment, and his eyes had a faraway glaze to them. She was about to speak up in concern when he looked at her again and said, “Well, I won’t repeat exactly what she said, but she didn’t sound happy.”

He moved out of position, taking both of her hands in his and lifting her into the air in a pretty spin. When she landed again, she felt a circle of metal pressed against her palm. The ring was off her hand. A moment later, Lady Tremont’s voice was in her head. “What happened to you?”

Jessa didn’t know how to respond. Was Lady Tremont able to see her memories? She recalled that the woman had said they did not need to actually be touching to do the memory transfer or the mind block – it only made it easier. Jessa brought forth the memories of the ambush, trying not to linger too long on any specific image, the room, Alrick’s interrogations. It took everything in Jessa not to break down, and she was grateful to Ainesh for keeping his hands steadily on hers, hiding that the ring was no longer there, as he guided her around the room, somehow keeping her moving. She felt the tingle of magic as Lady Tremont not only took in the memories, but put them behind the block without prompting from Jessa. The tingle of magic went away and a moment later Ainesh slipped the ring onto her finger, and in the next moment they were back in position with her left hand on his shoulder. His sleight of hand truly was remarkable.

“It’s done,” he said quietly. “She does want to know why he chose this ring in particular, though.”

“Power,” she replied. “An opportunity to get me out of the way. Both, probably. A Lord Davin Allomere has already approached me about his… intentions.”

Ainesh’s right hand squeezed hard in reflex as his face drained of colour. His eyes took on that faraway quality, and Jessa realised that he must be talking to his grandmother. She felt silly for not realising earlier. She waited nervously. That reaction had not been a normal one. Finally, Ainesh said to her, “That won’t happen.”

“I don’t think I’ll get much choice in the matter. I didn’t last time.” She swallowed hard. “Your reaction that it was Davin Allomere doesn’t exactly… fill me with confidence.”

Ainesh looked equal parts surprised and upset. “You don’t know the rumours? Davin is not a man anyone would want to marry. The rumours – they’re not for polite society.”

Jessa wanted to press – she needed to know the kind of man her supposed father wanted to force upon her – but she could see how uncomfortable Ainesh was. She could learn the truth some other way. Her mouth tasted of sawdust, though, for she could easily imagine what she might discover. They way Davin had talked about his dead wife… Jessa inhaled sharply.

Jessa barely realised when the music stopped. She curtseyed to Ainesh in a daze, and together they walked off. He bowed to her again, his brows furrowed in concerned thought. She watched him return to his grandmother’s side. They headed up the stairs to the balcony, arms interlocked. Jessa couldn’t tell if they were speaking, but she doubted they were when they could just as easily converse in each other’s heads. As much as the thought of using her own magic still scared her, Jessa could certainly see the benefit of such a skill.

Tired of dancing, Jessa retreated to the wall near the ballroom entrance. The shadows kept too many people from seeing her, though as an added precaution she unpinned the rose and hid it behind her back. She let the sounds of the ball wash over her – the violin singing clearly, the chatter and laughter, the chink of glasses. Her thoughts were abuzz with everything that had happened that night. She wished she could leave, but it was still many hours before that was an acceptable thing to do.

Jessa idly watched as three young girls and two boys approached the guards by the door. They were loud and obnoxiously drunk, trying to pull the guards away from their position and draw them into a dance. The guards were not having any of it, but it was distracting enough that they did not notice when someone slipped into the room. Jessa, however, saw him and his blonde hair immediately. In a moment, she was hurrying over to the doors and almost collided with the newcomer.

“Jessa!” Larend breathed in clear relief, holding her by the shoulders. “I-”

“What are you doing here, Larend? I very much doubt you got an invitation.”

“I don’t care about that,” Larend said with a wave of his hand. “I haven’t seen or heard from you in days. Lady Tremont said the same. I’ve – I’ve been worried.” His shoulders deflated.

“Larend, not here,” she whispered. At a more normal volume, she added, “I’m fine. I just came down with something.”

The words were not meant to comfort Larend, of course, but she was surprised that he suddenly seemed more panicked than before. His hand reached for hers before he pulled back. He shook his head, stepping away from her as if he had just realised how close they stood. “Jessa-”

“I’m fine,” she said firmly. “Larend, I promise you. I’m okay.”

He was still shaking his head. “You shouldn’t… You need to get out of here, Jessa.”

“You know I can’t.”

Larend’s hands balled into fists and he looked away from her. His eyes widened, prompting Jessa to follow his gaze. The queen was glaring at them – at Larend. She glanced at Elissa who stood beside her talking quietly to Edmund. Putting a hand on her daughter’s shoulder, she guided her to face the other way, pointing at the musicians. Then, she left her children and stormed over to Jessa and Larend. Larend hadn’t moved, his eyes still wide. “I should go.”

“I think you missed your chance,” Jessa said quietly.

The queen stopped in front of them, and Jessa dropped into a hasty curtsey. Catrice did away with all formality and hissed, “Larend Janes, what are you doing here?”

“Your Majesty, I was just leaving.” He looked longingly at the door.

“You should not be here in the first place. What reason could you possibly have? If my daughter sees you…”

“He just came to see if I was okay,” Jessa said. This was her fault; Larend did not deserve Catrice’s spite.

“You? You had a cold, or so I was told. You look perfectly fine to me. Nothing to get so worked up about and ruin my daughter’s birthday.” She turned her cold eyes away from Jessa. “You will leave. It is bad enough for my daughter that you insist upon staying in the city at all. Why did you not just leave with your father and save us this heartache?”

“I stayed to attend to his businesses, Your Majesty.”

“He intends to return, then, if you are keeping things running?”

Larend frowned. “I… do not know, ma’am. I haven’t heard from him in some time. But my family is clearly unwelcome at court, and aside his businesses which can be run in his absence, there’s really nothing left for him in Ovis.”

“Nothing left?” Catrice’s voice was high and sharp. She looked over her shoulder at Elissa and Edmund. For now, the princess was still looking away. Nevertheless, when Catrice turned back she began ushering Larend closer to the door. “Is he such a coward that he will not face the court and show us that he is not like his wife?”

Larend stopped moving. He twisted so that Catrice’s hand fell off his back. His eyes flashed, and all sense of deference was gone from his voice. “No, he is not a coward. He lost his wife – my mother. He didn’t want to stay here with the court breathe down his neck and make their cruel comments while he grieved. My mother may have been a traitor but he still loved her.” Catrice laughed humourlessly. Larend’s voice hardened. He knew Catrice’s involvement in the assassination plot. He knew she had no right to treat his mother so callously. “I know what she did – and I will never forgive her - but she was still my mother. And I hear what everyone says about her. My father does not need to hear that. I would think you would be more than happy never to see us again. You did just say that I should leave after all.”

Catrice’s hands were curling into fists. Jessa had never seen the queen lose her composure so thoroughly. It was a glorious sight, even if it had come out of the worst of situations. But, of course, it would be galling for her to be chided in public by someone who had fallen so completely out of the court’s grace.

“I’m sorry, Jessa, for bringing you into this,” Larend said, turning briefly to her before looking back at Catrice pointedly. “I will leave now, as I said. I only came to check Jessa was okay and knew that if she was she would be here.” He bowed his head. “Goodbye, Your Majesty.”

[Rosabeth]

Once, the city that lay before Rhys had been a beacon of life. Its narrow streets filled with merchants by day, peddling flowers to pretty girls who watched the sailors in the harbor district and warm pastries to harried students on their way to the university. By night the streets transformed under the soft glow of lanterns. Laughter, deep and boisterous, melded with the lively music of street musicians as the taverns filled for an evening of leisure. Young couples lingered late in the city square, stealing kisses bathed in moonlight before saying their goodbyes. Rhys had been that student, he’d drank in those taverns, he’d kissed Selene in the shadows of the Solena Palace just as the clock struck midnight. That was the Jasrah that filled every memory in Rhys’ head. In these silent, empty streets that stretched out before him Rhys was a stranger in a strange land.

Jasrah was little more than a ghost town. Though the hour was late, Rhys knew that not to have ever been a reason for silence in the past. Even in the depths of the coldest night there was always some drunkard stumbling through the streets, some insomniac out for a midnight stroll to calm their mind – now there was only Rhys, Anja, and Nayall, their boots on the cobblestones the only sound in the silence. Anja betrayed no surprise at the grim sight. “It’s been like this since you’ve been gone. Even with the Lanis’ gone people are still afraid to leave their houses at night,” she said with a shrug, kicking a loose stone down the path before them. “The moment the Lanis’ left we swept through the city, arresting half of those who’d aided them in the massacre. It’s not enough, though. No one feels safe anymore. It’s not the same.”

A lump formed in Rhys’ throat that he could not swallow, and with it came an uncomfortable realization. Jasrah was all Rhys knew. He’d taken his first steps in his family’s manor, learned to sail along the city’s coast, had his first kiss on the white beaches. It was the city where he’d first taken a life. Were Jasrah a book, every moment of Rhys life would be chronicled in its pages, dozens more blank laid out before him, waiting for the story to be written. Now it felt as though those pages had been ripped from their binding and burned. Rhys’ future was not here. This intrusive thought plagued his mind, yet Rhys knew its truth from its first conception. As Rhys stepped out into the main square the old temple loomed on the right. He was supposed to have been married on its steps to a girl he’d known his whole life. Instead he’d been married a thousand miles away in an unwelcoming city to a girl with copper hair and a red dress, and that one moment made all the difference. Rhys’ future lay in the castle in Ovis and the battlefields of western Etrene. Perhaps there was no future for him beyond that, his life destined to come to an untimely end, but even if he lived to see a day beyond this war he would not see it in Jasrah. This he knew.

Rhys was not the only one silent in thought. Nayall looked straight ahead with a furrowed brow, his eyes never straying to the boarded up windows and shards of glass that lined the streets. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to hide their shaking. Suddenly Nayall’s eye’s flickered away, caught by something in the darkness. His footsteps faltered, stumbling over a loose stone in the road. Rhys followed Nayall’s gaze to an unimposing stone home nestled among a dozen others. “I never thought I’d be here again.” Nayall’s voice was low and quiet, his words coming unbidden as Rhys took a step closer. “Jasrah was the last place I was kept. It was the place I found my freedom. But I never wanted to come back. I wanted to leave all this behind. But it seems –“ his eyes flickered once more to that stone home, his expression impossible to decode, “fate has other ideas for me.” Even after Nayall turned away and quickened his pace Rhys could not help but glance back at the house. The morbid curiosity in him wondered what had happened behind those four walls. The rational part of him knew he didn’t want to know the answer.

Even with the memories of what he’d left behind those months ago, seeing his family’s home peek into view stole Rhys’ breath. Entire portions of the eastern wing were reduced to rubble, finally falling to the fire’s damage. It left nothing more than a gaping holes staring into empty, charred rooms. With each step that drew Rhys closer another detail of the wreckage came into focus. The western wing kept his family’s quarters and offices – a detail for which Rhys was thankful – but there was one room in particular held in the eastern wing Rhys’ eyes scanned for with a thread of hope. It was naïve to think it would be spared in the wreckage, yet Rhys would not let himself accept the truth until his eyes rested upon a shattered marble statue among a pile of stones. The remnants of the pantheon lay in the rubble, its beauty no more than a memory. It took all of Rhys’ resolve to hold back the tears that welled in his eyes.

This late in the evening most of the servants were long asleep and he three of them entered into a dark and silent house, the only light emanating from a few sconces lining the halls. Unlike the eastern wing, much of the fire damage Rhys remembered from the last time he’d been home had been scrubbed clean from the foyer and halls, the only signs of the fire the strange bareness of the walls, the art and tapestries long reduced to ash. Rhys found himself ascending the stairs under the marble archway in a trance-like state, pushing himself through the empty halls without thought. It was long past waking hours yet some part of Rhys knew he would find his parents awake. His feet led him where his mind directed, and soon Rhys found himself standing outside his father’s office, muffled voices passing through the heavy mahogany door. Anja came to his side quickly, but it was Nayall who lingered several feet back.

“I think this conversation can wait til morning. It’s already late enough; I’m sure your parents don’t want to see me at this hour. I’ll just…have a look around.” Nayall’s excuse was thin, his curious glances around the halls as though eager to explore the home little more than a front, but Rhys appreciated the effort. This was not a reunion that needed an audience. He gave Nayall a nod in thanks as he watched the man disappear down the halls, turning back to Anja when he was gone.

“How are they?” Rhys murmured, staring blankly at the door before him.

“You’ll see.”

With a brief rap on the door Anja turned the knob, stepping into the office before Rhys. Rhys heard the conversation inside come to a halt, hearing his mother’s gasp before he saw her face.

“Anja, we didn’t expect you back so soon. Is everything-” Rhys’ mother’s words faltered as Rhys stepped into the light, their eyes meeting from across the room. In a blur of movement Rhys felt his mother’s arms wrap around him, her laughter and tears muffled as she pressed her face to his shoulder. Relief flooded through Rhys at his mother’s embrace, her hands warm on his cold cheeks as she pulled back, taking his face between her hands with a smile as she pulled him down to kiss his forehead. “Rhys, Rhys, Rhys.” Her words spilled out in a laugh. “You’re alright! We hadn’t heard from Kieran is some days and we thought…I’m so relieved, Rhys. You have no idea. With everything we’ve been hearing from the north? Thank the gods you were not at Solridge. I can only imagine.”

Rhys locked his jaw, refusing to let his face betray the truth. This was not something his mother need know. As he watched her face, so worn with exhaustion, he could not let himself bring her any more grief. Instead Rhys forced a pained smile and nodded along with her words. “I’m fine. I’m ok. I’m here.” At least the last words were true. As Rhys looked over his mother’s shoulder his eyes found the other face he’d been expecting. His father sat behind his desk, watching Rhys with a softness Rhys barely recognized on his face. Though a thousand emotions flickered through Rhys they were all pushed to the side the instant Rhys’ eyes fell upon the third figure in the room, the one he had not seen until that moment who sat in a chair before his father.

“Selene.”

Those familiar golden eyes stared up at him, and in them Rhys saw a glimmer of hope. Selene’s lips parted and Rhys heard his name, hardly more than a breath. For a long moment they stared at each other, feeling the strange tension that lingered between them, and then Selene pressed herself from her seat and threw her arms around Rhys neck and pulled him into a crushing hug. Before Rhys could respond he could feel her crying, wet tears hitting Rhys’ neck. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry Rhys.” Rhys frowned. What could she possibly have to feel sorry for? The words lingered on his mind, questions begging to be asked, but there were more pressing matters first.

“What are you doing here?” He asked as she finally pulled back, giving her hands a squeeze. “Is everything alright?”

Selene gave a noncommittal shrug, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. “As well as they can be, I guess. I’ve been here a lot lately. There’s just so much to do. Funds to be gathered, construction projects to be organized.”

“Lady Gaille has been fronting the effort to rehouse those who lost their homes to the rioting after the massacre, to support those who lost family. We’ve been negotiating funding to rehouse those who are still taking refuge in the courthouse. We would offer our own home but…” Rhys’ father waved his hand. Rhys had seen the eastern wing – he knew of what his father spoke. Yet in his father’s words Rhys had heard one thing above the others – Lady Gaille. Rhys’ heart sank at the meaning behind that one simple word. Selene did not sit before Rhys’ father and mother as a family friend; she sat before them as the head of a noble family, as an equal. Selene’s youth was long gone.

“Your sisters?” At Rhys question he saw Selene flinch, a look of guilt passing over her face though he could not understand why.

“They’re alright. They’re managing the best they can. Actually,” Selene glanced to Rhys’ father, giving him a nod and a small curtsy, “I should be getting back to them. It’s late and I don’t want them to wake up and find me gone. Can we finish this tomorrow?”

“Of course,” said Rhys’ father. “Would you like an escort home?”

“No, no, I’ll be fine, thank you. I can handle myself.” Selene pulled a shawl around her shoulders, hugging it tightly against her body as she peered back to Rhys. For a moment Rhys thought she might leave without a word, but then her hand reached out and rested on Rhys’ arm. Her words were quiet and only to him. “Come visit me. Please. There’s…things…I want to say.” Rhys wished to know what Selene’s words meant but as soon as he gave his nod of agreement Selene slipped out the door, leaving Rhys reaching out towards nothing.

As Rhys looked about the room, from Anja leaning against a bookshelf on the far wall to Rhys’ mother standing between him and his father, he realized this was the first time his family had been together in one room since Dima’s death. In the heavy silence he wondered if they realized the same. He could feel his mother’s eyes on the scar on his cheek and his father’s silent appraisal of his short-cropped hair. All eyes watched him, assessing him, waiting for some word to be spoken, and yet they said nothing. Where did they even begin? Rhys did not miss the glance shared between his parents, some unspoken understanding passing between them. Rhys mother strode across the room, squeezing Rhys’ hand in passing as she went, until she stood beside Anja. She took her daughter’s arm and looped it with hers. “You look cold. Why don’t I call for some tea?”

“But I-” Anja swallowed her words, her mother’s eyes boring into her with a pointed stare. Anja cleared her throat. Their mother’s tactics were not subtle in the slightest. “Tea sounds nice.”

It was not until they’d cleared the room that Rhys’ father let out a small cough, turning Rhys’ attention. He gestured to the chair Selene had occupied only minutes ago. It was less an invitation and more a command. Rhys descended into the chair slowly, his hands following the grooves in the carved wooden arms. As he sat silently before his father he could not push away the memories of his childhood, of the many times he’d sat in that same spot. How many times had his eyes scanned the bookshelves, reading the titles of dozens of law and philosophy texts as he’d tried to avoid his father’s reproachful looks? How many times had he traced the lines in the wooden desk with his fingers while being scolded, desperate for some distraction from his shame? These were not feelings he could shake as he sat before his father, yet the look on his father’s face was one he’d never worn in that room.

“I’ve missed you.”

Rhys’ heart skipped a beat. At first he was not sure he’d heard the words correctly. He could only stare back in stunned silence. For a moment his father let the silence stand, hoping for some acknowledgement. In those moments Rhys’ eyes studied his father’s face, seeing lines around his eyes and mouth he did not remember, creases in his forehead that seemed fresh. Had his father’s hair always been so grey? His father was hardly young, but until that moment Rhys had never seen him look so old. Finally Rhys cleared his throat, but even that could not give his voice the strength he’d hoped for. It sounded weak in his ears. “I thought you’d be angry with me.”

Sadness flashed across his father’s face. “I was – at first. When I first discovered what you’d done I was furious, but I was angry because I was scared. I was so scared for you, Rhys. We had no way of knowing what had happened to you, and then when I heard you’d been captured. Your mother cried all night. I don’t think either of us slept for two days. We were so certain we’d lost you too and the grief…” Rhys’ father’s voice caught, wavering on his last word. He swallowed hard, steeling himsef. “It was unbearable. And part of me was angry that you would be so reckless, so thoughtless as to do such a thing. But when I found out you’d escaped all that anger just washed away. I’d never thought I’d see you again, and then there was hope.”

“I’m sorry.” The words felt empty as Rhys said them but he did not know what else to say. He stared at his lap, his shame at his actions almost unbearable. He could see the suffering he’d caused his family clear on his father’s face. There was nothing that could repair the damage that had been done.

A low thud stirred Rhys from his thoughts and he peered up to the desk, seeing a small stack of books neatly piled there. Rhys’ father took one from the top and held it out to Rhys. “Do you recognize this?”

The worn leather cover felt soft against Rhys’ fingers as he took the book, it’s cover surprisingly flimsy. He gingerly opened to the first page, surprised to see there were no words on the parchment, but rather a drawing. An unfamiliar woman stared up at him from the pages, the lines of her face etched in charcoal. Her lips were pulled up in a smile, laughter lines around her narrowed eyes. Though he did not know the woman he imagined it a good likeness, the strokes clean and the shading careful, drawn by a gifted artist. As Rhys turned the pages he found another woman, and another, dozens of unfamiliar faces looking up at him. Rhys looked up to his father with confusion but his father only shook his head, gesturing down once more to the book. Rhys continued to turn the pages, admiring the artwork as he looked for something familiar, something that would explain why this was in some way meaningful. Rhys turned the page once more, and had his fingers not fumbled with the next page he would not have even stopped to think about the face that looked up at him. His.

Rhys drew in a breath, staring at this strange portrait of himself. He was smiling, his chin resting in his hand as he looked out towards some unknown. Every detail of Rhys’ face was right from the slight crook in his nose to the faintest scars on his face. Even the lines around his mouth when he smiled were precisely right. It was like looking into a mirror. Only someone close to him could have possibly drawn such a thing, someone who could capture such small details. He looked up into his father’s eyes with confusion, his father staring back knowingly.

“We found them in Dima’s room a few weeks ago.”

Rhys hands trembled, his fingers tracing the lines on the page. “Dima drew this?”

“So it would seem.”

“But…” Rhys grasped for words, his throat closing up. Never once had he seen his brother draw. Never once had Dima mentioned any such thing. Suddenly Rhys’ mind though back to all the times Dima had spent hours alone in his room. Rhys had never given any thought as to what he might have been doing, too consumed with his own life to care. Why had he never cared? “I didn’t know.”

His father smiled, though it was the barest of gestures, his lips barely turning up. “Neither did we.” Rhys’ father’s fingers trailed the spines of the rest of the stack, stopping and resting on the top. “Some of the rest are sketchbooks, others journals. We haven’t been able to bring ourselves to read any of them. I tried but…” he paused, staring at the books, “it didn’t feel right.”

“How could we not know?” Rhys’ voice was scratchy, his mouth dry. “He was my brother. My brother. How could I not know this?” Rhys could not accept the truth, even though it was right there in front of him. They had all overlooked Dima.

Suddenly Rhys’ father laid a hand on top of his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’ve lost one son already. I lost a son I hardly knew, who I treated unfairly, and I will live with that regret for the rest of my life. But I still have you. I’ve been unfair to you, Rhys. The ways I’ve ignored you, this rivalry I created between you and your sister – what was it for? What has it got me? I know it doesn’t mean much now, but I am truly sorry. I know I cannot change the past, but if it’s any consolation, know that I wish I could. You’re my son, and I love you. I’m sorry that you ever doubted that for a second.”

Rhys could only stare at the book on the table, for he knew if he was to look at his father he would not be able to hold himself together. The words his father spoke were the words he’d wanted to hear so desperately for years, the validation he’d sook in every action, every show of loyalty and commitment. Though the words did not heal the wounds of the past – some still raw – they brought a lightness to his heart. Finally Rhys looked up, averting his eyes to the books.

“Can I take a few? I…I want to know.”

“Of course.” There was a hint of disappointment in his father’s voice but he masked it quickly. Rhys gathered the books in his hands, holding them briefly to his chest. As he stood to leave Rhys let himself catch his father’s eye.

“You know, for a long time a part of me hated you.” Rhys saw his words pierce like a knife, his father’s jaw clenching in pain. Rhys faltered for a moment, finding his resolve once more with a deep breath. “But all that time I always loved you. For better or worse, you’ve always been my father, and you’re the only one I have.”

For the first time in his life, Rhys saw tears in his fathers’ eyes.

[Mollianne]

The castle library had always been a constant for Jessa, a place that she could count on to be abandoned and quiet. It hurt that so many books were neglected, but it was still a place Jessa could rely upon to let her in when she needed an escape. But today, despite the freedom she felt at no longer being imprisoned in that tiny room, she felt no such thing. The eyes that had followed her for the past couple of days were there, though she still had not actually seen anyone tailing her. She simply knew they were there. Rolling her shoulders in discomfort, Jessa headed for her usual armchair. In her arms were pages of the Marinon’s blood book copied out from her memories. Hidden within them was a drawing of the intricate patterns that had been on her gown’s sleeves at Elissa’s birthday. She had still not made any sense of it, and could only hope the message was not time-sensitive.

Resting the papers on her lap, Jessa began reading one of the nonsense pages of the blood book. She would make a show of working on it until the spies were lulled into a false sense of security that this was all Jessa intended to do. She hunched her shoulders, hating that she could not hear anything behind her. They must be there – yet there was no footsteps, no rustles, nothing. Jessa would not let herself be fooled and become complacent. They were there.

The morning trickled by slowly. Bright sunlight soon fell on Jessa’s face and she looked up, squinting. Outside, she could see no clouds in the sky, and the sun was yellow and warm. It was the first day like it in Ovis that Jessa had seen since her return. With only the endless blue, Jessa could almost convince herself she was in Jasrah or Novamor rather than Ovis. Certainly she would never have called herself safe in either place, but it was more of a comfort than the reality.

A thud. Jessa turned to the library door a moment too slow, for there was no one there. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. Her guards still had given no indication of their existence, so who was in the room with her? She turned slowly, looking back down at the papers in her lap. She could just be hearing things. That was definitely a possibility…

More thuds, this time those of books on a table rather than a door closing. A moment later, Jessa heard a loud sniff. Frowning, Jessa collected her papers under her arm – she was not going to let those out of her sight – Jessa weaved through the library stacks to find the source of the noise. Sitting at a table enclosed on all four sides but for a gap in one corner, was Edmund. Jessa blinked in surprise, resting a hand on the edge of the bookcase nearest her.

“Your Highness?”

Edmund looked up with a start, a look on his face that suggested he very much had not wanted anyone to know he was here. Upon realising it was her, his jaw tightened and he looked down at the open book in front of him. “Oh. You.”

His voice was so bitter that Jessa began to turn away. If the prince wanted to hide away here, of all places, that was not her problem. But then she glimpsed one of the titles spread on the table before Edmund, and her heart melted. She had taken a step into the makeshift room without even realising.

“Go away,” he mumbled.

“Harris…” Jessa breathed.

Edmund’s head snapped up again. His eyes were shining. His chin shook. Yet somehow he still managed to give her a venomous glare. “Go,” he said, his sharp, angry voice breaking, “away.”

Though she knew he was mostly just lashing out, embarrassed that he had been caught like this after years of training to be firm and stoic, the hatred in his voice pierced Jessa’s heart. Jessa turned away immediately. This was not her place. Edmund had come here to be alone. She had not meant to intrude, had only got caught up in seeing that book on Antascia…

“He loved you.” Jessa stopped dead, her hand on the bookshelf. She bowed her head, Edmund’s quiet, strained words driving another knife into her heart. It constricted painfully. “You were his idol. He-” Edmund broke off. Jessa did not turn around, so she could only hear Edmund breathing short and fast. “He was my brother, and I never – never – understood him. I didn’t even think about it when we were younger. He’d be reading a book, but if I’d ask him to play, he’d just… he’d just do it. Whatever I wanted. I…” Edmund sniffed. “I never asked him what he was reading. Not once. He tried sometimes, but I just wasn’t interested. I was never interested.”

His voice trailed off. There was no anger in it anymore. Just pure defeat. Jessa pursed her lips and slowly turned around. Edmund stared unseeing at the page before him, shaking his head. His hair was not long enough to hide the red shine on his cheeks. He balled his hand into a fist and wiped the tears away. Jessa took a step closer, and when he didn’t argue, she took another and another. Cautiously, she pulled out the chair beside Edmund and sat on it gingerly, putting her papers down on the table. She made no move towards him. He would not want her to.

Edmund had started to speak again, as though a dam had broken and he didn’t know how to rebuild it. “When he found out you were going to the university, you should have seen his face. We’d go past it sometimes in the carriage when we were younger, and he’d just stare at all these people carrying all these books and he’d wonder where they were going, what they were doing. I’d tell him to stop being so boring.” Edmund laughed humourlessly, screwing up his face. “I’d watch the light in his eyes fade and he’d turn away. I didn’t even care that I did that to him. I just talked about something else and he’d join it and it was all fine.” His lip trembled. “Then you… you were going to be a scholar at the university. I’d see him run out to you, begging you to take him.”

Jessa remembered. His earnest nine-year-old face, holding a book to his chin and babbling about some fact as if it was the most profound thing he had ever heard. His awe the first time he’d stepped through the university doors and saw the grand arches. He’d been positively giddy when she’d showed him the library. The librarian had told him to be quiet more times than Jessa could count. How was that only six years ago? How could the world be that cruel?

“He’d come back and just talk about you, or what you showed him or something he’d learned, constantly. Every time, without fail, I told him to shut up. ‘Stop being boring, Harris.’ But he didn’t brush it off anymore. He wouldn’t play with me.” Edmund looked up, staring straight ahead. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he finally said, “I lost my brother a long time ago.”

“No, Edmund,” Jessa said firmly. Her hand twitched, but she forced herself to keep it by her side. She softened her voice, “He loved you.”

“Yeah, okay,” Edmund said disbelievingly. He refused to look at Jessa.

“He loved you, Edmund. He kept talking to you, didn’t he? He wanted to tell you.”

“I pushed him away.” His words were little more than a whisper. “I was jealous of you, and I didn’t know what to say to him. You always knew. I should have known. He was my brother. My twin. And all he wanted was to leave – to get away from Ovis, me.”

“Edmund…”

“He did.” His tone was sharp, brooking no argument, as his head snapped around to glare at her. Tears leaked from his eyes, but this time he did not brush them away. “You left for Jasrah and it – it was like my brother went with you. He started talking about going to Jasrah as soon as he was old enough. Then it was Ihala, Kolonis… Anywhere. Everyone at the university gave him suggestions – Professor Gallard, Lady Runce, Lord Grieson… Everyone. Then he got this book from Lord Janes, of all people, back when he was still a patron. Antascia. I don’t know what it was about it – I’ve tried – but he just fell in love with it.” Edmund’s hand fell on the book. “He was going to go, as soon as Father let him. He was going to leave me.”

“He wanted to see the world. It wasn’t because of you. Or me – he still wanted to go when I came back.” Jessa tilted her head. “He didn’t want to leave you.”

Edmund shook his head. When he finally spoke, the words came out quiet and half-formed. “He didn’t need me anymore. He didn’t need any of us. None of us understood him. Only you. He was holding your hand when he died.”

Jessa sucked in a breath. Guilt coursed through her. It should have been her. “That’s not a burden you want to bear, Edmund.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. He chose you, he looked to you for comfort. You were the only one who ever truly listened to him. You were the one he loved most.”

“That isn’t true,” Jessa whispered. Edmund looked away, and Jessa’s heart broke. If Harris was her brother, then so was Edmund. Her brother was hurting and lost, part of himself gone. Harris had always been there with Edmund, at every step, every milestone. And now this young prince had to carry on without him, thinking his brother did not love him. Thinking he had done nothing but make Harris’ life miserable. Jessa couldn’t let that stand.

“Do you remember that shard of pottery he brought home when he was twelve?”

Edmund frowned, shaking his head. But then he stopped. “Yeah… you’d taken him out on some kind of dig. It was from… well, I don’t really remember. But he kept going on about the colour of it – blue – and how strange it was. He displayed it on his bedside table for a week before you told him you needed it.”

“He was so disappointed I did that.” She shook her head sadly. “But see, Edmund, you do remember. You did listen to him. You just told me that you tried to understand why he loved this book so much. Edmund, that is what is important – seeing a book or the world differently to Harris doesn’t mean you didn’t try. And just look,” Jessa gestured to the table, piled high with books, “How would you have all of his favourite books right now if you didn’t know him?” Edmund’s gaze glanced over them. He had his hands folded in his lap, and he twisted his lip. Jessa didn’t hesitate this time. Her brother needed comfort. She reached out and rested her hand on his. “He loved you, Edmund, and you loved him. Neither of you were perfect, but you’re still brothers. You just… lost each other a little bit.”

Edmund finally looked at her again. His eyes were red and puffy, cheeks stained with tears. But it was the look in his eyes that made Jessa’s heart constrict. He stared at her, waiting desperately for her to continue, needing her to tell him that he had not done badly by his brother. He looked… lost and young. They were both so young.

“He’s gone, Jessa. He was… he was there with me from the start. He was meant to be there with me until the end.”

“He’s here. He’s always with you in here.” She glanced a hand across his forehead. “And if he could see you beating yourself up about this, it would break his heart. You don’t deserve this, Edmund. All Harris would want is for you to remember him. You’re already doing it, though you can’t see it.”

Edmund tilted his head, and Jessa reached out, pulling him towards her. For half a second, he stiffened, and then his arms came around her. He gripped her back tightly, pulling at her dress as he buried his face against her shoulder, shaking. She rested her head on his and whispered, “Just give yourself a break, and remember him.”

It wasn’t until Jessa moved her cheek and felt Edmund’s damp blonde hair against it that she realised that she was crying too. Her tears were silent, almost calm. This was not about her. She brushed her hand through Edmund’s hair, soothing him as he cried against her shoulder. No child his age should suffer this pain. Without thought, Jessa pressed a kiss to his hair. Edmund didn’t notice.

After some time, the tears subsided and Edmund stilled. Yet he did not move out. If anything, he hugged her tighter. Jessa’s heart plummeted. She had overlooked this boy for years, dismissing him as too like his mother and sisters. And it was true that he did not have Harris’ open sweetness and joy, or his wonder with the world, but he was more like Harris than she had considered. She remembered him standing up for her against Elissa, a hint of his maturity and goodness. How had Jessa not seen it?

Edmund mumbled something against Jessa. She tilted her head.

“Hmm?”

Edmund lifted his head, then quietly repeated what he had said. It was something no du Rene except Harris had ever said to Jessa, certainly not sincerely. “Thank you.”

All words escaped her. She just stared at him, her mouth slightly open. Edmund smiled at her, a little awkwardly, then turned his head back to her shoulder. He hugged her again, and the action brought her back. She returned the hug, then let him retreat. He sat back in his chair, idly tapping the book before him. He looked calmer, and maybe a bit curious. Jessa still did not know what to say.

Perhaps luckily for her, a servant cleared their throat and bowed. “Your Highness.” He turned to Jessa. “My lady, you have visitors. Lady Tremont and Lord Ainesh Tremont. They’re waiting for you downstairs.”

Jessa brushed a finger underneath her eyes, wiping away the stray tears. She glanced at Edmund, but he was already leafing through the book and studiously ignoring the exchange. Jessa stood, collected her papers, and tried to ignore her beating heart. She was hardly in the mood for visitors, but the fact that the Tremonts were here must be important. Surely Lady Tremont would not risk exposing the beginnings of their alliance. What did they want?

“I’ll be there shortly.”

***

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Jessa nodded. It wasn’t like this was really a choice, anyway. She was grateful for the Tremonts for asking, however. At least when they had asked the first five times the day before when they had brought the proposition to her. They had already arranged a meeting with the king, but had come to Jessa well in advance so that they could cancel it if she had not agreed. Now they waited outside the small audience chamber, Ainesh next to his grandmother and Jessa on her other side. Lady Tremont took her hand and patted it gently.

“I’m sorry that this is all we can do for you,” she said quietly.

“You’ve done more than just this.” Jessa shrugged, extricating her hand from Lady Tremont’s and staring resolutely at the door. “And you’ve given me more of a choice than anyone else in this city ever has.”

The door opened then, and Jessa heard each of their names announced from within. Two merchants came out at the same time, their clothes ruffled – nothing like what Jessa remembered of Ovisian merchants. Jessa watched them as they walked past, and one turned and looked at her in disgust. Jessa turned away, shame curling within her. All of Ovis was feeling the effects of the war, except the elite tucked away behind their inner walls.

Lady Tremont gave her a small push, nodding for her to go first. Jessa steeled herself – it was the first time she had been this close to the king since the day of the ball – and entered the chamber slowly. The Tremonts were right behind her. The stopped in a semicircle before the king, sitting importantly in his throne, and genuflected. When they rose, the king gestured to Jessa. Her eyes widened involuntarily, and she pretended she did not know what the king intended. She did not want to stand beside him. He continued to watch her pointedly. “Jessa.”

Slowly, she climbed the steps. The king reached out a hand, as if he would put his arm around in solidarity. Jessa was not having that. She stopped a few feet from the king’s throne and turned to look down at the Tremonts. Her jaw was tight as she tried to keep her composure. Alrick’s eyes lingered on her for a moment more before turning to the Tremonts waiting patiently.

“I believe you have a proposal regarding my daughter.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lady Tremont said. She looked at her grandson, gesturing forwards. “Ainesh.”

Ainesh bowed again. “Your Majesty, I come before you to ask for your daughter’s hand. Princess Jessa has already agreed to a period of courtship while you consider your options. I am sure there are others who have expressed their interest.”

“That is my concern.”

Lady Tremont glanced at Jessa. Though the gesture was subtle, Jessa knew what the old woman was thinking. It was Jessa’s concern too. Jessa swallowed hard and turned to head towards the king, who had spoken again. “What is your offer?”

This part Jessa had not heard. They had agreed it was best for the king to believe Jessa knew as little about the arrangement as possible. It did worry her, though. The Tremonts were not a family with a rank high enough to normally petition for a marriage to a king’s child. Jessa’s situation was a little more unique, but they must have something up their sleeve. If it was something that would interest the king, Jessa doubted she would like it. Her gaze drifted to Lady Tremont, the woman who had seen her entire life and knew exactly what was at stake. She had to trust her.

“As you know, Sire, the Tremont family does not have a wide circle of influence here in Ovis. This is because, as I’m also sure you know, I focused my attention on marriages beyond Etrene’s borders. My eldest son married the Ranharai family from Antascia, and my second eldest son married into the Tymoren’s from Aquena. My only daughter made, I would say, the most beneficial marriage. I’m sure you remember it, sire. He is, recently, the head of his family – the Hamiyans, of Novamor.”

The king sat up a little straighter, staring down his nose at Lady Tremont. She smiled. Jessa was just confused. She barely knew Ovisian nobles, let alone ones from the rest of the world. The mention of Novamor was enough to turn her blood cold, though. What game was Lady Tremont playing? Jessa’s fingers began to clench, but she forced them to open. She had to remain calm.

“Yes, Sire. You hadn’t forgotten? The Hamiyans are one of the queen’s key distributors of food to the south of the country. If something were to happen to those supplies… Well, we already know the tensions in that country after recent events. I’m sure it would not take long for things to spiral rapidly. I would imagine there would be cries of abandonment by their queen as she hunts for glory and power in Etrene. The situation – I don’t think enough of Novamor’s army remained to deal with such discontent. It could easily devolve into war. Queen Tula would have to think very carefully about her position. Certainly she would withdraw a good deal of her men, and she would probably return herself. There’s nothing quite like seeing your ruler to raise a soldier’s spirits. At the very least it would even our odds.”

Jessa could practically see the scenarios playing out in Alrick’s head. He glanced at her, then back at Lady Tremont. “And how would you even convince the Hamiyans to do this?”

Jessa too looked at the woman. How could she even suggest this? If the king agreed, he would insist upon the marriage happening immediately, for Lady Tremont was sure to withhold her side of the deal until she and Ainesh were husband and wife. She could have offered anything. But, looking back at the king and seeing the triumph glinting in his eyes, she knew that was not true. Lady Tremont had said it herself – they did not have enough power in Ovis alone. And the king did not care about making a good match for Jessa. He wanted her out of the way. The Allomeres were loyal to him and would keep her from making trouble. The only way out of that match was for someone to offer Alrick something he could not refuse. If Jessa had played her part well, he would continue to underestimate her. The Novarians he could not ignore. Compared to that, Jessa was no threat at all. And either way, Jessa would be out of the castle.

“Amir Hamiyan is very much in love with my daughter, and she is very persuasive. And if not, Isabelle has access to everything her husband does. She can do it herself.”

“Why Jessa? Why not Elissa?”

Lady Tremont raised her eyebrows. She gestured at Jessa. “She is the one wearing the ring, no? And in any case, I am not cold-hearted. She is a gentle, kind girl who can stand at Ainesh’s side as his equal. She will live a happy life with him. Would you not want that for your daughter, after her time with the Marinons?” She paused, her expression turning grim. “I have heard of another who have expressed their interest. The Allomeres, specifically their youngest son Lord Davin. I would think you would want to be very careful with such a match, Sire. The court may forgive you a mistake once, but they will surely not look so kindly on it again. The Marinons were dangerous, but I assume you thought you could protect her. It was not enough.”

She took a deep breath and looked away. “I knew Lord Davin’s wife before they married. She was full of life and loved dancing. She loved court life. After her marriage, she was seen only a handful of times. That spark was gone, Sire. She was pale and drawn. She was seen twice during her pregnancy, presumably to assure everyone of the child’s legitimacy. It was a blistering summer for Ovis, and yet she wore the heaviest dresses on both occasions. A month after their daughter was born, she went missing. The Allomeres claimed she had had difficulty adjusting to her new life as a mother. She was found dead by the sea a few days later.” Lady Tremont had gone white. Jessa knew she had too, frozen by fear. Then she started shaking. Ainesh looked at her in alarm, bowing perfunctorily to the king and coming to her side despite the king’s disapproving frown. He put a hand over hers, warm where Jessa’s was icy cold.

Lady Tremont recovered herself and said, “There is no proof, of course. But there are many who will not understand such a match. My grandson is a gentle person, as you can see. Surely you would want that for your daughter?”

“Yes.” Alrick’s voice was tight. He knew he had been trapped in this, at least. He still did not need to consent, but he could hardly agree to the Allomeres’ proposal after this. Jessa glanced at Ainesh. There was a question in his eyes. She nodded minutely and after a moment, he let her go. He returned to his grandmother’s side.

“And what do you get out of this?” Alrick asked.

“Besides a lovely wife for my grandson?” Lady Tremont looked at Jessa and smiled. Jessa didn’t have it within her to do the same. Her head was still spinning. Despite Lady Tremont’s dangerous tactics, this needed to work. Even if she was not forced to marry Davin, he would find someone else to make her life miserable. He would find someone else who would kill her for him, as if that absolved him of all guilt. He had done it with the Marinons. He would do it again.

Lady Tremont continued. “There has been an opening on the council since Councillor Peronne died a few months ago. Given the war, I suppose it is low priority to find a replacement, given they have not proven their loyalty and would have little experience sitting on the council in peacetime, let alone war. My youngest son, Nathaniel, is idle, but he is well-travelled. He has contacts in all of our neighbouring countries, and if his stories are to be believed, he has extricated himself from a wealth of embarrassing and delicate situations while making those alliances stronger. He is quick, sharp, and understands our neighbours very well. I believe he would do very well for Etrene.”

“And your family would come out of relative obscurity.”

“Of course, Sir.” Lady Tremont smiled. “I do not expect an answer immediately. There is much to discuss. All I ask is that my grandson and Jessa be allowed to get to know one another. I invite her to my family’s manor the day after tomorrow, to meet the family-”

“She will be chaperoned,” Alrick interrupted.

“Yes, Sire.” Lady Tremont bowed her head. “I also recommend a trial period for Nathaniel on the council. Put to him some trivial matter and see how he gets on. I would hate for it not to work out after Ainesh is married.”

The king’s jaw locked. He did not like that prospect when he knew he could not convince Lady Tremont of doing the same with her part of the deal. Jessa also imagined that was exactly what Alrick would have done, as soon as the Hamiyans had irreparably damaged Novamor’s delicate balance.

“We will leave you to consider this now, Sire.” Lady Tremont curtseyed with Ainesh’s bow following swiftly after. The king stared at them for a moment longer before waving his hand in dismissal.

“You too, Jessa. I have other matters to attend.” Jessa didn’t need telling twice. She hastened off the dais, curtseying almost as an afterthought, and hurried out of the room after the Tremonts. They passed the next woman, who entered the chamber alone. Jessa admired the woman’s bravery. The door closed behind her.

Jessa turned, seeing Lady Tremont and Ainesh gathering their belongings further down the corridor. She hurried over to them. “What-?”

“Now is not the time,” Lady Tremont said quietly, pulling on a long brown glove. Once done, she patted Jessa’s cheek. Ainesh shook his head at his grandmother. “The day after tomorrow, I will explain everything.”

“Perhaps less theatrically, too,” Ainesh said blandly. His grandmother whacked him over the head, and then they departed, leaving Jessa alone.

[Rosabeth]

Sometimes I wonder how things might have turned out differently had I not been the third child. Then I look at Rhys and Anja and I realize – nothing would be different.

A solid line formed over the words, the oils in Rhys fingers darkening the page as he traced the words again and again. Dima’s journals lay spread out before Rhys, dozens of pages marked with scraps of old parchment. Rhys had read each and every word. At times he found himself laughing, Dima’s wit peeking through in every irreverent passage, every retelling of some event Rhys had long forgotten. Dima’s prose was no great literary feat, but Rhys treasured it all the more because of it. He could hear Dima’s voice in every page. Yet it was passages like these – repeated far too often amongst the hundreds of pages – that sent a jolt through Rhys’ heart. There were certainly times in his life Rhys had wondered how keenly Dima felt their father’s favoritism of Anja or the closeness of Rhys and their mother’s relationship. Rhys hoped, perhaps foolishly, that Dima had taken it in stride, knowing beneath the petty arguments and rivalries that he was loved equally. That illusion had been shattered with every page.

Sunlight filtered in through the thin curtains and Rhys squinted at the light, blinding in its brilliance. His eyelids drooped as the fatigue of yet another sleepless night weighed heavy on him. He’d become quite accustomed to avoiding sleep, the soreness of his eyes and the lightness to his head so commonplace he barely gave them notice. Rhys closed the journal in his hands gently and set it to the side. Some small part of him felt shame for reading his brother’s private thoughts - years of memories he’d likely never intended to share – yet no amount of guilt could bring him to stop. These last remnants of Dima were all he had left. He hoped, were his brother alive, he would understand. Suddenly Rhys found himself smiling at the thought. Of course he would understand – Dima would be the first to read Rhys’ journals, had he kept such a thing. He could practically envision his brother now laughing over some melodramatic though Rhys would have found very enlightened at Dima’s age. Yes, Dima would understand.

The hallways were quiet at such an early hour, occupied only the servants moving quietly from room to room. The grounds were emptier still, silent, but it was not a silence like that of the night before. There was a calm to the early morning light, a promise of a new day yet untarnished by the world’s problems. Rhys stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked up to the clear sky. For the first time in a long time, Rhys felt at peace. It would not last long, that he knew, but he cherished it all the same. Even as he approached the mausoleum the feeling remained. It was not until he pushed open the heavy bronze doors that his calm began to waver. Rhys was not alone.

Rhys’ father sat quietly on a stone bench across from Dima’s sarcophagus, looking up from his folded hands with a slight smile. There was no hint of surprise in his expression. For a brief moment Rhys considered turning on his heels, but he suppressed his foolish fears. He had come to mourn his brother. Rhys inched forward, letting his eyes wander back to Dima’s resting place, a hint of white catching his eye. Two lone snowdrop blossoms sat atop the marble inscription that bore Dima’s name. Rhys’ reached out, letting his fingers brush the soft white petals.

“You remembered?”

Rhys looked to his father, noticing another white flower in his grasp. He twirled the stem between his fingers. “How could I forget? I remember when he was a little boy he used to call them ‘his’ flowers. They were the only ones who grew on his birthday. When he was about four I remember he told me they looked sad, because they drooped. He said they probably didn’t like winter either.” Rhys’ father laughed, closing his eyes in thought. When they opened once more they turned to Rhys. They held an implicit invitation. Rhys took the seat beside his father quietly.

“I read the journals.”

The snowdrop slid from Rhys’ father’s hand. Rhys watched it drop into his father’s lap, seeing the fingers that held it tremble. Rhys heard the faint sigh that preceded his father’s words. “Do I want to know?”

“It’s not as bad as you think.”

“That’s not encouraging.”

Rhys opened his mouth only to close it a moment later, biting down on his lip. As lighthearted as Dima had been in life, his words were not always forgiving. Much of it Rhys knew to be nothing more than words written in moments of anger, Dima’s own way of processing his frustrations and hurt. But not all of the passages were so easily overlooked. “He loved you,” was all Rhys could offer.

“Rhys.”

“He was hurt! What do you want me to tell you? He felt forgotten. He saw himself as the extra child, not ‘worthy’ enough for your attentions as Anja and not ‘good’ enough to be me. What he did was never good enough.” Rhys paused, his words tumbling out faster than anticipated. Every one was true, yet Rhys knew the moment he began he was not only speaking on Dima’s behalf. “Why did you do it? Why couldn’t you just love us all equally? What did we do wrong?”

The words were meant to wound, but when Rhys saw their affect truly begin to manifest he wished he could take them back. He’d never seen his father look so small, his usually statuesque posture hunched over, his head bowed. His father would not even make his eye. “You did nothing wrong. I’ve always loved you all equally – I promise you that.”

“Then why is Anja the heir?” For months Rhys had imagined saying these exact words. He’d imagined the venom in his voice, the rage of that fateful day all those months ago coming forth in this moment. Yet in reality, in this moment, Rhys’ voice was no more than a whisper. “I’m the eldest. Tradition states that an estate and all titles pass to the eldest child unless they are unfit to take the inheritance. I have always been perfectly capable. I was raised to be capable. If you love us all equally then why did you change the line of succession? Why did you choose Anja over me?”

“Because I didn’t want you to suffer.” Rhys’ father’s eyes flashed at Rhys’ scoff. “This job takes things from you. You begin to only see the worst in people, you lose your sympathies, you harden with each day until nothing can make you flinch. And then you become paranoid. I’ve worried every single day since my father died that someone would take your mother, take you and your siblings from me. I know people would have killed you if they’d had the chance. They still would. Being this person – Lord Marinon – comes at a price I was not sure you could pay.”

Rhys shook his head. “But I was willing to pay that price. You raised me to be willing to do anything for our family.”

“Just because you were willing then doesn’t mean you could. I stand by what I said that day. There are things Anja would do that you would not. Perhaps I was too harsh then, but it’s the truth.” Suddenly his father looked off, lost in thought. A momentary silence passed over them. “You’ve always been so much like your mother. Good. Kind. Brave. But you have her fire too, and a quick wit. I knew from the moment I met her that she would be able to do this job, that she had a tenacity that would serve her well. But it wasn’t until the day you were born that I realized just how much she would be giving up too. The moment the midwife put you in her arms the whole world changed. The way she looked at you, that unshakable bond that was forged through her love… I knew then that she would never be the same. She would have given anything for you. She did. She gave parts of herself time and time again in the name of protecting you, and I will always feel guilty knowing that though she’d never admit it, there is a part of her that wishes she could go back to the way things were before she became Lady Marinon. I accepted this life – and in a way so did your mother – but I feel it’s my fault that she had to make these choices at all.”

A thought came into Rhys’ mind, one he’d never considered in such a way until hearing his father’s words. It was almost too simple. “Anja will never marry – she has no interest in men. She will never bear children. Is that…?”

Rhys’ father gave a solemn nod. “Taking on this burden alone is a struggle in itself, but it may save her in the end. She will not have to make the same sacrifices you would have had to.”

“But the family line?”

“I’ll be long dead at that point – that’s up to you. When Anja is gone it will be your children who will be left. What they decide to do – or not do – is of no consequence to me. I won’t know one way or the other. Maybe things will be different then. Maybe it will be easier for them. I certainly like to think so.”

Had Rhys heard these words months ago, he would have felt enraged. Surely his father’s sudden show of guilt was a lie, a paltry effort to make himself feel better. After all, what reason had he ever given Rhys to make him believe there was anything more important to him than being a Marinon and all that entailed? Rhys would have laughed it off without a second thought. But Rhys knew better now. The answer lay in the carved marble box a few feet before them.

“You were…right.” Rhys let out a lengthy sigh. Why was admitting the truth was so difficult? He could not even look his father in the eye. “I only ever thought I wanted this because it’s all I knew. There was no question of choice. But now? If anything the past few weeks have proved to me that I could have done it. The things I’ve done…” The faces of a dozen innocents, slaughtered by his hand, filled his mind. He could not push them away. “I’ve had enough hard choices to last me a lifetime and I’m sure there’s still more to come. But now I know what I want. I don’t want to be Lord Marinon – I don’t think I ever really did. I only wanted it because Anja wanted it more.” Rhys smiled at his father’s laugh. “Now? I just want this war to be over. I just want to be…normal. Happy. I don’t even know if that’s in the cards for me anymore. But I still want it. I just want Jessa to be safe, to be able to see her again and know that there’s hope for us still. But we got ourselves into this mess – now we have to fix it.”

A hand rested on Rhys’ shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze, and Rhys turned to see his father smiling. “I may not have agreed with you at first – I still can’t say I entirely do – but I can admire what you’re doing. You’re doing the right thing, and I think that’s very brave of you. I think we both know ‘the right thing’ isn’t really my specialty, but I still know it when I see it. I’m proud of you.”

Rhys had not expected to cry, yet the tears were there, hot on his cheeks. He blinked them away, turning from his father in embarrassment. But his father’s hand was still there on his shoulder, an anchor holding him steady. Rhys did not know how long they sat there, but eventually they stood, both laying their hands on Dima’s sarcophagus with their own whispered words spoken to the boy they knew would never hear them. As they walked away Rhys took one look over his shoulder, peering back into the mausoleum before closing the doors behind him.

***

When Rhys arrived outside the imposing set of double doors Nayall was already there. He waited patiently outside, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared up at a rather stern portrait of a long-dead ancestor. Rhys had protested the use of the “negotiation room,” as his father so called it, for their conversation, but his father would not hear of anything else. Rhys knew the room well, and more so what an invitation to it meant. To call what happened behind those doors “negotiation” was an absurd stretch of the truth. True negotiation happened in his mother and father’s offices in padded chairs with glasses of wine. This room was used for nothing more than intimidation. The dark-paneled room was bare but for a single, long mahogany table and hard chairs that forced you to sit straight. Dimly lit with walls bare but for a single family sigil above Rhys’ father’s chair, the room’s design reminded its occupants with every detail who was in control.

“Are you ready?” Rhys asked, moving to stand beside Nayall. The man did not look at him or so much as answer his question, instead turning to the double doors and dropping his hands to his sides. “Let’s just do this before I can lose my nerve.” Without another word Nayall pushed open the doors and stepped into the room, Rhys trailing behind.

Rhys’ family awaited their entrance at the end of the table. He could feel their eyes on Nayall, sizing him up with no more than a glance, a thousand judgements likely already made. His mother and Anja were already acquainted – if only barely – with the man, and it was his father who Rhys watched with intensity, yet his father’s expression betrayed nothing. Nayall looked surprisingly unfazed by their stony faces, his own face an unreadable mask. Rhys coughed, breaking the uncomfortable silence and turning all eyes to him. “Father, this is…” Rhys turned to Nayall, a sudden embarrassment washing over him. “Er, I don’t actually know your full name.”

Nayall did not bother answering on Rhys’ behalf. Instead he strode forward, closing the space between himself and Rhys’ father, and extended his hand. “Nayall Gard.”

Nayall’s outstretched hand hovered in the air, Rhys realizing as he stared that he’d been holding his breath. His father stared back at Nayall with a single cocked brow, waiting for the foolish man to withdraw his hand, but Nayall did no such thing. He held his stance for firmly, Rhys unsure if he was even blinking. In society such a move would have been unthinkable. For a commoner to offer their hand to a noble, much less a noble of Rhys’ family’s standing, was of the highest insult. Such gestures were only between commoners, for it indicated an equality in standing. At first Rhys thought it only a mistake by a commoner unfamiliar with the nobility, but Nayall’s behavior upon his meeting the queen of Novamor put this theory to rest. No, there was no accident in Nayall’s choice. It was a statement, one heard loud and clear – not only was he their equal, but he was their superior, under no obligation to bow or genuflect. It was a dangerous game he played, and Rhys only hoped it would serve him well. When Rhys’ father shook Nayall’s hand it was clear it had.

After turning to each of Rhys’ family members in turn with the same civility, Rhys’ mother and sister looking equally surprised as his father as they shook Nayall’s hand, they took their seats. Rhys sat across from Anja on the long side of the table, equidistant between Nayall on one end and Rhys’ parents on the other. The long table was meant to be imposing, to create an awkward space between Rhys’ family and those they questioned, yet Nayall seemed oddly at ease. His face was calm as he stared forward, waiting for some word. Rhys could only wonder whether that calm was just a façade.

“So,” Rhys’ father began, folding his hands on the table, “Rhys tells us you have been selected by Queen Tula to put forth yourself as a candidate for the crown, in the event of a successful campaign.”

“Yes.” Nayall answered simply. Rhys did not miss the missing address at the end of his sentence. From his father’s bemused expression, neither did he. If Nayall felt the tension grow he did not show it.

“And what, pray tell, makes you suited for this position? You are a commoner, are you not? I certainly don’t recognize your surname. My daughter tells me you’re a mage as well. Given what we know about the king I can’t imagine that will go over particularly well.”

“Yes, I am a commoner, but there are far more of us than there are of you. I think, from what I’ve heard about your family, you know this very well. I spent some time in this city myself. What I heard about you from the people was surprisingly good, given your reputation. I wonder why that might be?” The purse of Rhys’ father’s lips told Nayall all he needed to know. “The common people hold the nobility in no great esteem. You may care about keeping a noble on the throne, but the people do not. They just don’t feel like they have any other option. I can change that. As for my magic yes, I am a mage. I do not hide this. But I am nothing like Alrick. I spent eight years under his thumb, subjected to his will. I know the dangers of my magic, but I have dedicated myself to protecting people from that magic, not abusing it.” Nayall’s words came out effortlessly, as though rehearsed. Rhys wondered how many nights the man had spent thinking up every question that might be thrown at him. He wondered how many times he’d been asked these same questions by Tula and her advisors. This was not, Rhys suspected, Nayall’s first defense.

Though Rhys’ father appeared impressed by Nayall’s enterprise, Rhys’ mother was less convinced. “Just because we may know of your intention does not mean the people will. Many will distrust you just for having magic – it’s not how you use it that matters to them. How will you calm their fears?”

“I won’t,” Nayall shrugged. “We cannot hide magic anymore. The king has tried that for too long. Mages live among us all, and those smart enough to control themselves go undetected. There are too many of us for any sane person to believe that keeping us away from power would be of any use. It’s only a matter of time before another Alrick comes around. But if I’m open about my magic, if I surround myself with those who can keep me in check, if I can provide transparency into what has until now been a very opaque world, Etrene can begin to move forward from this ludicrous fearmongering the du Renes have created. Magic is not inherently evil - so much good could be done if we were only given the opportunity to do so. It’s time the people realize that.”

Though Rhys’ father began to speak, his words were drowned out by Anja’s groan. She shook her head, pressing two fingers to her temple. “This is ridiculous. Why are we even questioning him? Cut to the chase – you want something. This is not a discussion; this is a negotiation. Tell us what you want and we’ll see what we can do. Just like we did in Ovis.”

“Anja,” their father hissed.

“No, no, she’s right." Nayall straightened a ting, rolling his shoulders back. "I do want something. Allies. Your allies, specifically. Rhys suggested you might be willing to help.”

“Did he?” Rhys felt his father’s eyes on him but he looked away, turning his own glare to Nayall. Nayall met his eye and only smiled. “And what makes you think we would want to offer that kind of support?”

“We have a common interest. I know you have your own delicate situation in Jasrah, but I don’t think you’d be opposed to seeing the king deposed. And that’s exactly what I aim to do. I need nobles on my side once I make my formal claim. I know I can get the mages and some of the commoners on my side, but I have no ties to the nobility. If your allies are already antagonistic towards the king that makes my job even easier. All I need is the guarantee that they’ll support my claim when the time comes. You don’t have to do anything else.”

Anja rolled her eyes. “Oh please, be serious. ‘Nothing else?’ There’s always a catch – we’re not idiots.”

Nayall pursed his lips, seeming to mull something over in his mind. When he spoke once more Rhys couldn’t help but groan. “When I’m king there will be no divided north and south. Your feud with the du Renes has gone on too long. There will be no repeat. When I’m king I want your loyalty. Not just some bowing and scraping either – real, undivided loyalty. I may not know the details of what your family does - and I doubt you'll tell me - but I know enough rumors and I’ve seen enough of Rhys to make a few guesses. You will keep your titles and your lands and all the powers you currently have, but you will defer to me on all major legal matters. All matters of capital punishment will go through me. It is not in a noble’s jurisdiction to kill another noble without punishment. Jasrah is not a city state – it is part of Etrene. I will not let it be rogue any longer.”

The table erupted in a cacophony of voices, Anja’s biting words above Rhys’ father and mother’s quick conversation. Only Nayall stayed silent, staring forward with resolve. A weaker man would have crumbled under the pressure. The fact that Nayall had not yet cracked impressed Rhys more than he could say. Finally the noise began to subside and his father turned back to Nayall with a set jaw and cold eyes. “What makes you think you’d have any power to dictate what we do? The king has been trying for many years. What makes you different?”

Rhys felt Nayall’s eyes on him, and when he turned to the man he saw a glint of sadness in his eyes. An apology. It was gone as soon as it had come. “Because I know something Alrick doesn’t. Rhys is averse to magic, and if that works anything like magic – which I can guess it does – then so is Anja, and so is one of you. I’m a mage. What makes you think that with that knowledge you could possibly stand up to me?”

Anja swore, pressing herself up from the table only to have Rhys’ mother put out a hand in an unspoken command. Slowly Anja lowered herself, her rage palpable. Rhys’ mother’s voice was even and icy, her gaze piercing. Slowly she rose from her seat and moved towards Nayall. Rhys could see – in a brief break of composure – the man’s hand tighten on the arm of his chair. “Are you threatening my family?”

Rhys could hear Nayall swallow in the silence. “Yes. I’m not one of your nobles. I’m not afraid of you. What do I have to lose? I’ve already lost everything short of my life. So yes, I’m threatening you because this is the language you speak. I have no desire to hurt you. You’re smart and you’re cunning and from what I’ve seen you’ve done a fine job of managing Jasrah, despite your unorthodox ways. I want to work with you. I'm willing to give you concessions, things Alrick would never give you. Changes to the law. Things that would make your lives easier. If the north and the south can unite the country will be stronger for it. But I am not afraid of you. Either we settle our differences and come to an agreement on the future now, or we acknowledge how we stand. There will be no unspoken war between us.”

The whole moment sat on the tip of a knife, and in the silence that followed Nayall’s words Rhys did not know which way it would tip. To threaten his family was an enormous risk few had ever taken on, and to do so so openly, and in such a vulnerable position, was beyond anything Rhys had ever seen. Yet there was a certain brilliance to Nayall’s madness, one Rhys could see from the way his father’s lips curled ever so slightly at the corners, from his mother’s raised brows and Anja’s quiet fury. Nayall’s threats were likely empty, but he did not threaten them to inspire fear. He threatened to gain respect. And maybe, just maybe, it’d worked. With no more than a hushed whisper to his wife, Rhys’ father stood and strode from the room. When he returned a minute later Rhys knew Nayall had won.

The blood book hit the table with a bang, and Anja’s eyes turned wild.

“Father!”

“That's enough, Anja,” his father snapped, Anja biting her lip as she retreated. “This is not your decision to make.”

After flipping through the pages of the heavy tome for a few moments Rhys’ father settled on one page, bringing out a small knife and piercing the tip of his finger. A sudden intake of breath caught Rhys’ attention and he turned to see Nayall staring forward at the book with uneasiness.

“Is that your blood book?”

Rhys’ father’s hand paused as he brought the blood to the spine, looking up with raised brows. “I’m surprised you’ve heard of such a thing. They’re not particularly common.”

“It’s been compromised.”

Rhys’ heart stopped. He looked to Nayall with wide eyes, now understanding the panic on the man’s face only moments before. “How do you know this? What do you mean?”

“I meant to tell you, really. Laurita and I both did, but it just sort of…slipped our minds. We thought you were dead! When you weren’t we…well, we weren’t thinking about this. When we still thought you were dead Laurita and I contacted Jessa. She needed a cover, something to make Alrick think she was still loyal to him. Well…the blood book was all she could think of. She saw it once. She knew she could show Alrick its pages in her mind.”

Rhys could hear the blood rushing in his ears, his breath sounding as loud as thunder. There were things Nayall left unsaid, horrible things Rhys dared not think, yet he knew them to be true anyway. There was only one scenario in which Rhys could possibly envision Jessa betraying them in such a way. There was only one scenario in which it was understood Jessa would use anything at her disposal.

“Nayall, tell me. Please.” Rhys voice was hoarse. He could barely speak the words.

“The king knows Jessa told the Novarians about the ambush. It was a trap, but not just for Novamor. It was a trap for Jessa. He knows.”

The sound that escaped Rhys’ mouth was foreign to him, strange and strangled, and Rhys gasped for air. A thousand images of Jessa locked up like he’d been, tortured within an inch of her life, and ultimately killed, left there to rot went through Rhys’ mind in a dizzying blur. Had Laurita not said only days before they’d been unable to contact her? They’d brushed of Rhys’ fears of Jessa’s death, but now Rhys could think of nothing else.

“Are you positive about this? Do you know which names have been compromised?” Rhys’ father was shockingly calm, though Rhys could hear hints of panic seeping through his voice. He did not even bother asking how Jessa possibly had such information, though Rhys was sure the blame would be placed on him.

Nayall shook his head. “She said it was only a couple pages, but I couldn’t tell you which. I haven’t seen it.”

There was no formal end to the conversation, no answers given, only a silence left as Rhys’ father and mother retreated from the room quickly, their heads bowed in conversation, quick to devise a plan. For a moment only Anja was left, her eyes narrowed as she too came to push herself from the table, stalking off with a glare. When it was just Rhys and Nayall left in the room, Nayall stood, watching Rhys with pity. “If it gives you any consolation, we spoke to Jessa again after she told the king. He seemed pleased with this information. He did not kill her then. We have no reason to think he's hurt her, yet.”

Yet. Rhys swallowed the lump in his throat. Though he wanted nothing more to wallow in his dread, he knew that there was hope in Nayall’s brutal words. Yet meant there was time. Yet meant the worst had not come to pass. Rhys held onto that hope with desperation. He could not lose hope. He’d come too far.

[Mollianne]

The morning air bit at Jessa’s exposed hands and cheeks, far colder than she had expected after past few warm spring days. Hugging herself, Jessa quickened her step across the castle grounds. If there was one reason to be grateful for the chilly morning, it was that her pace was justified. Her chaperone – guard, more like it – had met her at the castle door with utter silence, and that had pervaded throughout their awkward walk. Jessa did not know the woman’s name or anything about her. She could not sense any magic from her, though that meant little, but the sharpness of her eyes suggested that the woman was at least not likely to be part of Alrick’s mage ring. Nevertheless, the chaperone had made it abundantly clear from her stony gaze that she was there to watch Jessa’s every move and report back to the king. Jessa had expected no less given the eyes that followed her constantly, but they could hardly enter the Tremonts’ manor. In any case, considering Lady Tremont had promised her answers, Jessa hoped the older woman had some plan for distracting the spy. 
 
Spring had certainly arrived in the castle gardens. Jessa watched the gardeners as she passed, sniffing as she recalled a time years before when a much younger Jessa watched her mother tend the very same flowerbeds. It was too early for the roses to bloom, at least, though the bushes had already been planted in anticipation. Jessa averted her gaze, instead admiring the snowdrops, bluebells and hyacinths that were in flower. She knew she ought to spend more time out here in her mother’s favourite place but it always left her with an ache in her heart that she had never found solace in gardening as her mother had. Jessa breathed in hard through her nose, swallowed the lump in her throat, and pressed on. Once she passed through the castle gate, she could breathe more easily. The cobblestones did not hold such melancholic memories. 
 
Unlike the Janes, the Tremonts did not live on the prestigious road circling the castle, so Jessa stayed straight instead of turning left or right out of the gate. Given the hour and the chill, there were few nobles out. A few girls Jessa vaguely recognised walked past and nodded at Jessa as she turned down one of the side streets halfway between the castle and inner city gates. The Tremonts’ manor came into view, and Jessa slowed to allow her silent chaperone to catch up. The woman eyed her with disapproval, her breaths coming out slightly too fast. Jessa had not realised her speed. They walked at a more moderate pace to the gate and climbed the few steps up to the door, the chaperone letting Jessa go first. 
 
Jessa knocked on the door. Her hand had barely returned to her side when the door opened, far quicker even than the last time she had visited. This time, however, she was expected, and behind the footman and butler Lady Tremont and Ainesh already waited to give her a true welcome. As the footman opened the door wider to let her pass, the butler bowed and said “Princess Jessa.” She nodded at him as entered the manor, but his focus had turned to the chaperone behind Jessa who did not bother to introduce herself. The butler frowned in clear affront. At least with Lady Tremont and Ainesh there to greet her, he did not have to face the embarrassment of announcing them when he did not even know Jessa’s name. No, Jessa had that particular discomfort. 
 
“Lady Tremont, Lord Ainesh,” Jessa said, bowing her head at the same time as Lady Tremont. Ainesh stepped forward and met Jessa’s gaze with a question when she looked up. 
 
“May I?” he asked. Jessa lifted her shoulders in a half-shrug and proffered her hand. Ainesh took it gently and gave her knuckles a quick kiss before he pulled her slightly closer. “My family are very excited to meet you. Shall we meet them now?” 
 
“Of course,” Jessa replied, resting her hand in the crook of Ainesh’s elbow. Lady Tremont gestured at the chaperone to walk beside her, while Jessa and Ainesh fell into step behind them. Though Lady Tremont tried to draw the other woman into conversation, it was clear Lady Tremont would not break her. As they continued down the corridor, another sound joined the echoes of their footsteps: a toddler crying. They were heading towards the noise. Jessa rubbed her arm in discomfort; she had not expected to meet children today. 
 
A moment later, a loud feminine voice rose sternly above the child’s cries. “Ravinder Tremont! Give it back.” 
 
Ainesh chuckled beside her. Jessa glanced at him, frowning. There was a mischievous smirk on his face. He waved away her surprise just as Lady Tremont stopped by the door behind which the ruckus came. She opened it without preamble, revealing the people inside. A woman rocked the crying little girl she held against her hip, glaring at the young boy – he was maybe four or five – who stared back at her with wide, innocent eyes. His hands were kept suspiciously behind his back. Ainesh chuckled again, drawing the attention of the woman. Her braid whipped against her neck as she turned towards them. 
 
“You think this is funny, Ainesh?” she said sharply. “This is your doing.” 
 
“What did I do?” He sounded offended, but the woman simply glared at him until the little girl’s cries grew louder and distracted her. Ainesh looked at the boy and grinned, gesturing for him to come over. The boy eyed his mother as he took a step closer. When she did not react, he ran over to Ainesh and barrelled into his arms. Ainesh laughed, ruffling the boy’s dark hair. Jessa kept her distance, but she was close enough to hear Ainesh say, “Well, what do we have here?” 
 
Ravinder gaped and looked between his empty hands and Ainesh’s. There was a flower clip sitting in Ainesh’s palm. Ravinder screwed his face up and said, “How did you do that? It was right here!” He pointed at his left hand. Ainesh smirked and tapped his nose as he straightened. He widened his eyes and nodded towards Ravinder’s mother. The boy watched in rapt attention, his mouth falling open in concentration, as Ainesh headed towards the woman. He was about half way across the room when he turned back and said, “Jessa?” 
 
Jessa nodded, but before she could move she realised she had also drawn the boy’s attention. He tilted his head. “Who are you?” 
 
“Um, Jessa,” she said. Though she supposed she should elaborate, her throat closed up. She had no idea what to say to this small child. 
 
“Are you friends with Uncle Ainesh?” Ravinder asked, unperturbed by Jessa’s awkwardness. 
 
“Yes.” Jessa pressed her lips together. How was this so hard? She watched Ravinder tilt his head the other way. After a moment, he smiled and stuck out his hand. 
 
“Ravinder Tremont,” he said importantly. Jessa smiled and shook his hand, which made the boy beam. He turned and pointed at the woman Ainesh was now speaking to quietly while stroking the hair of the little girl in the woman’s arms. The woman looked like she had been somewhat calmed. “That’s my mama. And my sister, Mala. She cries – a lot.” 
 
Jessa smiled tightly. Again, she could not find the words. Logically, she knew she should just reply as normal, but something inside her did not let her feel anything but awkwardness and a strange shyness at the child’s earnest expression. Jessa was hardly shy; what was it about children? 
 
Ravinder tilted his head again. “Are you okay?” 
 
Jessa just nodded. She was prevented from further conversation by the approach of a couple Lady Tremont had gone to speak with while Jessa had been preoccupied with Ravinder and Ainesh. 
 
“He’s a little troublemaker, my great-grandson,” Lady Tremont said, looking down at the boy with equal parts fondness and sternness. Unlike when he had faced his mother’s anger, Ravinder looked cowed. He bowed his head, hunched his shoulders, and shuffled quickly to the man beside Lady Tremont. Ravinder hugged his leg tightly, peering out from behind. Lady Tremont raised her eyebrows and the boy ducked behind the man. Lady Tremont gestured at the man whose legs had been used as a makeshift shield. “This is my eldest son, Darren, and his wife Chetana. They are Ainesh and Priti’s-” Lady Tremont made a vague gesture towards the woman with the little girl. “-parents.” 
 
“Pleasure to meet you,” Jessa said, curtseying. Chetana touched her index and middle finger to her forehead, her palm perpendicular to her face, and dropped her chin. Darren simply bowed and in the same motion pulled Ravinder away from his leg. 
 
“Go and play with your uncle,” he said, nudging Ravinder in Ainesh’s direction. The boy glanced warily at his great-grandmother, but the second he passed her he once again barrelled into Ainesh. Ainesh scooped Ravinder up and spun him around, the boy squealing in delight. His mother – Priti, Lady Tremont had said – had softened to her son enough that she smiled at the antics as she stroked her daughter’s hair. Her fingers touched the flower clip Ainesh had taken from Ravinder and she glanced down in surprise; clearly, she had missed Ainesh replacing it. She fixed her brother with a disapproving stare, but he just winked at her as he turned Ravinder upside down. Lord Darren’s laugh was loud and full, drawing Jessa’s attention back to the older Tremonts. 
 
“Are you sure you’re ready for my family? They’re a bit of a handful,” Darren joked. 
 
“And we know who they get it from,” Chetana commented lightly, her voice quiet. Her Etrenian was accented, the words slightly sharper – though it was by no means harsh – than those spoken by a native. The woman was tiny – only exacerbated by standing next to Darren and Lady Tremont – which explained Ainesh’s short stature compared to the typical Etrenian. Also unlike most Etrenians, who wore their long hair in elaborate twists and buns even in casual settings, Chetana’s black hair was short and mostly untouched, but for a thin braid circling her head. Her left ear was more elaborately adorned for there were six gold rings along the rim of her ear. Jessa vaguely recalled something about earrings in Antascian culture, and sure enough Ainesh and Priti wore them too – one for Ainesh, and four for Priti. 
 
When no one said anything, Jessa realised Darren expected a response. “I’ll manage,” she said. Darren laughed, patting Jessa on the shoulder. He turned his attention to Jessa's chaperone. 
 
“And you must be...?” True to form, the woman stayed stony and silent. Darren blinked, glancing at his mother. His smile, however, did not waver. Keeping his tone jovial, he said, “Here to keep an eye on us, are you? Make sure Jessa's safe for her father? Pretty sure you don’t have anything to worry about from us.” 
 
Chetana’s arm twitched. Jessa eyed her curiously, but the woman merely smiled tightly and put a hand on Darren’s arm. He lifted his and placed it on hers, squeezing in what looked like reassurance, all the while keeping his gaze on Jessa’s chaperone. “It’s pretty warm in here, wouldn’t you say?” Jessa frowned; if anything, it was a little cold given the weather outside. But when she looked at the woman, she could see perspiration on her forehead. After a moment, the woman cracked and wiped her hand across her brows. Darren took a step forward. “You don’t look very good, madam. Do you need a lie down?” 
 
To Jessa’s surprise, the woman spoke. “I am fine, thank you.” The tightness of her words suggested otherwise. 
 
Darren nodded uncertainly. “It’s just I often find myself quite lethargic in the heat. Can barely stay on my feet.” The chaperone swayed, pressing a hand to her red, sweaty forehead. Something was wrong. Darren swept forward, placing an arm around her shoulders. “You truly look unwell. Here, let me help you…” 
 
He began guiding her from the room, but Jessa’s gaze did not linger on them. Instead, she saw Lady Tremont’s grave expression. Chetana pressed a finger to her brow, then ran it along the rings in her ear, and finally touched her lips. Behind her, Priti and Ainesh were doing the same, wearing matching grim expressions. Chetana glanced at Jessa as she made to follow her husband, stopping to take Jessa’s hands in hers. “We shall talk more, one day soon. These may be strange circumstances, but I would nevertheless like to know the woman my son will marry.” Patting her hand once, Chetana left the room. 
 
Jessa wasn’t stupid. She glared at Lady Tremont. “What did you do to her?” 
 
Lady Tremont pursed her lips, her jaw hardening. But her eyes were soft and repentant. “What we had to do. Jessa, I like it no more than you. I have always firmly believed in only using my magic on someone who has given their express permission. But… we can’t have her listening. You know as I well as I do that she will report everything she hears to the king.” 
 
“And what will she tell him now?” A mysterious fainting spell was hardly going to escape the woman’s report. 
 
“Whatever we want her to.” Lady Tremont’s dark tone made Jessa shiver. She swallowed hard. Right then. Lady Tremont clucked her tongue. “Don't look at me so, Jessa. I wish this did not have to be the way. I assume you still want to know our plan?” 
 
“Yes,” Jessa replied, grudgingly. She looked over her shoulder, back into the hallway where Darren, Chetana and the chaperone had gone. Chewing her lip, she turned back and met Ainesh's gaze. He smiled at her sadly, before Ravinder tugged on his sleeve and they went to sit on the floor in the corner of the room. Ravinder pushed a pack of cards into his hand. 
 
“Jessa?” Lady Tremont called. She sat upon a coral-coloured sofa in the centre of the room, next to Priti who was rather studiously ignoring the situation and playing quietly with her daughter. Jessa sat on Lady Tremont's other side. The little girl – Mala, her brother had called her – watched her with big, curious eyes. The stare was a little unnerving, even though Jessa knew it was simply that Jessa was a stranger in this girl's world. 
 
“I don't have long. The king decided that today was the best day to call me in to discuss the finer details,” Lady Tremont said, rolling her eyes. “He'll fight everything I say, but as long as my family – and you – remain safe, I'll be satisfied. We've come too far to allow the king to change his mind about this.” 
 
“Why are you doing this?” Jessa asked. “What you're suggesting your daughter does to Novamor... How can this possibly be safe for her? You can't be risking your daughter's life for this.” 
 
“I've never met someone so sure of their own low worth in all my life,” Lady Tremont said lightly. “Though it is true I would not put my daughter at risk for anyone, you are important.” 
 
Jessa scoffed, but Lady Tremont just shook her head. “Who else inspired the queen of Novamor into action? Who else inspired me? You might not think it – in fact, I know it was the very reason you let me see your memories – but you are needed in this, alive, more than you know. You do have power. You have a way of bringing people to your side. And,” Lady Tremont sighed. “And no one deserves the life your supposed father was forcing on you. Davin Allomere...” She shuddered, while Priti's grip on her daughter's fingers tightened slightly as she quickly looked away. 
 
“But your daughter...” 
 
“Will be safe.” Lady Tremont inhaled deeply. “I didn’t go into this without a plan, nor without talking to Isabelle and Amir. If I couldn’t convince them, this wouldn’t be happening. They do not know you, after all, and Amir is a Novarian who loves his country deeply. Their only reason for doing this is that it would strengthen Novamor’s position in this war.” 
 
“How can pulling resources do that?” Jessa asked incredulously. “If your plan is to just make it look like there’s no food, the king will find out. He won’t simply trust them to follow through on your promises. How can that do anything but destabilise Novamor? Isabelle and Amir will be tried for treason.” 
 
“I admit when I approached them, the plan had flaws. But with some tweaks and some help, we have a plan that will avoid all of those things while distracting King Alrick enough that he won’t even realise Queen Tula is stronger until it’s too late.” Lady Tremont waved a hand. “Fine. You are partially right. The situation in Novamor will not be as bad as will be reported, but if we do nothing the king will suspect. Amir will affect supply enough to make it seem like a genuine problem without it truly affecting the south long-term. It… will be enough to get Queen Tula’s attention and make the king think it is her priority to resolve it.” 
 
There was only one way that could be true. There was only one way they could truly risk the lives of so many innocent people. The thought made Jessa sick. She swallowed hard. The main reason this was even happening was because of her. She had to believe there was more to this – that people would not starve just to save her from a bad marriage. “The queen knows about this, yes?” Lady Tremont did not respond, instead turning to her great-granddaughter and offering a finger for the little girl to grab. With her other hand, she tickled under the girl’s chin. Mala’s tinkling laughter filled the air. Jessa allowed them their moment, resting her hands in her lap, before she pressed. “She knows, doesn’t she? Please, Lady Tremont. This can’t be just about me. It can’t.” 
 
“I’m sorry, Jessa,” Lady Tremont said, keeping her gaze on Mala. “There really is nothing else to tell you.” 
 
“She’s good at keeping secrets, my grandmother,” Ainesh piped up from the corner with a flash of a grin. He had the six of diamonds in his hand, and Ravinder was staring at him in awe as he reached for the card. Jessa had no idea what was going on, but from Priti’s sigh, she guessed it had something to do with Ainesh being a bad influence on his nephew. 
 
“Hush, you,” Lady Tremont chided. Finally, she looked at Jessa. “I have nothing else to tell you.” 
 
That was not the same as there being nothing to tell. The plan was riddled with too many holes unless the queen had been apprised of and approved it. They had no way of knowing that the queen would react as Lady Tremont had said otherwise. Plus, if Amir was really going to hurt his country’s food supplies – and the people – then he and Isabelle would not be safe unless the queen knew and had made a deal with them that would benefit the country in the long run. But what did Queen Tula possibly get out of this? She may know Jessa, but she was a queen; she could not care about one person – no matter how valuable their position at court could be if used correctly – but especially not when that person had done little except… Jessa swallowed. Except get 6,000 Novarians killed. How could this possibly benefit the queen? How could she justify hurting so many of her own subjects? Jessa knew from Lady Tremont’s tight-lipped expression that she would get no answer. 
 
And how could she blame them? Even with the mind block, her closeness to the king meant she was a liability. She hated it. She hated that no one could trust her. She hated, too, that she could not truly know whether it was just her situation they did not trust, or whether it was Jessa herself. Clasping her hands together, Jessa looked away. It wouldn’t do to dwell on it. All she could do was continue trying to prove she could be trusted. She ignored the part of her that whispered nothing would work – that she had freely gone to the queen and betrayed her family and yet they still probably wondered whether Jessa might return to her father’s side. Family loyalty was something precious to most people, and they could not understand that Jessa did not share such a thing with the du Renes. There was no ‘returning’ to the king for Jessa, because she had never been with him in the first place. But people would see that familial link and their own experience and project that onto her. She could hardly blame those – like the queen – who had never seen her with her father or how he truly treated her. 
 
Jessa slowly looked back at Lady Tremont, and their gazes locked. She saw the sadness shimmer in the old woman’s eyes, understanding and regretful. If Jessa had not known the queen was involved, she would have guessed from such a look that, whatever the woman’s initial plan had been, Lady Tremont was answering to someone else now. Lady Tremont wanted to tell her – she believed in her own magic, and had seen enough of Alrick’s actions to know Jessa would never step back in line – but she had been forbidden.

“Now, I need to go. Our illustrious king wants to negotiate terms. Terms that will no doubt benefit him far more than us.” Lady Tremont patted Jessa's hand. In the corner of the room, Ainesh gently moved Ravinder's reaching hands aside and stood up. He stared at his grandmother with wide, worried eyes. Waving her hand dismissively, Lady Tremont said, “I went into this knowing he would do this, and knowing that most of the demands I make will fail. I promise to keep all of you safe. That's the only reason I'm even doing this.” Lady Tremont riffled Mala's curly black hair as she looked down at Priti. “Teach her the basics first.”

Priti nodded. With a final glance around the room, offering a reassuring smile towards both Ainesh and Jessa, Lady Tremont left. Jessa turned to Priti. “What did she mean by that?”

“My grandmother said you're not exactly... practised at your magic.” Jessa flinched at the word. She didn't need Priti to continued to know where this was going, and she felt the walls closing in around her as Priti said, “So I'm going to teach you.”

Jessa's fingers tightened on the upholstered cushion beside her. Her eyes flickered to the door, seeing the escape she would not take. Despite the hard, fast beating of her heart, the rational part of her knew she had to do this. To protect against the king and help in the fight for Etrene, Jessa had to use everything she had against him. Avoiding her magic because it made her uncomfortable was foolish and wrong. Pressing her lips together, Jessa nodded.

Priti smiled and called Ainesh over to take her daughter. “Rafe should be back soon,” she told him, though there was certainly a tinge of worry as she glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Until then-”

“It's fine, Preets. Any time, you know that.” He tapped Mala on the nose, making her giggle. With a wink at Priti, Ainesh added slyly, “Besides, they adore me and will do whatever I say. Perfect for annoying older sisters.”

“If you-” Priti warned, though the light in her eyes and relaxed expression suggested this was all in good nature. That, in fact, the teasing was exactly what Priti needed in that moment. Ainesh winked at her again, called Ravinder over, and told Jessa he would see her later. The three left the room, and suddenly Jessa was alone with a woman she barely knew who was going to teach her magic. A chill shivered through Jessa's body.

“So we'll start with some defensive magic,” Priti said without preamble. Jessa appreciated that, at least. “Carantehna knows you need it.” It took Jessa a moment to work out what Priti had said, her brain caught on the foreign word that had been gibberish at first but was now beginning to sound familiar as she repeated it in her head. But then Priti was speaking again, “My grandmother's mind block is good, but it needs some help against a serious attack.”

Jessa laughed humourlessly. “If the king is trying hard enough to break into my head, then he already knows I have something to hide and I'm dead anyway. Then he'll figure out who helped me hide it and kill them too.”

“But you might die with the secret intact and thus save someone else.”

Jessa sighed. If she was not so resistant to learning magic she would have come to that conclusion herself. Shaking her head, she turned to face Priti. “What do I have to do?”

“You don't have to sound so resigned. Learning magic is a good thing. Having magic is a good thing.” Jessa's stomach roiled. Her thoughts flashed to a dungeon, to the screams of someone she loved while she revelled in her power. There was nothing good there. She breathed deeply, screwing her lips together and biting them to prevent tears. She looked away, but perhaps a moment too late, for Priti continued, “Or it's neither good nor bad, and depends entirely on the person using it. But if you have it, you can't just ignore it and hope it goes away. It won't. It'll just get more dangerous.”

“I have control.”

Priti's jaw clenched. “Control isn't something you just have. If you don't use it regularly, your magic will do it for you and it can't exercise restraint. It needs guidance, Jessa. It needs you, and you need it.”

Jessa stared at the wall across the room from them. She hated how much Priti's words made sense. She hated what she had to do. She hated that she was still so close to tears. Clasping her hands, she said tightly, “Let's just get on with it.”

“Do you understand, Jessa?” Priti pressed. “This is important. You can't just stop using your magic indefinitely.”

Inwardly, Jessa thought she'd been doing fine without it until now. Her magic wasn't flaring or acting up, and she was quite content to leave it in the darkness. Outwardly, however, she nodded. “Understood.”

Jessa felt Priti's gaze linger on her. At length, Priti let it go and said, “The first thing we're going to is something that simply enhances your natural defences. You want your mind block to be as effective as possible, and while my grandmother is very good at what she does, it is its most effective if no one even considers the possibility that you could be hiding something. You do not have that luxury with the king. He will be looking, and eventually he will find something. You need to make that as hard as possible. You have natural defences – even non-mages have this to a lesser degree – which essentially aim to distract an attacker. Your mind will throw useless flashes of memory at them, trying to overwhelm them or draw their attention. Your magic aids that naturally, but you can focus it.”

Though Jessa had resigned herself to this lesson, she would still resist something this foolish. “If I use my magic while the king is in my head, he'll know that I not only know about my magic but that I've learned how to control it too.”

“You're only going to enhance what your mind and magic naturally does.”

“Won't he still feel me using my magic?”

“Unless you know how to read someone's mind and I show you-” Priti paused for a second, looking expectantly at Jessa even though she knew the answer, “-then you'll have to trust me when I say he won't notice if you get it right.”

“Seems dangerous.”

“What about this whole situation isn't?”

Jessa conceded the point. “What do I do?”

“You need to make the flashes of memory seem more important than they are. In this case they'll be pseudo-memories, so you'll also need to make the flashes faster. Under too much scrutiny-”

“-it becomes obvious they're fake. Lady Tremont explained this. How do I actually do this?”

“First, I'm going to try to read your mind. I want you to simply focus on what your mind does. Once you have a handle on that, take my hand to let me know. Then, not losing focus on that, I want you to try to sense me – find me. For now, no magic. Just listen and feel. Ready?”

Jessa nodded, holding out her hand for Priti to take off the ring. Once it was off, Jessa started to close her eyes when she saw Priti shake her head. “You can close your eyes if you want, but in the real world you won't necessarily have that luxury. The real world is a distraction, but this is the sort of thing you're going to have to be on alert for always. Closing your eyes every time will draw attention. It's hard to unlearn habits, so why start them in the first place?”

Jessa bit her lip, but did not close her eyes. For a long time, she just sat there, unable to focus on anything in her head but for a strange tingling now that she wasn't blocking the world out. She tried, but apart from her thoughts she felt nothing. Relax, she tried to tell herself. Stop thinking.. It was an impossible request of herself, but it prompted her to change tactic. Instead, she sought out the pseudo-memories, recalling the stories she and Lady Tremont had concocted. They were a strange, unreal presence in her mind – or perhaps they felt too real, where real memories had a haziness to them. Either way, they felt different to the memories behind the mind block, so Jessa knew when she had found them. They flashed past her, though whether that was because of the nature of memories or because they were defending against attack Jessa did not know. She twisted her lip, musing for a moment, then imagined herself grabbing onto one of the memories. It slipped from her grasp, offering her no more than a glimpse of it. If the memories were coming to her call, wouldn't she have been able to keep it there? She had no idea. It was only recently that her world had been opened up to the possibility that memories could even be called to a person because of magic, let alone viewed in more than the intangible feeling she'd had in the past.

She tried calling up specific pseudo-memories, but although those came, there were certainly others too. Jessa held onto that, knowing that she was now tuned in to her mind's natural defences against Priti. She waited a while longer before reaching out and slowly taking Priti's hand. The woman nodded and Jessa let go, bracing herself even though it wasn't a physical attack. Her bare ring finger twitched, accompanied by a strange need for something. Jessa pushed the thought aside.

Once again, apart from the odd tingling she felt nothing at first. She kept her focus on the pseudo-memories, letting them flitter past her. Then, in a rush, she realised she should focus on where the memories where going. It took considerable effort, in part because it meant she had to visualise her mind as a physical space with direction and meaning. She pictured a simple field. There was a small cottage on the edge of it, housing her pseudo-memories. They raced in and out of the door, but where were they going? She drew her focus from the house, remembering the prickling sensation. Was that familiar? She tried to remember, but it was all too fuzzy.

“Jessa, relax.” She saw Priti, she saw her speak, but the words still felt impossibly far away. The meaning sunk in however, and Jessa let the confusing thoughts go. Focus. She grabbed at one of the memories, treating it as though it were a physical being that could carry her along with it. Together, they raced across the field. The tingling filled her head, muffling the rest of the world. She tried to picture Priti at its centre, but no being materialised in her mind. Still, she saw the pseudo-memories rushing towards it – a flash of fake memory – and then each one retreated. Some continued on further away from the house, taking a bit of the tingling with them. At least, it felt less strong to Jessa. Priti's attention diverted? It could only be that.

She did not know how long she watched this before Priti said, “Try and direct one of the memories somewhere.”

Jessa just stared incredulously at Priti, too afraid she would lose everything if she spoke. Priti smiled. “I'm guessing you're visualising your mind and memories in some way. What is it?” Jessa stayed silent. “You need to try speaking. It's all part of acting normal.”

“I...” Jessa faltered. She focused on the field, keeping it firmly locked in my mind. She could feel it slipping away. “A field. The memories are people running towards you.”

“Tell one of them to go somewhere else then.”

The field was blurring. “I can't.” She fought not to close her eyes.

“You can. Focus on one of the pseudo-memories. Ignore everything else – even me.”

Jessa gripped the sofa cushion underneath her. She gave into the urge and closed her eyes, picturing the field and the people running around. It came back to her slowly, and once she saw it as vividly as if it were real, Jessa opened her eyes. Nodding at Priti, Jessa waited for her to begin her attack in earnest again. When the tingling threatened to overpower her every sense, Jessa forced herself to focus on one of the pseudo-memories rushing towards them. How could she be sure that this was one of the memories Priti would follow? She studied the being her mind had created, imagining it just a little bit taller, a bit bigger, than those around it. It jumped into defence, and Jessa saw a flash of her and Rhys – their marriage. So, this was a copy of a real memory then. She faltered, her mouth going dry at seeing Rhys' unhappiness as he turned to face the memory-Jessa, and the pseudo-memory was half-way back to the house when Jessa realised what she needed to do. She felt some of Priti's presence surrounding the memory. Focusing all her attention on it, Jessa called it towards her. The pseudo-memory stuttered for a moment before it continued. Jessa called louder, demanding it to head towards some trees that had appeared on the fringes of the field. It turned...

A massive crash shocked Jessa out of her mind. Heart racing, she followed Priti's gaze to the ceiling above them, her hand over her beating heart. Priti was unfazed, merely sighing before shouting, “Ravinder Tremont, that better not be you!”

There was a muffled giggle, and then a voice said, “No.” They heard the clomping of fast-moving feet.

Priti hummed, raising her eyebrows sardonically at Jessa. Jessa just shrugged, unused to this kind of family antics. “I best go and find him. Sorry about this. You were pretty close.”

“Yeah...”

Left alone, Jessa put her hands in her lap, then on the arm of the sofa, then back in her lap. She threaded her fingers together, looking about the room. What did she do now? She rubbed her head as it twinged again.

In a house with so many residents, Jessa did not have to wait long before she heard someone approach. What she did not expect was the loud roar. She jumped up, running to the door. Just beyond, an unfamiliar man had Ravinder locked in a tight grip. The boy squirmed, but his smile suggested he was in no real danger. The man said loudly, “What do we have here, Ravinder?”

“Shhh,” the boy said.

“Oh, hiding from mama are we, little Rav?”

“I'm not little!” Ravinder burst out. When he realised how loudly he'd spoken, and saw the smirk on the man's face, he scowled. “Now she'll find me.”

“She already has,” Priti said, coming down the stairs. The man put Ravinder down, though he kept a hand in his to prevent him from running off before his mother reached him. “Where's Mala's hair pin?”

Ravinder shrugged innocently. He looked away from Priti's fierce gaze, and his own landed on Jessa for the first time. His eyes brightened, spotting an opportunity to get out of chastisement; surely his mother would not berate him in front of a guest? “J...”

“Jessa,” she supplied helpfully. The boy grinned, shaking off the man's grip and running to her. He pulled something out of his pocket, trying his best to keep it from his mother's sight, and held it out to her. It was the flower pin from before. Jessa raised her eyebrows.

“For you,” he said, glancing at his mother. Jessa did the same. Priti sighed and nodded, so Jessa took the proffered stolen gift and thanked the boy. He grinned, turned around and stuck his tongue out before racing off to presumably cause more mischief. When he was gone, Jessa passed the pin to Priti. She hoped the woman did not notice how her ring finger shook. Jessa couldn’t stop it.

“Thank you. He and that brother of mine… I’ll get them.” Priti’s eyes twinkled with as much mischief as her son’s.

The man coughed, hiding his laughter before turning fully to Jessa. “Since Priti seems to have forgotten manners-” He winked at her. “-I'll introduce myself. Nathaniel, Priti's uncle. The one tasked with the oh-so-enjoyable job of infiltrating the council.”

“How was it?” Priti asked.

“Dull. Maybe it'll get better once those two are married and the king feels we've upheld our end of the bargain. Otherwise I don't think my position is going to do anything for mother's cause. They had me checking over a document about fixing the roof over the east wing. Apparently it needs minor repairs. They don't actually care about it, of course, but they won't trust me with anything they do.”

“You'll charm them,” Priti said confidently. Nathaniel flashed her a smile.

“Now, where's that man of mine? I can't wait to tell him about the councillor I nearly punched in the face.” Priti sighed, rubbing her forehead. Nathaniel winked, patting her on the shoulder. “Ah, he – and you – may put on those disapproving expressions, but really you love it.”

When he'd gone, Priti indicated the sitting room. “Do you want to try again?”

Though it was absolutely not what Jessa wanted to do, she sighed and headed back into the room. Her left hand had begun to ache, and she massaged it gently. Priti's instructions washed over her in a haze, and it was only when she realised Priti was staring at her that she nodded and focused. Oh, how her head ached. She hated magic.

Jessa could not have been concentrating on pulling up the image of her mind for more than a few minutes when she felt the sofa behind her sink. Yanked from her calm, Jessa looked behind her to find Ainesh sitting there, smiling at her in encouragement. Jessa smiled back, then gasped in pain as a jolting pain shot through her head. The world went dark at the edges. When the pain subsided, Jessa found herself on the floor, her left hand clutching her forehead and the other squeezing her empty ring finger. The finger throbbed.

“Jessa?” Ainesh appeared over her, frowning in concern. Priti was there too, wringing her hands.

“I'm sorry, Jessa,” she said frantically. “I don't know what I did.”

Jessa just stared at them without comprehension. She wanted to speak, to tell Priti it wasn't her fault, but she just couldn't. Ainesh held out a hand and helped her to her feet. The world began to darken again, other images flashing across her vision. She saw the chastity ring, glowing red and angry. She saw Alrick, watching her impassively. Jessa just about had the wherewithal to sit heavily on the sofa as pain stabbed through her brows. She needed it back. She needed it now. She rasped, “The ring.”

When nothing happened and the pain was still there, Jessa cracked open an eye. The midday light was blinding to her sensitive eyes. The siblings were just staring at her. “The ring,” she said more forcefully, waving her left hand. Priti's mouth formed an 'o' and she fumbled in her dress pocket, procuring the ring and sliding it onto Jessa's finger.

Instantly the pressure in her head was gone. All pain had vanished as though it had never been. Jessa sighed and fell back against the sofa. “Apparently I can't be away from it that long.”

“About two hours.”

“Well, that rather makes learning magic harder.” Jessa couldn't muster the strength to pretend to be disappointed.

“We'll just have to demonstrate the method in the first three hours and then you can practise on me. Though... we can't carry on with what we were just doing. We'll do something different now.”

Jessa groaned.

Lady Tremont did not return until the servants had passed through lighting the fire and the candles lining the walls. She collapsed into one of the armchairs, passing a hand over her face. She glanced at Priti and flicked her gaze to the door. Priti nodded.

“You did well, Jessa. Make sure you practise,” she said as she left, closing the door behind her. Jessa and Ainesh straightened, glancing at each other before looking at Lady Tremont. The old woman just smiled at them tiredly.

“Well?” Ainesh burst out when the silence had lasted too long.

“We're definitely coming off far worse in this.”

Ainesh sighed, pressing a hand to his forehead. “You and your dramatics, grandmother. Just tell us.”

“The only thing I really wanted was to ensure everyone's safety. I've managed to get some assurances about Isabelle and her family. But... though your marriage to Ainesh will give you the opportunity to leave the castle and come to us without comment, I fear it is not enough. I could not sway the king from this. I'm sorry, Jessa. And Ainesh, for I have put you in danger too.”

“What?” Jessa said quietly, though she had a strong suspicion she knew what was coming. If she was right, it was her own words that had caused this.

“The king has insisted, for your safety, that you and Ainesh live in the castle after you're married.”

Jessa sighed, though really she knew this had been inevitable. He had a reason people would understand in the war. And Jessa herself had given him another by telling him about Miriyam. Though she could not regret that choice for it had saved her life, she hated that it meant there was no way to fight the king on this.

When Ainesh spoke, it was to ask the question Jessa was dreading. “When?” He did not look at Jessa.

Lady Tremont's jaw tightened. “I'm sorry, Ainesh. I tried to delay, but he wants this done. He'll make the announcement tomorrow.” She sighed. “The wedding will be two days later. I'm sorry.”

[Rosabeth]

Whatever shine the floorboards may have once had was long gone, worn away from Rhys’ relentless pacing up and down the hall. When he tired of his mindless wandering, of hearing the faint squeak on the fourth and seventh floorboard, he would press his back to the wall and sink to the floor. Only when his incessant, intrusive thoughts became too much to bear would he rise and begin the inane practice once more.

By the time Rhys forced himself from bed that morning the door to his father’s study had been shut, Rhys straining to hear the muffled voices from within. All it took was Anja’s scowl as she rounded the corner before sulking off once more for Rhys to know who was in that study. Nayall had known as well as Rhys had that the previous night’s conversation was not the end of the matter. After a full night of scrambling to send out warning of the blood book’s compromise, simply no more to do until more about the situation was known, Nayall was once more at the center of his family’s attention. Rhys did not envy him that.

Hours passed in the same monotony. Just when Rhys thought he could hardly bear the anticipation of it all the door to the study creaked as his mother slipped outside. Rhys scrambled to his feet, at his mother’s side in an instant with a hand on her shoulder. His mother’s weary glance did not bode well. Whatever expression he’d made had clearly betrayed his anxieties, for his mother gathered his hands in hers.

“You worry too much, Rhys.” When Rhys frowned his mother’s lips curled up in a faint smile, her grip tightening. “Things are fine. We’ve simply been ironing out the details of our potential relationship. It takes time.”

“You make it sound like you’re entering some sort of business arrangement.”

His mother raised her brow. “Are we not?”

Rhys chewed on the inside of his lip. At one time that was exactly how he would have viewed the situation. It was how he’d suggested Nayall frame his offer, likely how Tula had advised the man too. His family understood business negotiations and ruthless pragmatism; they knew this all too well. But Rhys found himself senselessly hoping for more. Hoping that for one moment his father would lay bare his heart and do what he knew was right, damn the consequences. But that was not how wars were one, how empires were made and fortunes amassed. But Rhys knew he was not thinking like a Marinon – he was thinking like Jessa. The problem was he didn’t know who was right.

“He’s brave, I’ll give him that.” Rhys’ mind snapped back to the present, to his mother leading him down the hall as she spoke. “I was surprised by his little stand yesterday. It was stupid, but it took guts. Did you tell him to say that?” Rhys shook his head, his mother nodding in appraisal. “ He seems sensible. Honest. Perhaps a bit young and inexperienced, but certainly not naïve. No, I’m sure the king saw to that. But this is a massive risk, this undertaking. We could lose everything.”

Rhys only shrugged. “We could lose everything regardless. Why not at least take a stand with the side that might benefit you in the end?”

His mother’s lips curled into a smile. “Trying to convince me even now, I see. But there’s no need. We are with you, Rhys, no matter how unhappy your sister might seem about it. We will not abandon you – not again. Besides, Gods know it would be good to see Alrick off that damned throne. The entire du Rene line…” The Aquenine curse muttered under her breath was vulgar enough to raise even Rhys’ eyebrows, but his mother only shrugged. As a silence began to grow, Rhys found himself fixated on his mother’s words, words that her curse had momentarily drawn from his mind. The entire du Rene line. The smooth curve of metal against his fingertips caught his attention. His fingers ran against his wedding ring absentmindedly. He’d not even realized he’d been doing it. His mother’s gaze flickered down as her lips went taught.

“Please, you must know.” The words scratched and tore against Rhys’ suddenly-dry throat, his voice raspy. “She wouldn’t. Never. Not unless…” Rhys clenched pressed his fingers hard against his ring, trying to suppress the panic that threatened to break free. No. His anxieties helped no one, least of all himself. “She had good reason. I know it. It was a last resort.”

“I know.” Rhys felt himself let out a sigh he had not realized he’d been holding in, but something in his mother’s eyes warned him against hoping for the best. “I think, perhaps, your father knows it too. Anja, well…that’s another matter. But they’re furious – hurting, really – and that’s something only time will heal. Though I recommend you start praying now that whatever knowledge the king does have is not enough to cause us any serious harm. If not-”

“Don’t blame Jessa,” Rhys interjected. He did not want to hear his mother’s final words. “Blame me. I showed it to her.”

Anyone else would have had no reason to doubt Rhys’ claim, but his mother was no fool. She could detect a lie before it reached your lips, sense betrayal before you’d ever made up your mind. It was perhaps what made her a natural at being the Lady Marinon everyone feared. That she’d born Rhys, raised him, knew the way his mind worked like a clockmaker knew each and every gear only made his ability to lie to her that much paltrier.

“Jessa may not be a trained spy or a thief, but I’m not stupid enough to doubt for a second that she’s crafty enough to get that information of her own devices.” Rhys felt his face warm at his mother’s exacerbated stare. “Besides, she never struck me as the type to use your vice when it comes to her against you.”

“Just…be forgiving. When the time comes. She’s suffered enough. Is what she’s going through not punishment enough?

In a moment uncharacteristic of his mother, Rhys’ plea went unanswered. Instead they stood in heavy silence. Waiting, though for what Rhys did not know. What was once and impassive expression faltered, his mother averting her eyes as her jaw tightened, Rhys watching ever slight movement. When the silence felt as though it might stretch on forever Rhys saw his mother withdraw a hastily folded piece of parchment from her skirts.

“Rhys,” her voice was calm, unnaturally so, and Rhys felt his every nerve go on edge in a moment. “I promise I wasn’t keeping this from you. The information only arrived this morning. Jessa - ” In her pause Rhys’ mother must have seen the terror flash in his eyes as his mind jumped to the worst. “No, no, she’s fine. Not that. She’s…engaged.”

Rhys heard nothing. He felt nothing. The world flittered into his ears and passed through his mind without understanding. “Engaged?”

“To a Lord Ainesh Tremont, apparently.” As she spoke his mother gently unfolded the parchment, smoothing it in her hands before proffering it to Rhys. He took it without thought, his eyes scanning the morning report from Ovis without properly reading the words. “The name rang a faint sort of bell, but they’re not a family I’m well versed on. I looked through our records and it does not seem that we’ve ever worked with them. But we also have no record of them being du Rene loyalists either. It’s an…odd match. Perhaps there’s something we don’t know. Perhaps these Tremonts have been playing a very, very careful political game. It’s hard to say.”

“Engaged.” The word tasted bitter in his mouth, though he spoke it so softly he was not sure his mother even heard. His scanning eyes had found the line, no more than a brief mention among the dozen other notes. The king announced the marriage of his daughter Jessa to Lord Ainesh Tremont. The wedding is rumored to be held in couple days. There is no guest list circulating, so it is likely to be a private affair. No further details were given. With those few sentences the matter was dismissed, whoever had written the message moving on to more important news. Rhys couldn’t breath. His hands shook, the words on the paper clutched in his right becoming a blur, his eyes unable to focus. A couple of days. How old was this information? Was she already married? Was the wedding today? Tomorrow? Rhys was not a jealous man, but as his mind invited in the image of another’s lips on hers, on her skin… A sudden metallic sharpness hit his tongue, and Rhys realized he’d bit through skin on the inside of his lip. Would this man take Jessa to his bed? Would she have a choice in the matter? A relentless pain pressed in on him from all sides, stealing his breath and threatening to stop his heart. It was too much to bear. Rhys didn’t know if he could.

When he looked up his mother stood in silence but an arm’s length away, her eyes downturned. Her gentle hand rested against his cheek, her thumb rubbing against the pink scar there. “I’m sorry, darling. If you need anything…” There was a question in her eye, perhaps a hopefulness. Rhys wondered if caring for him in his pain might distract her from her own. He thought on it for a moment but could not move a muscle, still frozen in place as the roaring in his head refused to subside. His mother seemed to understand without a response, her hand dropping as she gave a small nod. She left without another word, and with her absence Rhys slid down the wall, paper still clutched in his hand as he rested his face against his knees.

The divorce seemed like such an easy wound to mend now. No matter the outcome of the war, so long as they both lived, they could still find one another. Perhaps it was naïve to think that Alrick would not track the both of them down and slaughter them both in the way Rhys knew the man must wish for even now. But still it was a possibility, even if faint, that they might be able to live in exile. Yet the simple act of this marriage destroyed even that most desperate thread of optimism. Only the king could grant an annulment or divorce for a noble, and were the king to live there would be no hope of such a thing. If they did not succeed – if Nayall did not become king – there would be no end to this nightmare. Loss meant sure exile for Rhys, hiding from Alrick’s punishment for the rest of his days. That was a future Rhys was willing to accept. But Jessa’s marriage sealed her from him forever, and if she was not killed in the aftermath Alrick would never grant her peace. Her father and husband – Rhys choked on the word – both her jailers. This was their future.

They could not fail. Not now.

By the time Nayall appeared before him some time later, Rhys had taken refuge in some empty, dark place in his mind. He barely registered the man’s words.

“I think I’ve had about enough of that to last me a lifetime.”

Indeed, Nayall looked a bit worse for wear. The confident persona he’d worn with such efficacy the night before had worn away. What was left was a man who looked so very, very young. Rhys only nodded weakly at Nayall’s comment, unable to draw up the will to inquire further. If Nayall noticed Rhys’ distance he did not comment on it, only following as Rhys started down the hall.

Nayall could only promise to stay for another day or so, his presence needed seemingly everywhere. Tula’s advising was ongoing, and those he’d left in charge in Ovis called him back as well. Though he’d promised to help Rhys with Johannes’ lead if he could, Rhys knew it would have to be done from a distance. The night before Rhys had promised to introduce Nayall to his friends, if only so that they might act as middlemen in any future communication. Only hours before Rhys had looked forward to the introduction, imagining how Victor and Nayall might get on. Yet now as they entered into the warmth of the morning light, the clear blue skies feeling like a taunt, Rhys wanted nothing more than to turn back and shut himself away.

Rhys had never wished so much that Selene and Victor did not live so close, for it was impossible to approach the Greylan manor without seeing the Gaille’s estate in ruins only a street away. Little remained of the structure but for crumbling stone walls, a shell of its former magnificence. Clearly whoever’d been gifted the estate by the Lanis’ had cared little for its wellbeing, the building looted and ravished by fire. Even the gardens were torn to pieces, the statues that lined the paths shattered into pieces that now lined the way. The Greylan manor, usually so modest by comparison, now felt like a fortress. It looked untouched as far as Rhys could tell, though the guards posted outside had tripled in number since the last time Rhys had been.

Before Rhys could even make his way up the steps the grand double doors swung open, Victor towering in the entrance with a grin on his face. “RHYS!” Before Rhys knew it he was pulled into a bone-crushing hug, Victor slapping him on the back hard enough to make him cough. “Selene told me you were back. It’s so good to see you, you have no idea. I-” Victor paused mid-sentence, his turning towards the silent figure to Rhys’ left. “You brought company?”

“Victor, this is Nayall.” Nayall gave a small nod at Rhys’ gesture. “Nayall, this is Victor, one of my oldest friends. He’s like a brother to me.”

Victor looked to Rhys and laughed. “I don’t know, I think I’m better than-” the words dissipated into the air as Victor swallowed, his lips tight. He’d caught himself, but Rhys knew what he’d meant to say, the sort of joke he’d always told in years gone by. I’m better than the brother you do have. Victor’s looked to Rhys in a silent apology, quickly collecting himself and bringing the smile to his face once more. “Come in, come in.” Victor ushered them through the foyer. “So, Nayall, what brings you to Jasrah? Is he a Novarian soldier?” The last words were directed towards Rhys who only shook his head.

“I came to speak to Rhys’ family,” Nayall answered simply, his eyes scanning the interior of the manor as he spoke.

Victor guffawed. “And why would you possibly want to do that?”

“I need support to make a claim to the throne.”

Victor’s laughter stopped. He only stared blankly, looking between Rhys and Nayall and blinking rather hard. “I’m sorry, I think I’m missing something here because I’m fairly certain you didn’t just say what I think you said.”

“The queen of Novamor has put Nayall forward as Alrick’s successor, should we win the war. Nayall used to be part of the king’s mage ring, but he escaped last year. He’s been sheltering mages in Ovis ever since.”

Victor balked. Rhys was half surprised he did not laugh. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.” Nayall’s response felt almost defensive as he straightened slightly, pushing his shoulders back.

“Twenty-four and a mage? Going up against the king?” Victor muttered under his breath, letting out a low whistle. “You’re a braver man than me.” Nayall seemed to take the comment as a compliment, his tight jaw relaxing. Victor tapped a finger to his lips, taking a step back and smiling. “Does this mean I’m supposed to bow or something?” For a moment it looked as though he might, much to Nayall’s discomfort, but Victor only laughed, shaking his head. “Perhaps I’ll wait until the coronation. Don’t want it getting to your head.”

The sound of muffled giggling echoed throughout the hall. Rhys peered up to the top of the grand staircase, seeing two familiar faces staring down at him through the bannisters. Selene’s sisters giggled to one another at being caught, jumping to their feet and rushing down the staircase. Before they could make it past Victor he grabbed the two of them, one by each arm, and squeezed them to his side as their giggles morphed into full-bodied laughs. “Now where do you two think you’re going?”

“Hello, Rhys!” Said Adriene, the elder of the two, pushing away from Victor. “Are you here to see Selene? She’s said you might come.”

“We heard about your divorce. Are you and Selene going to get back together, then?” Lea chirped. Before she could get in another word Adriene threw her sister a reproachful look, silencing the younger girl. Rhys swallowed hard, looking to his feet. His mouth was dry, so dry, and his words refused to come.

Victor must have seen Rhys’ pained expression, for he spun the two girls to face him. “I believe I promised to take you two into the city. Though my mother would have a heart attack if she saw you out in public in those clothes.” Lea and Adriene looked down at their mud-stained riding attire with frowns. Victor’s grinned conspiratorially. “I guess that means we should go before she can see you.” The sisters laughed again, Victor pushing them towards the door as Rhys mouthed a thank you. Victor nodded in acknowledgement, mouthing back the drawing room.

Nayall followed Rhys to the drawing room in the manor’s new silence, Rhys giving the door a light rap before stepping inside. Selene kneeled on the ground, a hundred sheets of parchment scattered around her on the floor. Her dark curls were tied up loosely and the sleeves of her ink-stained dress were pushed to her elbows. Selene looked up with surprise, her mouth parting as she looked between Rhys and Nayall. “Rhys.” His name came from her lips as barely more than a breath, Selene scrambling to her feet and brushing off her skirt, placing the pen in her hand in the ink well. “And you must be Nayall.”

Nayall’s surprise mirrored Rhys’ own. “Rhys’ mother mentioned you when she contacted me last night to help with…” Selene looked to Rhys with a look of consolation. “Well, you know. She told me about your plans, Nayall. If it’s makes you feel any better, know I think it’s rather admirable what you’re doing. I can’t imagine your conversation this morning was particularly uplifting.”

Though appearing lost for words, Nayall nodded letting himself relax. Selene flashed him a warm smile. “Did Lady Marinon do that thing she does where she yells at you in Aquenine, just to throw you off?” Nayall’s laugh was full-bodied as he nodded, Selene laughing along with him. Rhys felt gratitude for Selene’s gentleness, her laughter – it was impossible not to be fond of her, and from the smile lines around Nayall’s eyes as he conversed lightly with Selene, Rhys knew Nayall would agree.

Selene ushered them into the room, careful to point them around her array of lists that scattered across the floor. Rhys let her and Nayall do most of the talking, feeling hardly able to focus for more than moment. His thoughts were far from that room, but though his mind wandered he could not help but noticed Selene’s glances his way every so often, pointed in silent question. After some time, it was clear Nayall noticed them too. When the conversation wound down and an awkward silence filled the room Nayall stood, mentioning some interest in finding Victor and exploring the city. Rhys and Selene knew the lie, but smiles and pleasantries were given as Nayall bowed from the room, leaving Rhys and Selene to themselves.

“The Greylans have been far too good to us.” Selene spoke quickly and suddenly, gaze pointed to her hands fidgeting in her lap. “Victor keeps my sisters entertained, taking them out as much as he can. I’ve been spending so much time away, trying to get everything sorted, that I just don’t have the time to watch after them like I should. I know I should be doing more, but - ”

“Selene.”

Selene peered up hesitantly at Rhys’ expressionless face. Her eyes were glassy. “What did you actually want to say to me?”

In a change so sudden Rhys found himself gaping Selene burst into tears. Her lips trembled as she tried to force the words out, Rhys too surprised to move, much less offer her comfort. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry Rhys. I swear I didn’t know. I didn’t know what would happen to you and things just got out of hand. I would never…never…” Her breaths were coming in gasps and the sight of it shook Rhys from his surprise. He crossed the way to the couch where she sat, pulling her head against his chest as he sat beside her. He could feel her tears begin to soak his shirt.

“Selene, shh, calm down. It’s alright.” His words only seemed to make her cry harder. “What are you apologizing for? I don’t understand. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Between gasps Selene looked up, pressing one hand against Rhys’ shoulder as she pushed herself back to meet his eye. “Anja didn’t tell you?” The confusion on Rhys’ face must have spoken enough for her liking. Her sobs began to quiet as she tried to calm herself, taking her free hand and wiping away the tears on her cheeks. When her breathing had calmed to a steady pace she shook her head, small, pained sounds still escaping her mouth. “I can’t believe she didn’t tell you. I was so sure…”

“Selene. What are you talking about?”

“I knew Kieran’s arrest warrant was fake when I gave it to you. It was a trap.” The color that drained from Rhys’ face at her words only drew Selene into a frenzy, her hand against his shoulder clutching at his shirt. “It’s not like that! The king’s agents - they kidnapped my sisters. They left me the warrant along with a note. They threatened to kill her if I told anyone. At first I didn’t know what to do so I hid the note from Victor. But I told myself I wouldn’t give it to you. How could I? And I didn’t even have proof anyone had actually taken my sisters. There was no sign of a break in. But then...when my parents…” Selene could not finish the words, her face taking on an odd pale pallor. “They left me proof after that. Lea’s necklace. You know she never takes that necklace off. And I just…I snapped. I had to do anything I could to save them Rhys, you have to understand that. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you; I just couldn’t let them die. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. Please don’t hate me.”

Before Selene could get out another apology Rhys wrapped his arms around her, holding her as she began to cry once more. “It’s not your fault. I understand. I would have been more upset with you if you’d tried to help me over your sisters.” Rhys pulled back a bit, forcing Selene to look at him. “See? I’m fine. No harm done.” That was, of course, a lie. The wounds Rhys suffered may not be visible to the eye, but they were there, festering away in his mind. But Selene did not need to know those things.

“I’m sorry,” Selene whispered, though it seemed her tears had stopped and her body was still.

“Stop apologizing,” Rhys sighed, happy to see the faintest smile appear on Selene’s lips. Rhys took Selene’s hand between his, giving it a squeeze. “You’re my oldest friend, Selene. I could never hate you.” With Rhys’ words Selene sighed, bringing her hand to lay on top of his. They sat in silence for some time like that as Selene’s breathing returned to normal, the slight redness in her face dissipating. Eventually she let her head fall to Rhys’ shoulder with a sigh.

“Look at us,” Rhys murmured. “We’re a mess, the both of us. Who ever thought we’d get here? You being Lady Gaille and me a traitor to the crown, lucky to be alive. What happened?”

Rhys could not see but a sliver of Selene’s face, but he could hear her sigh. “Tell me about it.” From the corner of his eye Rhys could see her bite her lip, perhaps mulling over some thought. “I’m sorry, by the way. About the divorce, I mean. Your mother told me. I saw the copy of the document the king had sent to your parents. It was rather forceful in its wording. It was very clear your consent was not needed.”

Calm yourself. Rhys repeated the words in his head over and over, keeping his eyes fixated on a picture on the wall. He had not realized he was so weak, that just the mention of it might bring him to the edge of panic, of anguish. He focused on that empty part of him where he’d forced his mind to reside. He would not think of it. He could not. “She’s getting remarried.” To speak the words took every ounce of strength left in his body.

Selene pushed herself off his shoulder with blinding speed, looking into Rhys’ eyes with wide-eyed surprise. “Married? I don’t - ” Before she could ask another question Rhys had no interest in answering he withdrew the note from his pocket, placing it in her hand. She scanned the lines frantically, her lips mouthing the words as she read them. When she finished she looked up at Rhys’ blank face, looking for some answer.

“So…you’re not…together?”

“So it would seem.”

“And what about you?”

Rhys looked at Selene without understanding. “What about me?”

Selene swallowed. “What will you do?”

With all his racing thoughts, this was one area Rhys had thought little on. He did not want to think of it. He did not want to think about this dark potential future he refused to accept. He answered plainly, with the only truth he could. “I don’t know. Focus on the Lanis’, for now. On the war.”

Rhys did not realize until a moment of silence settled in after he spoke that Selene’s thumb was rubbing against his hand. It was a soothing sort of pattern and Rhys looked down, watching with an unfocused gaze. When he looked back up Selene seemed closer than she’d been a moment before.

“Rhys.”

Then her lips were on his.

For a moment Rhys’ mind could not register the act, his lips parting on instinct as he tasted her lips, felt her warm breath. Then, through that warmth and softness, Rhys’ mind snapped into the present. With a gentle push against her shoulder Rhys pulled back, looking at Selene with wide eyes. His heart hammered in his chest as he sucked in a hard breath. “What are you doing?”

Selene looked as though she’d been slapped. With fingers pressed against her lips, her mouth drawn into an O, she stared at Rhys. As her initial incomprehension began to fade away, only to be replaced with horror, Rhys watched her eyelids press shut, her head shaking. “Oh Gods. Oh Gods. I’m such an idiot.” Selene scrambled off the couch in an instant, one arm wrapped around her waist and the other hand pressed to her lips as she began to pace the sitting room, leaving Rhys gaping up at her from a distance.

“I don’t…I don’t understand…” Rhys could hardly formulate a coherent thought, his mind swimming with the unexpected feeling of Selene’s lips on his. It had broken through that emptiness and now thoughts of Jessa swarmed his mind, tinged with the faintest guilt.

Suddenly Selene’s eyes were narrowed and she was muttering to herself, shaking her head as she continued to pace. “Of course you don’t understand. Why would you think about how I might take this?”

“Take what?”

“You come here and comfort me, forgive me for things that should be unforgivable, hold me when I cry, and then you tell me Jessa is to be married. Married, Rhys. In Ovis. While you are here. What did you expect me to think?”

“I didn’t mean to imply I’d stopped loving her.”

“And you think I stopped loving you when you married her?”

The words were a punch to the gut. Rhys stared at Selene, desperate to find the words, but she only scowled. “When you broke my heart I moved on. I didn’t want to. You were right there, and we could have – it didn’t have to end. But I tried to move on. I gave you space. And now you’re here while Jessa is in Ovis marrying another and it’s so strange for me to think that I might have a second shot at what I lost? Gods, I hoped. I haven’t had that sort of hope in months. But I’m a fool. An idiot. I should have known.

“You told me you loved me, Rhys. You asked me to marry you. And I wanted to. Gods, I’ve wanted to since I was 17. Do you know how hard it was watching you fall in love with her? Do you know what it feels like to watch the person you love – the person you thought you were going to grow old with – love another right before your eyes? And how couldn’t you love her? She’s kind and gentle and smart and beautiful. And that makes it even worse. At least if I could find some reason to hate her I could feel some genuine anger, I could toss you aside with bitterness. But I couldn’t. Because I know why you love her. I cannot fault you for loving her. I just don’t understand why you love her more.”

The anger that had coursed through Selene, the fire Rhys had seen in her eyes dissipated with each word until she stood limp and silent before him. Rhys could barely bring himself to look her in the eye. As Rhys stared at a Selene – beautiful, brave Selene – he could see in that moment clearly the woman he’d fallen in love with so easily all those years ago. That love was not gone, but Rhys could not deny it held a faded quality. It was not the same love that burned brightly within, a love that refused to weaken it’s hold even when fate seemed stacked against them – that love was held by another. Selene’s eyes had not once strayed, her gaze boring into Rhys as she waited for an answer they both knew would only wound her. Finally, Rhys sighed, and before his words left his lips he could see the pain clear on Selene’s face.

“I don’t know why. Jessa challenged me in a way no one else had before. She makes me think differently about the word, about myself, about everything. She makes me want to be better. And…I don’t know. There’s some things I just can’t explain. I can’t explain everything I feel. I just love her. Even now. Even with everything feeling hopeless. And just because I love her doesn’t mean that the love I felt for you was any less real or any less potent. I don’t love her more than I loved you. I just…chose her. And I’m sorry that this hurts – Gods, you don’t know much I wish I didn’t have to cause you this pain – but I can’t change the way I feel. I just made a choice. I chose Jessa.”

Selene’s quiet, the emptiness plain to see on her face, was worse than any anger she could have spewed. He wished she would slap him, scream at him, do anything to keep him from festering in the guilt that consumed him. Instead, Selene only nodded, hugging herself tightly around the waist. “Thank you,” she whispered, “for making that so clear.”

“Selene, I -”

“You chose her from the start. When you first married her. If you’d loved me as much as you love her you would have chosen me, marriage be damned. Isn’t that what you’re doing now? You don’t even know if you’ll ever see her again and here I am, throwing myself at you, and you’re still choosing her.”

“That was different.”

“No, Rhys. It’s wasn’t. It’s just that now you’re in my position and you know how much it hurts. But maybe you’ll get lucky. Maybe everything will work out for you. I wish you the best.” Though Selene smiled it did not touch her eyes. It was cold and lifeless, and as Rhys stood, reaching out, she withdrew.

“Just go, Rhys.”

“Selene, please.”

“Go.”

Rhys pulled back, staring blankly. Selene looked as Rhys had felt that morning, how he still felt. Cold. Empty. Hurting. He ached to make things right, but Rhys knew better than to push her further. Instead, Rhys wandered to the door, his hand resting against the frame. “If you want to see me, if you want to…say anything else, I’ll be at the Trevian’s house. I won’t bother you with an explanation now. Just know I’ll be there. And…I’m sorry. Truly.”

Selene approached, quickly this time, and Rhys pulled his hand away from the door frame just in time to watch it slammed in his face.

[Mollianne]

If the sun had been shining on a clear, blue sky, Jessa might have said it was the world trying to spite her. Instead, Jessa awoke to the heavy patter of rain on her window. The sky was a swirling mass of clouds darker than Jessa's mood. Cold, gloomy weather for a cold, gloomy day. Her wedding day. Again.

This time, Jessa didn't have the comforting walls of the university and the pull of her research to distract her from what was going to happen in just a few hours. All she had was the mirror in front of her, reflecting her hollow eyes, and the chastity ring that was a prison on her finger. Hate coursed through her and she looked away. Her thoughts drifted to a different chastity ring. It had been her mother's. Now she laughed, a bitter sound. She had used it for her wedding band despite her hatred for the Marinons because she had truly believed that she would never marry again, whether that was because the Marinons killed her or not. The Marinons had been irrelevant; it was a way for her to keep her mother close. She laughed again, for she had barely worn the ring – even when she had thought it meant something for her and Rhys – and now it was far away in Jasrah. It was unlikely she would ever see it again. All she had done by making that decision was lose a piece of her mother.

There was a soft knock on the door, pulling Jessa from her thoughts. She wiped away the tear that had fallen down her cheek and called for the person to come in. A girl, a simple red dress folded over her arm, came into the room. Jessa remembered her ebony hair and pale face – Elodie. The young dressmaker smiled happily at her as she dropped into a curtsey. “My lady.” She held out her arm. “Your dress.”

Jessa took it and let the fabric waterfall to the ground. There was no unnecessary fabric, no special adornments. Just a plain dress, red for the du Rene family colour as was traditional. “It's beautiful.”

Elodie beamed. Her gaze drifted to Jessa's armoire. “Did you like your dress for the ball?”

“It was spectacular,” Jessa replied, but her entire focus was now on the young girl before her.

“I tried my best,” Elodie said, ducking her head modestly. Appraising the girl, Jessa went over to the wardrobe and opened the door. She pulled out the sleeve of the dress, glancing at Elodie.

“Your aunt was right. These sleeves are particularly beautiful.” Jessa did not move her gaze from Elodie. The girl came over slowly, reaching out and rubbing the fine fabric between her fingers. She began tracing some of the tiny swirls and loops stitched into the sleeve. Jessa watched idly at first, but the Elodie slowed the movement down as she met Jessa's eyes. She was tracing out a shape. Or... a letter. It wasn't the alphabet the Etrenian language used, however. Jessa came closer, stopping Elodie's hand and studying the pattern either side of the letter Elodie had traced. There was maybe... Yes, though Jessa would need to go to the library to translate it. She was surprised Elodie knew Barichean. “Where are you from, Elodie?”

“Ovis.”

“And your family?” Commoners didn't really move often – certainly not to another country – but there was a chance Elodie's family had moved for work. Perhaps one of her family had been one of Catrice's personal servants. Catrice's family hailed from a city right on the border with Barichea and it was likely some of their staff were Barichean. But Elodie’s replied that her family were too from Ovis. Jessa frowned. “Then how do you-?”

“I don't. They're just pretty symbols.”

“So they don't mean anything?” Jessa had not taken her eyes off the sleeve and, in that time, she had begun to make out a few familiar letters. She didn't know of any words that might have those letters beside each other. Perhaps she had read into this too much.

“I didn't say that,” Elodie whispered. “I just don't know Barichean.”

Jessa looked up then, raising her eyebrows. She barely made a sound as she asked, “They don't mean anything in Barichean?”

Elodie said nothing, but her eyes flicked meaningfully towards Jessa before she scurried to the door. “I hope you like your dress, my lady.”

Jessa set to work as soon as Elodie was gone. She pulled the dress out of the wardrobe and draped it over the bed. The bed was close enough to her desk that she could put the sleeve onto it as she copied out the letters merged with the looping pattern. She traced the threads with a finger first, trying to find the letters she recognised before she committed them to the page. Unfortunately, she knew barely any Barichean – spoken more than written – so Jessa only found six. She pushed a hand through her hair, then flipped the dress over to repeat for the other sleeve. She had found four letters – barely enough to make a couple of words let alone a full message – when there was a knock on the door. Jessa's head shot up, and frantically she grabbed the ball gown. Running to the wardrobe, she stuffed it inside and rushed back to the desk to turn the parchment over. Only then did she call, “Come in.”

The door opened. She heard the swish of a dress as someone walked in and stopped suddenly. “Oh. Wow.”

Jessa turned to Maira. The princess strode over to her and took one of her hands, shaking her head. Jessa glanced down. They were covered in black ink. She glanced at the mirror. There were smudges all over her face too. Maira shook her head again. “This will not do. I'll call for the servants to ready a bath.”

Jessa nodded absently, still staring at her reflection. Her thoughts were far away – on another day with ink-stained fingers, a day she'd met a man who had changed her entire world. His face swam into her mind, and she heard him trying to make conversation with her as he quietly ignored the black smudges on her white fingertips. She had seen the sadness in his eyes even then, and the proud loyalty that he would go through with it regardless, but now she saw it for what it was: hopelessness, defeat, loneliness. Rhys had not been merely sad when he had consented to marrying Jessa and gave up the woman he loved. From the squeezing pain in her chest and her hollow gaze, Jessa knew the truth all too well. She closed her eyes, turning away from the mirror, her thoughts, her history. It didn't make his face go away though. Nothing could do that. Not even the knowledge that their situations were different: Jessa would not marry Rhys even if she could. Even if Rhys wanted to for some unknown reason, she had more dignity than that.

She just didn't have enough dignity to stop loving him, not yet. Not when she could still see those nights in the pantheon so clearly in her mind and the way he had stared at her as though there was nowhere else he wanted to be. It didn't matter that it was clearly all a fiction she had allowed herself to believe because it felt good to be loved. Her heart ached anyway.

Stop. This wasn't helping anyone. But the Tremonts were. They were saving her from an awful marriage and almost certain death. They were helping Jessa's cause and committing treason in doing so. Their actions could help Novamor win the war. This marriage was not a bad thing.

“That doesn't make it better.” Jessa's head shot up at Maira's words, her heart lodging itself in her throat. Had Maira...?

Slowly, she asked, “What?”

Maira indicated Jessa's fingers with her head. When she looked down, Jessa found that she had been rubbing at the ink stains. Giving Maira a half-hearted sheepish smile, Jessa let her hands fall to her side. Of course Maira had not read her mind. There was doubt though, for she knew Maira was aware of her magic.

Servants bustled in with a bathtub and buckets of steaming water and Maira left without a word, letting Jessa breathe more easily. Once the bath was ready, the servants left. One of them hung back, insisting at Maira’s orders that she would return after Jessa was finished. When Jessa protested, the woman said, amused, “Her highness doesn't trust you to keep yourself presentable.” Jessa raised her eyebrows; she was a grown woman, for the Gods’ sake.

The woman had to have a sixth sense, for Jessa had barely stepped out of the bath and put on a slip before she was knocking on the door. The woman tsked at seeing Jessa furiously rubbing a towel through her wet hair. She went over to the dying fire, coaxed it back to life, and then bodily moved Jessa to kneel beside it. She took the towel from her hands and, much more gently, dried Jessa’s hair with the fire’s warmth to assist her.

“What's your name?” Jessa asked. The woman seemed surprised by the question, and tripped over her own name as she answered. “Well, Natalia, thank you, I guess.” There was a long pregnant pause.

“I've been hearing rumours.” Natalia's voice was barely audible, and Jessa might have thought it all in her imagination until the servant moved into her sight line and gave her a significant look.

“Oh?” Jessa said nonchalantly.

“When enough people know, it's hard to hide.” Natalia moved closer, under the pretext of drying the hair falling over Jessa's face. Jessa felt Natalia's breath on her ear as she dropped her voice even lower. “I admire them, in a way, that they would risk so much. I have a family, you see. Children, though they're both at that age where they'd protest me calling them that even though they are. I couldn't risk them.”

“I understand. No one is asking you to.”

“No?” Natalia raised her eyebrows. “I think maybe you do not know what is going on. My oldest friend signed that scrap of paper-” Natalia snorted scornfully. “-and treats it like it means something. She treats me like I'm dirt because I did not sign it even though she thinks I believe the same as she does. And I do, but not enough to risk everything. I don't believe that change will happen enough to sentence my family to death if it doesn't.”

“I am not asking anything of anyone. You all have a choice, whatever your reasons. I will do what I can for my country and the people I love, and you will do the same. It doesn't matter what way that is.”

Natalia pursed her lips and said nothing. When Jessa's hair was dried, they moved to Jessa's desk, and Jessa watched in the mirror as Natalia brushed her hair and gathered it all up in a simple, loose bun. Once she was done, she said, “I'll call for Princess Maira,” and headed for the door. Her hand on the doorknob, she glanced back at Jessa. Almost too quietly, she said, “Thank you.”

***

Jessa was grateful that this wedding was not to be a grand affair like her one to Rhys, but that did not mean there were more ways in which it was the same. As Jessa approached the same ceremony hall where she and Rhys had made their vows, Jessa slowed. It took Maira a few steps to realise Jessa was not following. She called Jessa's name, but though it forced Jessa to move again, she was not paying any attention. Her gaze was locked on the door as her mind drew a picture of what had lain beyond it. The red drapes curling from the ceiling, the rows of seats filled with the curious vultures that were the guests, the joining candle wrapped in vines at the end of the aisle where the orator waited.

Jessa and Maira entered the tiny antechamber that lay before the ceremony hall. With a sinking heart, Jessa saw that the only occupant of the room was the king. He turned slowly, and Jessa saw what he held in his hands. It was the headdress she had worn for her wedding to Rhys. Vines of berries and dark green leaves were weaved around a thin twig circle then cascaded down at the back in a wild tangle. Though Jessa wanted to run from the room and the ache in her heart, Alrick's smug expression stopped her. Instead, she kept her head high and her gaze fixed on him as she walked towards him. She did not dare look down at the headdress. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her falter. When she reached him, she bent her knees and her head. The frost-tipped leaves, which had been somehow hardened and preserved, dug into her scalp as the king placed the tiara on her head. When he was done, she rose and looked up at him. He pulled a chain from his pocket, took her hand without warning, and slipped the chastity blood ring off her finger. She felt a pressure release, though she knew the sensation wasn't real. Alrick threaded the ring onto the chain and clasped it around Jessa's neck. It rested heavily against Jessa's chest.

“I hope, for you, that this marriage will be happier than your last,” Alrick said, with a false sad smile. She wanted to wipe it off his face, and was thankfully saved from answering by the door opening. Lady Tremont swanned into the room, heading straight for Jessa. She pulled her away from the king with a swift insincere apology and took both her hands in hers. Glancing at the king, she said, “I will be glad to have you as my granddaughter-in-law.”

Jessa smiled weakly. Lady Tremont squeezed her hands, then released one to touch Jessa's cold rouged cheek. “I'm sorry, my girl.” She leaned in, kissing Jessa's cheek briefly to give her the chance to say quietly, “This doesn't have to be the end if we...”

Yes, if they won and the king could not force Ainesh and Jessa to stay married, that was true. “I know. It matters little anyway.”

Lady Tremont gave Jessa a sardonic, unbelieving look. “Your expression says otherwise.” She gave Jessa's hand a final squeeze and then looked over her shoulder at the new arrivals, chattering away. Jessa turned too, seeing at first only dark brown hair. It wasn't the right cut. It was too short. The man looked at Jessa and her throat tightened painfully. It wasn't Rhys. Though she had known it would be Ainesh, it seemed her heart had not wanted to believe it. It didn't want to accept that she would ever marry anyone else. But here they were: Jessa in a wedding dress in du Rene red, and Ainesh in the reddish-purple of his own family. Ainesh murmured something to his mother and came to Jessa's side. Jessa realised then – their colours clashed. She bowed her head before recovering herself and turning it into a curtsey.

“Are you okay?” Ainesh asked carefully. Jessa gave him a half-smile, which he returned.

“I'm fine. Everything's completely normal, right?”

Ainesh shook his head at her, neither in agreement nor disagreement. There was a bustle of movement, and it was only then that Jessa realised the rest of the du Renes – except the one who really mattered – had arrived. A footman opened the doors and the antechamber cleared of everyone except Jessa, Ainesh and their respective parents (or the closest thing Jessa had to them). With all Ainesh's various relatives gone, the room seemed much larger but no less oppressive. Jessa stood quietly, looking at the floor, as the parents took their places in front of Jessa and Ainesh.

Under his breath, Ainesh asked, “Are you ready?”

Jessa's stomach dropped. Her ears buzzed and her throat ached to prevent the tears. It was too late, and Jessa furiously brushed the tear rolling down her cheek away. She knew Ainesh was watching her but she barely cared. Her head was spinning with the words. Are you ready? Are you ready? She was still in this room but a different time, a different man. No, she had said and Rhys had agreed. They had been in it together then, at least. The conversation swirled in her head. Rhys had loved another in that very moment. It was a cruel twist that she was now in exactly his position. She felt Rhys take her arm, but it wasn't Rhys. She needed to stop this. She needed to focus on what was important. This wasn't about her. This wasn't about Rhys. This was about Etrene.

She glanced at Ainesh even though she could not hide her watery eyes. With as much strength as she could, Jessa said, “Yes.”

Ainesh smiled sadly; he didn't believe her. “You can be ready for both of us then.”

The large mahogany doors opened slowly. Inside, there was utter silence. Unlike the last time she had seen this room, there was a sparse smattering of people – maybe 30 in all – who turned to look as the king and queen began their procession down the aisle. Halfway down, they lit their small red candles in an exact replica of Jessa's wedding less than a year ago. Had it been only that long? Jessa swallowed hard, pushing those thoughts aside and focusing on Ainesh's parents as they followed the royals with their own candles. The four congregated at the large white candle at the foot of the aisle – this time bare of all adornment – and together they lit it as a sign of their joining families. They took their seats, and then it was time. Jessa and Ainesh glanced at each other. Seeing Ainesh's nerves – this was his first time – Jessa squeezed his arm. Then they made their way to the front, where the court orator now stood. He frowned as they came closer, and glanced down at his pocket watch. If possible, he looked even more annoyed to be there than last time.

“We are here today to celebrate the joining of the Tremont family to our esteemed royal line, the du Renes. Marriage is a most honoured tradition, strengthening alliance and preserving blood through the birth of children. You, Jessa du Rene, and you, Ainesh Tremont, enter this transaction knowing this and the sacrifices you shall make in joining your lives together. Do you consent to this match?”

Jessa started, realising she was meant to speak. Last time, the opening speech had lasted a good ten minutes. “Yes.”

Ainesh responded in kind, and then the orator looked in turn to each of their families to ask their approval. Jessa seethed that Catrice was even granted a say in Jessa's life. It was bad enough that Alrick did, but there was no denying that he did have a blood tie to her.

Consent given, the orator moved swiftly to the vows. Jessa repeated his words, making the promises to honour and protect her new family and her old, feeling their hollowness as they came from her lips. The vows were worthless. For the rest of their lives; the concluding promise was the emptiest of all. It hadn't meant anything with Rhys. She wouldn't be standing here now if it did. Though she kept her eyes on Ainesh and her hands in his, she did not hear his declaration. It could all be voided with a wave of a pen anyway.

The orator turned, ushering forward a second familiar figure. Presumably a lesser mage, the man held out his hands and said, “Do you give freely your rings as a symbol of your joining?”

“Yes,” Jessa said dully. Glancing at the king, she unclasped the chain around her neck and let the ring slip off. Apparently, she could take it off for this. Together with Ainesh, they placed their rings in the palms of the man's palm. Jessa's was next to a plain silver band offer to her by the Tremonts.  The man stared at Jessa's chastity ring, then glanced at the king in confusion. Chastity rings were usually made entirely of metal. Jessa wondered in the man even knew how to manipulate it with a blood stone in its centre. The king, however, simply nodded and the man closed his fists and eyes. A warm glow emanated from each hand. The man's eyebrows twitched and the hand holding Jessa's ring tightened. After an excruciating moment – would it work? – the man opened his palms. Two new rings, one for Jessa and one for Ainesh, lay there and mocked her.

Ainesh retrieved Jessa and slid it onto her finger. The metal seemed to tighten around her skin. She could feel the pressure from the magic weighing down on her – or was it something else? Jessa pushed it away, instead focusing on the task at hand. She tried not to think about the words she knew were coming, but after she placed the ring on Ainesh’s finger and took his hands, Jessa could do little else. The mage’s voice rang out in the silent hall. ”Two rings into one, two lives into one, unbreakable from now until death.”

Jessa had let out a small scoff before she even realised what had happened. She tried to disguise it by coughing, but she knew no one was fooled. She stared at her feet, watching as they grew blurry with tears. Why did none of this mean anything? Why hadn't it meant something? How had all of this not been enough? How had it not prevented the king from doing this to her again?

The orator had replaced the mage, and now he lifted his hands to gesture between Jessa and Ainesh. “And now to seal the bond.”

Jessa swallowed hard. After this, they would be married. She wished that there was some way to prolong this, but it had already been agreed upon that Ainesh would not take the title of prince as Jessa’s first husband had. Though it made the reasons for the marriage more suspect, Lady Tremont had not wanted to press the issue when everyone’s safety was of paramount importance. A title meant little.

Jessa felt a light touch on her free hand and started. Realising it was Ainesh, she forced herself to look up at him as he held her hand more tightly. They stared at each other, their eyes both holding the question of whether this was okay even though neither had any choice in the matter anyway. Jessa kept her gaze fixed on Ainesh’s brown eyes, but soon it was not Ainesh’s eyes she was seeing. She closed her eyes tightly and closed the gap between them. She pressed her lips against Ainesh’s, pushing down the hard lump in her throat. It was all wrong. His chin was smooth. His lips were too big, too hard.

Not his.

Jessa would never have his again.

Jessa pulled away quickly and was mortified to find there were a few trails of sticky dampness on her cheeks. She did not rub at them for she did not want to draw attention to them. Ainesh squeezed her hand, but she could have guessed her tears would not have gone unnoticed by him. Thankfully, they now faced away from the small congregation so no one else had seen. The orator closed the ceremony with a few more grand words and then it was done.

It, perhaps, did not fully sink in until they had left the room and were ushered into the small chamber to sign the book which would recognise the marriage in law. Jessa and Ainesh were the last to enter, which was good because as soon as Jessa saw the book under the glass she stopped dead. There was the declaration of Alrick and Catrice’s marriage on the left, but where hers to Rhys had been was now a blank page. Towards the spine, Jessa saw a blackened, uneven line. Her mouth went dry. They had burned the page out. It was gone, as if it had never happened. A black moment in Jessa’s past. Jessa’s mouth tasted like ash. Ainesh had to lead her to the book to sign her name. She stared at her signature, at Ainesh’s. They were husband and wife.

***

In all the bustle as Ainesh moved into the castle and Jessa moved bedrooms to one that adjoined with Ainesh’s, Jessa had barely seen him. They’d spoken briefly the day before, after the ceremony, but that was about it. Apart from the door joining her new room to his, Jessa could almost pretend that things were as they were before. The room did not look so very different after all, though the furnishings were grander. Of course, Jessa’s period of denial could not last indefinitely. It ended with a knock on the adjoining door. That could only be one person. She called out to him and he opened the door, peering around it.

“Am I okay to come in?”

Jessa shrugged, waving to the armchair across from hers. She didn’t bother to hide the dress in her lap. Unless the Tremonts were double-crossing her – in which case she was dead soon anyway – she had nothing to fear from Ainesh. Ainesh looked curiously at her page of letters as he passed, but he did not comment. “So, how are you?”

“I’m okay,” she lied. Her gaze caught on the glint from Ainesh’s finger. Swallowing hard, she looked back at her page. “And you?”

“I think I’m better than you.” There was a long pause, and when Jessa finally looked up she found Ainesh playing with his hands. His mouth was partially open, as she could see him fighting with whether he should speak or not. Jessa could tell where this was going anyway. He had seen her tears yesterday.

“What has your grandmother said to you?”

“Nothing,” Ainesh said quickly, though Jessa could tell it was the truth. “She wouldn’t.”

Jessa nodded. Before she could reply, Ainesh pushed on. “We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to. We hardly know each other. But… I’m not – blind, Jessa. I saw you yesterday. Given why you really came back, I can guess things with Rhys-” Jessa flinched, though why she could not say. “-were not how you described.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jessa said dismissively. Ainesh raised his eyebrows. “What we were or are, it doesn’t matter.”

“Do you-” Ainesh snapped his mouth shut and shook his head. He looked at the dress on Jessa’s lap, then glanced up at her with a sympathetic smile. Jessa smiled back, thankful that he would let this drop. Ainesh coughed. “So, what are you doing?”

“I honestly don’t know.” She laughed humourlessly. “Don’t suppose you happen to know Barichean?”

“No, not really. But Lucian’s Barichean.” When Jessa stared at him blankly, Ainesh chucked. “Oh, I guess you didn’t really meet him. Nathaniel’s partner. You could ask him about it when we visit for dinner later.”

Jessa nodded absently, dropping her gaze. They sat like that in silence for a while, Jessa studiously ignoring the fact that the man sitting across from her was her husband. Unfortunately, there was little else she could do without getting a book from the library or talking to Lucian. Jessa wondered why Ainesh had even come to speak to her.

The silence was broken by a knock on the door. Jessa stood up hastily, gathering the dress in her arms, but she had not even made a step when a familiar voice came through the door. “Jessa? Are you in there?”

The dress slipped out of her hand as she ran to the door, all thoughts of Ainesh gone. She pulled the door open, revealing an unfamiliar white woman dressed as a servant – unfamiliar but for the relieved smile on the woman’s face. Knowing there was undoubtedly someone watching the door, Jessa did not immediately pull the woman in for a hug, instead stepping past to let her in the room. As soon as the door was closed, the two practically fell into each other’s arms.

“You’re okay,” Laurita whispered. “Your old room was empty, and I-”

“I’m okay,” Jessa said. “What are you even doing here?”

“We couldn’t contact you.”

Jessa closed her eyes. “The king. He… found me dreamwalking with you and… well, took steps to prevent that happening again.”

“But you’re okay?” Laurita pulled back, and as she did so Jessa saw her eyes flicker to Ainesh behind Jessa’s shoulder. Laurita’s brows furrowed, but she forced her gaze back to Jessa.

Jessa nodded. “As well as I can be.” She twisted her lips in a facsimile of a smile. “And Ainesh is with us.” Laurita raised her eyebrows, her gaze sliding to Ainesh again. Jessa looked over her shoulder, seeing that Ainesh had stood and was staring at Laurita curiously. “He’s okay.”

“Yes, he is,” Laurita said slowly, pulling away from Jessa. Ainesh’s face broke out into a slow smile, and Laurita’s lips tugged upwards in response. “Hello. Ainesh, was it?”

“Seems a little unfair to admit to anything when I know nothing about you,” Ainesh replied, his eyes sparkling with the same mischievous humour Jessa had seen at his real home. Jessa watched, bemused, as Laurita stepped closer to Ainesh. She pulled her hair out of its bun as she went, and Jessa watched as the light brown hair grew shorter and darker. Ainesh didn’t seem to notice.

“Oh, I’m whatever I want to be,” Laurita said, her voice low. Her declaration made, Laurita dropped her disguise. Ainesh yelped, taking a step back. He looked between Jessa and Laurita, the latter of whom had started laughing. “Oh, too easy.”

“What in Carantehna’s name-?” He looked helplessly towards Jessa.

As Laurita was too busy laughing to actually be forthcoming, Jessa decided to give Ainesh a break. “This is Laurita. She’s my friend.”

Ainesh just gaped. When Laurita recovered, she winked at Ainesh. She stepped closer, resting a hand on his arm. “We can be friends too, if you like…” The two locked gazes. Whatever was happening, Jessa wanted to get out of there. She coughed, and widened her eyes meaningfully at Ainesh when he glanced at her.

“I should probably tell you I’m married-”

“Is everyone-?” Laurita began to say, but was cut off when Ainesh finished his sentence, “To your friend.”

Laurita laughed. “Good one. Though why you’d…” She trailed off, for she turned to Jessa to join in her humour and instead seen the ring on the hand Jessa held out to her. In disbelief, Laurita whispered, “What?” Ainesh forgotten, she approached Jessa and snatched her hand. She stared at the ring without comprehension.

“What is the Gods’ names has been happening here, Jessa?”

[Rosabeth]

Rhys was in no mood for waiting. Hovering in the shadowed servants entrance of the Trevian’s house had given Rhys far too much time to ponder Selene’s words. That alone might have been bearable, but thoughts of Selene’s anger only allowed his mind to wander to places he desperately wished it not to go. A certain inviting face framed with copper hair… Rhys shut his eyes, as if that would make the images go away. It was not just Jessa he thought of, but a rather particular memory. Jessa, head adorned with a garland crown, draped in that heavy read gown. He wondered, vaguely, if she would wear that same dress again. The longer he dwelled on that memory the more it morphed into something new. Her red gown became a vibrant green, the color of the forest in summer, loose and flowing in the Novarian style. Her hair fell in loose waves around her face, the garland gone, and she smiled at Rhys, taking his hands. They stood beneath a lush wisteria arbor, and in the vision Rhys heard the words, those words he’d heard so many times from the steps of Jasrah’s courthouse. Wedding vows.

It wasn’t until Rhys tasted the salty tears that ran over the corners of his lips that he realized he was crying. He’d envisioned their wedding - the one he would have liked to have, far away from the stuffy hall in Ovis – once before. Lying beside Jessa one night in Kolonis, the warmth of her body pressed flush against his as she slept, he’d allowed himself to think of it. Then it had not seemed quite so impossible. In those days things had seemed simpler, ignorant to the horrors of war and the separation that would come. In those days he would have liked to marry her properly, to have meant his vows, to have relished in calling her his wife. He still wanted that. But now his imaginings mocked him. He could not rid them from his mind no matter how he tried.

Wiping away the tears that had managed to escape, Rhys shook his head and let out a rough breath. His hands dug into his pockets as he pulled out a small lock-picking kit. He had intended to wait on Nayall, but the working of his hands brought him the distraction he was desperate for. It had been some time since Rhys had last picked a lock and his fingers did not work as quickly or as smoothly as they once had. Even so, it took no more than a minute or so before Rhys felt the tumblers click into place. Such a simple lock felt out of place for the Trevian’s impressive home, the grand front door likely fitted with a number of heavy bolts. Yet that was the exploitable flaw of so many nobles. Never would they expect a thief to enter the way of the servants, for they themselves forgot about the servants all too easily. Perhaps if Rhys saw the Trevians again he would give them a warning about their failing security.

The moment Rhys pushed open the door he knew that imagined conversation with the Trevians would never come. Rhys tasted bile in his mouth at the unmistakable stench of putrid eggs, overlaid with a sickly-sweet odor. He froze into place as his stomach churned, his hands gripping the doorframe for support. When his stomach calmed Rhys pulled the collar of his shirt up to his nose. He did not wish to go forward yet his legs seemed to move of their own accord, following the growing stench up the stairs and through the darkened halls. Finally Rhys reached a closed door at the end of the hall, the horrific odor growing stronger with each step. He did not need to step inside to know what he’d find, but his curiosity, that need for assurance, brought his hand to the handle and pushed the door wide. The moment his eyes laid on the scene within he regretted his decision. There was no time to turn away before Rhys doubled over and vomited on the floor.

The Trevians – or rather what remained of them – lay side-by-side on the canopied bed in the center of the room. Though Rhys knew it must be them they were entirely unrecognizable, their skin blackened and thin, pulled strangely over their bones exposed through the decaying flesh. Maggots, larvae, and flies swarmed the bodies, though perhaps in lesser numbers than had they been left outside. The bed itself was soaked with a putrid-smelling liquid, the vast quantities of which had seeped into the floorboards, the floor sagging dangerously below where they lay. By the time Rhys looked back at the figures his stomach had emptied itself, his body reacting to the sight with nothing more than painful dry heaves. Rhys knew death. He’d seen his fair share of blood and carnage, of bodies devoid of life. This, though, was beyond even him. The Trevians had not only been murdered, but discarded in their own beds without so much as a second thought.

Rhys’ legs wanted desperately to run from that room and never look back, to forget what he’d seen, but his mind had other ideas. Rhys could not stop staring. Memories of those he’d slaughtered in Ferande, their blood pooling at his feet, flooded his mind. Their bodies still looked so lifelike in his memories, nothing like what he saw now. Soon images of the carnage at Solridge joined him. Thousands of lifeless bodies lay strewn about the field around him, swallowing him whole. The stench of death both current and remembered overwhelmed his senses. Rhys could not breath, could not think, his chest tightening as he stumbled backwards, blinking against the sudden pain in his head. His hands fumbled against the handle as he finally stepped over the threshold, slamming the door behind him with a thud that felt as though it shook the house. Slowly, with shaking hands, Rhys retreated until his back touched the hallway wall. In that moment his legs seemed to give and he slumped to the ground, pressing his face against his knees. Soon his breath came in rapid gasps that clawed at his chest. He felt himself hyperventilating, unable to calm himself as his head grew light and his vision began to cloud. So much death. Rhys dug his palms into his forehead, the resulting pressure enough to draw his thoughts momentarily from those haunting memories. Agonizingly slowly, Rhys’ breathing slowed, his shaking subsiding, until he was almost calm. In that calm Rhys closed his eyes, and soon only there was only him and the silence of the house.

Time passed in the silence – minutes or hours Rhys did not known – but eventually the muffled sound of voices somewhere near drew Rhys from whatever empty state he’d let himself sink into. “Rhys, I brought company!” Rhys heard Victor’s distinctive voice but did not so much as move, not even to lift his head. Soon he heard the rattling of the door handle, and once the back door was opened the stifled gasps of several voices. “What is that smell?” Victor’s voice rang out again, but this time it was muffled by the quick clamoring of feet on the floorboards. Someone was running through the house, climbing the staircase two steps at a time. It was Nayall’s face that Rhys saw first, finding the energy to lift his head. Of course Nayall would know that smell. Nayall knew death all too well. He did not need any confirmation from Rhys, instead following the scent to the door and opening it to confirm his suspicions. Unlike Rhys Nayall did not wretch, instead standing motionless for several long seconds, taking in the scene in silence before turning around and looking down at Rhys.

“The Trevians?” He asked. Rhys only nodded. Without another word Nayall turned back towards the bodies with an expressionless face, searching for something Rhys could not see. Soon Victor was at the end of the hall, Ero and Freya following close behind. Victor looked quickly between Rhys and Nayall, choosing to follow Nayall to the horror behind the door. Rhys could not deny a certain satisfaction – perhaps a relief in not feeling so weak – when the sounds of Victor’s own heaving could be heard.

“Rhys?” Ero kneeled beside Rhys as Freya followed Victor, her reaction far more like Nayall’s, though she did not linger at the sight like he did. Ero placed a hand against Rhys’ shoulder, giving it a light shake. “Rhys, are you alright?”

Rhys glanced up at Ero’s worried expression, realizing then how he must look sunken on the ground, his knees brought to his chest. He was not the picture of emotional stability. Though he could not find his voice right away Rhys gave a small nod. Ero eyed him skeptically, but he gave Rhys’ shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “It’s good to see you. I just wish it were in better circumstances.”

“I’m not moving them!” Victor’s voice was booming in the quiet, and Rhys turned to see him towering over Freya, her hands to her hips as she glared up at him.

“Well I can’t exactly do it myself.”

“I am not going any further in there. I am not touching that.” Victor sounded as if he might wretch at the very thought. “Get Ero to do it with you if you’re so desperate.” Ero groaned beside Rhys, Freya casting her fiancé a reproachful glance.

“We can’t just leave them there!” Freya protested. “Look at the state of this! Those people need a proper burial, or a burning. Do you want to just let them fester like this?”

“Then bring in the damn dieners because I’m not doing it!”

“Freya’s right.” The group all turned their heads on a swivel at Rhys’ voice, Freya’s expression colored with shock. Rhys coughed to clear his throat, his voice having grown hoarse. “Look at the floorboards. We’re lucky the floor hasn’t collapsed in on itself with all that damage. The longer they’re left the more destruction they’ll cause to the structure. You don’t have to bury them yourselves, but we should at least move them to the cellar.” Freya looked rather pleased with herself after Rhys’ declaration, much to Victor’s chagrin. With a huff, Victor, Freya, and Ero moved slowly into the room, Victor’s protests and groans clear for all to hear as they wrapped the bodies in the sheets and began to carry them from the room.

As the others worked Nayall moved to Rhys side, offering a hand. Rhys looked down at himself with embarrassment, but Nayall’s face held no judgement. Eventually Rhys took the man’s help and hoisted himself to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall.

“It’s ok, you know.” Nayall’s words were soft, quiet enough to go undetected beneath Victor’s loud protestations.

Rhys scowled, looking at his feet. As his numbness subsided shame began to creep in. “No one else reacted like I did. You’d think I could handle something like this, given who I am.”

“They don’t know what you’ve been through. They don’t know what you’ve seen. I do. Trust me, Rhys, there’s no shame in this.”

“I didn’t see you break down,” Rhys muttered.

Nayall gave a small smile, but it did not touch his eyes. “When you’re not allowed to have any real emotions for long enough, eventually you become desensitized. Trust me, Rhys. It’s not a gift.” Rhys grew silent at Nayall’s words, turning them over in his mind. He was not sure he wanted to know what had hardened Nayall in such a way. Eventually Nayall spoke again, keeping Rhys from his wandering thoughts. “I didn’t see any signs of a violent death. It didn’t look as though they’d been stabbed, and their bodies were too still, too perfectly placed to have been smothered in their sleep. It’s strange.”

Rhys had noticed the same things, but until then he’d given them little thought. “Was it magic? In…in Ferande, that man you killed…?”

“No.” Nayall looked at his feet, his lips pressed tight. “What I did in Ferande isn’t something that could have been done to these people. There are ways a mage can kill another mage. Typically it involves turning that person’s magic against them. It’s similar to how my leaders controlled me, how I was nearly instructed to control others. That ability to turn one’s own magic against them, to use it to reinforce your own influence, is what makes mages so dangerous as slaves to another mage’s will. But you can take it further than just control. You can use your magic to overpower another’s, to turn their own magic against them until the combined force becomes too much for their body to bear. It’s not an easy thing, and it takes a good amount of concentration and skill. We were instructed not to kill or fight our fellow mages, but occasionally one got out of hand. I was, unfortunately, rather good at it doing what was necessary in those cases.”

Nayall’s stare suddenly turned to Rhys and Rhys found himself looking away in discomfort. “No, from what I’d guess these people died of something much more simple. It’s shockingly easy to kill someone with magic if you’re creative enough – and ruthless enough – to do it. Tell them not to move from one spot and watch as they wither away and die from dehydration. That’s simple enough. If you’re more skilled you might convince them to stop breathing, though given that breathing is typically done without thinking this is rather more complicated.”
“You’ve thought a lot about this,” Rhys noted, this time making Nayall nearly laugh.

“No, but I know how a mage’s mind works.”

When the others returned, Victor’s disgust now a permanent mask on his face, they found their way to the first floor where Lord Trevian’s study awaited them behind two heavy oak doors. After a long few minutes of Rhys carefully working on the lock – a more complicated lock than that on the back door – it sprung free. Low gasps could be heard the moment he pushed open the door.

Johannes may have told Rhys of Miriyam’s collection, but never would he have imagined the vastness. Books of all shapes and sizes covered the floor and stood in various stacks, some nearly as tall as Rhys. He moved slowly through the room, letting his fingers trace against the many bindings, picking up some here and there. The books came in many languages, though Johannes had not been lying when he’d said the vast majority had been procured in Antasica. Rhys recognized the script immediately, though it had been some years since he’d given the language any serious study. He watched as the others wandered the room in awe, Victor admiring a particularly tall stack that stood at an impressive angle while Ero and Freya huddled over a strange looking tomb the size of a small table. Rhys, however, had only one interest. Somewhere in that room was the book Johannes had mentioned, the book that contained the spell that threatened Jessa’s life. But now, looking at the room, Rhys did not even know where to start looking. Perhaps Johannes had been of no help at all. They could waste days of precious time searching and searching, for what book Rhys did not even know. But Rhys would not allow himself to give up so easily. With a heavy sigh, Rhys sat in a plush chair near an impressive pile of Antasican selections and began to leaf through the first.

Ero and Victor, their combined knowledge of Novarian sufficient enough for most basic translations, began working through a stack in the opposite corner from Rhys, Ero transcribing as Victor read. Freya’s family’s trade with Antascia gave her some limited knowledge of the language, but she worked slowly, the vocabulary largely outside her knowledge. Nayall, speaking only Etrenian, resigned himself to sorting stacks by language, looking rather bored with the task. Rhys observed his friends as he worked, amused by Ero and Victor’s bickering over the translations of words neither of them knew. It was through these observations that Rhys began to note the way Nayall’s eyes flickered constantly to Ero. Nayall watched the man carefully, his brow wrinkling in thought before he turned away once more, only to turn back a moment later. After some time Rhys found himself no longer focusing on his own work, too consumed with watching Nayall with curiosity.

“Nayall, can you come help me with this?” Rhys called out quietly, looking up from the book in his lap to see Nayall look to him with a raised brow. When Nayall was beside him he gestured for him to sit in the neighboring chair. “Why do you keep looking at Ero like that?” He whispered, returning his eyes to the book.

“Like what?” The lie was good, the genuine surprise in his voice convincing, but Rhys knew better. He cocked a single brow, watching as Nayall’s face fell. “It’s nothing, really. I’m just observing.”

“Nayall.” Rhys said the name slowly, never averting his eyes. “If you’re going to lie at least do it to someone who’s more gullible.”

Nayall frowned, looking between Rhys and Ero hesitantly, as if unsure what to say. Finally he sighed, leaning in closer. “Do you know that mages can sense each other? Well, some of us can, and some people are easier to sense than others. A good mage knows how to hide it.” Nayall bit his lip, glancing once more at Ero. “I feel something from him.”

Rhys stared open mouthed, feeling his heart thud in his chest. “Are you telling me you think Ero is a mage?”

“Not exactly. It doesn’t feel right. It’s not like with others. I’ve met people whose magic was practically pouring out of them. Those were the ones we typically caught for the ring. This feels much more faint, more like someone who’s trying to hide their magic and not doing a very good job. It’s like it’s obscured. I’ve never felt anything quite like it.” Suddenly Nayall shook his head, forcing an unnatural looking smile. “It’s probably nothing. I’m probably wrong.”

Nayall stood to leave but Rhys put out a hand, gripping the man’s arm. Slowly, Nayall turned to meet Rhys’ eyes, his own eyes downcast. “Have you ever been wrong before?”

A long pause filled the silence. “No. I haven’t.” With another sidelong glance in Ero’s directly Nayall slipped out of Rhys’ grasp, returning to his own pile of books.

The afternoon turned to evening on as the sun began to set, casting long shadows in the study. Soon their work was done by candlelight, a half dozen sconces lit about the room. Rhys’ eyes grew tired, his mind weary. It was a good distraction this work, and each time images of the Trevian’s desiccated corpses slipped into his mind he banished it by throwing himself into his work. Yet the work was tedious and slow, and after hours working through book after book, most of it meaningless in his eyes, he felt no closer to his goal than when they’d started. It was impossible to know which book among the dozens Johannes had spoken of. Rhys wished he’d demanded a more exact description. With drooping eyelids Rhys picked up yet another book and opened it lazily, letting his eyes follow the script with little comprehension. It was not until he’d leafed nearly half-way through that a sheet of parchment fell from the pages. At first he thought nothing of it, perhaps just a makeshift bookmark, but as Rhys’ eyes focused he noted that the words were not in Antascian – they were in Etrenian.

Rhys quickly unfolded the parchment and smoothed it out on the small table beside him, his eyes scanning what he now recognized as a list with rapt attention. Dozens of names filled the page, Rhys’ heart hammering in his chest as he realized he recognized many of them. Among the first he recognized were Tygan, the man who’d first introduced him to dreamwalking, and his wife. Most others were commoners Rhys either did not know or knew only by name, but a few were nobles, though none holding any significant relationship with his family. Some of the names were marked with a small symbol to their right, others left unmarked, and a select few were crossed out entirely. Suddenly Rhys’ eyes caught a second familiar name, one marked with that strange symbol. Lord Gerard Tallus. Ero’s father. Ero’s own name was not there. It was not until Rhys flipped over the parchment that Rhys understood what he was reading. There, at the bottom of the page in a quickly-scribbled Barichean likely written in Miriyam’s own hand, was a note marked with the same symbol that marked Lord Tallus’ name. Suspected but not confirmed.

Rhys was no fool. Deciphering the meaning behind the words took only moments. As Rhys looked up from the paper he realized Nayall was staring at him, Rhys’ sudden movements likely having drawn some attention. He quickly ushered Nayall over, pointing down at the paper beside him.

“What is this?” Nayall whispered, running over the list with his gaze.

“You were right.” Rhys pointed to Lord Tallus’ name and tilted his head toward Ero. “If I’m right – and I think I am – this is a list of all the mages in Jasrah, and it seems like Miriyam knew who they were.”

Nayall was quiet for a moment, his fingers drumming against the parchment. “Maybe you should ask Ero. Or his father? Maybe he knows something Ero doesn’t.”

At that moment Ero laughed at something Victor had said, and Rhys and Nayall both glanced their way. Ero wasn’t a mage. He couldn’t be. How could he have hidden something for so long without so much as a suspicion from any of them? What would he have to hide? Yet…some of it did make sense. Had Ero’s father not always been fascinated with magic, enough so to make Ero refer to it as an obsession? What if that eccentric nature was no more than a cover meant to divert their attention from the truth? Rhys’ head swam and he pressed his fingers to his temple, looking back to the paper. His eyes found Tygan’s name once more and lingered there.

“No,” he spoke quietly. “I have someone else in mind.”

[Mollianne]

“Yesterday?!” Laurita swiped a hand across her face. “I missed this by one day?”

“You couldn't have been there anyway.”

“I could've punched that so-called king in the face and got you out of here.” Laurita flashed a grin – at odds with the anger in her voice – at Ainesh, who was busy smothering his laugh and staring at Laurita with something like awe. Jessa just shook her head at Laurita despairingly.

“We both know that isn't true. And I'd do this anyway. I told you there's more to this. I don't know exactly what, but the Tremonts have a plan. I'd bet my life Queen Tula is heavily involved. They just can't tell me, apparently.” Laurita turned to gauge Ainesh's reaction, but he had been trained well by his grandmother and gave nothing away.

“Well, my queen wouldn't let them get away with starving my country if she wasn't.” To Ainesh, she said, “You will tell me the truth later.”

Jessa swallowed. She did not hear Ainesh's response for the rushing in her ears. They did not trust her. Laurita did not trust her, or at least she easily accepted that other people shouldn't trust her. No matter how she tried, she could not push that nasty voice – sounding suspiciously like Alrick and then Catrice – away until Laurita rested a hand on Jessa's arm. Jessa jumped.

“Jessa?” Laurita frowned in concern, a question in her eyes. Jessa waved a hand.

“I'm fine. What were you saying?”

“I asked if you'd sent word, ah, south. About this.” She gestured between Ainesh and Jessa. Jessa forgot to breathe, knowing immediately what Laurita wasn't saying. When Jessa stayed silent, Laurita sighed. The frustration in that exhalation sent Jessa back to that first dreamwalk with Laurita. “You haven't told him, have you? You didn't about the divorce, and now this? He deserves to be told, Jessa. By you.”

Jessa shook her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ainesh watching them curiously. Swallowing hard, Jessa locked her jaw. Laurita, noting the gesture and Ainesh's presence and clearly misinterpreting why Jessa did not want to speak, said, “Can you give us a few minutes, Ainesh?” Though the words were spoken sweetly enough, there was something dangerous waiting behind them.

“Sure,” Ainesh said slowly, standing up and making Jessa's heart beat faster. She couldn't do this. She couldn't be alone with Laurita and talk about him. Jessa put her back to Laurita and widened her eyes at Ainesh in a silent plea. He waved his hand at her. “I'll give you as long as you need.” Jessa bowed her head. Either he had also misinterpreted Jessa's expression too, or he wanted to leave anyway given the palpable tension in the room. When Jessa turned back to Laurita, she saw that she her gaze was fixed firmly on Ainesh. Her eyes were hard, ensuring Ainesh knew Laurita was not giving him the option to stay. Apparently even such a short time after meeting her, Ainesh was more scared of Laurita than Jessa.

As soon as the connecting door between their rooms was closed, Laurita said, “Jessa. What.” Though it was technically a question, the word was so hard and short that it didn't sound like it.

“Even if-” Jessa broke off with a sigh, shrugging her shoulders. Laurita leaned forward, her eyebrows a hard, curious line, so before Laurita could question Jessa's words, she blurted out, “I wouldn't know how to contact him. With this gods-forsaken ring, I can't exactly get a message to the army, can I?”

“Nayall keeps in contact with his people here.”

“Because they really want to waste time discussing something like this?” Jessa stared at her hands in her lap, watching the ring as she twisted it in her fingers. She sighed again. “In any case, I'm watched constantly. Even if I knew where to find them, I can't leave the castle. I know only Duan who could get a message there, but I've not seen him since-” Jessa coughed. “Well, you know.”

When Jessa glanced at Laurita, she saw the woman's raised eyebrows and knew she had not fooled her, not completely. “Rhys isn't with the army anyway. He's in Jasrah.”

Jessa sucked in a breath. He was safe. Well – not exactly safe, but away from the fighting. Jessa closed her eyes, pressing a hand against her heart. Though she could never wish Rhys harm, she was surprised at the intensity of the surge of relief that squeezed her heart. She dropped her head into her hands, feeling every breath in and out. Would there ever be a time when she would care less deeply? Her stomach twisted painfully. Rhys could not have this hold on her forever. She couldn't let him. Jessa opened her eyes to find her finger tracing the deep red sliver of the blood stone encased in her wedding band. Laurita sighed. “That damned ring – of course you wouldn't know. There's more to this, though. Jessa, tell me.”

Jessa let out a breathy, mirthless laugh. “I don't know what else you want me to say.”

“The truth would be a start.”

“That was the truth.”

“It's a truth,” Laurita corrected. She shifted closer to Jessa on the bed, taking her hand. Laurita's gaze lingered a little too long on the ring before she met Jessa's eyes. The anger had gone, mostly, leaving only sadness and a keen desire to understand. With a softer voice, Laurita said, “Please, Jessa. What is it?”

“Nothing,” Jessa said. When Laurita's gaze did not waver, Jessa added forcefully, “Really.”

“Fine. I can't force you to tell me.” Laurita practically flung Jessa's hand away. Sighing in frustration, she pushed up one of the sleeves of the servant's garb she had presumably stolen. “Gods, these clothes are itchy and hot.” Jessa knew it wasn't the clothes that had annoyed her. A small part of her longed to tell her friend everything, but she couldn't. She couldn't make it real. More than that, she wouldn't be able to take it if Laurita did not believe her. She knew what Laurita would say – that Alrick had messed with her mind. It had been her reasoning for everything Jessa had felt and done the last time Laurita had been in Ovis.

Jessa swallowed the lump in her throat, dropping her gaze only for it to land on a dark purple bruise blooming against the brown skin by Laurita's elbow. Jessa's hand shot out, taking Laurita's wrist and gently pulling her closer. It looked angry and new, not an injury she could have suffered with the army. Solridge and Ferande were days’ rides away.

“It's nothing,” Laurita said sharply. Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

Jessa looked up at her sternly. “Laurita...”

“Doesn't feel good, does it? Anyway, compared to – well, it is nothing in comparison. But...” Laurita pulled her arm away and rubbed her face. Jessa's stomach dropped. If Laurita was struggling with her words, whatever had happened had affected her deeply. And if it wasn't while she was at the front...

“Odaren?” Jessa whispered. Laurita nodded, reaching out blindly for Jessa's hand, which she gave immediately. Laurita's grip was tight, but Jessa did not even consider pulling away. With barely a breath, Jessa asked, “He's no better?”

“He's worse, if anything. I went to see him before coming here. They'd bound his hands – with magic, so it wasn't like it was hurting him. But it still hurt to see him being treated like a criminal. So I ignored them when they said he was dangerous, that he was singularly focused on getting back to the mage ring and following the last order they'd given him before we rescued him. He's been in a room which blocks any magic from entering, so they can't find him or give him any new commands, but it doesn't stop what's already there. And apparently time doesn't weaken it. He's as lost as he ever was. No, he's worse. Being unable to fulfil his duties is killing him, Jessa. But I didn't listen. As soon as we were alone, I released the bindings. I took faith in the knowledge that I was his sister; he wouldn't hurt me. He-” Laurita licked her lips. Her fingers tightened even more around Jessa's. “He attacked me as soon as he was free.”

“Laurita,” Jessa breathed, pulling her friend into a hug. Laurita burrowed her face against Jessa's neck. Jessa felt every hot, shaky breath as Laurita struggled to compose herself. “I'm so sorry. I didn't even ask.”

“I didn't want you to. I didn't want to think about it,” Laurita mumbled into Jessa's hair. “I still don't.” She pulled back, giving a weak smile. “And hey, if there's one good thing your marriage-” the disbelief dripped from her voice, “-has done, it took my mind off everything. In more ways than one – Ainesh is hot.” She winked, and if it was more half-hearted than usual, Jessa chose to ignore it. It was what Laurita wanted.

“That's my husband you're talking about,” Jessa joked.

“Ah, I do seem to have a habit of flirting with your husbands. Though, really, it's not my fault that this one flirted back.” Jessa shook her head at Laurita's grin, forced though it was. She took Laurita's hand and squeezed. Laurita squeezed back as she said, “I'm still struggling to get my head around the fact that you've had two husbands. You.”

“It's hardly my choice. I'd rather have had none.”

“One didn't turn out so bad.”

Jessa knew what Laurita was trying to do. Instead of rising to the bait, she smiled thinly and waited for Laurita's sly expression to turn to defeat. Only then did she ask, “What will you do now you're here? Or is this just a quick visit?”

“I asked to be stationed here again. I can't really say more than that.”

“Is it time-consuming?”

“Why, do you have something I could do?” Laurita looked too hopeful. Anything to get her mind off Odaren, Jessa guessed.

“I'm watched constantly. I can't do anything outside this room without Alrick knowing. Honestly, they've probably already noted that a servant has been in here far longer than necessary. But I still need to make my contribution to the war effort. I need to recruit potential allies. I need to learn Alrick's secrets. I can't do that looking like myself anymore, but neither can I just disappear for unprecedented lengths of time.”

“So, you need a disguise and you want me to pose as you like I did before?”

“Essentially. But this time you need to be seen. Go for walks with Ainesh, I guess, or go to the library. If necessary, you could visit the Tremonts on my behalf and that gives you the opportunity to meet the allies I've already made. Same with Larend; especially as, not long ago, I was spending most of my time with him. The king might be suspicious of him if I go much longer without visiting him.”

“I get to meet all your friends, huh?” Laurita grinned. “Can I pretend to be you and see if they realise?”

Jessa sighed. “If you like.” Though she pretended this was a great concession, Jessa would let Laurita do basically anything if it helped to take her mind off her brother even for an hour or so.

“Excellent.” Laurita winked. “Just tell me when and where.”

“Well I imagine you won't have to wait long. There's already at least one person I promised a meeting with over a week ago. Given I wanted that meeting, I should probably made good on that promise.”

***

Castles were not designed for making it easy to find someone. Jessa knew Khalid Farani would be here somewhere, but she knew little about him to be able to figure out where he might while away his hours. The few servants who had not been busy enough to have rushed past Jessa before she could call them over had not seen him either. It was a rather major snag in the plan, but Jessa kept finding her thoughts drifting far from her task anyway. Her thoughts were with her friend. Jessa had not seen Laurita quite so hopeless – in that brief, raw moment – since they had “rescued” Odaren. Guilt stuck in her throat, knowing that part of the reason for that was that Jessa had shut Laurita out, prompting Laurita's anger and hurt. Laurita had needed her friend, and Jessa hadn't been there in a misguided attempt to protect her in case Alrick saw them together. And now she was putting Laurita in danger anyway. Nothing about Jessa's decision to keep Laurita away had been right. But now, Laurita did not need her guilt no matter how much it clung to her. Laurita needed Jessa's support.

She also needed something to take her mind off everything. Jessa had no doubt that whatever she was doing here to justify checking on Jessa was not something that would help. Meeting some Ovisian nobles – pretending to be Jessa, she thought with a fond smile – might help that. It would help Jessa too; Laurita was far more approachable and friendly than Jessa. She could strengthen ties to allies, and probably win over any nobles Jessa met with in future. It wasn't much, but there was little else Jessa could offer in these dark times.

Spotting a servant hurrying across the balcony, Jessa called out to them. The man glanced at her, ducked his head and pressed on faster. Jessa frowned. She had grown used to the servants treating her better, but some would still hold their previous low opinion of her. Or perhaps he had heard about the growing unrest amongst the servants, wanted nothing to do with it, and saw interacting with Jessa as tantamount to guilt. Either way, both searching herself and hoping for a servant to come by and know where Khalid was had proven fruitless.

Though she did not want to do this – the less the du Renes knew that she had sought out Khalid the better – Jessa knew her best chance of finding Khalid was to find Maira.

The princess was not difficult to locate. Jessa did not even have to ask a servant, for she guessed she would find her in her study. For better or worse – under Alrick's tutelage, probably the latter – Maira took her duties as heir to the throne seriously these days. A few moments after Jessa knocked on the door, she was called in. Maira sat at her desk, where there was a small, neat pile of papers. Though a lingering, troubled frown at whatever report she had read knotted her eyebrows, her hair was still immaculate and there was no a smudge of ink to be found on her fingers despite the pen she held. It was a stark difference from Jessa and many of her university colleagues. Most of them worked under conditions they insisted were organised chaos. Maira was no doubt dealing with some immense pressures due to wartime and yet she looked like she could easily go out and address the people without even needing to brush her hair.

“Yes?” Maira peered at Jessa. Jessa faltered, seeing that Khalid was not here and that she had no reasonable excuse to ask after him. “I really am rather busy, so if you don't mind...”

Well, perhaps Maira didn't look stressed, but the shortness in her voice belied the truth. Jessa wondered what specifically had got under her skin. Such little information was ever released about the war – only the things they could not hide or their biggest triumphs – that Jessa was basically blind. It was only in the lack of food that indicated a war was ongoing, but that had mostly only been felt – hard – by the citizens in the outer city. It was only a matter of time before the nobles cosied up in the inner city and wrongly given priority on resources would feel their effects. Jessa was sickened by herself that she was benefitting from it too.

Maira's frown had deepened in suspicion by the time Jessa realised it was precisely this that she could talk to Maira about. “I've seen what's been happening in the city. The people going hungry and getting restless...”

“What of it?” Maira interrupted sharply, crossing her arms. Jessa took a step forward, and Maira leaned back in her chair. Further away from Jessa. It wasn't just the war that had Maira on edge, but Jessa herself. Maira pursed her lips, looking away. Jessa watched the princess shake her head, and her lips moved as she mouthed something to herself. The whole interaction lasted barely a moment, but Jessa could not miss Maira's frustration. When Maira looked back at Jessa, she wore a bland smile and, more calmly, said, “Yes?”

Frustration at herself then, for showing more emotion than she'd meant. If Jessa had needed any more confirmation that it was Jessa who was the problem, then she would call herself a fool. Maira knew. Of course she would do, and Jessa had not come here expecting Alrick had not told his heir about Jessa's betrayal. Maira had been the one testing her for their father, after all. She hadn't anticipated how personally Maira would take it, but then Jessa had hurt her intelligence by tricking Maira into believing she was trustworthy.

“Is there anything that can be done?” Certain now that Maira knew about her, continuing along this thread seemed useless. Anything she said would be deemed, rightly, a ruse. “If they continue to see the nobles getting along fine while they're suffering...”

“I think this is none of your business,” Maira said lightly, returning to her paperwork. Jessa turned to leave. She would not find out Khalid's whereabouts now. She just touched the handle when Maira's voice cut through the air. “You're meant to be smart. What would you do to keep the city on their monarch's side?”

Jessa did not miss the pointedness of Maira's words, a subtle reminder that Jessa too had betrayed not only her father but her king. She turned slowly, fully aware that this could be nothing but a test. Maira knew Jessa's allegiance. But before she spoke, Jessa felt a strange sensation in her head. A desire to be truthful. Her gaze flickered to Maira. The intensity in the princess’ eyes did not look natural. Magic.

Jessa fought against the desire. Maira had tried this on her once before, but it was not as easy an urge to ignore this time. Maira had been practising. It took everything Jessa had not to shudder. Alrick was teaching her, that much was certain. After what could have been only mere seconds after Maira asked her question, Jessa felt her head clear. Either Maira could not hold it for long or she had given up. She barely concealed her disappointment as she leaned back in her chair and awaited Jessa’s response.

“A strong, loyal nobility is necessary, but there are more commoners than nobles and they are the ones who really keep this city and country running. They also have far less to lose – the nobles are less likely to revolt because they risk their positions if they fail. There are too many of them, if they attacked en masse, to punish them. Letting them starve to keep the nobles happy isn't the answer.”

“This is all very easy to say, but I don't think you realise how dire the situation is becoming.”

“No, perhaps. And I'm also aware that if you distribute food once, they'll call for more. With the blockades, there soon will be little food for anyone, but the commoners won't understand that. They'll think you're stockpiling it for yourselves. But right now, that is what you're doing and it's not helping.”

“We need our nobility.”

“They have more than enough to live well, for now. And like I say, they don't have the numbers or the anonymity like the commoners have. It's easier to keep them in line.”

“I think you're naive.”

“Probably. But you asked me.” And anything Jessa could do to weaken the loyalty of the nobility while seeming to help Alrick with the general populace, she would do. The latter would not easily be won by the king at this point no matter what he did, but coupled with the noble families already against the king all Jessa needed was a spark.

A knock at the door halted their conversation. The door opened before Maira called them in, but the annoyance on Maira's face melted when she saw who was peering in. Jessa held in her sigh of relief. It was Khalid. He glanced at her, his eyes widening, before returning his gaze to Maira. “Lunch?”

“Soon.” Her voice had softened and a small smile played at the corner of her lips.

“I should go,” Jessa said, coughing awkwardly. Despite everything, she was glad Maira seemed pleased with the man her father wished her to marry. No doubt she had a choice, but an arranged marriage was still one of politics not love.

Maira waved a hand, dismissing Jessa. Her hard stare followed Jessa to the door, and Jessa had a good idea of what the princess would relay to the king when they next saw each other. Khalid pressed himself against the door to let Jessa pass, also watching her intently. He began to close the door behind them when Maira piped up, “You can stay, Khalid. I won't be long.”

“Oh.” He glanced into the hallway. Jessa forced herself to keep moving, trusting that if Khalid had the same idea she had, he would find some excuse. “I'm sure I will only distract you, princess. I'll wait for you by the pond. It's warm out today. We do not see many warm days in Ovis or Aelvir.”

After a few moments, Jessa heard the door close and the fast patter of Khalid's feet as he jogged to catch up with her. “It looks like we are to go in the same direction. Can we walk together?”

Jessa smiled. Khalid had not forgotten. “Yes, of course.”

They stayed in silence until they were two floors below Maira's study, far from the usual haunts of any of the royals. “Are you free to meet tomorrow?”

Khalid glanced over his shoulder. For someone who had willing come to Ovis and put himself in danger for this secret, he was surprisingly skittish. Jessa had spoken too quietly to be overheard. Khalid followed suit. “I will go to the south market tomorrow. I am meeting some friends from home.”

“We can meet before or after. Though, you might not, ah, recognise me at first.” Even though she spoke quietly, Jessa dared not say more. She could not wait for tomorrow, and not just because she might get some answers from Khalid. She would be free from watching eyes for a few hours. It would be glorious.

Khalid twisted his lips. He waited too long, giving away his reluctance. Jessa supposed she could not blame him. She knew all too well how difficult it was to know whether someone could be trusted with a secret that could well get the teller killed. “Before, I think. Is 10 o'clock acceptable?”

Jessa put a hand on Khalid's arm, startling him into looking her in the eye. She tried to project as much sincerity and trustworthiness into her expression as she could, but it probably just looked a little like desperation. “Tomorrow, then.”

***

“Ainesh! Married life treating you well?” Priti smirked at her brother from the other side of the doorway. Her daughter, Mala, rested on her hip. Before Ainesh could say anything, Mala pulled Priti's hair, drawing her mother's attention. Her free hand moved behind the young toddler's head, ruffling Mala's fluffy dark hair before pulling the girl closer. She pressed a gentle kiss to Mala's forehead and held there, closing her eyes. Priti's arms tightened just a fraction around the child. Then, her eyes flew open and she gestured at Jessa and Ainesh. “Oh, come in.”

“Feels weird needing an invitation into my own home,” Ainesh said lightly, stepping over the threshold behind Jessa.

“Oh, but isn't it just so exciting living in a castle?” Jessa replied, her eye roll clear in her voice.

“Well, it isn't all bad.” Together, Jessa and Priti stared at Ainesh, who merely chuckled. “You castle folk have the prettiest fake servants I've ever seen.”

Though Jessa's expression cleared, realising to whom Ainesh was referring, Priti looked even more bemused. Her enquiry for more information was met by Ainesh laughing some more as she strolled down the hallway, leaving the women alone by the door.

After a moment of awkward silence, during which Mala fixed Jessa with such an intense stare that a strange mix of anxiety and curiosity coiled in Jessa's gut, Priti said, “And how are you doing?”

Jessa jolted, turning away from the child. She could still feel Mala's unflinching, questioning gaze on her. Too quickly, she said, “I'm fine.”

Priti raised her eyebrows but did not press. She waved a hand to indicate they should follow Ainesh. “Have you been practising your magic?” Jessa didn't respond, but her lips twisted uncomfortably and answered for her. “Oh. You really need to.”

“I know. It's just been a busy few days.”

Priti nodded. “I think my grandmother would like us to practice again soon.” She hurried to add, “I'd like to as well, of course. I enjoy teaching. Rav and Mala are a little too young. Their magic is too weak and unformed to show itself just yet, if they inherited it at all.”

At the door to the sitting room, Priti put out a hand. “You know it isn't just the family we're dining with, right?”

“Yes, Ainesh told me.” Jessa spoke slowly, suddenly nervous as to what was behind the door.

Priti shifted Mala slightly as she looked away in discomfort. “You know that they're expecting you to convince them why they should stand against the king?”

“I wasn't told explicitly, but I would be a fool if I didn't think this was your grandmother's way of winning allies.”

“The families are those closest to us. They shouldn't be too hard to convince. All they need is to hear it from you. And probably a bit more information as to what you're intending once all of this is over if we succeed.”

Right, because Jessa hadn't discussed that with the Tremonts. Lady Tremont had seen her every memory, so she probably knew about Nayall, but she herself had said that most of the memories would come too fast for her to properly retain all the information. Nayall's claim to the throne would hardly have featured in Jessa's most significant memories.

The evening started fine. The nobles seemed content to let Jessa speak only briefly on Alrick's crimes before dinner started. Once everyone was seated, Jessa realised that there were fewer people there than she had initially thought. The group looked larger when they were standing in disarray. There were four families present, besides the Tremonts, and Larend had also been invited to represent Jessa's side. How sad it was that Jessa had made only one significant friend. They had also positioned him down at the one end of the table with Ainesh's uncle and partner. Jessa had yet to speak to Lucian about the gown's sleeves; she hoped she would find time. Jessa and Ainesh sat in the centre of the table, surrounded by the Tremonts' friends, in prime position for everyone to hear whatever Jessa said. She fidgeted at the thought of having an audience, but at least she need only say everything once.

The inevitable question did not come until dinner was served. The butler apologised profusely to the guests that there would be only one course served that night. Everyone nodded and smiled in understanding, but the sinking guilt in Jessa's stomach grew worse. Only one course, while beyond the inner city some people were lucky to have a full loaf of bread for the entire household. The pork, rice and vegetables before Jessa was not as lavish nor as large a portion as the nobility usually served, but it was still delicious and filling.

“What is your plan then? You've told us what the king has done but, though horrifying, I cannot risk myself and my family if your plan isn't airtight.” The man put his arm around his daughter protectively as he glared at Jessa.

“I need allies close to the king-”

“Well you've come to the wrong people,” a woman near the head of the table quipped.

Jessa refrained from rolling her eyes. “You're physically closer to him. And you have rank and power, even though you might not be in his inner circle of loyalists. There are less of them than you anyway.”

“You underestimate the draw of power. A lot of nobles won't care what a monarch has done if they can scrabble their way to the top.”

“They can do that to their heart's content with the next king. Perhaps I'm naive and hopeful, but I'd like to believe people would rather throw their lot in with a monarch who doesn't have a secret army of mages without the free will to lift their arm unless our so-called king wishes it.”

The room filled with a quiet shame. Then the first man said, “King? So you do have someone in mind?”

“Yes,” Jessa said with as much confidence as she could muster. Though it had been a slip of the tongue, it was as good an opportunity as any. She braced herself for how they might respond. “His name is Nayall Gard.” At least, that was the surname he had given her.

Murmurings ran down the table, each as confused as the other. It was when they began to convince themselves he must be a southern noble that Jessa curtailed them. “You haven't heard his name because he is not a nobleman.” Jessa ignored the sharp inhalations and the wide-eyed confused expressions. “He is a commoner, if common could ever describe him. He broke free of the king's mage ring. As far as we know, he's the only one ever to have escaped with his life.”

“A mage? Non-mages will not go for that.”

“He escaped Alrick,” Jessa said more firmly. “He knows what it is like to be controlled for years. And despite that abuse, he did not run. He's standing firm and tall against Alrick and helping mages. Out there, in this city mere yards from the king's doorstep, he has an asylum for mages. How many of you could escape your oppressor and immediately turn to helping others avoid their fate rather than retreating to lick your wounds? I'm not sure I could. And he's doing more than that, for his actions put him again directly in that oppressor's firing line. He has a following right here in the city, loyal to him because he's cares. He knows how greater magic can be abused and I know he would not even consider doing the same. I know of no better, more inspirational candidate.”

A noblewoman with a quiet, nervous voice asked, “But what of his children? Or theirs?”

“We cannot live our lives making decisions in such a way. We can't predict the future and we shouldn't have to. We make the best decision we can now and hope that it brings a better, safer country for generations to come. But we can't predict what individual might come to the throne whomever we choose. Neither is it possible to keep magic out of the monarchy forever – someone would have to marry a mage sooner rather than later.” Jessa shook her head. “But honestly, even if we could delay that, we shouldn't. Magic has been swept under the rug and feared. And when people learn of King's Alrick's deceit, they will distrust magic and all mages even more. Etrene needs someone who understands the good of magic and the destruction it can cause. It needs a positive example the people can look up to and respect, otherwise the persecution of mages will never end. But similarly it needs someone who knows magic to prevent mages running amok with their newfound freedoms. For there must be sanctions; magic is too dangerous in the wrong hands. Nayall is that person.”

The nobles considered her for a moment, before going back to their whispering. Jessa's heart pounded in her chest. She glanced at Ainesh. He smiled and nodded encouragingly before mouthing, “Well, you've convinced me.” Jessa smiled back, the tension in her back loosening slightly.

“We've not even met the man.” It was that first nobleman again. What was he, their spokesperson? The thought kept Jessa from the brink of losing her resolve, for she had no answer for them.

“Nayall isn't in the city right now,” she said quietly, closing her eyes so she didn't have to see their reaction.

“Where else could he possibly be? You claim he has a following of mages in the city, people who need his help, and he's gone?”

“He's...” Jessa swallowed. “Well, he's in the south.”

“South.” The man gave her a hard look.

“Yes. He...” She just needed to say it. “He was with the Novarians.”

“What-?” “How dare-?” Jessa let their outcries was over her, bowing her head. These nobles may be willing to overthrow their king, but that did not mean they wanted to ally with the Novarians. It would call Etrene's sovereignty into question even if the Novarian queen did concede her claim on the throne to an Etrenian, but more likely they would be worried the queen would find the chance too tantalising once it was a reality and renege on all deals.

“My lady, surely you did not know about this?” The last comment, uttered in disbelief by the woman who had been all jokes only a few minutes ago, cut through the hubbub. Everyone turned to look at Lady Tremont. Though Jessa would have cowered, she was not surprised to see Lady Tremont sit up straighter. She looked each person in the eye before settling on Jessa and saying, “Yes.”

The nobles shifted in discomfort, but Lady Tremont's declaration had quietened them, at least. If one of their closest allies believed in this cause and saw the benefit of a Novarian alliance, then perhaps they would see it too. Jessa breathed in deeply, calming herself. “I’ll make this clear. I’m working with the Novarians. In fact, I brought them into this. I didn’t call for war, but then we found out Alrick was kidnapping Novarians and…” Jessa shook her head. There was not a day that went by where she did not wish there had been another way. Rubbing her forehead, Jessa said, “If you stand with me – with Nayall – then you’re also standing with the Novarians. The choice is yours.”

There was nothing else to say. An awkward silence filled the room. Jessa looked to Ainesh, who shrugged. And then, Lady Tremont picked up her fork and resumed eating as though nothing was amiss. Though the food was cold, no one turned it down. Perhaps they were conscious of what the people were suffering and how lucky they were to have anything at all.

After dinner, they retreated to the sitting room. No one seemed eager to talk to Jessa and so she took her chance to collect the bag she had brought with her and approached the pale-haired man. Though they had not really interacted before, they seemed rather past the point of introduction. Cautiously, she asked, “Lucian? Do you have a minute?”

“For a girl who can render a whole room of Etrenian nobles speechless? Of course.” He waved his hand at the seat beside him on the sofa. “You did pretty well in there. Who’d have thought it, given everything I’d heard about you before?”

“I didn’t have anything to fight for then,” Jessa said lightly. She pulled out the sleeves, garnering a quizzical look from Lucian. She smoothed them out on the coffee table before them, then traced out the letters she had found with her finger. “These are Barichean letters. I thought you might be able to help.”

Lucian leaned closer, brushing his hand along the fabric. “Well, I’d always thought the Barichean alphabet was beautiful, but this is exquisite. And total nonsense.”

“But the letters themselves, perhaps? The person who did this doesn’t know Barichean. They might have just copied the closest letters to the Etrenian one. Obviously it’s not an exact translation, but…” Jessa fell silent, watching as Lucian furrowed his brow.

“Jessa?”

“Larend.” She drew her attention from Lucian, reaching out and taking Larend’s hand. For a heartbeat, he gripped hers back, but then hastily withdrew. “Are you okay?”

“I suppose. But…” Larend sighed. “If these people aren’t talking about you, their whispering about me. You don’t know the number of times tonight I’ve heard how much of a shame it is that the Janes have fallen so far. Apparently, they remember a time when the Janes and Bejours were closer than anything. I wonder how surprised they’d be to hear that, in fact, my mother and Catrice were both plotting to get the other killed.” Larend looked away and sniffed. He sucked in his cheeks. “I just wish they’d stop. They’re all so smug about it. My mother died and all they care about is making me feel worse.”

“I’m sorry, Larend.” Jessa stood, pulling Larend into a hug. He stiffened, and after an awkward pause Jessa pulled away. She watched him helplessly.

“I chose this by staying here.”

“No, you didn’t. You stayed here to make a difference, not to be gossiped about.”

“In any case, I knew it would happen.” Larend looked away, his gaze landing on Ainesh who was chatting away to his sister’s husband, Rafe, and another familiar noble whose resemblance to Rafe was uncanny. Larend laughed deprecatingly. “I didn’t see your marriage coming though.”

Jessa sighed. “It was a possibility as soon as I got divorced.”

“You know…” Larend dropped his gaze to the floor. He continued shakily, “You know I’d have offered, if I’d known and if a marriage to me could have offered you even a shred of protection.”

Jessa opened her mouth, though she had no idea what to say. Lucian took that moment to gasp in realisation, and Jessa was spared. She turned, surprised to find Nathaniel perched on the arm of the chair beside his partner. He gave her a little wave as she dropped back into her seat, leaving Larend to look on curiously.

“You’re right that some of the letters translate, but there are a lot of letters between our alphabets that simply can’t be translated. It looks like your friend ended up just taking the letters that most closely resembled those in Etrenian. I’m still not quite sure where some of these have come from, but I’ve worked out enough that I don’t think it could be anything else.” He passed her a piece of paper.

“Dawn, kitchen, fifteen days from ball,” Jessa read aloud. She turned to Lucian. “Thank you.”

“Well I’m glad it means something to you.” Nathaniel tugged at his arm. “Yes, yes, I’m coming.”

“Thank you again,” Jessa called as Lucian was dragged away. Larend took the seat he vacated, raising his eyebrows. She explained, “The servants. They’ve a list of signatures of those willing to go against Alrick. Or some have heard that I know somewhere their families will be safe from him. Or else they just want to join something that might help them convince their neighbours they don’t support the king. It’s awful out there. But anyway, they seem to have chosen some leaders who want to meet me.” Jessa sighed. “We need Nayall. He needs to meet them-” She waved at the nobles. “And everyone else too. But I’ve no idea when he’s coming back.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Jessa already had something in mind. Laurita disguising herself as Jessa required her to be seen, as she had told Laurita earlier that morning. And it had been far too long since Jessa and Larend had spent time together. Before Alrick had laid his trap for her, they had been almost inseparable. For Jessa to stop interacting with him now would only cast suspicion on Larend. As that suspicion would not be unfounded, Jessa would do everything she could to prevent Alrick’s gaze falling on her friend. “Come to the castle tomorrow.”

“What for?” Larend pulled away. It had been Jessa herself who had suggested he avoid the castle as much as possible – though he had ignored her to come to the ball.

Jessa wanted to tell him, but she had promised Laurita some fun. “Please, just come.”

Not long after Larend’s hesitant agreement, the nobles began to disperse. After about half an hour, the only people remaining in the sitting room were the Tremonts, bar Priti who had gone to check on the children. Seeing that Ainesh was locked in deep conversation with his parents and uncle, Jessa knew they might not leave for some time. But she was quite done with interaction. Quietly, she left the room.

The hallways were dark and blissfully quiet. She wandered down the main hall, before turning to head towards the library Ainesh had mentioned to her on their way to the dining room earlier than evening. He’d teased her that it was not as large as she would probably like, and as Jessa opened the door she saw that it was quite small. She was also not alone.

“Sorry,” Jessa said quickly, stepping out of the room with the intention of closing the door. But then Priti turned. The tears that had dried on her cheeks stopped Jessa in her tracks. “Are you… okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Priti said unconvincingly, wiping her cheeks with her hands. “I’m just… Well, Rafe and the children will be leaving soon, and…”

“What?”

“Oh… yes,” Priti said absently. “I guess you wouldn’t have heard. The children can’t stay here, not now. And Rafe isn’t a mage, so our alliance with you puts him in a lot more danger. I… I can be useful. I’m needed here.” Her voice broke. “Sorry, sorry. It’s not like I couldn’t go with them. I’m choosing this. They’ll be fine with Rafe. He’s going to my family in Antascia, though the quickest way out of the city is by boat so he’ll be going to Barichea first. Lucian’s family will meet them at the docks.” She pressed a hand to her head. “We were going to move out there in a few months anyway, but with everything… I’ll just join them when I can.”

Jessa didn’t know what to say. Tentatively, she came into the room and went to stand by Priti. She put a hand on her arm just as she noticed a stone resting on the table. It seemed an odd place for it. She stared at it, eventually noticing faint symbols etched into its surface.

Priti laughed through her tears. “I’ve been making a memory stone.” Her voice adopted her teacher-like quality, as though it made it easier for her to say. “You tether your magic to it, then push your memories onto it. Then-”

“Priti, you don’t need to explain.”

Priti bowed her head. “I’ve never been away from them, Jessa. I know that I want to see this through – and I know Rafe wishes he could stay too, and would if it wasn’t for our babies – but I don’t know if I can be away from them. I tell myself it’s to save them, but it doesn’t help. I just keep imagining their faces when they get on the boat with their father and I don’t join them.”

Jessa ignored all her hesitance and pulled the shorter woman into a tight hug. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry this war is breaking your family apart.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Priti murmured against Jessa’s arm. “It’s him.” She stepped back. “He’ll be sorry.”

[Rosabeth]

By the time Rhys awoke in the morning Nayall was already gone, a hastily scribbled note slid under the door Rhys’ only goodbye.

Left on the supply ship. Headed to Solridge. Should be in Ovis soon. You know how to contact me.

Rhys stuffed the note in his pocket as he stepped blearily into the hallway, still midway through pulling on a shirt. Over the weeks he’d learned to cope with the little precious sleep he managed between the racing thoughts that consumed him and the nightmares that awoke him gasping each night. At least with the Lanis’ books Rhys had something useful to occupy his restless nights, something that provided him with a paltry excuse for his state. In reality he knew his newfound obsession was hardly a cover for his torment. He saw it in his mother’s face the moment he stepped into the dining room, her eyes grazing over his bloodshot eyes and disheveled clothes, her lips pursed with some held-back words. He saw it from the way his father’s hand moved to lay on top of his wife’s, their eyes meeting in silent exchange. Even Anja’s hardened face showed a mask of concern. It took little effort to force back the harsh words that came to mind. Rhys had no strength left for them. With no more than a passing nod Rhys swept through the room, pretending he did not hear the whispers that followed him.

Despite the months since his last visit Rhys found his way to Tygan’s home easily. Rhys stood on the doorstep for some time, silence coming from within after each knock on the door. It was not until a rustling of skirts and a flash of color to his left, followed by a soft, high laugh, drew his attention that he understood. A garden gate stood ajar as two women slipped through, their heads bowed in quiet conversation. After a moment’s deliberation Rhys followed the women through the gates and down the dusty path that curved behind the house, his mouth agape at what lay before him. Though the season was early yet, large beds of herbs and plants surrounded Rhys on all sides, vines tangling with one another as they crawled up the wooden lattices. Rhys inhaled, the sweet scent of the garden and the warmth of the morning sun filling his senses.

Beneath a covered pergola Tygan stood beside a bench littered with small flasks and piles of dried herbs, his head bent in concentration. The women who’d passed through the gate before him made a bee-line to Tygan’s side, Tygan looking up with a soft smile as one might with an old friend as the taller one prattled off a list in a voice too low for Rhys to catch. In only seconds Tygan’s hands were running over his many bottles, popping the corks on flasks to give each a sniff before handing them to the women. As he reached the last flask, his fingers gently brushing its sides, Rhys saw the the man give a sidelong glance to the women, their attentions turned only to each other. In their distraction Tygan ushered over his wife Kelire, her eyes asking a silent question to which Tygan responded with only a nod. Rhys watched as Kelire emptied the contents of the flask onto a small dish, her fingers brushing through the herbs as her eyes flitted closed. Though the moment took no more than a few passing seconds Rhys found himself transfixed, the women to Tygan’s side seemingly paying no mind to the strange scene only feet away. Whatever had transpired was over as fast as it’d begun as Kelire quickly brushed the contents back into the flask, smiling at the women who once more drew their attention to Tygan and his wife. It was in this moment that Tygan’s eyes found Rhys.

With a quick word to his wife Tygan made his way to Rhys’ side, a broad smile on his face. “Lord Rhys,” he bowed with the words, Rhys frowning at the movement. What had once been so expected now felt foreign and strange. “I did not expect to see you.”

“I didn’t know you were an apothecary.”

“Gardening has always been a hobby of mine. And with Kelire’s skills…” Tygan smiled, “well, our offerings are rather useful.” Rhys understood the implication, envisioning the scene he’d just witnessed in another light. He wondered what magic she’d infused in that medicine. He wondered if the women even knew. “Are you here for…” Tygan’s words drew Rhys from his thoughts, the suggestion in the man’s eyes finishing his words for him.

“No, no, I don’t…well, I haven’t done that in some time.” Rhys ignored how Tygan’s brows rose. “I have some information I think you’d be interested in hearing, and some questions if you don’t mind. I think it might be better if we spoke in private.”

“Ah.” If only briefly, Tygan let a hint of concern flit across his face. He suppressed it in an instant, pressing his hand to Rhys’ shoulder like a father might and leading him into the house and away from prying eyes.

The moment Rhys stepped into the sitting room he pulled Miriyam’s list from his pocket and pressed it into Tygan’s hand. Seconds passed as Tygan observed Rhys warily in silence, turning the folded parchment over in his head several times before slowly unfolding it, revealing the list inside. In an instant Tygan’s face paled. In the next Rhys found himself hurtled backwards, Tygan’s arm pressed painfully into Rhys’ chest, pinning him to the wall.

“Is this a threat?” He hissed. Though Tygan’s eyes blazed Rhys could feel his arm tremble. “Where did you get this?”

The men stood at equal heights, but there was hardly a competition in strength with Tygan’s age. Rhys pushed him away easily, Tygan stumbling backwards with the unnecessary force behind Rhys’ movement. It wasn’t until Tygan stilled, righting himself as he looked at Rhys with wide, petrified eyes, that he realized the error in his outburst. Rhys could practically read the thoughts on the man’s face as realization struck. One did not so much as lay a finger on a Marinon. To do so was a dangerous game.

“I-I beg forgiveness, My Lord.” Tygan bowed low, though Rhys put out a hand to his shoulder before the man could drop any lower and kneel.

“Get up,” Rhys groaned, practically Tygan back to a standing position. “It’s fine, truly. I should have said something first. I would have acted the same.”

“So…it’s not a threat?” Rhys could hear the relief in Tygan’s words, a mask of calm washing over the man as he closed his eyes.

“Do you really think so little of me that I would blackmail you after all you’ve done to help me?” Rhys could not hide the disappointment in his voice. In truth, Tygan would be a fool not to expect such a thing. Rhys’ family’s reputation preceded him – a few pleasant interactions between two men hardly negated that harsh reality. “No, it’s not. I found it among Miriyam’s things.”

If Tygan wondered why Rhys was going through the Lanis’ things he did not say so. He only stared at the list, his jaw tightening as his eyes passed by each additional name. “I should have known,” he whispered. Rhys did not think the words were meant for him. “I should have known she would find out eventually, that someone would find a way around the spell…”

“Are these all mages? All the mages in Jasrah?”

Tygan looked up with surprise. Rhys wondered if for a moment the man had simply forgotten his presence. “Gods, no. There are many more of us than just this, and that’s only including those I know of. Some of these names I’m unfamiliar with, though that’s hardly a surprise. I imagine that your suspicions are exactly what this list was intended to be. At least one day. But as of now…I suspect it’s a list of those involved with the Lanis’. Those involved and those whose identities were betrayed, like mine.” Tygan shook his head, his lips a tight line. “Thank you showing me this. Truly. There are some on this list I think deserve to be informed, who deserve to know they’ve been compromised.”

“You knew? About the Lanis’?”

“Those two were rather less opaque about their powers, about their true intentions among fellow mages. We mages knew about them for long before they took action.”

Rhys could hardly hear Tygan for the sudden rage that surged in him. “You knew? You knew about them all along and you didn’t tell anyone? Didn’t tell me? The Lanis’ were here when we last met and you said nothing. If I’d known…”

“If you’d known nothing would have changed.” Tygan’s voice was sharp, cutting off Rhys’ words with force. The fearful, shaken man who’d appeared before him only moments ago was gone, replaced with a resolve Rhys had not expected. The anger in Tygan’s voice washed away any of Rhys’, making him feel no more than a chastised boy. “Their abilies and allies were beyond that which even your family was prepared to handle. The Lanis’ would have found a way, even if you knew. Besides, who did you expect us to tell? Your family? And risk exposure of not only ourselves, but our families too? To risk punishment, execution, or worse? Don’t think we don’t notice the disappearances among our own kind.”

The mage ring. From his words Rhys doubted Tygan knew the truth, but his suspicions were enough. Rhys could not begin to imagine the fear that such knowledge would surely bring. “That’s not us,” was all Rhys could breath out. “My family would not betray mages like that.”

“How are we supposed to trust that? Your family may be disloyal to the king, but they are still his subjects. The law still reigns here, even if it may be altered. We cannot take those risks. Even should your family take mercy on us and allow us to go unpunished, who is to say they would not force us to work for their gain? Do not lie to me and tell me your family does not profit off the services of mages.” Rhys turned down his eyes in shame. “So who do we have to turn to? No one. There is no protection for our kind – we have only each other.” Tygan frowned, letting out an exasperated sigh. “I like you, Rhys, and I do not doubt your sincerity, but you are naïve. You do not understand what you’ve never experienced.”

“Then tell me. Show me. I’m trying to learn, to find any way to stop the Lanis’, but I need help. You could be that help. I am willing to make amends on behalf of my family, if that’s what you want. I can promise you protection.” Rhys did not bother to conceal the near desperation in his words, but he was in no position to pass up allies. Not allies who perhaps had the knowledge and abilities to do that which he could not. “Please. Let me make things right.”

Tygan did not look up from that list for a long moment, his chest rising and falling with long, deep breaths. Eventually his eyes flitted upward and Rhys saw something reminicint of a look of defeat on his features. “You want to help?”

“Yes.”

“Tomorrow night. An hour past sunset. You will meet Kelire here and she will take you there. If you are sincere about your wishes you will be there.”

Rhys nodded quickly, noting how the tightness in Tygan’s features relaxed. For some minutes they sat in resolute silence, a calm setting over the room. A calm shattered by the sudden piercing cry of an infant that sounded from above.

Rhys looked up from his hands with a start, his eyes darting toward the ceiling in confusion. When he turned to Tygan he did not miss that hidden behind the man’s neutral expression was a glimmer of panic. “That must be the neighbors.” Tygan’s words were slow and calm. Too slow. His smile unconvincing. Rhys only stared back in silence. That sound, the sound that continued to pierce the otherwise peaceful quiet, was too loud, too close.

Suddenly Tygan stood, flashing a tight, polite smile Rhys’ way. “I really must be getting back to work. Kelire will need me.” Rhys was no fool – he knew when he was being dismissed. He rose from his seat slowly, watching Tygan’s nervous eyes follow his movements as he stepped toward the door. He dared not ask further, but his curiosity could not be contained. Rhys’ eyes flickered toward the ceiling. By the time he looked back at Tygan the man’s calm façade was pushed to its very limits.
The moment Rhys reached the door frame he paused, lingering a moment as a thought flitted into his head. He did not know how he could have nearly forgotten.

“On that list was a Gerard Tallus. I’ve known Lord Tallus my whole life, but I never…” Rhys bit his lip, turning toward Tygan. “Is he a mage?”

Though visibly thankful for the change of topic, Tygan paused, opening his mouth for a moment before pressing his lips shut with a gentle smile. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Some secrecy spell?”

Tygan laughed. “Something like that. I do not speak for anyone but myself. If you wish to know about Lord Tallus you’ll have to speak with him yourself. But…” Tygan quieted, lost momentarily in some thought Rhys could not perceive. “If you see Lord Tallus, tell him to come tomorrow night. Tell him…that I’m sorry. That I regret the way things transpired.”

Before Rhys could question further the door shut behind him, leaving Rhys standing alone on the cobblestones.

Just before he turned away from the house, Rhys did not miss the glimpse of a face, hardly more than a shadow, that peeked out the window. It left no more than swaying curtains in its absence, leaving Rhys to only stare in silence.

***

Rhys’ fist was still against the door when it swung open mid-knock, Lord Tallus standing there with a grin.

“Lord Rhys! I wasn’t expecting you but I thought I’d heard someone outside. These old ears still work, it seems.” Lord Tallus stared expectantly at Rhys for a moment before widening his arms and ushering Rhys inside. “Ah, but don’t just stand there, come in, come in! Sorry it’s a bit stuffy in here. Can I get you something to drink? Wine? No, no, a bit early for that. Coffee? Thank the Gods – more likely thank your family, I suspect – we’re still getting those imports from Asanos, what with the war. But if there’s ever been a thing your family could be relied upon for it’s to never let this city go without. They always find a way. Come, come! Sit!”

Lord Tallus’ ramblings were lost on Rhys from the moment he stepped inside the house. Thick curtains covered every window, letting in only the dimmest light to keep each room from plunging into darkness. A fine layer of dust covered the front sitting room, Rhys suppressing a cough in the stale air. As they walked towards the study each footstep echoed through the empty halls, not another face in sight.

“Where are your servants? I’d expected one of them to answer the door.”

“Dismissed them all months ago. Bad times, bad times. You know that.”

Was this now Lord Tallus had remained out of the Lanis’ grasp? By shutting himself away for months without so much as sunlight or fresh air? Rhys sunk into an armchair slowly, his eyes grazing the long-neglected study. How long had Ero lived like this, surrounded by such fear? He dared not ask.

“So, you must be here with word from your mother. Did she appreciate my report? I apologize if it was a bit scatterbrained. My thoughts have been quite muddied these days. She told me she’d come herself but I suppose a great Lady like herself must be very busy, especially these days.” Lord Tallus never looked towards Rhys as he spoke, too busy pouring coffee into two cracking cups.

“No, actually, I’m not here on my mother’s behalf. I’m sorry to disappoint.” Rhys paused, unsure how to continue. Lord Tallus seemed more than willing to fill the silence.

“Ah, no matter. I’m sure she’ll come soon.” Lord Tallus absentmindedly curled his grey beard with a finger as he spoke, his other hand reaching out to place a cup in Rhys’ hand. “Well, Ero’s out at the moment with Freya. Always joined at the hip, those two. They should be home soon, though, just popped out to the market by the harbor. You’re more than welcome to wait.”

“Actually, Lord Tallus, I’m here to see you.”

Rhys’ words seemed to pause whatever thoughts had been at the tip of the Lord’s tongue, his lips parting slightly in surprise. “Oh. Well then. Um.” His brows knitted in confusion. “Is there something you need?”

The words spilled from Rhys’ lips before he could think better of it. “Are you a mage?”

The silence that filled the room could have cut steel. The gentle tapping of Lord Tallus’ shoe on the carpet felt thunderous. Rhys watched with trepidation as the man’s hands clasped tight to his cup, his body rigid. “What-what makes you say that? I-I-I assure you-“ Lord Tallus could not finish his thought, his jaw clamping shut.

Slowly, Rhys withdrew the list and smoothed it over his knee. He handed it across the way with gentleness, as though one wrong move might frighten the man into a panic. Lord Tallus took the paper with shaking hands that only trembled more as his eyes took in his own name inked onto the page. The hopeless look in his eyes was all the confirmation Rhys needed.

“I’m not here to hurt you, or punish you, if that’s what you think. I would never do that.” Rhys spoke quietly, his gaze soft. “I just want to know the truth. You can trust me.”

It was as if the scatterbrained, trembling man before him disappeared in no more than a fleeting moment. Lord Tallus closed his eyes, letting out a sigh that sounded as if it had been held for many years. “I haven’t spoken those words in so long…I’m not sure I even can anymore.”

“Ero, is he…?” Rhys did not know if he could handle the answer, but neither could he let that question stew in his mind.

“No, no, thank the Gods. It happens, you know. There’s no guarantee that the…trait…will be passed on. I worried for so many years. You can’t imagine my relief when there were no signs. I did not wish this life on him.”

“Why? Why live like this? Why keep this secret?” Rhys watched as Lord Tallus gripped his cup more tightly, starting down into the murky brown depths. “There are others like you in Jasrah.”

“I was not always like this, you know. I knew others like me many years ago. Before you were ever born. It’s better this way, though. It’s better for the others.”

Rhys frowned at those last words. “What do you mean?”

“I am not wanted.”

Rhys could have sworn he saw a glassiness to Lord Tallus’ eyes as the man finally turned his face to Rhys. In those words, Rhys put together the pieces.

“I spoke with Tygan Levant earlier-“ Rhys did not miss Lord Tallus’ sharp intake of breath. “He told me to invite you to…well, I’m not exactly sure what it is. A meeting of some sort tomorrow night. I assumed you’d know what it meant.”

Lord Tallus only stared, lost for words. When words found him his voice was meek. “I do.”

“He also told me to tell you that… that he’s sorry.”

Without warning a choked sob ripped from Lord Tallus, the man pressing the back of his hand against his lips to stifle the noise. Rhys sat straight in shock, fixed in place as he watched whatever barriers Lord Tallus had built came crumbling down with the weight of those words.

“He’s sorry,” Lord Tallus gasped. “No, no, I am the one who should be sorry. What I did…I was foolish. Selfish. Young and impulsive. Angry. Tygan always was the better man between us.”

“What happened between you two?” Rhys’ voice was barely above a murmur. Lord Tallus stared at him with reddened, glassy eyes, his lips trembling as he pressed them firmly together. “You don’t have to, of course. It’s not my place to ask.”

“No, no, I should. I know I should. I haven’t spoken of it in 27 years. That eats at a person, you know? I still think about it every day.” Rhys sat silent and patient, waiting until Lord Tallus had gained enough composure to continue.

“I met my wife, Ella, when we were both very young. Younger than you. It happened suddenly, our love. I was enamored with her from the beginning, but before long I was in deep. I told myself every day that I’d tell her about my…magic.” Rhys sucked in a breath. It was the first Rhys had heard the man use the word. “Every day would come and go and I wouldn’t. I was so afraid. My mother was very secretive about magic and had encouraged me to be the same. I was convinced that if I told anyone they would tell your grandfather, or worse. I knew your father then but not well, not well enough to believe he wouldn’t save me from punishment if it came to it. Years came and went and I married Ella without ever telling her. I’d convinced myself that if I’d gone this long then I could hide it forever, that it would be a secret she’d never need to know. It seemed like that for some time, too. It took us many years to conceive Ero, and after a while I’d come to see our lack of children as a blessing of sorts, one that would conceal my secret. But when Ella fell pregnant...

“I felt trapped for months. If I told her now I feared she would leave, feeling as though she’d been lied to all that time. In a way she had been. When Ero was born my fears washed away…for a while. But I couldn’t suppress them forever, and after a time guilt got the better of me. It was nearing Ero’s first birthday and one day I just…said it. Finally. Ella screamed at me for hours and cried all night, not that I shouldn’t have expected it. By morning she was gone. She’d taken Ero and fled.

“I was grief-stricken and I panicked. I feared I’d never see her again, that I’d never see my son grow up, and I was desperate to get her back. I’ll admit I was also afraid of who she might tell. Ella was very good friends with your mother at the time – your mother was pregnant with you, I believe – and I was terrified she would tell her. I feared my secret getting out above all else and this thought terrified me. It plagued me. And so in my desperation I went to a friend of mine – Marcus Levant. He was no more talented a mage than me but…I didn’t have the nerve to do it myself. The next day we were able to track down Ella and I begged and pleaded for her to come home, if only for a day, just so we could talk. I promised to explain everything, to answer any question, and ask for nothing in return. Somehow, some part of her still trusted me, and she agreed.

“When Ella came that day Marcus was waiting, and the moment she walked through the door he subdued her with magic. Then he…oh Gods, I can’t even say it. I’m so ashamed.” Lord Tallus’ head dropped into his hands as his shoulders rocked with sobs that would not subside for minutes, Rhys left to only stare, anxiously awaiting words he knew he did not want to hear. Lord Tallus’ face was red when he wiped away the tears, his eyes devoid of any life. “Marcus tried to erase her memories of what I’d told her. I wanted things to go back to the way they were before. But I should never have let Marcus do it. Memory magic is a dangerous, horrible thing if done wrong, and Marcus was not prepared to do such a thing. Something went wrong that day. I still don’t know what. Ella forgot what I’d told her, but she also forgot everything else. She forgot me entirely. I’m not sure she even remembered Ero. Worse than that, Ella’s mind deteriorated quickly. Whatever magic Marcus had let loose had destroyed her mind like a fire, burning everything in its path. I tried to help her but she was too far gone.” Lord Tallus’ breath shook, his eyes pressing shut as he placed one trembling hand to his heart. “She killed herself two days later.”

Rhys could hear his every breath, even his own heartbeat, as he stared in shock at the weeping man across from him. His mind refused to believe the words so counter from everything he knew. “Ero always told me his mother drowned in an accident, that she was caught by the tide,” Rhys said quietly, his own breath nearly as ragged as Lord Tallus’.

“That was what we told everyone. She did drown, but it was no accident. She walked straight into the ocean. I tried to stop her but she wouldn’t listen. She was a stronger swimmer than me, and I couldn’t… When her head went under she never came back up until her body was washed up with the tide.

“A part of me died that day too. I was furious at Marcus, but mostly it was my own guilt that overwhelmed me, the thought that I had killed my own wife. My mind couldn’t accept that truth. I put all the blame on Marcus, though it was hardly as if he’d acted without my consent. In my fury I did something inexcusable, something Marcus never forgave me for. I did the one thing I’d swore to myself I’d never do – I told your grandfather about him.”

“Of course, when your grandfather met Marcus he wanted little to do with him. Marcus was no great, skilled mage as your family had hoped to find, to add to their collection of mages who would work on their behalf. Marcus lied that day when asked which of his parents was too a mage. His mother was a great mage in her time and Marcus feared what might happen to her – and to Tygan, who’s own abilities were showing great promise – if he told the truth. His father had been dead for many years, so he didn’t see what harm might come. I guess he overlooked that your family might take interest in his younger sister. More talented than him and, to his discovery, far more ambitious. I don’t think Tygan or Marcus ever forgave me for what happened to her. I think they saw her growing reclusiveness, her strange sort of madness, as my fault. Maybe it was. Maybe if it wasn’t for me she would have lived a normal life. I don’t know. But it’s my fault your family ever knew about her in the first place.”

Rhys pressed his eyes closed, his own shame overcoming him. This was his family who these people feared, the same fear that Tygan had acknowledged that very day. His family had preyed on mages, used them for their own ends. What had their actions cost these people, so many of them whom Rhys had never met? With a sudden jolt, a second thought crept into his mind, a realization that made his blood run cold.

“Merai. Merai is Marcus’ – Tygan’s – sister.”

Lord Tallus’ eyes widened with a start. “You knew?”

“No,” Rhys swallowed, wishing he could erase the truth from his mind. “Lucky guess.”

Lord Tallus stared at the heavy curtains blocking the sunlight that edged through the cracks, his face a blank, void slate. “The day I sold out the Levant’s to your family I was effectively cast out of the mage community in Jasrah. I deserved it. I deserved far worse. I should have been hanged for what I did to Ella, but your mother…I always suspected she knew. I still wonder if Ella told her in those days before it all went wrong. Or maybe she just knew anyway – your mother has always been impossibly perceptive. After Ella’s death your mother came to visit me. She arranged everything I could possibly need, even securing a wet nurse for Ero. But when she looked at me I saw something in her eyes – contempt, maybe. I remember so clearly what she said to me that day. ’Ero needs you. I hope that comforts you.’ It felt like a threat at the time – it still does. A reminder that the only thing saving me from the justice Ella deserved was our child who your mother couldn’t bear to leave without a family.”

When silence had overtaken them for several long minutes, Rhys’ mouth dry and his heart still beating fast, he finally gathered the nerve to speak, his voice stronger than he expected. “You have to tell Ero. He deserves to know about everything. About you. About his mother. He has a right to know.”

Lord Tallus’ faint nod was the only answer he could give. He looked completely spent, his head resting limply against his great armchair as he stared at some unknown spot. For some time he did not speak, and when words came once more they were but a whisper. “Do you hate me for it?”

Rhys paused. “No. I pity you.” Lord Tallus showed no sign of having heard anything at all -twenty-seven years of repressed memories and thoughts having spent him entirely. Unable to stomach the quiet and the dark of that study, Rhys stood, setting his cup on a nearby table as he watched that sullen man continue to stare at the obscured window. “Make amends, Lord Tallus. I think it would do you good.”

***

The light nearly blinded Rhys as he stepped out onto the street, his lungs taking in the fresh air with unbridled relief. Rhys felt numb as he walked forward, directionless, taking turns without thought. For a mage, Alrick’s mage ring might be the least of their concerns. He could not envision a life so shrouded with fear that it could lead one to such repressible acts. He could not imagine what it would be like to hide that deepest, darkest part of you away from even those you loved. A distant memory came to him, of standing before Jessa, bound by those spells, as she told him the truth. He still remembered that initial flicker of anger so clearly, but now it brought him shame. What if she had known about her magic for longer – how would he have reacted, knowing the lie was purposeful and old? How had he ever expected her trust, knowing fully of Merai, of his family’s own willingness to use mages who likely felt they had no other option but to consent? Rhys could hardly stand the shame of it all.

Rhys would not let these people suffer – not at the hands of his family.

Transfixed by his own thoughts, Rhys did not even notice the person before him until they collided.

Rhys stumbled backwards a step, looking up with shock at a light-haired man who stared back with the same expression. Yet as Rhys apologized profusely the man stood silently before him, staring. It was not shock on his face, Rhys realized – it was realization. Suddenly a pain jolted in Rhys’ head, his hand immediately reaching up to press on the spot on his temple that only grew sharper by the second. The man before him had not moved, but his face was now blank, staring at Rhys with empty eyes. No sooner had Rhys gasped out in pain it dissipated into nothing.

“Rhys!”

Rhys turned at that familiar booming voice, still clutching his head as Victor ran up towards him, Ero and Freya not far behind. “I didn’t expect to run into you here.” His eyes flickered to Rhys’ head as he frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“Did you see-“ Rhys turned around, expecting that strange, staring man to be there, only to see nothing but an empty street. There was not a trace of the man as Rhys’ head whipped from side the side, scouring the alleys that peeled off from the street. Rhys let his hand drop from his head, finding that that pain had too left no lingering trace. Vanished.

[Mollianne]

“You seem tense, Father.” Elissa picked up her fork and waved it in the king's direction. Alrick stared at her until she lowered her arm. Jessa was quite glad to be at the other end of the table, with at least five chairs between them and Edmund. Thankfully, it seemed that though the king demanded they join the family for breakfast every day as though Jessa always had – an attempt to trick the Tremonts into thinking Jessa had a place in the royal family, which was laughable considering Ainesh’s family couldn’t care less – he did not mind where they sat or whether they interacted.

Her hope, however, that she would be ignored by sitting on the other side of the room was shattered as soon as Alrick looked her way. “I have many reasons to be tense, do I not?” He held his gaze for a moment longer, surely leaving no doubt in anyone’s mind, except perhaps the oblivious Elissa, that Jessa was one of his reasons. His voice darkened as he said, “Yes, a great, great many.”

Jessa could not stop the shiver that ran through her. Something had happened. She swallowed, daring to meet the king’s gaze. But he had already turned away to chastise Elissa. “When will you realise this? When will you stand up and get your ignorant head out of the clouds?”

“I'm sorry, Father,” Elissa mumbled meekly as she dipped her head, but her words were overshadowed by Catrice coming to her rescue.

“How dare you speak to your daughter in such a way when that girl-” Catrice waved a hand dismissively in Jessa and Ainesh’s direction. “-continues to leech off this family without a hint of contempt? Treated practically like royalty.” Jessa stared; she could have guessed Alrick was keeping his wife in the dark, but did she really think her relationship with the king was pleasant? Catrice added, “She is married now. Why do she and her husband not live elsewhere?”

“You have no right to speak to me this way.”

Catrice barked in laughter. “Oh, very fine. But, in fact, I do. I am your equal. And she is our daughter; you will not make her doubt you love her. Especially now. We will win this war but that does not prevent our children from being ripped from us. Would you see us lose another, dying thinking they are not loved?” Catrice's voice had gone high and shrill. She wasn’t thinking about her words or who was in the room. Edmund paled at his mother's words, but Elissa had gone positively green.

“Mother, I really don't think now is the best time...” Maira said, ever the unflappable heir. She had not even flinched at her mother's words; she knew better than her siblings the realities of this war.

With Maira's words, Catrice seemed to snap out of her anger. She saw her children's faces, and hers fell too. She took Elissa and Edmund's hands, though she had to reach across the table for Edmund, and said, “I'm sorry, my darlings.”

Elissa nodded tightly, gripping her mother's hand. Edmund shrugged and pulled his hand back awkwardly enough that Catrice's apologetic smile faltered. Edmund stood abruptly, mumbled an excuse and left the room. Jessa's heart left with him. His tears in the library, far from his family's ears, were still fresh in Jessa's memory.

The rest of breakfast passed uneventfully, everyone too tense to utter a word. Only Ainesh looked even remotely at ease; she wondered what jokes he was telling himself to bring some levity to the situation. No doubt he would delight in telling everyone of the king and queen's animosity despite the sorry circumstances under which it had reared its head. Very few had borne witness to it.

Jessa caught Ainesh's eye and was about to make her excuses when a servant sidled in. He headed for the king, producing an unmarked letter with a bow. Under the watchful eyes of the rest of his family, Alrick opened the missive. He smiled – a dark, malicious thing – which became, as he turned to Jessa, smug and almost gleeful. But Jessa could guess what news had arrived, and she was more than happy to disappoint the king. “Our friends in the south are ready. Soon Novamor will be brought to its knees.” Catrice and Maira straightened, hope glimmering in their eyes, but Alrick's gaze did not waver from Jessa's. After a second, Maira fixed contemplative eyes on her too. If yesterday's encounter had not revealed that Maira knew about her, there could be no doubt now. Jessa stared back coolly, giving neither of them the satisfaction of reacting. Alrick's eyes narrowed.

“I’m glad it’s going to plan,” she said finally. To Ainesh, she added, “We should let Lady Tremont know.”

They left without goodbyes, walking together until they reached the entrance hall. Ainesh split off to meet his family and Jessa returned to her room to await Laurita.

The knock came at precisely the right time. Jessa ushered her friend in. The moment the door was closed, Laurita began her change. It was always an odd experience to watch, for Jessa could never explain exactly how she changed or even the moment it happened, but it was even stranger to see her own eyes staring back at her.

“Stop staring, you're going to be seeing a lot of this.” Laurita grinned. It wasn't Laurita's grin, but Jessa's. It was all very disorientating. “How far are you going from the castle? I can only hold it so far or it's up to you.”

Once they had ascertained that the few miles apart that they would be was beyond Laurita's reach, they settled on changing just enough for Jessa to pass as the servant Laurita had arrived as. From Laurita's list, it was no small feat – softening Jessa's jaw, lengthening her nose, changing the colour of her eye and eyebrows and ageing her skin just a little. She would tuck her hair into the maid's bonnet Laurita wore. It would look a bit strange to be so attired out of the workplace, but better that than Jessa transforming before the whole city.

Despite Laurita's insistence that it was simple, it took Jessa far longer than necessary to make and maintain the changes. Too long – it was already suspicious enough that a servant seemed to have spent considerable time in Jessa's room the day before. For it to happen twice would surely catch their eye. Panicking about it only lengthened the process, however, so Jessa tried to calm her nerves. It had been so long since she had done this or any significant magic that she could afford no distraction.

“How do I look?” she asked cautiously.

Laurita said nothing for a moment. “It'll do.”

It was terrible then, but there was little else she could do. Larend would already be waiting in the entrance hall, attracting stares for loitering. Or worse, one of the du Renes might come across him.

“We should go.”

A knock on the door stopped them in their tracks. They exchanged glances before Jessa gestured to Laurita to answer the door. She hurried to the hearth where she picked up the small brush leaning against the side and began sweeping, keeping her body turned slightly so she could see who had come.

No sooner had the door opened than the person on the other side babbled, “Oh, thank the Gods you're okay. When you didn't turn up...”

“I'm fine, as you can see.” Jessa shivered; that was her voice. It was no doubt the most unnerving part of the exchange, but as Laurita placed a hand on Larend's arm and squeezed gently in a most un-Jessa-like way, she knew this was the beginning of the competition for second weirdest thing.

Larend was staring at the hand. “Uhhhhhhh...” His voice shook slightly, followed by a squeaky, “Jessa?”

“Yes... Larend?” Larend frowned, noting Laurita's hesitance at his name. Laurita did not know what Larend looked like, beyond the simple description Jessa had offered, so though Larend's words had indicated her guess was correct there was still always the chance Laurita was wrong. Larend, of course, knew none of this. He was quickly distracted though, for Laurita's hand still lay on his arm.

“Are you okay?” he asked nervously.

“Of course. I just have a few things to finish up here. Come in?” She pulled the door open wider. Larend seemed frozen to the doorstep. Jessa felt embarrassment crawl inside her. Laurita laughed. She flicked her hair. Flicked it. Had she ever even met Jessa? By the time Jessa had recovered and hurriedly returned to her sweeping, Laurita had gently pulled Larend inside and gestured for him to sit on the bed.

“Help me pick out a necklace?”

Jessa closed her eyes, grateful she had her back to the pair. What was Laurita doing – a necklace? Jessa knew Laurita was a flirt, and that Laurita's primary motivation for pretending to be Jessa was to embarrass her, but she had not expected the two to collide. Laurita was meant to be with Larend in public, which would necessarily curb her more flirtatious interactions. Jessa's bedroom was safe, though, and with Jessa actually watching, Laurita could embarrass her even more than if she heard it second hand. Oh, this was not fun.

When she finally dared look, Laurita was far closer to Larend than she had been before, dangling two necklaces against her chest. Larend's eyes darted frantically, looking between Laurita's face, dipping down to her chest before hurriedly averting his gaze, only for a moment later his gaze to be drawn back to her face. “Which one? I think this one.” Laurita wasn't looking at Larend, busily surveying the necklaces before her.

“Looks great,” Larend said, sounding positively strangled. Laurita's head snapped up, her expression turning contemplative – and was that concern?

“Put it on me?” Jessa had no idea why Laurita sounded so speculative suddenly. She held the necklace out and, at length, Larend reached up to take it. The chain curled in his palm, the links chinking against each other, and Larend stared at it dumbly while Laurita turned around. She brushed her hair out of the way, waiting. She faced Jessa now, and when Larend finally moved the necklace around her neck, Laurita winked at Jessa. Then a light frown knitted her eyebrows, for Larend had clasped the chain but had not moved.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Laurita teased, her voice too playful for Jessa’s. She turned then, her mouth still open. Jessa couldn’t take any more embarrassment. She stood suddenly, attracting their attention. Larend stepped away frantically, his cheeks flaming. Jessa imagined hers were as red as his.

“My lady,” she said, trying to pitch her voice lower. It was difficult; Laurita must have been using magic to mimic Jessa. Laurita seemed to take Jessa’s hint, giving Larend one last glance before coming to Jessa’s side. “Please stop. I need to go. You need this.” She handed over the blood ring. Jessa would have limited time before she felt the effects of its separation, but Laurita needed it to complete her disguise. Despite that time pressure, Jessa paused to drive home her disapproval. “Please behave.”

“Always,” Laurita said with a wink. Jessa curtsied, then seeing Larend’s suspicious stare out of the corner of her eye she scurried out of the room with her head bowed. She closed the door quietly, noting movement to her left. Had she imagined it? No, there it was again, a half-concealed shadow shifting. It was the first time Jessa had any proof she was being watched. Swallowing, she turned the other way. As she stole through the castle, her hand lifted self-consciously to tug at the bonnet. What if her hair had come loose? It wasn’t as if she truly thought anyone would connect a servant with red hair to Jessa, but her distinctive hair would draw attention and risk them realising they had not seen her before.

She did not breathe easily until she was beyond the castle gate. Like Khalid had said of the day before, the morning was bright and warm. As such, there were more people navigating the inner city roads, those in a hurry ducking in front of carriages as though they had death wishes, while those who had nowhere to be meandered about and forced Jessa to slow. She tried not to duck her head, for though the city was more alive than she had seen it in a while, there were not many servants outside compared to the nobles. She just needed to get beyond the inner city walls where she would not stand out as much. A few people were eyeing her already – mostly servants surprised to see her walking alone. The nobility, as ever, could be trusted to overlook those considered beneath them. Usually such wilful ignorance twisted Jessa’s gut, but today she could only be grateful to pass like a ghost.

As she came upon hers and Khalid’s meeting point, she saw him waiting. Even from here, she could see he was antsy, shifting and looking around aimlessly. She sighed in relief; given her tardiness and his fear, Jessa was thoroughly surprised he was still there. Not wanting to startle him, Jessa came forward slowly and waited until his gaze happened to land on her. The market, largely serving the city rather than its nobility, was as deserted as the last time she had visited with Alistair. The stalls were empty save for bits of canvas which blew in the wind. Khalid spotted her as she passed a table that had once sold Jessa’s favourite inks – she had years of ink-stained fingers to prove her love. She brushed her hand along the table top, remembering the kindly couple who had teased her about how many bottles she bought, and then met Khalid’s eyes. He looked at her blankly and was about to look away when Jessa raised her hand. He eyed her warily; Jessa half-expected him to run as she closed the distance between them.

“Lord Khalid,” she said, making no attempt to disguise her voice. He frowned, struggling to marry the voice to the unfamiliar face. “I told you I’d look different.” She lifted the cap, allowing him a glimpse of her copper hair. He still looked unconvinced. “It’s me, Jessa.”

“How?” He shook his head, realisation dawning. “Like… before?”

Though he could sense her magic as surely as he had been able to when she had been in disguise at Nayall’s hideout, Jessa could not bring herself to admit her magic so openly. “I have a friend with a remarkable penchant for disguise. But it is me, just as it was me pretending to be Rose Gard.” With the name, Khalid’s shoulders relaxed. Few people but Jessa would know about that.

“Come, we should go somewhere else. This place is far too open.” Khalid nodded, looking over his shoulder before he scuttled after Jessa. They left the skeletal remains of the markets for the lopsided houses, leaning against each other for support as they lined the shadowy, narrow streets of south Ovis. Khalid, perhaps, looked a little out of place here with his fine jacket and boots, but the darkness hid them well enough. A woman hissed as they went past, glaring only at Khalid. Where the darkness failed them, these people’s prejudice against nobility would mean they would not see anything but the finery and snobbery.

Jessa put her hand out when they reached the end of a cool, dark alley. She eyed the grimy windows above them. A face stared down at her, their eyes hard as they surveyed her servants’ garb and Khalid’s expensive outfit. After a moment, the face disappeared. It was hardly safe here, but she dared go no further. There would be no one from the inner city here, at least. “Where should we start?”

“You do not – how you say, beat the bush, do you?”

Jessa smiled at Khalid’s attempt. “No. What happened to the boy?”

“He and his family-”

“No.” Jessa shook her head. “No, I mean how did he get here, in Etrene, in the first place? What do you know?”

“I know that Barichean children have been going missing for years. Alem’s family travelled over 50 miles – on foot – to tell my family that Alem had been taken when he was out playing with friends. In the last five years, three other children had gone missing from the small village in the mountains. It wasn’t only them. In the months before, I’d heard other families talking about missing children in the mountains all over Barichea. They’d all ignored it, saying it was inevitable when they lived in dangerous places. A child would slip and no one would see or know.” Khalid broke off. In the dim light, Jessa saw his hands ball into fists.

“I could not believe how cruel they could be, but none of them even remembered the names of the villages, so I could not help them. I couldn’t help them until Alem. I didn’t ignore them when they came. Even if the child had wandered off and fallen, that should never be considered normal. But it wasn’t that. I started listening out for any disappearances across my whole country, and there were many, from north to south. It wasn’t even hard to find people with information; with no one investigating the kidnappers had not felt the need to be as quiet. Most said the same thing: Etrenians in the mountains. They’d never seen them with a child but even being in the mountains is suspicious. Not many travel the paths without Barichean guides, and some of the sightings were far from the usual trails.

“I went to my queen. She listened to me at first, though I could tell she thought it was nothing. But… as soon as I mentioned Etrenians she refused to talk to me. She told me I was making it up – what reason I had she didn’t say. But I know my queen. She isn’t heartless. She was scared. And I knew it must be something bigger than even I’d considered.”

Jessa’s heart was in her throat. “Are you suggesting that the Etrenian monarchy is involved in this?” She pressed a hand to her stomach, pushing against the roiling nausea. Khalid’s response was not needed; she knew. She knew what Alrick was. He had no compunction in kidnapping Novarian mages for his mage ring. It was not such a stretch to imagine he would have looked to Etrene’s nearest neighbours. But children? What place could they have in the ring? How could Alrick even consider taking those so young and destroying them?

“I do not know, not even now. All I was told was that the boy – and three others – had been found. It was only then I learned they were all…” Khalid stopped, mouthing his next word, “mages.” He swallowed before continuing. “I met them in Ovis and took Alem to his family. The others are somewhere safe until we find their families. But I have been here since then so I do not know if other children are missing. I do not know if they are in Etrene and if we can save them too. I have no news in weeks.”

“Who told you? Who found them if it wasn’t you?”

Khalid stared at the ground. “My family is – was – close to the Bejours. Our cities were once one-”

“Aulvir and Tremerre,” Jessa interrupted, remembering where Khalid said he lived. Despite it all, her old research brought a glimmer of life to her voice. “Before the Barichean Wars, it was all part of Barichea. The Etrenians invaded but only made it halfway through the city before there was some kind of…” The accounts had never said, but now Jessa could guess what it had been. Magic. It had halted the Etrenians and they had been too scared to cross, telling tales of angry gods and evil forces whispering in the wasteland that had once been part of the city. It had been near the end of the war, and afterwards, Etrene kept the western part of the city and renamed it Tremerre. She looked up, realising she had got side-tracked; how could she? “I’m sorry, I used to study the Barichean Wars…”

Khalid nodded, but it was a cautious nod that said he absolutely did not understand Jessa’s reaction. “Well… We have been fighting over that land now it is fertile, but I hoped I could still appeal to them for help. It was desperate, but they are the only powerful people I know in Etrene. And yes,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, “I thought the king might know something. And my mother’s once best friend was his wife. It was my only chance. And she listened to me. She listened and she found them.” His voice was filled with awe.

Jessa did not believe for one second that Catrice had assisted out of the goodness of her heart. It was perhaps cruel of Jessa to think Catrice would not care one iota about the missing children, but there was no doubt that Catrice had listened for one reason only: Alrick. “How?”

“I don’t know. Is it important? She found them and promised she would find others if she could. But there has been nothing. I do not think it means there are no more children going missing. That would be too good.”

Jessa rubbed her forehead. Being parted from the blood ring was beginning to take its toll. She needed to leave soon. “You don’t know anything about where the Etrenians were taking them? Why?”

“No, Princess. The queen is better to ask.”

That was easier said than done; Jessa almost scoffed.

She heard a scuffling sound behind Khalid. A moment later, the shadows in the alley moved, melting to reveal the dirty faces of two men. With a start, Jessa realised one looked familiar – the man from the window. He hissed, “Red scum.”

Without warning, the two men lunged. Khalid had turned already, and in a flash of movement that Jessa couldn’t quite comprehend, he blocked one of them men and they fell to the floor with a groan. The other got past him, running straight at Jessa. He punched her in the stomach and she doubled over with a gasp, falling back against the bricks behind her. The man was still coming, and Jessa was cognizant enough to hear the fighting grunts that told her Khalid’s man had very much not stayed down. Jessa was on her own. She didn’t think quickly enough. The man grabbed her arm and yanked her up, his fingers whitening with the strength of his hold. When she was upright, he slammed his other arm against her chest, locking her against the wall as he rammed his fist into her gut again. She cried out, trying to think, knowing she needed to do something. Knowing that this had been a terrible idea, and that if she and Khalid died, it was all her fault.

She was not going to die. Not there, not that day. She just needed to think. But her head was beginning to hurt more now. Cursed ring.

“Not so high and mighty now, are you Red?” The man had come closer, dropping his arm to clutch at the front of her maid’s dress. His acrid breath was hot on her face. And then – a memory. Jessa struggled to remember amidst her fear, and then she kicked her leg out behind his knee. She pulled hard and somehow, thankfully, he crashed to the ground. His grip was so tight on her dress that she nearly fell with him. For a moment, she just stared at him. He groaned, but his pain and surprise was short-lived. Within moments, his eyes flashed in rage. She’d only made it worse.

“Run!” Her gaze swivelled to Khalid. The other man was on the ground, and Khalid was frantically gesturing towards her. She did not need to be told twice, running and narrowly avoiding her attacker grabbing her ankle. Khalid held out his hand for her as he ran, and when their fingers met he ran faster, half-pulling Jessa along with him. They ran aimlessly, until Jessa regained the wherewithal to direct Khalid out of the dangerous part of Ovis where people wanted to kill them. That seemed to be their best plan. Jessa almost laughed at her faraway thoughts. Was this shock? It was probably shock.

They stopped running only when the roads grew wider and the people around them treated them only to minor looks of disgust. Jessa pressed a hand to her stomach. The run had certainly not helped. She was winded and sore. “I’m sorry, Princess.”

“No, that was my fault. I should have known.” She shook her head, ignoring the pain that shot through it that told her she needed to get back to the castle soon. “That was impressive.”

“Conscription. Three years with the army. It is some friends from my days there that I am meeting today.”

Jessa had completely forgotten about that. She had not known they were soldiers, however. Were they here simply to meet their friend, or was their visit to Etrene more than that? Jessa kept her questions to herself. “You must be late.”

Khalid waved a hand. “It is no matter.” He smiled shakily. “You were impressive too. Where did you learn that?”

She recalled the training room and the mats she had come to know intimately. It was impossible not to see him in there too, telling her she should hit him as hard as she could, patiently repeating defensive moves until Jessa felt confident. His body close to hers. Jessa pushed it all from her head. “A friend.”

Khalid frowned but seemed to recognise that Jessa was not going to share more. “We should get you back.”

Jessa protested, “I’ll be fine on my own. You’re meeting your friends.”

“They can wait. I can’t leave you on your own. And I’ll admit I don’t feel very safe here right now.”

Jessa didn’t have time to argue unless she wanted to pass out in the middle of Ovis. Rubbing her head, she agreed.

***

If Ainesh did not leave her alone soon, Jessa was going to snap. “I’m fine now. Really.”

“Are you just saying that to get rid of me? We all know your weird aversion to using your powers. Are you sure you’ve got it?”

“Yes, Ainesh.” She sighed gustily. “Should I walk around and prove I can do so without wincing now? The pain isn’t completely gone like when you did it, but it’s good enough. I might not like magic, but I know how suspicious it would look for me to double over in pain when I supposedly spent the morning with Larend Janes, the gentlest person I’ve ever met.” Though Ainesh had not asked, she stood and spread her hands. “See? No pain. Just a lot of bruises. Are you satisfied?”

“Sorry, I’m more afraid of your friend than I am of you.” Ainesh had a small smile on his face despite his declaration. He turned seriously, taking a step closer to Jessa. Then, he poked her in the stomach.

Jessa glared at him. “What the-?”

“Just checking.” He flashed her a winning smile. Jessa’s frown deepened.

“You’re as bad as Laurita.”

“Hey, I’ll take any comparison to her gladly.” Ainesh waved a hand at her as he headed over to the door between their rooms. Jessa rolled her eyes; he was smitten. He looked over his shoulder. “Call me if you need me, okay?”

Jessa nodded, trying her best to hide her exasperation. It was only a few bruises. She doubted others had been so lucky. The city was on the edge of a very dangerous precipice, and now Jessa had experienced it first-hand. But it wasn’t her life; for the servants, it was their reality. For her attackers, they were desperate and starving. To them, the servants lived in luxury they did not deserve and their continued employment suggested they condoned the king and the aristocracy. No one would win in such a situation.

“You’d better not drop your magic as soon as I’m gone. It’s actually healing you, not just removing the pain.” Ainesh’s voice cut through her thoughts.

“I know, Ainesh.” Her words must have come out angrier than she intended, for Ainesh put up his hands defensively and left the room. Finally alone in the silence of her room, Jessa collapsed onto her bed. She fully intended to think through everything Khalid had told her and to come up with some way of getting Catrice – she shuddered at the thought – to talk to her. But as she stared up at the ceiling, Jessa felt her eyes droop. The attack and her near-collapse because of the blood ring had exhausted her.

She did not remember falling asleep, but she knew that must have happened when a knock at the door yanked her into consciousness. Her room was pitch black for the fire had long since died. Not even moonlight cut through the darkness. Jessa shivered, throwing a shawl around her shoulders as she groggily went to the door. She pulled it open.

Her exhaustion disappeared immediately, replaced with a sharp awareness and fear. Alrick, his expression as hard as stone.

“What can I do for you, sire?”

“You’ll come with me. And bring the decoded pages of that Marinon book. You’ve had more than enough time and I have run out of patience.” Jessa didn’t move. She should have known this would happen. She had held too much hope that the Tremonts’ plan would distract him, that compared to the war it was nothing. But it was Alrick’s only way of bringing Jessa into line and working for him whether she wanted to or not. “Jessa. Get. The. Pages.”

She turned and ran inside, pulling open the drawer in which she had shoved her notes. Though Jessa had really decoded the pages in her memory long ago, the notes she had written for Alrick reflected no such thing. She scrambled through the papers, looking for anything that she could show him. Nothing but scribbles and her deliberate attempts to go off track. She could not use these to explain her sudden solution. Her only hope was that Alrick would not care if she gave him answers. That, and that the Marinons and their allies had been warned. She could not have their deaths on her hands, not when it should have been her to die.

Alrick said nothing to her when she finally reappeared. They walked in silence to his office, where Alrick gestured for Jessa to enter first. The fire crackling in the grate was the only sound within, adding to the eeriness of the room. Jessa waited for Alrick to cross the room and take his seat before she sat in the chair opposite him. She stared at the desk. The last time she had been in here, she had been signing divorce papers.

Jessa looked away, hugging the papers she held tighter to her chest.

“What do you have?” Alrick asked without preamble, holding out his hand.

“I… I haven’t quite-”

“You have had more than enough time. I have been plenty generous given your position.” Alrick’s voice shook with rage. “Don’t play with me, Jessa. Or are you admitting that you are against me? That you will follow criminals and liars over your own father?”

Jessa closed her eyes for the room was beginning to sway. Somewhere within her, she recognised that that was not normal, but then she felt a keen pain and could think of nothing else. Heartbreak. Alrick’s heartbreak at her betrayal. It dug its claws into her heart. “I’m sorry,” she choked out, the words not feeling like her own. “I’m sorry.”

“You still protect him? Has he not hurt you enough? Has he not forced you to risk your life for him? Is he not dead?”

For a brief second, Jessa felt a familiar tingling sensation. There was something she should do. Someone had told her about this. But then the feeling disappeared and Jessa’s thoughts with it, replaced by a burning, everlasting pain. She cried out, clutching her head. The papers scattered on the floor; Jessa didn’t even notice.

“Where is Rhys Marinon, Jessa?”

She frowned. Why was he asking this? She breathed out, managing to say through the screaming inside her, “Dead. Like you said.”

“Is he. Are you lying to me, Jessa? I’m your father; do I really deserve this from you?”

Another stab of piercing fire shot through her. She sobbed. “He’s dead. I’ll… I’ll figure out the code tonight. I promise.” She just wanted the pain to stop. She would do anything. Anything. That’s what her head was telling her. Anything Alrick wanted. The words became a mantra.

The pain stopped abruptly, leaving Jessa to stare blearily at the king. He met her gaze, then leaned across the desk and back-handed her across the face. “Do not lie to me.”

“I’m not,” she whispered, dropping her gaze. She watched as her fingers absently played with the creases in her dress. “I’m not.”

“I know, Jessa,” Alrick said, but the inflection wasn’t right. He didn’t sound like he was replying to her, and the mistrust was still there in his eyes. “You can’t lie to me. I will have the decoded pages on my desk first thing tomorrow. Do not disappoint me, or you will have only yourself to blame.”

[Rosabeth]

Once the sun dipped below the horizon and darkness set in, Rhys slipped quietly from his family’s manor. He was not even to the cliff pass when aa familiar voice called out from the darkness.

“Where are you sneaking off to?”

Perched on the edge of a rock, her bare feet dangling into the shallow waters that lapped onto the beach, Anja stared at Rhys with a wicked grin. Dressed head to toe in black, her dark hair pulled back form her face, Anja all but disappeared against the backdrop of the night. Training, Rhys realized, taking in his sister’s attire and the slight sheen to her face. He did not envy whatever poor sop was now licking their wounds. Anja was not one to lose. His sister watched him expectantly for a moment, waiting for an answer, but Rhys only rolled his eyes as he turned away from the beach.

He heard the fast footsteps on the sand before he felt the impact, turning with just enough time to lash out an arm. Anja ducked with ease, pinning the arm behind Rhys’ back and forcing him to his knees with a swift kick to the back of the knees. In a blinding second her arm was around his throat, her chin resting on his shoulder.

“You’re not even trying; that was pathetic.”

When Rhys did not entertain a response Anja groaned, pushing him forward into the sand as she stood up, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re practically some lazy aristocrat whose picture of a perfect life is being the human embodiment of a lap dog.”

Rhys snorted. It was true that his body had never fully recovered from his time in Alrick’s prison and the weeks of war that followed. Though thinner, and perhaps weaker, than before, he was surely far from the paltry state she described. Between the two of them Rhys was by far the more physically intimidating, though only a fool would think for a second to fear Rhys before Anja. “I’m so sorry I haven’t spent the last few months perfecting myself to your high standards.” He said. “You know I could still lick you if I put half a mind to it.”

Anja’s eyes lit up at the words. “By all means. I haven’t had a good opponent in months. Our old teachers are too weak, too old, and everyone else is too afraid that if our father sees me bruised the one who put it there will hang. Cowards. As if I wouldn’t be the one in trouble for the shame of that.” Anja grumbled. “We used to train together all the time; don’t you miss it?”

Memories of broken fingers, bruises that lingered for weeks, and more than a few “unintentional” cuts that left scars Rhys still bore came to mind, and somehow Rhys did miss those times. Yet as Rhys stared at Anja’s expectant stare, an realization far more amusing than Anja’s masochistic love of fighting dawned.

“You’re looking for an excuse to spend time with me,” Rhys laughed. “You, of all people. I should write down a record of the moment for posterity.”

Anja’s glare could send a shiver down the spine of even the strongest man, but it merely made Rhys laugh harder. “Don’t be an ass,” she groaned, picking up a shell off the sand and chucking it at Rhys’ head. He dodged smoothly, still laughing.

“I thought we’d agreed we weren’t going to be like...you know, how we were before,” said Anja. “Excuse me for making an effort.”

Something in her tone sobered Rhys. He could see them then, the fears that gripped Anja. Memories of Dima’s bleeding body lying on the ground, of Rhys withered and dying in a dark cell, of Anja alone in the decades to come, haunted by the knowledge of the near-hatred that once consumed them. Rhys could not laugh at that.

“I don’t really have time.” With his words Anja’s eyes fell, a frown etching deep lines in her face. “There’s so little time and I hardly know what I’m doing. I just...I’m sorry.”

Anja chewed her lip for a moment, wrestling with some inner conflict she dare not voice. Eventually she sighed, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “I could...help you.” The words seemed to physically pain her.

Rhys raised a single brow. “You do realize that by helping me you’re helping Jessa, right?”

Anja looked revolted at the very thought. “Yes, why don’t you send my regards to her for the near-constant stream of work we’ve been occupied with ever since her brilliant little betrayal. It’s been an absolute joy cleaning up her mess. You can also thank her for making us look like idiots who can’t even keep confidential information secret.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“Yes, yes, I know your whole noble quest is to help her. I’m not an idiot. I’ve seen you in your room trying to translate those Antascian books all day. You know I’m no better at the language than you, but if it also helps you...then I’ll do it.” Rhys had never seen Anja look so uncomfortable in her life. The humor of it brought a smile to Rhys’ face. She did not even protest as Rhys pulled her into a hug.

“Thank you. Really,” he whispered.

Anja gave a shrug, her frown looking as though she might be regretting her decision already. “Did you need any help doing...whatever it is you’re doing? Wherever you’re going?”

“I think this is something better done alone.”

They did not bother with pleasantries and goodbyes - it was not their fashion - as Rhys turned towards the pass once more. He’d taken no more than a few steps when his name was called from behind, Rhys turning just in time to catch the object hurtling toward his face.

“What are you -?” Rhys’ yell was cut short as his fingers uncurled from around the object held in his fist. The soft cloth that covered it slide to the side as he stared down at his blood amulet with a knitted brow, tracing the silver edges with his thumb.

“I meant to give you this earlier. Mother wants us to wear them at the festival. She knows you might not be...comfortable with it, but given that we can’t very well have you guarded on public display it’ll be better if you at least have some protection.”

Rhys stared blankly at his sister. “The festival?” Realization dawned a moment after the words came from his mouth. He had forgotten entirely about the festival, forgotten what day, what week, what month it was, so consumed with the tasks before him. The Founders Day Festival was a celebration of Jasrah, of that day long forgotten when the city was founded on an outcropping of rocks between a glittering sea and endless fields of green. At one time Rhys had looked forward to the day all year, to the thousands of lanterns that illuminated the city as people drank and laughed and danced in the streets, to the sailing races between the city and the Isle of Ruins, to the fireworks that lit the night sky with color. Now he could hardly summon a shred of enthusiasm.

“We’re still putting that on? Even with everything?” He calculated the days in his head, embarrassed to have lost such track of time. “That’s in two days!”

“It’s not my fault you’re not paying attention.” Anja merely shrugged at Rhys’ shock. “I’m with you on this one - I told mother it was a bad idea, but she didn’t listen. She thinks it will help the population, make them feel like things are going back to normal, that ‘life goes on’. She has a point, but...you know mother. Trying to talk her out of something she’s got her mind set on is a losing battle. And by losing I mean you’ll probably lose and eye or a hand.”

There were not enough hours in the day for festivals and drinking and dancing, not when Rhys felt his hope slipping through his fingers day after day, yet Anja’s impassive stare told Rhys all attempts at weaseling out were no more than a pipe dream. Rhys groaned, stuffing the amulet - strange and unwelcome to his touch - in his pocket. He could feel it’s weight, feel the unease that settled over him. It was only one day. One day he would manage.

“Oh, and Rhys?” Anja’s voice grew fainter as Rhys slipped away through the pass, not bothering to look back. “Wear something nice - something blue.”

***

Rhys found Kelire perched alone on the doorstep when he arrived. His attempt to apologize for his tardiness met only the wave of a hand as he was immediately beckoned down the street, Rhys practically jogging to keep up with her impossibly long strides. After a number of quick turns into narrow, unmarked alleys and quiet, unlit streets, Rhys found himself thoroughly disoriented. Perhaps, Rhys wondered, that was the very purpose of it all. After passing a narrow, blue-painted home with baskets of flowers in the windows for the third time, Rhys felt rather certain of it.

“Wher-” Rhys’ pressed his lips together as Kelire whipped her head around, her eyes conveying perfectly clearly that there would be no need for his words. It was not for several more minutes, and many laps around what Rhys was fairly certain was the same few blocks, that Kelire spoke at all.

“From here on out you will wear this.” A dark scrap of fabric appeared before Rhys, his stomach dropping as he understood its use. “I could just make you temporarily blind, but most people find that rather unnerving.”

The very thought of such sensory deprivation made Rhys’ skin craw, his fingers snatching the cloth from Kelire’s hand with a newfound enthusiasm. “I thought you were a healer?”

Kelire smiled through tight lips. “Magic works both ways; if you know how to heal, you also know how to destroy.”

Rhys made a note to not find himself on her bad side. As he lifted the cloth to his eyes he paused, his eyes watching Kelire warily. “Won’t it be sort of...odd, if someone sees me walking around like this?”

“No one will see you, I’ll make sure of it.”

Though Kelire’s hand rested firmly on Rhys’ shoulder throughout, giving little nudges and holds to direct him through the blackness, Rhys’ heart threatened to beat straight out of his chest. The utter blackness was too reminiscent of another darkness he’d known, of being locked away underground, wasting away each day as his desperation ate at him. As they began to descend, Rhys reaching out blindly for something to grasp, the panic nearly choked him. The moment he felt hands at the back of his head he could have cried with relief.

Rhys did not know he’d been expecting something reminiscent of a dimly lit cellar until he blinked into the now-blinding light. A dozen sconces lined the narrow hall in they’d arrived, Kelire standing face-to-face with Rhys. Her hands gripped his forearms, her dark eyes boring in as she drew him closer. “No one inside will harm you, but do not expect them to like you either. Your family is not popular amongst our kind.”

“Do they know I’m here?” Rhys did not even know who “they” might be, or how many “they” entailed.

“They know someone is coming,” was all the response Kelire would provide. From it, Rhys could make his own assumptions.

“And who are they?”

“Friends. A family, of sorts. And this is our sanctuary.”

As they walked the narrow hallway Rhys awaited the moment voices and sounds would emit from behind a wall, giving him some inkling of what it was he was walking into. When they reached the door at the end of the way, Rhys heard nothing but the steps of their shoes on the floorboards and the quick succession of Kelire’s two groups of two knocks. For a moment they waited in silence. Then, as the door before them opened wide, an explosion of sound hit Rhys in one great wave.

Dozens of sets of narrowed, angry eyes watched Rhys slowly enter the room as enraged and bewildered calls rung out from a gathered crowd. It wasn’t until Rhys focused on the words of the most distinct voices that it occurred that the brunt of the anger was directed at Tygan, not him. Kelire’s hand rested gently on Rhys’ shoulder as she nudged him further into the room, Rhys staying silent as he let his eyes scan the crowd. Perhaps two or three dozen people gathered in what looked to be a barebones sitting room, albeit without a window in sight. The eldest among them sat in the few wooden chairs while the youngest - one, a child of no more than seven - sat on the ground besides them. The rest were gathered near Tygan, pressing in ever closer as their angry voices drowned out Rhys’ other senses.

“You never said-”

“This isn’t part of the arrangement!”

“What if he-”

“So this is how you-”

In the midst of the yelling, a middle-aged man pushed through the crowd, barreling straight towards Rhys. His muscles tensing, Rhys waited for the moment of confrontation, only for the man to storm past, his eyes fixed on the door. The moment he reached out for the handle and let out a high-pitched yelp, the room quieted. Any eyes not already fixed on Tygan turned to the man.

Red-faced and enraged, the middle aged man tried again, only to jump back with another screech. He turned on his heel to glare at Tygan. “What did you do?”

Tygan barely even blinked. “Sit down.”

“Using magic against us is against your rules, Tygan!”

“The spell isn’t on you - it’s on the room.” The red-faced man did not look happy with the semantic distinction. “Besides, magic is allowed when preventing harm, and if you go barreling out of here in anger you will only attract attention to our location, which I think we can all agree would qualify as harm. But by all means, if you throwing yourself at the door will keep you from yelling at me without even hearing me out, then continue. If the rest of you aren’t so hot-headed,” Tygan turned to the waiting crowd, their aggressive postures slackened, “then I suggest you listen.”

Though those who seemed to burst from the seams with anger remained near Tygan, ready to pounce at a moments notice, the others sunk back into the room with grumbles and shrugs. Rhys felt Kelire’s hand press hard against his shoulder, urging him beside her husband, until she too drifted away, leaning casually near the door.

“For those of you who may not know him -”

“We know who he is. Do you think we live under a rock?” A tall man near the back interjected, prompting snickers from those around him.

Tygan continued on unperturbed. “Lord Rhys came to me yesterday-”

“Why did he come to you?” The second interruption came from a young woman near Rhys, her dark eyes narrowed as she cast a distrustful glance toward him. “How does he even know about you? I thought we had a rule about associating with them.”

By this point Tygan’s patience was clearly running thin, the man snapping, “Does that really matter when he came to me because your identities have been compromised?”

If the reaction to Rhys’ presence had constituted an upset, Tygan’s words created a full blown panic. Those who’d settled jumped to their feet once more, a thousand questions thrown at Tygan with such speed Rhys could hardly comprehend them. Amongst the anger and confusion was also the strangled, breaking sounds of those who began to cry at the news. Rhys stared slack-jawed, looking toward Tygan with desperation. He’d been told that many mages feared for their lives, guarding their secrets desperately, but never could he have imagined such panic. It only dug the guilt in deeper.

“QUIET.” Tygan’s voice boomed above the clamor, and in an instant the many voices fell quiet, all eyes fixed. When Tygan gestured toward Rhys with a nod, Rhys understood the man’s intention, quickly pulling the list from his pocket. “There is a list, created by the Lanis’,” Rhys did not miss the quiet gasp that rippled through the room at Tygan’s words, “that implicates nearly all of us, among others, as mages. This list, as far as I know, has not fallen into other hands,” from his sidelong glance at Rhys , it was clear who the “others” were meant to be, “but it does mean that knowledge of us, of our identities, is known. It also means that someone likely found a way around the spell.”

A heavy silence fell upon the crowd as neighbor turned to neighbor with suspicion in their eyes. “But...that’s not possible. There’s no way around that.” Rhys did not see who spoke, but their voice trembled with a palpable fear.

For the first time since Rhys’ arrival, Tygan’s collected demeanor crumbling, a sympathetic, pained smile on his lips. His words were barely more than a murmur. “No magic is infallible. There’s always a way for someone who wills it. I just hate to think it may have been one of us.”

“I’m sorry, but what spell?” Rhys asked, trying to ignore the distrustful stares directed his way.

“A blood book. From what I know of your family, I imagine you’re familiar with the concept?” Tygan’s raised brow implied more than he let on. Rhys shifted in discomfort. How much had Merai told her brother? How much could she say? “Everyone in this room has signed the book in their own blood. It binds us together in our secrecy. No one in the book may communicate to anyone not bound by its magic about the identities of any other in its pages. There are spells on this room as well, to keep everything said within its walls secret, but it is not enough. Those who sign the book are not even allowed to look upon its pages as they do so, so that their memories of it cannot be compromised by another mage. That book was supposed to protect us; we thought we’d considered everything when crafting the magic that binds it, but...it would seem we did not.”

Rhys understood then the betrayal clear on each and every face, the suspicious glances thrown around the room as each tried to ascertain who among them had gone to great lengths to betray them. Among these people, their fellow mages were the only who knew their secrets, with whom they could bear everything without fear. To have even that snatched from them, plunging them into a paranoia...Rhys could only imagine that sort of fear.

“What if they come for us?” The small voice cut through the quiet that had settled, and Rhys looked upon the small boy who he’d seen sitting beside an elderly woman. Tears stained the boy’s face. “I don’t like them. They hurt my papa.” The elderly woman stroked the young boy’s head, heartbreak in her eyes. Rhys could hardly stomach the site of it as anger roiled within.

“You can help me,” Rhys said, his voice wavering. He spoke quickly, to cut off the surge of insults, of distrust he knew would soon come his way. “I cannot pretend to know what you are feeling, what you are going through, but I do know what it feels like to be hurt by the Lanis’.” Rhys knew he did not imagine the few looks of pity in the audience. “I cannot make promises, but if you want to protect your identities, to make sure the Lanis’ never return and use you for your powers, then we have the same goals, for I will do anything to assure they never hurt anyone again - mage or non mage alike. My family has been tracking them for some time and we are aware of their movements, but it is not enough. If anyone knows anything about the Lanis’ - about their plans, anything you may have overheard, anything at all - please, please tell me. I am not here to hurt you, any of you. I cannot change the past, and I am deeply ashamed of the fear you have all felt because of my family - because of me. But I want to help you, if I can.”

“How are we supposed to trust that you’re not lying to us?” The red-faced man spoke, that glare he’d worn from the moment of Rhys’ arrival permanently fixed on his face.

Because I am putting my life on the line to put a good mage - like you - on the throne. The thought lingered on Rhys’ tongue but he thought better of it, pushing it away. If someone in that very room had gone so far as to sell out their friends to the Lanis’, there was no saying they would not find some way to hurt Nayall’s cause too. Instead, Rhys simply sighed. “You can’t. I cannot offer you anything but my word, and I don’t think very many of you put any stock in that. But I will sign your blood book and keep your secrets, should you ask me to.”

Apparently few had thought through the implication of Rhys’ presence fully, for at the mention of the blood book another round of yells and questions filled the air, drowning out any interest in Rhys’ words. It was Kelire who was at his side then, pulling him toward the wall as Tygan answered question after question. “You’ve said what you came to say. For now you must give them time,” she said, giving Rhys’ arm a pat before rejoining her husband. Her words gave Rhys little comfort. He sunk into the shadows of the wall, ignoring the sometimes curious, sometimes hateful stares that came his way as the ruckus continued. Rhys did not know why he’d deluded himself into thinking he could be anything but a threat, an unwelcome intruder in their midsts.

“I trust you.”

Rhys jolted at the voice that suddenly rang out clear above the noise, yet as he looked about him there was no one beside him, no one whose voice could have spoke so clearly. An intrusive thought settled into his mind as he looked about the room. That voice had been so impossibly clear, almost as if...

It was coming from inside your head?

Every hair on his body seemed to stand up as that smooth, strange, genderless voice spoke once more, its tone oddly playful. No, it did not speak, Rhys realized. It was, as the voice said, coming from inside his own head. Panic swelled as Rhys looked about the room, searching frantically for something, anything. Yet not a single face, not even those who’d earlier glared at him from afar, was turned his way. His eyes scanned the crowd, watching as two short women about Rhys’ age chatted agains the far wall, ignoring the commotion that surrounded them. From beside them a tall, lanky girl with a soft face stared down at her nails, looking rather bored with the whole event. Several feet from Rhys stood a brooding, dark-haired man with folded arms, occasionally looking up at the crowd with an impassive stare. No one, no one at all, seemed to be paying any attention to Rhys. And yet that voice.

Don’t bother looking for me - you won’t be able to pick me out of the crowd. I don’t give tells. Just listen to what I have to say and don’t look too alarmed. Is that too difficult?

Rhys did not know how to answer.

I know things about the Lanis’. Many things. Things I’m not comfortable revealing here, among all these people. I do not trust them. But I trust you.

Why?

I don’t know. Does it matter? If you want my help, meet me tomorrow night. Midnight at the temple. Pick your favorite statue and wait. I’ll find you.

The unease that swept over Rhys’ body only grew with each invasive word spoken into his head, at the thought of that magic inside him. How could he trust...it? That voice? Then again, Rhys was not certain he could afford the luxury of picking his help when so offered. He waited, his breathing shallow, for another word. A moment passed, and then minutes, and soon Rhys realized that whoever’d been in his mind had left without a trace. Though useless - foolish - Rhys pressed his fingertips to his temple, as though he could feel that intrusion. He felt only skin. He dropped his fingers, staring off into the crowd lost in his own mind.

***

After what felt like hours of bickering, culminating with dozens of eyes watching expectantly as Rhys signed the blood book, the mages cleared from the room, leaving only Tygan and Kelire and a peaceful silence. At least, that was all he’d seen. Rhys took a step toward Tygan, a step towards the door, only to feel a delicate hand rest on his arm.

“Rhys.”

The woman who stood behind Rhys was not one whose face he’d seen among the crowd. No, he would have remembered those emerald eyes, startling against her tawny brown skin and black hair. But more than her striking face, Rhys would have remembered the infant she carried in her arms. Surely, among the commotion, he would have heard its cry.

Cry.

Rhys’ head whipped toward Tygan, finding the man already beside him, watching him carefully. “The child I heard...” He said quietly. Tygan only nodded, looking toward the woman standing before them. “But why didn’t you just tell me? Why were you so secretive?”

“Because Venya has been hiding for some time, and we will not make her presence known until she wishes it.”

“Venya?” Rhys turned back to the woman, their eyes meeting as a small smile flickered across her face. “Why have you been hiding?” Venya frowned, looking toward Kelire with a strange desperation in her eyes.

“Venya is from Antascia - she does not speak Etrenian, at least not very well. She seems to understand a fair bit, though you’ll have to speak slowly. With us she’s mostly communicated using images placed in our minds. It’s crude, but it works well enough.” Kelire smiled at Venya as she spoke, and Rhys wondered if some image passed between them just then. “As for your question, Venya came to our apothecary some months ago complaining of stomach pains. She was in labor, and I helped deliver the child. We kept her in our home for some days not knowing who she was or why she’d come, but eventually we were able to get enough out between broken speech and images to understand that she’d come to Jasrah in search of the child’s father, a man she calls ‘Tristan’. He’s a merchant, one who spent most of his time trading along Antascia’s coast. That is how they met, or so that’s what we’ve gathered. It seems that when Venya fell pregnant, Tristan left for Jasrah to put his affairs in order, promising to return in a month’s time. When four months passed and there’d been no word, Venya came to find him herself.”

“Maybe...he just left?” Rhys spoke quietly, only to Kelire. “It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened.”

Kelire nodded. “We thought the same, but when we looked into it, inquired after him in town, it would seem that nobody has seen the man in some time, not even his own family. He simply...vanished. I think-” Kelire peered at Venya, a sort of pity in her eyes, “When she learned who you are, I think she began to hope that you could help find him, that your connections might prove useful.”

“What is Tristan’s last name?” Rhys spoke slowly, turning toward Venya who’s eyes lit up at the question, her features relaxing as relief coursed through her.

“Mercier.”

Rhys nodded. “I know the name. I don’t know the son, but I know the father. My family’s worked with them before in trade.”

Venya clutched her child close to her chest, her eyes glassy. When she spoke her words were careful, coming out in small bursts as her brow wrinkled in concentration. “If you...help me, I want...to help you.”

Thoughts of the piles of Antascian tomes passed through Rhys’ mind. How cruel fate was to deliver him an Antascian, only for them to be unable to speak Etrenian. His voice was no more than a laugh as he said, “I don’t suppose you can write in Etrenian?” Venya paused, thinking on his words, before shaking her head in dismay. Rhys shrugged. “I’m in need of a translator. My own Antascian isn’t exactly impressive.”

Venya’s wide smile was unexpected. “Tristan can speak Antascian! He reads very well, too!”

For the first time in far too long, Rhys felt a spark of hope. “What does Tristan look like?”

At first, Venya opened her mouth, uttering no more than a disjointed word before closing it again. “Blond. Light. Not tall, but not short. Blue eyes.” Venya let out a great groan, grappling with some word she could not remember. In an instant an image of a man appeared in his mind, as clear as though he sat before Rhys.

In that moment Rhys’ stomach dropped, dread coursing through him. He knew that face. He’d seen that face only yesterday, memorable even in the moment’s brevity. In place of the image Venya had placed, Rhys saw the man from the street, remembered the pain he’d felt as that man had stared at him with those eyes the color of the sky on a clear day. As that face filled Rhys’ mind he began to piece together the puzzle, the way Tristan and stared at him with such surprise, such knowing, the pain that had nearly rendered him incapacitated as it grew, the unexplained disappearance. Rhys could hardly stomach looking at Venya, her eyes so full of hope.

“I think I know what happened to Tristan. I’m so sorry.”

[Mollianne]

The firewood store was in a small, round building adjoining the back of the castle, though it only had access from outside. It seemed a poor design for Ovisian winters, though Jessa supposed the entrance to the castle was only a few steps away. And that morning was crisp but bright, breathing new life into Jessa's exhausted body, so she could not complain about the respite from the overbearing, dank corridors. She took a minute to gaze out across the grounds, feeling remarkably calm until she realised that even now she was looking out for an arrest wagon. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Jessa turned her back on the beautiful morning and entered the darkness of the storeroom. Jessa had already lost two nights of sleep over the blood book and the faceless Marinon allies she just might have condemned to death. She needed now to focus on the day ahead – winning more allies.

She sneezed; sawdust was thick in the air, accompanied by a woodsy smell. Jessa remembered a few years ago when damp had got inside the store and all the wood had started to rot. That had not been a pleasant visit, nor a good time for any servant who had found themselves on the receiving end of thirteen-year-old Elissa and one of her tantrums about being cold even though it had been the middle of summer. Presently Jessa turned, reaching for the lantern that waited on an outcrop of stone by the door. She lit it, and the light revealed towering piles of chopped logs casting shadows into the centre of the room.

She was alone. Where was Laurita?

For a moment, she just stared at the room and felt quite at a loss. Then, worry began to set in. Had something happened to Odaren? Had something happened to Laurita? She was almost to the door when she heard voices outside. One laughed, and Jessa realised they were coming closer. Hastily, Jessa headed to the closest pile of logs and picked one up, weighing it up in her hand. The first women appeared in the doorway just as Jessa put it by her feet and made to select another. She looked up at them and smiled. “Oh, hello.”

It was Elodie Blare. Could that be a coincidence? Jessa doubted it, though she was supposed to meet the servants in the kitchen, and had not thought Elodie would be among them. Before Jessa could question anything, Elodie winked. That… was not right.

“Morning, my lady,” the woman said, with a very sarcastic lilt to her very familiar voice. She was not Elodie. Jessa's heart calmed. 

Laurita’s companion appeared just then. She had seen the older woman before on visits to the kitchen, elbow deep in bread dough and her black hair speckled with grey and flour alike. Her pale skin was beginning to wrinkle around her green eyes. She glanced between the older woman and Laurita, disguised as Elodie, noting the similar softness of their jawlines as they came to stand near Jessa.

The woman began giving quiet directions to Laurita on how to select the best firewood. Laurita complained, “Oh, auntie, I think I can pick out some wood.”

Jessa’s suspicion was right, then; this was Mahlia Blare, one of those representing all the servants who had signed their names to fight the king.

Before she could say anything, Laurita flung out a hand and knocked the lantern clean out of Jessa's grip. Jessa's heart stuck in her throat, imagining a burning blaze eating the whole storeroom and them with it, but the fire flickered out milliseconds before the lantern smashed against the floor.

“Oh Gods,” she heard Laurita say in a panic, and at the same time Jessa felt calm fingers on her face. Laurita began apologising profusely, Mahlia announced she would fetch a new one, and all the while Jessa felt her face begin to change. The tingling made her whole face feel numb, and once it was done Jessa opened her mouth, trying to get used to the new jawline. Then she yelped, feeling the strangest stretching all the way down her leg. Was she getting taller?

“Sorry, was that your foot?” Laurita asked, in Elodie’s nervous voice as an attempt to play off Jessa's cry. Jessa didn't reply, too consumed by her discomfort. After what felt like an age, the pain disappeared. Jessa wobbled on her feet; the extra inch was strange and foreign. Would she even be able to walk when her legs no longer felt like her own?

“Jessa,” Laurita whispered urgently, pressing something scratchy against her arm. “Come on, you need to undress.”

Though she and Laurita had planned to make the change here – a servant coming to her room that early would have been far too suspicious to overlook – Jessa had not fully considered that she would have to undress here too. Thankful for the darkness, Jessa quickly divested herself of her outer coat and nightdress. At least it wasn't a corset. Once she was undressed, the women fumbled to exchange clothes. Jessa could only hope she wasn't wearing anything backwards or inside out.

“I'm so sorry, my lady,” Laurita said again, before she took Jessa by the shoulders and bodily switched their positions. Then, without hesitation, Laurita replied in Jessa’s voice, “It's okay, really. Your aunt will return in a moment, I'm sure.”

Jessa shivered. The phrasing and voice coming from Laurita's lips was uncanny. How did she do it?

A few minutes later, the warm glow of candlelight stole into the room announcing Mahlia's return. She paused, surveying the two girls. Her expression gave nothing away. Did she know? Then she looked at Laurita and said, “I'm sorry, my lady.”

“Quite alright.” Laurita waved a hand before she turned to the pile of wood and tilted her head. After a moment, she shrugged and pulled out a few logs. Retrieving also the two Jessa had already selected, Laurita said, “This'll do I suppose. Have a nice day.” She tried to wave awkwardly around the pile as she left. Did Jessa really look that graceless all the time?

“Let's get that firewood to the kitchen,” Mahlia said, gesturing for Jessa to pick up the wood the woman had selected before the light had gone out. Mahlia glanced over her shoulder before waving her arm again. There was a twinkle in her eye. “No, no. You'll need a few more, I think.”

Oh, she knew.

It was only when Jessa was so loaded up with logs she basically couldn't see over them that Mahlia relented. Jessa imagined a smirk on the woman's face, enjoying her moment to boss around one of the nobles she served. She guessed it was particularly pleasing that it was Jessa, the girl who should not have ranked above them but who they had been forced to serve anyway. Jessa was more than happy to comply, and carried the logs without complaint to the kitchen. When she finally dropped them in the metal bin in the corner and could see again, she saw Mahlia watching her carefully. She could not begin to ascertain what was behind that quiet, calm demeanour.

“Come,” Mahlia said quietly, turning and leaving the room. Jessa scurried after her, keeping her head down in case the big, burly chef sweating profusely by the fire realised that the girl she was posing as had only just started her shift.

Jessa followed Mahlia out of the castle, turning left to head around the castle. Jessa faltered when she realised where they were heading. The castle's north gate loomed, the square beyond it quiet and unassuming. But all Jessa could see was the crowd and the stage, a burning tapestry. And Harris beneath it. She bit her inner cheeks, hard, and nodded her head vaguely when Mahlia asked if she was okay. It was just a square. It was just a gate. 

Mahlia rummaged in her pouch, pulling out some empty wooden spools. She thrust them at Jessa. “Our reason for Elodie to leave so soon.”

“Why don't you need a reason?”

“I don't start work yet. I just walked with you. No one goes anywhere alone these days.” Jessa's thoughts flashed to that dark alleyway, the punches, no way out. Thanks to Ainesh she had healed already, but still she felt her ribs aching.

They approached the guardhouse, and a woman peered out. She barked, “Names.”

If Jessa stuttered her new name, the guard did not seem to notice. She wondered why she was so nervous; only a few days ago she had left the castle under a name that didn't even exist except when Laurita had used it to get inside. Was this more nerve-wracking because it was not only Jessa who would face the consequences if they were caught?

Mahlia explained their lie without a tremble, leaving Jessa fumbling to show the empty spools of thread to prove the need to buy more. The guard eyed Jessa for one agonising breath, then nodded and wrote down their names.

And they were waved through. 

Just outside the inner city walls, Mahlia dipped down a narrow alleyway which ended with a small door. She glanced at Jessa and said, “I have no idea how she's doing... this,” her voice shook as she waved in hand in Jessa's direction, “and I have even less clue how to explain it to the others.”

“It's a,” Jessa hesitated,” special kind of magic.”

“You can say that again.” She eyed her warily. Where before she seemed to have taken the changing appearances in her stride, now the cracks were beginning to show. Turning away, she rapped on the door: two quick, a pause, three long and then two more quick.

“We're here already?” Jessa said in surprise. Thinking of her miles-long treks through the city to meet Nayall, she added, “You shouldn't come straight here. In case you're followed.”

Mahlia chuckled. “Why would anyone follow a servant?”

“You're more than that.”

Mahlia shook her head just as the door opened. A wiry, rat-faced man Jessa recognised as a gardener peered out, his eyes darting about as he took in the scene. Mahlia whispered something to him and his eyes, still flicking left and right, widened. He ushered them in quietly and led them down a narrow, dark corridor. To the left were some stairs, and sitting in a circle on overturned crates were three other servants.

“Where’s the noble?” one of the women asked sharply.

“That is Lady Jessa.” The younger man and woman turned to each other, whispering in confusion, but the woman who had spoken eyed Jessa even more suspiciously.

“No, it ain't. Fall and hit your head, Mah?”

“I can't explain how, Fran, but I promise it is.”

The gardener was mumbling to himself as he shuffled over to his seat. Jessa caught only the word 'magic', but that was enough. The man looked up suddenly, fixing his wandering eyes on Jessa. Unnervingly, they stopped moving, and Jessa had the uncomfortable feeling that he was looking straight through to her core. “I can see 'er. 's Lady Jessa all right.” He could see past it. Jessa shivered.

“You all know about Greater magic, yes?” Except for the gardener, who hunched his shoulders and let his gaze roam nervously about the room, the servants exchanged glances before nodding slowly. “Well... that's how my friend did this. But I assure you I am Jessa.”

“Greater magic is illegal,” whispered the woman who had yet to speak. The man beside her, who could easily be her brother with their matching sandy brown hair, nodded gravely. She’d gone as pale as death.

“And what d'you think this is?” Fran burst out angrily, gesturing at the room and their situation. “Get a hold o' yourself.”

Mahlia had pulled over her own crate and sat down beside the younger man. Jessa followed her lead, taking the remaining space between Mahlia and the gardener. The servants had fallen silent, watching her expectantly. “I guess we should start with what this means for all of you. What made you and the others sign that piece of paper?”

For a tense few moments, no one spoke. Jessa watched as they tried to gather their thoughts and feelings into words. Fran was the first to speak. “People starve on the streets. Always have done, but no one cared until our so-called king's war.” Fran glared at Jessa pointedly, and the others eyed her in discomfort. Her heart plummeted into her stomach, knowing she could not entirely deny it. She had cared, but she still had done little to help and in many ways that was worse. “This ain't no war to make Etrene better; this ain't a war for us. Only the king and his loyal little nobles get richer if he wins. What happens to us? Nothing, or we die faster. Then there's them who say we're loyalists.” She, gesturing to the servants, spat out the word as if it was poison. “They think we think we're better than them just cause we work in the inner city. They think we don't die like them.” Fran cut off with a strangled gasp. She looked away for a moment, rubbing her eyes. When her gaze returned, she scowled at Jessa, daring her to pry. Jessa wouldn't; whomever Fran had lost was none of Jessa's business.

Mahlia said, “We're no one. Our people shun us and the nobles would never lower themselves to talk to us like human beings. We don't belong anywhere.” A mirthless laugh bubbled up from her throat. “I lost my best friend. We used to talk about all this, and how we'd do it better. No one better off because of birth.” Jessa sucked in a breath, guessing where this kind of talk would lead. “We talked so much we could almost believe it was true, just for a minute. She didn't care who I worked for then. It was just a job. I just needed money like she did. But now the city's dying – shops closing, and the jobs are gone. She lost her job because of this war and there I am, still okay. I could see she resented me, but what could I do? What would be the point of losing my livelihood too? I have a family just like them.”

The others were nodding. The younger woman reached out and took Mahlia's hand. Mahlia squeezed the hand before letting go. “I offered her some bread and cheese, though I knew how proud she is. I probably wouldn't have taken it either. But, somehow... she managed to accuse me of not offering enough at the same time as she yelled at me for offering at all. She thought I must have so much more hidden away – as if I didn't spend a whole month's wages on that pitiful amount – but I was giving her more than half. My family's smaller than hers, and that way we could both get by.” Mahlia bowed her head. “She screamed at me that I'd changed, that I'd been lying to her, that I was selfish, that... I wanted to be looked down on and ordered about forever.”

Fran laughed. “Death to the nobility.”

Jessa started. Mahlia put out a cautioning hand. “Not the people themselves. Just the idea of it.”

“You want the dissolution of the aristocracy?” Jessa breathed, though if she was honest she had probably known this before she had even come and heard their stories. “A revolution.”

“See?” Fran spat. “She's just like them. Told you we shouldn't've listened to 'er.”

The younger man looked at Jessa beseechingly. “Can't you see how unfair this is? Can't you see how much better everything would be?”

“Yes, I can,” Jessa said gently. Fran scoffed. More firmly, Jessa repeated, “I can. It could be better, but that doesn't mean it would be, certainly not now. When our king is deposed – because I assure you that is what I intend to do – our country faces years of uncertainty. It has to recover from years of his harmful lies and his abuse. This country is going to need one small shred of stability.”

“They're all the same-”

“No,” Jessa said forcefully. “I haven't done enough in the past, I know. I have stood by and let you be treated poorly despite seeing the signs.” She heard Fran grumbling in agreement, and stuttered as she continued. “I want to help improve your lives. But an entirely new governing system will not help. Instead – instead,” Jessa said louder, for the two younger servants had joined Fran in mumbling complaints, “I am supporting the claim of a man called Nayall Gard. He is a commoner, and we intend to make him king.”

Fran laughed sharply. “A commoner as king? Nobles will never go for that.”

“They will, if they have sense and realise that what Etrene needs most is to unite its people, to value them and not abandon them.”

The younger woman shook her head. “And what makes you think a commoner won't just turn out like them, with all those riches in their reach?”

“Would you?” Jessa stared the woman down. “Nayall Gard is a good, brave man who will prove to be a compassionate but firm leader. He is uniquely qualified to lead Etrene in the uncertain times ahead.”

“You've mentioned that a few times now, my lady,” Mahlia said slowly. “I'm sure that replacing a king is a difficult time, but it seems like you mean… more.”

Jessa braced herself and nodded. “Greater magic – you said you know of it, but I wonder how much the king has shared about Novamor legalising it and his response. You were right when you said our king was not fighting this war to protect you. He's doing it to protect himself. King Alrick is a mage, and has been systematically oppressing mages his entire reign, as have all the du Renes before him. They banned it attempting to monopolise such powers, limit information and spread fear. With the king's death, this must change.” The servants were staring at her. This time, she had even caught the gardener's attention, whose roving eyes were wide in terror. Jessa reached out to touch his hand reassuringly and he flinched. With a worried glance his way, Jessa told them about Alrick's abuses of magic and mages. Once she had finished explaining the mage ring, four of the servants were clutching hands. The gardener had stood and gone to the corner of the room, his back to the rest and his head bowed. Jessa left him to his solitude, but she could not look away from him. This revelation had devastated him in a way the others could not imagine.

“Nayall Gard is the only person I know to have escaped that ring.”

The gardener's head twitched, a quick glance at Jessa that held only one emotion: hope. Jessa wanted to know more, but for now it was more important to convince everyone of Nayall's suitability. “He knows how mages are treated. He knows what it is like not to be born with the privileges of the nobility.”

“But if he was in the ring, then he's a mage himself,” Mahlia pointed out, her voice shaking.

“With all that power, he could-”

“No!” The gardener spun around, glaring at them. The servants stared back with wide, shocked eyes. The gardener's voice shook. “Most mages would never do that.”

“Nayall knows what it is to be oppressed. And despite that, he stands up against Alrick to help mages.” She explained Nayall's asylum in the city.

The servants, except the gardener who had looked away again, turned to each other and began whispering too fast for Jessa to ascertain what they were saying. Eventually, Mahlia said to Jessa, “We want to meet this Nayall.”

Jessa's heart sank. “He's not here.”

“I thought you said...”

Fran growled, “He's not here? Thought you said he was protecting people. How can he do that if he's not even with them?”

“He has people helping him. There's too many people in his care for him to do it alone.”

“Surely now is when they need him most. He's abandoned them – how is that the mark of a good king?”

“He hasn't abandoned them,” Jessa said firmly. She glared at Fran until the woman crossed her arms and looked away. There was a point where even Jessa tired of being punished, especially when she was trying to help. It wasn't much, and she did deserve their distrust, but they would never progress if Fran persisted. “He won't abandon our cause, either. He just needs support. He needs this city on his side when Alrick is gone.”

“You ain't getting the nobles to agree.”

“Let me worry about that.”

Fran waved her hand. “You ain't getting our support either, not without us seeing he's better than the king. And we ain't gonna be able to convince anyone who doesn't work in the inner city to follow either, if that's what you want us for.”

“I want you because you're invaluable. You have access to the castle and precious few nobles pay you any attention. You're treated awfully, but you can use that to your advantage-” Jessa raised her voice over Fran's scoff. “-and get places no one else can go. And I want you because you deserve to have a say in what happens to this country. As do all the others in the city and beyond.”

“They won't listen to us,” Mahlia reminded her.

Jessa pushed a hand through her hair. How could she get the word out to a populace disillusioned with everyone except those Jessa and the castle servants could not reach directly? How could she show everyone who Nayall was and what he stood for, when he was not here? Even if he was in the city, he couldn't speak to everyone.

“I need you and your friends to come up with a list of people you know to be the loudest dissenters. If possible, ones with influence.” Jessa took a deep breath. “I have an idea.”

***

“Mahlia, how long have you worked in the castle?” Jessa asked, breaking the silence that had pervaded since they had gone into the city to buy the threads – extortionately priced, they had been the only ones in the shop. Mahlia started, having been lost in her own thoughts.

“Oh... Er, ten years.”

Jessa's shoulders drooped, just a little. Ten years was still useful, though she was surprised it was so short a term. Mahlia chuckled. “I worked for the Yance family before they went bankrupt.”

The name was unfamiliar to Jessa, but they were undoubtedly city nobles. City nobles who might have gossiped about the royal family on multiple occasions. “Have you ever heard any rumours or gossip about our beloved queen?”

Mahlia's response was immediate. “No, my lady.”

Biting her lip, Jessa let it go. If Mahlia had heard something over the years, she likely thought it insignificant enough that she would not recall it now. “Who has worked at the castle since Catrice became queen?”

“A few, but not many who you could trust – most haven't joined us. But...” Mahlia hummed pensively. “Oleg started work there only a few years after. Maybe twenty years ago? His father worked as a gardener before him and I believe Oleg often went with him until he started there himself.”

Oleg: the gardener at the meeting. Jessa doubted he would trust her enough to speak to her, but she didn't have much other choice. The only other person Jessa suspected would have Catrice's secrets was her handmaiden, Hilda, who had come with Catrice from her family's home. Hilda, though, would never betray her queen.

“Thank you,” Jessa said, just as she spotted the strangest sight heading their way. Ainesh and herself, their arms linked and Ainesh's hand covering hers as he laughed at something she had said. Of everything she had thought might happen that day, stumbling across herself outside the castle had not been one of them. Jessa tugged at the sleeve of her dress, cleared her throat, and dropped her gaze. Seeing herself so close to another man was discomforting, to say the least, even knowing it was really Laurita.

When Jessa dared to look up again, she saw Laurita lean her head against Ainesh's shoulder as she laughed and patted him on the cheek. They were closer now, and somehow, despite her apparent preoccupation Laurita noticed the two servants coming towards them.

“Oh, Elodie!” she called, extricating herself from Ainesh. “We do seem to keep running into each other today.”

“Where are you going?” Jessa whispered as Laurita took her hand to pull her close.

“Where you're going. Saying goodbye to Priti's children, offering support, et cetera.”

Jessa deflated. What with worrying about the Marinon's allies and her meeting with the servants, Jessa had completely forgotten. “And how are we supposed to switch places right now? It's broad daylight.”

“You know you've used magic before to stop someone noticing you? And you know how Ainesh loves sleight of hand?” Jessa wondered whether she should be surprised that Laurita knew. “Well, it means he's pretty good at that sort of magic. He's deflecting any attention from us, so their gaze should slide right past, but I believe he's also got some kind of real distraction up his sleeve.”

Laurita looked over at Ainesh, who nodded. A second later, a clamouring bang filled the air. Jessa ducked instinctively.

“What was that?” she exclaimed, looking at her friend who was now Laurita again. A few moments later, with all the stretching and squeezing that came with it, Jessa was herself, and Laurita quickly took on Elodie's appearance. Laurita just winked. Jessa huffed and added, “And how do we change clothes?”

“No one's paying us any attention,” Laurita said, “So like this.” She proceeded to undress right there in the middle of the street. Jessa stared.

Laurita was down to her shift when, in exasperation, she said, “Come on, Jessa. It's not like we're naked.”

Jessa had never dressed quicker in her life, and had never felt more comfortable in noble's clothing as she did once her last button was fastened.

“Not so hard, was it?” Laurita said, grinning as she patted Jessa's flaming hot cheeks. “Oh, Jessa. Never change. It wouldn't be nearly as fun.”

Then, she ran off, joining the crowd that had formed at the edge of the square. She positioned herself between Ainesh and Mahlia, though the woman did not seem to notice her fake niece's reappearance. She touched Ainesh's hand. He nodded, twisted around to gesture at Jessa. She hurried to join them, and as soon as she was by Ainesh's side she heard Mahlia exclaim to Laurita, “Where did you go?”

Jessa did not hear Laurita's explanation, for Ainesh took her by the arm and gently pulled her away. “We'll be late.”

“Sorry. I didn't think.”

“A warning might have been nice; I could have gone alone. And it was... well...” Ainesh grinned and winked. “Quite a surprise when I knocked on your door.”

Jessa was naive in many ways, but she knew Laurita. “She's shameless.”

“Who's saying I'm not?”

Some of Ainesh's good cheer dissipated when they reached the docks. It was busier than Jessa had ever seen it, with dozens of fishermen hauling massive nets of fish now that seafood from the northern ocean was now their main source of food, and there were more nobles than Jessa might have expected congregating around a large tender that had just come to port on the westernmost dock where the sea was deepest. Merchant families were there too, shouting frantically for the dock workers to take care with their crates of wares as the gangplank was lowered to the ground. They were leaving, apparently unable to support their families in the manner they were accustomed and presumably also wanting to keep them safe. Jessa couldn't blame them, but soon Ovis would have nothing left.

Despite all the chaos, Ainesh managed to find his family with surprising ease. Priti, her husband and children stood near the gangplank, while the rest of the Tremonts stood a little back. Though Ainesh had no problem joining his family, Jessa hesitated. She saw the way Priti rested her forehead against her son's, closing her eyes as her lips moved. Jessa had no right to hear those words; she was not really part of this family. And yet, when Ainesh realised she was not with him, he came back and pulled her into the fold. Jessa eyed him curiously.

“You look after your sister and father, Ravinder,” Priti was saying. She pulled two small, light chains from her bag. Each one was threaded with a gold ring, much like the ones in Priti's ear, and a familiar stone set in a cabochon mount. Despite herself and the situation, Jessa's heart sped up. Holding the necklace in her palm, Priti said, “You're too young still to have this really, but this ring marks maturity and strength. I think you'll live up to that, my darling.” She pressed a kiss to her son's forehead. To Mala, she said, “And I know you will be brave

“And this...” Priti cleared her throat. She wiped away a tear. “If ever you're lonely or missing me, just touch this and I'll be with you. You'll see us together. Just like we will be together again.”

“Why aren't you coming with us?” Ravinder ignored the necklace entirely, tugging on his mother's sleeve. “Please, mama.”

“Please, mama,” Ravinder's sister, perched on her mother’s knee, echoed. Priti turned her head to press a kiss against her daughter's cheek, squeezing the little girl tighter.

“You're going on an adventure with your father. No mama to tell you off! It'll be exciting. You'll see Barichea and Antascia – remember those mountains? – and I'll be with you before you know it.” Though they were already in her embrace, Priti pulled them closer. They both threw their arms around their mother's neck. Then, she cleared her throat and, at length, pulled away. She clasped a necklace around each of her children’s necks. “Go with nanny, now. I need to speak to your father.” She gently pushed them, though the distress on her face said that all she wanted to do was keep them in her arms. She smiled despite it all, a brave face for her children as the nanny scooped up Mala and held Ravinder's hand. The children's gazes did not waver from their mother's direction as they went up the gangplank. Halfway up, Mala's cries filled the air. Priti's fists clenched but she did not look away from her children until they disappeared on board the ship. Then she fell into her husband's arms.

Jessa looked away. She definitely did not need to witness their goodbye. She knew what it felt like. She knew the tearing in her gut, the desire for just one more second. Even though Rhys had not felt the same, their separation had broken Jessa. The pain had dulled now, for many reasons, but she had looked away not for herself but because she knew they would want some privacy.

A few minutes later, a brush of fabric against her arm told her Priti had come to stand beside her. Ainesh reached in front of Jessa to take Priti's hand, and they watched as Priti's husband boarded the tender. They stood there until the tender pulled out of port and headed for the ship waiting off shore.

Priti murmured, “If you have anything I can do right now, I’ll take it. Anything.”

Jessa glanced at Priti. The woman was still staring at the sea, her cheeks red after rubbing away her tears. Though she had not intended to broach the subject now, she could see when someone needing anything just to keep it together. “I’d like you to teach me some magic.”

That caught Priti’s attention. Jessa felt Ainesh’s eyes burning her back too. She shifted in discomfort. “I know, I know.” She didn’t like that she was seeking magic out. “But those memory stones? I think we could use them.”